Friday 2 November 2007

Wedding tackle

My sister got married. My younger sister got married. My older married brother came up for the wedding, with his wife. I said a speech. They each brought their partner and I brought a speech. (Ok so it was my sister's wedding so I guess she had to bring her partner.) But is anyone seeing the gap here?

Usually, I feel like a benevolent observer at weddings. "How twee," I think. "Look at the fabulous couple embarking on their journey to divorce." (Ok I usually only think that if I read a newspaper that day, which only reminds me that humans are a physical embodiment of grossness, mayhem and violence.)

I almost always contemplate the nature of community celebrations; what it is to publicly declare your union; that a wedding is a torturous process that allows the different families to finally realise who they are letting into their gene pool. I also think back on all the weddings I have attended, or not attended. How weddings seem to be watershed moments in friendships. I ruminate on the cost - how a day can tally up to the same amount as a deposit on a house or a fabulous overseas trip. But this wedding was different.

I had been part of weddings where I was intricately involved in the ceremony. However I had never been part of a family where everyone was or had been married at some point except for yours truly. If you asked me six months ago if it mattered, I would have glibly said no. But when the moment arrived, it did matter. A lot.

Suddenly I was having my own little watershed moment. I was facing a truth. To be married, to have kids (the really big picture started descending at this point), to represent what I had always viewed, and in some way opposed, as the traditional face of western society was actually part of a growth process. I came to the realisation that I would never properly grow up and become a fully actualised person without committing to responsibility - be it a long-term relationship or children or something else - and these rites of passage represented those commitments.

So there I stood, amidst the festivities, facing a future of continuing post-adolescence. I saw myself, at eighty, and it worried me. Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place. Run forward and embrace the social notion of partnership that I have always struggled with, or remain in stasis, without growth. So I did what any logical minded person would do. I drank.

Drink can blur the edges but it cannot stop the tradition of the bouquet being thrown. Although at this wedding there were two bouquets as there were two brides. One tradition stared stony faced at the other tradition. It was a show down. Would I, the stalwart non-participant, engage in what I had previously viewed as a symbol of women's acquiescence and submission to a larger patriarchal tyranny?

Yes I would.

I put down my glass. Shoved people aside. Shouted at my sister and my new sister-in-law that they must aim their bouquets at me. Missed the first one. Complained loudly to the crowd. Went for the rugby tackle approach for the second bouquet. Which I caught. And somewhere I hoped the Molecule of Destiny was listening, because the feminist had landed and she wanted commitment.

knock knock

Don't mind me. Just tiptoe-ing back to my blog. Cough. No time has passed at all. Nope. I don't have commitment issues. I mean what is err... six months in the bigger picture? It is a mere blip on this wonderful place we call the universe. (Dodging through use of optimism - excellent tool discovered by watching politicians.) I am back. I am also front, up and down. I have been taking a really expensive treatment for my Crohn's and have been a superduperbusinesswhirlpool oh-my-god-where-does-she-get-the-energy person. So I have my excuses. That and the fact a blog means commitment and I am not sure I know how to commit. Although I could probably commit myself to an insane asylum. Or I could commit hara kiri. (Leave me while I wander down the lanes of language nuance.)

I was asked if I had read 'The Satanic Verses'. (It was a relative - around eighty, wild and a Marxist. At some point I should introduce you to my family.) I told her that I don't read newspapers anymore. In my world, newspapers are the Satanic Verses. Local news? Makes you want to emigrate. International news? Makes you want to change species. I don't know if it is because communication has opened up so much that all is revealed, or because our world is galloping along to a biblical conclusion. I do know it's giving me an ulcer and I have enough of those.

Tuesday 8 May 2007

This day

Today will be a good day.

Because I said so.

Thursday 3 May 2007

Thursday and counting

So I woke up at 5.30am with thr intention of getting straight to work. But by the time I had done bowels and cats, it was 6am. Time may wait for no man but it fucking flies for woman. I then hit the computer with a vengeance and tried to be creative with a newsletter. I spent ages "being creative". It ended up looking really similar to the not creative version. So I ate and ate and ate. Then I bathed. I fell asleep in the bath. When I woke up, all cold and disorientated, I sloshed out the bath and ate. Then I phoned a take away place to order more food. Now I am going to work on my next project, while I contemplate the nature of my food obsession and my desire not to go out to a singles evening. Ugh.

