Beam Me Up, Scotty

““There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
than are dreamt of in your philosophy.””

— William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Today is World UFO Day. I wasn't aware of this until earlier this morning, when I was reliably informed by the Panda in our daily phone idiocy that yes, July 2 is an extraterrestrial event, with close encounters of all kinds a longed for possibility. 

This got me thinking about what is out there - if anything. And if there is something or someone cruising through the galaxies, it begs the question: 

Why would they come anywhere near us? 

I love Dr Who, although the Daleks scared me silly as a kid. What I never can understand though is this; despite having a whole universe to play with, he spends all of his time footling around on Planet Earth. Think about it - there are skies and skies to choose from, and yet he is bumming around watching a fairly ordinary race try to self-destruct on a daily basis.  

Personally, I'd be off on the equivalent of Planet Las Vegas getting my Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster on. 

I think that the reason we've never (officially) had confirmation of other life forms out there is because they have taken one look at the mess we have made and said 'thanks, but no thanks' - or however you say it in Venutian - or as the case may be, Martian (by the way, if men are from Mars and women are from Venus, how did we end up here together?). 

Don't get me wrong; I would love to know that there's life out there, even if it's not as we know it. But I really do think that if there are higher beings, then they would think 'what the hell?' and do as the Vogons did and bulldoze the Earth for an efficient transportation system.  

Perhaps I am being too harsh. Perhaps this is just Tuesday morning cynicism, and in an hour or so when I have had more coffee I will be in love with the human race as a whole once more.  

Either that or I will keep watching last night's Q&A and decide to crawl back under the doona until politicians don't exist. 

Now there's a thought. Aliens with enormous weapons of which we have no knowledge - we welcome you to our world; on one condition - when you leave... 

Take out the rubbish. 

Or should that be Ruddish? 

And I am off to drool over David Tennant (as usual) and imagine him taking me away from all this...  

No Man's Land

““It was we, the people; not we, the white male citizens; nor yet we, the male citizens; but we, the whole people, who formed the Union.”
”

— Susan B. Anthony

I feel in some ways as though I am writing an obituary with this post - which, considering that I attended a funeral yesterday, perhaps makes sense. And to be a bit melodramatic, there has been a kind of death.

This week saw the downfall of Australia's first female prime minister. And before people start rolling their eyes and thinking this is going to be a rant about Labour v Liberal, let me stress that it isn't. It also isn't even about Julia Gillard in some respects.

It's more about us as Australians.

I don't pretend to think that politics are a clean game. Anything that involves a balance of power is going to bring out the worst in humans. I am also not so naive or blinkered as to think that just because the PM was a woman, she should be afforded any kind of privileges in terms of being treated better than anybody else in the business. We say of our leader 'primus inter pares' and as such she was first among equals, not better than anyone else - but that's my sticking point.

She also is no worse than anyone else, and as such deserved, and deserves, the same measure of respect as any other leader who came before. And this - this she didn't get. Which is a god-awful reflection on Australia as a whole.

Yes, we have a tradition of cutting down tall poppies. Yes, we make fun of pretty much anyone we feel like making fun of, and I'm as guilty as the next sarcastic bugger. But the constant bitter attacks on Julia were beyond anything I've ever seen in politics. They had nothing to do with her policies and everything to do with her personally. Which makes me incredibly fearful for where Australia is heading.

She may be abrasive. She may have given as good as she got in terms of dishing it out to opponents on a political level. But this was a PM who had to deal with constant jibes about her weight, her looks, her wardrobe, her choice of partner, her choice not to have children, her voice, her family.

Would it have happened if she had been a man?

This is not an 'Ode to Saint Julia'. I'm not saying she was a great Prime Minister, because honestly? I don't think she was. What I am attempting to say, possibly quite clumsily, is nobody deserves the treatment she received at the hands of the media, the public and a large percentage of Federal Parliament.

I don't think anyone should be in a position of power, whether it be government or business just because they are a woman. It should be based on merit not an absence of male genes. Otherwise it's a game of pretence and mess, and yes, inequality - not in the way we traditionally think of it, but in the long term it hurts women because where's the need to strive?

But to be hounded in the way that she was...

I vote no. No more.

Please bring some respect back Australia.

Because giving someone a fair go is supposed to be what we're all about.

