“All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” – William Shakespeare.
Shakespeare's famous words are perhaps more becoming than ever before. Love and attraction is, after all, a performance - a scene played out on the stage of human chemistry and nature. These movie style scenes we strive to live within are dictated by narratives stretching back to human creation. As technology, communication and media's impact continuously dictate the way we live our lives, it also dictates our ideals and fantasies.
We all have a vague idea of the roles we are meant to play, enacted through stories and films that recycle the standard narratives of our cultures. Whether you're a damsel in distress or a hero there's always a set standard to what role social ideals push you into, and therefore, what you aspire to. While we've moved to greater independence, high flown careers and better choices these days, perhaps behind this mirage of contemporary life, we all have a deep need to be loved, though not necessarily in the conventional way.
I suppose I've been there - playing the role I'd idealised. Maybe the sweep of first love will always propel you to act your best and give it your best shot. First experiences and new feelings are foreign, and generally all we have to relate to are films and stories that capture what you're feeling. It's no wonder we try to re-enact our favourite love scenes and stories with people.
Perhaps I've always likened myself to the Carrie Bradshaw type, a writer, with a fetish for shoes, and an affair with the "What's shakin' baby” swoon-worthy Mr Big character. I'm not quite an optimist, anymore, and I'm not desperate to become a wife, or a mother, or even a girlfriend, but I have been bound to trying to perfect the movie style narratives I've wished for.
Though, I've been pushed into roles not right for me, by a director pointing his lead into the role he needed me to play. Maybe on some levels, you will always have a director in the relationship, someone trying to shape their partner into the star they fantasise about, and create the perfect script for a life with no limits. From my dancing/drama days I’d learnt that not everyone has stage chemistry and you won’t always adapt to someone’s directing style; and it seems to go the same for relationships.
I broke away from the bad movie scenes of my life only to be replaced by a new actress all too desperate to jump into my role, my costumes, my ways, the understudy who'd been lingering in the curtains of love long before my final bow was taken.
I'm not an actress, or a director pointing their star into what they see fit. I'm the writer and producer of my own life, choosing my own ending and never letting anyone dictate me. Too many people follow their lives and relationships on the beliefs that they should, due to the narratives that style convention into a guide to life and love.
I’m not going to fall into a predetermined script of life that the next Jane Doe or girl next door is also living, I’m going to edit out my scenes and live life as an improvisation – we all know that’s more fun.
I suppose, if we are all subconsciously living our lives and dream lives through pre-scripted tales and films, give me a kooky indie flick with a hottie for a lead, rather than a soppy chick flick with too predictable an ending.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
Addiction
Below is a piece of writing I wrote when I was 18, in an attempt to lay out and untangle all my thoughts associated with the idea of addiction. Severely chopping, re-reading and editing three years later, not too much has really changed...
Upon reading a book that was brutally honest and eye opening, I've spent some more time trying to comprehend the lives of people with addictions, and in turn, some of those close to me who have at one point been wrapped up in this lifestyle.
It's tragic in the social concept; emphasising and incorporating illicit drug use, jail time, life long diseases, neglected children, a incessant state of poverty and a constant demoralisation of your world and values. These issues are endlessly written and questioned, endlessly judged and endlessly misunderstood. Like anyone else foreign to the world of addiction, who am I to cast my naive thoughts into the world?
Through times in my life, I have dealt first hand with people who have some form of an addiction, in a variety of forms, on a variety of different levels. Perhaps some people would feel it too dramatic to stretch their lifestyles to that strong a word, but I've certainly seen people at their worst, and just how dependent upon their addiction they have been.
In the drug sense; for many it starts with a group of friends, and most people who have reached my age would have considered, if not tried something. Perhaps experimenting isn't being an addict, but seeking for some understanding, but it's turning those experiments into full blown dependencies that becomes a frightening reality for many people.
My family has been exposed to the ways drugs can destroy relationships, and through devastating experience, lives. Perhaps I'll never completely understand the life of someone who wakes up everyday needing their next fix, or sells their body or steals to secure the next hit. Then it all begins again, the next day, when their next score of money is just as unpredictable as the last; an ever demanding battle of what you will sacrifice - and really, what you'll have left?