Wednesday 2 May 2007

work it

I can't buckle down to work. I am going to be destitute, living on the streets and forced to become a prostitute to make money. (Optimism is not my middle name.)

Hey Booklooking!

Some people fit into the supermodel mode. They do glamorous at the drop of a hat. I just drop the hat. Actually I don't even wear hats. I am not traditionally goodlooking but I am what I call booklooking. Don't attempt to look this word up in the dictionary. It could be harmful to your health.

Booklooking is more than a bibliophile on the rampage. The real booklooker cannot breathe without the knowledge that they have something of interest to read, tucked somewhere safe. Actually there must be at least three books on the go, as well as magazines and other reading stuff. When times are tough even pamphlets will do. It is amazing how many paving companies there are (that comes courtesy of the homebuilders pamphlet).

A booklooker needs to read. It is an addiction. It isn't about being high brow and wowing people with your immense knowledge of the latest Booker Prize. Marian Keyes rates as highly as that person that wrote The God of Small Things. (Authors tend to blur after year 15.) Some of us indulge in crack (now what was that about builders), for others the nicotine stain leads life. For me it is reading material. I have even resorted to reading the back of shampoo bottles while on the loo in a friend's house.

But I am in dispair. There seem to be no good books. I want something that will transport me out of this world. But nothing has crossed my vision in the last 6 months. Forget boys, where have all the good books gone? I dont want clever... that leaves me rooted in this world... or a book that doesnt carry me off... but nothing... although I have now resorted to trawling the children's section at the local Exclusive Books. Roald Dahl is always a good bet and his books are worth collecting. Even if his name sounds like an Indian dinner.

Friday 20 April 2007

smoke-free zone

When I went hospital, I gave up smoking. Just like that. It wasn't so bad when I was in a different environment but once I got home and back to my routineless routines, it was bizarrely difficult. I feel like I am crack addict. The idea of smoking fills my brain most of the day and it is already 3 weeks.

The physical cravings went After 2 weeks but the psychological craving doesn't seem to want to let up. Smoking filled a space in my life that I wasn't ready to give up. It marked the time in my days. It allowed me to stop thinking. It put my life on hold. Before I did anything, I smoked. When I need a break, I smoked. Now I have my life ahead of me and I am not sure that I like what I am seeing. Before, I could have clouded the realisation with a smoke. Now there is just endless time ahead of me. Endless potential to be filled.

I have to face my faults head on now. There is no pause button and my brain is having problems dealing with this. Smoking was a pause from life, in every way. It brings you closer to death. You ride the edge but do it in a 'safe' way.

Now that I am an almost non-smoker, I am propelled forward by Oprah moments. I must live my best life. I must fulfil my potential. I must create change. I should make a difference. There is no pause.

Thursday 19 April 2007

The frenzy of life

I have been asking people what wakes them up in the morning. You know, what gets them ready to face the day. Mostly people don't know, they just don't think about it. How can you live each day and not think about why you are here? I don't know what I am more concerned about - that people don't examine their lives or that there doesn't seem to be a really good reason for being on this planet.

Even more stupefying is that the people I asked were surprised that it is an issue. How can you not live in every day, every moment? I mean actually live in it. What are you doing now? How are you contributing? Are your actions making a difference? No wonder society is against euthanasia, the sheep people are living comatose lives anyway. Why would you want to end the life of a visually apparent coma when it reflects your existence?

Wednesday 18 April 2007

Up down up down

Time flies. I would rather it fry because then maybe I could learn to cook but it doesn't. I have been in hospital and thus blogless for a while. I now know that I have a rotten large intestine and have to take an insanely expensive medication which is to be a wonder drug. Perfect.

But all is well in the world of me-woman. For a while I thought I was having a middle age crisis. Then I realised that I might be too young for that. Then I thought maybe not. It was the depression angst merry-go-round. I got off this week. Medication? Oh no. Magazines! I have found the meaning of Liff and it is typeset (ok lithoed). I am now committing to blogging at least three times a week. Creating vacuousness for the vacuum. See? Liff has meaning.

