A friend of mine recently had a bit of an identity crisis marked by him not knowing who we was, where he was going in life etc. This got me thinking about how we define ourselves as people-who are we really?
We are not just a body attached to a name, every one of us has distinctive physical and mental traits, unique thoughts and perceptions and habits and hobbies. I believe that no one part of us can define us because we are a collective of everything we have experienced in our lives and all the roles we have played so far-not to mention those we hope one day to play.
We cannot define ourselves in a word...unless that word is human. Though some of us would even consider that word to hold a number of inaccuracies. We have animalistic tendencies at times, and we can be inhumane when life pushes us to certain extremes.
I am a million things at once; I'm a daughter, a sister, a friend, an acquaintance, a student, a teacher, a learner. I'm an ex-girlfriend, I'm someone you met at a club, I'm an actress, a writer, a dancer. I am a survivor, I'm the girl with the broken leg, or the girl with the broken heart. I'm a viewer, a subscriber, a blogger, a listener and a reader. I can add or subtract things from the list of all that I am every moment of every day, I could fill a library with all the stories of how I was, am and will be and why. I could...but you can't know someone by knowing what they are or even why, you can't know someone from a list of facts and measurements and personality traits.
To know someone, to know who and what they are, is to experience them. We are different in the eyes of every person we meet but that is how we are defined-that is how we are known and therefore, in the truest sense of the word that is who we are.
Saturday 30 March 2013
Dark Thoughts
I am a worrier-I would probably label this as my worst vice. I can't help it (literally I have something wrong with me). I get stressed about doing things, not doing things, I over-think everything. I question why people want to spend time with me and why they don't; why people love me or why they have a problem with me. I trust people too easily- the only thing I never worry is that someone will let me down-I only worry about me being the one to let others down.
Humans are fascinating creatures as we seem to be built in such a way that our minds can forgive everyone but ourselves. I know that I personally seem to prefer to believe that I am a fuck up in any situation than to believe that it is the other person's fault. I don't think this makes me a doormat but I think it is a weakness of my character.
Because I feel I am so unforgiving of myself I like to be forgiving of others-it is a really pure feeling to accept someone regardless of any flaws you may notice-and even more so when you do it in spite of something. I guess because I am so aware of people's capacity for change I like to believe that anyone, no matter how flawed they seem or feel can accept themselves if I accept them. I definitely feel better about myself when I find a new friend or open up to someone or have someone open up to me. The confidence of another in you can fuel your confidence in yourself better than almost anything else I have come across.
I tend to think of everything psychologically, being a logical person I know in my heart there is a reason for everything and I like to stretch my mental muscles searching for these little motivations that drive our everyday emotions, habits and thoughts.
I admit that I worry sometimes about letting people see inside my head because I don't think many of those close to me would believe how many dark places there are in there. I refuse to be defined by my issues in the minds of others-it's enough that they define me in my own mind. I am an open person and if someone were to ask me I would give them the key to my Pandora's box of secret thoughts because I am privileged to have seen the dark places of so many people close to me-and have only thought the better of them because of it.
People aren't made interesting by being darker than you think, they are made interesting by allowing their darkness to be a part of them without becoming them.
Humans are fascinating creatures as we seem to be built in such a way that our minds can forgive everyone but ourselves. I know that I personally seem to prefer to believe that I am a fuck up in any situation than to believe that it is the other person's fault. I don't think this makes me a doormat but I think it is a weakness of my character.
Because I feel I am so unforgiving of myself I like to be forgiving of others-it is a really pure feeling to accept someone regardless of any flaws you may notice-and even more so when you do it in spite of something. I guess because I am so aware of people's capacity for change I like to believe that anyone, no matter how flawed they seem or feel can accept themselves if I accept them. I definitely feel better about myself when I find a new friend or open up to someone or have someone open up to me. The confidence of another in you can fuel your confidence in yourself better than almost anything else I have come across.
I tend to think of everything psychologically, being a logical person I know in my heart there is a reason for everything and I like to stretch my mental muscles searching for these little motivations that drive our everyday emotions, habits and thoughts.
I admit that I worry sometimes about letting people see inside my head because I don't think many of those close to me would believe how many dark places there are in there. I refuse to be defined by my issues in the minds of others-it's enough that they define me in my own mind. I am an open person and if someone were to ask me I would give them the key to my Pandora's box of secret thoughts because I am privileged to have seen the dark places of so many people close to me-and have only thought the better of them because of it.
People aren't made interesting by being darker than you think, they are made interesting by allowing their darkness to be a part of them without becoming them.
Time
Today I spent time thinking about time-essentially wasting
time passing the time contemplating how much time one can spend timing the time
spent contemplating time. I know that time exists, that every second is a
scientific fact yet time is not so concrete as gravity, not so clear cut as the
mathematics of movement and yet not so complex as chemical structure.
It fascinates me that while every second lasts just as long as those immediately before and after yet time seems alternately to lag and speed demanding to be noticed, confounding our senses. We can almost convince ourselves that we have some sort of influence on time-that because it appears to change relative to our mental state, the activity we are engaging in or the company we are keeping.
Yet we are also near constantly aware of our powerlessness over time. We are older ever second we are alive-a ticking clock tending us towards the time our battery runs down. When we are under pressure it seems like time is flying away from us, when we are waiting for a train it is though time is infinitesimally slow. Sometimes you want a few precious moments more with someone with whom every moment is golden and there are others with whom you feel time is a black hole-that time with them is something you will never get back.
It fascinates me that while every second lasts just as long as those immediately before and after yet time seems alternately to lag and speed demanding to be noticed, confounding our senses. We can almost convince ourselves that we have some sort of influence on time-that because it appears to change relative to our mental state, the activity we are engaging in or the company we are keeping.
Yet we are also near constantly aware of our powerlessness over time. We are older ever second we are alive-a ticking clock tending us towards the time our battery runs down. When we are under pressure it seems like time is flying away from us, when we are waiting for a train it is though time is infinitesimally slow. Sometimes you want a few precious moments more with someone with whom every moment is golden and there are others with whom you feel time is a black hole-that time with them is something you will never get back.
Time fascinates me because arguably we waste every moment
yet perfectly utilise it simultaneously. One can say that attempting to
consider things we do to have any value when really we are just passing time
towards the end of our allotted amount is futile. Yet opposing this is the idea
that when every moment is so finite and precious there is no way to waste them
because their very precariousness gives them a beauty and value.
Thursday 28 March 2013
INDOOR VOICES
I do not have an indoor voice. I am not ashamed of this (my mother is but that is not my problem). I grew up in a big, loud, talkative family and if you don't make yourself heard you won't be. This has given me the confidence to be vocal socially, academically and definitely helped in sports!
I do however agree that there are certain conversational topics which would be better discussed at lower volume but my control over my vocal chords (much like my control over the thoughts I let loose) is a little limited so I have to make the effort to take these convos somewhere private!
While I can see the merit of 'the indoor voice' I think many a person's indoor voice becomes their only voice, then becomes their inner voice.
I like quiet people (I also enjoy the company of loud people) but I always worry about them being left out or left behind because they don't put themselves out there like us loud folks. There's nothing wrong with being softly spoken or with being selective about what you choose to share with people I just think too many quiet people let themselves become introverted when in the presence of unfamiliar people or loudies.
