I Like You

I like bringing you a cup of tea
when you’re in the bath,
the steam from both soothing you,
holding you close.

I like watching you work,
the tiny pulse beneath your temple
beating to the drum of our love.

I like how we’re always together
in life and during the night.
We take turns being koalas,
and I like it best when
you’re the eucalyptus tree.

Pursue Activities You Don’t Care About

I’ve found solace in painting, in the gentle rhythm of dipping the brush into colour and spreading it across the page. Then dunking it in water and watching the blue, pink, and green twirl and create a new colour entirely.

I love how painting doesn’t have a language. We can’t speak it or weave letters into patterns that reflect our lives. You just see different shapes and shades dance upon the page. And while you do it, your mind clears because here, you’re not on the hunt for unique metaphors and trying to stir magic from the mundane.

Your biggest task is keeping the colour within the lines. And hell, some of the best painters don’t even bother with that!

Painting lets you turn on music with lyrics (impossible with writing) and fall deeper into a hobby you don’t love or care for. Painting could be uprooted from my life tomorrow and all I’d feel is a tiny pinch, nothing compared to losing your biggest passion. One you’d be nothing without because life just wouldn’t make sense without it.

I think everyone needs a hobby they’re “meh” about. An oasis to throw yourself in when your passion project weighs you down like a great stone. I love painting because there are no expectations, there’s no ambition, and once you’re finished, that’s it. You throw it on a pile with all the other mediocre works.

And it’s that promise that keeps me afloat.

Gimme Ya Instagrams!

If you guys are on Instagram, please leave your handle below 🙂 Would be lovely to catch some fellow bloggers over there!

A Note to the Catcallers

There are two groups of people in the world: those who receive dick pics, and those who don’t.

I’ve never recieved unsolicited dick pics which is great, but at the same time you wonder: am I completely hideous?

Now I realize how ridiculous and depessing it is to have internalized the misogyny and equated it to being attractive.

And the worst part is I’ve only just had this revelation. Two minutes ago.

A man rolling down the hill on his moped caught my eye and puckered his lips. It’s funny how it’s always those in transit who do this. Cowards jeer and catcall from their moving vehicles, so you only catch a glimpse of a blurred face.

Now all I can hear is that slurping, kissing sound bouncing around my skull and I can’t shake it.

So, to every catcaller worldwide, safe in your little front seat, you suck.

Tapping into Your Creative Realm

Came across a great article about using your subconscious to spark creativity. When daily life moves at break-neck speed, sometimes creativity feels constricted and impossible to access.

So here are two activities to spark your subconscious.

The first begins with Thomas Edison’s advice: “never go to sleep without a request to your subconscious.” 

So, here’s how you do it:

1. Before settling into bed, close your eyes and take a minute to request your subconscious. Start small, for example: “please let me find creative ideas for new blog posts.”

2. Take two minutes to visualize yourself bossing your request.

You’re going for a walk and the world is sparkling with potential. You have a notepad and you’re scribbling away, endless titles pouring into your head. That evening, your titles are glowing in a pool of light from your desk-lamp, and you’re tapping away into the night. 

3. Now imagine the feeling of accomplishment. How do you feel once you’ve got pages of potential blog titles? Confident? Invigorated? 

Perfect! Let these positive feelings sink into your slumber, so your subconscious can work its magic. 

Like everything worth having, the results won’t be instantaneous. What I love about this exercise is how it encourages us to form good habits so we can build a foundation for a thriving life. 

So keep visualizing the motions, carry a notepad and pen everywhere, and let the emotional requests bloom into creative ideas.

*****

Josh Waitzkin, a former chess prodigy and tai chi world champ, inspired the second exercise. He harnesses the power of “thought-dumping”. 

To do this:

Grab a notepad as soon as you wake up (yes, before your phone!), and thought-dump everything that passes through your mind for the next few minutes. 

Waitzkin calls this “crystallized intelligence” as you gain clarity, creative ideas, and knowledge. You may find new insights but if not, you’ll have cleared some valuable mental space before starting your day.

Do you guys have any tricks to getting creative? Would love some inspo!

The Best Piece of Dating Advice

“Only sleep with a guy if he has at least three books on his shelf.”

A friend dropped this pearl of wisdom and I feel the world needs to hear it too.

Living in a Forest

In October we began our cycling expedition from the UK to Porto, Portugal. Since then we’ve tackled the monstrous hills of Spain’s Northern region, survived trench foot, and got tied into a Catholic pilgrimage.

We made it to Porto before Christmas and now we’re in a town west from Lisbon, though you wouldn’t believe it. The coast is lined by golden cliffs, occasionally interrupted by fortresses, so surfers carve against an ancient backdrop. Surreal.

But the most memorable experience is living in a forest. As it’s the middle of winter, it comes with plenty of obstacles, so I thought it’d be funny (borderline tragic) to share:

WHY FOREST LIVIN’ IS GREAT

*You’re a fairy now!

*After a day tied to a computer, the stillness amidst the trees is revitalizing. And with no internet access, you wind down in wholesome ways like reading, cards, or writing

*We’re in a bougie town so you feel rebellious living for free

*You spend days differently.  On our days off, we challenge ourselves to recipes, difficult over a camp stove.We’ve mastered pan pizzas and on Saturday spent three hours making dumplings

*Being awoken by bird-song feels right

*We don’t have air-beds (the rain destroyed them) so we sleep on a tarp to protect us from the cold mud.  But no longer have back pain!

*We cycle to town each morning.  There’s no better way to jig your brain in gear, breathe crisp air,  and admire the morning light cast over the cliff-face.  The sea is calm in the early hours too.

Mourning the Double Space

After a year working as a content writer, I just got completely dicked on for still using the dreaded double space.  <- Yup, THAT ONE.