It’s heartbreaking. It’s supposed to be full of concealment and sensitivity, and can often lack empathy from the ignorance of society. Perhaps, I too, am ignorant to such a life, angry by people's need to follow that life without ever really experiencing it myself, but by no means would I see such people as filth, as people often can.
I want to know who defines the difference between addiction and socially acceptable behaviour. I want to know who casts such judgment, and what their motives are. I’d like to know who judges me, and what I’m judged on, and note the levels of severity people will tolerate.
We all have addictions. Some noble, some feeble, some that will rip you apart. Being in love is an addiction, we’re incessantly pushing to achieve a notion of fulfillment from the thoughts of another; and perhaps, such a void is filled with other things. Addictions can be trivial or turbulent, but they’re all valid to the beholder. We may know something is dragging us down, but it doesn’t always give us the drive to squander it. Sometimes, it’s sickeningly the drive to cast us further into the realms of the addiction, overjoyed by the way it makes us feel, even if it’s infrequent, but powerful enough to exceed the pain of the lows.
And really, we’re all people, We’re all born to parents who generally love us, and hope we live a life full of love and laughter. We’ll all be tempted and swayed to toy with the persistent trails of addiction that will incessantly linger within our lives, but some remain conformist whilst others are displayed as reckless. Whatever, and whenever, an addiction controls you, you’re subject to the rush of it, and the obsession within your minds. You can’t blame anyone, really, for obtaining an addiction, when we all have them. We’ve just got to hope that, along the way, addictions that shred our lives away will be complimented by ones that will celebrate them.
Upon reading a book that was brutally honest and eye opening, I've spent some more time trying to comprehend the lives of people with addictions, and in turn, some of those close to me who have at one point been wrapped up in this lifestyle.
It's tragic in the social concept; emphasising and incorporating illicit drug use, jail time, life long diseases, neglected children, a incessant state of poverty and a constant demoralisation of your world and values. These issues are endlessly written and questioned, endlessly judged and endlessly misunderstood. Like anyone else foreign to the world of addiction, who am I to cast my naive thoughts into the world?
Through times in my life, I have dealt first hand with people who have some form of an addiction, in a variety of forms, on a variety of different levels. Perhaps some people would feel it too dramatic to stretch their lifestyles to that strong a word, but I've certainly seen people at their worst, and just how dependent upon their addiction they have been.
In the drug sense; for many it starts with a group of friends, and most people who have reached my age would have considered, if not tried something. Perhaps experimenting isn't being an addict, but seeking for some understanding, but it's turning those experiments into full blown dependencies that becomes a frightening reality for many people.
My family has been exposed to the ways drugs can destroy relationships, and through devastating experience, lives. Perhaps I'll never completely understand the life of someone who wakes up everyday needing their next fix, or sells their body or steals to secure the next hit. Then it all begins again, the next day, when their next score of money is just as unpredictable as the last; an ever demanding battle of what you will sacrifice - and really, what you'll have left?
It’s heartbreaking. It’s supposed to be full of concealment and sensitivity, and can often lack empathy from the ignorance of society. Perhaps, I too, am ignorant to such a life, angry by people's need to follow that life without ever really experiencing it myself, but by no means would I see such people as filth, as people often can.
I want to know who defines the difference between addiction and socially acceptable behaviour. I want to know who casts such judgment, and what their motives are. I’d like to know who judges me, and what I’m judged on, and note the levels of severity people will tolerate.
We all have addictions. Some noble, some feeble, some that will rip you apart. Being in love is an addiction, we’re incessantly pushing to achieve a notion of fulfillment from the thoughts of another; and perhaps, such a void is filled with other things. Addictions can be trivial or turbulent, but they’re all valid to the beholder. We may know something is dragging us down, but it doesn’t always give us the drive to squander it. Sometimes, it’s sickeningly the drive to cast us further into the realms of the addiction, overjoyed by the way it makes us feel, even if it’s infrequent, but powerful enough to exceed the pain of the lows.
And really, we’re all people, We’re all born to parents who generally love us, and hope we live a life full of love and laughter. We’ll all be tempted and swayed to toy with the persistent trails of addiction that will incessantly linger within our lives, but some remain conformist whilst others are displayed as reckless. Whatever, and whenever, an addiction controls you, you’re subject to the rush of it, and the obsession within your minds. You can’t blame anyone, really, for obtaining an addiction, when we all have them. We’ve just got to hope that, along the way, addictions that shred our lives away will be complimented by ones that will celebrate them.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
That Girl
That Girl
Funny girl,
Lovely girl,
Flowers in her hair,
Pretty girl,
Clever girl,
Just wanted them to care.