While there will always be the odd people who can't handle my noise levels, or to whom I might appear a little brash I will always be proud of my voice because I'd rather make noise than become invisible. I agree that silence can be golden but it's very hard to hold a conversation with a mute.
I do however agree that there are certain conversational topics which would be better discussed at lower volume but my control over my vocal chords (much like my control over the thoughts I let loose) is a little limited so I have to make the effort to take these convos somewhere private!
While I can see the merit of 'the indoor voice' I think many a person's indoor voice becomes their only voice, then becomes their inner voice.
I like quiet people (I also enjoy the company of loud people) but I always worry about them being left out or left behind because they don't put themselves out there like us loud folks. There's nothing wrong with being softly spoken or with being selective about what you choose to share with people I just think too many quiet people let themselves become introverted when in the presence of unfamiliar people or loudies.
While there will always be the odd people who can't handle my noise levels, or to whom I might appear a little brash I will always be proud of my voice because I'd rather make noise than become invisible. I agree that silence can be golden but it's very hard to hold a conversation with a mute.
kiss me you fool
Some people forget the power and indeed the fun of kissing. The obsession with sex that preoccupies our society has ruined something that is just pure and can be genuinely magic. In my mind there are few things worse than messing up a kiss our taking it for granted.
For instance if someone lets a sexual tension build then doesn't kiss you-it feels unreasonably disappointing. The only thing more annoying than that is when someone asks can they kiss you...I mean it's sweet and considerate and whatever but it's also a serious mood killer it just makes you feel a little awkward...like you need to discuss which side to tilt your head or whether or not tongues should be involved.
I would rather a mate kissed me and we had to laugh it off for being a bit weird than for them to just kill things. Even a bad kiss, a drunk kiss or an awkward head butt on the way to a kiss can be something nice because hey its the thought that counts!
It's that thought of kissing that is so devilishly tricky-when you are thinking of someone, when you can't help noticing their mouth; the lips, the shape of their teeth. Sometimes you aren't even wanting to kiss them there's just a part of you that wonders what it would be like, and whether they are wondering about it too.
I can remember every first kiss I've had with anyone-the good, the bad and the drunk. and sometimes you hear a song or see someone or watch something that triggers the memory and all the sensations flood back-the way you felt, the closeness of their body, the taste of their lips, the scent of their body, their hands in your hair, the look in their eyes just beforehand.
A friend once said that you aren't really friends until you've kissed-not necessarily passionately or even drunkenly but just in a friendly fashion; birthday kisses, goodbye kisses, dude-I-haven't-seen-you-in-ages kisses and congratulatory kisses. When you're familiar enough to smooch that's a good measure of closeness (though this is generally a male-female or female-female interaction when it comes to friends!). In most of Europe kissing is considered part of the handshake process but in Ireland it makes people nervous if you don't know them well.
I suppose my thinking behind this post was that there should be more affection in the world and cuddles are no longer cutting it!
For instance if someone lets a sexual tension build then doesn't kiss you-it feels unreasonably disappointing. The only thing more annoying than that is when someone asks can they kiss you...I mean it's sweet and considerate and whatever but it's also a serious mood killer it just makes you feel a little awkward...like you need to discuss which side to tilt your head or whether or not tongues should be involved.
I would rather a mate kissed me and we had to laugh it off for being a bit weird than for them to just kill things. Even a bad kiss, a drunk kiss or an awkward head butt on the way to a kiss can be something nice because hey its the thought that counts!
It's that thought of kissing that is so devilishly tricky-when you are thinking of someone, when you can't help noticing their mouth; the lips, the shape of their teeth. Sometimes you aren't even wanting to kiss them there's just a part of you that wonders what it would be like, and whether they are wondering about it too.
I can remember every first kiss I've had with anyone-the good, the bad and the drunk. and sometimes you hear a song or see someone or watch something that triggers the memory and all the sensations flood back-the way you felt, the closeness of their body, the taste of their lips, the scent of their body, their hands in your hair, the look in their eyes just beforehand.
A friend once said that you aren't really friends until you've kissed-not necessarily passionately or even drunkenly but just in a friendly fashion; birthday kisses, goodbye kisses, dude-I-haven't-seen-you-in-ages kisses and congratulatory kisses. When you're familiar enough to smooch that's a good measure of closeness (though this is generally a male-female or female-female interaction when it comes to friends!). In most of Europe kissing is considered part of the handshake process but in Ireland it makes people nervous if you don't know them well.
I suppose my thinking behind this post was that there should be more affection in the world and cuddles are no longer cutting it!
Wednesday 27 March 2013
Infinite capacity
I am capable of almost anything. This is not an exceptional trait but one every person possesses. True there are biological limits to human capacity-we are unlikely to breathe underwater or fly or piss strawberry milkshake, but we are infinite wells of possibility. We can learn to speak a million languages, to absorb the most complexly mathematical scientific theories, we can memorise dozens upon dozens of facts, we can bend our bodies into unthinkable shapes or jump higher and further than any trampoline could thrust us. We can master any skill we set our hands to.
There is no obstacle in the world around us that can truly prevent us from reaching our potential-the only thing that keeps us from brilliance is ourselves; our conviction that we cannot, our belief that we will never be good at some things, never master certain tasks or in certain cases that we are no good, have no potential, no talent and nothing to offer the world or anyone in it. We choose an ordinary life because we'd rather take what we can get, what we know we have than challenge ourselves and strive for more than what we were born with, more than what comes naturally. Letting go of fear, insecurity and suspending disbelief is the only way to make ourselves free to be great. If you hold back the only thing you're holding back is yourself-and the person you have yet to unleash is even better than the person you feel safe being-so why not let yourself loose?
There is no obstacle in the world around us that can truly prevent us from reaching our potential-the only thing that keeps us from brilliance is ourselves; our conviction that we cannot, our belief that we will never be good at some things, never master certain tasks or in certain cases that we are no good, have no potential, no talent and nothing to offer the world or anyone in it. We choose an ordinary life because we'd rather take what we can get, what we know we have than challenge ourselves and strive for more than what we were born with, more than what comes naturally. Letting go of fear, insecurity and suspending disbelief is the only way to make ourselves free to be great. If you hold back the only thing you're holding back is yourself-and the person you have yet to unleash is even better than the person you feel safe being-so why not let yourself loose?
Common
The best way to gauge the strength of any friendship is the stuff you have in common. Now most people think the only things that count as being 'in common' are the things you both like; like ballet or rock music or old TV shows; or the things you share like green eyes school or a group of friends or a love of dark haired men. To me the most important things you have in common are not these-nor even mutual opinions-in fact arguments and the ability to have a civil disagreement are some of the best fun and most crucial aspects of any friendship.
To me the thing that most indicates compatibility is hating the same things-like people who wear too much fake tan, boys wearing leggings, late buses, shoes with no socks and hypocrisy. It's great to find someone who'll let you moan and actually agree with you! You can make inane small talk for hours and bore yourself with someone who has 'a lot in common' with you or you can find someone completely different who just notices all the same things you do or maybe thinks a little like you.
The infinite variety of the human race is an incredible thing (though it does make it all the more surprising how many people try to be just like their friends instead of developing themselves). I like to collect odd acquaintances, people who bring new things, new ideas, opinions and attitudes. While I haven't met many people like myself I think if I did I wouldn't find them nearly as engaging to be around as the people who are nothing like me!