It hurls me back into the 90s when, once a week, our class had 30 minutes to type out what we did over the weekend, complete with double spaces (thanks for teaching us how to blog, Ms. Sackett!).

Ever since, I’ve jabbed billions of double spaces, so many you could cover the distance from here to the moon a hundred times over.

Until today.

Right. So why do people get so heated about this topic?

Well, it all boils down to this.

Typewriters used monospaced type which means every character (e.g. ‘i’ and ‘w’) occupied the same amount of white space on the page. As a result, the text looked jiggly and loose so it was harder to spot the spaces between sentences.

Enter: our beloved double space.

As soon as the double space was introduced to the typewriting world, a lot less people were confused and shit got read.

Fast-forward to the present and everyone hates “two-spacers” because monospaced fonts dissolved in the ‘70s. Thanks to computers, proportional fonts took their place (like those we type with!)

Though, interestingly, the typewriter-esque font, Courier New, is still considered to be monospaced.

But it’s cool, I’ve got the memo and I’ll cave (even though it physically hurts). It’s time to kill the double space. I’ll miss you, old friend.

Magic at the Supermarket

January is cut-throat competition, and the contestants fall into two groups.

Those determined to live out their New Year Resolutions and those who cave.

Be careful though because Sally’s going to one-up you and cook up a #Veganuary storm while Max is already feasting on books, twirling fancy words on his tongue like spaghetti.

And for the rest of us, it’s getting rid of things that don’t serve us. Sweets, alcohol, crisps – we’re talking about you.

But there is a trick so you don’t have to succumb to the sugary allure of technicolour sweets. And it’s fool-proof.

Here’s what you do:

Enter the supermarket and head towards your biggest craving. For this example, we’ll use a Portuguese rice cake (bolo de arroz).

They’re divine, soft and airy except for the top which is firm. The satisfaction you get from breaking it off and enjoying a bite with the crumblier part of the cake is like no other….

So now you’re carrying a four-pack of these golden cakes.

Carry them around regardless of how much food shopping needs to be done. Even if you have a trolley, hold on to your craving, and as you amble down every aisle, your mind will get louder.

Do I need these?  They’re terrible for me and I know I won’t be arsed to do the exercise to shake them off.

Also, there are four meaning I’ll scarf them down and want more tomorrow. Remember, sugar is government-approved crack so you can’t be weak and let them topple your New Year diet.

By the time you’re lining up at the counter, eyeing everyone’s’ trolleys stuffed with bottles of wine, fruit, and parcels of meat, you realize.

You don’t need them.

Nope.

By the time you have to pay for them, guilt and your interior monologue rip apart everything positive about these delicious, fluffy cakes.

They just feel wrong now.

So you dart back to the bakery section and return them, and a entirely new buzz kicks in, one way more fulfilling than the sugar coating those sweet, sweet cakes.

You’re proud because you SWERVED them. And if you can swerve your biggest craving, you can swerve anything.

You’ve got this guys. Wishing you all a little more discipline this year!

No More Bitching, Bitches

“Ugh, I don’t know, can I say something really mean?” A boy wearing glasses asks, leaning across the table so his girlfriend can inhale every word.

“What?”

She’s almost gasping.

“I just find Olivia has nothing to talk about unless it’s about herself.  She’s really boring.”

“Ohhh my god, right!”

*************************

Everyone gossips and it makes an easy passtime especially trapped in a limbo like a train station.  It’s addictive too and if you have no idea what to talk about with new acquiantances, it’s a quick way to establish common ground.

This happened loads in the hospitality industry, it felt like we had returned to high school.

Employees stole money from one another or stood in the smoking area by the bins, electrified with toxic words, as red-hot anger coiled around their blue plumes of smoke.

Going to vow in 2020 to stop bitching about other people.  A lot of you probably don’t.  But if you do, it’s because you hope to quieten your own self-hatred, if only for a little while, but in a cheap and dirty way.

In 2020, we only speak highly.

❤

“Sucks to Be You”

I was in the standard waitress get-up, splotchy apron and unkempt plait, as tap water gushed into a customer’s glass.

“Aww,” a co-worker said towards a baby with a woollen hat enclosed around his ears.

“I want to be a baby,” I said to no-one in particular.

Back then, I was tired of sacrificing weekends to a red-faced boss. Like a doughy-faced baby, I ached to be doted on.

But now, looking around McDonald’s, all I see are straws searing plastic lids, yellow ‘M’s dwarfing a child’s excited face, eager for their mutant Mcnuggets, and the robotic bins dotted around the room, churning our leftovers.

In 2020, it’s the kids who have to save themselves.

Sixteen-year-olds have to mobilize if they hope for children themselves.  White haired men with dried up rivers creased in their skin are no longer needed.  It’ll be the young ones sweeping up our mess.

My childhood was during Hip Hop’s golden age, a yellow-tinged time, where afternoons were spent slapping mud onto a plastic table until something tangible was formed.  The afternoon ended with a bellyful of Monster Munch.

For the first time in human history, being a child is a curse.  And I’m so so sorry.

Happy Booze Year

The suggested reading on my Kindle have similar covers.  Empty bottles lay limp and sometimes wine pours itself into a quirky title.  Another is the figure of a woman blurred, either the back of her head or her legs, too ashamed to face the camera.

Tomorrow’s New Years Eve and it’s terrifying.  How do you celebrate booze-free? OD on caramel ice-cream instead?

Last week, my boyfriend’s friend visited and we stayed out until morning, destroying a few boxes of cigarettes a night, and sinking endless pints of beer.  On the third morning, one arose to find an eye sealed-shut, covered in a spray of purple, while the other had a sore egg-like growth on the back of his head.