Happy girl,
Kooky girl
Giggles everyday,
Dancer girl,
Pin up girl,
Sultry in her way.
Cultured girl,
Poetic girl,
Professional writer,
Traveled girl,
Strong girl,
Always a fighter.
Lightweight girl,
Caring girl,
Can't hold her drink,
Kind girl,
Daring girl,
Will stop and make you think,
That you lost that girl,
Hurt that girl
Caused her some distress.
But she'll fight that girl,
Smile, that girl,
Untangle the mess
You gave that girl
You made that girl
Lose some of her spark,
But she's grown, that girl,
Shown, that girl
That she'll leap out of the dark.
So you'll miss that girl,
Resist that girl,
Next time she's around.
But she's fine that girl,
Shines that girl,
Won't let you bring her down.
It Hurts, But It Happens.
Your girl is lovely,
And so were you
In your way,
and perhaps you've changed,
Or are trying to,
And if only I'd knew
So long ago
What I've gained
From the pain you gave
Hurting time and time again,
Perhaps it would have left me sooner.
And now -
All I've left,
Is pity
For your girl,
As I overheard
Your lines used on her,
Just as with me,
And the others,
She'd have felt as we all did,
Well rehearsed and less impressive,
Second and third time round.
Your one man show
Led my feelings astray,
Swept my sadness away,
So a thankyou is due,
You made me stop missing you.
Funny girl,
Lovely girl,
Flowers in her hair,
Pretty girl,
Clever girl,
Just wanted them to care.
Happy girl,
Kooky girl
Giggles everyday,
Dancer girl,
Pin up girl,
Sultry in her way.
Cultured girl,
Poetic girl,
Professional writer,
Traveled girl,
Strong girl,
Always a fighter.
Lightweight girl,
Caring girl,
Can't hold her drink,
Kind girl,
Daring girl,
Will stop and make you think,
That you lost that girl,
Hurt that girl
Caused her some distress.
But she'll fight that girl,
Smile, that girl,
Untangle the mess
You gave that girl
You made that girl
Lose some of her spark,
But she's grown, that girl,
Shown, that girl
That she'll leap out of the dark.
So you'll miss that girl,
Resist that girl,
Next time she's around.
But she's fine that girl,
Shines that girl,
Won't let you bring her down.
It Hurts, But It Happens.
Your girl is lovely,
And so were you
In your way,
and perhaps you've changed,
Or are trying to,
And if only I'd knew
So long ago
What I've gained
From the pain you gave
Hurting time and time again,
Perhaps it would have left me sooner.
And now -
All I've left,
Is pity
For your girl,
As I overheard
Your lines used on her,
Just as with me,
And the others,
She'd have felt as we all did,
Well rehearsed and less impressive,
Second and third time round.
Your one man show
Led my feelings astray,
Swept my sadness away,
So a thankyou is due,
You made me stop missing you.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Who's Behind The Screen?
Flustered and anxious, I began to write. Allowing my thoughts that had been stampeding through my mind leak effortlessly onto a word document, I was instantly hooked. An anonymous blog, an outlet where I could dispose of my worries and journal my life through a minuscule corner of the World Wide Web; my secret, my place. It held a different attraction than a diary, it had the opportunity to be accidentally stumbled upon, a canvas of thoughts to an individual who was seeking inspiration. That enticed me. That lingering hope that I could help someone, or offer a part of myself that they identified with seemed to always bring a smile to my face. Perhaps it was the need to feel endlessly connected to people around the world, or perhaps it was the enigma circling it, the recipient of my words wondering what kind of person I was.
That is how it began. I was fifteen, and along with my high school friends who were interested in similar things, I had discovered the world of blogging. This new method of writing, pitched to be an online diary, was a new fad amongst my friends, like the previous ones of emo-music and jokes of sexual innuendos that we naively assumed made us grown up. It was a place we could write, and journal our thoughts, without judgment.