I think the most engaging thing about any person you might be friends with is someone who surprises you-if someone you've been friends with for years can still make you take a step back, laugh out loud without meaning to or just genuinely exceed your expectations that's a friendship that'll never get old and tired. Surprise is the spice of life-the unknown, not the known, the common. If you have just one uncommon friend they are the one that you'll always want to be around.
I think the most engaging thing about any person you might be friends with is someone who surprises you-if someone you've been friends with for years can still make you take a step back, laugh out loud without meaning to or just genuinely exceed your expectations that's a friendship that'll never get old and tired. Surprise is the spice of life-the unknown, not the known, the common. If you have just one uncommon friend they are the one that you'll always want to be around.
Tuesday 26 March 2013
Censorship
I recently revealed this top-secret blog to my friend Clyde and after doing so told him that now I could never write about him-even-anonymously-in case he should read it. He pointed out to me something that I had not myself noticed-that this was censorship and if I can't write whatever I want on my own damned blog then where can I? Besides it's not like any of my friends can prove I'm writing about them-perhaps I should include a disclaimer like on fiction novels any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
We do live in a society where we spend more time dancing around what we really think than just being honest. While I pride myself on honesty there are definitely situations where I 'censor' myself and say what I know is the right thing or the more preferable thing (often this is in academic essays because you don't get great grades for essays entitled 'why I think my lecturer is talking out of his ass'). Clyde does not seem to be one of these people it's genuine thoughts or silence from him in my experiences thus far. While I believe that, like everyone, he has things that he will dance around I've realised that he may be one of the most genuine people I've got to know since starting college (a bit of a bummer so close to summer).
This recent realisation has made me wonder just how many of us really say what we think and how many just keep it in because it's not worth the effort to try and explain shit to people who won't get it-besides sometimes inane chatted is surprisingly soothing at times-like bad television or putting on the radio. Anyone who reads this blog knows that sometimes I can't kick start my tired brain enough to really engage with anything original or intelligent. Yet other days I wanna be deep as fuck but I have to bring it here after a day of inane small talk. Admittedly I love a bitta gossip and I like to be there for people too when they genuinely have something they need to share...I'm a talker (except when tired..or on the phone with the exception of my sister) and sometimes that means I'll babble on any topic from someones 'rad vintage shirt' to the issues of gay sex. Guess this blog isn't so different to my normal life-I mostly just babble about anything that comes up!
We do live in a society where we spend more time dancing around what we really think than just being honest. While I pride myself on honesty there are definitely situations where I 'censor' myself and say what I know is the right thing or the more preferable thing (often this is in academic essays because you don't get great grades for essays entitled 'why I think my lecturer is talking out of his ass'). Clyde does not seem to be one of these people it's genuine thoughts or silence from him in my experiences thus far. While I believe that, like everyone, he has things that he will dance around I've realised that he may be one of the most genuine people I've got to know since starting college (a bit of a bummer so close to summer).
This recent realisation has made me wonder just how many of us really say what we think and how many just keep it in because it's not worth the effort to try and explain shit to people who won't get it-besides sometimes inane chatted is surprisingly soothing at times-like bad television or putting on the radio. Anyone who reads this blog knows that sometimes I can't kick start my tired brain enough to really engage with anything original or intelligent. Yet other days I wanna be deep as fuck but I have to bring it here after a day of inane small talk. Admittedly I love a bitta gossip and I like to be there for people too when they genuinely have something they need to share...I'm a talker (except when tired..or on the phone with the exception of my sister) and sometimes that means I'll babble on any topic from someones 'rad vintage shirt' to the issues of gay sex. Guess this blog isn't so different to my normal life-I mostly just babble about anything that comes up!
Gender roles 1
I have entitled this gender roles 1 because I am sure this is a topic I will return to. Today, like many of the days of my life as the only girl in a boy's house I questioned some of the things which men seem to monopolise the right to do. Sure we women got to monopolise all the fun things by luck of biology-periods, child birth, slower metabolisms, physically weaker etc. etc. OK I'm not that bummed about being a women-in fact I love it most of the time since we have perks like hiding our blemishes under make-up, being allowed to show/talk about emotions without being judged and the option of trousers or a skirt (the essence of life of course).
Here's the thing- I don't get why men get to have the monopoly on being gross. A boy pees on the seat-that's just boys. A boy burps-that's how lads do it. I guy farts-that's something to be proud of! If a girl did any of these things she would be at least admonished but more likely looked at utterly appalled by any decent person!
Similarly men are allowed to grow their body hair as much as they please without being considered disgusting, hideous or unhygienic. If they get sweaty exercising it's applauded or even seen as sexy (while we women are just gross). I mean a teenage boy making an effort is putting on deodorant and a clean t-shirt while women have to undergo a rigorous total body overhaul.
And while yes I accept that this is the way of the world and I am not a feminist ranter-I like my men manly-not metrosexually overgroomed and I like my women hair free and sweetly scented!
All I want is the right to my involuntary bodily functions without judgement. I wouldn't mind a hi5 for a good burp rather than a stern reprimand from my mother! And I would definitely like to be able to fart every once in a while in the comfort of my own home!
Here's the thing- I don't get why men get to have the monopoly on being gross. A boy pees on the seat-that's just boys. A boy burps-that's how lads do it. I guy farts-that's something to be proud of! If a girl did any of these things she would be at least admonished but more likely looked at utterly appalled by any decent person!
Similarly men are allowed to grow their body hair as much as they please without being considered disgusting, hideous or unhygienic. If they get sweaty exercising it's applauded or even seen as sexy (while we women are just gross). I mean a teenage boy making an effort is putting on deodorant and a clean t-shirt while women have to undergo a rigorous total body overhaul.
And while yes I accept that this is the way of the world and I am not a feminist ranter-I like my men manly-not metrosexually overgroomed and I like my women hair free and sweetly scented!
All I want is the right to my involuntary bodily functions without judgement. I wouldn't mind a hi5 for a good burp rather than a stern reprimand from my mother! And I would definitely like to be able to fart every once in a while in the comfort of my own home!
Saturday 23 March 2013
Focus
I have begun so many posts today but haven't been able to follow one through to the end. It probably is due to a mixture of stress over assignments and my brothers loudly watching Southpark next to me. I dearly want to produce something but I can barely focus on tumblr let alone apply myself to anything with a genuine intellectual dimension. I literally have had my mind torn from this thought every two seconds. Its like-going down to southpark-swimming against a-can you put the dishwasher on-a tide of distractions. My brain is positively fuzzy with -***** has messaged you-a million thoughts flowing through my brain so fast that-Kat will you budge up?-I can barely seem to glimpse them let alone-new emails in tcd inbox -catch hold of them.
Goddamn this is the hardest thing I've ever -new flash with febreeze freshness-tried to do. It's like i have to physically turn the cogs of my brain.
Like focusing your eyes underwater or really engaging with a movie in a language you don't understand I am completely without the ability to maintain a singular goal or activity.
Goddamn this is the hardest thing I've ever -new flash with febreeze freshness-tried to do. It's like i have to physically turn the cogs of my brain.
Like focusing your eyes underwater or really engaging with a movie in a language you don't understand I am completely without the ability to maintain a singular goal or activity.
Accents
I've bee thinking a lot about accents this last week. There's an old film on television at the moment with a striking array of bizarre affected accents and this week in some of my classes we discussed the origin of language but how difficult it is to pinpoint how accents came about.
