Sunshine

On a completely different topic--do you know anybody who's just like a ray, nay, a beam, nay, a dazzling room-filling flash, of golden sunlight?

I do, and it'a a good thing--because I'm a bit like a cave of stygian gloom myself. Imagine taking the soul of the darkest person you know, and then shining a skyful of yellow light into the centre of the blackness, the very depths of this artificial night; and then, when the light bounces into the back wall, lovely lucid lingering light, it hits the thousands of tiny mineral deposits nestling in the smooth bright limestone, and the entire cave is filled with a twinkling, shimmering, silver-and-gold glisten.

I have always tried to surround myself with happy people, in an effort to achieve precisely that effect. I am beautiful; but only when lit by another's goodwill and joy and enthusiasm. I have tried, at times, to be the sun in someone else's sky, but as it happens, I make a much better moon. Or cave, as my earlier analogy stated. The point is, I'm more of a reflective surface, than a source of illumination (to continue the list of analogical synonyms, I believe in one of my earliest blog entries, I refer to myself as a mirror).

Any way you describe me, if honesty prevails, you have to admit, I'm a bit dark, left to my own devices. I don't mean to be. As the playwright said, I'll look to like, if looking liking move.

It just so rarely does.

And, that's not fair on myself, either. I can be incredibly easy to get along with, and I am one of the sincerest and most prolific complimenters in the world. I can find something to like about anyone and everyone, and I go out of my way to do just that.

But, oh. Sometimes, when I look inward, I somehow miss the nicer aspects of myself. A shame, since I A) believe that everyone is beautiful, not equally so, but in some way or other, and B) I think I'm actually not too bad, on the beauty scale (this is inner beauty, please understand). It speaks of some sort of lack of... self-confidence? self-belief? self-esteem? that I have so many issues seeing myself as being as worthwhile an individual as everyone else.

Mind you. That's probably because I *do* surround myself with awesome people. If I didn't go out of my way to hang out with generally superior folks, I probably wouldn't feel so inferior so much of the time. But. What can I do? You should hang out with 'superior' people, if you can. Better to aspire to the lofty heights they occupy, than to scrabble around in the dirt, content with your own failings and flaws. Cliche time:

Shoot for the moon; even if you miss, you'll land among the stars.

*grin* Cliches are my friends, I love them. Sayings, adages, axioms, they all have a special place in my heart, because they are, almost without exception, truer than one person's original thoughts are likely to be, these days. I'm sure we used to be able to think for ourselves, but now... There's too much information and idea-sharing all over the place. Aside from genuine recluses and religious accolytes, I reckon most of us all feel/think/act more or less the same, the way the tv/radio/internet/YouTube tells us to. That's not an entirely bad thing--there's a certain community spirit that encompasses the entire world, now, a sort of global neighbourhood, and that's probably a good thing, in many ways--but I think original thought must suffer for it. It's just a question of proximity. Everyone's so close to everyone else's words, we all quote each other without even realising. Again, not the worst situation ever. Some of the best things ever created were collaborative efforts (Shakespeare's plays, the Bible, Whose Line is it Anyway?, the song Amish Paradise, need I go on).

Collaboration > solo effort, in something like 99.6% of cases. That's my final verdict. So.

The best thing to do, is to find someone you can collaborate with for, say, the rest of your life. Or, in the cases of family and close friends, several someones you can collaborate with, for the rest of your life. I've got one or two friends I'd like to hang out with forever :)

One in particular, I think...

Bring on the sunshine.

Stygian Gloom

This is a tribute to a friend of ours--he has not passed away, but we have moved on. My sister and her boyfriend of 3 years have just parted company, and we are all sad for our friend (who for the purposes of protecting the innocent we will be calling) Norbert.

Poor Norbert.

I can see why my sister can't quite bring herself to love him forever. He is not the vibrant ray of shining joyfulness that she is. He is not *exactly* of the same general demeanour as our Jessica Rabbit/Scout Finch hybrid. He doesn't really exude an awful lot of happy, or even energetic, vibe, if you know what I mean. I can see how they must be very dissimilar from 4000 miles away; they must be even more so, when you get close enough to really contrast and compare them.

On the other hand, are we not all made up of light and shade? Has my sister never had a day of gloominess? Is she not just as prone to tempers and tears as the rest of us, when the urge strikes?

