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."
““Being soaked alone is cold. Being soaked with your best friend is an adventure.” ”
— Emily Wing Smith, Back When You Were Easier To Love
So. I am living in Queensland, yes? Yes. And in theory, that means several things. Slower voices. Strange words like 'port' for suitcase. A sudden overwhelming urge to support the Reds in the Super 15s. Banana bending. (Just kidding, large mob of angry Queenslanders coming towards me with pitchforks). Endemic to where I am living, of course, lots and lots of fake tan, fake hair and fake boo- uh... body parts.
And I assumed, glorious, glorious warm weather. Sunshiny days. Mild evenings. A winter of blissful non-frostbitey 'ha-has' to my Southern sisters.
Yes. In theory... yes.
There is no denying that the people watching is amazing around these parts. It's a veritable smorgasbord of 'come as you are, or perhaps as you always wanted to be, but didn't have the guts to be anywhere else'. I feel bewilderingly normal, and thus stand out like a sore thumb, because I have no image. None. I need to develop one, but as everything I have seen so far involves heavy body inking, tandoori tanning, bleaching and/or inserting of silicone, it might take a while and involuntary anaesthesia before it happens.
As for the weather?
Hmmmmmmm.
I arrived back home Sunday night from an unexpected weekend away, and it was, as our lovely pilot cheerfully informed us, eight degrees. Apparently the night before it had been four; the second coldest night in Gold Coast history.
This is not what I signed up for.
My ugg boots were supposed to stay firmly in the back of the wardrobe; I was only to pull my coat out of same wardrobe when going to more southerly climes - I actually gave away the more substantial layers of style that composed the House of Kate. Winter? Winter, to misquote A Game Of Thrones, was not coming.
Last night I actually had to put socks on. This will not do.
I would like Queensland to get its act together please, and turn on the sunlamps. OK, so I may be the palest person on the planet, and my skin tone may somewhat resemble a speckled trout's tummy, but that is beside the point; I like to feel warm whilst I am sitting in my straw hat and thirty plus. You can be sun smart and smugly happy at the same time.
You may well ask, as I have just spent the last zillion paragraphs whinging, where the gratitude is in this post.
It's quite simple really.
It may be a touch frostier than I was expecting up here in the not so sunshiney state, but when it comes down to it, I am massively lucky. Unlike a hell of a lot of Australians, I am sleeping in a lovely warm bed, and if I need to, I can grab as many extra covers as I want to put on said bed. I have, for that matter, a warm coat.
If you want to get down to brass tacks, I have socks.
Things are a bit rough for me health wise at present, and it has made me more than usually aware of a few things. Every time I think about what I don't have, I am constantly reminded of what I do have. It makes me feel humble, and grateful, and very, very thankful despite all of my groaning and moaning about feeling a slight chilliness in the air, and I know how trivial my complaints are compared to what so many people are facing on a day to day basis - simply trying to survive.
I don't wish to sound preachy, but if you are lucky enough to be a 'have' this winter, take a moment to be grateful, and think about the 'have nots' - and actively do something to help.
You may just find the sun will come out if you do.
““Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.””
— William Goldman, The Princess Bride
It has been, to put it mildly, a
very trying week. I am not even going to pretend otherwise. There are
times when it is better to lay down one's arms, stop trying to rule the known world and simply admit defeat; to say to the dragon 'come out, come out wherever you are' and let it
flame you for a few moments before taking up shield and sword again.
Even princesses in shining armour need a break every so often.
I was talking last week about not sucking it up. And yet again, I may
sound as though I am having a bit of a whinge. In a way I suppose I am,
because I am talking about being in physical agony. But I am also
talking about gratitude, and how I feel about normally having it - well,
normally having it pretty damn good.
Planet
Pain. It stinks. It is not a nice place to be - at all. I don't like
visiting, and I cannot believe that I used to basically live here on a full time basis.
What I also cannot believe is how much I take for granted now in terms of how well I am generally, and how grateful I am for the progress that I have made, and continue to make, in terms of staying healthy and fighting what my body and brain would quite like me to give in to at times.
I am also grateful that I know the reasons behind my pain this week, and that I know there is a 'most of the time I am fine' end in sight. For so many people whom I know who have Parkinson's or Dystonia - or both - they are not so lucky. They hurt all the time.
All. The. Time.
Imagine being 30 years old. Or 35. Or 40. And you wake up in the middle of the night and your back is twisted, and your feet are in cramps so severe that they form circles, and your jaw is trying to make its way through your collarbone just for the hell of it. And it just won't stop. Not just for minutes, or hours; but days. Or weeks. Or months.
Or years.
I have only faced days at a time.
My beautiful Rogers - and in fact so many people I know - face, and have faced, the latter.
Sometimes I underestimate her bravery because of her silly sense of humour and because she is so gorgeous that you forget about the lean-over. And she doesn't talk about the pain.
But then whenever I end up as a pretzel I remember.
And I think all over again about how amazing she is. How amazing all of the wonderful people that I know are.
And how grateful I am for their strength.
