I’d say it’s what separates us, not from the beasts, but the bestial. Creating the future, renewing a learned past - these are reasons to strive. Writing for and with love, taking and framing an image, stretching new melodic skins onto old skeletons of song… it’s how we manage to fly. It’s how we stay you and me, not us and them.
Unlike Osk, who seemed to establish his own tactical task force wherever we lived, scooping up neighbourhood feline troublemakers as sidekicks (including the memorable ginger behemoth Watson, with whom he used to scope the street from the safety of the shed roof), Jelly has the intelligence gathering skills of a sponge cake.
Anyway, somewhere in between my 'and then you should've done this' and 'why didn't you say x and y, rather than z', and 'for the love of monkeys and the general public's eyesight, you didn't honestly wear that heinous shirt did you', something he was saying about the dating extravaganza we were picking to pieces finally penetrated my cloud of self-congratulatory cumulo-waffle.
"Most people don't talk about how dates are progressing as a tender process, do they?" he asked.
"What?"
"She said I was 'part way through the tender process' and that she was judging me on my submission. I'd like to think there was irony involved, and I think at the time I may have given an admittedly weak "haha, yesssss, quite". Looking back, I'd have to conclude, computer says no on the presence of Fabulon or other aids to achieving crisply pressed linen."
I’d say it’s what separates us, not from the beasts, but the bestial. Creating the future, renewing a learned past - these are reasons to strive. Writing for and with love, taking and framing an image, stretching new melodic skins onto old skeletons of song… it’s how we manage to fly. It’s how we stay you and me, not us and them.
It's to be hoped a wedding anniversary is a time for loving, reflective remembering, at least. It may, of course, be the case that TMWVRDT is in fact in the other room right now with his handy-dandy Kato Voodoo Doll kit. But I'd like to err on the side of optimism, and believe he's thinking happy thoughts, casting his mind back with fondness to that not-so shy, semi-blushing bride striding down the aisle towards him before he could run for cover.
Good times, good times.
The amazing thing to me is not that people write, and write so beautifully. No. That is just the best of the human spirit at work. What is truly astonishing is that it's done within the limitations of our written alphabets. How extraordinary it is to be able to express so many feelings, thoughts, emotions, opinions, fears, hopes, joys, sadnesses, expectations, desires, hates - all bound by the insignificant characters we call our tools.
The Terrible (Forty)Twos give you a lack of will to want to do stuffs. Any stuffs. They make one want to burrow under the doona and not come out until the champagne and red velvet birthday cake with forty-three (!!!) sodding candles* on it come waving past the pillow, tempting the grey roots and panda eyes blinking into the sunshine.
I would love to be spending fourteen hours a day writing the next Wolf Hall. Better still, I would love to be spending two hours a day writing the next Wolf Hall, and ten hours a day reading Wolf Hall, the sequels to Wolf Hall, far trashier books than Wolf Hall, shopping for shoes and drinking champagne. Unfortunately real life and bills tend to interfere with DameBarbaraCartlandLand and so we come back to me being massively excited about creating a bloody good website with bloody good content.
Just because someone doesn't love you as you wish,it doesn't mean you're not loved with all his being. - Gabriel García Márquez
I woke up yesterday morning quite early, sadly (in terms of future earning potential as a police psychic) not due to any eerie premonition of doom or ominous foreboding, but simply because I have such incredibly bad hay fever that even breathing through my mouth was beginning to require an oxygen mask. STAT (always wanted to say that).
Then my breath really was taken away by the news that one of my favourite authors in the world, the galaxy, the universe - had died. Yes, he was 87, and had been suffering from cancer for a long time - but so what? I think that for many people, the expectation was that somehow, Gabriel García Márquez, or as he was known to his many, many friends, 'Gabo' - would simply always be there, arguing passionately, writing his stories of magical realism, infusing the world with passion, and love, and fire.
The first book of his I read was Love In The Time of Cholera, as a very precocious 11 year old. Of course it was far too old for me, but even then, although I didn't recognise much of what the book was about, I saw what Márquez wanted to say. I understood his language. I loved the inner fire of Fermina Daza. I saw the dedication to true love - any true love - of Florentino Ariza. And strangely, I felt the most empathy for the third person in that strange little triangle - Dr Juvenal Urbino del Calle.
Maybe even then I saw that sometimes the desire of one's heart may not desire you in the same way - and also that you may not realise exactly what you yourself desire until it is too late.
All novels I devoured, and re-read and re-read again - because there was always something new.
Gabo was a friend to Castro. He was a Nobel Laureate. He was an outspoken critic of the corruption of the Colombian government - a dangerous thing to be, especially in one's own country. He was, in many ways, a modern day Simón Bolívar, with a pen instead of a sword. His books contained a source of magic and his language a lyricism which it is impossible to reproduce.
It is strange to love novels which have at their heart a profound sense of the loneliness of life - and in many ways, of disappointment. But this is the way of true life, and it was the way of Márquez's own life. He drew from what he knew.
But clearly, he also knew the human heart's best side. For who but Gabo could write a phrase like this:
It's enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.