The whole week was a blur of McDonald’s and cheap beer, encircled by a strange language in cloudy bars. By the end of the week, when the friend left, we hid in an eerie hostel with darkened halls, where obscene paintings stretched ahead as you climbed the stairs.  The most memorable was a topless woman getting her nipple tweaked on a bus, while another man robbed her.

Now we’re living in the forest and working hard to get money back up.  Christmas was drenched in vino tino and plasticy beer and I’m sure tomorrow holds the potential to plummet us into a dark, tangled mess.

This will be the first sober New Years Eve for 12 years, so we’re planning to eat pizza overlooking the sunset and feel the gentle shift into a new decade.

Happy New Years guys!

Always Leave a Trace

I don’t think it’s ridiculous to cry when you re-read what you’ve written and find out it’s shite. The dialogue’s so flat! So cliche!

The self-critic has the power to paralyze so you furiously stab the “x” button to keep the monstrousity lost forever.  Students have the luxury of the all-knowing red ink, crossing, circling, and underlining mistakes that have gone unnoticed.

But honing your craft alone is tricky.  All these blogs boom “read, read, read”, “practice, practice, practice” but what if your writing is still the worst thing ever?

Even though it’s cringey, we have to accept the wooden sentences and 2D characters that have found its way on paper.

But we have to keep records.

Whether you’ve left a short story on “Private” or it’s buried deep in your computer, bite the bullet and re-read your work.

I found my two-year-old blog the other day and decided to check out ~the past self~.  Was it really as horrific as I remembered?

No. It wasn’t.

And it broke my heart because doubt had sunk its claws into my temples and flooded me with self-loathing, disappointment, and zapped any confidence I ever had.

Sure, sentences were riddled with spelling mistakes and it was far from perfect, but it just shows how debilitating a lack of confidence can be.

OKAY, SO HOW DO YOU OVERCOME THIS & THRIVE?

The cure is to think like a male politician.

Not the sweet boy who chews his cuffs in the corner of the room but that guy who thunders his opinions the day after everyone’s wrecked, convinced his views on the Israel-Palestine conflict and third-wave Feminism are correct.

It’s possible to emulate confidence.  You just have to tell yourself:

• “I’m always improving!”
• “It’s going to be an endless journey but I’m going to be gentle on myself.”
• “You can’t get any worse, you can only progress.”

This is the bolt of energy we need pouring from our fingers and onto paper.

We’ve got this guys!

Done With the Digital Age

I no longer think in handcrafted images or those made from swirls of acrylic paint.  My thoughts are contained to 280 characters, the font is Arial, size 12.  Every dot above an “i” is a million pixels and I spend my days wondering which keyboard symbol has the most: is it the “_” or the double-whammy “+”?

Tired, I suggest we go and see what lays over the sand dunes.

The sunlight sucks colour from our vision so everything is muted.  A pavement made from slabs of wood takes us over a strangley small body of water, the beach must have had a dispute with the sea so the tide stole away, taking with it many confused creatures.

Birds bob in time of the rippling water.  The winter sun glares down at us.  We’re trudging through the sand that’s been swept across the walkway and try not to grimace at the piles that have snuck into our trainers.

Electricity shoots through my closed eyelids as politicians gurgle about grey policies and celebs lay sprawling on yachts, flashing their billion-dollar tummies, worth more money than a starving country’s GDP.

The walkway invites us into a sheltered grove where, in the summer months, sunbathers steal a few moments in the cool.  A hammock fashioned from scraggly ropes stretches between two trees where a hooded boy lounges, eyes fixed on his phone.

My boyfriend is always a few steps ahead while pixels clog my brainwaves.  Does he love you if he’s always widening the distance? It’s like he can’t wait to leave.

Stay in the moment, meditation apps say, feel the plastic bag you’re carrying crinkle and move with the wind.  The weight of your backpack dragging you back to earth.  A faint ache of nausea, impossible to shake.

“What are you doing?” He’s now facing me, puzzled.

“Being in the moment.”

Half-eyes open, lips easing to a smile.  The plastic bag is carrying a crumby plastic container and several tissues wet with snot.  Is this what crazy people do?

You have to lunge every now again so you’re not sucked under the wood slabs, it’s like skipping over a boxer with knocked out teeth.  My gut swells and threatens to burst but before I can complain, his piss makes the perfect arch and we watch it disappear beneath the slabs.

I squat, push, and a river gushes into the dirt.

We dedicate the rest of the day to savouring every bite of greasy, stringy pizza, and I choose to write solely in a yellow notebook.

My bones grind under the weight of constant vibrations, pointless notifications, as I realize a NUMBER sums up how much a human is worth.

You carry on, I’ll stay here on the walkway and marvel the gathering of bushes on the left hand side, so full and self-assured, smothering houses so you only catch a glimpse of a peeping roof, while the right is handed to the waves, waiting to wipe out everything we know.

Just know when your time is drawing to a close, where memories and regrets take hold of the megaphone and tear you down, your social currency means nothing.  You’re left aching to have another heart-to-heart with your friends, trying to place the faint cologne on your lover’s skin, and how you never fully appreciated the magic healing powers of a cup of tea.

now

when do you realize you’ve found it?
is it when drops of water no longer cause
a ripple effect
or
perhaps
when you have proof that your talent is real
and not only fabricated.

when do you realize you’ve found it?
perhaps it’s on a Sunday
you’re laid-back with a
glass of bubbly,
awaiting stretches of white sand.

when
you realize you’ve found it
perhaps your face will be leather
and
you can trace the flow of rivers that meander on
your skin.

when you realize you’ve found it
is
in the final glimpse,
a shot of colour
before black
and
maybe that’s when you’ll realize
that you had it all along.

alienation

two faces bore into my mind –
the pair hold one another
with their eyes,
a golden thread,
so warm and kind
that I try to warm
my hands on it.
their arms flow into gentle shapes
that
chase
the
words
that weave into their sentences.
laughter ripples the air,
as I sit in the corner
and watch a screen and think and
pray
that my loneliness isn’t too obvious
to them.

camus x bechdel

i have fallen into the world of graphic novels and have just finished alison bechdel’s the fun home – also didn’t realize that the ‘bechdel test’ came from a graphic novel? amazing!

literary works are a super important theme in bechdel’s memoir, they strengthen the thread-like bond the protagonist had with her father.  i can 100% resonate.

but this passage really spoke to me, particularly camus’ quote on death.

on point.

