These sorts of things are always controversial- let this not end up with barely concealed vitriol being spat around like venom, as it did the other night...
At Deni's there was a discussion about to what extent males and females differ in their behaviour due to hormonal and biological differences. K seemed to angrily deny and reject all of Deni's viewpoints...
Of course we do not want to be limited by our biological sex, but it is impossible to deny that males and female humans are slaves to their biology, and a conscious will must be exerted to overcome our instincts; just watch testosterone-fuelled gaggles of men leaving the football stadium after a match. More men murder and commit violent acts. Female violence tends to be driven by jealous rage- competition for the same man, and the killing methods more calculated and sneaky, or else an outburst following years of patriarchal repression- the murder of a cruel father, or an abusive husband. But even this is rare in comparison to male violence. War and so-called terrorist acts are almost always carried out and instigated by men, are they not?
Deni was saying that she is more wary of being joky and flippant with women, at the pub for example, than she would be with men. Women are more likely to perceive insult or sleight, men see the attention as teasing or flirtation, part of the game of love.
K denied this, said it was Deni's prejudices or years of living within a patriarchal and oppressive society warping her perception. She claimed she is wrong to treat men and women so differently or to have so different expectations of both sexes- but expectation is bred from experience is it not?
In the more progressive world... hippies on shrooms... 'we're are equal and love one another' etc, it is all perhaps slightly foggier, and one may feel certain that differences don't exist, or are else just like some gross fungus infecting mainstream society, which with enlightenment, can easily be purged.
In less-enlightened groups you can see competition for mating just as though it was a nature documentary, and it may be amusing to overlay a David Attenborough narration over a brawl outside a pub- fist-fights over a woman. Here the animal instincts are clear. But even among the more sophisticated our species, you can see less-obviously attractive men winning over women with more subtle beguilement- charm, humour, gentle suggestiveness "Come back to mine to share a bottle of wine?" etc. This is perhaps the same as the sneaky, intelligent, but less weighty chimp, that mates with the Alpha-female while the Alpha is distracted. Is that a really horrible way to look at people? It seems impossible not to.
For years I thought- I will just behave as though I was a man within the mysterious twin realms of dating and love. Why should I put up a "chase" or pretend to feel other than I do. If I want someone, they will know about it. I'm a modern woman. I even hate the word woman. I'm a human being, and I'm not defined by having a womb. But this seems to not be working so well. The ones I reject out of disinterest become beguiled by me, and the ones I am attracted to become disinterested by my availability and willingness. Must love really therefore be an act and a game? Some bitter, erotic play on the stage of life?
All this said, I resent this so much. I do not want to be defined by being female, yet it seems I am whether I choose it or not. It has only brought me the raw end of the deal in terms of this "human experience." Less respect, fewer economic prospects, and the main-caregiver role was assigned to me without so much as a discussion, it was just how the world works. Were I a father, my life would not have been so completely hijacked by the "wonderful, enriching" duties of child-rearing. But perhaps motherhood is the ultimate privilege of women, you say? No- more privileged is to have your child lovingly raised by someone else while you are free to pursue your own dreams, and dip your toes in the parent-experience when it takes your fancy. I have no "I" that is not intrinsically bound to my children.
So, yes, I would rather our culture led us to develop a more gender-equal society, where one's life-expectations were not so clearly mapped out from those first baby-days, when relatives come to the hospital and exclaim "A girl! How lovely!" and unknowing, mewling little baby with thrashing arms, is straighjacketed into a little pink babygrow with "little princess" emblazoned in glitter letters on the front. Know your place little pretty one.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RD9xK9smth4
Saturday, 22 April 2017
Thursday, 29 September 2016
we are twenty six, here we are.
Dear E,
Thank you for your card and message. It is always pleasant to tighten the links between us. I guess it has been an eventful year for the both of us and circumstances have kept us apart.
My baby is called Isabel, she's four months old now, very calm and serene, the opposite of boisterous, inquiring L. She is like a living, animatronic doll, little head swiveling around, placid blue eyes taking everything in.
It would be wonderful if you came for the weekend, We could wander over the moors or through the ancient woodland on the edge of the city. I would love to take in all that beauty and nature with you while hearing about your life.
I have finally started living a fuller life, and I feel far less strangled by obligation. I have been going out more, and met this devilish little half-french boy called C, he's rather ostentatious and camp, ie my weird type, but kind of sensitive and shy at the same time. He "does poetry" and read some at a stand-up night last week and we spent the rest of the night sneaking off from the group and kissing in dark corners. It sounds stupid, but it was rather thrilling.
I arranged a date for us, and took him to see the alpacas. (Perhaps the alpacas are the inexplicable centre around which my life revolves?) We ended up sitting on a fallen tree that spanned a woody valley, with a fairly high drop, drinking wine and kissing and risking, well, not our lives, but broken ankles perhaps. Fortunately, neither of us fell.
Unfortunately, he only wants fun and not a relationship, but I suppose I may have struggled to picture him involved in my mum-life. Perhaps it is better to keep him as a sneaky aside.
In any case, I think of you and keep you dans mon coeur.
With love...
Thank you for your card and message. It is always pleasant to tighten the links between us. I guess it has been an eventful year for the both of us and circumstances have kept us apart.
My baby is called Isabel, she's four months old now, very calm and serene, the opposite of boisterous, inquiring L. She is like a living, animatronic doll, little head swiveling around, placid blue eyes taking everything in.
It would be wonderful if you came for the weekend, We could wander over the moors or through the ancient woodland on the edge of the city. I would love to take in all that beauty and nature with you while hearing about your life.
I have finally started living a fuller life, and I feel far less strangled by obligation. I have been going out more, and met this devilish little half-french boy called C, he's rather ostentatious and camp, ie my weird type, but kind of sensitive and shy at the same time. He "does poetry" and read some at a stand-up night last week and we spent the rest of the night sneaking off from the group and kissing in dark corners. It sounds stupid, but it was rather thrilling.
I arranged a date for us, and took him to see the alpacas. (Perhaps the alpacas are the inexplicable centre around which my life revolves?) We ended up sitting on a fallen tree that spanned a woody valley, with a fairly high drop, drinking wine and kissing and risking, well, not our lives, but broken ankles perhaps. Fortunately, neither of us fell.
Unfortunately, he only wants fun and not a relationship, but I suppose I may have struggled to picture him involved in my mum-life. Perhaps it is better to keep him as a sneaky aside.