And so it is. It is enough.
Always.
For which I am eternally grateful.
““writing about a writer’s block is better than not writing at all” ”
Those who read this blog (thank you, all three of you. You know who you are, and I love you very much) may have noticed a fall off in the number of posts recently. There's a very simple reason for this.
I have been ill. Wretchedly, horribly ill.
It's a common malaise. Many people suffer from it. It's endemic to those who profess to put words on a page for a living, it is heartbreaking in its severity and can cause symptoms as wide ranging as glugging wine straight from the bottle, headbashing on desks, throwing laptops across rooms and screaming randomly 'sod THIS for a joke!' and storming out of the room.
I refer of course, to (I don't even want to say the words)...
Writer's Block.
Sometimes the muse deserts me. Hell, she doesn't just desert, she goes on a bender in Vegas, wins big at the tables, gets comped a suite at Wynn and next thing I know she's married Prince Harry and I never see her again.
For those who write, the need to put words on a page, or a screen, or on the back of an envelope is overwhelming. They need to get out of your brain somehow before it turns into the Woolworths parking lot on Christmas Eve. But that doesn't mean they are worth sharing with the world. And for me, the last little while has been a case of frosty wind making moan in my thoughts - every topic which has sprung to mind has ended up in the mental shredder.
Until last week, when thankfully, discussions with two witty and wise friends brought the neurons back into a semblance of cerebral celebration.
The relief at feeling words starting to flow again cannot be underestimated. And this is not about thinking 'maybe someone will enjoy reading this' - because quite frankly, I don't actually write for anyone but myself, and I think the day you do start concentrating primarily on what other people think, then the words will dry up for good. Nope, it was 'man, I am really loving just getting this out of my noggin'.
And that is why this is a gratitude post.
Gratitude for two people understanding that sometimes words - they don't come easy to me, to quote an old(ish) song; and even more gratitude that with a bit of verbal Drano, the blockage was no more.
Whether others will be grateful remains to be seen, but as for me...
Huzzah!
In an annoyingly loud voice.
Heh.
““And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us.” ”
As I hung up the phone last night after a very long conversation, a topic close to my heart sprang to mind - about potential physical distance between partners. Now that the world is in so many ways a smaller place, we tend not to think so much about actual bodily separation. But when it comes down to it, relationships are not usually based on being hundreds of kilometres and states - or for that matter countries - apart.
Ask yourself the question; If you were separated from the person you love most for longer than a day, a week, a month - do you think your relationship would survive the travel test?
Obviously there are some partnerships which are more inclined towards this way of working than others (military and miners spring to mind), and hopefully people go into them with their eyes wide open. But for those who perhaps meet one day and strike up an unexpected romance - or even acquaintanceship, return to their separate corners of the world, then decide to make a go of it via e-mail, and phone, and text, and the wonderful world of the interwebs - is long distance love a realistic proposition or a romantic dream?
When it comes to keeping the flame burning bright over the boundless shores that constitute our wide brown land, I always think of the precursor to the horrendous You've Got Mail, the wonderful The Shop Around The Corner, with its post-war ideals of long-distance friendship and love between the literate. And yes, for me personally, there is no doubt that unless you have some serious electronic scribing skills going on, there ain't going to be much emotion across the ocean.
Don't underestimate the power of snail mail either; handwriting has its own mystery. And the joy of receiving a parcel in one's letterbox?
Grin.
But it's not just about an ability to write what the other person wants to hear. It's about whether the relationship has more behind it than immediate physicality. Is there friendship? Is there a partnership? Are you happy for the other person to be doing things without you - probably with people you have either never met, or maybe never even heard of?
Perhaps most of all... do you trust them?
And - do they trust you?
That's the biggie.
You can write each other all the pretty words in the world. You can phone each other until the cows come home. You can use FaceTime, Skype, whatever technology is available to you. But trust...
Old-fashioned? Perhaps.
But nonetheless valuable.
Whether you are trying to make a long-distance love work for a month, six months, a year, or longer (frightening thought), the essential question - and indeed the essential answer - will always boil down to that one word. And behind it is another word. I used it before.
Friendship.
With those two things well in hand, I believe you can span a country.
Or even a globe.
And of course, eventually... well, eventually you will both move mountains - or at least pack large numbers of boxes - and meet somewhere in the middle. Because that's the way the destiny cookie hopefully crumbles.
That's how it goes in the movies, anyway. So why not in real life?
Just this once.
““I like Cinderella, I really do. She has a good work ethic. I appreciate a good, hard-working gal. And she likes shoes. The fairy tale is all about the shoe at the end, and I’m a big shoe girl.”
”
I was talking to someone the other day about this blog and they said to me 'I really like what you write - the whole gratitude thingy, it's lovely. It makes such a difference to my day - you should feel really good about it'. I was just feeling all warm and fuzzy (and perhaps a little teary, because well, it had been a bad day), and was about to thank them, when they put their hand on my arm and shook their head at me.
'You do ruin it all though of course'.
Huh?
'It's all that stuff about shoes. It's so trivial and shallow. You should only be writing about meaningful issues. Otherwise, well, nobody's ever going to take you seriously. OK, bye!'
