Sunday Scribblings - Change

Oh boy.

I am very very very very tired of change. Let me explain why. I am Australian and usually live in Australia like all good little Australians. I am in San Antonio, Texas for three months (I have been here for five weeks) working over the university break. I am alone, I know no one in Texas and apart from a very brief visit to San Antonio some years ago, the city is unknown to me.

I live with change 24/7. Nothing is familiar to me. Not food, not places, not tv, not people, I have no friends, save the ones I have made in the last five weeks. I do not know where everything is, I do not have a car and am reliant on the crappy and sometimes downright frightening public bus system. I am alone in a sea of change.

Sometimes I cry, everything overwhelms me and the strangeness and sheer alien environment crashes upon me relentlessly like waves pounding the shore of my homeland. Sometimes I dive through the waves and come up the other side. Sometimes I almost half drown as the sea churns me up and spits me out, lungs full of brackish sea water. Sometimes, very rarely, the waves lift me up and I am more than I think I am and I am closer than ever to who I want to be.

And that is why I am here, why I stay. Because three months in an environment of constant change is guaranteed to shake your soul to the fucking ground and bring you to places psychologically, physically, mentally and creatively that three years at home, in your safe and familiar environment couldn't do.

I am bold, I am adventurous. I am not always happy about it, but at least I have the balls to put myself through this and push the boundaries of who I am. It is a small victory, but a victory none the less.

Sunday Scribblings - Anticipation

As I lay in my warm bed, somewhere between the world of sleep and dreamscapes and the world of wakefulness and though, I can smell it. It is a faint, rich aroma which my nose unmistakably recognises. My nostrils twitch slightly and the smell brings me out of the cosy darkness of sleep and into the faint light of a new day.

I look at the clock and a gentle smile spreads over my face when I realise I still have another 15 minutes before the radio blares whatever crazy tune JACK FM chooses to play at 6:45am, a rock flashback that heralds the beginning of a new day. Most mornings, when the smell does not wake me, I bolt upright straight from sleep at the noise pouring out of the loud radio and leap out of bed to stop the noise of Aerosmith, Bon Jovi, The Eagles. But not this morning.

This morning I stretch lazily, my eyes closed and take a deep breath, inhaling the wonderful smell. For a few minutes I chase the dreams that played across my mind while I was asleep, recalling snippets of crazy sequences and much more rarely, a dream of true prophecy or a dream that points to my deepest self.

I am more awake than asleep now and the smell seems stronger, although it probably is not. I am just more awake, more aware and my anticipation is building. I check the alarm clock again, 5 more minutes until the radio will begin it's Monday to Friday blast of wakefulness. I close my eyes and wish for more time in bed, but my wish is futile. So I wish for something else.

I hear him carefully open the door and I smile, not so as it appears on my face, but my soul smiles, deep inside in the place where he touches me. The smell grows stronger and stronger. He walks softly to my bed and I play possum, keeping my eyes closed. My mouth begins to water as he sits on the side of my bed. He knows I'm awake, and I know he knows I'm awake but we like to play this game.

He places the steaming mug of coffee very very close to me, on my bedside table. I can tell he has brewed the Columbian roast, and he has put just the right amount of cream in. I open my eyes to find him looking at me.

"Good morning" he says, smiling.

"Good morning" I reply, opening my arms and reaching for him. He comes willingly to me and we kiss. He tastes like coffee - rich, dark and strong. We make love, as the cup of coffee grows cold on the bedside table.

Sunday Scribblings - Punishment and Rewards

It occurs to me that at times punishments are rewards, and rewards are punishments.

An employee might be rewarded with a bonus, only to be punished by having to work longer hours and spend more time away from her family. Then there is the overweight and depressed man who rewards himself with a supersized quarter pounder meal from McDonalds because he survived another day of work, another day of life. But somewhere deep inside he knows he is really punishing his body with gluggy fast food, and punishing himself by hiding from the world under layers of fatty protection. Many people reward themselves with expensive houses, cars and holidays, only to be punished when they get into financial debt and have to work very hard just to pay back what they owe.