❤

Silky riches slip between my fingertips,
diamonds and pink bugattis,
alabaster-white jets and infinity pools.
Pass by and expect to break necks as
he drinks in my crimson allure –
tipsy
with flushed cheeks,
oh the way
this dress captures my shape
like cat-like models
in opulent magazines.
My curves flow in a river of luxury,
and all for tenner
a new identity,
a whole new me.

 

one

Voices build fortresses
from our fingertips, lips
and movements,
so please
don’t worry when you feel
lost and muffled,
beneath a swirl of heart-wrenching metaphors and one-of-a-kind ideas.

Remember!
It only takes one sperm to create Life
one to inspire others through his/her dreams,
one to propose a nuclear war,
for one can change everything.

When you’re alone and
at the darkest point of night –
slumped over a fresh page and some blue ink –
pour, flow and set your thoughts into curves,
shed your clothes and cover yourself in smears and smudges,
and when you feel the words are awk/ward
and stil-ted
write on
because no matter what you say,
your voice will always have a place,
nestled perfectly in the space
between the Greats.

 

on the clock blues

W o r k means that weekends and free-days are drowned in drink because I can’t let thoughts break me

W o r k means catty remarks and a shattered self-esteem                         because her words are biting

W o r k means cleaning and appeasing people                               because I’m too scared to pursue my dreams

W o r k means silent breaks and unnecessary trips to the loo        because of social anxiety

W o r k means bed-time is the new Paradise                                              because I’d rather sleep and escape reality

W o r k is the space in time where I do not exist                                      and it’s slowly destroying me

I am a castle
standing tall,
beneath
the endless rain
that tumbles & falls
into my open mouth.

I watch how the water threads around
my sturdy body in an endless loop,
around
and around
and around,
BUT
beware of the one who lurks…

snap says the alligator, as
she
turns to the intruders
– watch out, for her
arrows will rain on you like sparks so
hide your men.

Well mine are hidden deep within,
huddled between these hot wet walls
awaiting my orders.
I am made of asphalt
of the softest kind,
the mutest grey,
held together by vanilla icing,

hoping I don’t break away.

Famous artists (songwriters/actresses/writers etc) have it all.  Not the mountains of lavish clothes or sprawling houses or even the endless zeros in their bank account.  They have the wonderful feeling of self-assurance.

They know that they are good at what they do, that their art branches out and reaches millions of people.  Of course they’re human so they shall be haunted by self-doubt now and again but essentially they have the comfort that they know that what they’re doing is working.
And that they do it well.

They say that there’s a Heaven and Hell awaiting us
which is funny because I can’t remember hanging around any particular place,
during those 9 months, waiting
for her to usher me into the world.
I’ve now learned that
black space acts as the book-end to our fleeting existence.

I remember the day
she fell into an eternal slumber, colour cut to black:
all that remained
was a shriveled body in a box,
waiting to be devoured by angry flames.

Since then, I often see her drifting around this vacuum.
She floats at a jaunty angle,
dwarfed by a stretch of endless black.
She is still a skeleton draped in grey.  Her headscarf has polka-dots.
Sometimes she looks at me, her watery blue eyes opened wide.
Sometimes her mouth opens, calling my name silently.
She’s there, waiting for me to come and join her.

I brainstorms ways to free her from that place, find a way to unlock the celestial playground that sparkles above,
so that she has a chance to experience colour again or
possibly
find a new hobby to bide her time.
But for now she has to wait and be,
drifting along in the blackness of my heart
until
it’s time for us to be together
and finally break free.

 

Review of ‘Eulogy’ – Better Things

When Better Things aired last year, I was instantly besotted the moment the opening credits rolled in.  John Lennon’s sentimental soundtrack, Mother, was the backdrop to an an intimate opening sequence: snippets of faded child-hood photos that seamlessly flowed together.  It sparks a deep nostalgia in the viewer and for those who miss their mothers, or younger days, experience a gentle melancholy each time it plays.

Aside from the wonderfully artistic family house and colourful characters in Better Things, one thing that really hits you about the show is its authenticity, boiling down right to the dialogue.  Sam’s (the mother) arguments with her oldest daughter, Maxine, can resonate with anyone who’s survived adolescence.  The authenticity of the show is mirrored in its filming and editing, thereby creating a unique tapestry, as the lives of the 5 girls are threaded through to create a masterpiece.

******************************************************

For the entirety of season one, we have seen the daily struggles that Sam endures as a single mum.  We see how she has to juggle work, home and a slim indulgance in her sex life.

Home is the area that really seems to take its toll on Sam.  The erupting, irrational arguments and constant parent-blaming punctuate Sam’s day and begin to wear her down.  The only saving grace is little Duke who hasn’t yet suffered the difficult stage of puberty and who still wholeheartedly loves her mother.

Each episode tends to deal with this same theme: the single mother struggling. Frankie and Maxine always take swipes at her and her aging mother, Phil, appears to be a burden to Sam.  ‘Eulogy’ is the culmination of all this underappreciation and I feel like the way the idea is executed is absolutely amazing!  It is possibly the best episode I’ve seen in TV in a long time.