And they were gone, like a well-intentioned air to surface missile which had completed its mission and could knock off for afternoon tea.
Said target of the strike stood there dumbfounded for a minute or two. And then realised something.
I like writing about shoes. If I didn't write about shoes, I wouldn't be able to write about anything more meaningful, because it is the trivial and shallow pretty bits of life that carry me through the sookypuss parts, and let me get on with being grateful.
Shoes are spectacular. They are an instant mood-lifter. Feel craptacular? Throw on a pair of black suede stilettos. Bam. Suddenly the sun is shining - even if just a little bit. Throw in a little black dress and the world is your oyster.
Something about a pair of stunning shoes makes me feel mysterious and alluring. Sometimes it makes the difference between me being able to go forth with confidence into a room full of strangers - or not. And they don't have to be high; they just have to be gorgeous. And much as I might tout that 'one must suffer to be beautiful', they also have to be comfortable.
Shoes are a little piece of heaven wrapped up in tissue paper and individual cloth bags. And I love them. From a purely logical perspective, there is no point to them other than to keep my feet from freezing. Do they love me back? Hell no. They are pieces of dead animal and slithers of satin and lace. I'm besotted, not insane. Are they a good investment? Only if leather suddenly becomes a viable building material (NB: check out leather as a viable building material). But that's not the point.
The point is, shoes are seriously fabulous.
And I will write about them.
Because otherwise I might hurt their feelings, and next time I wear my favourite nude patent Mary-Janes, I might get a blister.
And cue the insanity.
““You don’t write because you want to say something, you write because you have something to say.””
I was writing an e-mail last night, and for some reason the way I had started it made me stop and think about the words we use when we are blathering on the page to our close friends and loved ones.
For example, I have a very bad habit of giving people strange nicknames, which they then for the life of them can't shake (enter the Panda and Dread P). Someone I think even described me as a 'nickname virus', which sounds vaguely unhealthy, but I hope was intended to say that when I give someone a nickname, that's it - they have no hope of ever getting rid of it.
Great. I am the equivalent of an STD for pseudonyms.
Hee hee.
Seriously though, the language of like and love is something that I feel very grateful for. I like expressing how I feel in words about those who matter to me. I like very much the fact that they express the way they feel in return - but I don't expect the return. For a reason.
It's as simple as writing to someone 'you are gorgeous', because they are. Using affectionate expressions is something many of us seem to be afraid of, because there is a chance we will be rebuffed in the return of call. But unless you express, you'll never know.
If you think someone looked beautiful, tell them. If someone made you happy, tell them that. If someone needs to know you care, for goodness' sake tell them. And don't go into it with expectation of acknowledgement, or because you think you should be saying something for the sake of it; if you do, then you are doing it for self gratification, not because you truly want to make someone happy.
I am massively grateful every time someone I love takes the time to write a word or two of sincere and expressive emotion. It's not gush or guff; it means they simply had to get onto the page - or the screen - that they were thinking of me at that moment in time.
Terms of endearment. They may not be conventional ones, like 'darling' or 'sweetheart'. They don't have to be between lovers. They are simply words that need to be put on a page because not to would be a disservice.
If anyone ever calls me 'nice' however...
That I would not be grateful for. And terms of abuse may become de rigueur instead...
““We made the buttons on the screen look so good you’ll want to lick them.”
”
Something was really brought home to me last night; it really is true what John Lennon sang in Beautiful Boy - 'life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans'.
We are often so caught up in the day to day, that we don't notice the momentous until we sit back for a breather, and realise how much things have either changed or progressed in a short period of time.
You may well ask what on earth John Lennon has got to do with a Beach Boys lyric and a Steve Jobs quote. Well, apart from the six degrees of separation issue (Ed Sullivan called The Beatles 'England's answer to The Beach Boys' and of course there was more than one Apple once upon a time) - not a hell of a lot. Aside from the fact that all of the above pieces of rubbish float around in my head where useful information could actually sit.
What Steve Jobs and surfing have to do with this post though - now there is a different story. Everything. For in their own ways they have been a part of the life that has happened to me recently, almost without any volition.
Because after a lot of what one, if one were honest with oneself, would call dithering, I have found what suits me in terms of work. How I work, what I do for work, and whom I work for. And the answers - to virtually (ha) all of those Jeopardy categories - finally come easily.
Most people can answer these 'what do I want to do when I grow up?' questions a lot earlier in life. They are extremely lucky. And they may not have had to deal with weird diseases hitting them at odd times and making them re-think their working ways.
So now I live in cyberspace to a large extent, and get to write, write, write. And then write some more. It may not be the type of surfing I envisaged as a 13 year old, but that doesn't make it any the less exciting.
And far better in the long run for my complexion. Because let's face it, my dreams of the freckles joining up to make a tan were fairly unrealistic to start with.
So today - I am grateful for the chance to weave an interweb. It turns out I am not too shabby at it. Considering my handicraft handicaps, it was a surprise to me as much as anyone.
Surf's up.
And I am very, very grateful.
