Category: Ramble two

Around the same time that we started to realise things were not going to turn out the way we planned, I started listening to music again. That must seem super-strange to read, but it is what it is. I’d been so focused on trying to find quiet for so long, that I had forgotten what noise made me comfortable. I’ve been building this playlist over the months, and there have been some constant favourites.

[Sidenote: this playlist is no indication on the state of the relationship between my ex-husband and I. Try not to read something into everything. Not everything has a hidden meaning or agenda, much like me]

You might think I’m a bit sick in the head for creating this, but boohoo, go get your own blog. So, here goes…these are the songs that have got me through, so far, two months in. They have helped me run the gamut of emotions, and they’ve helped me run into my life (and, occasionally, run through my neighbourhood in the mornings). Sure, there’s probably an extra slice of cheesy cheesiness in this, but then, I’ve always loved the cheesiest music. Maybe you need them too:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C2QrHQigvFY

If you grew up in the decade before, during, or after, I did, you’ll know this book. Maybe you read it, maybe you didn’t – it was, back then, very much “a book for girls” (what rubbish, but anyway…even ‘the boys’ knew about it) and I have strong, strong memories of the Judy Blumes always being booked out at the school library, and the sheer exhilaration of being the person who manages to scoop it up on library day.

I digress, but not really.

The book title has always stuck with me – ‘Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret’. This post has nothing to do with religion or the contents of that book though, but it does have something to do with my relationship with Judy Blume, and other things other people seem to uphold as quaint and important. I am one of them too – do not get me wrong, Blume was an important reading journey for young me – but there’s  a weird reverence around it that I see matched in other things of my life today.

I should attest to the fact, first, that like a tween heirloom, my kid is now reading the Blumes, and I have, in fact, purchased a few for her during our book store browsing days. 

As a 36-year-old adult though, I am fully aware today that the wet-tongued excitement over things we all believe we should have our moment in the sun with, still exists.

(Oh, by the way, Hi. Sorry. I kinda skipped writing here for a while. I got busy)

At 36, the things I strap to the Blume-like moments are far bigger than books, but a lot less effective or real. That was the attraction of Blume (although many called her controversial – I mean, she wrote about periods, and sex, and all the things young women are supposed to not talk about – what heresy! Burn the witch! NOT) – she said things, and talked about things, we are all taught to care about, desire and work for, but not necessarily speak of, openly and freely.

It is the same now.

As we plan our wedding, and the questions come thick and fast, and stupidly, I’m left feeling like the girl who is last in the queue for the new Blume that’s arrived in the library. There’s one small difference though – the only reason why I would want it, is because I’ve been taught to want it, or led to believe that everyone wants it and so, therefore, there must be something wrong with me for NOT wanting it.

It started with: talking about flowers. The most goddamn expensive accessory to a wedding and, guess what? THEY DIE THE NEXT DAY. SOMETIMES SOONER.

I’m far more keen on skipping the flower jol and using ribbons (reusable), or popping down to Woolies for some country bunches and a couple of fairy lights (again, reusable).

But, as is the way with all things wedding, I did some investigation anyway (By the way, I still live in NOT A CHANCE ARE WE SPENDING THAT ON FLOWERS land).

The responses to my enquiries ranged from “Ooooh, what are your favourites?” – followed by an exceptional markup in the online-listed price of the bloom I had mentioned; to “Well, you should choose a flower that means something to both of you” (LAWD. WE DON’T EVEN HAVE A SONG YET. NOW YOU WANT ME TO FIND MEANING IN SOMETHING NEITHER OF US WILL ACTUALLY PAY ANY ATTENTION TO) and…my best: “Well, yes, but no expense should be spared when you’re creating the most wonderful day of your life, and we’d be so happy to help you, Kathleen.”

HANG ON. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW ME. SHUT UP. 

What’s to say THIS will be the most wonderful day of our life together? Does it make a difference if I think we’ve already had it? What if I told you we have these days a lot, and that, in fact, just yesterday, when my two people, dogs and assorted dustbunnies were watching Harry Potter, I was utterly enraptured by the way our family just fits together? Do you know how DAMN GOOD that feels? Or what about the time we decided to go for lunch somewhere different and ended up at this insanely expensive restaurant and had an incredible time, giggling, and I was wearing slops, and it felt like we were lampooning the place and – actually – that day is one of the most defining reasons why I love him?

