So This Is christmas*...

Another year another cookie for santa*.

I remember a time when waking up on December 25th was the single most exciting thing in my life. My brother and I would even sleep next to the christmas* tree some years. We'd wake up at 5am and rush our parents out of bed out of coffee and out of their minds so we could open our presents. These days I'm being rushed out of bed by my 8 year old sister..what do I care it's not like I'm getting presents! The point is, once you get to a certain age it's just not exciting anymore. Or maybe I'm grinchy and scroogey and jaded but why shouldn't I be. I wanted a barbie dream house damnit!

Like every holiday christmas is no exception. The retail giants get their muddy paws on you and shake you until the money in your pockets falls out. And I'm sure I'm not the only one who absolutely can't stand going into stores and hearing fucking christmas songs being played over and over. Target I hardly knew ye.

But I must admit there are a few good things about this has been day.

• There's the food for example
• The money from sweet little old ladies...who may or may not be related to you
  
• The post has been day sales
  
• The chance to find some new material to blog about. Because believe it or not, being cooped up in a house is hardly inspiring! In fact it's totally up there in my most uninspiring things list. That list also consists of horses, cockroaches (they are ridiculously uninspiring), seafood, annoying siblings, people who claim they've raised you only to fore go the fact that you've been raised by wolves...and many more I'm sure
• The fact that I've single handedly made skateboarding cool in my street. Four kids got skateboards for christmas from santa!! I was blown away. And my head was blown up. I decided to show off my skating prowess and show these kids how the big boys do it..or something like that. And in all my glory I fell off the skateboard. Okay so I'm a bit rusty but the point is these kids freaking worship me! I'm like their god! It's absolutely glorious. I've never felt more important in my life. And I haven't even been around to other houses, who knows how many other kids have gotten skateboards for christmas! I should get paid for that kinda advertising! I mean jesus* if anyone can sell a skateboard it's me.

However, with the good comes the bad, and some may argue that there's nothing bad about green and red in the same room together but I'd tell you that these people simply have very little taste. VERY LITTLE. Christmas for me has never been all bells and whistles.

• To my mum it's just like any other day, except that she spends the whole day before cleaning the house and screaming at us to help out. And then on the actual day she anxiously watches the kids open their presents then quickly proceeds to hand out rubbish bags to clean up all the damn mess they just made! I argue that they are only kids, they were born to live in their own filth, and sure sometimes the transition to cleanliness equals godliness doesn't happen from childhood to adulthood but I'm not one for examples. Once the loungeroom floor is visible again mum proceeds to the kitchen where she begins to make our big exciting super dooper lunch. It's only after lunch the woman finally relaxes a little. Ah wine, you've been my saving grace when it comes to a quiet household. Well not really because when those adults have a few too many drinkies they get a little too loud for my elvin ears and I get a little annoyed at them constantly reminiscing about my childhood and tipping wine on me. Curse those drunks!
• Playing with kids toys all day really isn't my idea of fun...okay well there were the toy cars, oh and there was that really awesome dj looking gadget santa gave my sister..oh I lie. I practically live to relive my childhood. Wolves aren't the best present bearers. Rabbit anyone?
• I become the household handy man for the day since we don't have a 'man' about the house and my brothers are more girly than me, okay that's not really hard to achieve. I put it down to laziness. Anyway so I spend my morning armed with a knife a pair of scissors and a screwdriver, and some electrical tape to keep the kids mouths shut while I struggle to open their toys out of their damn boxes. You'd think the whole world were a bunch of thieves the way they screw those toys down!
• The day after. Yes THAT day. Where mum's are hungover and practicing their cleanliness is godliness rule once again, in full force might I add!

Okay so shoot me christmas isn't my favourite day of the year bar the little extras on the side. I challenge you to give me a day I won't forget. Then maybe, just maybe, I'll like it. But I'll still write a smutty blog about it just to piss you off.


*I'm still standing by the fact santa and christmas and jesus do not need to be capitalised thank you very much!

Time Makes You Bolder

Sometimes you get this unshakable feeling of oncoming change. You feel like the whole world is changing around you and you're powerless to stop it. I feel this now.

I sit and watch as people disappear out of my life quicker than the water evaporating from our cups. They are going, one by one. I never really got to say goodbye. And as I watch them go I realise that I miss them. But while I miss them I never really expected that they would go. And so I sit in wonder and sadness as they march down the hill and out of my life. I don't think they are coming back this time. And I think they are okay with that. It hurts though. Despite the facade I do care. I do think that they have altered my life, even in the smallest or largest way. And as each of these people leave I think about the ways they've changed me as a person. I think about the good times and the bad times but mostly I think about the fact that I'll never get that back again. As time shifts and people move on I stand behind and watch their backs turn.

For every person I've claimed to not care about there really are things about them that I truly do admire, things that I myself cannot live up to. For their every fault they have a strength that outweighs the bad in my mind. For every wrong move they have words that will right them. For everything they have brought to my life brings a sadness to my heart as they leave me now.

For those I never said goodbye to, I miss you. But I'm scared. I will always be scared. And when I'm scared I will run from you. I will run from long inevitable goodbyes and I will run into the arms of a lonely night in the dark. For the comfort I've found in the darkness is one I am deserving of. It is here that I will lay down my deepest darkest thoughts. It is here that I will think unthinkable thoughts. And it is here that I will miss you all. I will miss you because in my own way I'm saying goodbye to you. Without you ever knowing.

Alone in the dark is a self indulgent comfort of mine. A place that is deserving of my ugly black heart. Alone in the dark I whisper long goodbyes to long forgotten people who drifted out of my life thinking I didn't care about them. For 4 years they thought we didn't care. And for 3 years now I've cried. I did care. It was just too hard. I'll never get my long goodbyes with those people I care about. I'll never get them because like me, they too are running from something. Maybe we aren't running from the same thing but we are running all the same. We'll never cross paths again, for your path is a step higher than mine and I'll never reach that level. At least not for a very long time I predict. I know you would be proud. Of who I'm becoming, of who I've become and of where I'm going.