In any case, I think of you and keep you dans mon coeur.
With love...
Sunday, 7 December 2014
seven billion (plus one) humans on the planet (my son)
My baby is asleep so I am grasping at this opportunity to take up my long-neglected blog. I could be putting dirty plates into the dishwasher and tidying up the general disorder around me, but this seems more important- sorting out the disorder in my head.
So in the interim while this blog lay dormant, I got pregnant and had a baby, and now that baby is five months old and slumbering in a little chair that has a several settings for different speeds of automatic rocking and a whole repertoire of inane lullaby songs. So maybe this will now become one of those self-satisfied parenting blogs where the mother has subsumed her identity to her child? Or else the child has become her status symbol, along with her expensive clothes and car- her "look where I got in this game of life- I have moved up a level, I have achieved success as a mother! I have beaten the ticking time bomb of the biological clock! I have unlocked a new level on the game!"
But no, I'm being hateful. I'm sure no one actually thinks of their child in those terms. Motherly love is unselfish and beautiful, it dulls pain and gladdens your heart. There is nothing more pleasing that watching your child grow and learn, laugh and smile.
I have a friend who has known me since I was a teenager who reacted a little oddly to the birth of my baby. We'd drifted apart a little due to living in different cities, but still managed a meet up about once every six months, but once my baby came, she turned down meeting me on several occasions and said in explanation that she didn't like being around babies as she felt extremely lacking in maternal feelings and seemingly extended this other others' offspring. She also added the argument that having a baby is the worst thing you can do for our mother earth at this point in time, in terms of carbon footprint and the ecological damage an added human to the sum total does in their lifetime. (After all, my baby might have babies and so spawn future generations which add to the problem of overpopulation…)
While I agree with this, I wouldn't say that this makes my baby a hateful eyesore that it is intolerable to be around. He's a cute little thing, and now he's here, the only thing to be done is to bring him up in the best way possible; and inflict as little psychological damage upon him as possible.
Oh- he's stirring and blinking at me sleepily. He's screwing up his face and squealing and his little bottom lip is trembling as he pauses his crying to stare at me accusingly- time to cut this short…
So in the interim while this blog lay dormant, I got pregnant and had a baby, and now that baby is five months old and slumbering in a little chair that has a several settings for different speeds of automatic rocking and a whole repertoire of inane lullaby songs. So maybe this will now become one of those self-satisfied parenting blogs where the mother has subsumed her identity to her child? Or else the child has become her status symbol, along with her expensive clothes and car- her "look where I got in this game of life- I have moved up a level, I have achieved success as a mother! I have beaten the ticking time bomb of the biological clock! I have unlocked a new level on the game!"
But no, I'm being hateful. I'm sure no one actually thinks of their child in those terms. Motherly love is unselfish and beautiful, it dulls pain and gladdens your heart. There is nothing more pleasing that watching your child grow and learn, laugh and smile.
I have a friend who has known me since I was a teenager who reacted a little oddly to the birth of my baby. We'd drifted apart a little due to living in different cities, but still managed a meet up about once every six months, but once my baby came, she turned down meeting me on several occasions and said in explanation that she didn't like being around babies as she felt extremely lacking in maternal feelings and seemingly extended this other others' offspring. She also added the argument that having a baby is the worst thing you can do for our mother earth at this point in time, in terms of carbon footprint and the ecological damage an added human to the sum total does in their lifetime. (After all, my baby might have babies and so spawn future generations which add to the problem of overpopulation…)
While I agree with this, I wouldn't say that this makes my baby a hateful eyesore that it is intolerable to be around. He's a cute little thing, and now he's here, the only thing to be done is to bring him up in the best way possible; and inflict as little psychological damage upon him as possible.
Oh- he's stirring and blinking at me sleepily. He's screwing up his face and squealing and his little bottom lip is trembling as he pauses his crying to stare at me accusingly- time to cut this short…
Thursday, 30 May 2013
do people seriously still belive in hell?/ persistance of the soul/ liberation in friendship
Hey! Here's another letter to Emili for my records and your curious eyes:
There's this horrible oppressivee mist on everything, it's sluggish, like the heat of the jungle, it's not cold and ice-blasting like chrystalline winter, it's just humid and rotten. It's shit summer weather.
The book you sent me is called "words of a believer" and is written by a Christian, inspired by literary fervour to impart his wisdoms to others. I imagine him, bright and jolly, pointing at everything and declaring it God's work. I've not read it yet, just skimmed through:
"when you see a man being led away to prison, do not be so hasty to say: "that's a man who's committed crimes against his fellow man"- because maybe he is infact a man who wanted to serve mankind, who is being punished by his oppressors for it."
There's also a passage comparing mankind to a hive of bees and urging us to share our honey with those bees in need. Well, I guess it makes sense.
I find it astounding that so many people sign up so wholeheartedly to religious doctrine. When one considers the entire world's human population, the nonbelievers are really in the minority. I'm up for keeping an open mind, but blindly following the rule book of one group or another seems to me as closed as shutting one's mind off entirely from the spiritual.
It's the whole "hell" thing that does it for me. I find it frightful that some of our friends, otherwise friendly and reasonable people, genuinely hold onto and absorb themselves in this belief which consigns us (me at least) to "hell"- to eternal punishment, while they anticipate a future of basking in divinal light and love for themselves! Can people seriously be so ridiculously stupid?
Perhaps organised religion will slowly die out over time, killed by modernity and the rationality of our mechanised, urban existance? In a way, it would be a shame.
I'm particulaly interested in tribal cultures and beliefs, voodoo for instance, the long-held belief in the power of "the spirits" and the dualism of our world co-existing alongside a spirtual world of the dead. I can't remember if I already wrote/spoke to you about my experiences talking to a medium?
Are we really just a complex machine, powered by the brain? Surely we can't be solely made of physical, material stuff? There are studies which have measured the weight of the soul, a very slight reduction in mass after it leaves the body (or maybe just the weight of a death-exhalation?)
The dead body is made up of the same material stuff, just minus the "life energy". If I'm going to believe in anything, it's this: Something cannot become nothing. Every physical atom in the human body persists, just in another form- so why not the "life energy" too?
Perhaps God is just another word for all the "life energy" in the universe. It must be a steady amount, forever getting re-used and re-cycled.
If we're all a part of the same life energy, then I am you, and we are both my cat, or Elvis, or that tree over there...