I will say this, and it is something it has taken me a long time to learn; if you are in physical pain, don't be afraid to admit it. I am not talking about sitting there and constantly griping 'I'm hurting', because believe me, people will get sick of it pretty bloody quickly. But - if you don't speak out, then nobody will understand just what is going on, and when you are irritated, or sharp, or simply aren't coping, they will be puzzled, and perhaps angry, because it will be out of the blue. If you are factual and admit to what is going on with your body, then understanding from those who care about you will be there. Not from everyone - but from those who care for and love you, yes.
I am constantly and consistently grateful for those who express empathy to and for me. Not in a 'keep me in an illness box' way, or a pitying way - but in a 'let's get you better, constructive, slay that goddamn pain dragon' way. Particularly the Dread Pirate who has been very good (in a piratey fashion naturally).
It helps me put the armour back on, however heavy it may feel, and get ready to fight the good fight again.
““My mother... she is beautiful, softened at the edges and tempered with a spine of steel. I want to grow old and be like her.” ”
— Jodi Picoult
Last Mother's Day I wrote about my grandmother because it was very close to the date that would have been her hundredth birthday. Not out of any lack of love or respect for my Mama - quite the opposite - she would I know agree that without my Gran'ma she would (literally, ha, ha) be half the person she is.
But I definitely owe the P a post. She is going to kill me for putting this photo in, so I may as well go hell for leather and embarrass her totally.
She is my best friend. If you are a grown up (or semi grown up in my case) woman and you are able to say 'my mother is my best friend' consider yourself very, very fortunate indeed. As a teenager - forget it. You are going to scorn everything your mum says, wears and does - and then as an adult probably end up saying, wearing and doing all the same things (in my case yes, sort of and yes). You will scream 'I hate you' and then if you are smart, apologise.
But as an adult - yay. The thought of not talking to P on a daily basis is one that frightens me so badly that I stick my fingers in my ears and go 'la, la, la' until the bad men go away. She is the still, calm voice in the centre of the hurricane that constitutes my brain.
She is my inner eye.
My mother is an amazing woman.
She would be the first to scoff at this. She is incredibly unassuming
and very modest. She has no idea of the quiet impact she has on all
those she comes in contact with. Her employees, her friends, her family.
Me. Always me. Even when we have fought. If I am in a strop, I really
do try to stop and think 'how would P handle this?' - because invariably
it would be with better grace and humour than myself.
She
has handled blows that would fell strong men. She has watched her
children mess up time and again - and sadly had to watch one of them go
through illnesses that I know in her heart she blames herself for, despite
there being no reason for it. It's not her fault. As the one going
through said illnesses, I say this with certainty. But I hear that little
voice inside her saying 'yes it is' and as that same voice ticks inside
me I will not attempt to shut it up, but simply say this.
Mumsy, Mama, Big P.
You
are my sanity and my succour. You are the first person I turn to -
always - even if I am narky with you. You are the snort at the other end
of the phone when I need to let off steam. I laugh til I cry with you
about stuff which nobody in their right minds would find remotely
amusing, or understand, and that is fantastic. The fact that we have had
a running joke of one word for well on twenty years is testament to
both our combined sense of the ridiculous and what can only be called
deep, deep love.
I actually
find it hard to put into words the respect that I have for you, both as
a mother and as a woman. So let me just say I am grateful for you, I
will continue to be grateful for you, and I will try to show it every
day.
“““What’s your name,’ Coraline asked the cat. ‘Look, I’m Coraline. Okay?’ ’Cats don’t have names,’ it said. ’No?’ said Coraline. ’No,’ said the cat. ‘Now you people have names. That’s because you don’t know who you are. We know who we are, so we don’t need names.”” ”
— Neil Gaiman, Coraline
I was talking to a friend the other day and he mentioned to me a very funny comedy routine by Jimeoin (which will mean something to Australian and Irish readers of this blog) about men being dogs and women being cats. Basic premise: men are pretty much happy go lucky, 'yay, she's home, yay!', come up and want to be petted personalities; whereas women are more stand-off, give them a bit of room and they will come to you numbers who need to make up their own minds about whether or not they will pay you attention.
Men are like dogs, women are like cats.
I thought about this for probably far longer than it warranted, because my head is full of rubbish.
And decided it was a load of bollocks.
Sort of.
There are some people who are like dogs, and some people who are like cats.
Now that - that makes sense.
Here we go.
There are definitely those amongst us who are more dog-like in nature. You think about the people you know who are fiercely loyal, will go out on a limb for you whenever you need it, always, always there for you no matter what - who will always forgive you irrespective of how much you push them or how badly you behave... who is that but 'man's' (and there are definite quotation marks on that one) best friend? And you will probably be careless with their affection because, just like dogs, you don't recognise the hurt in their eyes - because they don't let you see it. Instead they hide it with the love that they hold for you, because to do otherwise - well, would be less than faithful.
As for the cat people? Oh... think about those star-shiny creatures who slink into people's lives and weave their way around their senses, often without being noticed immediately. They may switch off and on like a lightbulb, bestowing affection when and how they feel like it, and only when they deign to - but one can't help but want to reach out and stroke, despite the risk of getting a swift claw or a growl rather than a rumbling purr or a smooch in return.
