Sunday Scribblings - Wicked

There are some that will tell you a person is either good or wicked.

I disagree. Life is not black or white, but rather ever increasing shades of gray. In much the same way, one is not wicked or good, but instead one can span the spectrum. A little more good, a little more wicked, completely wicked, a "good Christian", someone who could be wicked but chooses not to be, someone who is horrified by the very concept of being wicked.

I remember the actual day when I realised I was more wicked than good.

I was watching a television show called "Hex". The story was that a young girl named Cassie was inextricably attracted to a fallen angel, Azazeal. The relationship was all wrong, and really, Azazeal was a complete shit. He tricked Cassie into sleeping with him, he killed her best friend, he stalked her and ultimately she would die for him. The one thing he had going for him was the fact that a part of his black soul did love Cassie and he was extraordinarily gentle with her and apparently the sex was amazing. Obviously as a viewer you're led to think "No Cassie, don't do it!" and for a while I was thinking that, even after she did sleep with him and her self destruction was inevitable. I remember the actual shift in my mind, like all of a sudden the turntable record player slipped its needle into another groove. This groove was unfamiliar in a way, but in another way it felt like coming home. Like this was the tune my body was playing all along, and my mind was only just catching up. Screw the world, I thought. If that was me, I'd choose Azazeal. Even if the world would come crumbling down around us. An inherently selfish decision, and definitely wicked.

It is strange to think I would revise my world view based on a story about a fallen angel. Then again, humans have been telling and retelling stories that feature key themes, such as good versus evil. What is the movie Transformers if it is not an epic battle of good versus evil? We're supposed to want good to win. "It's the right thing to do" people say. Right according to who I wonder? God? Not my God. But perhaps yours. Are you "good" because you're frightened that if you're not, they won't let you in the pearly gates at the end of this life? If that is so, you're not actually choosing. Your God is standing over you with a hefty 2 x 4 and you're doing whatever it takes not to be hit on the back of the head with it.

Maybe the human race is basically wicked and chooses to wear a thin veneer of good, to fool God and whoever else might be watching. I don't give a shit about that God, or the people watching, but I'm not totally wicked. If I was I would have more sex, more confidence and generally care less about everything but the moment. That sounds pretty damn good actually. Maybe all we have is this moment and the next and the sheer decadence and silky sexiness of being so wicked that it hurts. The good kind of hurt, that unfurls somewhere around your pelvis and unleashes pulses of the unexpected that force you to crawl over the hood of a car and seduce some bad boy in a leather jacket for everything he's got, and a few things he doesn't.

My Superhero Necklace

After what seems like decades (but has only been months) I have ordered the above necklace! I found Andrea at Superhero Designs accidently and instantly fell in love with her necklaces. They are totally unlike anything else I've ever seen before and while I'm not a huge necklace person or a huge bead person, the one above shouted my name loud and clear. The necklace is not cheap (we're talking about A$85.00 including postage) but Andrea has such a wonderful business philosophy and as an independent business owner and gifted artist, it is not a lot to pay.

You can imagine my dismay when I clicked on the "buy" button a few months ago only to discover that Andrea had closed the store "temporarily" while she gave birth and started to nurture her son Ben. Fortunately Andrea has re-opened (for a limited time!) and I was able to swoop in and order my necklace. It is called "Cotton Candy" and I love it already.

With every brushstroke...

Here is the purchase I actually made today:



Here is the artist's explanation of what they are:

"My flags are inspired by Tibetan Buddhist prayer flags and Native American burden baskets. Each flag represents a prayer to be sent out into the world. The pockets on the flags are intended to carry your burdens, hopes, dreams, worries, and so on that are then released into the world as the flags blow in the breeze (although these flags are intended to be hung inside).

This set is from the "story" series. Each flag has a few words that make up a little story. This one reads: With every brushstroke, stitch, and vintage button, she heals, the little girl inside her heals."

I image that with the word "brushstroke", the artist actually mean "word", and then I relate it to my writing. It makes sense. The artist's name is lizlamoreux and you can find her on Etsy.

