Just a little ditty I thought up, sitting on the back step this morning. First thing I've written in years. Based heavily on a film called Unrelated [if you've seen it, it's obvious], but also just things on my mind.
I sit on the back step with my coffee cup in both hands, looking out at the yard. The chickens stalk through the ground cover like tiny dinosaurs, hunting for insects and worms. Swallows chase each other like miniature bomber planes, screaming their fury at the world. Crickets sing frantically in the hot air. The sun bakes my legs and feet – I lean back to keep it off my face.
Footsteps along the wooden boards.
Two long legs step down and fold next to me, feet together, knees apart; the smell of hot skin and fresh sweat coming off him in waves. I glance over at him, my lips lifting in a shy, lopsided smile, which he reciprocates with a broad, overly cheerful one. There are tiny beads of sweat on his forehead and his flushed cheeks. His chest rises and falls quickly, catching his breath. He looks out at the scene. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘It really is. I don’t want to leave,’
‘That’s not really how it works.’
He shrugs, stretching his legs out until his feet reach the bottom step, the wiry hairs on his legs shining gold in the sunlight.
‘How was your run?’
‘Great. Hot, but great.’ He grins, squinting into the sunlit yard. ‘You should have come with me. There were ducks on the lake. Dozens. You would have loved it,’
I laugh. ‘How lovely!’
He looks back at me, the wide grin softening, friendly. ‘How’s it going with your boyfriend?’
‘It’s going,’ I laugh. Humourless. ‘I don’t know where, but it’s going.’
His look turns questioning.
‘We’re different souls. Whatever that means. He’s terrified of taking opportunities; I’m terrified of losing them,’
‘Then take them,’
‘And leave him behind?’
‘If that’s what it takes,’
‘It’s not fair on him,’
‘Is it fair on you?’
‘No – no, I guess not.’
‘Do you love him?’
‘I think so. What’s love? Sharing passions? Enjoying the same things? We don’t. Is it just caring about the other person? Not wanting them to die? Being afraid to live without them?’
‘That’s a habit, not love,’
‘I don’t know then. It could be that. But I really think I love him. Whatever that means.’
‘If loving him means losing out on what you actually want to achieve in your life, it’s not worth loving him. What do you want to do?’
‘Travel. Move around. Do things. Live. We grew up completely differently – I wasn’t elite, but we had money. He didn’t. So his goal is to make as much money as he can so he never has to worry about it. I just want to enjoy what I have while I have it, and if it means we have to give something up, then so be it.’
‘Just go off on your own then – leave him behind and live your life. You can come back to him later,’
‘And just hope that he’s still there when I come back?’
‘Well if he’s holding you back now, you have three options. Let him keep you here, unhappy. Give up on him and move on. Or, you can do what you want and hope he’s still there when you come home. If he’s making you unhappy, you’re better off without him.’
I mull this over. ‘And if he’s not there? We’re nearly thirty. The only men left single are fucked up.’
‘And you’re telling me he’s not fucked up? You’re not?’
‘Everybody’s fucked up. Every single person in the world. You just need to find one that compliments your own fucked-up-ness.’
He chuckles, shaking his head. I sip my coffee. A chicken squawks, running madly into the bushes. The swallows swoop, crickets chirp, the sun bakes. He puts his arm around me, the intention is obviously reassurance. The smell of his sweat is overwhelming; not necessarily unpleasant, but it makes me dizzy. His bare shoulder is hot against my face – almost steaming from the hot air and baking sun.
‘Just do what you need to. You’ll live. And you need to live. If he needs to stay inside to stay sane, he needs to learn to live without you.’
I sigh deeply, relaxing into his arm despite feeling slightly uncomfortable; we’ve never been so close. The weight of it is pleasant, his fingers pressing into my arm, the gesture friendly and harmless but too familiar for who we are. He keeps his arm around me a little longer, and then gently removes it, perhaps sensing my discomfort, or feeling it himself.
‘What about you? How’s your girlfriend?’
It’s his time to laugh without humour. ‘Don’t even ask,’
‘So you get to quiz me, but I can’t even ask about yours?’
‘Nah. We’re fucked.’
‘Like everyone else on the planet, apparently. Fair enough. I won’t ask.’
He folds his hands in front of him, staring at his interlocked fingers. Minutes pass. I lean back further on my hands, looking out at the garden. He does the same. More minutes pass. I finish the coffee, placing the cup on the square pillar next to me. We stare at nothing; a companionable but awkward silence between us. He breaks it. ‘Do you want to go to Spain with me?’
‘In a couple of weeks. Leaving on the twenty-fifth. I’m going with a few friends – a big group. One of their parents has a place there. It’ll be fun.’
‘A month. But you can leave earlier if you like,’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Don’t think. Just come.’ He stands, his legs, so long that they should be awkward but aren’t, and climbs the three steps to the veranda. I tilt my head back to look at him, the small smile back on my lips. His eyes meet mine.
As someone dealing with social anxiety, writing a regular blog gets pretty intimidating.
I have this destructive idea that I can't post unless I have a pre-planned, researched, witty, interesting and unique mini-essay really holds me back with actually just getting on here and writing.
Not shouldn't, but can't.
So here's a post to prove that it IS possible, and that I won't break the internet with something pointless, uninteresting, & fewer than 500 words.
This is in 'response' to the recent controversy over this front cover of Honi Soit, the free newspaper published by the University of Sydney SRC. I originally put it on my facebook page, but it’s something I feel so strongly about. More rants to come, promise.