I tend to think I don't really have an accent of my own-my voice is neutral with a slightly American lilt to it (which I am less than fond of). However I have a strong propensity for picking up or imitating accents. If I spend any time with someone who has a strong accent-or a mild one at that-I'll start to speak in a similar tone without really meaning to. Apparently this is a psychological instinct ingrained in me (imitating accents or behaviours-deliberately or not-is a way to convince people of your similarity to them).
It really baffled my mind to try to work out why accents exist though.. especially in countries where the language is the same- living in Dublin there's a marked difference in accents from one side of the city to the other! Yet by logic there is no real reason for these differences in accent. My brothers and I live in the same house and we have different accents.
As a language student accents are of particular importance to me-throughout school I spent a lot of time being driven mad by French and Spanish spoken with a pronounced Dalkey accent-incomprehensible to anyone who actually spoke the language!
While in Spain I was asked if I was from a different area of Spain as my Spanish wasn't spoken with the southern accent prominent in Cadiz (at least I was convincing enough to sound Spanish!).
Sound is supposed to be one of the strongest memory triggers-even stringer than visual stimulants-meaning that a person's tone, accent and rhythm of talking are an essential part of how we form an attachment to them and remember them. Most people have certain accents that they can't stand and others that appeal to them most delectably! I find particularly harsh British accents awful to listen to but love the sound of the northern Irish accent. It's similar to how people find some languages lovely to listen to and others harsh. I love the sound of German (though I find it a little on the funny side!) but found the forcefulness of Korean wearing when I was studying it.
To my mind I just have to presume that accents are just another manifestation of the supreme variation of the human race in its many-splendoured uniqueness!
I tend to think I don't really have an accent of my own-my voice is neutral with a slightly American lilt to it (which I am less than fond of). However I have a strong propensity for picking up or imitating accents. If I spend any time with someone who has a strong accent-or a mild one at that-I'll start to speak in a similar tone without really meaning to. Apparently this is a psychological instinct ingrained in me (imitating accents or behaviours-deliberately or not-is a way to convince people of your similarity to them).
It really baffled my mind to try to work out why accents exist though.. especially in countries where the language is the same- living in Dublin there's a marked difference in accents from one side of the city to the other! Yet by logic there is no real reason for these differences in accent. My brothers and I live in the same house and we have different accents.
As a language student accents are of particular importance to me-throughout school I spent a lot of time being driven mad by French and Spanish spoken with a pronounced Dalkey accent-incomprehensible to anyone who actually spoke the language!
While in Spain I was asked if I was from a different area of Spain as my Spanish wasn't spoken with the southern accent prominent in Cadiz (at least I was convincing enough to sound Spanish!).
Sound is supposed to be one of the strongest memory triggers-even stringer than visual stimulants-meaning that a person's tone, accent and rhythm of talking are an essential part of how we form an attachment to them and remember them. Most people have certain accents that they can't stand and others that appeal to them most delectably! I find particularly harsh British accents awful to listen to but love the sound of the northern Irish accent. It's similar to how people find some languages lovely to listen to and others harsh. I love the sound of German (though I find it a little on the funny side!) but found the forcefulness of Korean wearing when I was studying it.
To my mind I just have to presume that accents are just another manifestation of the supreme variation of the human race in its many-splendoured uniqueness!
Friday 22 March 2013
Special things
I have a very odd relationship with this blog. While it is in my heart like a beloved child that I nurture and check on I also guard it like a secret because I fear having such a necessary creative outlet judged by the wrong eyes. I think I want people to read it then I realise I just want people to like it. It's rather childish and pathetic really but it's mine and deep down while I like to think that my writing here brings something to those who read it the real inspiration to do it is for myself, to release thoughts that buzz in my mind, to practise eloquence, to just allow myself to do the thing I really enjoy. While I do like to look at my stats and am sometimes mildly offended by the lack of readers I am also warmed by the fact that my little secret is still well kept. Like a favourite place or a book or a song you want to share with everyone because the joy it brings you should be shared. Yet, like these favourite things, you feel that letting anyone else know them is almost a betrayal of the special relationship you share with them and you cannot be sure that they will appreciate it the way you feel it should be, or worse, if they do, that they will share it with everyone and your special thing will no longer be special-your favourite garden crowded and trampled, your favourite book turned into a movie series with a crazy preteen following or your favourite song overplayed on the radio to the point where you skip it on shuffle.
I like to think that if anyone reads this that they enjoy it, and if they share it that they do so with people who will also enjoy it. I also like to think that I wouldn't care if no one read this or subscribed or commented (I'd like to think that but I definitely care a little...). I especially like to think about how I enjoy knowing that I am writing, even a little, even something unimportant and even secretly.
I like to think that if anyone reads this that they enjoy it, and if they share it that they do so with people who will also enjoy it. I also like to think that I wouldn't care if no one read this or subscribed or commented (I'd like to think that but I definitely care a little...). I especially like to think about how I enjoy knowing that I am writing, even a little, even something unimportant and even secretly.
Thursday 21 March 2013
Crime shows
I started thinking recently about my obsession with crime based shows. I really enjoy watching Criminal Minds and C.S.I.. I actually cannot pinpoint precisely what it is that draws me to them. I know in part it originated from me watching them to challenge myself. As a nervous individual with an anxiety condition I don't deal well with fear and I used to want to watch these shows but could only do it with the house thoroughly locked, well lit and with the blinds down. Even then I did the childish dash to the bedroom, slamming the door for safety and wrapping myself in a duvet (we all know that murderers and rapists are terrified of duvets that's why they're a safe place).
I cannot pretend that crime shows, particularly C.S.I., are especially well written, or well acted, or even at times vaguely plausible. I think I just like the mental exercise of trying to work out who's responsible (like classic murder mystery 'whodunnits' to which my mother is addicted). It's also interesting to follow the logical thought processes and the science aspects. It doesn't overshadow the fact that I should have better taste in television, i should enjoy something more intellectually, emotionally or even comedically engaging. But no, just as we cannot pinpoint the exact reasons why some people appeal to us more than others or some foods taste better than others, I cannot quite work out why, of all the shows I enjoy, I'd rather watch bad crime shows than anything else
I cannot pretend that crime shows, particularly C.S.I., are especially well written, or well acted, or even at times vaguely plausible. I think I just like the mental exercise of trying to work out who's responsible (like classic murder mystery 'whodunnits' to which my mother is addicted). It's also interesting to follow the logical thought processes and the science aspects. It doesn't overshadow the fact that I should have better taste in television, i should enjoy something more intellectually, emotionally or even comedically engaging. But no, just as we cannot pinpoint the exact reasons why some people appeal to us more than others or some foods taste better than others, I cannot quite work out why, of all the shows I enjoy, I'd rather watch bad crime shows than anything else
Commitment 2
I was informed last night by a friend and follower that today marks one week since I have blogged anything here and I am horrified by my neglect. I was, I'll admit, aware that I had slipped somewhat in my level of dedication to my writing life this last week but it was never far from my mind that I really must write something and how dreadful it was that I hadn't. That is the dreadful thing about commitment to anything, even something you enjoy; it is inextricably linked with guilt.
To me I have always been a committed individual, to my friends, to my studies, to a varied myriad of hobbies and extra-curricular activities. Up until college I prided myself on my above and beyond dedication to everything I applied myself to even though at times this caused me considerable stress and strain and left me with precious little free time in which to eat, sleep or even study.