Have I told you this theory already? I've become quite posessed by it.
I enjoyed your letter and use of adjectives: "mysterious looking man" Haha! I'm fascinated? I imagine him a crumbling, little wizard.
You said you were in a strange, self-questioning emotional state? I understand what you mean, the pressure to behave in a certain way. For me, it seems that one must follow the codes of normal behaviour or else face exclusion, be pointed out and unmasked as "weird, anomylous, unwanted", an element hindering the smooth-running of the world. So I go around with my mind on the task at hand. Smile and laugh in the appropriate places, use the self-service machine at the supermarket, keep walking in the crowd, don't stop and stare, don't lie on the floor and look at the fluffy clouds, don't say words which pop into your head before they've been considered and approved... it's a stress.
We need to break free, but perhaps we need the right circumstances, the right partner-in-crime. Everything beomes easier when one becomes two- as with you and I when we would live out our whims: "Shall we get pierced? Shall we turn the internal urge into action and physical sensation? Shall we see what these people have to say, instead of just wondering?"
Of course, it is difficult to find someone to act as the external part of one's consciousness. One should hold onto it when one finds it.
I feel slightly guilty that at lot of my pain about M's death is selfish pain. I'm crying not just for him, but for what I've lost, like a child who's been denied it's favourite toy. But also the pain of losing oneself, through the other person.
I think I'll come to London (If I haven't managed to find a part-time job in Sheffield) one weekend. Lena keeps asking me to. I feel undeserving of her attention and affection- or rather, I feel that she only clings to our friendship out of a loneliness and nostalgia for the past and a harkening back to a memory of a time when we were united as part of a "something" together. Rather than out of a genuine love. She says it is love though, but is it just the idea of love?
That girl seems to be "alone" even when she has people around her. I think there is some truth in it, when she drunkely texts "I don't understand people. I can't be close to anyone"- that's not a criticism, just an observation, and perhaps I'm mistaken- but in my imagination she's a "stand-alone" figure.
It seems like she longs for your past frienship- why do you not re-start it?
Other than that, I've just been doing exams, Library sessions and am currently sipping chocolate and chili chai in a buddhisty cafe called "teasutra".
I took Dan out the other week. Since his fit he seems distracted and disconnected. It's the blue, swedish eyes that do it for me, too captivating and flashing with emotions like sunlight off black-ice, fire behind an exterior of stone. He refuses to "make love" with me since our break-up, and so we have fallen surprisingly easily into some kind of platonic union, with me fussing over him and reminding him of his doctors appointments like a mother.
Books: still gripped by "Women in Love". But don't you think Gudrun and Ursula are horribly ugly names?! Perhaps one shouldn't simplify such a great, flowing work of art into such a crude question- but who would you prefer? Gerald or Birkin? And why? Answers on a postcard.
Miss you. Lots of love. Yours, S.
There's this horrible oppressivee mist on everything, it's sluggish, like the heat of the jungle, it's not cold and ice-blasting like chrystalline winter, it's just humid and rotten. It's shit summer weather.
The book you sent me is called "words of a believer" and is written by a Christian, inspired by literary fervour to impart his wisdoms to others. I imagine him, bright and jolly, pointing at everything and declaring it God's work. I've not read it yet, just skimmed through:
"when you see a man being led away to prison, do not be so hasty to say: "that's a man who's committed crimes against his fellow man"- because maybe he is infact a man who wanted to serve mankind, who is being punished by his oppressors for it."
There's also a passage comparing mankind to a hive of bees and urging us to share our honey with those bees in need. Well, I guess it makes sense.
I find it astounding that so many people sign up so wholeheartedly to religious doctrine. When one considers the entire world's human population, the nonbelievers are really in the minority. I'm up for keeping an open mind, but blindly following the rule book of one group or another seems to me as closed as shutting one's mind off entirely from the spiritual.
It's the whole "hell" thing that does it for me. I find it frightful that some of our friends, otherwise friendly and reasonable people, genuinely hold onto and absorb themselves in this belief which consigns us (me at least) to "hell"- to eternal punishment, while they anticipate a future of basking in divinal light and love for themselves! Can people seriously be so ridiculously stupid?
Perhaps organised religion will slowly die out over time, killed by modernity and the rationality of our mechanised, urban existance? In a way, it would be a shame.
I'm particulaly interested in tribal cultures and beliefs, voodoo for instance, the long-held belief in the power of "the spirits" and the dualism of our world co-existing alongside a spirtual world of the dead. I can't remember if I already wrote/spoke to you about my experiences talking to a medium?
Are we really just a complex machine, powered by the brain? Surely we can't be solely made of physical, material stuff? There are studies which have measured the weight of the soul, a very slight reduction in mass after it leaves the body (or maybe just the weight of a death-exhalation?)
The dead body is made up of the same material stuff, just minus the "life energy". If I'm going to believe in anything, it's this: Something cannot become nothing. Every physical atom in the human body persists, just in another form- so why not the "life energy" too?
Perhaps God is just another word for all the "life energy" in the universe. It must be a steady amount, forever getting re-used and re-cycled.
If we're all a part of the same life energy, then I am you, and we are both my cat, or Elvis, or that tree over there...
Have I told you this theory already? I've become quite posessed by it.
I enjoyed your letter and use of adjectives: "mysterious looking man" Haha! I'm fascinated? I imagine him a crumbling, little wizard.
You said you were in a strange, self-questioning emotional state? I understand what you mean, the pressure to behave in a certain way. For me, it seems that one must follow the codes of normal behaviour or else face exclusion, be pointed out and unmasked as "weird, anomylous, unwanted", an element hindering the smooth-running of the world. So I go around with my mind on the task at hand. Smile and laugh in the appropriate places, use the self-service machine at the supermarket, keep walking in the crowd, don't stop and stare, don't lie on the floor and look at the fluffy clouds, don't say words which pop into your head before they've been considered and approved... it's a stress.
We need to break free, but perhaps we need the right circumstances, the right partner-in-crime. Everything beomes easier when one becomes two- as with you and I when we would live out our whims: "Shall we get pierced? Shall we turn the internal urge into action and physical sensation? Shall we see what these people have to say, instead of just wondering?"
Of course, it is difficult to find someone to act as the external part of one's consciousness. One should hold onto it when one finds it.
