Thank you, Vikki.
Thank you for being my wife, my therapist, my friend.
Thank you for listening so patiently to the details of my confused and fucked up life,thank you for listening and then making me laugh.
Thank you for not letting there be an awkward silence, like there usually is, when you mention death in a conversation.
Vikki, we are shared platters of pancakes in the late afternoon, we are long evenings sitting by the river or in our bandstands.
We are the smell of hairdye and chinese food and free periods in college spent walking all the way to your house to watch five minutes of a film before walking back again.
We are pages and pages of doodles across my school notes and Triple Ace Tattoo Studio and sleepovers spent watching scary as fuck horror films.
We are hours at Pinners and in the geography room and in the park.
We are conversations without an end.
Love you lots. Miss you lots.
Monday, 13 February 2012
Saturday, 11 February 2012
Furthur proof that I have very little of a life...
My third blog post in less than twenty four hours....what is this witchcraft?
In less than 5 hours, I will be home with my lovely family, and my wonderful and much missed best friend. I'm so buzzed about going home; chances are, by the end of the week, I will be equally buzzed about being back at Warwick, so it all works out.
Last night, I dreamt....many strange things, and part of it was a memory of a tableux from when I was about....fifteen, perhaps? Maybe sixteen?
It was a saturday afternoon, outside the Superdrug in town, in the space so charmingly named Pidgeon Square, due to the fact that the square (much like the rest of bedford) is populated in big, scary, vicious pidgeons, than will happily claw your face off, should you give them a fair chance.
There was a small crowd watching a choir of children from (Please forgive my generalisation) Africa, all of whom were orphans, all of whom came from the streets, all of whom were very talented and absolutely adorable: their singing was interspersed by their high, hopeful voices reciting about how they wanted to be doctors and lawyers and bus drivers when they grew up, and I swear, just to hear them was enough to make you (by which i mean me) cry, and the day before, they'd performed at a school assembly.
I'd enjoyed it so much, I was watching them again, and was (inevitably) approached from a stock character from the Play Of My Life- the random weirdo. To be fair, this man was fairly clean, and fairly articulate, and didnt seen to have any plans to abduct and/or rape me in the alley behind Woolworths (always a good thing), so I wasn't too freaked out.
I don't remember much of what he said, but I do remember he quite fixated with making me see the error of my ways and embrace the miracle of Yaweh (sorry....I meant God), and I was equally determined not to, but quite content to argue with him for a few minutes. I remember that his favourite arguemnt seemed to be the metaphor of a music concert- (I just had a horrible thought that he chose 'music concert' in order to 'relate' to my teenageness....fml....)- he said that if i didnt have a ticket, i wouldnt get in....so it was safer to get a ticket than to not.
I presume faith was the ticket....as if its so easy to 'choose' to believe something or not to beleieve.
In retrospect, I know what my answer should have been:
"If heaven is a concert, I doubt it'll play the kind of music i like. The people i like wont be there, if you have to be christian to get in: there will be.....hmm...maybe my grandparents and my evangelical cousins....but NO ONE ELSE! Not my mum, my dad, my brother, my aunts and uncles and cousins. My boyfriend wont be there, my friends wont be there....if you need faith to geti n, then NONE of them ,no matter how good they are, will get in! And HOW would that be a privilege or a reward or even fun? It sounds ghastly....so no, I dont want a ticket. Because never, in a million years, would i choose to go to this 'concert"
In less than 5 hours, I will be home with my lovely family, and my wonderful and much missed best friend. I'm so buzzed about going home; chances are, by the end of the week, I will be equally buzzed about being back at Warwick, so it all works out.
Last night, I dreamt....many strange things, and part of it was a memory of a tableux from when I was about....fifteen, perhaps? Maybe sixteen?
It was a saturday afternoon, outside the Superdrug in town, in the space so charmingly named Pidgeon Square, due to the fact that the square (much like the rest of bedford) is populated in big, scary, vicious pidgeons, than will happily claw your face off, should you give them a fair chance.
There was a small crowd watching a choir of children from (Please forgive my generalisation) Africa, all of whom were orphans, all of whom came from the streets, all of whom were very talented and absolutely adorable: their singing was interspersed by their high, hopeful voices reciting about how they wanted to be doctors and lawyers and bus drivers when they grew up, and I swear, just to hear them was enough to make you (by which i mean me) cry, and the day before, they'd performed at a school assembly.
I'd enjoyed it so much, I was watching them again, and was (inevitably) approached from a stock character from the Play Of My Life- the random weirdo. To be fair, this man was fairly clean, and fairly articulate, and didnt seen to have any plans to abduct and/or rape me in the alley behind Woolworths (always a good thing), so I wasn't too freaked out.
I don't remember much of what he said, but I do remember he quite fixated with making me see the error of my ways and embrace the miracle of Yaweh (sorry....I meant God), and I was equally determined not to, but quite content to argue with him for a few minutes. I remember that his favourite arguemnt seemed to be the metaphor of a music concert- (I just had a horrible thought that he chose 'music concert' in order to 'relate' to my teenageness....fml....)- he said that if i didnt have a ticket, i wouldnt get in....so it was safer to get a ticket than to not.
I presume faith was the ticket....as if its so easy to 'choose' to believe something or not to beleieve.