Cats sound like absolute bastards don't they?
And yet.
In their own way, even though they don't show it openly, but keep it for the very private moments, they love fiercely and desperately and truly. They do keep the faith, and they will fight tooth and nail for those that they care about.
They just don't show it.
Because that would mean giving away secrets. And that wouldn't be cool. And above anything else, cats have to stay cool.
Nobody ever says 'cool for dogs'.
Whether you are a panther or a pup, I value all of the amazing people in my life. But I will freely confess - I am a cat woman, and will ever remain so.
Oh - and I really don't run goats. Some people are DEFINITELY goats.
““People who claim that they’re evil are usually no worse than the rest of us... It’s people who claim that they’re good, or any way better than the rest of us, that you have to be wary of.” ”
— Gregory Maguire, Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West
After a solid 36 hours with a fever and the inability to either focus my eyes properly or keep food in my stomach for longer than a ten second period, I am feeling decidedly bit - uh, witchy.
Then the Dread P sent through the image on this blog (I can't imagine why he would think of me in terms of wicked witches - I am sure it was the awesome shoes and the fabulous legs that prompted it) and I laughed because it was so very appropriate.
In my opinion, the so-called WWs in The Wizard of Oz got a very rough deal. Imagine. You're just getting on with your business, sending out the flying monkeys, maintaining the rage, making sure that everyone kowtows to you (because let's face it, you're pretty damn awesome - oh and you have the BEST ruby red slippers); and WHAM!
Some pesky little brat with pigtails and a very yarpy dog smacks a farmhouse down on your sister's head.
So. Not. Cool.
She then proceeds to run around Oz like a pinafored princess, singing twee songs about rainbows and bluebirds and making friends with highly suspect dudes in lion costumes and head to toe tin suits.
Release the flying monkeys? I would be releasing Weapons of Mass Destruction. And as for Glinda the 'Good' Witch... no fashion sense whatsoever. Everyone knows that black is the new black. She looks like an overgrown meringue.
Well. You see my point. A house lands on your sister, your other sister is mutton dressed as spangled lamb, you lose your totally fabulous shoes, and then some kid with attitude in a dress that looks like a picnic tablecloth throws a bucket of water on you.
Hmmmmm. It must be Thursday.
I am going out in solidarity with the Wicked Witches of the world. As far as I am concerned, anyone who floats around in a bubble with a crown on, rather than riding an old-fashioned broomstick and wearing a respectable black hat, needs a slap upside the head. The Wicked Witches of this world aren't evil. They just don't smile sweetly and make grandiose gestures on a regular basis. Instead, they simply get on with life, making the tough calls, trudging away, and yes, often being disliked, because they aren't trying to win Miss Congeniality.
I say to all the non-glittery, non-Glindas out there - be proud of your witchiness. Embrace the fact that you are not one hundred percent lovable every day. Be prepared to cop a flogging from those who don't understand you; but remember this - for every five people who don't get what you are about and who only see the mean outer you, the one person who does get you - well, they are worth those other five and more.
Because the people who look beneath the green skin and the sometimes zitty - I mean warty - profile - will see your inner strength and beauty. And they will know that just because you have a whole army of flying monkeys, it doesn't mean you don't love and care for each and every one of them.
Just as much as one yarpy little dog.
If I only had a brain. If I only had a heart. If I only had courage.
Wicked Witches have all of the above. They just keep them hidden from public view. Along with their extensive shoe collections.
““Truthful words are not beautiful; beautiful words are not truthful. Good words are not persuasive; persuasive words are not good.””
— Lao Tzu
It is probably obvious to anyone who reads this blog that I love language. I love writing, I love expressing opinions. I love a good rant about pretty much anything and I don't hold back if I am upset or hurt about something on someone else's behalf. I quite like talking in a ranty way as well, and am never usually lost for words, much to some people's despair.
And yes, I love shoes. And books. And cats.
Wow, I'm a real prospect. A yarpy, nerdy shoe-loving cat lady.
Awesome. I probably should delete that description, but that would make a nonsense of what I am trying to say.
One thing I am truly bad at, despite all the self-expression - and I think this is possibly true for everyone, but especially for those of us who are introverts pretending to be extroverts - is admitting when things are not fabulous. In written words or out loud.
Actually saying 'I am not OK, and I am not happy/coping/well/in a good place' is something that is ridiculously hard for me to do. I see it as a weakness I suppose. Because when you belong to the 'Suck It Up Princess' School Of Life Management, the first lesson you teach yourself is to - well, suck it up. There's no crying in baseball, things will be fine, get over yourself; these are all words I smack myself around the brain with on a daily basis. Because yes, life does go on and things usually will be fine; but sometimes - well, sometimes they aren't, and admitting that this is a possibility means admitting vulnerability, and fear, and even despair.
Most of all, it means admitting you are human.
Much as I would like to believe it at times, I am not a robot. I can't just go on and on with the power of an automaton - saying 'yep, all good!' and secretly screaming inside my head. Do that, and you will not only end up blowing a gasket, but you will lose so many things - opportunities, options, and most importantly, people who care about you - because you haven't been able to tell them how hard things are, and so when you break, they don't know how to deal. How could they? If you constantly hide all the frailties that you hold inside yourself, then all they know of you is a two-dimensional caricature rather than a real person.