Now though, I confess to having lost this committed aspect of my personality somewhat- due to the forced idleness of a prolonged injury and the lack of dependence upon me to fulfil any particular duties. I feel myself to be at sea in a world of optional responsibilities-which seems to me a vexing oxymoron. In my mind a responsibility is something you must do for fear of letting someone else (or even yourself) down, or for fear of falling behind in some area of your life. A responsibility doesn't seem like it can be 'optional'.
For me the lack of pressure, be it from my lecturers or my own mind, is making it difficult to discern just how important things are. I used to hold everything to roughly the same degree of importance-failing to turn in homework was just as bad as not studying for a test, not sufficiently researching my debate, skipping a training session or even bailing on or putting off social engagements. Because of the recovery period of my injury my time is relieved of much of the weight of responsibility that hobbies and physical activities used to provide me with. In college too no one enforces that you do homework or assignments or study or even attend the lectures. Any commitments are to the degree my own mind must set them and therefore I can hypothetically blog and watch television all day every day if I so please.
I feel I need to reassert my commitment to my own life, not simply to this blog (which acts today as a symbol of forgotten commitments). I need to replace the emphasis on excellence and effort in all that I do from a success and self-esteem point of view. I also think it will encourage me to be more beneficial to those around me. Because, if i do not do it for the sake of benefiting myself, my well-being and the world at large, i must do it to relieve the guilt that ignoring my commitments-however seemingly insignificant-threatens to take me over completely.
To me I have always been a committed individual, to my friends, to my studies, to a varied myriad of hobbies and extra-curricular activities. Up until college I prided myself on my above and beyond dedication to everything I applied myself to even though at times this caused me considerable stress and strain and left me with precious little free time in which to eat, sleep or even study.
Now though, I confess to having lost this committed aspect of my personality somewhat- due to the forced idleness of a prolonged injury and the lack of dependence upon me to fulfil any particular duties. I feel myself to be at sea in a world of optional responsibilities-which seems to me a vexing oxymoron. In my mind a responsibility is something you must do for fear of letting someone else (or even yourself) down, or for fear of falling behind in some area of your life. A responsibility doesn't seem like it can be 'optional'.
For me the lack of pressure, be it from my lecturers or my own mind, is making it difficult to discern just how important things are. I used to hold everything to roughly the same degree of importance-failing to turn in homework was just as bad as not studying for a test, not sufficiently researching my debate, skipping a training session or even bailing on or putting off social engagements. Because of the recovery period of my injury my time is relieved of much of the weight of responsibility that hobbies and physical activities used to provide me with. In college too no one enforces that you do homework or assignments or study or even attend the lectures. Any commitments are to the degree my own mind must set them and therefore I can hypothetically blog and watch television all day every day if I so please.
I feel I need to reassert my commitment to my own life, not simply to this blog (which acts today as a symbol of forgotten commitments). I need to replace the emphasis on excellence and effort in all that I do from a success and self-esteem point of view. I also think it will encourage me to be more beneficial to those around me. Because, if i do not do it for the sake of benefiting myself, my well-being and the world at large, i must do it to relieve the guilt that ignoring my commitments-however seemingly insignificant-threatens to take me over completely.
Thursday 14 March 2013
Sick
I have some particularly brutal form of disease-of-the-head. It has been brewing for a number of weeks and then yesterday i woke up feeling like I'd been brutally attacked and told my mother I thought I had a brain tumor my head was so sore. I feel like I cannot have a thought independent of pain. I know that the pain is physical and should not affect my mental functions but jeebuz h christo I feel like a vegetable. Probably a particularly rubbish vegetable, like a turnip. I have turned on the laptop because I'm too sore to sleep and too brain-dead to achieve anything of value.
I feel positively poetic about this pain I'm in. My head feels as though it has been filled with a thick liquid, perhaps a milkshake only without the pleasant cooling sensation. My neck feels like it had bee blown up like a balloon. an overfilled one at that-the kind you can't bat around without fear of it popping. I am like a mummy-i have a scarf wrapped in layers upon layers to remind me not to turn my head as the releases fourth-of-July style fireworks of pain from my spine to the very centre of my skull. MY stomach feels bruised and I feel like my brain hurts. My throat feels like it has just collapsed and if I didn't know better I'd think an over-weight dwarf was sitting on my chest. Sadly the best description I have of how I'm feeling is 'Icky' from the infinite realms of the human mind and mine being a creative one at that , the most accurate term I concocted was 'Icky' and because I feel icky this is all I can offer the world today-my thoughts on just how icky I feel. What a delightful way to be.
I feel positively poetic about this pain I'm in. My head feels as though it has been filled with a thick liquid, perhaps a milkshake only without the pleasant cooling sensation. My neck feels like it had bee blown up like a balloon. an overfilled one at that-the kind you can't bat around without fear of it popping. I am like a mummy-i have a scarf wrapped in layers upon layers to remind me not to turn my head as the releases fourth-of-July style fireworks of pain from my spine to the very centre of my skull. MY stomach feels bruised and I feel like my brain hurts. My throat feels like it has just collapsed and if I didn't know better I'd think an over-weight dwarf was sitting on my chest. Sadly the best description I have of how I'm feeling is 'Icky' from the infinite realms of the human mind and mine being a creative one at that , the most accurate term I concocted was 'Icky' and because I feel icky this is all I can offer the world today-my thoughts on just how icky I feel. What a delightful way to be.
Wednesday 13 March 2013
What comes next.
I recently finished reading a really beautiful book about death. I feel a bit morbid writing about especially as this blog is usually light-hearted and easy-breezy. It got me thinking an awful lot about the effect of death on the living. If you're worried this will be depressing (it may be) you are very welcome to read one of my other posts I won't be at all offended.
My first experience of the death of a loved one was when I was thirteen. I had a very close friend in England-a slightly distant relative with whom I exchanged letters. For as long as I'd known him he had had a brain tumour The first time I had met him, aged about 11 or 12, I was told about his condition and when I was leaving I told him, with the honesty of a child, I hope you don't die before I see you again. He had been due for an operation to attempt to remove part of the tumour which, while benign was causing him considerable difficulties. I guess he was just pleased I didn't tiptoe around him like he was sick because we wrote me a letter as soon as he returned to England. The day my mum told me he died was one of the hardest of my life. The day beforehand I'd had a big evening for a young enterprise competition and had won a prestigious award. MY mum hadn't wanted to upset me on such a big day so she told me the next morning. He'd passed away in hospital surrounded by friends and family. I don't know how long I cried for before going to school and I remember arriving home that day with no real recollection of having gone to class or spoken to anyone. For weeks after I would suddenly find myself crying for no reason at all in the middle of a science class or walking home from the dart.
