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!

“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.

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.

 

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.

‘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]

The most beautiful thing about leaving the dust bowl is returning to fertile lands where skies aren’t masked with sand.  The landscape is all-encompassing, green velvet hills are bursting with trees, many of them bearing the crispest apples.  They drop at their own pace, following their own rhythm, falling down, down, until they nestle into a bed of swaying grass.

I am wearing a white summer dress with two sandals, one gold and the other silver.  My hair cascades down to my bottom and a new mole sits in the middle of my left calf.  I pick out several red berries that are piled by my feet and squeeze them.  Red covers my fingertips like blood.  I smear several berries onto my lips in order to feel beautiful again.

I’m trying to make a daisy chain but none grow here, so I use stinging nettles.  I find some long, thin twigs and coil them around one another so they make a crown.  I take a bundle of stinging nettles and wrap them around the wooden wire.  I place it atop my head and indulge in waves of earthly power.

Shouts and cries whip through the air, abrasive against the gentle wind.
Two young boys come bounding through the grove on horseback.  Twigs snap like brittle bone under their hooves.  I can see that they’re wielding cold, metal guns as they share jokes and piercing laughs.
I sneeze.
Their necks almost snap as they turn to me.
We share a silence.  Their faces are shielded by black cowboy hats, a shadow slants over both of their faces so all you could see are mouths.  Their outfits are identical apart from the thread that circles the brim of their hats: one red, the other blue.

They inch closer and I don’t know whether to stand or remain sitting cross-legged.  The horse’s head now eclipses the sun so it momentarily falls to darkness.  I focus on the bone-white diamond that rests between the beautiful creature’s eyes, ignoring the dark shape that sits above it.  The pair of boys exchange looks as the other comes up from behind, so that now they sit abreast.  My heart quickens and echoes throughout the valley.  One of them lets out a low laugh before raising his gloved hand.
I close my eyes.
When I open them again, I am looking deep into two cold, black holes.
And then –