You may well ask why this is a gratitude post.
Because I am immensely grateful for a few things. For someone who cared enough to use truthful words with me, and got me to say out loud 'I am struggling' - and yes, Lao Tzu is correct. Sometimes truthful words are not beautiful. But they are real.
I am also grateful for the people and opportunities in my life. Full stop. That, after admitting to not being at my tiptop best - after actually letting some of that vulnerability out of its locked box in my brain and my heart - I have received back nothing but support and strength and love.
I feel as though I have managed to take off the padlock of said Pandora's box and just breathe.
For anyone out there who is proudly wearing their Suck It Up t-shirt, I just want to say this;
Wear the t-shirt by all means - and do wear it with pride. Because being able to cope under a lot of stress is a strength, and you should be proud of it.
But even the best t-shirts get grubby and need a wash - so every so often, allow yourself a change of metaphysical clothing - and perhaps put on a 'NOT COPING AT ALL' or even just 'Help!' number instead.
Hard - yes.
Essential to being yourself?
Even bigger yes.
And I am grateful that for once, I am letting myself see that - so I'm off to change my top.
““Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret.””
— Ambrose Bierce
I have as previously mentioned, a very bad temper. Not a sulky one; a fiery, burning hot coal, bring down the wrath of the angels number which is not attractive and tends to present itself in one of two ways. Either it is a short sharp blast of icy low voiced rational school mistress Kate, which tends to be saved exclusively for phone companies and bad restaurant service; or in many people's eyes, the far worse alternative.
I get horribly sarcastic.
They say that sarcasm is the wit of fools, and I am inclined to agree - because it is usually me who ends up feeling foolish after the fact.
And the reason is this.
If I'm speaking with forked tongue, quite often I'm not truly angry - or not in the sense that one may expect. What I really am...
Well, what I really am is hurting. I've been injured by someone close to me's thoughts or actions. And we all know that the best form of defence is attack, so rather than grab a box of tissues and have a good snotty cry - or for that matter say to the person involved "I'm upset", Kate the Bruce grabs her own personal spider and throttles it with cutting words and is off out of the cave before you can say Scots Wha' Hae.
Leaving confusion and destruction in her kilted and claymored wake.
I know I'm not alone in reacting this way. I'm useless at crying, so instead I get lippy. There are many of us out there. In fact, there should be a support group; Sarcastaholics Anonymous. Except we probably couldn't ever meet as a group because we would just take the mickey out of each other, which would sort of defeat the purpose. So what is the solution?
I think it's quite easy.
People need to be really nice to me.
All. The. Time.
Anger, sadness and sarcasm all magically managed. My need to paint face with woad and wear Boudicca type breast plate? Fading, fading... gone. The prickle of traitorous tears (just because I'm bad at crying doesn't mean I don't) subsiding back into the ducts of doom where they belong.
This could well work.
Maybe if that happened, I would be so calm and peaceful I would be able to visit North Korea as a peace envoy to Kim Jong Nutbags? Admittedly I'm no Dennis Rodman...
So I may actually achieve something sensible.
Anger is a wasted emotion. Trust me on this one. So if you are getting angry because you are hurting, or sad, or just because you're a bad tempered redhead - ask yourself why.
And if the whole Utopian ideal of people being nice to you is pie in the sky (which let's face it, it is - unless you live with the lemurs in a remote and human-free part of the Madagascan forests) - then rethink the people you are allowing in to your life, and therefore having the ability to upset you; or in the case of Kim J U and Dennis, the aliens.
Make your life a Martian free zone. That's quite a logical thought, my dear Captain.
Live long and prosper. Without getting pissed off.
““Complacency is a state of mind that exists only in retrospective: it has to be shattered before being ascertained.””
— Vladimir Nabokov
It's early(ish) Sunday morning. I don't think there's a more appropriate time - or day of the week - to write a post about this subject. Because when I thought about writing it, my first instinct was to either find something else to do, like go back to sleeps, read a trashy book, or write something frivolous like one of my silly fractured fairytales, all of which give me a great deal of enjoyment and also allow me not to think at all for a while.
However - the whole point is that I am trying to beat the very compulsion of which I am about to speak. So here I go - deep breath. Semi-rant time.
How unusual.
Complacency. Sometimes I think it's the root of all evil. Not because it makes people commit murder, or hurl abuse at others, or go out and start looting and rampaging in the streets; but because it stops us from either following our dreams, or challenging the status quo - which we know not to be ideal, but which we go along with anyway because the alternative is too hard, too frightening or maybe even too exciting to contemplate.
It's much easier to do a Scarlett O'Hara and say 'I'll think about that tomorrow', roll over in bed and tap the snooze button one more time than to leap up like a leapy thing and take action.