I have been fortunate not to have encountered much death among those closest to me (touch wood). The most recent time was perhaps the most difficult of all, especially as it was my first funeral. (OK i did attend the funeral of my ex boyfriends dad but I hadn't known him and went only to support my friend and, in part, to make peace with my memories of James whose funeral I never got to attend.) I had a best friend from the age of four and we went to the same primary and secondary school. When we were 17 she moved back to Brazil leaving me bitterly heartbroken. Her father however still lived in Ireland-just around the corner from me and seeing him always brought a smile to my face. He was like an eccentric old uncle always giving me strange recommendations for how to improve my health and well being like drinking buttermilk or eating seaweed or hanging upside down. One of my favourite memories was a day when He picked my friend and I up from some school thing in the RDS. We'd been on our feet all day but he insisted we see this statue nearby. Then he insisted we take his picture with it...then he insisted my friend have her picture taken with it...(My other friend thought she'd be extra 'helpful' and offered to take one of the two of them-this nearly got her murdered by my grouchy pal). When we had sufficiently documented the sculpture he proceeded to give is the Dermot Carey tour of Donnybrook-a place we all knew more than well enough. I tended to go along with what he was saying while his daughter bemoaned his embarrassingness and told him repeatedly that I wasn't actually interested I was just to polite to tell him to shut-up (not entirely untrue!). He was just such a character, a real free spirit and he just loved life-he was really interested in everything and always had an opinion that he desperately wanted to share (and often I was the only one who would humour him).
The summer after my friend returned to Brazil Dermot died of leukaemia I'd actually known he was sick before my friend did because he'd told my mum. He hadn't told his daughter because he wanted her to visit for her own reasons not just because he was sick.
The memorial service and the funeral took place in my local church. My friend missed it because she was in Brazil with her mother. Her older brothers and sisters all thanked me for attending thinking it was kind of on my friends behalf but it wasn't. It was for me. The man had been in my life for nearly 15 years and was like a second grandfather. When they talked about how well known and loved he was and all his eccentricities I just couldn't reconcile myself with the fact that he wouldn't be doing these things anymore. He wouldn't be lolloping along with the dog, he wouldn't be swimming in the sea every day, he wouldn't give me his sermon on the virtues of buttermilk-and no one else would either. Looking at the nondescript yellowy coffin up by the altar I couldn't believe that such a tall man, such a colossal personality and such a big part of my little world could fit into one shitty meaningless box. That's what really broke my heart. There weren't photos of him at the funeral-just a wreath with white flowers and that fucking box. I couldn't reconcile my views of whether there was an afterlife or a meaning about death when I was just thinking the whole time that he was a real person with a life and hobbies and people who loved him and thought he was annoying and remembered his face and now everything he was was in this perfectly ordinary box.
I just hope that that's not what death is. Nothing but a body in a box and a priest saying a few words. I don't believe it can be (even though in the complete pain of that moment it seemed to be). I still think of him every time I pass the house where he used to live, the front garden full of weeds and the hedges far too tall and straggly (just how he liked them). Every time I see old men down at the seaside drying their pale wrinkly bodies. Every time my friend is online on Facebook. I think death is just impossible for the living to comprehend because we don't experience-only the after effects of loss.
My first experience of the death of a loved one was when I was thirteen. I had a very close friend in England-a slightly distant relative with whom I exchanged letters. For as long as I'd known him he had had a brain tumour The first time I had met him, aged about 11 or 12, I was told about his condition and when I was leaving I told him, with the honesty of a child, I hope you don't die before I see you again. He had been due for an operation to attempt to remove part of the tumour which, while benign was causing him considerable difficulties. I guess he was just pleased I didn't tiptoe around him like he was sick because we wrote me a letter as soon as he returned to England. The day my mum told me he died was one of the hardest of my life. The day beforehand I'd had a big evening for a young enterprise competition and had won a prestigious award. MY mum hadn't wanted to upset me on such a big day so she told me the next morning. He'd passed away in hospital surrounded by friends and family. I don't know how long I cried for before going to school and I remember arriving home that day with no real recollection of having gone to class or spoken to anyone. For weeks after I would suddenly find myself crying for no reason at all in the middle of a science class or walking home from the dart.
I have been fortunate not to have encountered much death among those closest to me (touch wood). The most recent time was perhaps the most difficult of all, especially as it was my first funeral. (OK i did attend the funeral of my ex boyfriends dad but I hadn't known him and went only to support my friend and, in part, to make peace with my memories of James whose funeral I never got to attend.) I had a best friend from the age of four and we went to the same primary and secondary school. When we were 17 she moved back to Brazil leaving me bitterly heartbroken. Her father however still lived in Ireland-just around the corner from me and seeing him always brought a smile to my face. He was like an eccentric old uncle always giving me strange recommendations for how to improve my health and well being like drinking buttermilk or eating seaweed or hanging upside down. One of my favourite memories was a day when He picked my friend and I up from some school thing in the RDS. We'd been on our feet all day but he insisted we see this statue nearby. Then he insisted we take his picture with it...then he insisted my friend have her picture taken with it...(My other friend thought she'd be extra 'helpful' and offered to take one of the two of them-this nearly got her murdered by my grouchy pal). When we had sufficiently documented the sculpture he proceeded to give is the Dermot Carey tour of Donnybrook-a place we all knew more than well enough. I tended to go along with what he was saying while his daughter bemoaned his embarrassingness and told him repeatedly that I wasn't actually interested I was just to polite to tell him to shut-up (not entirely untrue!). He was just such a character, a real free spirit and he just loved life-he was really interested in everything and always had an opinion that he desperately wanted to share (and often I was the only one who would humour him).
The summer after my friend returned to Brazil Dermot died of leukaemia I'd actually known he was sick before my friend did because he'd told my mum. He hadn't told his daughter because he wanted her to visit for her own reasons not just because he was sick.
The memorial service and the funeral took place in my local church. My friend missed it because she was in Brazil with her mother. Her older brothers and sisters all thanked me for attending thinking it was kind of on my friends behalf but it wasn't. It was for me. The man had been in my life for nearly 15 years and was like a second grandfather. When they talked about how well known and loved he was and all his eccentricities I just couldn't reconcile myself with the fact that he wouldn't be doing these things anymore. He wouldn't be lolloping along with the dog, he wouldn't be swimming in the sea every day, he wouldn't give me his sermon on the virtues of buttermilk-and no one else would either. Looking at the nondescript yellowy coffin up by the altar I couldn't believe that such a tall man, such a colossal personality and such a big part of my little world could fit into one shitty meaningless box. That's what really broke my heart. There weren't photos of him at the funeral-just a wreath with white flowers and that fucking box. I couldn't reconcile my views of whether there was an afterlife or a meaning about death when I was just thinking the whole time that he was a real person with a life and hobbies and people who loved him and thought he was annoying and remembered his face and now everything he was was in this perfectly ordinary box.
I just hope that that's not what death is. Nothing but a body in a box and a priest saying a few words. I don't believe it can be (even though in the complete pain of that moment it seemed to be). I still think of him every time I pass the house where he used to live, the front garden full of weeds and the hedges far too tall and straggly (just how he liked them). Every time I see old men down at the seaside drying their pale wrinkly bodies. Every time my friend is online on Facebook. I think death is just impossible for the living to comprehend because we don't experience-only the after effects of loss.
Saturday 9 March 2013
Bed
Last night I did something really positive for my mental health. I let a special someone into bed with me. That's right- I brought my old teddy in with me.
It was honestly one of the most relaxing, reassuring and uplifting things I have done in a long long time! I've been single since September and I miss my regular cuddles. Getting older means I can't crawl into my mums lap (well not without squishing her a bit) and its a bit juvenile to cuddle your friends all the time.
Last night I brought Hamish to bed. His fur is still soft and he has a little tartan waistcoat. He was not so small as to make my arms feel empty and not so big as to take up too much room in the bed.