At the core of this is the idea that things are not always what they seem to be. At first glance, a still pond appears to be a mirror, offering reflections. Touch the water and ripples distort the image and the true nature and depth of the lake is revealed. The same with rewards and punishments.

Maybe the trick is not to see a "reward" in consumption. Our society is set up for consuming goods and services as rewards. I do it all the time. It works, for a little while. I accumulate "things", some of which bring me comfort and joy, but most of which just become possessions, with little emotional attachment and usually little functionality.

I wonder what I could replace consumer rewards with? Certainly not more alone time with myself. I think that's why I go to malls and movies - to try and get away from me, and forget me for a while. I am so sick of my own bullshit. I read all these books for women who are frantically busy and don't get enough alone time (these women are wives and mothers presumably) and I think "What about me? I have too much goddamn alone time".

So this week I will try and think of non-consumer rewards - any suggestions?

Rants, Raves and Shopping

So even though it was chilly today I decided to venture downtown on the bus. This is my second day of taking the bus, after the very sad return of my rental car. Buses seem to be filled with more than their fair share of weirdos.

For example, yesterday I am waiting patiently for the bus outside the mall.

Stranger dude: That's a nice jacket. Where did you get it?

Me: Thanks, it's from Old Navy.

Stranger: It's real nice.

Me: Thanks.

Stranger: They have good sales there.

Me: Yup.

Stranger: Does it keep you warm and comfy? Does it feel good?

Me: Yup. [starting to feel like I am in a bad afterschool special]

Stranger: Are you in the military?

Me: Nope.

Thank God, the bus arrived then and even though we were on the same bus, I sat next to a little old Mexican lady who looked at me like I was crazy because of all the empty seats.

Today I am downtown at a bus stop. A woman (I thought at the time) sat next to me and the conversation went like this:

Woman (who was actually a man): It's strange the things that will get men mad.

Me: Yes, it is.

Woman/Man: I have a genetic condition and I look like a woman, but I'm a man.

Me: I see.

Man (gender is now established): Men come up to me all the time and want to get with me and when I tell them I'm a man they say I'm lying. I tell them they believe what they want to believe, but I am a man. I then says to them, maybe you might be gay, coming onto a man.

Me: [thinking there is no surer way to piss off a heterosexual male other than to tell him he might be gay] I see.

And so it went for about 10 minutes, with this man telling me he didn't believe in homosexuality and the US was a sinning country and he was a preacher spreading the word of Christ and all around him was Sodom and Gomorrah. This spiel was interrupted by the arrival of a curbside preacher who proceeded to shout about saving our souls and how Christ must wash our sins away. He was shouting really loudly, bible in hand. And I guess he had a captive audience, given that we were all waiting for buses and none of us were going to just leave.

So really, the bus sucks. And I haven't even told the story of the two cigar smoking dudes at the bus stop two streets away from me who were courting offers from passing motorists. Offers for what I don't exactly know, and don't want to know. I kept my Ipod earplugs firmly in.

Downtown I made the purchases you see in the photo above. The body lotion smells great. I told the girl I wanted something fruity, but I ended up with myrrh scented lotion which has an unusually soft scent. At home I can grind myrrh and burn it on charcoal discs at my leisure. Here, in the attic, the lotion must suffice.

I also bought two DVD's - "Where the Heart Is" which is a movie I've always loved, for reasons unknown to me. Maybe because it is about making a life, making a family and finding love unexpectedly. The other is "The Thorn Birds" which is an Australian novel turned US filmed mini series from the late 80's. I love it because of the unrequited love, the not happy ending and the fact that Ralph really did love Meggie, he was just too utterly stupid to see she was far more precious than the church, until it was too late.

I also bought 7 cards - I never do that. I never do Christmas cards, but this year I wanted to, so I went with it. The cards are cute.