I found myself writing about anything, everything; it almost became a part of my thought process. My method of unwinding and analysing how I felt. So when I met him, a part of my future, and then a part of my past, through a friend online, and after some time I allowed him to read my blog, I had to wonder if my writing showed a different side of me. Did my words reflect who I was, am? Or were idealisations of what I could be grabbed from this forum of hormonal outlet?
It was, really, at first, just that. A place where a typical teenager could seek comfort and pity with complaints of how difficult her life was. A mixture of hormones and heartbreak; with the occasional philosophical wonderings and poetry that arose from the writer within me. But as I continued blogging, and writing my perception of the world around me, it became almost ritualistic.
I did stop, once. My future, then to be my past somehow deferred me from writing. I wasn’t ever told to stop, I just did. I used to write for enjoyment and for understanding, and over some time it had ceased. I felt no drive to document my feelings; I felt as though I had nothing interesting to document. It took me a while to even realise it, but my daily posts had dwindled to monthly ones, if that. This was an early sign of how wrong my relationship was, but it was a sign that would take me some time to realise.
As time progressed, along with blogging, websites like Myspace and Facebook also allowed me to place myself into a corner of the web, though this time, it was a lot more public. Photos were uploaded, brief “about me’s” were written and comments from friends were displayed, linking me to networks of friends in which I was subconsciously self-marketed. Who do I know on here? Without knowing it, this method of connecting to friends around the world, I was placing myself to be represented in a particular way. I didn’t even consider my online persona, or how a stranger or old friend may perceive me. I didn’t imagine these outlets were creating fictitious perceptions of me, or anyone, dependent on comments friends had made, or photos I decided to upload.
I had been included in the era of public profiles that deemed it acceptable, sociable, to post so much of yourself onto a website, for others to read about. I wasn’t protected by an un-named, unclaimed website, my photograph and my name were, and still are displayed.
It wasn’t until strangers began to add me as a friend that I began to wonder about the sincerity of it all. Was the purpose of these profiles to connect friends around the world, or to substitute friends you didn’t have in real life? Or was it simply a popularity contest, where the person with the highest “friends list” was the queen bee of the online world?
Over some time, and after starting uni and meeting new friends, I began to write again. Meeting someone new had inspired me once more, but along with that, the profiles my generation had become so fixated on, addicted to, offered no real meaning of the world. I still can’t answer their ability of how they capture you; but I think it’s a need to always know what’s happening, almost instantly.
Returning to writing helped immediately and I found myself thinking subjectively again. The comfort of going back to leaking my secrets into a secluded section of the web was almost therapeutic. I read, and I watch films (but not frequently enough), and listen to music, but writing is the way I find meaning in the world. I often wonder how other people form their meaning; their perception of what surrounds them.
I am just one person with ideals of the space I’ve grown up within. I’ve written nothing life changing, but what I have wrote matters to me. And if my online persona, through a cryptic and “who’s behind the computer screen” mystery has meant something to another; I have succeeded in leaving my mark on the world, if only for a moment.
That is how it began. I was fifteen, and along with my high school friends who were interested in similar things, I had discovered the world of blogging. This new method of writing, pitched to be an online diary, was a new fad amongst my friends, like the previous ones of emo-music and jokes of sexual innuendos that we naively assumed made us grown up. It was a place we could write, and journal our thoughts, without judgment.
I found myself writing about anything, everything; it almost became a part of my thought process. My method of unwinding and analysing how I felt. So when I met him, a part of my future, and then a part of my past, through a friend online, and after some time I allowed him to read my blog, I had to wonder if my writing showed a different side of me. Did my words reflect who I was, am? Or were idealisations of what I could be grabbed from this forum of hormonal outlet?
It was, really, at first, just that. A place where a typical teenager could seek comfort and pity with complaints of how difficult her life was. A mixture of hormones and heartbreak; with the occasional philosophical wonderings and poetry that arose from the writer within me. But as I continued blogging, and writing my perception of the world around me, it became almost ritualistic.
I did stop, once. My future, then to be my past somehow deferred me from writing. I wasn’t ever told to stop, I just did. I used to write for enjoyment and for understanding, and over some time it had ceased. I felt no drive to document my feelings; I felt as though I had nothing interesting to document. It took me a while to even realise it, but my daily posts had dwindled to monthly ones, if that. This was an early sign of how wrong my relationship was, but it was a sign that would take me some time to realise.