Well, no. She's not, really. But she's always been happy to put up with my moods and insecurities, and not that I know Norbert as well as I know myself, but I can't see him being any worse than me.

And--to put the emphasis back on our good friend Norbert, Big Bert, The Man Who Sounds Like Seth Rogan--Norbert seems really, really groovy. Downright awesome, even. Funny. Well-read. Reasonably educated, in a very interesting area. He quotes good authors and shite films, and is just as quick to laugh at himself as he is to laugh at anyone else. He's bright enough, likable enough, chatty, pleasant, seems open-minded, and if he's a *bit* less cultural than one might hope, well... we ARE all from the Deep South.


That includes myself and my sister. We're crackers, yo. That's one step up from poor white trash, for those of y'all who don't know, and we really shouldn't go 'round putting on airs. I include myself in this admonishment--I'm nothing if not prone to bouts of extreme pretentiousness--but, you know. It should be nipped in the bud, when you realise you're doing it.

Not that I'm calling my sister pretentious, necessarily. This is a lot of guesswork--Norbert says they have no money to go out, sister says they never go anywhere fun, I'm largely *assuming* that my sister wants to go to 'fun' places like the theatre, or the ballet, or art galleries. She *is* a bit artsy-fartsy, always has been, but maybe I've got the wrong end of that stick. Still. I kinda have an idea of what Norbert likes, after talking to him, and I kinda know what my sister likes, and I can kinda see how their individual ideas of fun *kinda* don't interweave in a seamless tapestry of shared enjoyment...


But. However. I digress. Neverminding why, and leaving out all the wherefores, we must all salute Norbert, for he has been among us, and we will always love him (if not in the way that he wants). Thank you, Norbert, for the time you have shared with us. We hope to remain friends.

And I, for one, am sorry things haven't worked out with you and my baby sister. Better luck next time *kiss kiss* And we'll keep you around, if we can, until you feel steady enough to move on.

Acrostic

A little bit clever, a little bit fake,
Contrived, unauthentic, is this what you make?
Random words strung-together, that isn't a poem,
Order and structure is not gonna show 'em,
So you think you can write? You think you're not bad?
Take a look at yourself, you'll see you're just sad.
I can't understand why you make yourself try,
Can't you see that your talent's a self-spouting lie?

I've been ever-so-slightly obsessed with acrostics, lately--it's all about trying to say something, while sticking strictly to a meter and, usually in my case, I try to rhyme it as well... It's getting a bit old, I think. I need to find something else to do. Not that I'm in such a poetry mood, at the minute. I am also working on a couple of short stories, and that's actually going a bit better for me.

It's just... I think you know what you are, deep down. If you have to define yourself in one word, a noun, you can, and if I were defining myself in that way, I would use the word 'poet'. Whether I'm any good or not is irrelevant, for the purposes of this blog entry; the point of poetry is to feel, to see, to look around at the world and all its inhabitants and *respond* from the innermost part of yourself. That's not just what I do, it's all I can do. I wouldn't know how to live, if things didn't continually kick me in the guts, and blind me with their beauty, and smash my heart to pieces. That's just the person I am, I feel all of that, more often than I think most people could handle it, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

I think what I'm trying to say is that I'm very sensitive. Certainly, I am. Does that make one a poet? Maybe not on its own, but I'd like to think I have a reasonable grasp of the English language, and even the knack of occasionally throwing together an original line or two. Maybe, combined with my aforementioned talent for violent emotion, that's enough ingredients to bake a decent poetry pie.

Even if it's not, I don't have a lot of choice in the matter. If I stopped writing, I would go stark raving mad. There's too much floating around inside this arguably crazy mind of mine (mostly all those loose screws, right, haha) for me to not take time to get *some* of it out, down, into the wide world and out of my skull. If the literary results are less than superb, well, at least I'm keeping my fragile grip on sanity (for the time being).

I do suspect that I'm better at writing short stories, than I am at writing poetry. Which would be just my luck, really... have you ever noticed how some people are quite good at a few things, but they fall a little short of the mark in the one area they *really* want to excel in? Edgar Allan Poe is a good example--he thought that poetry was the highest form of literary expression (so I was taught in highschool) and he was forever trying to perfect his craft. But if you ever *read* a handful of his poems, and then put them next to any one of his short stories, you'll see that he was a master of suspenseful, dramatic prose, and a bit of a 12-year-old girl when it came to writing verse.