This goes for a lot of things in life, from the seemingly inconsequential to the massive. From business decisions to fine romances. We stick with what we know, and what is safe, not necessarily because it's fantastic, but because the unknown is - well, it's the unknown. And when it comes down to it, the majority of us are both lazy in our psyches and also fairly timid. The thought of uncertainty scares the hell out of humans. So don't go changin', says our brain - stay cozy and warm. If we don't make any decisions of a major kind, there is no chance that things can go wrong; no impact will be made on other people, no wallets will be injured in the making of this life change and most importantly of all, one's heart won't get hurt.
I am calling crap on this.
I am the best procrastinator in the world - well, I would be if I could be bothered, ha ha ha. I am extremely good at burying my head in the sand and thinking (or should that be not thinking) 'If I just let things stay as they are, it'll all be fine. No decisions needed, all's cool... the bubble is intact. Now where's the chocolate?'
Reach for the chocolate by all means. No point in not having chocolate. But as for not making changes, and being complacent just because Complacency is an easy place to relax and chill out?
All I can say is this.
It's a nice place to visit, but if you decide to live there, then the greatest opportunities for happiness will pass you by. Taking action involves tears, and snot, and drama, and hurt, and headaches... but it also means bliss.
So feel free to send me a postcard from Complacency. But from now on, the population there has just dwindled by one.
I'd suggest they change the town limits sign to reflect that, but I am guessing that won't happen any time soon.
“Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old; Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.”
— Laurence Binyon, For The Fallen
It's ANZAC Day. To be exact, it's three in the morning, and in about an hour and a half, I am going to get up and get ready to go to the Dawn Service. So yes, I should be asleep, but for various reasons I am not, and one of those reasons makes me very happy indeed, and is also relevant to the day.
I speak quite often on my blog about the Dread Pirate, and the fact that he is off buccaneering. Those who know me, and said DP, are aware that he has not exactly been sailing the seven seas, but has in fact been in rather more of a landlocked location - but as for rip-roaring adventures - well, those I can definitely attest to (some slightly more rip-roaring than I am personally comfortable with, may I add).
It must be said, however, on this occasion, that he is more on the side of Her Majesty's forces than fighting under the auspices of the Jolly Roger.
And thankfully today - well, even pirates get to come home to their family and friends if they are fortunate - and even more fortunate for their family and friends, they get their pirate back in one piece. That is something I will be forever grateful for.
I am obviously massively proud of someone I care very much about. He has served not only with distinction and courage, but with conviction. He was true to his personal beliefs, to his mates, and to the ethos of the Australian Defence Force. To me, this sums up the ANZAC spirit, and so it is incredibly appropriate that he gets to return home on April 25.
Sometimes, a bit like other occasions, ANZAC Day seems to become more about the trappings and the ra-ra than what it truly represents. When it comes down to it, what we are talking about is remembrance. Remembrance and literally not forgetting; not forgetting not only those who have died in past and current conflicts for the rights of those who couldn't defend themselves, but not forgetting those who are out there now. Because we are still going. And sometimes, if you watch the news - particularly the commercial channels - you'd be hard-pressed to realise this. I have, over the past six months, mentioned in passing conversation to acquaintances where the Dread has been. And to my resignation - unfortunately not my astonishment - more than once they have said 'where's that?'
So today, if you are going to a service, or watching a parade on TV, or even eating ANZAC biccies, don't just think of the past - even though that is important.
The ANZAC spirit is alive and well, and out there fighting hard, and doing it bloody tough in most cases, in our amazing men and women of the Australian Army, Royal Australian Navy and Royal Australian Air Force. And doing it despite most people not thinking much of - or thinking much about - what they do.
364 days out of 365.
Lest We Forget.
And welcome home DP. With immense gratitude. And equally immense pride.
““I’ll get over it - I’ve got songs to sing, I’ve got stages to perform on. I’m a keep-on-going sort of girl... It’s shit and it’s unfair, but life is not fair - even rock stars get breast cancer. But there’ve been many girls before me who have dealt with it successfully. It’s easy to feel sorry for me but I feel sorry for people who are suffering it alone.””
— Christina Amphlett, October 25, 1959 - April 22, 2013
I remember the first time I saw
The Divinyls - or to be precise, the first time I saw Chrissie
Amphlett. It was 1982, and 'Boys In Town' had come out on the album
Monkey Grip. They were on Countdown, and Chrissie was - well, Chrissie
was Chrissie.
And I was eleven years old. I didn't understand most of the song - and I sure as hell didn't understand Chrissie Amphlett.
That didn't mean I immediately didn't want to be like her.
And
as I got older, and the songs kept coming, and Chrissie kept being
Chrissie, secretly I wanted to be the one strutting on that stage, being
the object of desire, eyes rimmed with kohl, bed hair from hell (or
maybe heaven), skirt rucked up to nowhere, and letting everyone know
just how naughty I was.
Even if I wasn't.
And
her voice... that I would happily have given my left arm and probably
several other body parts as well for. Because it's hard to be a very
high soprano and sing 'I Touch Myself' with any degree of true sex
appeal.