When the title appeared, I instantly thought about Phil.  I assumed she had fallen ill and it would be Sam who would have to orchestrate the wedding and choke about the intimate moments they shared.  But no.  Sam has reached boiling point, she’s fucking ready to listen to what her children have to say about her (before it’s too late), particularly the older two who never bother to appreciate her.

****************************************************************
What I loved about this episode is how unique it was.  Adlon took ‘underappreciation’ to its most dramatic point, grabbing Frankie and Maxine and ordering them: Look, what happens when I die and you will never have the chance to tell me how you feel about all I’ve done for you.  All I do is work hard and suffer shit from you both.

Losing a love one is always something we shrug off, we refuse to deal with it because it’s too unfathomable.  Forcing them to face her death and indirectly show their gratitude, although extreme, is the only way Sam will ever get them to honestly appreciate her.  The decision to perform a funeral, with Sam and Duke at the centre, is such a gentle and vulnerable scene, that the threat dissipates into such an emotional performance

With the help of Sam’s ‘gay husband’ and her manager, the room was transformed into a tranquil space.  Glistening Candles were carefully placed alongside pockets of flowers that created an, already, emotionally charged atmosphere.  An alter sat at the centre where the two sisters and friends revealed their honest opinions of their mother and friend.  It was so powerful because the older girls felt the emotion of ‘it’s too late‘.

I’ve never seen such a raw and honest scene on TV, it is one that’s aftershock still affects me two weeks later.

It also feels, in terms of the show’s trajectory, that Sam finally got that smidgen of recognition that she’s been aching for this whole time.  Sure, we know that it’s going to go straight back to normal the next time we see them, but to see the girls appreciate and love each other, really brought on the water works!

Better Things is becoming an all-time favourite and I love how its altering the TV landscape.  First all-female cast on Fx? Check.  Raw and unapologetic? Check.  100% Unique? Fucking check.

Pamela Adlon, you’re the one.

‘quiet people have the loudest minds’

Aloof. Stuck up. A bitch.
Whispers swirl above those coloured heads,
clumped together,
hissing away.
I watch them as
caged words
laze on a heavy tongue.
Vistas of silence lay between us,
an invisible barrier
that forbids the other to venture through
unknown land.

Laughter dances upon their
juicy lips, damn,
those
care-free smiles.
Wide eyes and light words
spill
into tumbling waterfalls,
before they splash and settle
into perfectly crafted sentences.

***********************************

In my world all rooms have a sign.
#1 CARDINAL RULE: No interacting.
No talking, shouting, whispering, debating, miming or
ushering language of any kind.
ALTHOUGH YOU CAN
smile, blink, sigh and laugh alone.

BANNED: Charlie Chaplin, Greta Garbo, Harold Lloyd
Anyone outlandish and exuberant: leave yourselves at the door

WELCOMED: shaking leaves, shrinking violets and
rose-blush flowers,
come up here and pull up a chair.
Bask in the afternoon sun
as crooners wail their velvety woes
on a circular stage.
Feel yourself sink into the sofa plush chair,
and indulge in the silent air.

[If only the world could be silent sometimes. It would be wonderful to live in a space where being silent didn’t make you cruel or boring – it just meant that you were inward, that your world is already so loud that it needn’t be made any more amplified.

Only when that paradise opens its gates and becomes revered: we’ll begin to feel normal again]

S.B.H.

My mum died 11th October ’16.  It’s been exactly one year.
It’s weird because I’ve been dreading this day for months.  I thought it was going to be an emotionally-fuelled, cathartic day, one which pulls you to the centre of any field to reminisce, weep, write a sentimental letter and possibly have a glass of G&T in her honour.

I’ve felt nothing like that.  But perhaps it’s because I’m pushing the day’s morbid significance deep, deep down into a small nook, that will only begin to boil over when the clock hits that darkest point of night.

I can’t tell you what’s happened since then.  Not a single event.  Life is just a blip now, and not to sound depressing but everything that happens (good or bad) has lost its power.  Good things seem good, though no longer as amazing as they were when she was alive, and the bad just seem bad, though not horrific.  All the colourful adjectives have wilted, so that all that remains in the world is ‘good’ and ‘bad’.

You can’t get any better or worse from ‘good’ and ‘bad’ – if that makes any sense.  All the ‘good’ memories I’ve had this year are all an underwhelming ‘good’.  Winning the lottery or getting engaged would be good for a moment, or two, before the feeling dies as quick as it came.  That may seem ungrateful but a large chunk of myself died with her, and that little part of me is the very least I can give.

All of life’s colours have bled out slightly, faded like those jeans you’ve had for years.  Food tastes the same but olives no longer hold that magic, our favourite nibble.  Now they taste of nothing, just balls of rubber rolling around my mouth.  The world continues to move on without you though because, after all, the universe is oblivious.

Wars continue, politicians continue to plot, celebrities continue to breed, but the one headline that really gets to me is how cancer is (cruelly) getting closer to the cure.  I know it’s deranged and horrible to hold those thoughts after reading about a new discovery; a fleeting surge of spiteful thinking and an abrupt belly-drop punctuates each one.

If you had been diagnosed a year after, they would have known that successive bouts of chemo spread the dreaded cells like wildfire, to your vital organs (your poor liver) or other parts of your body (they found another lump but I didn’t want to tell you because you were on your graduation trip).  Those headlines will forever taunt me.

Dad has just received a ‘generous pension’ which means that he’s reached that milestone that we all aspire to: retirement.  I was so proud of him but I couldn’t hold back the burning tears.  I’m glad he’s finally able to put his work behind him but if you had lived a year longer you would also be reaping in the rewards.  You would both have flown to France and marveled at the vines beginning their cycle of re-birth and spent the afternoon crunching along a carpet of golden leaves, all in the comfort of your jungle-garden.