Isn't it?

Along Came A Spider

““Can we go back to using Facebook for what it was originally for - looking up exes to see how fat they got?” ”

— Bill Maher

I have been reminded on a couple of occasions this week about what it means to live life virtually. And for someone who works within the realm of social media and the interwebs, I freely admit to being an online junkie. By the same token, I would much rather spend face to face time with those I love rather than just FaceTime - but if it is a choice between not having contact, or being able to yarp to those I care about as much as I like, whether they be across the country or across the world - as I have said before, then take me to your iLeader.

But.

Sometimes the phantom menace that is the wonderful world of the web does show its not so pretty side. I am not so naive as to think this shouldn't apply to me; Facebook isn't nicknamed Facestalk for nothing. And if I don't want to invite commentary on my comments, on whatever form of social media I use, then realistically I shouldn't be on there in the first place. I also accept the whole 'oh I can't believe you went to that place on that date without me' aspect of people knowing exactly where you are at any given moment in time, because hey, that's what you sign up for.

It ain't a private world, people.

But there is a limit.

Isn't there?  

Gossip has existed since the first caveman walked blinking out of his furs and saw his neighbour furtively carrying his third neighbour's woman off by her hair. It's the way we are. We thrive on it. Social media - hell, any kind of media - wouldn't exist without gossip. It could be said that gossip makes the world go round. Certainly common sense doesn't, otherwise we would all be living in peace and harmony and people like Kim Jong Nutbags would go up in a big puff of smoke.  

People love gossip. Scandal. It's ace. Dissing what people are wearing/doing/seeing. There's nothing better for the self-esteem than seeing someone make a poor fashion choice and feeling superior about it. But once the scandal simply becomes mud-slinging for the sake of it - well, then it becomes a whole different story.  

I am as guilty as the next person (unless the next person happens to work for TMZ) of enjoying looking at bad outfits and thinking about how much better I look in clothes. But do I like tearing people apart when they are in a state of distress? No. Similarly I don't see what pleasure someone can get in attacking someone's opinion in a way that is not about the opinion, but about the person.

I have to admit that what I am seeing at the moment on various channels is scaring the hell out of me. The amount of vitriol out there, and a simple lack of respect for other people's opinions is overwhelming. Everyone has a right to express themselves; but just because you don't agree with someone else, does that give you the right to stomp all over what they are saying in a way that is truly unkind, rather than informed debate?

I go back to my comment about perhaps being naive. If I want to get mad, I don't tend to do it publicly. I try very hard to keep grudges (except against certain sporting figures who just keep walking into it) private and personal. If I make a comment on social media, I think about what I am saying. I am by no means perfect at this, but I try to consider what I say in terms of how it will affect those who read it. 

Maybe that's all it comes down to; a bit of a pause between brain and keyboard. Because you can delete at will, but the words once written never really go away.  

That's the trouble with webs and nets. - they are, after all, designed to trap things. And personally, I don't like the idea of being a virtual bug.  One ends up being eaten.

Sometimes alive.  

Citizen Caned

““I would not know how I am supposed to feel about many stories if not for the fact that the TV news personalities make sad faces for sad stories and happy faces for happy stories.” ”

— Dave Barry

I was reading a trashy mag yesterday (in theory I was doing housework - dust, dust, dust) and much as I love my 'who wore what incredibly badly', and innumerable pictures of Alexander SkarsGod, I noticed that I was getting increasingly irritated the more I thumbed through the pages of a publication we will call, for the sake of not getting sued, 'WHAT' magazine.

It was just such absolute crap.  

I love magazines - trashy and not so trashy. They are always, even if you know you have the time to read them, and legitimately don't have anything else to do, a guilty pleasure. There is something about them that invites the addition of chocolate, and possibly more chocolate. But either we are getting even more stupid, or some publishers really don't care, because I have noticed that a lot of mags are really not trying very hard. And more to the point, newspapers and TV current affairs shows are, in general, the same. There are exceptions to this rule (step forward Ellen Fanning and The Observer Effect, and Vanity Fair you still do it for me, even without Hitch) but mostly... meh.