Just a sidenote, with maybe a bit of a hypothesis thrown in; he also liked word puzzles, and he used to send in cryptic messages/poems/etc to local newspapers, to see if anyone could crack his secret codes--in the end, he usually wound up mailing in the solutions himself. Too clever, was Edgar Allan, and arguably too logical to really give in to the romantic, imaginative, artistic side of himself, and write a truly outstanding bit of whimsy. He was much better at accessing the darker, more macabre, but potentially more cerebral part of his mind. (Don't ask me why the darker part of a person's mind should be the more cerebral bit, I just reckon it is--I think light, floaty, airy parts of a person's psyche tend to be found in a softer, more emotional place.)

And that's maybe my whole point. Perhaps, like Poe, I'm too stuck in one part of my brain, to make good use of the other. Perhaps I am doomed, to be a poet in spirit, but a story-teller (novelist, one day?) in actual yield.

Mind you. If I ever write a short story that's as good as The Tell-Tale Heart, or The Cask of Amontillado, or The Fall of the House of Usher, I will shit my pants with delight. I think I'd probably sprout wings and fly, if I discovered an ability to write *anything* that well. I'd certainly be enormously pleased with myself, and I wouldn't bitch about my substandard poetry.

But deep down, I would know. Crappy acrostics notwithstanding, *I* am a poet.

Why. Just Why.

Why does she not sleep? She is my most beautiful-beautiful, and she is my love... WHY will she not sleep?

This was just a quick note. Now heading back to attend the Sweet Love.

Period Blues

I thought about calling this the period reds (like in Breakfast at Tiffany's, when she refers to her moods as 'the mean reds'?) but I'm not in that kind of mood. Matter of fact, I'm not in a mood at all--I'm just in pain. So, blue it is. And I thought I'd compose a little stanza or two, just to amuse myself, while I wait for the agony to subside.

Period blues cause aggravation,
Enduring the pains of menstruation,
Red and raw, your insides bleed,
Ibuprofen and Midol are what you need.
Opt for hot baths and an early night,
Don't move too much and you might be alright.

But take comfort in knowing, it could be worse,
Lie back and enjoy your monthly curse,
Unlikely it seems, but it's horribly true
Even periods are better than pregnancy blues,
So take care--and don't let the worst happen to you.

I'm serious. This is crap, but it'll be over (the pain part, anyway) in 2-3 days, and then I'll have most of a month before I have any more trouble with this. If I were pregnant, I would suffer for 9 MONTHS SOLID. And, I wouldn't be able to take any Ibuprofen. Or have a really hot bath. Or lie on my stomach to get a backrub. AND I'd be sick every day, every time I ate, as well.

9 MONTHS SOLID, of pure suffering, and almost nothing that can be done to help you. Unbelievable.

I have 2 beautiful, beautiful babies, and I'm so glad. Because I'd rather suffer immeasurably for 3 days every month for the next 30 years, than go through 9 more months of Pregnancy Hell, once. Thank God you get babies at the end of pregnancy--without something like that to live for, we'd all kill ourselves before the third trimester.

Superhero Guy

If I could be a superhero, I would be Sexy Chick,
Finding a boy and then making him drool, and then I would sit on his dick,
And when I saw girls who refuse to put out,
Telling men no and then making them pout,
I'd lift up my skirt and shout 'fuck me quick!'
'Cause I would be Sexy Chick.

Or, if I could be a superhero, I would be Cheeky Cow,
Making men pay for my new clothes and shoes, and anything else they'd allow,
Well I'd take all their store cards and buy lots of crap,
Shop girls on commission would all start to clap,
And if the men told me off I would leave them right now,
'Cause I would be Cheeky Cow.

And if I could be a superhero, I would be Lady Tease,
Just saying no when I really mean yes, and making the men all say please,
Like if a boy wants a kiss I would give him a shove,
And say I never do that unless I am in love,
Then I'd laugh when he's begging me down on his knees,
'Cause I would be Lady Tease...

OR, if I could be a superhero, would you be Filthy Whore?
Making men pay you just what you deserve, and then take a little bit more?
Like if you sigh and you moan then they owe you a meal,
And if you 'orgasm' loudly, that's not part of the deal,
So if you do they'd better take you to your favourite store,
Then you would be Filthy Whore.
Or you could be less obvious,
No, I didn't mean to be cheap,
Go to the Marriott Newcastle and then that's where you'll sleep,
In a posh hotel suite with all the finest decor,
'Cause then you would be Filthy Whore.