I was lucky enough
to see Christina A in The Boy From Oz and she was magnificent. Intense,
and brooding, and funny - she almost - almost, Hugh Jackman - stole the
show. It must have been on the cusp of her diagnosis with MS, and I wish
I had known, because I was misdiagnosed with MS before finally being
correctly diagnosed with Early Onset Parky, and was desperately seeking
someone who was cool to show me a way to see the positive in the
disease. Annette Funicello (and in this I was mistaken) just wasn't
cutting it. But Chrissie? Well, she would have - and did - inspire.
For
a woman of such vitality and vigour to have to deal with both MS and
then breast cancer seems like the cruellest of blows. To be unable to
have the maximum treatment options for the latter because of the former -
even crueller. But I get the feeling that expressing pity of any sort
would have been met with politeness and kindness, but also a quiet
scorn. Because this was a woman who knew what it was to live, and love,
and love life and blaze like a meteor - and was lucky enough to have
someone love her back and be there til the end.
I may be being presumptuous but I like to think that she would consider that a life well lived.
Too much too young?
Too young - absolutely.
Too
much? Hell no. Not nearly enough. If there is a fine line between
pleasure and pain, then she was the mistress of walking said line exquisitely
and with ease. And of making every girl - or woman - in Australia - want
to unleash their inner Amphlett.
And of making every man hope and pray that they would.
I hope that her meteor continues to blaze across the heavens, because I
can think of no better place than the Milky Way for this wonder woman -
because after all, what was she?
““Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others.””
— Marcus Tullius Cicero
I was thinking late last night that I hadn't written a gratitude post for a while. And I have a confession to make. Whilst there have been some fairly big things that I have wanted to get off my chest in the last few posts, and which weren't suited to the attitude of gratitude - and boy, has that resulted in a few hiccups - there has been another reason for a slight reduction in the ratio of thankfulness.
I haven't actually been feeling very grateful for much at all.
I think, to put it plainly, that I have been having a violent attack of a well known disease of the twenty first century. There are a lot of sufferers out there - although sufferers is perhaps a misnomer. Malingerers is probably a better word for it.
To be blunt, I have been feeling sorry for myself. Having a fit of FirstWorldItis. Things have been going wrong. Laptops acting up. Banks stuffing me around. Telstra (shudder) messing with my ADSL. Health not - well, not crash hot, although that perhaps is a fair whinge in small doses at least. Really bad sleeps. Sebastian Vettel winning the Bahrain Grand Prix (again). And a few other things which I had best not talk about because this will simply become a diatribe rather than what it is supposed to be, which is a post about positivity rather than the reverse.
Then I woke up this morning in my comfy bed. And I looked out my window at the view of the sunrise, which I am lucky enough to do, and realised something.
I realised I am lucky enough to wake up in my comfy bed and look out my window at the view of the sunrise.
And felt like slapping myself around the head for all the negative and dark sulks that I had allowed to take over for the last little while, because so many people don't have that privilege. So many people.
This is not supposed to sound Polly-Anna-ish. I am not trying to be saintlike - goodness knows I am more on the side of the devils than the angels when it comes down to it, and realistically quite cheerfully so. They seem to have more fun without the shame attached, plus devil costumes are way sexier at Hallowe'en. But I do know this - and I am speaking for everyone I know, and for everyone who I believe reads this blog; if we, as intelligent, educated individuals, hold our gratitude inside ourselves, or indeed don't acknowledge everything that is good in our lives, and instead focus on the black and dark and dreary, then we may as well not bother going forward. Because we have so much - so very, very much - and we take it for granted 98% of the time.
Every person has crap to deal with. Often it is a case of same crap, different day.
But.
When you woke up this morning, were you waking up in a bed? Yes. Did you get to look out at a sunrise, or at least at the sky? I'd say so. Did you have technology at your fingertips, and food to eat, and coffee to prop your brain and your eyelids open, and a shower to shock yourself into sensibility with?
Then you are on the sunny side of the street.
And the very bright side of the road.
And life in its entirety is something to be truly grateful for. No matter what. This is something I am going to endeavour to carry with me today, and tomorrow, and the day after that. Because no doubt FirstWorldItis will strike again soon, and I will need a reminder of this morning's sunrise.
There was once, in a far away kingdom, a prince of the blood royal.
By the way, why are they always far away kingdoms? I wonder if there are any nearby kingdoms; obviously not, or the story would begin 'in a nearby kingdom' wouldn't it? I suppose it wouldn't be anywhere near as mysterious if you were to say 'there was once, in the kingdom down the road, next to the service station and across from the fish and chip shop, a prince'.
Anyway.
As I was saying.
There was a prince.
His name, fairly unfortunately, was Milksop. Why would his parents do that to him? Well, they didn't really want to; they weren't nasty, or unkind, and he didn't have enormous buck teeth and look like he deserved a name like Milksop - it was just the name that was given to the firstborn boy and thus one day he would be crowned Milksop XXVI and his son would be Milksop XXVII and so on and so forth.
Tradition. Sometimes it really blows chunks.
Luckily, because he had nice parents, and because he was generally speaking a delightful child who grew into a pretty good kind of adult, he was given a second name that people actually used, rather than calling him 'Soppy' or anything like that.
This name was Jon.
Much better, yes?