Shoving an app in to show you behind the scenes video is all very well, but what happened to witty words on the page? Or an interviewer who actually interviews instead of just waiting for the end of someone's answer to ask their next question (there is a distinction here, people). I don't mind what medium my mags and newspapers are in - in fact some I prefer in the online version because I can skip the ads (American Vogue, this means you) - but please, please don't insult my intelligence. 

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I expect too much? Perhaps I think I am too good for mainstream publications, press and political pundits? 

Don't think so, says the girl who reads 'WHAT' magazine.  

I would just like those who make the news - well, to make it newsworthy. I don't need to see stories regurgitated ad infinitum; in a play on the old adage, if you don't have anything fresh to say, don't say anything at all. 

If you give people intelligent (and informed) news, they will have intelligent and informed debate. I am happy to talk about the latest blergh effort by insert-name-here in a fashion disaster worthy of the Titanic, but twenty four hour a day coverage of Bow Down Before Your God Kanye (ha!) and Look at Me's baby, or this continuing ridiculous debate about the PM's weight/partner/anything personal they can think of? 

I'd rather eat my own hair.  

GIve me something with a bit of substance, my beloved media. 

Or my very large investment in your various forms may be going into something which offers me more brain for my buck - dinner with friends who talk about more than who had a coffee with whoever else.  

Sounds good to me. 

She says turning on the news, and hoping for a miracle.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent

““Winter is nature’s way of saying, ‘Up yours.’” ”

— Robert Byrne

I'm lying here in bed this Friday morn feeling very grumbly. Not only do I have the flu (and yes it is the flu, Mum, not just a bad cold, I'm not playing Hypochondriac Heaven) - but I've just read through the magic of Facestalk that juniper berries are being threatened with some weird disease. So not only am I sick, but there exists the possibility of NO MORE GIN.

EVER.

Time for a strategic retreat under the Doona of Destiny methinks. Unfortunately without a gin in hand, but eight o'clock in the morning would be pushing it.

This has not been a good week. It may be the Winter Solstice, but there will be no naked skylarking to celebrate this fact. It's too bloody cold, even in Golden Queensland. And sniffles and nude frolics don't really go together, so again doona downtime wins out.

What else can I grumble about? My hatred of telecommunications behemoths? Hmmmmm. Possibly not. That would take up more time and space than a dozen blog posts, reduce people to tears and/or yawns and make me so cross that I might get a bit vigilante-ish and end up in the news on Facestalk myself.

So maybe I will just say this.

Yesterday was a bloody awful day for a lot of people out there it seems. This week and in fact 2013 in general seem to not be on the money for many of my loved ones; and I'm buggered if I'm going to be the one saying 'turn that frown upside down' when their crises are real and significant.

For me, I know that my grumbles are (mainly) just that; grumbles. They are the product of feeling physically heinous and frustrated with said condition. This year could be dubbed 'The Year Of The Sick As A Dog' if the Chinese horoscope felt like breaking with tradition, and yes I'm fed up with it.

But I will stand tall - or lie tall, as I can't get out of bed without fainting - and be positive. Ish. When it comes down to the crunch, I am grateful for so many things. Not least of which is the fact that I have people to care for me when I am sick (grammatical pats don't really count Dread P, but I'll take what I can get) and that I have friends and loved ones to rely on when things are tough.

That's a privilege, not a right, and my gratitude for these people is very wide and deep.

So perhaps I shall stop whinging for a little while at least, and count my blessings instead. As a wise friend said just a few moments ago on the ever present Facestalk, Mother and Father to us all:

"When life hands you over-ripe bananas, make strawberry-orange-banana smoothies."

And maybe add a dollop of gin.

While you still can.

Cough.

A Few Good Men

““As usual, there is a great woman behind every idiot.” ”

— John Lennon

I read John Birmingham's Blunt Instrument column this morning as I always do, and I have to say I was yelling 'yay', not just in my head but out loud. Sometimes Mr Birmingham and I do not necessarily agree (and I am sure Mr Birmingham would not care less, nor should he) but this week we are definitely in tandem.  

There are some total, for want of a better word (or to put it more honestly, a word which I will not use in semi-polite company), cretins out there at the moment in the public eye masquerading as men. You and I know who they are. Radio journalists. British multi-millionaires with a penchant for 'lovers tiffs'. Commentators on Sunday ABC programs which I love(d) to watch. Complete worms who seem to think that insulting or bullying women is not only acceptable, it is something to be admired. 

