I’d like to marry my shoes. We’d honeymoon with my bicycle in the Swiss Alps. We’d have an apartment in the city, with a veggie garden and a good sound system. One day they would fall apart, and I’d move on to a new pair, just like that. Inanimate objects are so much easier to understand. And talk to. You only have a problem if they’re answering back, but that’s nothing a little discipline can’t fix. With inanimate objects, I am in control, I have the power. Generally.
If I was an object I’d be a human sized tennis racquet. I’m strong and athletic, but a little round. Everything that comes at me I hit away, sometimes it comes flying back in my face, but generally everything is deflected.
And yet occasionally the ball comes flying at me at such a pace that I am knocked over. Strange scents grasp moments in my memory and thrust them into the light, bringing both fond memories and waves of nausea. Feelings surge within me so violently that I have to shut my eyes and walk away. I spin in a disorientating circle, burning from the basic and yet unfamiliar whirlpool of anxieties within me.
Desire is a dangerous and scary force. Its urgency is practically primal; it conspires against you, drawing you away from centuries of level-headedness, to seconds of whimsical spontaneity. It threatens to destroy the control we like to believe we have. In a manifold of ways we exert control over our environments, despite being at the mercy of the world. One day you are walking along the street, and then all off a sudden you’re lying on the street in a pool of your own blood and you realise you weren’t in control after all. In the same way we exert control over our inner being, despite there being a force almost entirely unconquerable that lives within us. If I was a brave person I could surrender to the movements of the universe. Grab the moment by the hand and spin it around and around. I guess I’m not brave. I control my emotions and when I fail, I panic. Like an actor who can only repeat her lines, I disintegrate in the face of impromptu theatre.
I am fast learning that control is overrated, which is why I can’t marry my shoes, metaphorically speaking.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Fall to your knees...
Sometimes I run really fast, just to pretend I’m running for my life. Make my heart pump, lungs heave and muscles explode. Take the soundtrack of my life up a notch; embrace the necessity of the moment.
The clouds roar overhead and I inhale the first breath of winter. They are white ships speeding along in a blue sky, heralding the end of the autumn calm, driven away by a ferocious whirlwind. Summer is heavy and hot with short spells of relief, winter blasts into your core, now light and cool, now brutal and chilling. The water swells so high in the river it swallows the jetty up, so that if you walked along it you’d look like Jesus, or Michael Jackson. The wind swirls around me, sneaks across the small of my back and into my holey shoe. I get lost in a tornado of fallen leaves. The trees have been brought across the seas to mark the seasons for us. They swing and sway and shed summer slow and steady. We think of mourning, death, tears. But when the wind shakes the bark, twigs, leaves, even branches down, it’s making way for something new. Winter descends upon the south and the trees settle down to their deep slumber. Our own trees do not change; they transcend the seasons, their sense of time eternal, broken only by times of drought.
I’m a winter baby, born amongst snow and screams and goofy 80’s hair. Almost 21 years later and a continent away I listen to winter blues and float, tucked up in the corner of a chilly cafe, face pressed to the cold window. Students stride in, hidden away in cosy winter coats, wielding broken umbrellas, raindrops falling from their hair. I am here because the sperm-that-could met an egg with a vision. I don’t remember this stage of my development. I don’t remember the nappies, tears or birthday cakes. I remember the lamb that died and crying because I had snow in my stockings. I remember tumbling and turning like I was drowning, I remember when I realised I wasn’t a character in a book and I remember running. I never had any idea why, I just knew I had to go and go and go.
Cold air is harder to breath. It burns my nose and catches in my throat. Still my feet pound the footpath. Eventually the feeling of my lunch churning too high in my belly and the absence of oxygen in my brain brings me to a stop. The wind roars tremendously overhead, unabated. It carries me so high it’s like divine intervention, except I’m not on a hill or mountainside, or alone in a cave.