Regarding the Honi bungle with the lady parts – honestly. Does the feminist/PC/equality movement really believe that the way to fight sexism and gain equality is to take our knickers off, effectively giving sexist men what they want? (remember 'the boys did it first' people – a man is probably more likely to enjoy the sight of a lady-bush than a woman is to enjoy the sight of a flaccid wang). The ‘it’s the thought that counts’ justification of slutting it up to prove we’re ‘equal’ and saying ‘just because I’m overtly displaying my sexual organs does NOT give you the right to treat/think about me sexually’ just doesn’t work. Yes, sexism is wrong. No, printing sex organs on the front page of a free magazine isn’t going to stop it. It’s a simple fact that the female body is viewed as more sexually available – it’s not CORRECT or GOOD, but it’s a fact.
We need more intelligent, witty, self-respecting women in the world who are able to raise the equality standard, not lower it.
Your own child is suffering with a mental illness, is malnourished and frail. You can’t afford to feed him or her, let alone fund their education. They lack communication skills, and so you are their only voice. They can do nothing but hope that you will help them. Yet you look past them, and see your neighbour’s child knocking on the door, asking for help.
You choose instead to provide for your neighbours’ children, those whose parents have also given them nothing – by choice, or necessity. You choose to neglect your own suffering child to give shelter, food, education and comfort to a stranger rather than uphold your responsibility as parent.
The Government is – or should be – a parent to its country. It should provide for its own citizens, especially those in desperate need, like a parent feeds its child, and ensures that child is warm at night. When that parent neglects that responsibility, they should not be allowed to take another child under their wing.
Australia has an enormous homeless problem, as well as unemployment and poverty. Too many of our children - and adults - are illiterate. Mental illness, as well as many other disorders go untreated, due to lack of education and resources. The services that are available are extremely limited, and often far too expensive to be affordable on an extended or intensive basis.
just saw Wild Thing I Love You (Bill Bailey's nature conservation show - check it out!) and learned that a badger's home is called a sett.
So I'm in a wonderful, intimate, loving relationship with a man I have loved for nearly a decade. We started at 18, passionate, crazy, fiery and full of hormones. It ended, then four years ago we were drawn back together (can I call it fate?). Every guy I'd dated between was compared to this one - no matter how lovely, he just didn't fit the bill. Now we're together again, I know it's for realz. We're in love. Made for each other. Two halves of a whole. All that jazz.
We've also recently (3 months ago) stopped making love. My decision - NOT his, and one made after a pregnancy scare that I still haven't really gotten over. I feel guilty, as it's a huge way that we used to share intimacy, connect spiritually, and show our love on all levels at once. However, I've recently been coming to realise that the Christians might have a point.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not afraid of the Big Hot Eternal Burny-place; neither am I afraid to be 'judged' - by anyone, let alone the big man in the sky.
I just feel that the idea of physically committing yourself in the most intimate way should be kept until you can ensure security - and today, that means financial, legal, binding security. And I have to get sexist here, it's WAY more intimate for a lady, simply because that's how lady parts were made - she literally lets a man inside to her very core, her most vulnerable, personal space. It's fulfilling and nice, sure, but it's a damn big deal.
I'm also not trying to blackmail him into the Big M; I'm just starting to really believe that evolution played a bigger part in this 'Christian' law than what they want to admit.
I'm caught in a seemingly nonexistent, undefined ideology/philosophy that there is a creator - a god, if you will - but one who merely set everything into motion. It may not even exist any more (in our realm? In our time? What even is existence?), let alone 'hear', 'see' or 'adore' every one of its creations. But this idea, rather than throwing me into a state of hopeless despair, is what drives me to improve, to love, to create. My insignificance in this universe is inspiring - it makes me feel more connected to the world, the universe, and the beings within it than ever. I am one of an unimaginable number. My body will exist for a finite amount of time. There is no all-seeing, all-loving and all-powerful entity setting my path, guiding me, or keeping me safe from harm. I have no special purpose, I am not unique, I have no divine right over any other creature or thing on this earth.
Why is this a depressing thought to so many? Why do people seek out some mystical 'truth' - an antidote to this insignificance? It makes my heart sing that I've been given this great privilege of life, of consciousness, of the very ability to wonder; I'm not going to waste it by pretending that there should be more.
the paleo diet and I have been exchanging sultry glances across the room.
it looks so good. so tempting. so natural. so right.
To improve. My home; my productivity; my relationship with my lover, my parents, those around me; my work; my study; my habits in general.
It all seems so overwhelming at times - but then I remember, I have a lifetime to get these things in check. And if some of those things pass in the meantime before I've 'improved' to my own unrealistic standards, well, so be it. I've tried.
As long as I'm trying to improve, I'm improving.
There has been a nearly constant nag in my mind telling me: you must write that down. You must document that memory, that moment, so that you can easily recall and share it with your friends, family, and the World Wide Web, and most importantly, so that you will NEVER FORGET IT EVER AGAIN, no matter how far in the future you want to recall it, no matter how far in the past it originally occurred.
And then there is the equally constant nag which reminds me how essential it is to live in the moment, enjoy each breath of air and each glimpse of the sunset over the water and each thought of pure genius (har) that my mind conjures... and to file it away in nothing but my own memory. To savour the now, and to enjoy the bittersweet loss of a faded but perfect memory.
So what do I do? Spend an hour a day typing on a blog, which could potentially be better spent staring out at the infinite ocean across the road? Maybe some days, maybe not others - I've come to terms with the fact that life is changeable, unstable and unpredictable. And I'm going to enjoy it, damnit!