I cheerfully admit that in my heart I would like to use Mr Birmingham's blunt instrument on these 'gents' and see how they feel about things then, but violence isn't the answer (unfortunately), so I will stick with using my words instead.

Belittling women is the act of cowards. It's the act of those who need to make themselves feel better about their own inadequacies. They are the ones who stood on the corner of the playground as kids, never quite fitting in, who made fun of others so that they weren't beaten up themselves. 

I'd feel sorry for them if they weren't so bloody horrible.  

However. 

This is not an anti-men rant. Far from it. Much as certain people of my acquaintance (you know who you are) may accuse me of occasionally going on a Germaine-Greerian rant, this ain't it. I absolutely consider myself a feminist. I think that women should be paid the same as men and should have the same opportunities at work and in life based on merit. Equal opportunity should be just that - EQUAL opportunity.  

What I want to say is what the last week or so has shown quite clearly is the difference between the twits and the truly good men out there. And it isn't just men in the public eye, although obviously General David Morrison is a shining beacon of hope for the Australian Defence Force and for change within the workplace in general. He speaks from the heart and with passion and truth, and I applaud him. But it's everyday guys too.

Men are speaking out. They are saying 'this isn't acceptable'. Whatever their opinions of the Prime Minister personally for example, they are prepared to say that the way she has been lambasted recently is not on for the leader of our country - or for any woman. They are putting their opinions on paper, online and on the record.

I feel very, very lucky in my male friendships. The men that I know and love are the type of guys who are willing to be vocal about this. They respect women and they treat them well. So I just wanted to say two things. 

Firstly, to those who think belittling women is OK - your days are numbered. 

And to all those men in my life who say 'this is bullshit' to the above idiots - 

Thank you.  

Don't go changing.  

That includes you, John Birmingham. 

And your blunt instrument. 

The Scrabble Test

““The problem with growing up,” Quentin said, “is that once you’re grown up, people who aren’t grown up aren’t fun anymore.” ”

— Lev Grossman, The Magicians

I was listening to The Great Gatsby soundtrack yesterday and in particular the Lana del Ray song 'Young and Beautiful' - well, it would be fair to say, a bit incessantly. It's a great song, and it fits the mood of Gatsby so well - the reckless hedonistic abandon of the 20s and maybe/maybe not doomed love.

It also raises a question which we all think about in one form or another, whether we are single, coupled up or somewhere in between:

"Will you still love me when I'm no longer young and beautiful?"

It's something we all have to face. Time stops for no man, and it seems doubly so that it stops for no woman for some extremely unfair reason (case in point; grey hair looks better on men. I'm sorry, but it does). Growing older we soon learn who is willing to love us for us and not for pure physical appeal.

Even more importantly we learn whom we want to love ourselves.

I was talking about this with the still very very youthful and extremely beautiful Miss K the other day. We were discussing relationships (as one does) and she said 'yep, they have to pass The Scrabble Test'. And this is so very true when it comes to longevity in love.

What's The Scrabble Test? It's simple.

Think about the person you're with presently (if you are with someone - if not, think about the person you feel you'd like to be with). Now imagine the future. You're seventy or eighty years old. Believe me, it's on its way - admittedly for some of us it's closer than for others. It's after dinner on a Saturday night. You're sitting on the sofa with them, vino in hand (hey, eighty doesn't have to be boring!)

Now.

It's time to... 

Whip out the Scrabble. And whip their butts.

And laugh while you do it. 

Firstly I suppose, can you see yourself with said person at eighty? And if so, can you see yourself happily playing board games and reading together and snorting and pretty much being as much of an idiot as you are at twenty-five, or thirty-five, or forty-one?

That's The Scrabble Test.

You can call it the Trivial Pursuit Test, or the Backgammon Test, or whatever the hell you want, but my point is this; love is the sum of a whole lot of parts. And one of the biggest parts is like - and laughter.

And stupidy stupid. To quote Baldrick the Great. So make sure you bestow your affections on someone you still want to beat up over board games in years to come.

I bet they'll think you're beautiful forever.

You Don't Own Me...

