Post One Hundred and Ninety Six: Here I Am.

I get it. Or as much as there is to be got on being miserable, I took as battle wound.

A constant, I wept as a widow does.

Like the obscene Vatican Fountain, my tears fell. For all who passed by to see, splashing down with intensity as if falling from a giant's cheek. Yet for what was spent in construction, and the toll was considerable, not a soul was fed by these tears. Nobody healed. My energy atrophied.

So I sat. And I thought. And there is only one way to go. And that is on with it.
To continue in being miserable is to ignore what I know and to thus miss the entire point of it all.

"Only by embracing all that you regret and not denying it, only by placing the highest value on what you've gained because of all that you have lost, does regret lose the ability to cripple you." 
- Augusten Burroughs. (He said this because he is awesome).

Dear Self: Change things and see what happens. As the days develop, so should you.

Peace.
S.

Post one Hundred and Ninety Five: To you, Highly Regarded Imaginary Offspring.

What would I tell my theoretical thirteen year old daughter about growing up and being a woman of influence and strength?

THIS:

My lady,

Your mother loves you. She thinks you're an excellent human being based on the fact that hopefully you've reached this level of maturity without setting other family members on fire.Your face also resembles hers or the person that she does/once love(d), so there's joy found in the nostalgia for her that takes away the horrific memories of labour and the subsequent occasional bladder control problems that she experiences to this day. She's sure you're brilliant. She's sure that you're her proudest accomplishment.

She feels that now is a perfect time to talk to you about your potential. You're at an age where not only can you influence your life, but you can take it and build a megalopolis. You can also run away (when at legal age) and build a teepee in the middle of the Mojave desert with a large exotic black man, if that is what you feel will enrich your days. If you don't mind her and her cats moving into either establishment with you when she's 80 and senile, then you're both winning.

At the time of your mother writing this you are not born, conceived or even possible. In fact, your mother is yet to find a partner that can handle her perspective, her past, and her slightly incongruent plans for the future. At this moment she is flying a flag of self-deprecation, but in an unorthdox way she feels that by writing to you now she is both making sense of her situation, bringing hope into her mindset, and being altogether quite hilarious.

Do what you want in love and in life, always. But do it with every awareness of the future and those that share the world around you. Be kind, be honest, be fair and be compassionate. This will help with that fact that life itself does not always manifest these characteristics. Do not care what other people think of you. Listen, always, because every bit of interaction will shed light on something. It may be bullshit but it's still a lesson, even if uncomfortable.

Do not strive for perfection. It is not even a goal. It's something created by a dickhead who didn't understand the concept of the middle path. Just be. Be you, and be admired by doing so.

Thirteen marks the beginning of a really rewarding time for self exploration. You are not a child anymore - hooray! Your body is doing really whack stuff, but rest assured that all of your friends are pretty much going through the same thing even though you'll more than likely be hairier than the rest of them. Don't worry, this year your mother will pay for ALL OF THE LASER. Your body is your vehicle for so many excellent things, not the be all and end all but a very interesting shell. Keep it safe and treasured, but forgive yourself when you bump it. It will take quite some time to understand and grow into. You are not alone, but you will soon understand that you can be very sufficiently.

She wants you to understand that when the time is right, you will have your heart taken by somebody. Well, it will feel that way, but in reality what you've done is given it over. Make your decisions based on the way they make you feel; you and they should be excited and inspired, and if so it will be the start of something tremendous. If your body doesn't respond to the way they look at you, and if that isn't corresponding to your intuition on their role, go and chat to your mother. Do not allow people to make you feel less than valued. If you've done something shit and fessed up, the right people will stand true and the others will fall away leaving you to do the right thing next time. At the end of it all, believe it or not your mum has experience in both being heartbroken and in breaking hearts. Love is good. This is all the insight that she holds on the matter right now, but it made/will make you and that is good, so YAY LOGIC.

Your childhood days are passed so let them go. You cannot change them. Your mother hopes that those days were filled with an appropriate mix of imagination and reality. Appropriate for you, and what you required to grow. She hopes that you weren't embarrassed by her crying every time you sung a song from the 90's in the right key and in the same style as the original and not the shitty remix. She hopes that you felt safe from threat in her care, no matter how universal.  Above all, she hopes that you know happiness and will have the confidence to fling it around to others.

Go! Be! Don't fear, ever! SHE GOT YO BACK.

Post One Hundred and Ninety Four: It's Not Like The Movies, It's A Documentary on Evolution.

I wrote about him as if the sky would fall before we did.

I've lamented his connection to my writing. To my guitar. To my passport. To my skin.

To lemon meringue pie.

Now to the repetitive morning heartbreak, like the uncomfortable backlash from a late night kebab. I wake up with a burning chest, sobering to remember that we've indeed fallen apart.  

____________________________

An elderly lady lost her husband of fifty two years and I drove her to his grave today. A simple, dignified service was planned as we lowered his body into the soil. She wept, we prayed, and then we headed home.

On the way we talked about many things. Tofurkey, lavender, trucks, Officeworks, The Age. Then we spoke about love.

"What's the secret to a happy union?" I asked, as I often do.

"Knowing what battles to fight, and what to walk away from."

Post One Hundred and Ninety Three: The Weather.

I have crucified you. I have stabbed you and hung you above the city for your action and belief. Instead of a tomb I have laid you out for the birds to make meaning from your insides.  

The first topic to come to tongue, you are the weather.
Swept through.
Your signature sweating with hurt. Heavy and hot.