As I sail off into the dark waters in my styrofoam boat I know you are watching, and I know you remember the good times, even if they were limited. I know you'll remember me.

Little Fish Feel

Today was a sad day. Tonight was a sad night. For a new member of our crew passed on. We only had him for a few hours but we had come to love him like he was one of our own. I mean sure he was significantly smaller than us, slimier than us and he was well..orange. But he was a part of our family nonetheless. Little fishy or the aptly named 'Joey' (who calls a goldfish joey?) swam out of our lives just as quickly as he swam in.

He was never meant for this world. His heart was too big. It exploded in the Big Fish accident of 08. Some people are just not meant to be. I believe I'm one of those people, but my heart is yet to explode and so tonight it is not about me but it is about Joey. The Little Fish who stole our hearts. Some may argue that we hardly knew the guy, who knows where he'd been or where he was going but isn't that just the point. It's not about where you've come from, it's about what he brought to our life on this significant day. And today he brought a new home, some rocks, and my brothers smelly socks.

Just hours into his new life Joey passed away. Floated to the top and begged to be taken to Fish heaven. Little Fish heaven that is, not that other place where the Big Fish lay. And as one fish passes I'm sure somewhere another fish is being brought into this world.

Tonight I tried to set an example for my younger brother and sister so I arrived at the funeral suitably dressed in all black and a red tie. The tie was for his bleeding heart that burst too soon for us all. And there we stood, the three musketeers in the doorway of our bathroom around the toilet bowl. Joey was in a small container of water and my sister slowly tipped all the water into the toilet until just Joey remained. She choked back the tears and I looked away. I just couldn't watch him go down to that dark place. Not without me at least.

Joey made a quiet descent into his new haven and we all stared down at his bulging fish eyes. He was looking back at us, saying thank you. He was thanking me for dressing appropriately. Thanking me for putting on a funeral song 'Welcome To The Black Parade'. He was thanking my sister for having a heart, and thanking my brother for well...shedding a few tears like only a man of his calibre would. Before she flushed him she asked me to say a few words, I'm no good at speeches, especially in my emotional distraught state. I sputtered out "Goodbye Little Fishy you'll go to a better place", my brother and sister nodded in unison and before she could flush him she dropped a rubber band into the toilet and the mood was understandably ruined. Giggles ensued and then my brother rushed to the flush button and sent Joey off on his way. I guess he doesn't like long goodbyes.

And with that we left the bathroom, satisfied that we had done Joey good, that we had done our best to give him a home and a roof over his head. And that he was going to Little Fish heaven now to swim with his brothers. So tonight as you sit down to dinner and dig into that big slab of fish, spare a thought for little Joey, he never quite made it to the chopping block.

Girls Girls Girls!

Going to highschool opened my eyes up to a whole world I never knew. A world of sex drugs and rock and roll. Or rather, short skirts, open shirts and sexuality.

There I was on my very first day of Year 7. I was a fresh faced albeit terribly naive youngster with a growing penchant for women. My first introduction to my peers at the ALL GIRLS school was when I entered a room and met eyes with a pair of legs I mean Year 12 students; our peer mentors. All I saw was a pair of bare legs propped up on the table matched with a shirt lingering below eye level. Wow. I'd never seen girls like this before. These weren't girls at all, these were women! Hot blooded fully fledged grown women! I was in heaven and I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

As a puny year Sevener I averted my eyes and hid my embarassed lesbian cheeks. Girls everywhere! This wasn't going to help me learn at all! What was my mum thinking. I mean she always told people I was never 'into' boys, but I wondered if she had only drawn this conclusion because she paid absolutely no attention to my life or if she had a secret gaydar neither of us knew about.

In the halls of this all girl school the girls held hands and kissed cheeks instead of saying "hello" and "goodbye". My mind was racing. This place is full of lesbians I thought! And I loved it. Over the many years to come at school I would come to learn this behaviour was common, normal even, and not at all sexual...in most cases. Except maybe mine.

I hid in the closet for the duration of highschool. While not fully realising there was a closet to hide in. It was great though, being in the closet. My girl crushes went totally unnoticed by all around me and were often mistaken for admiration or just plain friendliness. You see... I'm not the creepy type. I'm too obvious to be subtle. I'd be an awful stalker. Not to say I didn't try. I stalk people with my eyes and that is all I swear! It's not like one innocent smile would give me away. Nor would a glance or two or three, but when the occassional 'casual' glance became a full blown stare, I guess that's when I became abit too obvious. But never apparent. That's when I realised I probably was a little creepy. And thank god that attention was never returned! Who knows, I might have stumbled out of the closet 10 years earlier otherwise.

Give Me One Reason To Stay Here

I've failed at being the one thing I was born to be. A struggling artist. Actually..I'm still struggling. I'm just struggling at struggling really. I am making a departure from struggling artist to tortured artist, perhaps I'm moving higher in the food chain. No no last time I checked my balance I was still down the bottom.

I was raised by wolves, I'm permanently off your christmas* 'card' list, and I've got a wardrobe full of crappy paintings and a bruised ego. I gave all my paintings to my little sister cause she's no art critic, she wont laugh at me. She thinks they are "mad'. I think I'M MAD. You think I'm a joke. And I laugh.

On second thought perhaps she is an art critic. She called my painting "kinda ugly". It's pretty depressing when the only people who want your paintings are little kids or disillusioned family members (keeping in mind I was raised by wolves.) And heck they wont even pay money for them! Maybe selling art is not about the quality of your painting at all, but your skills as a salesman. If that's the case then I have no hope. I'm too kind. I can't rip people off. I can't tell them it's a beautiful picture if it's really half arsed. And that is where my 2 academic years of painting have left me. With 9 out of 10 paintings half arsed or mediocre. And the special ones I'm keeping for myself, as a sad reminder that I have some talent, but not nearly enough.