““What is it about possessing things? Why do we feel the need to own what we love? And why do we become such jerks when we do? We’ve all been there. You want something, you possess it - and by possessing it, you lose it.” ”

— Louis Chunovic, Chris-In-The-Morning: Love, Life, and the Whole Karmic Enchilada

I've always loved that Lesley Gore song - 'don't tell me what to do, and don't tell me what to say'. It's such a big girl anthem from a time when it was all about crying into your pillow and waiting for the boy to come and rescue you. Admittedly, it was almost ruined for me by the movie The First Wives' Club, but if I try really hard I can block that out.

Possession.

It's not just a pronoun. It's a way of thought for a lot of people.

She is mine. He is mine. They belong to me.

No, they don't.

They - I, you, he, she - belong to themselves. Ourselves.

I watch people all the time. And this is something that absolutely fascinates me. Why do so many of us insist on making our partners into a piece of property? Why do we, as humans, try to take away all that makes the person we say we love most in the world an individual, and instead attempt to cram them into a heart-shaped box of what we want them to be?

The thing that seems to matter most for some is not the person they have, but that they have a person.

Maybe I'm cynical. Maybe I'm a bit jaded. I don't think so, because in my own head and heart I'm a hopeless smooshy romantic, and I adore happy endings. But of late, I seem to be seeing this phenomenon of possession. Of people becoming things. A tick on the list - relationship achieved, so now let's make the partner fit what I want them to be.

I'll make them mine.

This goes two ways of course.

Some people are happy in that role. And if that is the case - then that's their choice, and it's absolutely fine. Unimaginable to me, but fine. I am unable to imagine living life that way, which is possibly why nobody is able to stomach  me for large periods of time! When it come down to the wire though, there is another grammatical use of possession which it is wise to bear in mind. It is not just a pronoun.

It is, of course, also a verb. Which, like love, as I was reminded last night by my very wise friend Miss A, is a doing word.

To want to be possessed - to allow yourself to be possessed, in terms of being loved completely, and wholeheartedly, and giving yourself totally to another... that is a very different kettle of fish. By the way, can someone please tell me where that term comes from? Sorry, tangent.

"You possess me."

"I am possessed by you."

Wow.

The difference is, it is you making the choice. Not someone making the choice for you. Which is a world apart.

You don't own me.

But I might let you borrow me... for a lifetime or two.

Hypothetically speaking.

A Real Page Turner

““I also read about Heathcliff’s unexpected three-year career in Hollywood under the name Buck Stallion and his eventual return to the pages of Wuthering Heights.” ”

— Jasper Fforde, Lost In A Good Book

Being in a book.

I have been thinking about this subject for years, I think since I first started to truly comprehend the magic of written words on a page.

In other words (cough - sorry, couldn't help it), at a very tender age indeed, I was wanting to jump between the covers of The Velveteen Rabbit and make sure that goddamned Nursery Fairy made my bunny real. By holding her to ransom if necessary, or breaking her wand.

Similarly, as my reading tastes matured, I was certain, absolutely certain, that if Anne Shirley met me, we would instantly become besties and she would forget all about boring Diana, and I would of course then get to meet Gilbert Blythe.

Sigh.

I do have a point here, I'm just busy between the pages. Which I suppose is my point.

If you could jump between the covers - of a book, not a bed (rude) - which one would it be?

And I mean as yourself, not as a character. Much as I love playing Sherlock Holmes (the dreadful old misogynist), I would love to go in and be myself within The Hound of the Baskervilles, or A Study In Scarlet, and find a way of helping Holmes and Watson to the truth. Or maybe being an even bigger villain than Moriarty - depending on my mood at the time.

Which characters would you love to meet on a real life basis?

Some would be too depressing for words. Much as I love Rochester, I think that all that brow beating and gloom and doom might be a bit much on a daily basis. Plus there's the mad wife, and the corsets... meh. All a bit much.

Jane Austen on the other hand... I can imagine being friends with Lizzie Bennet. I could cheerfully smack Arsey Darcy around the head, but I do like a pair of pantaloons... and riding boots. Phwoar. Book of choice however would have to be Persuasion, because I actively, and actually, love the characters in it. I can envisage conversations with Anne Elliot, and Captain Wentworth. Although I am not sure I would last long simply not doing anything other than 'visiting' all day.

I would probably end up falling off a sea wall to stave off boredom.

