Sunday, 7 November 2010
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
"Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering -- this is an all-weather beatitude for gloom in general and fairly salutary daytime advice for everyone. But at three o’clock in the morning, a forgotten package has the same tragic importance as a death sentence, and the cure doesn’t work -- and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day. " - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Amen.
Amen.
Friday, 1 October 2010
Sweet Heart. Sick Body Part.
I am beginning to feel the years creep up on me. Creep up on my body, to be accurate, actually. My mind continues to stay simple enough. My problem-solving skills still pretty much involve the 3 easy steps of Repression, Passive Aggression and then eventually, Indifference or Boredom. And I am obstinate about always having the window seat.
But my body, it has begun to tell.
Everything's begun to droop juust that bit. I can no longer bludgeon my metabolism with sacks of potatoes and my eyesight is now a big ol' laugh. I feel like my body used to be this big quarterback of a thing - strong, stress-absorbent, formidable even. I could walk ridiculous distances, eat myself unholy, smoke my lungs sooty and then wash it down with a tall glass of aerated anything, no problem. But after 25 years of my punching it, it's noiselessly fallen backwards.
It feels tired and uncared for. It feels withered and drained of all that is young and good and fresh and renewable. Suddenly I am aware of its limits, its wincing and when it is telling me to put. that. bagel. down. I am terrifyingly conscious of the incredible splintery nature of the physical form. Not just mine, either.
The skin is this thin, tearable material. Everything inside is so soft and easily squishable and connected with almost unbearable delicateness. When my heels chafe against rough ground, I am aware. When I'm fitting my spine around the rude train lady with a heightened sense of entitlement, fine tickles of stress run across it so accusingly. The other day I was looking out a bus window and saw a couple of little boys play punching each other. I stared, fascinated by how it would take a single blow dealt at just the angle to kill one of them. But more importantly how I knew it wouldn't.
You cannot acknowledge life's fragility without being awestruck by its resilience. It shouldn't be possible to not die almost the instant we're born.
When we perish in car crashes, fall down and break bones or develop heart conditions, we're shocked and outraged. 'How could this be?' How could this NOT be?! These things were much more likely than years and years of staying untouched. Being able to keep as a whole, being able to continue to be alive. We're essentially bags of liquid and squiddy bits slung on a skeleton and we're still here.
It would have to be something else that's making us endure.
But my body, it has begun to tell.
Everything's begun to droop juust that bit. I can no longer bludgeon my metabolism with sacks of potatoes and my eyesight is now a big ol' laugh. I feel like my body used to be this big quarterback of a thing - strong, stress-absorbent, formidable even. I could walk ridiculous distances, eat myself unholy, smoke my lungs sooty and then wash it down with a tall glass of aerated anything, no problem. But after 25 years of my punching it, it's noiselessly fallen backwards.
It feels tired and uncared for. It feels withered and drained of all that is young and good and fresh and renewable. Suddenly I am aware of its limits, its wincing and when it is telling me to put. that. bagel. down. I am terrifyingly conscious of the incredible splintery nature of the physical form. Not just mine, either.
The skin is this thin, tearable material. Everything inside is so soft and easily squishable and connected with almost unbearable delicateness. When my heels chafe against rough ground, I am aware. When I'm fitting my spine around the rude train lady with a heightened sense of entitlement, fine tickles of stress run across it so accusingly. The other day I was looking out a bus window and saw a couple of little boys play punching each other. I stared, fascinated by how it would take a single blow dealt at just the angle to kill one of them. But more importantly how I knew it wouldn't.
You cannot acknowledge life's fragility without being awestruck by its resilience. It shouldn't be possible to not die almost the instant we're born.
When we perish in car crashes, fall down and break bones or develop heart conditions, we're shocked and outraged. 'How could this be?' How could this NOT be?! These things were much more likely than years and years of staying untouched. Being able to keep as a whole, being able to continue to be alive. We're essentially bags of liquid and squiddy bits slung on a skeleton and we're still here.
It would have to be something else that's making us endure.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Friday, 27 August 2010
Well, hello again.
I think this is the longest I haven't posted on this blog in about a year and a half. I just haven't had a lot to say somehow. Been pondering life, work, weight and love with no iron conclusions, only ironic ones. I have also been under the weather, then travelling some and otherwise mucking about with work, not doing, mucking. I have recently discovered a love for cooking...potatoes, so far. I believe I am keeping the tater industry afloat in my part of the world with fried potatoes, potato pakodas, potato salad, potato vegetable and potato parathas. Correspondingly all weighing scales are being avoided with great care. This may seem most mundane and it is, just not in my world. In my world, it's like the collective relative brigade can now take a great big shit of relief - "she can cook, she can be married". Now if I'd just start combing my hair and giving a toss, I'll be well on my way to being hitched in no time at all!