*I refuse to capitalise christmas because it just aint that great so take that spellcheck!

The Curse Of Freedom

Descending upon my newfound boredom..i mean freedom I have decided to compile a list of reasons why I have not written a blog to mark this historic event. And like a naughty puppy I'll sit in the corner and cower while you read them, waiting anxiously for you to approach me with your clipboard and suspiciously smart looking glasses.

My reasons are as follows:

• Since I have not been out of the house lately my stock of material has been running dangerously low and I've succumbed to writing blogs about monsters taking over my soul. And for reasons I cannot explain I believe people may not care to know these things. Thus I shall withhold my demons in search of more meaningful material, like the annoying people on the bus..or the magpie invasion in my street..who do they think they are anyway? Taking over my street! This is my town and there aint room for the 100 of us!
• A direct result of my boredom has led to hours of playing solitaire on the computer which has numbed my ability to feel alive and functional as a human being. Thus freezing out any emotional feelings and musings I may or may not experience.
• My lack of ability to provide as a breadwinner has led to a deep depression. A depression that is even deeper than that in your couch. One would think being funnier than sliced bread would be sufficient enough to win some..
• It's cold!! I want the warmth back and until then I'm on a blog writing strike! Mother nature I'm looking directly at you. Or maybe I'm looking in the mirror at my windswept hair..
• I'm a strong believer in absence makes the heart grow fonder, hence my lack of blogs lately. You see I think that the longer I go without writing one the more people will want it. And when I finally write that magic blog I will be showered with confetti and praise and maybe a few fireworks cause I'm special like that. The point is you miss me! And I miss me too..just quietly.

To conclude I would like to announce that I am... back on the chain gang.

When The Dust Settles

I once got given soap in the shape of a slice of blueberry pie...needless to say, I never used it. Let this be a lesson to 'stupid people' we don't like soap! People who collect soap are sad and need a new hobby. Cause you know what? No one actually likes to get given soap that sits on your bathroom shelf and collects dust over the years then gets thrown in the bin. It doesn't smell nice, and it isn't useful! If you're going to collect things then collect puppies! With 10 puppies you'd never be lonely again. But with 10 bars of silly shaped soap you'd spend your lifetime in the shower trying to use them all up. And in case you haven't heard we are slowly but surely running out of water!!! *feigns shock*

Yes I can write blogs about soap and still have a credible reputation. I'm a busy nerdy person and haven't had time to observe real humans lately thus I resort to observing things around the house, like dusty bars of soap. Oh and another thing, no one uses hair gel anymore.

Let's Take A Train To Anywhere, I Want To Feel The Wind In My Hair With You

These empty walls bear no resemblance to you. To your love. My longing expression is cast back into my empty eyes. you are not out there, you are not in here either.

My soul slowly dies. I feel you slipping away from me. I'm looking for you, for your longing eyes to meet mine again. To enter my world. My empty world.

These people, these vacant empty people know nothing of my soul. Only that it is empty.

I yearn for you. For your warmth to fill this cold void beside me. I grasp the air desperately, but I do not grasp you. All I get is an empty reality. This world is empty without you. The warmth I crave is far. Your world is removed from mine. And I am cold.

Sweet About Me

So there's this little old lady who lives in the area. Some may call her a sweet little old lady, I've always wondered though, if this term only applies to actual physically 'little' old ladies..I mean if they were round at the hips would they still be referred to as 'little' old ladies...I ponder this only because I've never heard anyone say "Oh look at that sweet big old lady", it just doesn't sound right.

Well anyway, there's this little old lady who is often found pottering about in her garden, pulling out weeds, planting seeds, saving the world..you know, that kinda stuff. There have been times where I've gone out of my way to be noticed by her when walking past. I mean, who doesn't want a sweet little old lady to love them? Maybe she'd take me under her wing, she could show me her stamp collection and then her old photo albums, we would sit back in our matching rocking chairs on her porch and sip on our chilled lemonade. Sighing and reminiscing about our golden years. Of course she would have known I was just putting it on, the colour of my hair is as close to gold as I'm ever gonna get. Anyway so the sweet little old lady would play along with my fantasy as not to hurt my feelings, I'm more fragile than her 70 year old bones let me tell you. Feeling sorry for me she'd politely ask me to wait outside while she ducked in to fetch me some freshly baked cookies to take home, for you know..an after dinner treat. Now if this fantasy sounds familiar to you it's probably because you've thought about it too!

We had a great friendship, me and her. We just had this understanding. She was the sweet little old lady who dug up weeds in the garden and I was the stray puppy often found roaming down the street. Well...it was a great friendship, that was until her bald creepy looking son started standing by her fence daily like a guard dog, but even the ugliest dog was still well..cute. This cannot be said of her 'son'. Maybe he was her new best friend? Had i been replaced? Maybe she feared for her safety and needed a dog with abit more bite, I'm alot of things but I'm not fierce. Not Tyra Banks ffffierce anyway. In fact, I think even ants silently mock me. I'd have to accept it though, I was no longer needed and that was just fine. I didn't need her anyway.

From then on I decided to walk on the other side of the road, the view was better anyway. And as I'd pass the sweet little old ladies house I'd glance over with a glazed look in my eyes. How could anyone say no to this cute puppy?

This had all been long forgotten and buried deep in my pit of abandonment until today. I saw her again. But this time not at her usual hang but at the bus stop! No weeds here. She looked very very conspicuous mind you. Like a secret agent..only she wore grey and a pretty hat. She looked excited, she was going somewhere, she was doing something, she was someone. And she had something in her bag...I wonder what it was. Dog food perhaps.

Hair's To You

Well it looks like she is back to her old tricks again. One day she is blasting molten rocks at our feet and the next, icy daggers at our hearts.

