I've been reading a book. I think it's a good book, and it's certainly a book full of meaning and depth and layers. In a book, I can think of nothing better than layers. Secrets. Things you kind of suspect from the beginning, but don't find out fully until later on.
I like books like that. I also like books that are set in my native Southland, so this book is a winner on 2 fronts. Perhaps what I like most, this book is about female friendship, of which there is far too little in the world.
I haven't had that many good female friends in my life. Women are catty, and bitchy (why do those two terms, about cats and dogs respectively, get used negatively only in reference to women? I have called a man a bitch before, but when a man is called 'Dawg,' or referred to as a 'cat'--which was slang long before my time, but I like movies from the 50s--it's a term of affection or respect, even envy. Why is it that the feminine form of a thing is always meant to imply the bad side of that thing?).
That was such a digression I'm starting a new paragraph. Women, however much issue I take with the terms themselves, are catty and bitchy creatures. Not because we're built that way, necessarily, but because society allows and expects us to be weak, ineffectual, whining little animals, who have to learn to dissemble and divert and misdirect at an early age. I have learned the harsh truth since leaving my home--women are bitches. Not all women, certainly, and maybe not even most; but many. Enough that it spoils things for the rest of us.
This whole topic reminds me of a paper I wrote in high school. It was basically about men marginalizing us, keeping us locked away, keeping us down, etc. It was a rather well-written piece, for a high school senior taking a university freshman course, and in the spirit of consistency (and because I didn't have time to change it) I kept my original title and thesis and turned out an essay which painted men as the single most detrimental thing a modern woman will ever experience. I defended my point very well, I managed to avoid most of my usual grammatical mistakes, and I got a shiny happy A (maybe an A+) on that particular work of genius.
However, in the course of my research into how society, the media, and most of all men keep women in their degraded and degrading places, I came to a startling conclusion. I discovered, by analyzing and evaluating everything I read, that the reason women are less likely to achieve their utmost, is usually other women. So my amateur, childish research indicated; and so I have found, now that I'm out in the world myself.
For every fine, generous, beautiful, unique, simply lovely woman out there, there are at least 5 jealous cats waiting to take her down a peg. Just waiting for the right time to knock her back into her place. Just waiting to steal her boyfriend, her promotion, and her group of friends, and then probably key her car on their way out the door.
It doesn't have to be like this, though. I check myself continually, and so should other women (although maybe this is part of the problem--women want to boss other people into being 'better', whereas men have a more live-and-let-live approach).......
Wow. I wrote this a while back, and I'm going to publish it now, because, well, I wrote it. But it's a real shame I've started to feel that way--I didn't, growing up. Of course, I'm a long way from home... maybe people are nicer, where I'm from.
I hope people are nicer somewhere.
Thursday 29 January 2009
Thursday 22 January 2009
Frightened
I am frightened all the time. How can no one, ever, in my entire life, have thought that was a sign of something deeper?
Actually, someone did. My stepmother thought I was emotionally disturbed. Oh, and my aunt thought I had been sexually abused (which I guess is another way of saying I seemed emotionally disturbed, really, isn't it?).
From my perspective, I always knew I was odd. A little unusual. A bit strange.
What it took me, oh, 20+ years to realise is HOW fucking strange I am. I am beyond abnormal. I am a proper fruit-loop.
It's like this. Imagine that everyone's thoughts and reasoning ability are blue, and emotions are red. Most people either think logically, in blue, or they feel, in red. You know what I mean. When you're being calm and logical, doing your grocery shopping, you're blue. When you're throwing a temper tantrum because your wife deleted your favourite episode of Battlestar Galactica from Sky+, you're red. Very rarely do the two colours overlap. You're either being logical or emotional. Not both.
But for me... whatever mechanism filters out the emotional response in your brain, just doesn't work in mine. Any new experience, and my world is flooded with red, and I have to try to work through it logically in spite of the fiery haze scorching my synapses. My world doesn't really switch from red to blue, or blue to red; but a dozen times a day, it goes purple.
That's not as pleasant as it sounds. It's distracting, and annoying, even when it is kinda pleasant (when I'm distracted by my emotional response to a song I like, for example).
On the other hand... I like to think I'm a writer. I like the idea that I create things. My purple world is full of inspiration, and if it's full of pain as well, maybe that's not such a high price to pay.
