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."
““What separates us from the animals, what separates us from the chaos, is our ability to mourn people we’ve never met.””
— David Levithan, Love Is The Higher Law
I have always loved the above quote for its optimism and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, there is some hope for mankind. But unfortunately, on a day like today, when I woke in the early hours to hear the news of explosions, injuries and deaths at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, I feel as though it can be turned on its head.
What separates us from the animals - and brings us closer to the chaos - is our ability to injure, hurt, kill people we've never met; and not to do it with the purpose of survival - but to do it with the purpose of inflicting intentional pain.
Then I read on one of the live updates about a series of co-ordinated car bombs overnight in Iraq, which killed at least 55 people. Iraq is currently preparing for its first elections since coalition forces left the country.
On both sides of the world, people who were going about their daily lives were suddenly forced into fear and horror and blood and pain and death - because someone else decided to make a nightmare become reality.
What I would truly like to understand is this; what is the reasoning behind these people doing what they do? Because what scares me the most is that there may be no reason beyond a wish to make themselves heard - not out of a cry for their cause, or their suffering, but simply because they are hollow people.
What I want to say is not about apportioning blame to extremist groups, or pointing fingers at a particular religious persuasion, or anything along those lines. It is simply this.
The outpouring of love and support from around the world for the victims of the explosions in Boston is already incredible. It gladdens my heart to see it.
But I wonder; how many people are thinking of the dead in Iraq this morning. And I also wonder where and when this is going to end. After all, I sat in Jakarta as the Australian Embassy was bombed in 2004. I had been there for exactly two days. I watched again from the skies above the city in 2009 as a hotel with security to the eyeballs went up in smoke - and an Australian lost their life.
Because people are people are people. And some people have no moral compass.
Even if we call down the wrath of the angels on those who committed this act - there will be seven more to take their place. Unless there is a fundamental shift in the paradigm, nothing will change.
And all those who are willing to stand up and say 'this isn't the way it should be' - all of the people who do have the ability to mourn people they have never met - will continue beating their heads against a very solid brick wall of deliberate malice aforethought.
Thinking of you Boston, Massachusetts, USA. And Kamaliya, Iraq.
““In youth, it was a way I had, To do my best to please. And change, with every passing lad To suit his theories.
But now I know the things I know And do the things I do, And if you do not like me so, To hell, my love, with you””
— Dorothy Parker
I've been wondering about
something recently. It's nothing ground-breaking - in fact it's
something women all over the world discuss on a daily basis, but for
some reason, it's been brought to the fore amongst the chicks that I
know very strongly of late.
Why
do we have such a low opinion of ourselves when it comes to the
opposite sex? Or to put it more bluntly; if things don't work out, why
do we always assume that we are the ones who should have done more, been better looking, been funnier, been smarter, been more attentive, been less needy, been more needy - and coming back to it again - been more attractive.
I
am not going on a feminist rant here. I consider myself a feminist; I believe enormously strongly in the equality of women and men
in life, in the workplace and in the home. I do everything I can to
promote that equality. But I don't think women are better than men, just
as I don't think men are better than women. My goodness, the person I
speak to fifteen times a day on the phone is a bloke (admittedly he is
also a Panda, so perhaps that explains things - ha, sorry Panda). I
suppose what I am trying to say is that in terms of he said/she said,
that's not what this is about.
This is purely about why we, as women - smart, funny, beautiful women - continue to blame ourselves when things go pear-shaped with boys.
And we do. We just do. And quite honestly? We need to stop.
There
is a girl that I know. She is one of the most giving, open-hearted,
loving and tender people on the planet; male or female. She would fight
to the death, not for herself, mind you, but for the people that she
loves.
She is beautiful both inside and out, which is a rare combination indeed.
She went out with a total nightmare of a bloke (and he is a nightmare - I know that of which I speak) at a time when she
was vulnerable and hurting and frankly, easy prey for someone to mess
with her head. Which he has done extremely successfully, to the point
where her self-confidence has been shattered to pieces, and I know that a
corner of her heart will now always have a sliver of broken glass in it
that will occasionally dig in and cause a small bleed.