* Not photographed was my birthday cake flavoured and pumpkin flavoured icecream, three bus tickets and the ribs I ate at Tony Roma's.

Finally, a bit of a rant about spitting. I have seen about five different people spit today. Repeatedly. Often. All men, all seemingly unaaware of how utterly disgusting it is to have to watch. Where do they get all that spit from anyway? I never spit. Ever. Well, I do when I brush my teeth, but that is just toothpaste. So if you're reading this and you're a guy who spits in public - stop it. Just don't do it. It is revolting, disgusting and really, I'd rather see you cut off your right arm than spit in front of me. It's extreme, but that's how I feel.

I feel better after that rant. Expect more ranting after my first day of work tomorrow. *sigh*

Sunday Scribblings - In the last hour...

In the last hour I killed something. Not a person or animal, but a carcass all the same. Making a decision to kill something is never simple. There is a difference between letting something die through neglect, and wrapping your hands around its still breathing neck and strangling out the essence of life itself.

I could have let that part of me live. She has long sat in the back of my mind, in the nosebleed section, choosing to pop up at odd moments to stab me through the heart or take my breath away with her harsh criticism. You see, I did ignore her. I did try to let her die from neglect. I underestimated her desire to live. She grew thin and frail, her voice wasn't as loud as it used to be and she wasn't as lucid as she once was. But she wouldn't die.

I talk about her like we aren't the same person, the same entity. Of course, we are. She lived because a part of me was afraid to end her life. Afraid of what I would do without her.

And then this morning, I woke up. I knew today was the day.

I approach her softly, as she fitfully dozes. She is more frail than I realised, more sickly. I can see the fast and slightly erratic pulse in her neck beating beneath the paper thin skin. I reach out my hand and touch the sparse hair on her head. It is grey now, and feels like steel wool. Her eyelids flutter open and her brown eyes lock onto my green ones. She smiles a knowing smile, revealing yellowed teeth and a blast of bad breath.

"Finally. She comes to end it. About time, girlie."

I look at her with something akin to compassion. I made her what she is, and now I don't want her anymore. I fed her for years with self doubt, self hatred, lack of belief in myself and poor self esteem. Now I refuse to feed her. It is hard to kill her. She was my back up - someone to say "See? I knew you were worthless" when things went wrong and someone to say "It won't last" when things were good.

Go away, you old crone. I don't need you anymore. I reach my hands out and wrap them around her throat. She does nothing as I start to squeeze. There is no struggle, just the determined pressure of my hands and time. Tears run down my cheeks as she slumps back, heavy with the weight of death. I am relieved. I am free.

Sunday Scribblings - Nemesis

I've given this some thought, and I can remember having a nemesis as a child. Her name was Amy and she was a part time "friend", full time enemy from the age of about 9 through to 13. Somehow we got to be friends when we were nine and I remember basically changing my personality to be more like her - and she was mean. I remember going around the playground with her and telling everyone not to play with a girl named Beth, because Amy didn't like her. I remember being shamed by a better person who told me not to be so mean and deliberately played with Beth so she wouldn't be alone.

Somehow, Amy and I stopped being friends. When we were 11, and about to leave our tiny primary school for highschool, I had my own best friend, and Amy had started to hang out with the popular group. In a truly mean girl way the popular girls had a mean plan to dump her right before highschool so she'd start high school without any friends. They did that, and even gave her a dog bone for Christmas. At the time I was glad, after all, she was my arch nemesis! But fate had a cruel trick to play, and now that Amy didn't have any friends, she came back wanting to sit with my friends and the new group we had. And so she did - and basically drove me out of that group to sit with some new friends, and in the process I lost my best friend. Of course the loss of my best friend wasn't Amy's fault, but it seemed like it at the time.

