Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Post One Hundred and Twenty-Two: Dear S.

I'm in a mind pickle. As kids are seemingly growing up quicker these days, is the 'mid-life crisis' phenomena coming earlier by a couple of decades? Or, in a fatalist approach, is my lifespan destined to be short, thus drawing my particular freak out nearer than usual? I'm at a crossroads. A pickle crossroads.

Perhaps my anxieties of late are born from a cumulation of pressures from my job. That's what my reasonable mind suggests. It sucks, but I am feeling a little down lately about, well, about grief. I'm grieving about grief. The mind of a mortician seems to be a murky place.

On the weekend I attended the Brisbane excursion for the Melbourne-based Women of Letters event. I don't know why I hadn't heard of it sooner, as I've been known to fancy the odd pen pal correspondence in the not too distant past. That, and I fancy the co-curator Marieke Hardy. What self-honest individual (male or female) doesn't.

Anyway, the event brings together writers, comedians, musicians, pollies and generally awesome women to share happy/funny/sad/inspiring stories and celebrate writing. It's a fucking brilliant idea, and one that makes me happy that I have a brain and a heartbeat. Story telling in a relaxed, supportive and creative network. Check out the link anyway, the more people who attend and love it will balance out the dicks in the country (Dicks of the personality type, not the sexual organ. Men are cordially invited to be in the audience too).

Event details aside, I've been inspired to write myself a short letter. Forgive me for the self indulgence. To myself, whose heart and mind seem to be having trouble communicating with each other:

Dear Sarah,

Wassup! Really, what is up?

As yourself, to yourself, you really need to take some McCain advertising advice and look after yourself. Eat more fruit, you love it but you're lazy and just because it perishes it doesn't excuse you from not eating it more regularly. Quit the whining about register lines in the supermarket too. You're being a troll. Quit that and the road rage. You drive slower than most people anyway so you're a laughable contradiction.

As such, chill the f*ck out. I am proud of what you do for others, you are proud of you, but don't take on more than you need to. You understand what death is, and just because you touch cancer and illness and injury, it doesn't mean that you are on the table or suffer from these things right now. It will happen, in some way, but not now and probably not soon. Do not live in fear. You can, but you don't need to and things will be much more fun if you understand this. Also, you might make them look alive, but you can't bring them back. Don't say sorry to them. You are an observer and you offer a ridiculously odd customer service. As always, observe your feelings but don't let them rule you without reason.

To prevent an early demise of yourself, stop wasting your money on gin and goon. If you want travel and it's associated lessons, you can't have an open pocket for beer either. It's that simple. Also, you do make an idiot of yourself when you pass out at parties now. You are getting older and you look less attractive munted. Trust yourself.

Go to London, study freedom and excess. Go to America and study even more excess. Then go and help more people. Anywhere. I think this is what you want to do and, like science, it is the best tentative plan.

Forgive those that didn't give you a good chance early on, and appreciate those who give you a chance now. Also, eat more cheese. And learn the piano. Together, at once.

You are your own, in a group of others. Find diversity.

Peace and love,

(I feel much better, thank you).

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