I was obssessed with Game of Thrones when the books came out - I read them cover to cover and sequentially. Would I like to live within them? Realistically... hell no. It would be like living at the Fall of Rome, or under the Borgias. One would never relax. Plus there's the need to speaketh wryly at all times... no... miss that one. In theory, love it. In practice, no thank ye.

I dream about books. I worship them. The characters contained within my favourite books' covers are a part of my heart. They beat inside me. I never want this to not be the case.

However... life is not a novel. It may feel like a trashy paperback at times, or even War and Peace, but it ain't.

It's non-fiction. It is absolutely a book, but it is writing itself, and we need to live it without regrets and without fear, and with love.

It may not be the approach favoured by the authors we admire most, but who is editing this thing anyway? We are.

I am.

Admittedly, given the opportunity, I would hop inside To Kill A Mockingbird and never let Atticus Finch go... but then again, I could get stuck in 1984 with Big Brother, and then where would I be?

Write your own story.

Oh, and if you get the chance - help me encourage the Nursery Fairy.

She needs a bit of a prod that one.

Alias Grace

““Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim””

— Nora Ephron

I am, I realise, more and more every day, a fortunate woman.

I am living where I wish to live.

I am, if not healthy, on the path to health.

I am able to do the work that I love.

And above all else, I am truly blessed in the amazing women that I am lucky enough to not only plot and scheme with on a professional level, but also call my friends. This has been very much brought home to me in the past few months, when times have not been so great, and the solidarity and support which they have shown me has been beyond description.

And the standout sister - for me, and I know for so many others - of these fabulous females, is having a birthday today!

Happy Birthday Janine.

When I thought about writing this post, and saying how grateful I was to JG, I thought "oh, this will be simple - I know how much she means to me, I'll just say it". But as it turns out I'm a little bit flummoxed. How do you express your gratitude to someone whom you have so much respect for without sounding cheesy? How do you say that their guidance, and enthusiasm, and simple passion for what they do manages to lift you up when things are really grim, without it being just words on a page?

I suppose I can only say what I feel, and hope Janine doesn't roll her eyes (not that she would, because she's far nicer than me), and understands the message behind the meanderings.

Janine, I don't think you understand the impact you have on so many, many people. And yes, especially women - of all walks of life. You give out absolutely everything, without expecting anything in return. I'm constantly floored by your energy and fire for making things better. It's extraordinary. You make me laugh like an absolute idiot (I'm so not going there with the stories), and you make business fun. You and your rock star hair!

I am grateful for your friendship. I am grateful for your grace. I am grateful for your strength. I am grateful you are you. You have taught me more about being a strong woman, without lecturing or bossiness, than anyone I have ever met before. The gratitude is ever present, and always will be.

If you are lucky enough to be a part of this extraordinary woman's life, don't undervalue her. And make sure you tell her how fab she is.

Because I guarantee she tells you on a regular basis.

Happy Birthday JG.

I hope it's been a good one.

Love The One You're With

““He leans over and takes her hand. With the other he touches her face. ‘You your best thing, Sethe. You are.’ His holding fingers are holding hers.

‘Me? Me?” ”

— Toni Morrison, Beloved

It has been yet another rough week in the world of grumps and glum a.k.a. KateLand. I hate admitting this; I hate saying out loud 'yup, things are currently craptacular'. But allowing oneself to be vulnerable is something which we all need to do. If we don't, that internal balloon gets to popping point… and what is the result? Stress, anger and an awful lot of tears, and not the 'I needed to have a cry' tears, but great big 'I can't stop' sobs which are not healthy.

Being vulnerable and letting people in is important. It's something that I have to work on very hard. I am extremely bad at letting people help me. I am not sure whether it's because I see asking for help as some kind of defeat, or whether I am just a stubborn cow, but putting my hand up and saying 'I am not coping' is vastly difficult. 

I know I am not alone in this.

I also think that a part of it is perhaps thinking I am not worthy of being helped.

Again, I know I am not alone in this.

To some degree, most of us dislike ourselves. There are some happy go lucky souls out there who saunter through life without any kind of self-doubt - always secure in themselves and their place in society and the world. They have a confidence in their own ability which borders almost on arrogance; but it isn't, and it isn't ego either. They simply don't have any kind of 'I'm no good' feelings running through their veins. 