I feel slightly guilty that at lot of my pain about M's death is selfish pain. I'm crying not just for him, but for what I've lost, like a child who's been denied it's favourite toy. But also the pain of losing oneself, through the other person.
I think I'll come to London (If I haven't managed to find a part-time job in Sheffield) one weekend. Lena keeps asking me to. I feel undeserving of her attention and affection- or rather, I feel that she only clings to our friendship out of a loneliness and nostalgia for the past and a harkening back to a memory of a time when we were united as part of a "something" together. Rather than out of a genuine love. She says it is love though, but is it just the idea of love?
That girl seems to be "alone" even when she has people around her. I think there is some truth in it, when she drunkely texts "I don't understand people. I can't be close to anyone"- that's not a criticism, just an observation, and perhaps I'm mistaken- but in my imagination she's a "stand-alone" figure.
It seems like she longs for your past frienship- why do you not re-start it?
Other than that, I've just been doing exams, Library sessions and am currently sipping chocolate and chili chai in a buddhisty cafe called "teasutra".
I took Dan out the other week. Since his fit he seems distracted and disconnected. It's the blue, swedish eyes that do it for me, too captivating and flashing with emotions like sunlight off black-ice, fire behind an exterior of stone. He refuses to "make love" with me since our break-up, and so we have fallen surprisingly easily into some kind of platonic union, with me fussing over him and reminding him of his doctors appointments like a mother.
Books: still gripped by "Women in Love". But don't you think Gudrun and Ursula are horribly ugly names?! Perhaps one shouldn't simplify such a great, flowing work of art into such a crude question- but who would you prefer? Gerald or Birkin? And why? Answers on a postcard.
Miss you. Lots of love. Yours, S.
Thursday, 21 March 2013
poorly mashed Swede and 4 months since loss of M
Here is a letter to Emili, which I shall copy for you, since it covers all sorts of issues which are currently on my mind. My sick boyfriend (yes a NEW one. I know this is the third one since I started writing this thing), my friend's troubles with her boyfriend (which involved them playfighting and throwing eggs at each other, which resulted in a trip to hospital!) and my feelings about it being 4 months today since M departed this world.
My dear Emili,
Today seems a good day to write. Milky skies, not a peep of sunshine, Easter Holidays stretching before me with unfilled possibilities. I've made a little home for myself at my desk, surrounded by books, and the various language tasks I have to complete are endless. I wanted to get the ink and ideas flowing- to unblock my creative faculties- with this letter.
The most interesting and problematic task I have to do is an essay for German literature. All of the books we studied deal with the aftermath of WW2 from a German perspective- and surprisingly take on the subject from an angle which emphasises German suffering.
The question is: To what extent can we say these texts are trauma narratives? It's interesting because Germany is historically considered the aggressor, the invader, the perpetrator of hideous Nazi crimes, and yet these authors seem to not want to engage with Holocaust-guilt or accept national responsibility, rather they put forward the idea that German civilians were just as much victims of war and circumstance and Nazi-crimes- yet not all of them can be guilt-free, some must have participated, or participated through their silence in the face of crimes such as genocide.
Well, that's what I've got in store for myself for today.
My boyfriend just rang me from G hospital. The scan on his pancreas didn't show anything to worry about, although it's possible they may have to test some cells, just to make sure. They do that by sticking some little device down your throat and remote-controlling it to go to the desired part.
Hospitals fascinate me. It's funy how much trust we put in these doctors and nurses- but they're people just like us, who get tired and frustrated and argue with their spouses and make errors of judgement.
I feel pretty happy that he's "in there" while I'm away down here though, because, as people like to repeat to each other, he'll be "well looked after". The food in there is damn good too.
I visited yesterday. It was icy cold and kept threatening to snow. I got off at G Metro station and then got a bus which climbed for ages an endless ten minutes up a steep hill, past grim houses and grim shops. The hospital itself was a big, unmodern block.
I navigated endless corridors, right-turn, left-turn, double doors, up stairs... passing and leaving behind branching corridors labeled with horrors such as "open chest surgery" and "critical care".
My boyfriend was on "ward 9" and I was told he was in the end cubicle by a harassed nurse. He got his own little room, what a luxury! En-suite and everything. That medical smell pervaded everything though.
He was lying in bed wearing one of those ridiculous hospital-gowns, open at the back, that look like they're made out of paper. He was all groggy from the morphine and not as smiley to see me as he usually is, hair all a sexy mess, and confused and slightly mad eyes.
I sat in bed next to him, but he kept feeling nauseous. Then a doctor came in (a girl who looked barely older than me!) and started talking about calcium deposits and scans and mentioning the "C-Word".
But back to the lunch menu- you tick your options for the next day- and there's more choice than at a school canteen! One of the side-dishes was called "mashed swede" which made us laugh, cos that was pretty much a description of Dan when he got admitted.
I feel fairly guilty for not being in N. A heart-stabbing, itching seems to be attacking me. I want to write to him, but I don't think the hospital has a postal service. Perhaps I could make a package and get someone up there to personally deliver it to him? But who? French Charlotte? Who would go out of their way like that for a friend in need? I feel that you would. That's real friendship I think. All the others I would feel i couldn't "put on them" or "bother them". With real friendship, these considerations don't even come into question.
But... how are you? How is the London life? The bars, the club-nights, the tube, the rain-splattered pavements radiant with neon lights...
And as for the whole egg situation, not to be a nagging mother-hen, but it is somewhat concerning. Even if one brushes it off as "fooling around" or "a joke" D's aware of and in control of his actions and how far they're going... was it all really in good-spirits or was there some subconscious, concealed aggression? Perhaps some childish spite and jealousy behind his egg-crush?
The way I see it- here you are, making money, getting out there, giving it your best shot. Despite his big-talking, you're the beautiful one, and the one who's come out top. Perhaps it's a frustration at himself and subconscious jealousy that made him act in this way?
In any case, you should make sure that you keep that self-confidence and belief in your own strengths and identity firmly established and impermeable to outside influences.
Today is four months since M's death. I'm not sure what to say about that really, except I still disbelieve it. I guess I'm horrified at the way it happened and that fact that he "took his own life". I can't "come to terms" with the nature of the death, so I can't move on to properly mourning him and missing him.
But do I really miss him yet? I hardly see you and I don't miss you as such, because I know you're still there, a part of my life, and instinct and clairvoyance tells me, our paths will cross many more times, for many more years.
