Sunday, March 1, 2015

can't stop watching telly

I am so greedy for fiction. I'm a compulsive devourer of stories. My poor neglected children - once I have a book to read or god help me, a series to watch, I can't stop til they're over. And then my appetite is peaked for something new.

I've spent the weekend watching Arrow, I'm into series 2 now and reluctant to stop. I came home on Friday, the kids had friends over, and I retired to bed with Aldi chocolate brownie icecream and Bodhi's laptop and watched and watched. I love it. I'ts not going to hurt me like The Time Traveller's Wife did (sob, still not ok) and it's funny, and cute and full of musclebound men with their shirts off. Often wet. There is fighting and comic book melodrama (sometimes cringy, but hey, better than gut wrenching trauma, non?). There are mysteries and secret identities and a slowly revealed back story that's continuing nicely into series 2.

I wish I could be content with an episode a night, though.

I also wish one of these series would have strong main character that's female, a la Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but it seems that's not to be. Oh wait, Marvel have one, Agent Carter, but I don't know if I can get that yet. I willlll, though. In the meantime I will enjoy the eye candy that is the Arrow, his chin ups and his cute understated facial reactions.

I don't understand why people don't like sci fi and fantasy. It's my balm. You poor realists out there. It's so nice to slip awaaaaaay into the welcoming arms of superhero drama.

Monday, February 23, 2015


I'm doing my nails. I have nails! Bodhi approves. He wanted some nail varnish a couple years ago when I was buying some. Blue, he chose, and it was very Dave Navarro on him altogether.

I asked him if he wanted some too. He said:

No. Though I do kind of like that dark blue crystal lightning one, cos that's what colour my eyes are, crystal lightening. Yours are kind of watery blue, like water, but mine are crystal lightning, aren't they? 

little blessings

Finding a forgotten fiver tucked in your wallet. A little leap of relief and gratitude.

I sat there this morning, finally bleeding heavily (my periods have been reticent recently), wondering how exactly to have a shower because I burnt my mooncup to death last month while trying to sterilise it. Trustingly, I opened the period paraphernalia drawer one more time, and there at the back was a single, demure little bleach-free tampon. I have another box somewhere, but I don't know where, I've lost them.

So here I am, clean and dry and now I need to dress and dry my hair and  go to work.

It's been an odd weekend. I didn't sleep in like I expected to, I ate all the junk food in a hormonal frenzy, and now I am not quite ready for another week of grind. The sun is shining now, though. I spent yesterday mostly under a duvet because it was freezing cold and grey and wet and dismal and oh, for a fireplace. 

Saturday, February 21, 2015

ugh, god

I stayed up til 3.30 and finished The Time Traveller's Wife. I read and wept, clutching my chest against the pain and gasping for breath, for two hours and a half hours.

This is why I intuitively did not read it before. Books like this are not for me. Maybe they're for others, but I cannot read about love and grief, especially when it's written so rawly.

Soon after my mother died, a friend gave me an Anne Patchett book about bereavement. It was so very painful to read. I still don't really understand why she gave it to me - except, as I read last night, unable to go to sleep until there had at least been an ending, if not a happy one, I considered that maybe not everyone feels the way I do when they're reading. Maybe others can separate fiction from reality more, or dissociate their own emotions from the story and the characters. I think it is a flaw in me, especially during hormone affected times, that I am unable to stop my emotions from flooding me in response to stories.

How do you all do it, enjoy the experience nevertheless? I had a feeling that book would be too much for me, and I was right. I shouldn't have read it, good as it is. I pretty much wish I hadn't read that Anne Patchett book, with its detailings of grief, loss and abuse. I wish I'd never read that graphic and tragic description of foot binding in a book about a Chinese woman. I wish I hadn't read this, with its intense picture of love, loss and loneliness. I wish I hadn't read it as I was getting my period.

I just read this, about being a 'lost soul' and I fear it's me. It might also be about being depressive, which isn't a great way to frame it, but one that resonates nonetheless. Off I go, to run errands, pick up my pills that are doing god knows what to me, but will take the edge off this misery storm I'm in. 

Friday, February 20, 2015

the time traveller's wife

As is my wont, I am reading The Time Traveller's Wife about ten years after its hype is over. You might not have heard this, but it's really good.