And she blames herself for him not wanting her anymore.
I say this now to every amazing woman that I know - and as every woman that I know is amazing, that's a lot of women;
You
are pretty enough. You are smart. You are special, and funny, and
spectacular. You deserve to be loved and cherished and desired. If
things go wrong, yes, there is usually fault on both sides; but it is on
both sides. Don't assume it's because you are to blame.
I
am not a fan of Kasey Chambers. Honestly, her voice does the whole
nails down a chalkboard thing to me. But that song does resonate in a way - with one reservation; the words need to be turned inside out.
The message for all the gorgeous women I know should be this.
I am pretty enough. In fact, I am stunning. Particularly first thing of
a morning, when my hair is all messy and I have a bare face. I am not too outspoken. Informed opinionated is awesome; you should thank your lucky stars that you have a girl who knows what is going on beyond who has broken up with whom in La-La Land. If I
don't make you laugh, then tough noodles - it means you have a
craptacular sense of humour. Because I am funny as a funny thing with
added funny. I don't need to try it harder. I try damned hard, every single day.
Next
time a girlfriend breaks up with someone, and says 'it was all my fault - I
just wasn't good enough', I am going to do three things.
Firstly, get them wildly and inappropriately drunk on really good champagne.
Secondly, make them listen to an entire Kasey Chambers album as punishment for that statement.
And
thirdly - possibly a little while after the hangover, because they
won't be looking too crash hot, and it would be hard to justify what I
am trying to make them see - I will shove them in front of a mirror. And I will
make them stare until they see the truth.
They are beautiful.
And nobody has the right to say they are not beautiful 'enough'.
“I have no choice about whether or not I have Parkinson’s. I have nothing but choices about how I react to it. In those choices, there’s freedom to do a lot of things in areas that I wouldn’t have otherwise found myself in.” — Michael J Fox
Today is April 11. It means very little to a lot of people, unless it happens to be their birthday, or perhaps a wedding anniversary. To me, and to a surprising number of people under the age of - well, let's just say not so old, it means a hell of a lot.
Today is World Parkinson's Day. And I, like 10% of all people in Australia with this condition - I actually refuse to call it a disease - was well and truly diagnosed under the age of 50. It is not reserved for the elderly; it is not something that should not be discussed.
The fact is that six million people worldwide have Parky and it isn't going away anytime soon - not unless we talk about it, and raise awareness - and most of all raise bucketloads of money to find out what on earth causes it.
I seriously believe that if it wasn't for Mike Fox coming out of the Parky closet there would still be a misconception of this bugger of a thing still being seen as something that only happens to little old men shuffling around in their jammies, forgetting where they are and shaking uncontrollably. And sadly, that is something that is the fate of many with Parkinson's - but then again, it's pretty much the fate of everyone once they reach a certain age.
But I am not old. I am not shuffling around, bent over. I do not sit around in my jammies - well, not unless I feel like it. And unless I forget to take my meds, or I am very very tired, you would be hard pressed to see my tremor. I do sometimes lose my balance and my handwriting is appalling, and sometimes I get what I call 'the stares' but so what? I am not sure that qualifies me as an invalid. I make fun of myself before anyone else can (usually the Dread P - he has a very strange interpretation of the word 'special') because my goodness, it would be very dull indeed to take this thing seriously.
There is a reason why I have posted a photo of myself wearing - well, wearing myself.
Because this is what someone with Parkinson's looks like.
Someone who takes care of themselves. Who is fit. And active. And healthy(ish).
And I am damned if Parkinson's is going to beat me down.
However.
I have had it for 11 years. I am so very lucky to be in a good place, after some dark times. I know the horror moments of what E Onset Parky can bring. I have had my share of nights spent with my muscles locked in total rigidity - including my jaw, which no doubt gave some people the benefit of my not speaking - and I have cried many tears of pain and frustration and anger.
And the trouble is I never know when those days may come back. Just like Mike Fox, just like the amazing Clyde Campbell, founder of Shake It Up here in Australia, just like my beautiful friends Sacha and Suey. We never know.