I think when summer comes. Then will be the time that I properly miss him. We would spend the majority of our free time together, every long, lazy summer, for the past four years, from 2008. Those summer days are gonna come and shine on me and warm and scorch my unprotected soul, but hey won't shine on him, and his absence in the world will be very marked. For me at least.
And I've worn myself out with these melancholy thoughts. Write to my S address- tell me all; weave me stories and illuminate the tangled pathways and dark tunnels in your mind, so that I may see your thoughts.
Thinking of you. Lots of love.
Friday, 25 January 2013
unfinished short story
Not written on this thing for a while. It's got very sophisticated while I've been away, when you compose your post it's like being on word, there's a whole choice of fonts and possibility to put up links. Think I'll keep it simple though.
Updates:
The last time I wrote I was living in a little town in France, which meant I could do a sort of travel-blog as I explored the area and learned about the Breton culture. Now I'm studying in Newcastle so there's nothing foreign and unknown to uncover, although sometimes with that weird local accent can seem a bit like a foreign tongue to my ears.
I dumped my french boyfriend because of our incompatability, and I'm pretty much content being on my own. I feel like that's the way it should always have been. I don't want to be tied to anyone.
I say content as in, not displeased with the way it turned out.
I'm not an altogether happy bunny, although I shouldn't moan, I am grateful for all the friends that I have, the old ones who let me know that they're there for me, and the new ones that I'm starting to meet up here, who I'm sure I'll get on to writing about.
I'm unhappy because of the death of my best friend, who I used to refer to as "M" on here. The closest and most lovely friend I had, I felt that our connection was such a deep and beautiful thing, like two live wires that come together and cause sparks and magic, we made each other laugh and cheered each other up. The grey monotony of life became painted with brighter colours when we were together. We struggled- him more than me, but I felt that we were travelling through life together, alongside one another, like climbers carrying each others backpacks when the other gets weary, and that was a pleasure and a support, and I miss it unbearably.
prepare yourself for... Sherlock Holmes based, mildy homo-romantic fan-fiction in which the main characters are based on my best friend and his boyfriend:
Sounds very creepy. I did tell M about this and he thought it was sweet and funny but I never got around to finishing it.
In the summer, I was bored and after having read a lot of Sherlock Holmes short stories I thought I knew the formula for them pretty well, so I set about writing an updated modern version of my own, in which Holmes and Watson are a couple and go about solving petty misdemeanors and mysteries. The mystery was supposed to be about a vain art student type who thinks someone is trying to sabotage her exhibition, and there was supposed to be some sort of twist, but we never got on to that- but I'll share the unfinished thing anyway.
ALSO note that I had NEVER MET my friend's boyfriend at the time of writing, I was painting his character from snippets of information and mostly my own imagination and so it shouldn't be considered that the character bears any real life likeness.
Don't take it too seriously, I was giggling as I was writing it, but I think it is quite a nice affectionate description of my sweet friend-
The Unfinished Story:
It was a fine afternoon in late September and J was reclining in his favourite chair. The small apartment on Smiths Street had been theirs but six months, but already they had made it homely, a den of cushions and sofas and neat Ikea bookshelves loaded with novels, and case files.
In the adjacent kitchen, M was rolling out the pastry for a vegetarian pie. J had been a meat-eater for years, convinced of the necessity of meat as a part of a healthy diet, but since their co-habitation, M's delicious home cooking was winning him round.
M sang along to a Catatonia greatest hits album as he worked. Today he was good humoured, as was often his way he sensed intuitively when business was coming to Smiths Street.
For three weeks now the house had been quiet, business slow, but it did have the advantage of allowing the pair time to stroll in the late summer sunshine through the park, as had often been impossible when the caseload left J sleepless and irritable.
M was the younger of the pair. He was slightly built with nervous pale blue eyes and a shock of black hair which would stand on end inquisitively if left untamed. He was at times quiet, and flung by the powers of his uncontrollable humours into introspective depression, but he compensated for this with his equal tendency to cheer.
His good moods would take him out of the house, drinking, dancing and cavorting. He had many friends, although few who knew the intricacies of his character.
J, private detective, was more steadfast and serious, a good five years his partner's senior. He possessed extraordinary skills of reasoning and an infallible logic which led to his huge success in business. Together they were Disney Private Detection [lol!] an unshakeable team.
J, stockily built, blonde, muscly and of undeniable classical good looks. He had at one time been a wine merchant who specialised in supplying restaurants with only the best quality French wines. He had, however, made his fortune selling champagne marketed as a high end luxury product, to rich Chinese businessmen for ten times it's European value.
He had a fine nose in more ways than one (for a fine Roman nose it was). J, with his perpetually full wine rack, had only a taste for the finer things in life, and he was frequently trying to impress this refinement upon his young business partner in the hope of instilling within him a reverence and preference for refinement. However in vain, for M preferred cheap vodka, and was more than satisfied with imitation Lambrini (that British drink so often aquainted with teenagers intoxicating themselves in public parks)
"Your tea's ready," said M, and J took the plate from him with an affectionate smile. Since their co-habitation and the foundation of their joint business venture, his life had brightened up considerably.Whenever he saw the boy lounging around the flat, sleeping, picking at food, writing letters, anything, his heart was overcome with warmth and tenderness.
Sometimes, in moments of weakness, he would gaze upon him, as unawares, M was performing some everyday chore with that expression of extreme concentration so characteristic of him upon his fine and pretty face, and he would feel emotion rising in his throat. The insatiable urge to tell the boy he loved him. Sometimes he gave in and the words came out despite him, and once said they saturated the room with awkwardness.
Perhaps it was simply fear of being alone that bound him so tightly to this other human being, perhaps the need to feel that his life had some meaning besides the daily chore of keeping himself alive and in good health. He needed someone else to live for.
His ruminations were disturbed by a knock at the door, followed by the distinctive chime of the doorbell tearing through the quiet.
J settled deeper into his chair, crossed his legs, took his pipe from it's stand on the coffee table [lol!] for it was reserved only for moments such as these when presenting himself with an air of gravitas was necessary, and lit some strawberry flavoured tobacco.
Hastily, M cleared away the remains of the vegetarian pie and hurried to the door. Guests had to climb a flight of steps to access the top floor flat, and a distinctive, dragging noise could be heard, like a great snake pulling it's body weight up the stairs.
Always cautious, M peeped through the spyhole and saw the concave version of a hideous green elf.