I should've expected this though. It never stays sunny for long in the ghetto, especially not the green ghetto. There's hardly a day that goes by that it isn't windy here. I have come to accept this and have even tried to make light of the living conditions. Maybe this is a good time to try that new hairstyle I'd say to myself as the fierce wind gave me a comb over that would make even Donald Trump envious. If only he had more hair like me..maybe then it would work.

While days like this leave me open to experiment with my hair, albeit against my will, I find that these are the only days I'd get away with the 'windswept' look. Had I attempted these kinds of young crazy styles on days where the sun was shining and not even Metro Stations pseudo rock song Shake It could get the leaves to rustle I'd have been laughed at, jeered, and made an example of.

Teacher - "Now class here's what NOT to do when you are going through a mid-adolescent crisis."

I'd hide my face in shame, I used to be cool I'd whisper to myself in the locked bathroom cubicle.

So while I usually curse and complain about these annoyingly windy days in the ghetto, I should really be thankful for them. Because without the wind I'd have a normal boring hairstyle just like the rest of you fish.

Ode To

Their actions do not depict a convincing truth, their easy words fall over my tired ears. What is truth. What are these words meant to mean. Your weak attempts to keep me by your wayside fail foolishly. I'm not that easily bought.

I saw you sprinkling your selfish words over my heart last night. When you left, I shook them all off. Shook them off so you'd never get to me again, never get in my heart. I can't have you in here, crashing into walls, cutting little holes in my interior. I can't breathe. I can't survive.

I will use you. Like you used me. I'll use the material you gave me, the pain, I'll use the pain to sew my heart back up again. And this time it will be stronger. It won't tear easily. I'll put a sign on the door this time. No YOU allowed. I'll watch from my perch as you lurk outside. I'll watch you consult the dictionary, looking for new words to win me over. But you won't. Your words won't. Not this time.

Queen Of The Mountain

I am slowly but surely gaining a reputation as Queen of the Mountain in my hometown street. All the primary schoolers watch in awe as I carve up some pretty mean lines on my twelve year old brothers Simpson's skateboard.

"How old is she?" one of the 'cool' kids asks my eight year old sister. This question is met with a perplexed expression followed by unsuccessfully counted fingers then silence. "BECCA! How old are you?" "Twenty!" I shout back. They all look on with some kind of curiosity i cannot explain. What they are probably wondering is why I'm hanging out with a bunch of kids, pretending I've got any kind of skating ability. "Who is she trying to impress" I'll hear them whisper one day. Their curiosity will turn into mockery. "Hah! She'll never be like them!" They'll snicker, and off I will skate, wavering from side to side and finally coming to a rolling end upon the gravel ridden road.

But for now I am Queen, in fact I may even be god to some of these kids, I mean, I'm all they have right? Why else do they come to me for love advice, I'm a gay twenty year old, we've hardly got many bases to touch on. Asking if I too attended my Year 6 Farewell. Well of course...no I did not accompany anyone.. This is met with a likened situation, I mutter something incomprehensible back in reply. I never was a social person. I then had to painfully listen to her story of how a boy asked then unasked her to the farewell, what an indian asker I proclaim in my head. The nameless boy is called a jerk, then a chorus chimes in, "but I still think he's cute." At this I sigh...I find girls cute..but they wouldn't understand that.

Straying from my original point of announcing to the world that I am now officially learning to skate after 20 years of believing I had no sense of balance. Turns out I was just plain chicken..but can you blame me? I have a reputation to uphold, well I did..now I'm just the 20 year old girl who skates up and down the hill at sundown. I used to mean something to people. Let's say I'm not exactly moving up in the world, but hey I try, I really really do..

Grey

Grey has returned. This is not what it used to be. This place...home? Creeping senses whisper familiar tales of adventure. Emotions pull back, wincing like an open sore. Surely, this place, this grey place is not home. Home is gone. Who am I if I am not home?

Strange. Latte planes feel like a strangers arm on the train. Is this home? Foreign objects clutter my vision. Was this home once? Alone and uneasy. This was never home.

My sense of smell is misguided. There is only one scent I pick up. And it is yours. But where are you if I am home?

Translucent grey becomes opaque and my vision of you fades. Familiar habits prove unsuccessful. I can't shake this feeling. I can't go back to this place, this grey place. I can't go back home.

A coat of yellow won't mask the grey. A coat of yellow won't mask the pain.

Suspicious Minds

Today marked the sighting of one half of the criminal mastermind duo i mentioned in one of my very first blogs.

She entered the bus looking suspiciously normal. This had me on the case right away. Who does she think she's fooling with those tracksuit pants and fake diamond rings anyway? Certainly not me. Her partner in crime was nowhere to be seen which led my mind to wander. Where could he be? To this very day I'd never seen the pair apart. Maybe they had attracted some unwanted attention from an unknown blogger and decided to go undercover, the woman would 'appear' to live a normal life like the rest of us while the man would secretly be involved in underground criminal activity involving boxes of Huggies nappies...

Clearly this couple are up to their old tricks so stay tuned for further future sightings. Remember, this blogger is watching you.

We're All Just Waiting, Waiting To Die

I sat there and waited. I waited for you. I waited for me. I waited, hoping for the world to pass me by. I watched. Watched all the people go by. I didn't know these people. These strangers. I watched them all come and go. None of them ever stayed. Only I did. I'll remember them, but they wont remember me. I'll remember how they frolicked in the grass so happily. I'll remember how I planned out their lives, each so perfectly wrapped in mystery. I'll remember these things, but they wont remember me. To them I was no one, but to me they were everything.

Today I waited alone. As I waited, I looked to the sky. The sky was waiting too. It was waiting for its time to leave, to pass us all by. We were all waiting for that. Maybe I could wait with the sky, maybe today we'd wait together. We'd share this memory. This memory of our shared loneliness. Today we were alone and waiting. Who were you waiting for? I was waiting for you. Maybe tomorrow you will wait with me.