So today - give some cash. Just a little. Think about really cool people like Marty McFly himself. He and I can't go Back To The Future just yet - but we can do everything possible to raise awareness and funds.
Is it wrong to say I would quite like a de Lorean if someone wants to give me one?
““The Iron Lady of the Western World? Me? A cold war warrior? Well, yes - if that is how they wish to interpret my defence of values and freedoms fundamental to our way of life””
— The Right Honourable The Baroness Thatcher, LG, OM, PC, FRS
There are going to be tributes and teardowns of Margaret Hilda Thatcher all over the world today. I watched as they started last night - particularly the teardowns. And it was the latter that really got to me. Because they seemed to sum up all the reasons why we need women like Lady T in politics in the first place.
'Old bag.'
'Cow.'
'Fascist' (?)
'Glad she's dead. Stain on British history.'
'Send her straight to hell. Evil woman.'
What I noticed with all of the put-downs was that nearly every single one was not about her political stance per se.
It was about her personality. Or lack thereof.
Sound familiar?
I was obviously not particularly politically aware when the then Mrs Thatcher and Dennis moved into Number Ten - I was after all only seven years old. But as I became more savvy (read: older) I soon came to see that this was a woman who could not only mix it with the big boys, she could rip them apart and eat them with her Weetabix.
Her policies may not have been mine; her hairstyle most definitely wasn't, and never will be; but in the ultra-conservative 80s, at a time when the IRA was busily bombing the bejeebers out of Brighton, and Argentina decided it would quite like a few bits of rock sitting in the middle of the Atlantic - oh, and Russia wasn't all that friendly - this smiling assassin in pussy-bowed silk shirts kept Britain, well, Britain.
She was a research chemist. A barrister.
She was the daughter of a greengrocer.
She was twenty years ahead of her time when it came to the ECC/EC/EU.
She made the party's way her way. Or the highway.
I often wonder, more than any Prime Minister with the exception of Tony Blair when Diana died, how she got on with the Queen in those closed door weekly meetings.
Talk about a clash of the permanent waves.
I truly believe that in large part, there is another redhead sitting in our white house because of this woman. That Condy Rice, Angela Merkel, Mary Mcaleese - all of these women smacked it out of the ballpark in part because of the steel in Maggie's backbone (and possibly corset). That there will potentially be a female US president in 2016 (who is one of the best statesmen the US has ever seen) because of her too. Not because she was the saviour of the British economy, or healed the sick with her bare hands, or did anything particularly miraculous in itself.
With the exception of one thing.
She led a vastly conservative nation at the height of the Cold War, and she did it with fortitude, and strength, and courage, and cynicism, and irony, and contempt for weakness.
There was no puppet master. She bowed to no faction.
And no matter what her stance on certain issues, I for one am grateful that Margaret Thatcher was the woman that she was, because she gave a hell of a lot of inspiration to girls who were just daring to think outside the square.
And she did it with a flamethrower.
Gratitude for the attitude, Maggie. Go gently into that good night.
You've earned a rest.
Although no doubt you're already de-unionising the heavenly host and telling God where to get off. Given half a chance.
Yet another reason to be a heathen...
VALE MARGARET HILDA THATCHER (Née Roberts), BARONESS OF KESTEVEN, 13 October 1925 – 8 April 2013
“Behaving like a princess is work. It’s not just about looking beautiful or wearing a crown. It’s more about how you are inside.”
— Julie Andrews
Once upon a time there was a princess.
It would be wonderful to say that she was a particularly beautiful princess, or that she was amazingly charming, or had some special skill such as being able to play the piano with her feet or speak eleven languages including something very obscure - but no. As far as she and everybody else around her was aware, she was extremely ordinary indeed.
In fact, if it wasn't for the fact that she was of royal birth, probably nobody would have paid much attention to her at all.
This isn't to say that she wasn't a nice girl - she was a very nice girl. She was kind, and considerate, and thoughtful. She was intelligent and well-read and good to her servants. She was always doing lovely things for other people. But she was just - average. Which in fairy tale parlance is unusual. Normally princesses have a defining characteristic. They are either especially beautiful, tragically kept in a tower, under some kind of curse - well, you know the drill.