So, Prince Jon, as he was commonly known, by the commoners, was, as I said, a pretty good prince. He was firm, but fair; he could swing a sword, had an excellent seat on a horse, was able to shoot lots of stuff with a crossbow without shooting the person next to him by accident, excelled at falconry and was also not a complete thickie when it came to things like astronomy and history and subjects that some of his prince-y friends found a gigantic yawn. In short, he was shaping up to be an excellent King Milksop XXVI, on the sad occasion when Milksop XXV popped off the twig.
With one small problem.
Prince Jon had been cursed at birth (and not just by being named Milksop).
He just didn't know it yet.
Oh, his parents had been meaning to tell him for ages, but you know how it is - the years go by, time rolls on, and the moment to say 'By the way my dear boy, at your christening, an evil fairy put a curse on you which will take effect on your twenty-first birthday. Oh well, chin up, back to the archery range' seemed to sort of... drift. And eventually, his parents forgot about the curse, because nothing seemed to be happening, the evil fairy hadn't put in any guest appearances, and young Jon was - well, normal.
Until suddenly it was the eve of said birthday.
There was a massive ball. The whole kingdom was invited. There were roast hogs, and gallons of mead and ale, and basically everyone was dressed in their best and having a really stupendously (and fairly drunken) good time.
Jon it must be said was not entirely sober himself. He was busily flirting with four or five giggling ladies of the court when, at the stroke of midnight (evil is so predictable don't you think?), the doors to the castle ballroom flew open with a bang!
There, in a cloud of smoke, stood one of the most beautiful and terrifying women Jon had ever seen. And the King and Queen knew fear beyond words as they realised that all of their years of willful ignorance were about to come back at them with a vengeance.
'Prince Jon' she purred, weaving her way towards him, her emerald green eyes never leaving his.
'I come to collect my debt.'
'Debt, my lady?' said Prince Jon, who was both repulsed and enchanted by this - well, he wasn't sure what she was exactly.
'Your parents did not tell you? Your mother the Queen was so desperate for a child that she promised you in marriage at the age of twenty-one to the one who could provide her with her fiercest desire. I shall become your bride, and rule your kingdom by your side - or perhaps I shall just rule it myself, if you displease me.'
Jon looked at his parents, who could not meet his eyes, and realised what this - well, this witch, or enchantress, or fairy, said was true. Then he saw the tears falling from his mother's eyes and felt no anger at her promise, only sadness at her need for him. And then Jon showed why he was indeed no Milksop.
'And if I refuse? What then?'
Suddenly the beauty was gone, and she who stood before him was simply terrible.
'You would refuse? Refuse me? Then in that case you would suffer the consequences immediately! You will be reduced to a form which will make you less than the lowest peasant!'
Jon straightened his spine, and looked at her glowing eyes.
'Do what you must; but I will make a bargain with you as you bargained with my parents. Curse me, do whatever you will; but you will not harm my mother and father. And if I find someone to love me in the form in which you place me - truly love me - you must reverse the form and then - then I will hunt you down and chop off your head'.
The fairy laughed, because nobody, in her two hundred years, had ever bested her.
'Done - and so it shall be - become the lowest of the low - a mewling beast' she said, and the next thing Jon felt was absolute agony, as his bones contracted and snapped, he heard people screaming... and then...
Blackness.
The next thing he knew, he was curled in a ball and lifting his left leg to casually lick his...
What???
He untwisted himself, and realised he could not only untwist himself, he could really, really untwist himself. In lots of directions. His spine didn't seem to have - well, a spine. And he was furry. Really, really furry. And he had four legs.
And a tail.
He half fell, half walked over to what turned out to be a puddle, because it appeared he was asleep in the grass beside a road.
Oh crapcakes.
He was a bloody cat.
He hated cats. Superior little know-it-alls, always looking as if they ruled the world, waiting for the day they got opposable thumbs...
Oh.
Bugger.
He wasn't even an attractive cat. He was a great big, moth-eaten black moggy, with a torn ear and a scar across his eye which he thought made him look vaguely piratical but also gave him the feeling that on the cat cuteness scale made him sinister as hell and likely to get thrown out of the finer establishments of the kingdom.
How on earth was he going to find someone to love him - truly love him? He was a cat! Cats can't talk, or write sonnets, or sing love songs with a lute; they can't fight tournaments in honour of a beautiful princess, or indeed rescue beautiful princesses from towers and dragons.
He was a dead feline walking.
Tail drooping, he started to pad along the side of the road towards what he recognised as a small village not too far from the kingdom's capital. Naturally it started raining, because well, it wouldn't be much of a curse if things weren't truly miserable, would it? Cats don't like rain. And he was now a cat, so he didn't think this was much chop at all. He was wet, and cold, and miserable, and his paws hurt.
Sigh.
He eventually reached the courtyard of an inn, coincidentally called The Prince's Arms. He was just hovering hopefully next to the kitchen door with a few other cats (who didn't have a problem with him; scars and being the size of a small rogue elephant spoke multitudes in cat talk) and thinking 'I can't believe I am waiting for scraps at a kitchen door', when through said door came the most wonderful sight he had ever laid eyes on.