It’s in the 20’s now so you would be wearing a black v-neck sweater, your diamond sitting perfectly where the two perpendicular lines meet, complete with a black gilet.  When the weather turns cold, a woodburner would be the heart and soul of the house, both of you huddled together, reading or eating or watching re-runs of Downton Abbey.  Actually no, you’d be scrolling through the internet for news or potential careers that you always tried to push on to me, because you were always haunted by that awful feeling of underachievement.

A colourful pile of Alexander McCall Smith novels would sit next to your bed, your hair ablaze with the soft glow of the lamp and the room would hold that sweet smell of your Clinique moisturizer.  I miss coming in to your room late at night, sitting at the bottom of the bed, and talking about anything and everything.

There are many things I regret, particularly the spiky words I attacked you with.  We’re meant to eventually forgive ourselves for those dark moments because that’s how the process goes.  But I feel like there has been no process, there is simply white and black, lightness and dark: you were there and then you were gone.

There are many things I wish I could add here but the pain is too masked, too deep, that I can’t seem to hook on to it and extract it from my body, up through the throat, along my tongue until it pours out of my trembling lips.  Losing you has been the most horrific and loneliest experience.  I’m now in the first year of my second life.  A plain, beige one where love only comes to me weakly and experiences come diluted.   Some could argue that it’s a life not worth living.

****
I miss you and love you, and I’m holding on to your already grainy image like my life depends on it.

Ladies, start your engines!

After reading the news that Saudi Arabia is letting women drive, I thought something had dislodged in my brain.  I doubled, tripled, quadrupled-checked the headline before seeking out other news sites.  Surely it can’t be?  But it was!  It’s true.  My heart sprouted wings and I began to soar.

Hell yes.

This must happen to all women: when we hear that our sisters are changing the world and battling antiquated traditions despite the life-threatening consequences, we must acknowledge the iron-clad bond of Sisterhood that lives within us all.

This ban forbidding ladies to drive has eclipsed most conversations about Saudi Arabia and today we need to think of our Saudi sisters who fought for this.  Women are now able to drive and undertake driving lessons without their husband’s permission.  This bit shocked me the most, even though it shouldn’t.  It’s about bloody time these women were granted their (rights!) autonomy.

I lived in Saudi Arabia 12 years ago and I remember being greeted with outlandish stories about the country’s issue with women.  One in particular stayed with me.

There was a massive fire at a family home.  The father wasn’t there, no males were, only her and the children.  In order to get away, she quickly got all the children into the car with her and drove out into the desert.  The only thing is that authorities caught up with her and jailed her/stoned her.
(I can’t 100% remember, I was 13, and no reports seem to pop up on Google.  The story may be an urban legend but after similar accounts, there seems to be a fine line.)

For example: In 2002, there was an article in the Telegraph about 15 schoolgirls being ‘forced back’ into a school ravaged by a fire, simply because they weren’t wearing abayas.  It is known that the religious police can be pretty brutal.  I remember them being ubiquitous in public spaces, especially shopping malls, and once asked my mother’s blonde hair to be bundled into a scarf.

In terms of driving though, activists have been chucked into jail after getting behind the wheel in protest.  Loujain Hathloul, back in 2014, filmed herself attempting to drive into Saudi Arabia from neighbouring United Arab Emirates.  Moments after the footage was filmed, she was handcuffed.

Someone who is willing to stand up against an unabating law, knowing that dire consequences are waiting, needs an amazing form of reward.  (Nobel Peace prize, anyone?)

It was only last year that women in Saudi were able to vote and run in local elections.  Like wow, this is 2017!  There still is a long way to go in terms of women’s rights and I’m sure our sisters are coming up with methods on battling those.

Women are still not allowed to apply for a national ID/Passport and are deprived of getting a fair hearing in court (one man’s testimony = two of a woman).  Girls, it’s time to topple the fucking patriarchy.

But for now (!) it’s a time to celebrate.  No one ever thought this day would come but it has.  And it’s so, so beautiful.

the cam-girl conumdrum

It’s always been drilled into us that
men watch porn
women watch porn
and it doesn’t mean anything.

We all have our little kinks.  And what’s wrong with it anyway?  It doesn’t damage relationships with our lovers, it isn’t because our lovers are any less sexy and it sure-as-hell doesn’t mean that they’re shit in the sack.  It’s simply us succumbing to a purely animalistic urge.

OK, cool, I get that.  I accept that we’re in a liberated sexual age but still something niggles at me when I find out my S.O enjoys watching it (especially whilst cohabiting).  “It” being porn, aka the most impersonal act expressed through fictional people.  After all, they’re just naked actors.

But, for me, cam-girls seem more threatening.  My boyfriend, before we started dating, said that they were his preferred choice because ‘they seem authentic so it’s hotter.’  A real girl in her bedroom, not supermodel hot and not with a plastic, sculpted body – just a girl-next-door stripping in her room.

So when a couple of cam-girl tabs (or ‘Pussy Cams’) come up on his phone, a small wave of sadness rises within me and my self-esteem plummets.  I know confidence/self-esteem is the root of all this because I’m sure most girls turn a blind-eye to something as vapid as their boyfriend’s non-threatening voyeurism.

However, this felt a bit.. shiftier!  His reaction definitely made it worse.  He shot out his arm so his phone was as far away as possible (from him/me), and he kept repeating incredulously: “Oh my god, when was this? I can’t even remember, what is this!”  It felt so false, so tacky that I felt embarassed for him.

The problem with things like this is you can’t get angry.  You can’t create a fight over something that is so natural.  But it’s just the power of that little sting, the one that stays with you for the rest of the day and has the power to entirely shift your mood.  You feel a little ugly, a little out of shape and just want the evening alone.