But not young Persephone (that was our sort of heroine's name). She just toodled along, being herself - which was quite frankly, as un-princessy as possible, because she didn't much like fuss, and hoping desperately that her father, the King lived forever, not just because she loved him very much... but also because she never, ever wanted to be Queen.
She knew she would suck at it. Who wants an ordinary Queen?
People either want a benevolent, bluebirds singing on the shoulder kind of ruler; or in a pinch (because at least it's interesting) a cruel stone cold fox with the whole blood red lips and jet black hair thing going on.
Magic mirror optional.
Persephone knew that neither of these were an option because she couldn't sing for quids and freckles and straight brown hair don't really lend themselves to Chanel Rouge Allure; also she wasn't very good at the whole mirthless 'mwah ha ha' cackle. So she was really very pleased that her dear Papa seemed in very good health and didn't look like popping off the twig any time soon. She also wasn't overly enamoured with the whole having to find a handsome prince as her consort notion, mainly because no handsome princes were really showing a hell of a lot of interest in a very average princess without a tragic storyline or Miss America looks to fall back on.
And then one day, things changed very rapidly for dear Persephone.
First of all, her parents decided that she really did have to get married. Not because they were mean or nasty, but because that's the way things were done in those days. So they organised a great tournament and all of the knights and lords and princes from the lands around were going to attend - because whilst Persephone was not a huge drawcard, getting half of a kingdom if you were an impoverished young noble wasn't such a bad dealio.
And then - ugh - her cousin came to stay. And she most definitely was of the 'have an apple - it might be poisoned, but you won't really care, because I am just so damn hot' variety of princess. Think Angelina Jolie with a basket full of Granny Smiths and you wouldn't be far off. And with her - probably coincidentally, let's be charitable here - came a strange blight on the land. The crops started dying; animals sickened. And worst of all...
Worst of all, the King became very ill.
Persephone and her mother, the Queen, were besides themselves with worry. Her cousin, Princess Whatsherface, seemed less concerned. And the King insisted that the tourney go ahead, as did Angie. 'It will be good for morale' she declared. 'It will make the people see that everything is as it should be.'
It possibly would have been less sinister if she hadn't been stroking a black evil looking cat as she said this, but never mind.
So the tournament day dawned, and Persephone - in her ordinary way - sat front and centre representing her father, with the witch queen in training beside her looking radiantly lovely (and smug) as the competitors came forth to win her hand. The jousts began. They seemed to be more than usually violent, and cousin Angie was staring very hard at certain sinister looking knights who seemed to do remarkably well. Persephone began to feel very uneasy, for she was not as we have said, a stupid girl, and wondered what her cousin was actually capable of.
She soon found out when a knight in jet black armour veered away from the lists and charged straight at her, lance aimed directly at her heart.
Vaguely she heard the crowd screaming (despite her ordinariness - or perhaps because of it - she was actually very much loved) and the only thing she could think to do was to say 'please...
'Stop.'
And then she heard a stange roaring and then silence.
And realised something quite miraculous.
Everything had stopped.
The lance was but a few centimetres from her body. Her cousin was frozen with a look of malicious pleasure on her face, which was revealed to be not beautiful but dark and twisted and evil. Persephone carefully moved from her throne and went to the knight and removed his helmet. His face was - well, it was very handsome (so sue her, she was human) and twisted in agony. He was obviously trying to fight the command that her cousin had put on him.
Princess P didn't know how or why she, the most ordinary girl in the world, had been blessed with this very unusual ability. But she knew what she had to do. She carefully moved the lance a few inches to the right. She put the knight's helmet back on. And then she sat back on her throne, took a deep breath...
And said...
'Go.'
And the lance went straight through the very black heart of her velvet clad cousin, who didn't even have time to look surprised before disappearing in a cloud of fairly greasy black smoke, leaving behind scorch marks and strangely, a tube of expensive lipstick.