As time progressed, along with blogging, websites like Myspace and Facebook also allowed me to place myself into a corner of the web, though this time, it was a lot more public. Photos were uploaded, brief “about me’s” were written and comments from friends were displayed, linking me to networks of friends in which I was subconsciously self-marketed. Who do I know on here? Without knowing it, this method of connecting to friends around the world, I was placing myself to be represented in a particular way. I didn’t even consider my online persona, or how a stranger or old friend may perceive me. I didn’t imagine these outlets were creating fictitious perceptions of me, or anyone, dependent on comments friends had made, or photos I decided to upload.
I had been included in the era of public profiles that deemed it acceptable, sociable, to post so much of yourself onto a website, for others to read about. I wasn’t protected by an un-named, unclaimed website, my photograph and my name were, and still are displayed.
It wasn’t until strangers began to add me as a friend that I began to wonder about the sincerity of it all. Was the purpose of these profiles to connect friends around the world, or to substitute friends you didn’t have in real life? Or was it simply a popularity contest, where the person with the highest “friends list” was the queen bee of the online world?
Over some time, and after starting uni and meeting new friends, I began to write again. Meeting someone new had inspired me once more, but along with that, the profiles my generation had become so fixated on, addicted to, offered no real meaning of the world. I still can’t answer their ability of how they capture you; but I think it’s a need to always know what’s happening, almost instantly.
Returning to writing helped immediately and I found myself thinking subjectively again. The comfort of going back to leaking my secrets into a secluded section of the web was almost therapeutic. I read, and I watch films (but not frequently enough), and listen to music, but writing is the way I find meaning in the world. I often wonder how other people form their meaning; their perception of what surrounds them.
I am just one person with ideals of the space I’ve grown up within. I’ve written nothing life changing, but what I have wrote matters to me. And if my online persona, through a cryptic and “who’s behind the computer screen” mystery has meant something to another; I have succeeded in leaving my mark on the world, if only for a moment.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Waste Paper?
In the last few months, I've been thinking more about my future than ever before. I got back from Europe, fresh from a world of adventure and culture with my heart set on moving to London. I wanted to do nothing more than pack up my life and venture into the big city and become a big girl, and live a life full of plays in the West End, shopping in Oxford St and being immersed in a busy world of independence.
Technically; I've done what I needed to do in Perth now. I've finished my degree, and bar my graduation ceremony in March(and my slowly dwindling down car loan) , I've got nothing left to hold me here. The longer I'm surrounded by people who are seemingly progressing into adult lives, the more I feel frustrated that we don't have to follow that stringent path of life.
Our culture is obsessed with the focus of paper. Paper dominates our lives: university degrees, marriage certificates, money, passports, citizenship certificates, tenancy agreements, deeds, bills. Why are we so focused on earning pieces of paper to define our success and happiness?
I was chatting to a friend the other day who has recently gotten married. Married in the sense that they love each other and it felt "right". I appreciate when you enter a formal commitment in that sense; but I'm tired of the endless conversation amongst people of feigning domestic bliss and the epitomy of their life's fulfillment resulting in wearing a white dress.
Live a little.
Perhaps I'm no where close to building a house, or having a baby, or even having a rock to show I'll (apparently) be eternally loved; but I've done pretty fuckin' good for a 20 year old. I've lived in 3 countries (thanks to my parents), traveled around 20 more, gotten a degree, made it without becoming a teenage mother, left when others wouldn't have, beared more pain than most would even comprehend, and still come out smiling.
I want my life to be fulfilled by laughs I share with friends, places I visit, moments that are sacred, whether that be staring at the Cote D'Azur (which I've done :D), or catching someone's eyes, or feeling bloody proud of yourself for something small and insignificant to someone else. I don't want to depend on paper to symbolise that apparently, my life is going well. If a home and a conventional, socially "norm" life is all that you've ever wanted, then love it. But your life should always be normal according to you.
All you've got to ask yourself is, do you wake up everyday with a smile on your face, or at least a speckle of hope that you can control your life and your happiness?