Trampled Hearts and Heartfelt Blogs

Putting trust in humans is like building a house using paper bricks. It's bound to get blown down, spontaneously combust in flames, washed away or trampled on by Big Fish. And we know this, but we do it anyway!

It's a proven fact, well known even, people suck. But I continue to place unabiding faith in a persons ability to change for the better. Then I ask myself why? Why do they keep crawling back? Why bother if the reason for departing is the very reason my back is turning once more. Travelling down this beaten path has led me to think that maybe it's me, maybe I suck. Maybe the way to get people to treat you good is to treat them bad, then watch them crawl back to you like a cockroach with no legs. Watch them flail under a rushing waterfall.

No one likes the nice Little Fish. That's no way to get anywhere in life! But, but! My lower lips trembles, my feet aren't big like theirs. I can't trample on anything! My whisper light footsteps barely leave a carbon footprint. My fragile heart so open to shattering at any given stage. How could I lend it to such mistreatment again? how could this Little Fish ever think that they'd ever be accepted in a world crawling with people like her.

Angry Little Fish turns blue with rage. I stamp up and down but don't even leave a mark. "Why can't I trample their hearts like they trampled mine" I seethe! My little body shakes with anger, falling to the ground frozen in fit. It's happening again, she's crushed my spirit. Arghhhh! Piercing screams. Screams pierce my ears like perfectly sharpened darts.

They are coming now. This is it. This is the end. The ground rumbles like an empty belly beneath me and my frozen body is awoken from its slumber. With one mighty push they begin their charge. Once the dust settles my battered body is revealed. Perhaps no different than before. They've done it again. Gone and trampled on my heart like it's the dirt they walk on. I should've known. I should've seen it coming. But not this time. And certainly not the next.

If nothing else, trampled hearts lead to heartfelt blogs.

Touch The Sky

I never truly realised how big the sky was, until today.

You can't measure the sky, you can't compare it to anything. We don't know where it starts and where it ends. If it ends at all. Maybe it goes on forever. expansing the whole of the universe. I wonder if the sky is the same in other countries. Or do we all have different skies?

Today the orange tinged mauve sky captured my heart. It captured my thoughts and it captured my soul.

Imagine being a part of something that big. Imagine being so significant.

I'm going to find ways to be closer to the sky. I'll sit upstairs on the train from now on, no longer do I want to be a part of the barren earth. I'll climb more ladders in order to be part of something bigger than me, bigger than you even. I'll stretch my arms out as long as my limbs will allow, I'll touch the sky with my nimble hands.

Six Minutes In An Alternate Universe

The train came to it's routine halt and I watched as the horses looked on in despair. Foals. Tens and tens of foals. Their excited screams rang through the horses ears. And like magnets to a fridge the horses reclused to their respective corners and waited for the onslaught of foals.

Normally I'd join the horses in their dislike of these noisy creatures but this time it was different. On any other day I'd have relinquished the silent depths of the metal enclosure, but today, today i revelled in their excitement. We're on a train hooray!

To the foals I was just another horse. But I was a fish, a little fish. My eyes skimmed anxiously over the crowd, pondering which one would sit beside me. Which one would take on the world from my point of view for just a little while.

Little CC sat down and the head horse ordered an obedient silence. The foals ignored her. CC leant forward and started conversing with a neighbour foal. Watching this, I muted my distraction and listened in on their hushed whispers. I wanted to know what they were talking about. I wanted to know what went on in the land of foals. Was their world upside down like mine? Was the sky black? Did they have souls? I had to have my questions answered.

My body urged me to lean forward and become an invisible member of their huddled duo, to learn their secrets and make good use of them. I looked around, they were all conversing, not like the horses. The horses were all sitting in silence staring at apparently nothing. This used to be me.

I imagined myself talking with the foals, laughing with them, whispering into their tiny ears, whispering secrets that were too sacred for the ears of a horse. I wanted to tell them that life was hard, that life wasn't fair, that they should embrace their world now while they could. I wanted them to know they had potential and they could do anything. I wanted to tell them not to turn out like me. But I couldn't. I couldn't tell them anything, to them I was no little fish, to them I was nothing.

These innocent foals had no idea. They had no idea what life held for them, what tragedies they would have to face as they grew up. Which battles they would win, and which they would lose. I suppose their naivety equates to their seemingly innocent demeanour.

Before I became eternally immersed in their world the train came to a halt once again. It was time for them to leave. I was sad. I didn't want them to go. These six minutes had been fun, joyous even. Six that I would never forget. For six mere minutes I was in a place that I never thought I'd be allowed back to, a place where I wasn't me, a place where I was one of them.

Little CC with her big black eyes picked herself up, she stood idle, hesitant to leave this place, but without warning life yanked her along regardless of her intention. She was gone. They were all gone. Every one of them. I peered out the window, desperately trying to remember their faces. Maybe we'd meet again. Maybe they'd remember me like I'd remember them.

Carbon Black Holds My Soul

Carbon black earth swallowed my soul. Carbon black earth swallowed me whole.

I find myself spinning in an alternate universe. One where there is me at one end and you at the other. One where I reach out my arms to grab you, to take back my life that I began building, but I can't reach. It's the classic nightmare, only it's real.

Frustration engulfs me. Crimson overtakes me. Hate consumes me. I hate. I hate what I am and what I'm becoming, what I've become. With every waking second I'm turning into a monster that I can't banish. A monster I can't push off the edge. A monster that looks all too familiar. A monster that looks like me. A carbon black monster that holds my once hopeful soul. A soul with life.

I look in the mirror to carbon black eyes and see nothing. My soul is gone. My expression is vacant. My body is detached. What is this place I find myself in? What is this feeling that wont go away?

I'm in a world I fail to understand. I'm in a body i fail to connect with. I'm in a mind that wants out. I'm in a heart that holds on, only for you, for us.