Generally I do everything slowly, without particular purposefulness or direction. I ponder, philosophise and rationalise. I walk here and there aimlessly, I cruise the footpath on two wheels. I watch the winter, observe the people. But sometimes I run. Not away from anything or after anyone, but because I can and the free winters air demands it. Because I need to remember why oxygen is necessary, my life depends upon it.
P.S. I totally dig this song, share it with the world Laura Marling - ghosts http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I-vbyIkkHiQ
The clouds roar overhead and I inhale the first breath of winter. They are white ships speeding along in a blue sky, heralding the end of the autumn calm, driven away by a ferocious whirlwind. Summer is heavy and hot with short spells of relief, winter blasts into your core, now light and cool, now brutal and chilling. The water swells so high in the river it swallows the jetty up, so that if you walked along it you’d look like Jesus, or Michael Jackson. The wind swirls around me, sneaks across the small of my back and into my holey shoe. I get lost in a tornado of fallen leaves. The trees have been brought across the seas to mark the seasons for us. They swing and sway and shed summer slow and steady. We think of mourning, death, tears. But when the wind shakes the bark, twigs, leaves, even branches down, it’s making way for something new. Winter descends upon the south and the trees settle down to their deep slumber. Our own trees do not change; they transcend the seasons, their sense of time eternal, broken only by times of drought.
I’m a winter baby, born amongst snow and screams and goofy 80’s hair. Almost 21 years later and a continent away I listen to winter blues and float, tucked up in the corner of a chilly cafe, face pressed to the cold window. Students stride in, hidden away in cosy winter coats, wielding broken umbrellas, raindrops falling from their hair. I am here because the sperm-that-could met an egg with a vision. I don’t remember this stage of my development. I don’t remember the nappies, tears or birthday cakes. I remember the lamb that died and crying because I had snow in my stockings. I remember tumbling and turning like I was drowning, I remember when I realised I wasn’t a character in a book and I remember running. I never had any idea why, I just knew I had to go and go and go.
Cold air is harder to breath. It burns my nose and catches in my throat. Still my feet pound the footpath. Eventually the feeling of my lunch churning too high in my belly and the absence of oxygen in my brain brings me to a stop. The wind roars tremendously overhead, unabated. It carries me so high it’s like divine intervention, except I’m not on a hill or mountainside, or alone in a cave.
Generally I do everything slowly, without particular purposefulness or direction. I ponder, philosophise and rationalise. I walk here and there aimlessly, I cruise the footpath on two wheels. I watch the winter, observe the people. But sometimes I run. Not away from anything or after anyone, but because I can and the free winters air demands it. Because I need to remember why oxygen is necessary, my life depends upon it.
P.S. I totally dig this song, share it with the world Laura Marling - ghosts http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I-vbyIkkHiQ
Monday, May 18, 2009
Extraordinary accidents
I keep accidently hailing taxis when I stand on the side of the road. Perhaps there is some kind of road-crossing etiquette that I’m not aware of, perhaps it’s my super power. In any case, I don’t wave my arms at all, but they appear out of nowhere when I don’t need them, and I’m sure if I did stand on the side of the road waving my arms frantically, no one but the police would stop for me.
I also accidently used the last of the milk this evening. As I poured the last drop into my glass I heard a faint “We haven’t got much milk” drift towards me from the other room. I shrug and say I’ll go and buy some in the morning. I know in the morning, I’m going to grumble about the idiot who used the last of the milk.
But the worst of today’s accidents was the letter I accidently posted. Letters provide one with a false sense of anonymity. They enable you to expand on your usual repertoire of conversation. They are dangerous things. I wrote this letter to be read, so I could say the things I have never said and chase the festering words from the depths of my heart. It was a letter so raw with honesty it’s comparable to finding yourself naked in the middle of your class. And then you remember you walked there and took your clothes off voluntarily. Certainly this was some extraordinary accident.
Except of course it wasn’t accidental at all. But this doesn’t mean that when it fell through the envelope slot I didn’t faint metaphorically and bash the evil red box on the side, trying in vain to stick my hand down its throat and retrieve my lost baggage. I knew it was an accident, and that letter should not have been posted. But its finders-keepers and the letter doesn’t belong to me anymore.