Heh, no, I'm sure you know how good it is, you probably read it then, along with everyone else. What a writer. I can't imagine having an idea this inventive and complex, and being able to follow it through so well, not to mention so bravely. It's a book with a punch. And I've only just got my period today, and I've been reading the ... well. Some difficult bits. Just in case some other silly individual hasn't read it yet, I won't spoiler it. But its intensity is humbling.

My story ideas are mostly three lines long. I'm inventive - somtimes instantly, creatively, mostly amusingly inventive. My brain does jump to stories, just only in the very, very short term. I wish there was more of a market for flash fiction in the world.

Anyway, Audrey Niffenegger. Has she written more? Is it as good? 

Saturday, February 7, 2015

Mostly, day to day, I don't know what to do. I have no answers. I am incredibly bad at making choices. I am not good at resolve, either. So I repeat my mistakes, ad nauseum.

But. I know what I love. And some days, more than others, I know what I have no patience for. No time for. I can't always articulate why, but then I seem to manage if I start.

Sometimes, when you're officially wrong about things, or you might be, I'm not sure it matters. It's up to us how we order our own world, and we have to go with our gut instincts. You might be wrong about something, but if it hurts you, maybe staying wrong is safer.

Sure, we have to do our best not to hurt other people. That should be part of what you feel deep down. Life is a learning process. It's good to be uncertain and keep studying and asking questions. It's good to be open. It's also good to stand strong with what feels right, until the time is right to change.

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

I got to the funeral late, today. I am a late person. I had to stop and let my windscreen de-ice again. I didn't leave enough time for parking - there's so little parking in Mount Jerome. The ...gathering? had overflowed the chapel by the time I got there - people stood outside in the bright, sunny cold, and listened to the moving testimonies to the loveliness and worth of a woman who should not yet be dead. Her friends, her co-workers, her god daughter, her step-daughter whom she had loved and mothered since she was five. Her group of musicians who would congregate in her most wonderful kitchen, they played in the church, and after. It was lovely.

I gave tissues to the crying woman outside. A small girl got bored, having been so good throughout, and as the people emerged she threw a tantrum, threw herself from a crouch straight back onto her head on the tarmac. 'Maybe we should all be doing that', said the woman I'd given the tissues to. I wanted to wrap everyone up in warmth, her children, her friends. I knew three people there, people I didn't know knew her - the man who does my father's garden, a mother from school, a friend of Axl's bandmates - his sister and this woman's daughter are friends, they helped them out when his mother died. This one was hard on him, the same thing again. Degrees of separation. It's such a small world.

Funerals make me worry about who will attend mine, when the time comes. It's a selfish response, but one I can't help indulging in sometimes. What if no one knows what to say, what if there's no one there who loved me? It's hard not to see a lonely future - I don't want my kids to be left with some awkward awkwardness to manage. I don't want people to make self-conscious jokes about my foibles, or struggle for things to say.

But better that, I suppose, than someone marvellous, who was taken away far far too soon.

Monday, February 2, 2015

I'm going to a  funeral tomorrow. One that should not be happening. A horrible, wrong death, a murder in which everyone involved is a victim. An awful, frightening tragedy without a shred of catharsis available, as far as I can see. I'm scared of it. Scared of the grief and the lack of a way out of it. But I want to go, to support my friends, to honour a very good woman who should not have died now.

I asked my friend what I could do. Tissues, and a bag for used tissues, is all she said. What else is there to do but cry, and pick up the tears, I suppose. It's all we have. 

Saturday, January 31, 2015


Lookit. I used to smoke illicit cigarettes in this unsafe ruin when I was thirteen. If only there'd been long haired soul voiced minstrels playing guitar in the grass then... sadly, he was three at that point. 

Friday, January 30, 2015

There are days when I love my own shoulders. They feel silky and rounded and strong.

There are even still moments when I catch my boobs in good form, and I'm sorry that there's no one there to witness them but me.

Yesterday the snow fell, briefly and I watched it with Bodhi. He was standing on his bunkbed ladder and when I turned to look out at the flakes eddying down he put his arm round my shoulders. After a moment I turned around and hugged him, his solid little big man boy body. He tolerated that for a second then told me to stop squeezing him. Poor child.

I would love to stand and watch the snow fall leaning against the solid, warm body of a man. To have him put his arm around me and feel part of someone else. To feel melded and held and warm and at peace with myself for a moment. I love the snow. I love the connection.