Anyhow, that's about it really... here's a little more about how I've been spending my time. These pictures are about as organised as I am.
The potatoes I made today. They turned out quite well in that they were edible with no muffled gagging sounds emanating from the bathroom thereafter.
The wizards of UU have decided to play football and a dangerous orc is the appointed coach. Except he will not tear his team's heads off as is traditionally expected of his community but will scare them into compliance with his frightening erudition. As is Pratchett's own tradition, the book is a poignant scream. I did notice that he has begun to resort to puns that are cheaper than some of my friends (you know who you are) and I did stop to wonder if this is him degenerating or me starting to outgrow him. Scary thoughts both.
Sam sand dunes, Jaisalmer, Rajasthan.
En route to Mehrangarh Fort overlooking the old city, Jodhpur, Rajasthan.
Hotel Pushkar Palace, Pushkar, Rajasthan.
Feisty granny showing me I'm not the only one with a camera around there. They're not in the picture but her grandkids were facepalming furiously :)
Pushkar, Rajasthan.
This is exactly my mum's expression when I break out my threadbare harem pants. She's hoping any one of these days I'll get real. Joke's on her.
Pushkar, Rajasthan.
My monkey friends outside the popular Gayatri temple. Getting up here took a 30 minute trek and the nice corpulent pandit asked if I could read or not when I took my shoes off in the wrong place.
Pushkar, Rajasthan.
Yes I read her second book based on the first. Does she always make sense? No. Can she be a tiresome statistic-spouting paranoid idiot often? Yes yes. Is she razor-sharp, funny, tart and do her words sink like hooks into me anyway? Yes, they do. What I like about her is she belongs only to herself. Her work is self-indulgent but it always tries (and often fails) earnestly to be something more. I like that. Read Committed if you want to journey through somebody else's premarital neuroses so you feel better about yours.
Hannibal Luca. He was attacked by a couple of dogs a few weeks ago when he pranced up to them for a friendly butt sniff. Has to be kept muzzled so doesn't lick his battle wounds. Enjoys wearing it entirely too much if you ask me. Freak dog.
This is my foray into Dickens' world and already I'm breaking out in sweats. A very dehydrating experience. Let it never be said that my sentence construction is too long and cumbersome to keep up with. For I will show you Charles Dickens. Stand down.
One of us is physically sick here and the other one is just sick in an everyday overall sort of way.
You want to gently suggest I take another lengthy hiatus don't you?
Anyhow, that's about it really... here's a little more about how I've been spending my time. These pictures are about as organised as I am.
The potatoes I made today. They turned out quite well in that they were edible with no muffled gagging sounds emanating from the bathroom thereafter.
The wizards of UU have decided to play football and a dangerous orc is the appointed coach. Except he will not tear his team's heads off as is traditionally expected of his community but will scare them into compliance with his frightening erudition. As is Pratchett's own tradition, the book is a poignant scream. I did notice that he has begun to resort to puns that are cheaper than some of my friends (you know who you are) and I did stop to wonder if this is him degenerating or me starting to outgrow him. Scary thoughts both.
Sam sand dunes, Jaisalmer, Rajasthan.
En route to Mehrangarh Fort overlooking the old city, Jodhpur, Rajasthan.
Hotel Pushkar Palace, Pushkar, Rajasthan.
Feisty granny showing me I'm not the only one with a camera around there. They're not in the picture but her grandkids were facepalming furiously :)Pushkar, Rajasthan.
This is exactly my mum's expression when I break out my threadbare harem pants. She's hoping any one of these days I'll get real. Joke's on her.Pushkar, Rajasthan.
My monkey friends outside the popular Gayatri temple. Getting up here took a 30 minute trek and the nice corpulent pandit asked if I could read or not when I took my shoes off in the wrong place.Pushkar, Rajasthan.
Yes I read her second book based on the first. Does she always make sense? No. Can she be a tiresome statistic-spouting paranoid idiot often? Yes yes. Is she razor-sharp, funny, tart and do her words sink like hooks into me anyway? Yes, they do. What I like about her is she belongs only to herself. Her work is self-indulgent but it always tries (and often fails) earnestly to be something more. I like that. Read Committed if you want to journey through somebody else's premarital neuroses so you feel better about yours.
Hannibal Luca. He was attacked by a couple of dogs a few weeks ago when he pranced up to them for a friendly butt sniff. Has to be kept muzzled so doesn't lick his battle wounds. Enjoys wearing it entirely too much if you ask me. Freak dog.
This is my foray into Dickens' world and already I'm breaking out in sweats. A very dehydrating experience. Let it never be said that my sentence construction is too long and cumbersome to keep up with. For I will show you Charles Dickens. Stand down.
One of us is physically sick here and the other one is just sick in an everyday overall sort of way.You want to gently suggest I take another lengthy hiatus don't you?
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