The rest of the story is fairly predictable. The King and the land recovered, the young knight fell wildly in love with Persephone - and she with him (he was pretty damn hot, people, and yes, yes, intelligent and kind and good) and they lived a long and happy life together. She was handily able to freeze time whenever she felt like it after that first occurrence, so if he had something like the last piece of chocolate and wouldn't give it up - well, you can see where I am going.
Persephone never could understand why she, the most average of princesses, would be given this extraordinary gift of being able to stop time. But perhaps I can answer that for her.
One doesn't necessarily have to look extraordinary on the outside to be extraordinary on the inside.
Bear that in mind next time you see someone who may look like a frog - or even just an everyday girl.
““How is it they live in such harmony the billions of stars - when most men can barely go a minute without declaring war in their minds about someone they know.””
— Saint Thomas Aquinas
I have posted before about my love of astronomy and mythology and the way the two intertwine, and since moving north it has already given me a great deal of pleasure to get my geek on with my favourite iPad app (StarWalk) and watch the stars - and the man-made bits and pieces in the heavens - in their infinite variety.
As someone who is pretty much bewildered by the whole 'what happens afterwards' question, I am, I think, particularly fascinated by the stars for a very romantic reason.
Maybe, just maybe, there is something in the tales of the gods and heroes - and we do end up looking down on our loved ones from millions of miles above as a tiny part of a cosmic creation; not with the kind of consciousness we have as humans, but perhaps in some way aware of life continuing on. This to me makes as much sense as an old man with a beard letting people through a set of pearly gates, and I quite like the idea of being part of Draco, or Andromeda - or for that matter Lux Katrina.
We have watched the stars for millennia. Men have written odes to them; charted courses by them; princes have decided the fates of nations through their cold impersonal blaze. Why do they continue to fascinate us so much? If they are just large bodies of dust and gas and rock, why do they exert such an amazing pull on our hearts and minds?
I think it's because of their mystery. They are inexplicable, and whatever mankind cannot explain is always irresistible. Much like anything we cannot have, the stars have an intangible beauty - and although at times they seem close enough to reach up and pluck out of the sky, they will always remain out of reach.
This may seem like a strange thing to be grateful for, but as I was sitting outside last night and watching a satellite hum across the sky, and doing my nerdy best to absorb as much as I could about a new (to me) constellation, I realised something.
I am very grateful that the stars retain said mystery.
Because much like the things, and people, that I love most in this world - a little mystery only adds to the desire to keep learning more about them.
And my advice? Don't necessarily look with a telescope. Because the naked eye means you look a lot deeper at those celestial trailblazers.
And at the people you care about too.
Little Star.
I really do wonder what the hell you are - with a great deal of gratitude in the wondering.
““Passover and Easter are the only Jewish and Christian holidays that move in sync, like the ice skating pairs we saw during the winter Olympics.” ”
— Marvin Olasky
As most people who are close to me are aware, I am not at all religious; my 'belief' system tends to be centred around individuals and whether they are decent human beings (or not) rather than organised tenets of faith, mainly because of the acts I have seen said organisations perform in the name of their various doctrines.
So this post is mostly not about Easter or Passover in any religious sense - nor would it be likely anyway, as I am not interested in beating people around the head with my beliefs. Unlike my political views, I would rather keep them mostly to myself.
I admit though, Easter is kind of fascinating. Most probably built on the back of Eostre, although I know there are several alternative explanations, there is a burning question in there for me which nobody I have consulted has ever been able to answer. I have been asking it since the age of about six - and still no joy. Please, somebody tell me, and put me out of my misery:
How the hell does the Easter Bunny lay those really AMAZING chocolate eggs? Riddle me that, Batman!
I am not even interested in the whole rabbit (and it seems, male rabbit at that) laying any kind of eggs scenario. That doesn't concern me at all. I want the big answer: why is Easter egg chocolate so much better than normal chocolate? Why is that damn lepus able to make us want what is essentially really crappy hooves and lips, garden variety, low-cacao content chocolat which we would normally turn our noses up at? Because the moment I see an Elegant Rabbit, its ears are off and that bunny is a few smeary crumbs in its now not-so-elegant foil.