And if I've got to settle for paper... Give me plane tickets, love letters and books :)
Technically; I've done what I needed to do in Perth now. I've finished my degree, and bar my graduation ceremony in March(and my slowly dwindling down car loan) , I've got nothing left to hold me here. The longer I'm surrounded by people who are seemingly progressing into adult lives, the more I feel frustrated that we don't have to follow that stringent path of life.
Our culture is obsessed with the focus of paper. Paper dominates our lives: university degrees, marriage certificates, money, passports, citizenship certificates, tenancy agreements, deeds, bills. Why are we so focused on earning pieces of paper to define our success and happiness?
I was chatting to a friend the other day who has recently gotten married. Married in the sense that they love each other and it felt "right". I appreciate when you enter a formal commitment in that sense; but I'm tired of the endless conversation amongst people of feigning domestic bliss and the epitomy of their life's fulfillment resulting in wearing a white dress.
Live a little.
Perhaps I'm no where close to building a house, or having a baby, or even having a rock to show I'll (apparently) be eternally loved; but I've done pretty fuckin' good for a 20 year old. I've lived in 3 countries (thanks to my parents), traveled around 20 more, gotten a degree, made it without becoming a teenage mother, left when others wouldn't have, beared more pain than most would even comprehend, and still come out smiling.
I want my life to be fulfilled by laughs I share with friends, places I visit, moments that are sacred, whether that be staring at the Cote D'Azur (which I've done :D), or catching someone's eyes, or feeling bloody proud of yourself for something small and insignificant to someone else. I don't want to depend on paper to symbolise that apparently, my life is going well. If a home and a conventional, socially "norm" life is all that you've ever wanted, then love it. But your life should always be normal according to you.
All you've got to ask yourself is, do you wake up everyday with a smile on your face, or at least a speckle of hope that you can control your life and your happiness?
And if I've got to settle for paper... Give me plane tickets, love letters and books :)
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The Optimistic Scrooge.
For my family, Christmas has been a unusual tradition for the last seven years. We've traded snow and huge roast dinners for blazing hot Christmas days with a barbeque feast. So, I suppose in some sense the further alterations to this year's Christmas shouldn't make as much of a difference, but this Christmas will feel more surreal than ever before.
It's going to be just me and mum. Not that I don't love my mum, but Christmas is about family and my dad's going to be working 11 hours away in the harshness of the Australian outback. My brother's moved out; and whilst he's popping around in the morning for present swapping, our family will literally be divided for this year's festivities. We'll spend the afternoon with our fellow family friends from England which will be the comfort for our sense of home this Christmas.
I love Christmas. I truly do. I love to buy people gifts, and to see their reactions. I love the optimism that spreads around due to the upcoming holiday season, and joining together to see everyone you care for.
While we've all got our pet peeves over Christmas (I won't even go near a shopping mall this week) and children's obession with their upcoming presents for months beforehand; I think adults share a similar sense of nervousness when considering the scope of their lives and happiness.
Christmas often brings a sense of postponement that other holidays can't deliver. People put off things around Christmas; they don't want to be responsible for causing pain during the holiday season. By all accounts we'll resist having that serious talk with someone or pushed back an inevitable breakup due to the upcoming day of celebration. But why delay the inevitable? And how is this one day of year going to erase the bad and give you the perfect present you've desired?
I think in some senses, Christmas evokes this false sense of hope and hesitation. People try to string together and pull through in the knowledge that it's Christmas time, and at Christmas time you shouldn't be responsible for causing pain. Christmas day has big boots to fill; and I'm not talking about Santa's. Perhaps we should all focus on our situations now, not plan how to perfect an inperfect situation just for Christmas.
While I hope this day that evokes family, giving and happiness brings people back together on a long term basis or helps to mend your woe, surely it's cruel to pretend for a day, if that's your only intentions.
For many of us, Christmas is not a relgiious celebration but a capitalistic Hallmark tradition borrowing symbols and rituals from a variety of religions and cultures (the Dutch's Sinta Klauss and pagan tree traditions; for example). What Christmas represents to the majority is a day of presents and piss-ups.
By all means, I wish for us all to enjoy this year's Christmas, and realise how lucky we are to have healthy and happy lives. Gift giving is one of my favourite parts of Christmas, and we should all value the way the day brings us more together. However, we should apply this attitude to each day, and count our happiness on a daily basis, not on an annual review; when a tree, an old man with a beard and stack of presents have to remind us to.