At times, I envy them. To have that kind of blasé bliss - wow. For a week, a month or two - yay. It would be great. But if I really stop and nut it out, I come to a different conclusion.

Whilst I don't want to doubt my likeability on a daily basis, I do want to question whether my actions affect the wellbeing of others. I want to make sure that the way I behave is of good consequence. I want to make sure that what I am doing means I can sleep well at night.

While I want to love other people - the most important person in my world to love, I have figured out, is the person I spend twenty four hours a day with.

Me.

And part of loving yourself is being loveable. That means being loveable in your own head. If you can't go to sleeps with yourself - how can you go to sleeps with someone else?

This week has been an eye opener in many ways. I have found out that I can reach out for help, and that people are there to answer that call. That it doesn't make me weak. And more importantly, I have found out something else about myself.

I heart me.

And I am prepared to do whatever it takes to make sure I keep doing so. This means being strong, and self-assured, and independent - but it also means letting down the walls occasionally. It means allowing people to help you. It also means taking responsibility for yourself - and part of that responsibility is saying 'no that isn't acceptable to me' or 'yes, that is acceptable, and I am going to run with this and seize happiness with both hands'.

Even if the path to happiness - and responsibility, and most of all, self love - involves breaking out a box of tissues and having a weep every now and then.

Love yourself.

At the end of the day, you're stuck with you.

For life.

Waiting For The Great Leap Forward

““Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.” ”

— Dr Martin Luther King, Jr

Yesterday saw some truly horrific events occur in the streets of London. I don't think there is anyone on the planet who has access to any form of media who could be unaware of what happened, so do I need to rehash the details - no. And that isn't what I want to talk about anyway.

I want to talk about hate.

I know it is naive in the extreme to expect everyone to link arms and sing 'it's a small world after all', and dance around and pretend everything is rainbows and unicorns. But in the last twenty four hours, I have seen so much hatred. Within minutes of the attack going out on the interwebs, people were calling for every Muslim in the UK to be 'shipped back to where they came from'. Where they came from?

So that would be Chelsea then.

What scared me the most was that some of the people yelling the loudest were in fact people whom I know, and would never have expected a reaction like this from. It really knocked me for six. It also made me realise that the perceptions we have of those we think we know should never be fixed, because again, that is naive and will inevitably lead to bubbles being burst and illusions shattered.

Hate begets hate.

The nature of the beast - and I am probably being unkind to beasts in general - when it comes to us humans is this; we are not nice. I have written about this before. Those who go against the tide in any way, shape or form are inevitably torn apart in some way, and yes, it sometimes is deserved, but it is those who are carried along in the rip who are usually drowned for no reason. The actions of those two cowards in London yesterday will have ramifications for so many others who are trying to fight for freedom in ways that are not hurtful. The mistrust and general lack of understanding between cultural groups - between religions - is now going to yawn even wider.

I think it was brought home even more strongly to me last night when a beautiful, intelligent and thoughtful friend posted something on Facebook regarding the epidemic of obesity that is evident in Australia at present. She was attacked for basically giving a damn. She spoke from a position of knowledge, and care, and without being disrespectful to those who are trying to lose weight and be healthy. The person who ripped into her - well, I can honestly say that they spoke from a position of ignorance. Their comments also encouraged others to make fun of the message she was putting across.

Hate begets hate.

We have to stop the mob mentality from taking over and destroying what is great about the human spirit. There is too much that is wonderful about humanity to let the Dark Side win.

This is a potentially optimistic day for me - not just because it is a Friday! It is a fairly big day in the Life of Kate. And I am determined to see a spark of greatness in people today. No matter what. And so I ask this of you:

Don't give in to hate. It is draining. It makes you empty, and tired, and hollow. It takes all the colour out of life and makes any experiences bittersweet, because spending time hating turns your psyche into a big gnarled knot of yuck. 

What those two men - if you can call them men - did is unforgivable. It is, to me, incomprehensible.

But judge them only. Don't judge a large chunk of humanity by their act.

Let your hate go, and take a giant leap forward - or even a small step.

I'm sure Neil Armstrong, and Dr Luther King, would approve.

Just a few rainbows and unicorns never hurt anyone.