Weird.
But you try to deny it. Put an Easter egg and a block of good quality chocolate in normal wrapping in front of you and see the Pavlovian response kick into action.
Yep. Good dog.
I also can't cope with the whole E Bunny plus chicken thingy. I get the whole chickens are a sign of new life, yada, yada, yada, spring has sprung business, but people: let's pick a mythical figure and stick with it. Easter Bunny or bust, I say. Rabbits are cool. Bugs Bunny proved that. If you needed any further proof, enter Ms Jessica Rabbit. As a redhead, I thoroughly approve of that cartoon creation.
You may wonder (quite reasonably) where the gratitude is in this post. I am getting there though. And it's not just about chocolate eggs - which I may or may not be currently eating at a very early hour of the morning. Dribble.
Easter Sunday is traditionally a day of hope - and for many people, new beginnings. I know that for many of my friends it is a celebration of their faith, and I am grateful that they gain joy and comfort on this day. For me - I am also filled with immense gratitude today.
I am grateful that the people I care most about and love are all safe today - and that I am able, through the power of technology, to know this for certain. I am grateful that I am lucky enough to live in a country where people can celebrate Easter, and Passover, or dance around buck naked praising Eostre if they feel like it - and not be punished for doing so.
And yes, I am grateful for that wascally wabbit and his unnatural ability to bring forth ovoid spheres of the chocolicious variety. Annoying as it may be, there are some mysteries that are best left unsolved.
Because I don't want to miss out on Easter eggs next year.
That's what happens to girls who ask too many questions...
Last night I had the pleasure of having people to dinner for the first time in my new home - yay!
To dinner, not for dinner; despite my love of quoting Dr Hannibal Lecter, I am not inclined towards cannibalism. Although I must admit, the thought of boiling a few politicians' heads is extremely appealing at present.
The reason I mention this is whenever I am talking to someone and they say 'Oh, I'm having X and Y for dinner' - well, all I can envisage is a big pile of fava beans and some fairly unpleasant screams.
And they ain't coming from little lambykins.
Not quite sure how I got onto Dr Lecter then - a need to fire up grammatically and a hangover from the desire to seriously injure a flight attendant on Thursday I think (see My House post for reference).
I must admit, I was a bit excited about the whole dinner shebang. Because I love cooking. Absolutely adore it. I love the whole process associated with putting great food on the table; I find it extremely calming and it means a lot to me that everything is (hopefully) perfect. But for quite some time I haven't been doing much cooking at all, which for a chick who used to regularly hold four course dinner parties for twelve people without blinking an eye has been - well, pretty blah.
So yesterday afternoon it was a case of dancing around the kitchen to extremely dorky music as I caked it up and threw garlic around like a vampire hunter gone wild; and naturally, being me, cut myself on one of my samurai-sharp knives just for that added touch of cheffy messed-up fingers authenticity.
It was ace.
And it made me wonder something.
Is cooking - or more to the point, being taught to cook - a lost art?
Much like the practice of writing (writing, not texting) thank you notes and other antiquated notions which Gen 'Y Do I Have To Listen To This Old Bag Blather On At Me' look at me blankly about when I mention them, is learning to cook slowly becoming a dinosaur?
I'd love to say 'Nope, everyone loves cooking' but the reality is, how many 25 year olds now would know how to make - oh, I don't know - gravy? And yes, I realise you don't need to know how to make gravy, because all you have to do is walk into Woollies and pick up a pouch of said substance and zap the hell out of it, but that's not the point. There is something hugely satisfying in creating something very simple and delicious from scratch. I'm not saying everyone should be spending their weekends boiling up huge pots of chicken bones and making stock, but taking the time - just occasionally - to not take the plastic fantastic option is massively rewarding.
And tastes even sweeter.
Because you know in yourself - even if nobody else at the table realises - that what you are eating was made by you. Not by someone in a pair of plastic gloves and a hair net somewhere.
And definitely not while dancing around to Vogue.
How could it not taste amazing?
Finger slicing good. Those knives are really, really sharp. Ouch.