On the other, other hand (or the original hand)... sometimes it is so hard to function this way. Embracing the quirkiness is easy enough to suggest, but harder to follow through when you're constantly worn out, frightened, embarrassed, confused, or any combination of the above. And note the use of the word 'constantly'. I'm not 'continually' one or more of those things--it doesn't come and go, however consistently--it's always there. I am suffering, nearly every minute of every day, and even when I'm not, I am, because I know the pain isn't really gone, it's just eased for a moment.
And oh my God. I've done this to someone else. I have done this to my daughter.
Am I the right person to help her? I know how she suffers, and I give her such leeway because of it. I am more lenient with my own child, because I see myself in her, than I would be with any other child.
Saying that, my judgment has always been exceeded by my mercy. If I'm suffering so much, who's to say that other people aren't as well? And my mama taught me to err on the side of compassion, just in case... which only makes it worse. If I'm such a soft touch generally, and I'm even softer with my daughter, how can I be sure I'm not ruining her??
But then, that's the whole point, isn't it? You can't be sure of anything, really... but I am. I am sure of one thing.
I am sure that all this uncertainty scares the shit outta me.
Actually, someone did. My stepmother thought I was emotionally disturbed. Oh, and my aunt thought I had been sexually abused (which I guess is another way of saying I seemed emotionally disturbed, really, isn't it?).
From my perspective, I always knew I was odd. A little unusual. A bit strange.
What it took me, oh, 20+ years to realise is HOW fucking strange I am. I am beyond abnormal. I am a proper fruit-loop.
It's like this. Imagine that everyone's thoughts and reasoning ability are blue, and emotions are red. Most people either think logically, in blue, or they feel, in red. You know what I mean. When you're being calm and logical, doing your grocery shopping, you're blue. When you're throwing a temper tantrum because your wife deleted your favourite episode of Battlestar Galactica from Sky+, you're red. Very rarely do the two colours overlap. You're either being logical or emotional. Not both.
But for me... whatever mechanism filters out the emotional response in your brain, just doesn't work in mine. Any new experience, and my world is flooded with red, and I have to try to work through it logically in spite of the fiery haze scorching my synapses. My world doesn't really switch from red to blue, or blue to red; but a dozen times a day, it goes purple.
That's not as pleasant as it sounds. It's distracting, and annoying, even when it is kinda pleasant (when I'm distracted by my emotional response to a song I like, for example).
On the other hand... I like to think I'm a writer. I like the idea that I create things. My purple world is full of inspiration, and if it's full of pain as well, maybe that's not such a high price to pay.
On the other, other hand (or the original hand)... sometimes it is so hard to function this way. Embracing the quirkiness is easy enough to suggest, but harder to follow through when you're constantly worn out, frightened, embarrassed, confused, or any combination of the above. And note the use of the word 'constantly'. I'm not 'continually' one or more of those things--it doesn't come and go, however consistently--it's always there. I am suffering, nearly every minute of every day, and even when I'm not, I am, because I know the pain isn't really gone, it's just eased for a moment.
And oh my God. I've done this to someone else. I have done this to my daughter.
Am I the right person to help her? I know how she suffers, and I give her such leeway because of it. I am more lenient with my own child, because I see myself in her, than I would be with any other child.
Saying that, my judgment has always been exceeded by my mercy. If I'm suffering so much, who's to say that other people aren't as well? And my mama taught me to err on the side of compassion, just in case... which only makes it worse. If I'm such a soft touch generally, and I'm even softer with my daughter, how can I be sure I'm not ruining her??
But then, that's the whole point, isn't it? You can't be sure of anything, really... but I am. I am sure of one thing.
I am sure that all this uncertainty scares the shit outta me.
Friday 16 January 2009
New Year
This year seems to be passing me by without any updates to this blog... as usual, when I'm happy-ish, I write less. Not that this is likely to be a trend for the entire year, haha. We'll be lucky to last the full month.
Did you make any Resolutions this year? I did. Make new friends, and keep them, and just generally be happier. Both laudable, albeit unlikely, goals. I also intend to lose some weight, because I'm looking more and more like Staypuffed every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, but not this week. This week, I'm eating in an effort to self-anaesthetise. Bleeding nipples and breastfeeding do not go well together, and as always, food numbs the pain.