"Oh my God," he said and opened the door.
"Pray, come in Madame," said J with the indulgence and charm for which he was famed, and little regard for her unusual appearance. He indicated the chair opposite him.
The girl slowly approached, her elaborate and yet raggy satin ballgown trailing across the floor like a dog might drag a broken limb. With the grace of a princess, of one who has become accustomed to having her own way, she settled into the plush cushions and glared at the detective with a sparkling and unwavering brown eye. Her hair was a birds' nest, dark brown and matted and piled high like some sort of down-and-out Marie Antoinette. Most startling of all was the facepaint, white like a sick geisha with thick lime green and dark brown eyemakeup and ivy coloured, pursed little lips.
She held out a gloved little hand, "R" she said. M, as always, had a polite smile ready, but behind his twinkling blue eyes a sarcastic remark was lurking. J served her sugared mint tea from an arab style, ornate, metal teapot, and then all settled down around the coffee table to bear witness to her recital.
J's flavoured tobacco sent clouds of strawberry smoke pluming into the air which mingled with the girl's overwhelming scent of patchouli and incence.
"As you probably know," she began, sipping her tea, "I am an artist and a musician and take my work very seriously. Tonight is an important night. It's the bi-annual biennale [wtf!] taking place at the university and I've come to you because I've heard good things about you from my friends, whom your services have greatly helped in the past,"
Her bejewelled fingers clinked on the little china teacup as she raised it to her curt little mouth. A green imprint was left behind where her lips had made contact.
"Tonight I am to perform a performance art piece infront of the big names of the art world and I think I have high chances of being recognised and maybe even winning a prize. I've been doing a lot of networking and online promotion and I think my name is finally starting to have a resonance."
She paused for dramatic effect.
M's lips were pursed and poised for some unsaid retort. He didn't think much of these arty types who lived off the wealth of their parents, convincing themselves that their "talent" and the meaningfulness and importance of their creative endeavours merited them respect. Nothing but sophisticated scroungers, he though. Looking at this specimin with all her costume and frills made his stomach lurch. An excess of outward pomp to compensate inner vacuosity. Her sweet, high-pitch, well-spoken little-girl voice grated on his nerves.
He rose to pour himself a shot of J's brandy.
J on the other hand was using his great powers of observance to scrutinise the girl......
Updates:
The last time I wrote I was living in a little town in France, which meant I could do a sort of travel-blog as I explored the area and learned about the Breton culture. Now I'm studying in Newcastle so there's nothing foreign and unknown to uncover, although sometimes with that weird local accent can seem a bit like a foreign tongue to my ears.
I dumped my french boyfriend because of our incompatability, and I'm pretty much content being on my own. I feel like that's the way it should always have been. I don't want to be tied to anyone.
I say content as in, not displeased with the way it turned out.
I'm not an altogether happy bunny, although I shouldn't moan, I am grateful for all the friends that I have, the old ones who let me know that they're there for me, and the new ones that I'm starting to meet up here, who I'm sure I'll get on to writing about.
I'm unhappy because of the death of my best friend, who I used to refer to as "M" on here. The closest and most lovely friend I had, I felt that our connection was such a deep and beautiful thing, like two live wires that come together and cause sparks and magic, we made each other laugh and cheered each other up. The grey monotony of life became painted with brighter colours when we were together. We struggled- him more than me, but I felt that we were travelling through life together, alongside one another, like climbers carrying each others backpacks when the other gets weary, and that was a pleasure and a support, and I miss it unbearably.
prepare yourself for... Sherlock Holmes based, mildy homo-romantic fan-fiction in which the main characters are based on my best friend and his boyfriend:
Sounds very creepy. I did tell M about this and he thought it was sweet and funny but I never got around to finishing it.
In the summer, I was bored and after having read a lot of Sherlock Holmes short stories I thought I knew the formula for them pretty well, so I set about writing an updated modern version of my own, in which Holmes and Watson are a couple and go about solving petty misdemeanors and mysteries. The mystery was supposed to be about a vain art student type who thinks someone is trying to sabotage her exhibition, and there was supposed to be some sort of twist, but we never got on to that- but I'll share the unfinished thing anyway.
ALSO note that I had NEVER MET my friend's boyfriend at the time of writing, I was painting his character from snippets of information and mostly my own imagination and so it shouldn't be considered that the character bears any real life likeness.
Don't take it too seriously, I was giggling as I was writing it, but I think it is quite a nice affectionate description of my sweet friend-
The Unfinished Story:
It was a fine afternoon in late September and J was reclining in his favourite chair. The small apartment on Smiths Street had been theirs but six months, but already they had made it homely, a den of cushions and sofas and neat Ikea bookshelves loaded with novels, and case files.
In the adjacent kitchen, M was rolling out the pastry for a vegetarian pie. J had been a meat-eater for years, convinced of the necessity of meat as a part of a healthy diet, but since their co-habitation, M's delicious home cooking was winning him round.
M sang along to a Catatonia greatest hits album as he worked. Today he was good humoured, as was often his way he sensed intuitively when business was coming to Smiths Street.
For three weeks now the house had been quiet, business slow, but it did have the advantage of allowing the pair time to stroll in the late summer sunshine through the park, as had often been impossible when the caseload left J sleepless and irritable.
M was the younger of the pair. He was slightly built with nervous pale blue eyes and a shock of black hair which would stand on end inquisitively if left untamed. He was at times quiet, and flung by the powers of his uncontrollable humours into introspective depression, but he compensated for this with his equal tendency to cheer.
His good moods would take him out of the house, drinking, dancing and cavorting. He had many friends, although few who knew the intricacies of his character.
J, private detective, was more steadfast and serious, a good five years his partner's senior. He possessed extraordinary skills of reasoning and an infallible logic which led to his huge success in business. Together they were Disney Private Detection [lol!] an unshakeable team.
J, stockily built, blonde, muscly and of undeniable classical good looks. He had at one time been a wine merchant who specialised in supplying restaurants with only the best quality French wines. He had, however, made his fortune selling champagne marketed as a high end luxury product, to rich Chinese businessmen for ten times it's European value.