I'm in a life I can't live.

Horses Never Learn

You'd think those clutching brown paper bags would be more subtle in their law breaking. Or even just a little clever about it. The drowning of sorrows need not be an obvious misadventure to society. In fact if one was indeed clever enough, it would be apparent that breaking the law in a place where Big Fish regularly loomed would prove rather costly.

Lesbianisn Is Not A Fucking Pop Song!

Apparently gay is the new black, the new rehab, the new binge drinking. All the celebs are doing it. Guess what, I kissed a girl and I liked it too.

The word gay has been associated with insult for far too long. Gay is not an insult. Being gay doesn't make you special but it doesn't qualify as grounds for derogatory terms either. Being a lesbian does not give people the right to call me names and shrug me off into another stereotype. It does not place a flashing neon sign above my head screaming 'STARE AT ME! I'M A WALKING FREAK SHOW'. Nor does it permit the right to threaten or violate me.

It's the year 2008 and it's hard to believe that homophobia is still such a common thing. The fact that people have been bashed and even killed for being gay is unthinkable. Treating your choice of partner as an inhuman crime that must be corrected or god save us all! I am no different from the rest, I'm human too, I want to love and be loved just like everyone else. I want to marry my sweetheart and start a family too. We want equal rights, without compromise, without shame and without the fucking taboo that so often casts looks of disgust upon us. Our love is just as important as everyone else's. It's just as sacred and just as special.

Why is it that in the 21st century we are still battling with such ignorance and homophobia from all walks of life. Life is hard enough for every single human being already, without feeling the need to apologise for our existence, for our life choices. What happened to acceptance and tolerance? Why are humans so fucking bad to one another when it's all we've got.

I dream of the day when my partner and I can be legally recognised as a couple and granted the same equal rights given to heterosexual couples. The day when I can walk down the street holding my girlfriend's hand and not be stared at. Being gay is not a show, it's not rebellion and it's not wrong. It's life, it's love and it's normal. Accept it.

May The Force Be With You

Carrying a canvas home is like battling it out with higher forces. Forces such as mother nature and the stupidity of man. It seems I am being constantly tested as I bear the responsibility of taking home a canvas. I can't recall a time when it hasn't been windy during these occurrences. A wind so powerful that if I didn't hold on for dear life with my two little hands I'd be blown right off into the air, canvas in hand, like a misshaped cloud.

She's testing out my resilience I'll mutter to myself as I struggle to make it home in two pieces. Seeing if I'm worthy to battle it out with the big fish. Seeing how long I can handle the heat before calling for a ride home.

Sitting behind her lavish desk she watches down on me, her laughter booming, with every exhale my little body is thrashed about. My seemingly constant battle with mother nature is physically exhausting, but it is my battle with mankind that is far more debilitating.

The stupidity of mankind is something that has baffled scientists for as long as people were...well people. What baffles this wind swept blogger is the stupid questions that arise when one carries home a canvas. "Do you paint?" "No buddy I fucking surf! See this canvas, it's my surfboard. I carve up some pretty gnarly waves on that sea of pthalo paint." Of course I didn't actually say that but you can bet your white canvas that I thought it. Replaying the scene in my mind then laughing as the horse in question scurries away in shame. "Take that!" I'll boom.

Returning to my original point, which is my curiosity as to why the obvious questions? We artists are not aliens, you need not make conversation with us unlike any other. In fact I'd much prefer to be treated as an alien, thus securing a force field between myself and society.

Oh and by the way I don't want to know that you can't draw. Do you think I'm offering lessons? Does me carrying a canvas immediately grant me a smudge of artistic ability? No, like I said, I surf.

Some Motherfuckers Think They're Born To Dance

Curse those big fish! I shake my angry fists.

A superior presence lurked outside as we pulled to a halt. The law makers were about to meet the law 'breakers'. And this mover and shaker was about to break.

A gruff voice shook me from my daze "you're going to have to come with us". "What why!". And off I went. Hauled off the bus like some common criminal. Thrown in the basket with the other dirty rotten criminals I came across daily.

My pleas went unheard as they deemed me inferior. To them I was just a law breaker and they were the law makers on their big power trip, I the little fish was their target. "Oh what's this" I hear them mutter. My eyes roll as they take out microscopes to examine the evidence. "Just as we thought, dirty rotten criminal!". This was going to go on my permanent record! And here we have exhibit A: Little Fish, illegally joy riding on the t-way.

Moody and broody I fumed as my case went unheard. Those big fish just couldn't wait to get their slimy hands on a little fish like me. Couldn't wait to make me drown!

State Revenue Protection Agents? These big fish will make up anything and slap it on a badge to make themselves look important. Surely the time and money could be better spent catching REAL criminals and not innocent little fish trying to catch a ride.

As an afterthought I considered the possibility that the wearing of fingerless gloves in daylight made me look suss...

And if I WAS going to illegally joy ride you can rest assured it would NOT be on a bus, I mean really? Have you no class.

The Fabric's Wearing Through And It's Wearing Me Out

It has been brought to my attention recently that ALL of my socks have holes in them, some holes are the size of golf balls, others have thinning fabric that will inevitably lead to a hole. Some might say that the holes in my socks are the result of my excessive sliding down the hallway, these people are fools. I've taken a more complex approach to this mystery.

I have come up with two possible theories:

1. My draw is housing a family of invisible moths that only eat socks and nothing else, they don't mind which colour they love them all. Although black seems to be a favourite. I'd take a stab and say they are lonely moths.



2. My other theory is that my soul is trying to escape through my feet.
   

Now I'm no detective but i believe something odd is going on here..