Normally the comforting weight of the duvet is all I need but lately I have been struggling a little and I needed that little extra comfort cosiness-and that's when I rooted through my wardrobe for Hamish.
It seems crazy but it was soothing to feel like a child again-having my teddy with me it almost felt like I'd been told a bedtime story and lovingly tucked in. I slipped so easily into sleep it was almost as if all the responsibilities of my life had been lifted from my shoulders and I was back in the perfect peace of childhood .
I honestly cannot recommend highly enough the adoption of a teddy for the sake of your mental health. Teddies cannot ignore you, they cannot say mean things or give bad advice. A teddy will always give you a cuddle and they are never too busy to be there for you. Plus-if like me you live at home-a teddy will not cause your parents any great distress as a comforting bedfellow!
Last night I brought Hamish to bed. His fur is still soft and he has a little tartan waistcoat. He was not so small as to make my arms feel empty and not so big as to take up too much room in the bed.
Normally the comforting weight of the duvet is all I need but lately I have been struggling a little and I needed that little extra comfort cosiness-and that's when I rooted through my wardrobe for Hamish.
It seems crazy but it was soothing to feel like a child again-having my teddy with me it almost felt like I'd been told a bedtime story and lovingly tucked in. I slipped so easily into sleep it was almost as if all the responsibilities of my life had been lifted from my shoulders and I was back in the perfect peace of childhood .
I honestly cannot recommend highly enough the adoption of a teddy for the sake of your mental health. Teddies cannot ignore you, they cannot say mean things or give bad advice. A teddy will always give you a cuddle and they are never too busy to be there for you. Plus-if like me you live at home-a teddy will not cause your parents any great distress as a comforting bedfellow!
Friday 8 March 2013
Train of thought
Today I got on a train of thought and it took me so far away I forgot what station I got on at. The train chugged along past thoughts of exams and assignments and whistled its enthusiasm at thoughts of summer. It stopped a long while in the station of nostalgia and at memories I couldn't help but get off and stretch my legs a while.We flew quickly by thoughts of music lyrics, last night's television session, possible dinner choices and the lingering longing for my warm bed- thoughts blurring by the windows of my thought train so quickly I could barely move my find fast enough to glimpse them. The question of whether or not to go swimming today sat with me most of the journey and at the end of the carriage sat my niggling nervous thought about my upcoming dance performance. The regulars riders of my thought train were there of course; exhaustion and frustration with my as-yet-unhealed foot distracted me regularly from the ideas flitting past the windows. As my journey went on my mind became more lucid-the train lights illuminated and the outside growing dark-my thoughts turning inward to myself, my recent feelings and the loftier and creative thoughts.Finally the train turned a sharp corner and looked down over a whole world of thoughts, which were the coal to the steam engine's fire, drawing me quickly from thought to thought; love to the future to how I used to be to who I want to be to places I want to go to thing I wish I could say and thoughts I wish I could follow through and little inspirations that might -if I could catch them - help me achieve or create something magical.
And suddenly, the train jolted to a halt and I realised I was here on my couch in my biggest hoody and my fingers were trying to follow what my infinite mind could not. And so I got off the train, and off of my couch, and went to bed where my mind could journey in peace without my consciousness slowing the train down
And suddenly, the train jolted to a halt and I realised I was here on my couch in my biggest hoody and my fingers were trying to follow what my infinite mind could not. And so I got off the train, and off of my couch, and went to bed where my mind could journey in peace without my consciousness slowing the train down
Past me and future me
Sometimes I miss the older versions of me. Looking back I can see all my flaws that I was too young to really be aware of-for instance as a child I was a real know-it-all and in my early teenage years I thought I was much more mature than I was but I was actually a little bit superficial. Despite all the annoying traits I can think of I actually got on quite well. Even when I was bullied and even when I struggled with mental health issues I always had a good bunch of close friends and a wide circle of very pleasant acquaintances. Like anyone I've had plenty of times where I felt alone but when you are once again surrounded by people you remember how much you love them and how happy you are to have them and that they're willing to have you.
I used to feel that as I got older I would become more sure of myself but I realise now that ignorance, or rather naivety, is bliss. I'm nearly finished my teenage existence and I feel like an old woman full of regrets for the things she didn't do when she was younger and the things she didn't truly appreciate when she was younger. Growing up everything was very secure- I was, for most of my youth, quite happy with my physical appearance (or at least unconcerned with it-a miracle really given how I looked in 1st year!), I was always one of the top students in my class, I got on well with my peers, once I got my first kiss out of the way I was never really lonely in love and I always felt I had gifts and talents and a bright future ahead.
I think now that I'm in college I realise more and more how unprepared I am for adult life. I feel like I'm behind in the game for the first time in my life. I spent so much of my youth feeling ahead of my time and suddenly everything has flipped. It's hard to make friends and to be sure who is a friend who's an acquaintance, I can no longer tell the difference between guys being friendly and flirty. I not as secure in my own skin anymore. It's surreal really-I went to college to find myself and i feel more and more lost!
I know in my heart of hearts that I have piles of time to figure everything out and that missing the past is normal, being nervous about the future goes with the territory and that change can make you feel like everything is a bit up in the air-including yourself.
I used to feel that as I got older I would become more sure of myself but I realise now that ignorance, or rather naivety, is bliss. I'm nearly finished my teenage existence and I feel like an old woman full of regrets for the things she didn't do when she was younger and the things she didn't truly appreciate when she was younger. Growing up everything was very secure- I was, for most of my youth, quite happy with my physical appearance (or at least unconcerned with it-a miracle really given how I looked in 1st year!), I was always one of the top students in my class, I got on well with my peers, once I got my first kiss out of the way I was never really lonely in love and I always felt I had gifts and talents and a bright future ahead.
I think now that I'm in college I realise more and more how unprepared I am for adult life. I feel like I'm behind in the game for the first time in my life. I spent so much of my youth feeling ahead of my time and suddenly everything has flipped. It's hard to make friends and to be sure who is a friend who's an acquaintance, I can no longer tell the difference between guys being friendly and flirty. I not as secure in my own skin anymore. It's surreal really-I went to college to find myself and i feel more and more lost!
I know in my heart of hearts that I have piles of time to figure everything out and that missing the past is normal, being nervous about the future goes with the territory and that change can make you feel like everything is a bit up in the air-including yourself.
Tuesday 5 March 2013
Inspiration
Some days I am inspired by everything and others I feel I need to search for something to move me, something worth writing about, something worth thinking about. Honestly I know that I probably encounter an equal number of inspiring and disillusioning things every day yet some days I am closed to everything and others my mind is flung open wide.
On the days when one's mind is open it is like the world is a great library and everything in it from plants to people to buildings is a book beckoning you with the promise of a story that will tease at parts of your mind you have not yet allowed yourself to experience. Every lyric to a song is not just heard but felt, every sensation not just felt but considered, every thought not just a passing fancy but something to be explored in depth. You feel artistic in this sort of awakened state-a heightened version of yourself, someone who not just walks the road to the bus stop but dances it, one who not just looks at the world around them but paints it in their minds eye, one who hears not music but individual instruments and individual notes. You feel you could compose a symphony, write a ballad, perform the whole of swan lake alone while reciting hamlet. You could write a novel that defines a generation or a poem that illuminates someones life. You have a child-like sense of the infinite possibilities the world has to offer-the limitless ability you have to offer. You feel euphoric yet in a pleasantly mellow way.