Not that I've resorted to food-coma for a while. I had actually gotten to the point of eating when hungry, and mostly having healthy food, when this recent affliction set in. Sadly for me, I can't take lovely drugs while breastfeeding, so pain-relief through chocolate it is.
Seriously. I'm not an addict. I'm just in pain.
Which is a not-so-oblique reference to the subject of my LAST blog entry, but moving right along.
Hmmm. Lots of hyphens and fragments today, I see. I'm clearly out of the habit of writing. Which is exactly why I need to get back into it. But then, do I have anything to say... I miss my folks. I have to go back to work soon. I think I have Aspergers Syndrome. None of this matters.
Okay. How about a little nonsense, then? I like pies. Pretty much all kinds, but for the moment, I'm on a chicken and mushroom pie kick. Mmmm. Of course, mushrooms are one of the greatest foods ever invented. Well done, God. Tasty, abundant, less fatty than meat while being a handy substitute for most beefy recipes, and they have a cool name. Not that God named them, mind you--we get credit for that--but does He have to do everything? I hardly think that's fair. He did enough just by creating them.
Now there's a good topic. I like to bitch, but I often don't spend enough time on the nice things God created. Like, say, Hugh Laurie (okay, I'll stop, I'm moving on). But, like, mushrooms. Mmmm. Or the smell of petrol. Or the way babies have fat, squeezable legs. Or the feeling of a fluffy, snuggly jumper, when you're lounging around and your house is just that shade too chilly (hence wearing the jumper). The colour teal. Blue eyes. Irish accents. My pink-and-purple shiny quilt.
Again, some of those items are man-made, but my mother would argue that God created us, so whatever we create, He gets partial credit for. I agree with that philosophy. If I write a book which inspires someone else to write a spin-off series, I should get some of the profits.
Although my mother, being very devout, would say that God gets full credit, because all inspiration comes from Him, etc... I want some credit of my own, though. A little appreciation for all the human effort that goes into what I do.
Not to mention, if God created the entire universe, and He's also penning this blog, He's got some explaining to do. It'd be like Mozart... no, wait, he did write that. Okay, it'd be like a fully mature Mozart writing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, after he'd already written The Marriage of Figaro. It would be a huge regression. A possible sign of dementia. A damn waste.
So, I'm taking the credit for this blog. Sorry, God... (but in fairness, God's God, right? I'm sure He understands).
Did you make any Resolutions this year? I did. Make new friends, and keep them, and just generally be happier. Both laudable, albeit unlikely, goals. I also intend to lose some weight, because I'm looking more and more like Staypuffed every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, but not this week. This week, I'm eating in an effort to self-anaesthetise. Bleeding nipples and breastfeeding do not go well together, and as always, food numbs the pain.
Not that I've resorted to food-coma for a while. I had actually gotten to the point of eating when hungry, and mostly having healthy food, when this recent affliction set in. Sadly for me, I can't take lovely drugs while breastfeeding, so pain-relief through chocolate it is.
Seriously. I'm not an addict. I'm just in pain.
Which is a not-so-oblique reference to the subject of my LAST blog entry, but moving right along.
Hmmm. Lots of hyphens and fragments today, I see. I'm clearly out of the habit of writing. Which is exactly why I need to get back into it. But then, do I have anything to say... I miss my folks. I have to go back to work soon. I think I have Aspergers Syndrome. None of this matters.
Okay. How about a little nonsense, then? I like pies. Pretty much all kinds, but for the moment, I'm on a chicken and mushroom pie kick. Mmmm. Of course, mushrooms are one of the greatest foods ever invented. Well done, God. Tasty, abundant, less fatty than meat while being a handy substitute for most beefy recipes, and they have a cool name. Not that God named them, mind you--we get credit for that--but does He have to do everything? I hardly think that's fair. He did enough just by creating them.
Now there's a good topic. I like to bitch, but I often don't spend enough time on the nice things God created. Like, say, Hugh Laurie (okay, I'll stop, I'm moving on). But, like, mushrooms. Mmmm. Or the smell of petrol. Or the way babies have fat, squeezable legs. Or the feeling of a fluffy, snuggly jumper, when you're lounging around and your house is just that shade too chilly (hence wearing the jumper). The colour teal. Blue eyes. Irish accents. My pink-and-purple shiny quilt.