Why I Became An Artist And Not A Chef

My culinary skills leave a lot to be desired. I am an impatient chef. I hate, no I despise waiting for water to boil. Thus I wander off in search of a superior form of entertainment, which usually comes in the form of the computer. This wouldn’t pose a problem had the computer been in the kitchen, you know your typical kitchen layout. Oven, bench, stove top, computer, fridge. Of course my computer is NOT in the kitchen, the problem with this is that sometimes when I have to wait for water to boil or something to cook in boiling water I tend to forget. I walk away like it’s someone else’s responsibility. I’m having such a great time on the computer I completely forego the fact that I have something boiling on the stove. This reminder brings about an Olympic gold medal worthy sprint down the hallway and into the kitchen where I return to find:
a. water boiling over the edge
b. burnt food or
c. food that’s still not ready!!

The times that I do decide to wait in the kitchen ever so domestically I still practice impatience. My rice is still hard. My pasta is too chewy. My vegetables are still frozen. Oh dear girl step away from that stove, you’ll be the death of us all!

It is for that reason that I simply love the simplicity of a stir-fry. Just throw it all in and watch it snap crackle and pop right before your eyes. None of this boiling water business in sight.

I have also been chastised for eating pasta without any sauce. Like it’s some kind of sin that I’ve committed, ultimately offending any pasta eater out there. Good lord I cry out! There was no sauce! My hunger pains were far too immediate to contemplate improvising. But what is pasta without the sauce I hear you say with gritted teeth. It is pasta my friend. Sure it wasn’t the best meal of my life but some bloggers cannot afford the luxury of pasta sauce. What an extravagance she will say when she sees I’ve scrawled pasta sauce on the shopping list.

I’d like to think I was hypnotised by the swirling pasta. Akin to a whirl pool, but with more elegance and less demise. The pasta swirled gracefully and freely, like a swan perhaps. A messed up swan, but nonetheless a swan.

Tonight my pasta floated like a swan. And tonight I ate chewy dry pasta.

P.S. I really am a good cook, just ask my girlfriend! Despite the fact that every time I light up the stove or turn on the oven my mum walks past exclaiming “is something burning?”.

Aint Nothing Wrong With Me, Must Be Something Wrong With You

I have included a simple mind map of my living/known relatives to pinpoint just where this mania began.

A few months have passed and I still find it truly hilarious that my mothers grand plan to reunite the family failed spectacularly. Not only did it fail but it backfired, it went up in smoke, it drowned, it sunk to the bottom, it burned to ash.

Finally our family would be dysfunctional enough to be called family again. My mother buzzing like a bee in my ear, they would hail her a hero. My mum, the hero, she has done the impossible. They’d throw her a parade and she’d sit atop a float waving to her fans and dysfunctional families alike. They’d look up to her, in the hope that one day maybe they too could do what she has done for family values.

They’ve always said I was the ‘smart’ one, so as smart as I was I looked over the details of my mothers plan carefully and cautiously. Placing down my magnifying glass I said “mother this just will not work”. “How could it not work? It’s my master plan!” she said. I shook my head in discontent, sighing “you never learn, quick fix plans just don’t work!”.

Four days trapped in a confined environment was going to do nothing to unpin the damage years of old age bickering and one too many glasses of wine had done. I however, in all my humbleness, am not one to crush others dreams. I leave that to members of my so called family.

The events that followed in those memorable four days are sure to shoot down any further family holiday plans my mum had in mind. Bruised egos and broken hearts. Sides taken and lines drawn. It was quite the battle. I remained on the outskirts of the battlefield, watching from afar, trying to keep out of sight. I wanted no part in this circus.

Looking back I still laugh. Our once dysfunctional family now just separate strands of dysfunctional strangers. Hopes and dreams were crushed, plans were thwarted, ties ultimately severed. Yes all the clichés in the book folks!

My initial anger at the expense of my precious four day weekend dedicated to the circus has worn off. Now I look back and laugh, because I’m one of those people thinking “I told you so”, but like I said, I’m far too humble to ever say it out loud.

My Duty As An Artist

As an artist I feel certain expectations have been unfairly bestowed upon me. These expectations come off the back of pre-conceived notions society has of what an artist is and what an artist should be able to do.

The skill level of an artist can dictate an ability to complete even the most mundane of tasks with some degree of creativity. I speak for myself in this, although I fear there are numerous other artists all over the world who feel the very same pull.

As an artist it is expected that one be particularly handy with a paint brush. I am making no allegations as to my inability to work the brush but sometimes undue pressure is placed on oneself to be a master at anything that requires a brush.

For example: painting bedroom walls, I would hardly liken this to the art of painting a canvas. This kind of painting requires a different kind of skill that this blogger is sometimes lacking. A steady but fast hand, quick out of the gates, even strokes with an even amount of pressure. No crazy spontaneous bursts of creativity seen here. One may argue that painting uses these very skills, but that is not the kind of painting I would like to associate myself with.

Another example is the ‘art’ of covering a pizza base with tomato paste. If I were an Abstract Expressionist I would drip the paste sporadically over the ‘canvas’ in a spontaneous but planned manner. If I belonged to the Minimalist movement I may decide that a piece of pineapple and a shred of ham were just right. If anyone asked where the rest of the toppings were, “Less is more” I would say with an air of arrogance. How dare they question my eye for a good painting! If I were a Pop artist I’d say screw the circle and cut my base into a square. Using food dye I’d divide the base into four coloured squares of tomato paste. Sadly I am none of these, but I am an artist with an eye for perfection. Picking up a brush of any kind gives me a great sense of freedom. Every inch of the pizza base requires my utmost devotion. For it is the base of a painting that dictates whether or not it will be a success. Or so I heard from some freedom of expression killing horses I happen to come across weekly. “I’m sorry” I would say, I’m simply not in the mood to be told what to do today. And on they would trot.

My last example of brush artistry comes to the toothbrush, such a simple object, that is at times underrated. As an artist one would expect that I admire the fine bristles that gently scrub against my canvas, but I don’t. In fact, the art of teeth brushing is totally lost on me. Not to say I don’t do it, but it is simply a chore. One that must be completed daily in order to continue living. Much like breathing.