So, why am I even bothering with this? Just as the Blumes have now become the Blooms in my life, I’m realising that…all the things other people deemed so desperately important, actually aren’t, to me. The weirdest thing is that I’m almost expected to be apologetic about this – because it is “very strange” that I absolutely could not give an inch of care about whether or not Bob & Linda will enjoy being seated at the same table as Ted & Teresa (names changed to protect the innocent).

The things that I count as important are the parts we haven’t planned to the second, or decided upon in strung out conversations (you should know, we decided to live together, by choice a few years ago, because I called him at work, and told him my lease was ending. It was, literally, that easy and that plain-speaking. We didn’t choose the wallpaper first).

So, that’s me, right now. Trying to figure out what the Blumes in my life are, and what else is actually lying in the library, waiting to be taken out and read.

For me, the most important book is the one we’re writing together, and not the one that tries to figure out how coordinated his tie needs to be with my shoes. I just don’t care about these Blume Blooms enough to give this any more energy than is required.

The beauty of our life together is not found in some gilted, lacey invitation or the wilted corsage someone tried to sell me over the phone, which cost the same as my kid’s school fees (no, I’m not joking).

It’s in the life we have when he takes the trash out, and I’m in the kitchen wrangling dogs, homework books and cooking dinner. It’s in that moment where I am in a hellfire of a mood and he comes in to ask which ice-cream he can pick up for me while he’s out. And the most magnificent day of our life? It’s the one where I know I can phone him and tell him I wrote this, because I’m pretty damn certain he absolutely hates himself for wanting to marry the hot-headed mess I am on some days. It’s the day where I can lie on our bed and cry with uncertainty over our future, and he steadfastly assures me that we will be more than fine (we were)  and it is every single time I look at my diary and realise I share my life with the most brilliant human, who believes in me beyond myself,  and in our family, beyond every possibility.

There are no flowers for that. 

Hi.

Yes, this is awkward. I’ve been cheating on you a bit and writing over here, every now and then. Sorry about that.

I suspect, much like many others, that I’ve puddled myself into guilt and self loathing over my own words, thereby shying away from here, because I just felt like I didn’t have anything worthwhile to say.

I do, however, because we’re all saying worthwhile things every day, even if we fail to notice them.

Taking some time away from this screen has had a strange effect on my life: I’ve learnt, and feel, some level of objectivity over the world as I see it, which has enabled me to disengage with the crappiness we seem to read about in the headlines. I’m not saying I’m not terrified of the future – I am, actually. Paralytic, in fact… to the point where I’ve had to untangle my own mental limbs and start to make decisions around my own fears.

Weird, hey? Fear-based decision making is a bad thing, but this is not that. Instead, I’m making my choices around my own fears, rather than because OF them. It’s helped me feel a little sense of clarity, and exhausted the bubbles of confusion I felt for the last 12 months. Feeling headstrong in this time, is important.

Back, however, to the self loathing. My friend Charlie reminded me that we — most of us — live with a level of self loathing that can either propel us to be better, or will swallow us whole.

I admit to letting my self-loathing swallow me whole…and then spit me out. A very dear friend of mine has been through this too, and is now clawing her determined self towards life.

It had to happen, because I need something new to look at the world with. I don’t particularly like this view, but it is the one I need to work with if I’m going to get anywhere that I want to go.

And that’s why I stepped away from the screen. While we’ve all gnashed our teeth over the past year, it hasn’t actually led to anything fruitful, aside from persistent teething problems and a startlingly scary guy who thinks everyone is lesser than him. Sorry-not-sorry.

This post has nothing to do with anyone else, really. I remember, once, reading a poem, written by a friend, where she articulated her way through the world as a being encased in shiny, brushed steel. As the world outside her casing was reflected upon the steel, so she would see brightness and lightness, dark and dustiness. But she would not feel it in a way that affected her, or that led her to change her missile’s course and trajectory. I keep thinking about this poem, every morning, as I flip open my computer and confront the world, my to do list and, well, people.

This wasn’t meant to make sense, anyway.

Sometimes, perhaps, the satellites bleep.

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the art of writing letters today. Growing up, letters were a gift passed on in a day, that would live into the future. I need them just as much now, as I did then.

But I fear I’m not very good at writing letters. If anything, the digital age has provoked that. I still write them, but they’re not necessarily letters, in their usual form. In many ways, this is one of them. Who I’m writing it for is, of course, as much a mystery to me as it is to you.