Cupcake Madness

I am not sure why I have suddenly gone cupcake crazy, but here is some of the cupcake cuteness I would like to own:

This adorable cupcake vinyl pouch is from Barry's Farm and I'm currently trying to get them to make me a tote bag with the same motif...SO cute.


This is indeed a necklace full of cupcakes...it also comes in sushi and is from the gorgeous website Shana Logic. Heaps of unique and cool items from Indie shops can be found at Shana's website, however my big complaint is that a lot of the stuff is sold out! This is sad especially when I would have loved this:


Yes, that is a cupcake on the scarf. They still have it in black, but I don't know...it doesn't speak to me like the pink does.

Update on this: I contacted the company who make this scarf (Peep Accessories) and they're making one in pink for me! I heart them! Mucho love on them!

Okay, I'm done...call me cupcake girl. I can handle it.

Sunday Scribblings: Astrology

I think astrology is bullshit, and this is unfortunate as I tend to hang out with a "new age" crowd who all know which star sign the moon is currently in and say stuff like "Oh my GOD, my moon is in Jupiter and you know what that is like" or "I found out he is a Gemini! That explains sooooooo much". I am not sure why this irritates me so much, or why I've never really been interested in having it explained to me.

I guess the bottom line is that I don't like the irrationality of astrology. It seems like it isn't based on anything remotely logical, just a bunch of crap mish mashed together with your date of birth and time of birth. I find that very interesting - perhaps time and date of birth meant something pre everyone and their dog opting for c-sections and choosing the date and time of their birth (day births are much less disruptive on hospital staff, you know), well, doesn't that just make 50% of births for the past 10 years or so pre determined? I'm 30 years old, and I was born on December 31 1976. I was actually supposed to be born several days later, but my mother's doctor was keen to have a holiday break and convince my mother to be induced.

The fact that I was born on 31 December and not 2 or 3 January means that I started school (at that time we worked on a January-December birthdate requirement, not the June to July one we work on now) with kids who were anywhere from 1 month to an entire year older than me. Imagine if I was born just 12 hours later, I would have been in a different grade at school, had different friends. Who knows how my life would have been changed?

Alas, I would still be a Capricorn. From the little I have read, I have to admit to having something in common with the "typical" Capricorn - but I also have plenty in common with various other star signs as well. That's the thing about astrology - it can say so much and so little at the same time. My star sign for today, Sunday 1 July reads:

You try to be objective now, but "wishful thinking" rules somehow. With partners now it may be wise to do what's fair and compromise. Forgiveness could free you from bondage to guilt or resentment. The Roman army made war by day but made love at night. Take a hint. The way you feel today improves when you can make some winning moves. An attraction that is curious grows for one who seems mysterious. You might be attracted to someone who seems sexy and somewhat sarcastic. If you value money or possessions more than love, you may lose some soon.

I mean really...what a big heaping steaming pile of crap. I don't have a partner, so there is currently no love making at night, or at any other time for that matter. Forgiveness can always free a person from bondage and resentment - that's hardly big news. I might be attracted to someone sexy and sarcastic? Who? Leno? Carson Daly? I might also be attracted to the guy at the local gas station. I might be attracted to a lot of things and a lot of people.

It's just frustrating trying to make sense of a horoscope. They're vague enough to mean everything and nothing at the same time. But really... I'm a person who admitted in the first sentence of this post that I hang out with New Age people. I believe in magic (although magic is logical), spells, rituals, karma, love, frosted cupcakes and cute prayer flags that make me want to heal my inner child. So why the block when it comes to astrology?

Maybe I've just seen too many frauds. Maybe I really don't believe in all the things I just listed (except for the frosted cupcakes), and just wish I did. But because I see astrology as being associated with weirdos, frauds and crazy new age bookstore people who let it run their lives....wait. That's it.

I don't believe in astrology because I can't control it. And I fear what I can't control and because I fear lack of control I can confidently say astrology is all bullshit and know that at least a certain sector of the population will agree with me.

I hate it when I have to admit defeat. I do admire my brain though - I'm so fucking clever at fooling myself. Next thing you know I'll stop believing in cupcakes.

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.