I’m a history student, so if anyone should know the value of the past it’s me. And yet I run through hoops and jump hurdles to avoid old feelings I’d rather forget. The thing is that the past is the bricks upon which the present is laid, it doesn’t go away. And you can choose to tell your story however you like, but secrets are silent burdens that take on a life of their own. Sometimes I feel like I live in a world of bricks and mortar, within which I contain myself, for protection, for comfort. Tonight I blasted an honest hole in a wall of deceit. I’d be lying if I said that I’m not scared. I’d be lying if I said this was the last time I keep a secret.
But in a moment I felt both liberated and petrified. Such is life.
So if you want my advice, free yourself of that baggage, post that letter. Then move house so you don’t have to read the response!
I also accidently used the last of the milk this evening. As I poured the last drop into my glass I heard a faint “We haven’t got much milk” drift towards me from the other room. I shrug and say I’ll go and buy some in the morning. I know in the morning, I’m going to grumble about the idiot who used the last of the milk.
But the worst of today’s accidents was the letter I accidently posted. Letters provide one with a false sense of anonymity. They enable you to expand on your usual repertoire of conversation. They are dangerous things. I wrote this letter to be read, so I could say the things I have never said and chase the festering words from the depths of my heart. It was a letter so raw with honesty it’s comparable to finding yourself naked in the middle of your class. And then you remember you walked there and took your clothes off voluntarily. Certainly this was some extraordinary accident.
Except of course it wasn’t accidental at all. But this doesn’t mean that when it fell through the envelope slot I didn’t faint metaphorically and bash the evil red box on the side, trying in vain to stick my hand down its throat and retrieve my lost baggage. I knew it was an accident, and that letter should not have been posted. But its finders-keepers and the letter doesn’t belong to me anymore.
I’m a history student, so if anyone should know the value of the past it’s me. And yet I run through hoops and jump hurdles to avoid old feelings I’d rather forget. The thing is that the past is the bricks upon which the present is laid, it doesn’t go away. And you can choose to tell your story however you like, but secrets are silent burdens that take on a life of their own. Sometimes I feel like I live in a world of bricks and mortar, within which I contain myself, for protection, for comfort. Tonight I blasted an honest hole in a wall of deceit. I’d be lying if I said that I’m not scared. I’d be lying if I said this was the last time I keep a secret.
But in a moment I felt both liberated and petrified. Such is life.
So if you want my advice, free yourself of that baggage, post that letter. Then move house so you don’t have to read the response!
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
A successful day, a new concept..
Today was like a blue moon, a day so rare in my life they are practically mythical.. a day for getting things done. It seems once I decided on one thing and stopped the wheel of perpetual deliberation that has been spinning out of control, I got busy with that to-do list and just got on with things for once. Its refreshing.
So refreshing, in fact, that I started to get a little creative, and decided that rather than getting that essay done.. I could try out something new.
And so here we are, trying something a little bit refreshing in this blog - Minute Movies. This is my directorial debut, taking Paint to a whole new level, for the first ( and possibly the last) film lasting under a minute, on The Adventures of YellowBetty and I...
... tell me what you think :)
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Notebookery
The moon was a great big biscuit, hanging out in a purple sky and I was two eyes, two legs and one persistent, pumping heart, streaming through the evening air with Yellow Betty. Purple jeans, yellow headphones, blue backpack, green shoes and defiant grin. The universe conspired and its truths were revealed to me.
I learnt everything I know from movies. And books. And trains. I know a lot of things. But I only know these things that I know. Come to think of it, there is so much I don’t know. Here are some things I know.
Drinking chocolate milk makes your hair brown, coke makes you gay, but eating crusts never curled anyone’s hair.
The number of men carrying flowers on trains increases exponentially on the eve of mother’s day.
Trees liked to be climbed, it’s like getting tickled. They weep when you cut them because they can’t run away. So they rain down leaves instead.