Today, I woke up feeling like someone had run me over with one of those old-school garden rollers that used to flatten the grass and serve not much purpose, from what I understand. We used to have one, in the house I grew up in. I have never understood their purpose, but that suggests more about my lack of gardening skills than it does anything else. That aside, I had a list for today and, after attempting to tackle it, I neatly moved that list to tomorrow. There are some days where you just cannot.

Instead, I retreated to my bed, with a cup of tea and took to scrolling through my ‘must watch’ list on Netflix. And there I found a wonder: Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close.

If you haven’t watched it, or read the book, do so. But – be warned – your heart will relocate to your throat and remain there throughout.

Essentially, it’s a story of a letter that was not sent. Instead, pieced together by things he finds, a young boy embarks upon an expedition (something his father had been in the habit of creating for him, before he was killed) to solve the mystery within. The young boy uses this expedition as a way to feel closer to his father, as he says:

“Oskar Schell: If the sun were to explode, you wouldn’t even know about it for 8 minutes because thats how long it takes for light to travel to us.
For eight minutes the world would still be bright and it would still feel warm.
It was a year since my dad died and I could feel my eight minutes with him… were running out.”

Many of the letters and posts I’ve listed here, are about those eight minutes too. In many ways, I am not sure if the eight minutes between my parents and I have elapsed. In some ways, as awful as it is to admit to myself and to type, I think they may have. Sometimes, in the moments imbued by them, and the scenes that play out before me where they’d fit, I feel like those eight minutes continue.

That’s why I write though. That’s why I write here, and there and everywhere. I want those eight minutes to last as long as they possibly can, even if I started them early, so they can continue long into the future beyond me.

Those letters I cling to, those ones that stretched those eight minutes for me, I keep them close. I place my hand upon them and cry. Sometimes, I smile at them. Occasionally, nowadays, I dive in and find an answer I had sought out, but had not seen before. They are my history book and navigational chart, just as the constellations above used to guide sailors to shore.

There was no real reason to write today, except to say that, in the future, I hope the words speak the things I could not say. Or the things I had to skip past. Or that they fill in the gaps we’ve forgotten, or encapsulate a moment we let go by.

My friend over the wires makes magical things in kaleidoscopic ways. This is one of them. You should listen to it. Go on, pop your headphones on, click, read, scroll down and listen. It’s magically magic.

But within the bars and beats, listen carefully and, you’ll find this line:

“We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.”

JK Rowling said that. She of Harry Potter fame and incredible tweet game. Now, as an aside, before I continue, I should tell you that I’ve never read a Harry Potter book, nor watched one of the movies. I have my reasons for it, but, as my daughter begins to climb into them soon, I know that will change. I’m happy with that change and, perhaps, I’ll dive into them with her. It’ll be an exploration we can undertake together.

/an aside, over/

I really love that quote by JK Rowling, because it speaks to something I’ve had to make a conscious effort over. I’ve been doing a lot more internal… well, I’ll show you. This is me, on a normal day:

Somehow though, recently, I’ve been feeling stuck on steps 1 through 4. And when you get there, and feel middlishly-muddly-and-muddy, well, it’s hard to get out.

Instead of sticking there and trying to wait it out though, I decided to go for one week, just one, and force myself to do things, to get unstuck, de-muddled, whatever you call it. Here’s what I did:

1. Forced myself to smile. This is hard, because I sometimes feel like I look like a murderous clown when doing this. My face is as easy to read as a newspaper, typed in size 72 Times New Roman.
2. I forced myself to smile while working, I forced myself to smile while out and shopping and I even forced myself to smile while sitting in a queue at the local tax office. Okay, on the last point, I pretty much rage-tweeted my time there, but I still smiled the whole time. Told you I am a bit murderous when I do this.
3. I also demanded of myself to take an alternative view when confronted by things. On one front, I determined that, when someone got weird/angry/strange with me, I’d try empathy first, instead of my usual response of “You bit my head off, now I’m going to chew your face off.” Here’s one instance of how I did it:

Now I’m not here to save the world (neither are you) or to write a self-help book, or do anything rather grandiose. I’m not about to hand over life advice, unless you asked me to, or start a hashtag. But I will tell you this, little blog of mine – just doing those two things meant I had a good week, despite the roll-around-hedgehog-wheel of life that happens. I’m going to try it again next week, and that includes another trip to the local tax office, among other things. I don’t know, smile sometime. Make yourself. It won’t fix anything, but it sure as heck won’t make anything worse. Change your perspective, just once, and adopt an alternative view when your brain instantly goes into MDK mode when confronted with an annoyance. Just, I don’t know, try it. I think I needed this more than anyone else.