In retrospect, I know what my answer should have been:
"If heaven is a concert, I doubt it'll play the kind of music i like. The people i like wont be there, if you have to be christian to get in: there will be.....hmm...maybe my grandparents and my evangelical cousins....but NO ONE ELSE! Not my mum, my dad, my brother, my aunts and uncles and cousins. My boyfriend wont be there, my friends wont be there....if you need faith to geti n, then NONE of them ,no matter how good they are, will get in! And HOW would that be a privilege or a reward or even fun? It sounds ghastly....so no, I dont want a ticket. Because never, in a million years, would i choose to go to this 'concert"
Friday, 10 February 2012
Futility
It's hard to control what your heart tells you to do, sometimes.
It can be the comments made in passing that catch like a barb, jerking questions to your lips that you cant ask: a passing mention of a years-old eatng disorder, forcing me to exercise every scrap of control i posess to hold back the words that were already bubbling up: "When? What happend? How did no one notice and what caused it and how did you get better?"
Most of all, i wanted to ask how: "How can you think even for a second that you are anything other than so beautiful as you are? And what can I do, right now, to stop you ever suffering from this ever again in your life, because it hurts me to think of you hurting, and I'd do anything in the world to prevent it."
But I couldn't. She didnt need my clumsily worded questions or my sympathy or anything i could offer in that moment: i was five years too late to do anything to help, but i was still compelled to do something....anything... I didn't, of course.
It was too late, but i wanted to help, just like i wanted to go back a couple of weeks to stop my friend being alone in the ambulance nad then in the hospital. Her off handedness was surprising, but even so, i wanted to extract the promise that if she ever, ever was planning to be in an ambulance alone again, she would call me, at any hour of any day or night, because i couldnt bare to think of her being alone like that.
But i didnt say that either, of course. There was nothing i could say.
So instead i sipped my tea and hugged them goodbye and wished for the hundreth time that i could protect everyone i loved from everything bad, forever and ever, amen.
It can be the comments made in passing that catch like a barb, jerking questions to your lips that you cant ask: a passing mention of a years-old eatng disorder, forcing me to exercise every scrap of control i posess to hold back the words that were already bubbling up: "When? What happend? How did no one notice and what caused it and how did you get better?"
Most of all, i wanted to ask how: "How can you think even for a second that you are anything other than so beautiful as you are? And what can I do, right now, to stop you ever suffering from this ever again in your life, because it hurts me to think of you hurting, and I'd do anything in the world to prevent it."
But I couldn't. She didnt need my clumsily worded questions or my sympathy or anything i could offer in that moment: i was five years too late to do anything to help, but i was still compelled to do something....anything... I didn't, of course.
It was too late, but i wanted to help, just like i wanted to go back a couple of weeks to stop my friend being alone in the ambulance nad then in the hospital. Her off handedness was surprising, but even so, i wanted to extract the promise that if she ever, ever was planning to be in an ambulance alone again, she would call me, at any hour of any day or night, because i couldnt bare to think of her being alone like that.
But i didnt say that either, of course. There was nothing i could say.
So instead i sipped my tea and hugged them goodbye and wished for the hundreth time that i could protect everyone i loved from everything bad, forever and ever, amen.
In which I witness the slaughter of Ibsen....
Not the best production I have ever seen, by any extent: it was so bad that Anna actually contemplated getting her phone out, the last person I would ever imagine being rude in a theatre, which really shows how utterly bad the adaption was. However, it provided my friends and I with the joy of tearing it to shreds amidst general hilarity, and I was again reminded of the simple truth, that bad plays are ususally more fun to talk about than good ones.
The mean streets of coventry eyed us warily, and for good reason: we were, after all, 3 warwick students, all talking loudly and conspicously about Paradise Lost (ah...the joy of being an english student!) and we're probably lucky to have gotton back to campus alive.
All in all, it was a lovely night with lovely people: my life was saved twice (i.e Katherine pulled me back from some on coming traffic, clearly an indicator that, if i havent yet got the hang of crossing roads, i am really not ready to be an adult), and i enjoyed the hilarity of an awkward-turtle moment in the taxi home: Katherine sadly said she was slacking, as her last essay mark was the lowest mark she'd gotton so far....right before i mentioned how relieved i was at getting my most recent mark back (three points lower than hers). I felt a little sorry for her because she genuinly seemed to feel bad about it, but it was also pretty funny, and i intend to remind her of it next time i accidentally insult her (um....again).
The mean streets of coventry eyed us warily, and for good reason: we were, after all, 3 warwick students, all talking loudly and conspicously about Paradise Lost (ah...the joy of being an english student!) and we're probably lucky to have gotton back to campus alive.
All in all, it was a lovely night with lovely people: my life was saved twice (i.e Katherine pulled me back from some on coming traffic, clearly an indicator that, if i havent yet got the hang of crossing roads, i am really not ready to be an adult), and i enjoyed the hilarity of an awkward-turtle moment in the taxi home: Katherine sadly said she was slacking, as her last essay mark was the lowest mark she'd gotton so far....right before i mentioned how relieved i was at getting my most recent mark back (three points lower than hers). I felt a little sorry for her because she genuinly seemed to feel bad about it, but it was also pretty funny, and i intend to remind her of it next time i accidentally insult her (um....again).
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