To conclude I would like to admit that I may have strayed terribly off course from my original idea. Forgive me, just once more I plead. It has become obvious to me that as an artist the world has certain expectations that I really must live up to. So tonight when I go to brush my teeth I’m going to whip out the paint and go nuts! I hear bleeding gums is quite the look at the moment. “Oh my her gums are bleeding, how very avant-garde of her”, that’s what the horses will say. And I will laugh, red paint, spilling all over the white carpet. And on I’ll swim.

The Art That Captured My Heart

An air of awkwardness fills the blackened room. A room scattered with horses. Horses wondering why they are standing there staring at a black screen. I can almost hear the guy next to me thinking “wow contemporary art has hit a new low”. A donkey passes through and peers into the black hole we find ourselves in, “there’s nothing in here” she remarks and then leaves as quickly as she came. She has no idea I scoff.

I am a picture of darkness. Curled up on the floor I sit dormant. My eyes wide, still adjusting to the pitch black surroundings. I am entranced.

A cinema sized screen beholds a single white dot in its black centre. A floating dot that is getting bigger as it moves closer. This is not a dot at all, it’s a man. A man in white. It becomes apparent that there are two dots. The other dot is a woman. The two dots look as though they are dancing. They are in love. They have no idea what’s coming. They embrace and I stare in wonderment as their limbs hypnotically flail into the black night. The two dots become bigger and bigger until they are life size. Like me, like them. But they are bigger than me. Now I’m the dot.

Lost in thought I miss their approach to the surface. The world explodes and my body is thrusted back. Holy Fuck! All of my internal organs are shaken, racing to escape through my mouth I gape for air, desperate to rise back to the surface.

These beautiful fish move with such elegance and grace. They don’t choke. Like poetic words floating through the water, the two dots dance. They are fish. I am a fish too. But they are in the big sea. I’m still flipping about in the pool of water under the horse’s shoes.

The horses! I forgot about them. It’s like they were never here. It was just me and the dots dancing in the dark.

The dots slowly fade away like ghosts of the sea and I am left alone again. Back where I started. In a room filled with horses.

As the screen blackens once more I watch the horses trot away. The show has only just begun for me though. I remain in my position, ready to do it all over again. This darkness that surrounds me is like an addiction. I can’t escape it, I don’t want to. I want to stay here forever in the dark, with the dots. And for awhile that’s how it is.

Today I was reminded why I love art. For the times like this when I am moved and inspired. This 10 minute experience was worth far more than you’d ever find in any cinema. Free Art.

I Wish That I Could Be Your Pillar Of Strength

Before you read this I must state that I tried my best to refrain from late night/early morning high/low on iced coffee blog posts about my rapidly declining mood. At this point I am wise enough to know that sleep blurs out my misgivings...alas here we are. Are you disappointed yet?


You know I'm feeling pathetic when I:

• Listen to Human Nature and cry
• Play solitaire for hours
• Check and recheck Myspace for no apparent reason ( who still uses that thing anyway I hear you ask. What with that book of faces and all!)
• Consider taking that pink umbrella one rainy day

We're Only Human

Humans are curious creatures, by nature we tend to dabble in serious bouts of casual observation. Speaking from a regulars point of view, I have to say, observing human activity is not pretty, it’s shocking and frightening at the best of times. Could we really be such creatures of habit I often ask myself.

My casual observations on the bus home in recent months have led to a startling conclusion. I share my breathing space with dirty rotten criminals! Some may not be shocked at this finding, but I like to believe the grass is greener where I live.

Our suspects: one male and female, some would say they are coupled, I would agree. Let’s say they are in their mid thirties, at the peak of life some might say, I prefer to think they are edging closer to the ever burgeoning mid-life crisis. This ‘couple’ look normal enough, with their plain sweats and simple haircuts, just another Joe and Jill on these weathered streets. Upon observing their seemingly simple life I have noticed something that isn’t quite right. I like to refer to this couple as the ‘box carriers’. On several occasions they have been spotted on the bus, box in arms. Huggies nappies boxes, vacuum cleaner boxes, DVD player boxes. Time and time again, the same boxes, surely they are not shopping addicts, do they have no air of extravagance? I mean really Huggies nappies? This may not seem out rightly abnormal but one must wonder what’s inside those boxes. Unless this pair possess super human strength I can rest assured those boxes do not contain what their exterior claims. The boxes are not filled with DVD players or vacuum cleaners or nappies but something much more sinister, lollipops! The boxes are full of lollipops, and like saviours of the valley the couple go out and feed kids in need. I ruled this out quickly however, their constant bickering led me to believe kids would be afraid of these people, and that their good deed would go unnoticed.

As a regular casual observer of this quirky duo I was willing to forego such discrepancies in their behaviour and give them one more shot at proving to me they weren’t what I first thought, dirty rotten crooks. That was until today. Criminals my suspicious mind screamed! On they strut, no boxes today, maybe the rain washed them away. This was not what caught my eye though. The woman was wearing a black beanie. This was my neon sign moment, my light bulb above the head moment. CRIMINALS! Their shifty eyes, constantly averting contact with us ‘regulars’. I watched them from my perch, secretly noting and ticking boxes in my head. Black beanie: tick. Shifty eyes: tick. Just as I thought I quietly muttered. Practicing indiscreetness I had to contain my excitement at my finding, I certainly don’t want to end up on their hit list a few years down the track. I can’t die, I’ve never been to the moon!

Today their plan came unstuck, lazy and foolish in their approach this casual observer zoomed in on this criminal pair.

Let this be a warning for all you suspect people out there, this blogger is watching you.

True Things

"Rebecca you still remain a mystery to everyone here"
"Okay..."

This may be one of the truest things ever said.

I don't promise to induce laughter or tears through blog but secretly hope that everyone of you reading are either drowning in your own sad creation or clutching at your laughter-sick stomach.