Again, some of those items are man-made, but my mother would argue that God created us, so whatever we create, He gets partial credit for. I agree with that philosophy. If I write a book which inspires someone else to write a spin-off series, I should get some of the profits.
Although my mother, being very devout, would say that God gets full credit, because all inspiration comes from Him, etc... I want some credit of my own, though. A little appreciation for all the human effort that goes into what I do.
Not to mention, if God created the entire universe, and He's also penning this blog, He's got some explaining to do. It'd be like Mozart... no, wait, he did write that. Okay, it'd be like a fully mature Mozart writing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, after he'd already written The Marriage of Figaro. It would be a huge regression. A possible sign of dementia. A damn waste.
So, I'm taking the credit for this blog. Sorry, God... (but in fairness, God's God, right? I'm sure He understands).
Saturday 10 January 2009
Hugh Laurie
Gets a million bazillion points. He's the ONLY English actor (or English person, fullstop) I've ever heard do an absolutely flawless American accent.
The fact that I've heard him doing it, is proof of the addiction that is ruining my life--I can't stop watching House. I got all 4 seasons on DVD for Christmas, and my marriage, my friendships, even my kids are suffering. I would rather watch Hugh Laurie hobble around and take drugs, than talk to my husband, play with my kids, eat, pleasure myself, ANYTHING.
I'm a sick, sick puppy.
Anyone know a good doctor?
Lol. I'd even rather watch Laurie as House, than watch Fry as anything. Than watch them together. I'd rather watch House, than watch the movie Wilde (whereas normally, I'd choose watching the movie for the 7th or 8th time, to anything else on TV).
I've even been neglecting my blog, but you know what? I don't care. Like a true addict, I'm not worried about the stuff I'm missing out on. I'm worried about how many episodes I've got left before I RUN OUT!!!
Right, that's it. This is as long as I can stay away from him. I'm due in surgery (well, due for a differential diagnosis... I suspect psychiatric problems... though it could be lupus). Haha.
And, on a final note--Hugh Laurie is fantastic. Who'd have thought I'd EVER come to the conclusion that he's a better actor than Stephen Fry?
*confused, but happy*
The fact that I've heard him doing it, is proof of the addiction that is ruining my life--I can't stop watching House. I got all 4 seasons on DVD for Christmas, and my marriage, my friendships, even my kids are suffering. I would rather watch Hugh Laurie hobble around and take drugs, than talk to my husband, play with my kids, eat, pleasure myself, ANYTHING.
I'm a sick, sick puppy.
Anyone know a good doctor?
Lol. I'd even rather watch Laurie as House, than watch Fry as anything. Than watch them together. I'd rather watch House, than watch the movie Wilde (whereas normally, I'd choose watching the movie for the 7th or 8th time, to anything else on TV).
I've even been neglecting my blog, but you know what? I don't care. Like a true addict, I'm not worried about the stuff I'm missing out on. I'm worried about how many episodes I've got left before I RUN OUT!!!
Right, that's it. This is as long as I can stay away from him. I'm due in surgery (well, due for a differential diagnosis... I suspect psychiatric problems... though it could be lupus). Haha.
And, on a final note--Hugh Laurie is fantastic. Who'd have thought I'd EVER come to the conclusion that he's a better actor than Stephen Fry?
*confused, but happy*
Tuesday 6 January 2009
The Problem with Blogging...
I just thought I'd make a quick note, in case anyone might be concerned--the problem with blogging is that after a while, you're not so much telling the truth, as talking out loud. It helps you sort out your thoughts, but it doesn't always make clear the line between fantasy and reality.
I hope that helps to sort out any confusion, i.e. whether I'm up to anything I shouldn't be up to. I'm not.
I hope that helps to sort out any confusion, i.e. whether I'm up to anything I shouldn't be up to. I'm not.
I Know This Guy...
I know this guy. He's a great guy. Not bad-looking, intelligent, good-natured, makes me laugh all the time.
Ha, you thought I was gonna say that I don't fancy him, didn't you? Well you're wrong. I DO fancy him, a lot.
That's one problem I don't have. I don't pretend to like nice guys, while shitting on them and chasing after bad boys. I like a bit of sarcasm in my men, but it needs to be tempered with sweetness, or I'm not interested. Period.
And shame on all those stupid men and women who treat their perfectly nice other halves like dirt, and chase after bitches (of either gender). But before I digress (sorry, it's late and I'm sleep-deprived AND I've been saving all my material because...)