The best way to see the world is through a kalidescope, it tells no lies.
Everywhere we look there are white lines. Close your eyes, open your mind, your heart will follow.
We are tiny. Absolutely miniscule. The universe is huge. Like huuuggggeee. But some days I feel almost as huge.
God is just one way of accepting your powerlessness. It doesn’t work. I’m sorry.
I would be suicidal if I believed in heaven.
The reasons life is worth living are manifested in brief but ecstatic moments of sheer happiness.
You have to trawl through a lot of average and below average and downright horrid days, but it’s always worth it. Always.
The music of my heart sings a song no one’s ever heard in its entirety. I firmly believe that if anyone ever does, I will spontaneously combust. I hope to disprove this hypothesis.
This world will probably turn me into a bitter old spinster before I’ve ever been young and happily spouting love and sonnets like a teenage teapot.
My hands are at ease in my pockets with their lint, pen lids and sand. They get cold on their own.
My love of clashing colours is probably just my intellectual rationale for bad fashion. Deal with it.
The theory of all things has been overtheorised. My brain has a theory, it’s called post-post-post theory.
I avoid contradictions like the plaque. But they are never far away. They haunt me. They want my soul.
Birds. Their offences against me are various, but I hate them because they can fly away, flutter high in the air with no destination at all.
I have no idea where a single amazing idea begins. It’s more amazing to see where it ends up.
I want love to win. I want to change the world. I want peace and I think we can all agree here.
If I can’t break the mould, I can at least jab at the edges. And learn to blast down walls.
These are my whispers against the roar of the world; they are the facts of life... or they are the random scribbling in my notebook... I can’t exactly remember which.
I learnt everything I know from movies. And books. And trains. I know a lot of things. But I only know these things that I know. Come to think of it, there is so much I don’t know. Here are some things I know.
Drinking chocolate milk makes your hair brown, coke makes you gay, but eating crusts never curled anyone’s hair.
The number of men carrying flowers on trains increases exponentially on the eve of mother’s day.
Trees liked to be climbed, it’s like getting tickled. They weep when you cut them because they can’t run away. So they rain down leaves instead.
The best way to see the world is through a kalidescope, it tells no lies.
Everywhere we look there are white lines. Close your eyes, open your mind, your heart will follow.
We are tiny. Absolutely miniscule. The universe is huge. Like huuuggggeee. But some days I feel almost as huge.
God is just one way of accepting your powerlessness. It doesn’t work. I’m sorry.
I would be suicidal if I believed in heaven.
The reasons life is worth living are manifested in brief but ecstatic moments of sheer happiness.
You have to trawl through a lot of average and below average and downright horrid days, but it’s always worth it. Always.
The music of my heart sings a song no one’s ever heard in its entirety. I firmly believe that if anyone ever does, I will spontaneously combust. I hope to disprove this hypothesis.
This world will probably turn me into a bitter old spinster before I’ve ever been young and happily spouting love and sonnets like a teenage teapot.
My hands are at ease in my pockets with their lint, pen lids and sand. They get cold on their own.
My love of clashing colours is probably just my intellectual rationale for bad fashion. Deal with it.
The theory of all things has been overtheorised. My brain has a theory, it’s called post-post-post theory.
I avoid contradictions like the plaque. But they are never far away. They haunt me. They want my soul.
Birds. Their offences against me are various, but I hate them because they can fly away, flutter high in the air with no destination at all.
I have no idea where a single amazing idea begins. It’s more amazing to see where it ends up.
I want love to win. I want to change the world. I want peace and I think we can all agree here.
If I can’t break the mould, I can at least jab at the edges. And learn to blast down walls.
These are my whispers against the roar of the world; they are the facts of life... or they are the random scribbling in my notebook... I can’t exactly remember which.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
While I was walking, I dreamt of 100 other places to be
I wander the streets of Rome at night. Running my hand along the wall, walking blindly through its maze like streets. From the Pantheon to St Pauls Cathedral, a million different answers to the simple question why? The Vatican states its power, I weave in and out of the large stone pillars, turn my back on it and follow the river out of Rome, in search of vineyards, gladiators and truth.