Yes then you would be, a superhero like me....



**Just so we all know, I have *never* spent the night in a Marriot Hotel, and I don't charge for my services. It's a labour of love, for me**

I Don't Wanna Go to Moscow

If anyone cares, the above is actually a bastardized line from a Third Eye Blind song: ''I don't wanna go to London...'' which, if memory serves, is about a girlfriend who's cheating on her boyfriend with an English guy (English men are tasty, I will attest to that fact). In this instance, my use of the line ''I don't wanna go to Moscow,'' is a reference to my sister's new calling plan, which allows her to make free off-peak calls to such destinations as Tokyo, Rio de Janeiro, and, marginally closer to me, Moscow.

What the fuck.

Why would my sister want to call Tokyo, Rio de Janeiro, OR Moscow, when she has a sister living in England? I suppose it's just the way generic companies do these things--oh look, there are this many major cities in the world, let's create a magical calling plan that lets you call ALL of them, and nevermind those rural backwaters where you might actually have friends and families...

I *do* very much live in a backwater, at the moment. So does my sister, albeit one 4000 miles away. But that's what rednecks do. We're born in bumfuck nowhere, we grow up in bumfuck nowhere, and we die in bumfuck nowhere. Even if it's a different nowhere than the one we grew up in, we are genetically programmed to seek out the nearest hub of ingrained racism, pervasive ignorance, and substandard education, and that's where we move. And then, of course, there are no local amenities, no decent internet or phone services, everything closes at 5 every day and earlier on a Wednesday, and we can't stay in touch with the folks back home, because calling plans are designed for people who either live in, or wish to call, major cities.

But what about the rednecks? How are they meant to keep in touch? Oh, the humanity... I guess I'll just send my sister a postcard.

I'm definitely NOT moving to Moscow.

Odi-Jo

My best friend from when I was 9 just posted on my Facebook. I say just--what I mean is, she posted early this morning, well, yesterday evening for her, and I now have her telephone number.

I'm pleased, nay, thrilled, nay, ecstatic... and frightened.

She's been the first person I've mentioned, any time in the last 10 years, when asked about my friends. Or elementary school, as a child. Or how I survived the horror of middle school. Or what friendship is. She was, for a couple of years, the glue that held me together, through the unremitting terror of what most people call school.

She was the most popular girl in our class, maybe in our entire year, and she plucked the shyest, nerdiest girl you've ever seen (ME!) off the back wall, from where she was hiding behind everyone else; and she, funny and confident and bright and lovely, befriended that lonely misfit with a child's kindness and enthusiasm and sheer passionate devotion, and we have been best friends, off and on, for most of our lives.

We haven't spoken properly in years. Not since I moved away from my beautiful hometown, to live in, I'm sorry, this shithole known as the Northeast. Oh, it has its charms. Take-aways are quite cheap here. Newcastle's a nice place. Even the very mining village where I live, well, it has some quaint appeal. And yes, I grant you, the people are generally quite friendly (along with being rude and narrow-minded, not knowing the words 'please' and 'thank-you' and not having any inclination to go to university, ever).

But. I'm being unfair, and I know I am. This region's no worse than any other--if anything, the hamlet where I live now is fairly similar to the little town I grew up in (not my hometown, which is quirky and charming and beautiful, but the town in which I actually spent most of my childhood). I don't mind the Northeast. I'm quite proud when Newcastle do well on match day, and I think the local accents are outrageous (fun outrageous, though) and the shopping and higher education and lots of the scenery all seem quite good... I just miss my home.

Most of all, I miss people like Odi-Jo. I haven't seen her in what feels like centuries, and now, I'm going to call her, and what if we have nothing to say to each other? We always listened to different music, and had different taste in boys, and liked different movies and books and pastimes and.... I mean. What we had in common, was the fact that we loved each other, and we were both a little less like cookie-cutter kids than the people we went to school with.

That hasn't changed. She'll always be the coolest girl I've ever met, and I'll always be what people call unique, quirky, weird, or eccentric, depending on how complimentary they want to be... but what if that's not enough, anymore? What if after all these years (okay, like 5, but still) what if, with nothing to unify us, we've simply drifted irrevocably apart? What if, somehow, by moving over here, I've lost my very best childhood friend, forever?