He had a fine nose in more ways than one (for a fine Roman nose it was). J, with his perpetually full wine rack, had only a taste for the finer things in life, and he was frequently trying to impress this refinement upon his young business partner in the hope of instilling within him a reverence and preference for refinement. However in vain, for M preferred cheap vodka, and was more than satisfied with imitation Lambrini (that British drink so often aquainted with teenagers intoxicating themselves in public parks)
"Your tea's ready," said M, and J took the plate from him with an affectionate smile. Since their co-habitation and the foundation of their joint business venture, his life had brightened up considerably.Whenever he saw the boy lounging around the flat, sleeping, picking at food, writing letters, anything, his heart was overcome with warmth and tenderness.
Sometimes, in moments of weakness, he would gaze upon him, as unawares, M was performing some everyday chore with that expression of extreme concentration so characteristic of him upon his fine and pretty face, and he would feel emotion rising in his throat. The insatiable urge to tell the boy he loved him. Sometimes he gave in and the words came out despite him, and once said they saturated the room with awkwardness.
Perhaps it was simply fear of being alone that bound him so tightly to this other human being, perhaps the need to feel that his life had some meaning besides the daily chore of keeping himself alive and in good health. He needed someone else to live for.
His ruminations were disturbed by a knock at the door, followed by the distinctive chime of the doorbell tearing through the quiet.
J settled deeper into his chair, crossed his legs, took his pipe from it's stand on the coffee table [lol!] for it was reserved only for moments such as these when presenting himself with an air of gravitas was necessary, and lit some strawberry flavoured tobacco.
Hastily, M cleared away the remains of the vegetarian pie and hurried to the door. Guests had to climb a flight of steps to access the top floor flat, and a distinctive, dragging noise could be heard, like a great snake pulling it's body weight up the stairs.
Always cautious, M peeped through the spyhole and saw the concave version of a hideous green elf.
"Oh my God," he said and opened the door.
"Pray, come in Madame," said J with the indulgence and charm for which he was famed, and little regard for her unusual appearance. He indicated the chair opposite him.
The girl slowly approached, her elaborate and yet raggy satin ballgown trailing across the floor like a dog might drag a broken limb. With the grace of a princess, of one who has become accustomed to having her own way, she settled into the plush cushions and glared at the detective with a sparkling and unwavering brown eye. Her hair was a birds' nest, dark brown and matted and piled high like some sort of down-and-out Marie Antoinette. Most startling of all was the facepaint, white like a sick geisha with thick lime green and dark brown eyemakeup and ivy coloured, pursed little lips.
She held out a gloved little hand, "R" she said. M, as always, had a polite smile ready, but behind his twinkling blue eyes a sarcastic remark was lurking. J served her sugared mint tea from an arab style, ornate, metal teapot, and then all settled down around the coffee table to bear witness to her recital.
J's flavoured tobacco sent clouds of strawberry smoke pluming into the air which mingled with the girl's overwhelming scent of patchouli and incence.
"As you probably know," she began, sipping her tea, "I am an artist and a musician and take my work very seriously. Tonight is an important night. It's the bi-annual biennale [wtf!] taking place at the university and I've come to you because I've heard good things about you from my friends, whom your services have greatly helped in the past,"
Her bejewelled fingers clinked on the little china teacup as she raised it to her curt little mouth. A green imprint was left behind where her lips had made contact.
"Tonight I am to perform a performance art piece infront of the big names of the art world and I think I have high chances of being recognised and maybe even winning a prize. I've been doing a lot of networking and online promotion and I think my name is finally starting to have a resonance."
She paused for dramatic effect.
M's lips were pursed and poised for some unsaid retort. He didn't think much of these arty types who lived off the wealth of their parents, convincing themselves that their "talent" and the meaningfulness and importance of their creative endeavours merited them respect. Nothing but sophisticated scroungers, he though. Looking at this specimin with all her costume and frills made his stomach lurch. An excess of outward pomp to compensate inner vacuosity. Her sweet, high-pitch, well-spoken little-girl voice grated on his nerves.
He rose to pour himself a shot of J's brandy.
J on the other hand was using his great powers of observance to scrutinise the girl......
Saturday, 12 May 2012
English girl reporting from France (Paris on election weekend, and Starcraft obsessed boyfriend)
Dear dear, it has been a while since I've written and all manner of things have happened.
Here is a letter i have written to a good friend who hails from the north east of england, which recounts all my recent news:
Dear Mr K.
I hope this letter reaches you well. Unfortunately, I have been caught short without my usual array of rainbow gel-pens, so i shall have to write to you entirely in diorreah-brown.
So here I am, the sun in my face, sat outside my favourite cafe in Auray. Next to the port. The water which flows under the old stone bridge is subject to violent humours. Sometimes it is scarse and you can see the polluted, muddy estury-bed. Sometimes, it is deep and drifts along calmly. It changes depth and direction depending on the tide. We're near the sea, but not within walking distance.
There's your background info. Next to me on a neighbouring table four good-looking boys, perhaps in their late teens, are joking about in the sort of manner which crosses language barriers. What's funny is that they've each got a big milkshake with fancy glass, and to eat: some sort of big dry-sausage covered in seeds. I just don't think you would see such charming taste among the English youth.
Anyway: things are going generally alright here. After some miserable rainy days the sun is showing it's face. Last weekend, I went to gay Paris to see my Spanish au-pair friend Marta. It ended up being a hell of an expensive trip, and I had some moments of getting thoroughly riled up and questioning whether it had been worth the train fare.
At times, Marta seemed snappy with me and kept dealing me minor criticisms. I take criticism very poorly. Her short temper was perhaps explained when we had to go on a tampon-buying mission. In the next couple of days she seemed calmer, but kept whinging about stomach cramps. Girl stuff. You are quite lucky to be exempt from it all.
Marta is living on the top floor of a big fancy building in a posh neighbourhood of Paris, near to the Eiffle tower. These old houses are constructed to have a cramped little attic where the servants used to live, which can only be accessed by a cramped dirty little staircase to the rear of the building. This is where Marta lives. Her room is tiny, but she has made it cosy. There are other occupants in the other cell-like rooms on the corridor, but they sneak about and only say bonjour reluctantly if you happen to cross them on the stairs.
On the first day, we went to pick up the girls Marta looks after from their school. The school gates are a veritable fashion parade, with the hight society parisien ladies gathered to wait for their children. There were a notable number of twenty-something girls- black girls and latin girls who couldn't possibly be the mothers of the pink cheeked little bundles they were collecting, and hearing their foreign accents it was clear they were also au-pairs.