A girl. A girl with hazel eyes, and long coppery hair, and a swift step, and a look about her that suggested mischief and mayhem and merriment all wrapped up in one.
She was dazzling.
Jon the cat nearly swooned (the big girl's blouse). Who was she? Why hadn't he met her when he was human? And how the hell was he going to get her to fall in love with a plug ugly big black scruffy cat? Even if he did look - to himself at least - like a cool pirate puss? Hmmmmmm...
He rolled on his back and attempted to look as adorable as possible. Four paws up in the air. If the other cats could have rolled their eyes, they would.
She looked at him, and laughed. It was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.
'Well, who have we here? You're new, aren't you? Not a pretty sight (Jon's heart sank), but there's something about you that makes me think of... pirates?' (Jon's heart lifted in his furry chest). She shook her head and laughed again. 'A piratical cat! Next thing you know I will start talking to you and expecting an answer!'
Jon rolled over and nodded his head furiously.
She looked very hard at him for a moment. He could have sworn he saw a spark of - what - confusion? - behind her crystal gaze, but then she shook her head, and said 'well come on all of you, I have your supper waiting', and all of the cats rushed forward to a corner of the stableyard where she doled out milk and leftovers equitably to each of them.
Mind you... she did give Jon an extra piece of fish.
This went on for weeks, with Sophie (he heard her name being screeched by the owner of the inn constantly) doing exactly what she thought she would - ending up talking to him. She wasn't sure why, but she couldn't seem to help it. She told him all about her life; about being an orphan, and being taken in by the kindly innkeeper and his wife, and now that the innkeeper was dead, having his shrew of a widow making her work all hours of the day and night until she was nearly dropping with exhaustion. She did not say this to complain, but merely as a statement of fact. And all the while she would stroke him and pet his torn ears, until Jon wanted to scream out loud who he really was and tell her not to worry, that when she was his princess her life would be very, very different indeed.
Three years passed. Jon became Sophie's best friend. This didn't make her a weird cat lady; it's hard to make friends when you are a slavey in an inn. You reach out to any comfort you can get.
And then one day Sophie told Jon (whom she had named 'Cutlass', which he far preferred to Milksop, and felt was far more manly - uh - catly) that she was to be wed. The innkeeper's widow had, to be blunt, sold her. To a fat, balding widower who owned the local smithy and wanted not just a wife, but a housekeeper and unpaid governess to his tribe of unruly children.
'And the worst part, dear Cutlass, is that I do not dare take you, for the Smith would surely chop off your tail as soon as look at a cat. He is known as one of the meanest men in the kingdom.' And she laid her head on his fur and sobbed until he thought that he could not stand it anymore.
He laid a paw on her face. And tried to speak. One. Last. Time.
All that came out of course, was a meowly yowl. But Sophie hugged him even harder, then ran inside as the screechy voice of the widow commanded her to come and serve customers, and to stop wasting time with that damn ugly brute of a cat.
That night, as he slept in his corner of the inn's barn, Jon realised he could hear Sophie crying again. He padded outside and leaped up to her window, and onto her bed. She was asleep, but obviously dreaming (nightmaring?) of her life to come. He tucked himself under her arm and purred as loudly as he could to comfort her. She stopped crying, and smiled through her tears. Even in her sleep, and with a very snotty nose, he thought how beautiful she was.
'My Cutlass' she whispered. 'I do love you so.'
And with that, the curse was lifted. Miles away, the evil fairy felt it as a stabbing of steel though her cold black heart, and for the first time in her long existence knew true fear. In Sophie's bedroom meanwhile, there was a hell of a lot of explaining to do, because cats don't generally wear a lot of clothes, and Jon went through the reversal process on the spot.
If you get my meaning.
This is a fairy tale, so after Sophie got over her initial shock (and Jon came round from being hit with a poker), she realised that she did in fact think that Prince Jon was pretty damn handsome, and yes, it's much nicer to have a conversation with someone who can answer you back, and you don't have to feel like a crazy cat lady, and yes, she could probably see her way clear to thinking about marrying him and becoming a princess.
Jon found some clothes and swept Sophie off to the palace and his parents, where there was great rejoicing, and then toodled off to kill the evil fairy, which he did fairly easily, mainly because he had a gang of cats who took out her evil minions and helped enormously. He cut off her head as promised, which is gruesome but was quite frankly well-deserved. Don't feel sorry for her dear reader; she wasn't a nice person at all. Who turns people into cats for heaven's sakes?
Jon and Sophie had a whirlwind courtship, got married and were blissfully happy. He was smart enough to realise she would always be the one with the opposable thumbs in the relationship, irrespective of whether he was a man or a moggy. They had ten children, who all loved cats. She refused outright to call any of the children, male or female, Milksop. They named their eldest boy Cutlass.
And just occasionally, Jon may or may not have worn an eye patch. For old times' sake. Who can tell?
The moral of the story? I know that fairy tales are supposed to have one, so here it is.
Parents, don't make wishes to evil fairies, no matter what; and people - always - ALWAYS - be nice to cats.
You never know when they may be a prince - or a pirate for that matter - in disguise.
Frogs don't have the monopoly on fairy tales you know.