I suppose it’s just one of those things – what do you guys feel?  Has this happened to you?

 

5 reasons why you should love your ‘crappy’ job

Sometimes you find yourself stuck in a transitory phase, neither here nor there.  Your dream career currently seems so unattainable, like trying to retrieve a mystical bird from its barbed cage.  You watch your savings beginning to trickle away and Realization begins to rear its ugly head.

What to do?  Well unless you wanna break bad, sell your body or your worldly treasures, you turn to the good ol’ classifieds.  Factory jobs, waitressing jobs, sale assistants – you name it.  They’re all there.  You attend a way too easy, way too casual interview (because hey, no one else wants to give up evenings/weekends) and bam, congratulations, you’re finally employed!

It’s easy to get disheartened quick, particularly when you feel perpetually stuck in a position like this.  But it isn’t all rain clouds!  It’s all about *perspective*.  And here’s why…

It keeps you busy
Let’s face it, being unemployed stinks.  The novelty of it wears off at around the one month mark and then you start feeling terrible: guilt, self-deprecation and demotivated.  Working a job that isn’t 100% to your satisfaction will make much better use of your free time.  It’ll force you to keep organized and to use that time to either catch up with friends or improve your skills/work on side hustles.

It’s money
C.R.E.A.M: it’s sad but true.  We chase that paper because we have to but not having enough can really take its toll on your mental health.  Stressing out about budgeting, or a loan from a friend, can drive you up the wall!

Even if it’s minimum wage, knowing that some dollar is going to materialize on the screen every week is a pretty fabulous feeling.

It is freedom
With money comes… the sweet taste of freedom.  If you feel stagnant in the place you live then work your ass off, pick up those extra hours and save up to explore the world.  Traveling could be exactly what you need right now, especially if you are free from responsibilities.  So pick a place, plan a route, scour the internet for cheap flights and work to get out of there.  It will also make you feel more motivated knowing that you’ve got a date to leave and to travel far, far away.

It’s temporary
You know that this is not your final goal, it’s just a way of getting there.  Some days you may feel like this is your eternal existence but don’t worry, it’s only temporary.  Keep working towards your main goal, perhaps through internships or continuing a side hustle, and make sure that doesn’t keep you from being positive.

Some teachings from Maya Angelou’s father passed down to her create a perfect mantra:

• Whatever the work is, do it well—not for the boss but for yourself.
• You make the job; it doesn’t make you.
• Your real life is with us, your family.
• You are not the work you do; you are the person you are.

It’s impossible to take seriously
Rude customers, angry managers and a puddle of kid vomit at table 23: it’s all a bad dream.  You know to just keep your head down, mop that up, smile and nod and perhaps avoid your red-faced boss for an hour or two.  It’s important to leave your problems as soon as you leave work and laugh at how futile it is!  It’s just a minor blip and will have no effect on your real work-life in the future.  It’s just the here and now. Who knows, you may look back at this when you’re a boss at your dream place of work and think about how easy you had it.

5 ways to stay sane when you’re jobless

Being jobless is being slung around the washing machine on infinite cycles.  Initially you’re floating, no more alarm clocks! yeah man we broke outta The System! but, like with everything, the warm glow hardens and you feel stunted and confused. It’s mentally strenuous and after x many weeks you feel your mind beginning to unravel.  To prevent this, here are 5 tips on how to magic your free-time into productivity!

To-do lists
They can be small, mundane ones on scribbled on the back of a post-it:  – finishing up chores – go for a long jog – drawing for at least an hour.  It’s important to take advantage of this mammoth vacuum that lays before you.  There’s no worse feeling than realizing it’s 9PM and you’ve achieved diddly squat.  And then, there’s no better satisfaction than watching each item get slashed by bright red ink one. by. one.

Returning to Nature
Ditch that screen, mark your page and go for a walk.  Hearing the earth breathe around you as you tunnel into the verdant treescape transports you to the heavens.  Smelling the variations of flowers strewn across the land, feeling soft dewy grass cushioning your feet and watching shimmering butterflies sashaying between the gaps of the trees.  It’s the perfect place to lose yourself and find your mind.

Get physical
Wanna binge-watch all day?  Go crazy.  But carve at least 30 minutes in your morning to do some crunches, or really anything to get that blood pumping!  Endorphins are our friends – natural crack-cocaine – and without them we’d continue to feel grey and drab.  A quick pick-me-up is no effort at is a certified way to trick yourself into being productive.

Make your bed
I read somewhere that simply by making your bed in the morning helps kick-start the day to a more productive one.  It imbues you with a fresh energy to makes you ready for anything.  Also (!) it stops you from returning to Dreamland once you’ve plumped and returned all cushions to their right place.

Cheeky chitchats
Keeping in touch with your friends: meeting up for a cuppa or indulging in a phone call are absolute necessities.  It’s strange but being unemployed can make you feel like you’re living on an alien planet.  Everyone’s confined to specific time-frames whereas you’re free to reign 24/7, so it’s important to hear a friendly voice at the end of the line to remind you that you’re not alone.

Hitting Snooze On The Booze

Mention ‘British culture’ and what materializes in your mind?  Fish n chips.  Pub grub.  Cider. Beer. Bald men, yellow teeth, flabby guts.  Basically, any food that is heavily salted and dripping with grease and vinegar, and an ice-cold pint on the side to wash it down with.

Drinking has become so intrinsic to our lifestyle that it’s considered a pastime.  What do you do after work? Go for drinks.  Get home? Pour a glass (or two) of wine.  Saturday night? Go to the club and spend an extortionate amount on shots and cocktails.