Marta's girls were very polite and advanced for their age. (they even get sent to an english-speaking school on their day off!!) They seemed to take a while to warm to me, but when they did we ended up having a good time playing some sort of card game featuring witches and faries.
I took lots of photos throughout the weekend and did all the usual touristy stuff. Riding in the metro was surprisingly far less chlaustrophobia enducing than the London one.
We picniced by the river Seine with the Eiffle Tower within sight, and even went on a mission to find the largest flea market in Paris. It turned out to be a grim out of town area where we got threatened by an aggressive man whom we accidentally bumped into. He hissed at us and bared his fangs in a serpentine Hannibal Lector way.
And of course: the french elections. The results were not known until I was on the train home. Someone on the train must have had phone internet, and announced "On a un nouveau president". Everyone where I was didn't react with much emotion, although TV footage of the Paris i had just left showed much celebration and wild open-air drinking.
More news: I'm seeing this french boy called Stephane F.... (his grandfather was Polish). This has certainly helped to allieviate my boredom, and most nights I'm round at his house in his messy little bedroom. It's particulaly pleasant when the weather is raging and stormy outside and you can have a warm and manly body to hold on to under the blankets, slipping in and out of dreams together.
However, his lack of motivation is starting to annoy me now the weather is fine.
He gets in from work at 11:30pm and stays up until about 4:30am (more often then not I'll fall asleep before)
Then the next day he won't get up and moving til at least 3pm and never leaves the house until he has to go to work again at 5:30pm.
I want fun, excitement, windswept beaches, scooter-rides, delicious food, dog-walks, bars in the evening, nighttime walks by the harbour... the simple joys of living. Stephane just wants to play Starcraft on his computer while I want to sleep. It's getting annoying!
I do have another friend who is more up for daytime pleasures. The au pair who has replaced Marta. A chatty overly-joyful Italian called Diana. Although most days, as today, she is occupied with the child.
(the rest of the letter was me nattering on giving my opinions on my correspondant's own personal problems which I shaln't divulge here)
I hope you are well, if indeed these lines to reach human eyes.
Bisous, your english girl reporting from France.
Here is a letter i have written to a good friend who hails from the north east of england, which recounts all my recent news:
Dear Mr K.
I hope this letter reaches you well. Unfortunately, I have been caught short without my usual array of rainbow gel-pens, so i shall have to write to you entirely in diorreah-brown.
So here I am, the sun in my face, sat outside my favourite cafe in Auray. Next to the port. The water which flows under the old stone bridge is subject to violent humours. Sometimes it is scarse and you can see the polluted, muddy estury-bed. Sometimes, it is deep and drifts along calmly. It changes depth and direction depending on the tide. We're near the sea, but not within walking distance.
There's your background info. Next to me on a neighbouring table four good-looking boys, perhaps in their late teens, are joking about in the sort of manner which crosses language barriers. What's funny is that they've each got a big milkshake with fancy glass, and to eat: some sort of big dry-sausage covered in seeds. I just don't think you would see such charming taste among the English youth.
Anyway: things are going generally alright here. After some miserable rainy days the sun is showing it's face. Last weekend, I went to gay Paris to see my Spanish au-pair friend Marta. It ended up being a hell of an expensive trip, and I had some moments of getting thoroughly riled up and questioning whether it had been worth the train fare.
At times, Marta seemed snappy with me and kept dealing me minor criticisms. I take criticism very poorly. Her short temper was perhaps explained when we had to go on a tampon-buying mission. In the next couple of days she seemed calmer, but kept whinging about stomach cramps. Girl stuff. You are quite lucky to be exempt from it all.
Marta is living on the top floor of a big fancy building in a posh neighbourhood of Paris, near to the Eiffle tower. These old houses are constructed to have a cramped little attic where the servants used to live, which can only be accessed by a cramped dirty little staircase to the rear of the building. This is where Marta lives. Her room is tiny, but she has made it cosy. There are other occupants in the other cell-like rooms on the corridor, but they sneak about and only say bonjour reluctantly if you happen to cross them on the stairs.
On the first day, we went to pick up the girls Marta looks after from their school. The school gates are a veritable fashion parade, with the hight society parisien ladies gathered to wait for their children. There were a notable number of twenty-something girls- black girls and latin girls who couldn't possibly be the mothers of the pink cheeked little bundles they were collecting, and hearing their foreign accents it was clear they were also au-pairs.
Marta's girls were very polite and advanced for their age. (they even get sent to an english-speaking school on their day off!!) They seemed to take a while to warm to me, but when they did we ended up having a good time playing some sort of card game featuring witches and faries.
I took lots of photos throughout the weekend and did all the usual touristy stuff. Riding in the metro was surprisingly far less chlaustrophobia enducing than the London one.
We picniced by the river Seine with the Eiffle Tower within sight, and even went on a mission to find the largest flea market in Paris. It turned out to be a grim out of town area where we got threatened by an aggressive man whom we accidentally bumped into. He hissed at us and bared his fangs in a serpentine Hannibal Lector way.
And of course: the french elections. The results were not known until I was on the train home. Someone on the train must have had phone internet, and announced "On a un nouveau president". Everyone where I was didn't react with much emotion, although TV footage of the Paris i had just left showed much celebration and wild open-air drinking.
More news: I'm seeing this french boy called Stephane F.... (his grandfather was Polish). This has certainly helped to allieviate my boredom, and most nights I'm round at his house in his messy little bedroom. It's particulaly pleasant when the weather is raging and stormy outside and you can have a warm and manly body to hold on to under the blankets, slipping in and out of dreams together.
However, his lack of motivation is starting to annoy me now the weather is fine.
He gets in from work at 11:30pm and stays up until about 4:30am (more often then not I'll fall asleep before)
Then the next day he won't get up and moving til at least 3pm and never leaves the house until he has to go to work again at 5:30pm.
I want fun, excitement, windswept beaches, scooter-rides, delicious food, dog-walks, bars in the evening, nighttime walks by the harbour... the simple joys of living. Stephane just wants to play Starcraft on his computer while I want to sleep. It's getting annoying!
I do have another friend who is more up for daytime pleasures. The au pair who has replaced Marta. A chatty overly-joyful Italian called Diana. Although most days, as today, she is occupied with the child.
(the rest of the letter was me nattering on giving my opinions on my correspondant's own personal problems which I shaln't divulge here)
I hope you are well, if indeed these lines to reach human eyes.
Bisous, your english girl reporting from France.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)