Yet there are days where even if you want inspiration you cannot find it, you cannot will yourself to find something extraordinary in the mundane world around you. You have no time for the wonders that cross your path-you want only to complete the meaningless tasks that will allow the day to be over and your already oblivious mind to slip into blissful unconsciousness. Sometimes in these state a small hopeful part still wants to be inspired, to see or feel or even just remark upon something wonderful yet our weary mind cannot stir our weary soul to dredge up something magical enough to drag us from our funk. And so the small miracles of life pass under our radar and we drag ourselves like a corpse through a meaningless day devoid of the wonder that defines life.
I think the inspiring things and our ability to notice and appreciate and experience them separates the experience of just existing from the magic of living. The mind is a wonderful, and sometimes frustrating thing; uplifting and debilitating, magical and mundane.
On the days when one's mind is open it is like the world is a great library and everything in it from plants to people to buildings is a book beckoning you with the promise of a story that will tease at parts of your mind you have not yet allowed yourself to experience. Every lyric to a song is not just heard but felt, every sensation not just felt but considered, every thought not just a passing fancy but something to be explored in depth. You feel artistic in this sort of awakened state-a heightened version of yourself, someone who not just walks the road to the bus stop but dances it, one who not just looks at the world around them but paints it in their minds eye, one who hears not music but individual instruments and individual notes. You feel you could compose a symphony, write a ballad, perform the whole of swan lake alone while reciting hamlet. You could write a novel that defines a generation or a poem that illuminates someones life. You have a child-like sense of the infinite possibilities the world has to offer-the limitless ability you have to offer. You feel euphoric yet in a pleasantly mellow way.
Yet there are days where even if you want inspiration you cannot find it, you cannot will yourself to find something extraordinary in the mundane world around you. You have no time for the wonders that cross your path-you want only to complete the meaningless tasks that will allow the day to be over and your already oblivious mind to slip into blissful unconsciousness. Sometimes in these state a small hopeful part still wants to be inspired, to see or feel or even just remark upon something wonderful yet our weary mind cannot stir our weary soul to dredge up something magical enough to drag us from our funk. And so the small miracles of life pass under our radar and we drag ourselves like a corpse through a meaningless day devoid of the wonder that defines life.
I think the inspiring things and our ability to notice and appreciate and experience them separates the experience of just existing from the magic of living. The mind is a wonderful, and sometimes frustrating thing; uplifting and debilitating, magical and mundane.
Saturday 2 March 2013
lost in translation
Every one of us experiences a moment where what we say is misconstrued. Sometimes its a language barrier (people are always embarrassed when they accidentally say they're embarazada) or a slang confusion (did you meet him or did you meet him) and sometimes people just hear things their own way (e.g. I know you said you look great today but you meant you looked shit yesterday).
With the rise of technology these little slips of the tongue, or in this case slips of the finger, can lead to outrageous dramatic shit slinging wars. It's much easier to say things over the internet-you can call someone a gobshite for writing there instead of their. True it takes a certain kind of person to start a fight over the internet but its easy to get offended by the written word.
Today a friend made a comment about some guys in a music video being 'sticks' (implying that they were lanky in structure) since I had said they weren't my type of guys. However another friend took the terms 'sticks' in the sense of 'homosexuals' (a slang neither I nor the original friend were familiar with) as I had implied the video was a little homoerotic (a lot of guys in it dancing together). This sparked a (minor) altercation between the two with one objecting to the terminology and the other attempting to defend himself while not understanding the reason for the offence.
It fascinated me how quick we are as humans to become defencive or confrontational. I'll admit that I too do it. A friend once pointed out to me at a party that there was fluff from my hoody under my armpits. I heard him incorrectly and was furious, thinking that I had unwittingly ventured out with stubbly armpits and that my friend had highlighted the fact in front of other people. I was quite embarrassed and apologetic when I realised his true meaning on a later trip to the bathroom and finally understood why he had failed to see what he'd done to offend me.
As a woman I'll admit that we often expect men to read between the lines and to understand when we've taken something the wrong way.You feel like if you tell someone what they did and they apologise that they don't really mean it but we never realise that maybe this means they never meant to hurt or offend in the first place. Things just got lost somewhere along the way. Someone forgot the boundaries, someone mistook the radius of the comfort zone or someone simply misread the situation or statement.
The most difficult thing is owning up to misunderstanding, misspeaking or miscommunicating. Or perhaps the most difficult thing is to retract a reaction to an over-reaction.
With the rise of technology these little slips of the tongue, or in this case slips of the finger, can lead to outrageous dramatic shit slinging wars. It's much easier to say things over the internet-you can call someone a gobshite for writing there instead of their. True it takes a certain kind of person to start a fight over the internet but its easy to get offended by the written word.
Today a friend made a comment about some guys in a music video being 'sticks' (implying that they were lanky in structure) since I had said they weren't my type of guys. However another friend took the terms 'sticks' in the sense of 'homosexuals' (a slang neither I nor the original friend were familiar with) as I had implied the video was a little homoerotic (a lot of guys in it dancing together). This sparked a (minor) altercation between the two with one objecting to the terminology and the other attempting to defend himself while not understanding the reason for the offence.
It fascinated me how quick we are as humans to become defencive or confrontational. I'll admit that I too do it. A friend once pointed out to me at a party that there was fluff from my hoody under my armpits. I heard him incorrectly and was furious, thinking that I had unwittingly ventured out with stubbly armpits and that my friend had highlighted the fact in front of other people. I was quite embarrassed and apologetic when I realised his true meaning on a later trip to the bathroom and finally understood why he had failed to see what he'd done to offend me.
As a woman I'll admit that we often expect men to read between the lines and to understand when we've taken something the wrong way.You feel like if you tell someone what they did and they apologise that they don't really mean it but we never realise that maybe this means they never meant to hurt or offend in the first place. Things just got lost somewhere along the way. Someone forgot the boundaries, someone mistook the radius of the comfort zone or someone simply misread the situation or statement.
The most difficult thing is owning up to misunderstanding, misspeaking or miscommunicating. Or perhaps the most difficult thing is to retract a reaction to an over-reaction.
That one, the one.
I feel so small in your hands. Even though you aren't taller than me or all that broader than me, even though you can't rest your chin on my head and I don't have to tiptoe to kiss you. When you hold me close I feel as small as a child being comforted by their mummy or daddy. When my hand is in yours it feels like all of me is covered over with a giant duvet. Just like the way that a shut bedroom door or a duvet won't protect you from the things that you feel lurking in the dark neither can you protect me from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune; yet with you beside me I feel nothing can touch me..nothing can hurt me but the power of the feelings I feel for you.
You're the cup of tea that soothes my soul even if it it does nothing for my body, the warm sun on my back that makes me feel everything is right, the soft jammies that make me forget I care what I look like.
You are all of this and more, you were and always will be. Why should I move on when you're a part of me now. I can no more leave behind my legs or my liver or the things I learnt in class or my childhood memories than I can go on into my future pretending you aren't in the world.
You're the cup of tea that soothes my soul even if it it does nothing for my body, the warm sun on my back that makes me feel everything is right, the soft jammies that make me forget I care what I look like.
You are all of this and more, you were and always will be. Why should I move on when you're a part of me now. I can no more leave behind my legs or my liver or the things I learnt in class or my childhood memories than I can go on into my future pretending you aren't in the world.
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