I don't think I could bear it. If I call her, and we chat for a bit and have nothing to say, or if she finds me terribly altered, or if I don't recall the girl I used to know, my heart will just crack, split! right in two. I will cry for days. I will be permanently wounded, if Odi-Jo and I don't still love each other.

It could destroy my faith in God, Fate, Kismet, etc, if she and I don't know each other, if she doesn't love me anymore, if I don't still, in my quiet, passionate way, adore her as I adore all the people I surround myself with... I'm sure she will. I'm sure I will. I love her because she looked out for me when I didn't even know I needed looking after, and she'll love me because I love her, and I am something like unusual, in my way. There will be no great problems, in the Lanlock and Snansnock reunion.

Of course. There's another problem, a very, very minor one, it will cause a hint of embarrassment, no more, but even so I'd like to avoid it if I could--the thing is, I've been living in England for ages, now, and although the English don't think I sound like them, my countrymen tend to have opinions on my new manner of speaking...

What if she thinks my accent is fake and pretentious?

Weekends

Weekends are quite good, really. Even if you don't have a proper job (haha, raising babies is loads of work, AND it pays rather well in this country, but you all know what I mean) it's nice to have a break in your routine, to do a little something out of the ordinary, to give yourself an excuse to laze around being inefficient for a couple of days a week. And of course, weekends are good times to be very efficient at certain things--catching up on dirty laundry, grouting tiles, buying groceries, etc. Also, weekends are excellent times for frivolous pursuits.

I saw a castle this weekend. It was good. There were loads of privies, much uneven ground, lots of great grey stones, and a dungeon room. I did the following, in this order: tried to get my friend to steal a 400-year-old sword, attempted to make him climb a security barrier and touch an alarmed display, closed an iron gate on him and tried to lock him in the lavatory in The King's Chamber, attempted to prise the lid off the well and push him down it, and then, I refused to smile for his pictures on the roof, and demanded a piggy-back ride when I got tired of walking.

It was, all in all, a very enjoyable day.

Even though, in the half-hour of shopping time available afterwards, my friend bought the ugliest pair of Speedos known to man, and is now insisting on teaching me to swim... I can swim. Doggy-paddling is swimming. What's a dog? A mammal. What's a human? A mammal. We can swim the same way if we want to. And, also in the same way as a dog, I won't be wearing the world's ugliest swimming costume when I dive into the water.

Even being a witness to the purchase of the ugliest pair of swimming trunks ever created, could not mar my general sense of delight yesterday.

I can't remember the last time I had that much fun. That may sound sad to you, or even downright depressing, but it's true. Goofing off and being a bit of a TAF (twat-among-friends) on a Sunday afternoon is *well* out of the range of my normal experience. It was just so nice to have nothing to do. To be free to do any old nonsense I liked. To waste some time, on a sunny afternoon, because for the first time in about 5 years, I had time to waste, and someone to waste it with.

Of course, it could just be the fact that castles *totally* do it for me. All that firm smooth ironwork, loose rope lying about, cold hard uneven flooring and the sound of metal constantly clanking... It's all very, very 'tonight we're gonna party like it's 1699...' I mean, really. Can you imagine it:

Sex. In an *actual* dungeon. Mmmm...

**Not that I *had* sex in an actual dungeon!.. I'm just saying. 2 hours wandering around a dungeon, whilst thinking about it, is liable to put anyone in a good mood...**

Am I A Slut?

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Babies are Made of Win

And two really excellent friends of mine have just had one.

Hazaa!

And there was MUCH rejoicing in the land, and all the people heard tell of the Mini-Kelly, and they knew that he was good. And they travelled far and wide, that they might glimpse the Mini-Kelly in all his glory, and they brought gifts of wonder and joy (up to and including a ridiculously expensive bra from the Figleaves website, to ease the pain in his mother's breasts, because breastfeeding *hurts*) . And the Mini-Kelly thrived, in spite of all odds, and he was well and happy and healthy forever, fingers-crossed-touch-wood-God-willing. And he was beautiful.

Seriously. He's beautiful. Well done, you guys. Give him a kiss from me, and I'll come see him as soon as humanly possible.

Congratulations xxx