In the early morning light I clamber along the large, smooth rocks. Battered by years of storms, wind and the waves of the Indian Ocean, they dot the cost from point to point and create pools of life to be explored. It’s so quiet and calm that anything seems possible, miles away from cities and towns, a hiker steadily moving forward.
A great big expanse of land lies before me, its dusty and red and spans north for days and days. My car and I zoom along, quick as possible into the north, where the trees are sparse and the sky is wide.
Up stair after stair after stair, around and around in a tight coil, up an old, rickety ladder, through a tiny hole and here I am, finally at the highest point of the old Dutch country church. From the turret of its castle like tower I can see the Amstel river winding its way along, at home in its banks.
Oh to be on the road. To be swaggering about the countryside, backpack and boots, sky and road, endless open road. To follow a whim and freely move, wherever, whenever, whyever I please. To carry only the necessities, some cash and hope. A great big burning hope, a hope fed by the open road and its elusive possibilities. The lonely traveller is not nearly as lonely as a lone soul in a big city. A sense of purpose guides his feet, he’s seeing the world. He finds faith like a religious person, in life itself. He dabbles in the intoxicating illusion of moving forward, passes life by rather than watching it pass him by, leaves and returns the same, but changed.
I wander the streets of my suburb dreaming I am in 100 different faraway places, and wondering all the while, what’s so wrong with being here?
Friday, May 1, 2009
de-stress, re-address
I’m frreee to do what I want, any old time... except right now, coz I have 1001 other things to do, and this is how that song, really should have gone..
I need to chill out for a second or I’m going to implode. I feel cramped, blocked, deaf, confused, bewildered, like a rabbit in the headlights or a guinea pig high on pot. I feel like if I was asked which was up and which was down, I’d say, “Martha ofcourse.” The little Brain Function Operator inside my head has sat down on his little stool and buried his head in his overworked hands. He’s down to the bone, empty, alone, over it, in need of a really good cheeseburger. And maybe some fries.
Whilst on the train between young female passenger A reading Twilight and young female passenger B reading Twilight, I found myself fretting once again about the state of that essay I handed in 2 days ago that was worth 45% and will probably earn me about half of that, if not less. It was more or less utter shite, it annoys me because I feel I let myself down and it wasn’t through lack of trying. It’s such a great weight in my head that I have trouble lifting my arms to do anything other than support my throbbing head.
It was full steam ahead into total meltdown, and my poor little Brain Function Operator let go of the steering wheel, turned off the engine and called the trade union. No one should have to work 24-7.
It’s completely ridiculous how caught up I get about an essay, which doesn’t even register on the radar in the scheme of things. Yesterday, it turned me into a giant ball of stress. In a few weeks when I get it back, I’ll be angry at myself, and maybe even my lecturer because it couldn’t possibly be my fault. When I get my grade at the end of the semester, I may sigh and mourn that I didn’t try harder. In four months time, chances are I won’t even remember it at all.
Neither God nor the moon cares how much of a total cock up that essay was, so how did I come to put so much importance on something that has next to no bearing on my life at all? That essay doesn’t feed me, clothe me or shelter me. It doesn’t keep me sane, in fact it does very much the opposite, and it never tried to make me happy. Writing it was like pulling teeth, tearing hair out strand by strand, physically abusing my Brain Function Operator until he couldn’t take it anymore. I got so pissed off that I couldn’t think clearly, and the sole reason for that was because I was stressing about 10 pieces of paper and some sad, contrived words.
It was time to repair the engine.
Step 1: Consume chocolate.
I don’t know what people did in the days before this fine, sugary goodness became available to the masses in such great quantities as it is today. I think we should force feed chocolate to angry people until they smile. I think we should pay the people who produce it more than we pay the companies who sell it too, but for today, I’m just thankful for its existence.
Step 2: Hit the Beach.