Tuesday 16 January 2007

Hamster pooping

I was hoping that this year would be different. That I would be organised and everything would run more smoothly. But I am riding the hamster circle again, fighting with my health just to barely keep up. And I am not keeping up. I don't know what to do but this cannot go on.

Tuesday 9 January 2007

New year AAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh

I am so not prepared for this.

Wednesday 3 January 2007

tie me up, tie me down

I was born with dreams. I don't think there was a moment when I didn't believe that anything is possible. Possibly it is part of my genetic makeup, or perhaps a sign of these more liberated times. I live in a country that encourages entrepreneurs. My siblings all have their own businesses. My mother has always held down at least three jobs. No matter what was thrown at me, I viewed it as an obstacle to be crossed. More than just a challenge, something I could learn from. But I don't think I ever imagined a constant obstacle.

What do you do if you have a disease where there is no cure? Where you don't know what each day will bring? Where one moment your hips are in so much pain you cannot walk, and the next you are vomiting so much you have no energy left... It is like a circular wall that has been painted with cooking oil. You cannot climb it and you have no idea where you will land. But each day you must go on, no matter what.

It grinds you down. At first you don't notice and then a few years down the line you realise you are living the life of an eighty year old. You are thirty six. It wears your physical body down but, even more devastating, is it wears down your dreams. They slowly flitter away as you focus on the most basic things, like getting enough sleep.

Last year was terrible. This year hasn't started well. Sometimes I just want to lie down and go to sleep, and never wake up.



But then I think... could I ever leave icecream behind?

Tuesday 2 January 2007

Just one

I have made one resolution. It's a big thing to make just one because if you don't achieve it, it can't be lost amongst the myriad of other resolutions. There is an all-time humongous focus on that one resolution. Ok so here goes... my resolution is:

I will not stress.

(For those that know me, here is a tissue to stop the tears of laughter.)

Monday 1 January 2007

Exaltation of food

I love food. Probably not in a healthy way. Okay definitely not. I use it for comfort, for sanctuary, for bliss. I have moved on from eating anything that is in front of me to desiring good food. This is definitely a step up. I dream of eateries that offer exquisite foods that tantalise my palate. I have investigated my relationship with food and know it isn't perfect but at 36 I am not sure how much I will be changing in the next few years. Is it possible to turn over years of perversion?

I still have this ideosyncracy of desiring inaccessible food. If I am at someone else's house and there is food, even if it is bad food, I want it desperately. I try to eat it as quickly as possible. I gorge. It is not a pretty sight. No matter how many times I tell myself that I can go and buy the food any time, my sense of lack drives me to eat and eat and eat. Don't ask about buffets. It is like seeing a pig at the height of gluttony.

I always see the faces of those around me. They watch as I devour with no social graces. I can feel their distaste but I cannot stop myself. It is forbidden food and I only have a limited time to take it in. Nothing can stop me.

I often think of food. I have even dreamed of it. The funny thing is I am not a cook. Making food doesn't interest me. If I create it, it is like cardboard on my palate. Unless it is a sandwich - food for the gods in my distorted home world.

But the universe has an extreme sense of humour. I have a chronic disease that doesn't actually allow me to eat most things. I live with longing. And when I succumb to my food desires, it is followed by intense pain. Most of my favourite tastes create such disorder in my digestive system that, unless I am so blinded to consequence, I cannot inhale them.

When I ignore consequence and it lands on my body, it is like a torture chamber. I cannot sleep, eat or think. The pain is all consuming. Often it involves vomiting. All the desired comes out in a gelatinous mess that makes me even more ill. The body purging then makes me so tired I cannot move. So I lie down and think of food. But this is the only time it makes me feel ill. I don't want it. I swear never to eat again.

Then my body calms itself. Only twinges of pain remain. The longing for food becomes stronger. Finally, days maybe weeks later, it overcomes the memory of the pain and I belly flop into a food experience. I hope that if I eat fast my body won't realise and I can trick it. But then the pain begins again and I am lost.