It’s ubiquitous.  Billboards display happy people in their mid-30s clasping a dewy bottle of Stella to their chests.  Overly good-looking celebrities endorse any spirit, beer or wine on our TV screens.  Hell, even fast food chains cash in on the sweeping epidemic – Mc Deez and a pint.  Sounds pretty good doesn’t it?

We just can’t seem to go without it.  It’s impossible to even fathom cutting the booze out for a weekend.  What would a weekend be without your Friday Night Slash.  And T-Totalers?  Don’t even get us started.

The routine is the same, day in and day out.  Your head gripped by a vice, throat as dry as sandpaper and you’re ‘dying’ in bed.  The declaration ‘I’m never drinking again’ meekly tumbles out of your mouth onto the greyed 3AM doner kebab.

Stomach is churning the poison, waves of nausea causing you to cinch your eyes as you brace yourself.  You’ve done this a thousand times before.  Just pull the blinds, fester in the dark and spend the rest of the summer’s day nursing your hangover.

It’s all too frequent; a weekly ritual since 16.  Back then you could hold your hangovers; they were merely a fleeting thought, gone by the time you had inhaled your fry up.

Now they are all-encompassing, nauseating, excruciating.  So, I, like many others who have grown tired of the throbbing headaches and roiling hangover anxiety, have decided to leave the drinking to everyone (anyone!) else.

As someone who has social anxiety, the thought was pure fantasy.  Any plans made with 4 or more people, particularly new faces, caused a jerk of the stomach and a quick dash to the local offy.  A four-pack always seemed the best option, a socially acceptable amount.

The thought of ditching a much-needed crutch seemed overwhelming.  What would you do though?  Just wallow in silence as everyone else spoke of beautiful, intelligent things, eloquent words charged with an undying passion.

It was time to put it to the test, there’s only been 2 so far.

1) Skate competition – in a small town where I only knew a handful of people.  This was the first test and I thought it would go much worse than it really did (we’ve all heard that before).

I only knew my boyfriend, although I had met several of his friends a couple of times prior.  I thought I’d be anchored to him the whole time but Sisterhood cast its spell, drawing me to a girl-reserved slot with the sistas.

The strange thing is, being sober in a bustling environment, was actually pretty intoxicating.  An electric ‘whatever, fuck it’ zipped through my body and the feeling was so great.  It was a buzz, putting the flurry of negative thoughts at ease, softening the awkward rigidness you often feel in a large circle.

However, there were still moments when a feeling of ‘misplacedness’ came about.  When standing around waiting, I felt a bit self-conscious and my mind began spitting pointless thoughts: ‘Am I standing too awkwardly?  Is anyone watching? Are we too far apart?’ You know the ones!

But all-in-all, it was a refreshing experience and felt it was a great start.  As soon as I type it, I wish I didn’t, but it really isn’t as bad as you think it’s going to be.  I know, I know, you read these articles, websites, anything, about social angst about how you can attend get-togethers and not get completely sloshed and enjoy them, as you sit behind the screen and roll your eyes at the apparent lies

The thing is, you actually can.  It is humanly possible.

It made me realize, too, that when I would usually drink my way through a sackful of tins, I was probably just as quiet.  My fuzzy mind would often wander about pointless things I probably would never have sober – comparing myself to other girls, things that I failed in the past, a lot of negative things.

2) Hanging out with a couple people
You start hanging out at a field but, like moths to a flame, usually descend to the pub for a few bevvies.  Double gin & tonic, check.  Thatchers, check. Uhhh… water and ice?

It does seem ridiculous how an orange juice (not bout that fizzy drink life) can be only a little cheaper than a pint.  It’s a trick, it makes you think, yeah fuck it, go with a pint.  But this time, we can’t.

You always feel like a slowly-recovering-alcoholic going for tap water.  But it’s alright; the self-awareness dissipates as soon as you reach the safety of your table.  Conversation was more-or-less the same as if you were having a beer (shock, horror!).  It’s so ridiculous writing this, the fact that I, and I’m sure many others, actually have to think these things.  It’s so exhausting!

You just need to accept that it’s alright not to be talking all the time.  It’s natural for people to sit back and not respond with a charged soliloquy.  A lot of the time, people like to just talk and talk so as long as you’re there to listen and show you’re listening – it’s all good.

You also find when you’re not drinking that you indulge in other little things.  Go for an ice-cream, sweets, and milkshakes.  Not only are you not breaking the bank but you feel like the day is longer (in a good way!).  A lucid Saturday and survived to tell the tale – who’d have thought?

Just remember
The most important thing is to take it slow.  Okay, you may not be confidently spurting anecdotes to a group on the first, second or third time, but you will build that confidence and slowly chisel away at your inhibitions.

We have seen a slew of research about the dichotomous INTROVERT versus EXTROVERT, so much so that it’s pretty ridiculous.   It’s taken 23 years (or maybe since the social filter gestated, 7) for me to realize that you’re not a freak for not having an army of friends.

It is okay to not burst into wild conversations, gesticulating everywhere, captivating the audience.  It’s okay to be a listener and keep to smaller groups.  It’s okay to not always be frantically tapping away at your phone, adding to a collection of group conversations.

It doesn’t make you an unlikeable person; you just don’t need the extra interacting.  You’re fine, you’re all good.  Just do whatever makes you comfortable.  Life’s too short to always be on the edge, and once you accept this: the weight just falls from your chest.

It’s just so important not to berate yourself, even though it’s so difficult not to cringe when remembering some awkward things you may have (or not) said.  Let them pass, don’t be hard on yourself. It’s funny how everyone has their own little insecurities, things that make you think How?? You’re not like that all!

It’s only human.

So have a little go at a lil abstinence!  Maybe start small by shedding those beers at the next hang out sesh.  See how it goes for you.  You’re guaranteed to feel better about yourself.

🙂