I know this guy. A great guy. Not great as in, I like him but not that way; I definitely like him that way. But. I was thinking about it, and he's kind of... there was kind of another guy, first.
A long time ago, I knew this guy. I still know him, but not as well as I did. And I've had a crush on him--nothing terminal, just a mild case of the yums which very rarely explodes into a day or two of full-blown pining before settling down again--since, oh, before it was legal.
Don't get the wrong idea. He's my little sister's friend, I was only legal about a year before he was. Moving swiftly on.
So, the original guy... he's a cutie. I remember looking at him one day, and wondering why my sister hadn't jumped him (they've been friends since they were about 12, you'd think something would've happened, I snogged my best gay guy friend at least 3 or 4 times growing up). And then, a few months later, it happened again, I was just looking at him (he's got the bluest eyes) and before I knew it, wham! lust had sneaked up behind me and taken my breath away.
And since then, I've been plotting fairly continuously to steal his virginity. Why? It's what I do... LOL no it's not. But the guy back home... he's a little bit special. Not least of all because I grew up with him, and he's younger than me, and I feel a certain instinct to protect him. Shield him. Make sure he's alright.
Somehow, in my mind, that translates to having sex. Not always--but in this case. I know he's shy. I know he's maybe a little bit... damaged (not that my sister has ever told me anything personal about him, but it's just the way he is... he deflects questions with a joke, or admits fairly sad details with a laugh and a shrug... something's going on there).
And my new... well, this guy I know. He reminds me, more than is comfortable, of this other guy. So I guess the question is, DO I really like this guy? Or is it just some residual attraction to the other guy, kick-starting my reaction to this one?
I'm going to post this now, and probably get hate mail. But at least it'll be honest hate mail, about an honest entry. I'd rather be honest, than kind.
Besides. Even if he's earning extra brownie points, I still like him underneath that. Just, maybe not as much as I think I do?......
Ha, you thought I was gonna say that I don't fancy him, didn't you? Well you're wrong. I DO fancy him, a lot.
That's one problem I don't have. I don't pretend to like nice guys, while shitting on them and chasing after bad boys. I like a bit of sarcasm in my men, but it needs to be tempered with sweetness, or I'm not interested. Period.
And shame on all those stupid men and women who treat their perfectly nice other halves like dirt, and chase after bitches (of either gender). But before I digress (sorry, it's late and I'm sleep-deprived AND I've been saving all my material because...)
I know this guy. A great guy. Not great as in, I like him but not that way; I definitely like him that way. But. I was thinking about it, and he's kind of... there was kind of another guy, first.
A long time ago, I knew this guy. I still know him, but not as well as I did. And I've had a crush on him--nothing terminal, just a mild case of the yums which very rarely explodes into a day or two of full-blown pining before settling down again--since, oh, before it was legal.
Don't get the wrong idea. He's my little sister's friend, I was only legal about a year before he was. Moving swiftly on.
So, the original guy... he's a cutie. I remember looking at him one day, and wondering why my sister hadn't jumped him (they've been friends since they were about 12, you'd think something would've happened, I snogged my best gay guy friend at least 3 or 4 times growing up). And then, a few months later, it happened again, I was just looking at him (he's got the bluest eyes) and before I knew it, wham! lust had sneaked up behind me and taken my breath away.
And since then, I've been plotting fairly continuously to steal his virginity. Why? It's what I do... LOL no it's not. But the guy back home... he's a little bit special. Not least of all because I grew up with him, and he's younger than me, and I feel a certain instinct to protect him. Shield him. Make sure he's alright.
Somehow, in my mind, that translates to having sex. Not always--but in this case. I know he's shy. I know he's maybe a little bit... damaged (not that my sister has ever told me anything personal about him, but it's just the way he is... he deflects questions with a joke, or admits fairly sad details with a laugh and a shrug... something's going on there).
And my new... well, this guy I know. He reminds me, more than is comfortable, of this other guy. So I guess the question is, DO I really like this guy? Or is it just some residual attraction to the other guy, kick-starting my reaction to this one?
I'm going to post this now, and probably get hate mail. But at least it'll be honest hate mail, about an honest entry. I'd rather be honest, than kind.
Besides. Even if he's earning extra brownie points, I still like him underneath that. Just, maybe not as much as I think I do?......
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