““Home interprets heaven. Home is heaven for beginners.””
— Charles Henry Parkhurst
I hate flying. I absolutely detest it. I would rather cage-fight crocodiles than be on a plane in turbulence. In fact, I would consider that an opportunity for picking out bespoke matching shoes and handbag and thank the organisers profusely. If ever The Hunger Games existed in reality and I was forced to compete, all the Game Makers would need to do is stick us all on a plane and say 'the quicker you do the deed, the quicker you get off' - and bam, they would have a merciless puppet of the State.
Hey, my name is Kate after all. Kateniss could work.
My point though, when I stop rabbiting on about being a Girl On Fire, is this; I was so tired yesterday afternoon on a flight back from Sydney, that I actually fell sleeps on the plane.
Before it even left the runway.
This is profound tiredness, which made me particularly snarly when the flight attendant decided I didn't need to be asleep, I needed to be asked if I wanted to purchase anything to snack on.
Tempted as I was to answer her with 'yes your liver, with some fava beans and a nice Chianti' and Hannibal Lecter 's-s-s-s-s' noises, I didn't want to sit in a straightjacket for the rest of the flight, so I settled for the Kate Stone (copyright pending) Glare Of Death which subdued her accordingly, and then sat and admittedly had a lovely conversation with my fellow traveller (mainly about slightly stupid flight attendants).
Eventually we reached Gold Coast aeropuerto, and I toodled straight off - literally - into the sunset, and drove home, with a short stop at the crazy shops where everyone was buying enough food for the Apocalypse as everything is closed for one whole day.
And it was on the way home, whilst conversing long distance with the Dread Pirate, that I realised something very important.
I had just done my first return to my new home - and it felt like home.
Awesome. Quite astonishing really, as despite a number of visitations to the weirdness that is my new locale, I have not lived anywhere like this in my life. And honestly, after less than a week, it could be expected that it would still feel completely alien, and strange, and a little bit unreal. But instead, it felt like sanctuary, and that is a whole big whack of gratitude right there. Enough, if not for a lifetime, then certainly enough for a very happy Easter break.
““Love the life you live. Live the life you love.””
— Bob Marley
I cheerfully confess to stealing the attached quote from Miss Fiona last night about 5 seconds after she posted it on Pinterest. Fi, I owe you one - or possibly two glasses - of champers for this one. Luckily we are now in the same state which makes this eminently more achievable!
Having just mowed through a mountain of moving boxes, and dealt with all the detritus attached with the process of plopping oneself into a new location, I can cheerfully say that I haven't had a lot of love to spare for anything - or anyone - in the last few weeks. Which is why, I think, that this particular little piece resonated with me when I saw it last night. That and the enormous technological frustrations I was having, which when one's work is based online does not make the heart grow fonder of - well, anything.
To quote Roxie Hart in Chicago, you can like the life you're living, you can live the life you like - but liking it? It's not enough. You need to embrace the craptacular and the mundane as well as the awesome, even if there doesn't seem to be much point at the time. I may have been grumbling and gnashing my teeth as I unpacked what felt like the seventy two-hundredth box last night; but then I looked around and saw something spectacular.
A home.
It had appeared while I was bitching away to myself about packing paper and interwebs and I hadn't even noticed. Which is a shame, because it looks really speccy, if I do say so myself, and I should have enjoyed the process more, rather than only seeing the hindrances.
Life is such an amazing gift, and we squander it. We waste so much time thinking about what we might be able to obtain, or who we might be with, that we don't love the here and now. We also think it should be all highs and something out of a romantic comedy, with the whole 'wow' factor occurring on a daily basis, when in fact it's just life. Crap happens, and we have to deal. That doesn't mean we can't find some way to love the process.
I think that if I can write this after a decidedly average week, and mean it, that a lot of other people can manage to keep going with a bit more amour for the daily chore. And you know what? If you honestly hate things so much, or if life is just 'meh' and you can't see any joy down the line - for the love of monkeys make some changes so that you can love life more.
And maybe - just maybe - you will love yourself more in the process too.