In the scheme of the great blue vast ocean, I am nothing. I stand on the windy beach, waste deep in the waves and let its power slap against me. The wind chills me to the core and the water offers an icy warm retreat on this fine autumn day. The salt seeps into the very core of me, stinging, healing. I spread my arms wide above my head and let the waves pull me wherever they should like. If they ate me up today all that would be left of me was a scooter standing in the carpark, 10 pages of crappy essay and this blog. I wouldn’t be sad.
Step 3: Lie in the sun.
I remember now what’s important. Breathing. It kind of takes precedence over everything else. Smiling, laughing, learning, loving, being... writing good essays doesn’t feature.
The rush of air into my brain wakes my Brain Function Operator. “Finnnallly!” he says, as he flicks the switch. It’s all systems go again.
With a hop, skip and a jump I dance my way down the beach, because it’s important and that essay was not.
I need to chill out for a second or I’m going to implode. I feel cramped, blocked, deaf, confused, bewildered, like a rabbit in the headlights or a guinea pig high on pot. I feel like if I was asked which was up and which was down, I’d say, “Martha ofcourse.” The little Brain Function Operator inside my head has sat down on his little stool and buried his head in his overworked hands. He’s down to the bone, empty, alone, over it, in need of a really good cheeseburger. And maybe some fries.
Whilst on the train between young female passenger A reading Twilight and young female passenger B reading Twilight, I found myself fretting once again about the state of that essay I handed in 2 days ago that was worth 45% and will probably earn me about half of that, if not less. It was more or less utter shite, it annoys me because I feel I let myself down and it wasn’t through lack of trying. It’s such a great weight in my head that I have trouble lifting my arms to do anything other than support my throbbing head.
It was full steam ahead into total meltdown, and my poor little Brain Function Operator let go of the steering wheel, turned off the engine and called the trade union. No one should have to work 24-7.
It’s completely ridiculous how caught up I get about an essay, which doesn’t even register on the radar in the scheme of things. Yesterday, it turned me into a giant ball of stress. In a few weeks when I get it back, I’ll be angry at myself, and maybe even my lecturer because it couldn’t possibly be my fault. When I get my grade at the end of the semester, I may sigh and mourn that I didn’t try harder. In four months time, chances are I won’t even remember it at all.
Neither God nor the moon cares how much of a total cock up that essay was, so how did I come to put so much importance on something that has next to no bearing on my life at all? That essay doesn’t feed me, clothe me or shelter me. It doesn’t keep me sane, in fact it does very much the opposite, and it never tried to make me happy. Writing it was like pulling teeth, tearing hair out strand by strand, physically abusing my Brain Function Operator until he couldn’t take it anymore. I got so pissed off that I couldn’t think clearly, and the sole reason for that was because I was stressing about 10 pieces of paper and some sad, contrived words.
It was time to repair the engine.
Step 1: Consume chocolate.
I don’t know what people did in the days before this fine, sugary goodness became available to the masses in such great quantities as it is today. I think we should force feed chocolate to angry people until they smile. I think we should pay the people who produce it more than we pay the companies who sell it too, but for today, I’m just thankful for its existence.
Step 2: Hit the Beach.
In the scheme of the great blue vast ocean, I am nothing. I stand on the windy beach, waste deep in the waves and let its power slap against me. The wind chills me to the core and the water offers an icy warm retreat on this fine autumn day. The salt seeps into the very core of me, stinging, healing. I spread my arms wide above my head and let the waves pull me wherever they should like. If they ate me up today all that would be left of me was a scooter standing in the carpark, 10 pages of crappy essay and this blog. I wouldn’t be sad.
Step 3: Lie in the sun.
I remember now what’s important. Breathing. It kind of takes precedence over everything else. Smiling, laughing, learning, loving, being... writing good essays doesn’t feature.
The rush of air into my brain wakes my Brain Function Operator. “Finnnallly!” he says, as he flicks the switch. It’s all systems go again.
With a hop, skip and a jump I dance my way down the beach, because it’s important and that essay was not.
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