I met her a number of years later at our high school reunion. She'd lived a fairly hard life. Moved in with her boyfriend at 15, didn't finish high school and didn't appear to be doing a lot with the talent for song and dance she had shown as a child. We spoke briefly, but there was not much there of interest for me. She seemed lost, and when I think about it, she probably always was. Relentlessly searching, but more impatient than the rest of us. I wish her peace.

I don't have an archnemesis any more. I can't be bothered fighting with people I don't care about for things that just aren't that important. Actually, I think I am my own nemesis these days, and that makes me uncomfortable. I am the one sabotaging and defeating myself. I'm the one who doesn't believe in me. I'm the one who puts me down. Good God, I'm my own Amy!

I want that to change. I want to be my own friend rather than my own nemesis. I will be kind to myself instead of harsh. After all, if I am not my own friend, who will be? So raise your glasses of soda, ladies and gentlemen and let us make a toast - to being kind to yourself and defeating the nemesis within.

*clink*

Sunday Scribblings - Hero

I do not know what a hero is. I know I am not one, except perhaps to my golden retriever, Hopie. And that may be enough. I think parents are heroes. They take on the most important and unrelenting task in life and somehow make it work, the best they can. Survivors of grief are heroes. We watch our beloved die, watch their lives slip away to somewhere that the hearts beating in our chests and the electricity firing in our brains prevents us from following. And then, after suffering unimaginable loss and left with obscenely gaping holes in our lives, we preceed to get up every day. We breathe in and out all day long. We live, we laugh, we care.

That is perhaps the most heroic thing - to live life with hope, with some sense of purpose, after you have met Death. Death came to that room in my house, it stood there, as implacable and untouchable as the stars that sparkle in the place some call Heaven. No apology, no fanfare, no pain. And it just took him. Like it has millions of others. We only borrow our lives, I think. And we borrow with the knowledge that one day we'll die.

Dying is actually very easy, if you're the one doing the dying. If you're the one left behind, well then...that makes you the hero. To hear the song of life when you have heard the refrain in D Minor of death is a heroic deed in and of itself.

Dreams of Extraordinary Women

I had a dream a while back - at least I think it was dream. It could have just been one of those thoughts that popped into my head without any discernable origin, which my mind labels as a dream because it's easy than entertaining other possible origins. In any case, in this "dream" I was living in a Mexican village. The villagers thought I was strange and I knew that. I lived in a tiny little house which was crammed full of faded furtniture and chests full of old clothes and plates and books written in spanish which my fingers just itched to explore. I was in bed asleep when two men came and took me from my bed and dragged me to the village tattooist. They stuck a needle in me so I was out of it, although I still knew what was happening. There was burning on my left wrist.

Then I was back in my bed, and an older Mexican woman was giving me water. My wrist was throbbing. She was mumbling something, but my spanish is minimal, so we weren't really understanding each other. I felt sick from whatever drug they gave me the night before. She fussed around me, then left my house. My left wrist was bandaged and when I undid the bandage, they had tattooed "bruja" on my wrist in black ink.

I am not sure what the dream or whatever it was means. I sometimes feel it was a gift from the muses and that one day I will write about this Woman Who Was Branded. At other times, I feel that I am that woman, someone being hauled into their destiny and pushed towards what they should be doing.

I have often considered getting "bruja" tattooed on my wrist. I know in spanish it is not a word spoken with any kind of warmth or fondness - it is more of an accusation. A dirty word for someone whose intentions are misunderstood. Sort of like the english version of "bruja" - witch. I think I will get that tattoo. Perhaps it will open new doors. And close old ones.

Speaking of old doors, I had a confused dream about my first lover the other night. I only remember impressions - fleeting feelings of love and betrayal. Oddly, I saw a photograph of him the other day. He looked older, which was comforting to me in some way. Of course he never photographed well (neither do I) but it was interesting to "see" him, some 4 years after we said goodbye. I wonder what it is inside of me that sees something inside of him. Sometimes I feel very external to my feelings for him. Like a spectator, watching something take place from the sidelines.

This has been a good first post. I am pleased.