One may even find the inclination to purchase a new pair of shoes. Believe me, genuine joie de vivre is needed for that.
““It’s not the load that breaks you down - it’s the way you carry it.””
— Lena Horne
There is no other way to put it; it's been an absolute bugger of a few days. Moving sucks. It sucks like a sucky thing that has been sucking sour stuff and is feeling really sucky.
In other words, it sucks a lot.
I have just worked out that this is Move Number 32 or something ridiculous. How on earth did that happen? More to the point, how did I collect so much china along the way? I have had to come to the realisation that I don't just have a shoe issue, I also have a kitchenware issue. And a bed linen issue.
At least when people stay over they will have nice sheets.
I have also had to come to a rather more serious realisation.
I am not very good at asking for help. I'm very, very good at telling other people what they should do and bossing them around - but when I need help myself?
Absolutely rubbish.
But lately - well, I have had to change that behaviour. Because I have needed help, and I have needed it quite badly. I have needed emotional support. I have needed to be able to talk things through. I've needed pure physical support in terms of moving heavy stuff. And as difficult as it has been for the proudest woman in the world to ask for said assistance - once I managed to ungraciously start to open up, then I realised it wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be.
Because when it comes down to it, if you are incredibly fortunate, as I know I am, you will have people who are always willing to assist.
I am massively grateful for the realisation - at 41 mind you - that to ask for a hand is not weakness.
I am even more grateful for those people who without fanfare or the need for recognition or reward have helped me.
Thank you.
Now back to the boxes. And possibly - well, possibly a garage sale.
““She asked where he lived. ‘Second to the right,’ said Peter, ‘and then straight on till morning.’””
— J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
This post really belongs in two sections. Hmmmmm... actually, three. Because there is a lot of gratitude, quite a bit about shoes, and it sits nicely in the 41 bucket list items for the year.
Multi-tasking!
What a woman.
How is it involved in the 41 Steps? I am glad you asked (even if you didn't). Step Number Five: Live Somewhere You Have Never Lived Before. So that I am. I am about to grace (they may disagree with that term) the fair shores of South East Queensland. To feel the sand between my currently broken toes on a daily basis, and to further my ambition of NEVER GOING THROUGH A CANBERRA WINTER EVER AGAIN.
EVER.
So off I head to the Land Of The Long Orange-Skinned Meter Maid. Where ugg boot and bikini combos are considered the height of fashion and my paleness is a weird attraction for Japanese tourists on the Main Beach at Surfers. Where people watching is more than a hobby, it's a way of life, and where the best coffee and pork belly in the Southern Hemisphere can be found if you don't think like a tourist.
If there was a bookshop closer than Coolangatta (sorry - Gold Coast) Airport, all would be for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Thank goodness for the interwebs.
As for the shoes - well, I am having to pack them. Which involves much effort. Much, much effort. And multiple pauses to appreciate just how lovely my shoesies are.
I am certain they will love their new home.
There are built in shoe racks in the wardrobes.
Mainly though, this post is about gratitude. Gratitude for those people who have made my time in the Can pretty damn amazing. Who have made me laugh until I've had to cross my legs and hope for the best; who have held my hand in some fairly spaztacular moments, several of them involving various hospital visits; who have cried with me, drank, eaten, cried, not cringed whilst I've sworn at the rugby and netty and AFL on TV, again when I've sworn at live rugby, cried some more; who have propped me up and been inspiring, irritating, huggable and horrible.
Who have loved me and been my friends.
Gratitude is not quite a strong enough word for the emotion I wish I could express for what you have given to me. But it will just have to do.
And as I set off on the reverse of the road trip that my gorgeous sister Oonagh and I made about six months ago, this time with a very suss Thelma to my Louise in tow (Thelma as far as I know didn't have a 5 o'clock shadow), I am happily aware that in a few days time, I will be crunching through said sand. And also, that not too far up the road from my new abode, a buccaneering boyo will soon be home from adventuring to help make my life well - interesting. To say the least. God help the Gold Coast.
I don't know why P. Pan was so keen on popping off the twig.
Life is a big enough adventure for this little duck.