Bah, humbug.
It's going to be just me and mum. Not that I don't love my mum, but Christmas is about family and my dad's going to be working 11 hours away in the harshness of the Australian outback. My brother's moved out; and whilst he's popping around in the morning for present swapping, our family will literally be divided for this year's festivities. We'll spend the afternoon with our fellow family friends from England which will be the comfort for our sense of home this Christmas.
I love Christmas. I truly do. I love to buy people gifts, and to see their reactions. I love the optimism that spreads around due to the upcoming holiday season, and joining together to see everyone you care for.
While we've all got our pet peeves over Christmas (I won't even go near a shopping mall this week) and children's obession with their upcoming presents for months beforehand; I think adults share a similar sense of nervousness when considering the scope of their lives and happiness.
Christmas often brings a sense of postponement that other holidays can't deliver. People put off things around Christmas; they don't want to be responsible for causing pain during the holiday season. By all accounts we'll resist having that serious talk with someone or pushed back an inevitable breakup due to the upcoming day of celebration. But why delay the inevitable? And how is this one day of year going to erase the bad and give you the perfect present you've desired?
I think in some senses, Christmas evokes this false sense of hope and hesitation. People try to string together and pull through in the knowledge that it's Christmas time, and at Christmas time you shouldn't be responsible for causing pain. Christmas day has big boots to fill; and I'm not talking about Santa's. Perhaps we should all focus on our situations now, not plan how to perfect an inperfect situation just for Christmas.
While I hope this day that evokes family, giving and happiness brings people back together on a long term basis or helps to mend your woe, surely it's cruel to pretend for a day, if that's your only intentions.
For many of us, Christmas is not a relgiious celebration but a capitalistic Hallmark tradition borrowing symbols and rituals from a variety of religions and cultures (the Dutch's Sinta Klauss and pagan tree traditions; for example). What Christmas represents to the majority is a day of presents and piss-ups.
By all means, I wish for us all to enjoy this year's Christmas, and realise how lucky we are to have healthy and happy lives. Gift giving is one of my favourite parts of Christmas, and we should all value the way the day brings us more together. However, we should apply this attitude to each day, and count our happiness on a daily basis, not on an annual review; when a tree, an old man with a beard and stack of presents have to remind us to.
Bah, humbug.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
You've Got To Laugh
Or you’d cry?
Not necessarily.
“Men are bastards. After about ten minutes I wanted to cut off my own penis with a kitchen knife.” – Will, About a Boy.
There’s not much new to that, if you ask any woman (or in some cases, man), who’ll rapidly offer a story depicting woe and some wanker. Post break up and ready to drown my sorrows in true Bridget-esque style (though I wasn’t too bad), of course I had to run into someone from my past. He agreed: “men are bastards. That’s why I’m dating a girl.”
So after two to three months, my stint as a couple was practically over before it began. It ended amicably enough – we’re both planning to move to entirely different parts of the world and our lives and plans simply weren’t compatible. So, I’m now faced with the dilemmas of post break up behaviour. Friends? People who speak? Or someone that you have to avoid if you run into them in the shops, or at a pub?
Through chatting to my best friend and seeing more and more unbreakable couples break, I’m coming to the conclusion that perhaps it’s something to do with age, and relationship inexperience. My first serious boyfriend was three years of teenage angst and using me as the solution and cure to his depression. The next one was a train wreck in itself; but I did love him, and learnt a lot along the way. After feeling that gut wrenching heartbreak, we’re all at least once due for, I travelled, dated (some shockers too), and grew up.
So onto the next one I was more confident of what I wanted from him; or a boyfriend in general, but stuck on my single and fabulous! (exclamation point!) dreams of the future. He was lovely and we never fought but I feel back on track and more eager to jump right into my future than ever before.
We’ve long since realised the idealistic tale of meeting and being with your one and only is too good to be true, yet so many people aspire to it with each new partner, as though the past can be deleted and has no swaying on the person you are, and why somebody loves you.
Perhaps I’m sadistic and my optimistic trite is fading away, or perhaps when I’m loved up it’ll grow again; but age is often a problem too. We’re barely familiar with ourselves at this age, let alone how we are as a partner. Perhaps each boyfriend and breakup sets the standard for who we are, and what we need in the future.
But for some optimism; you can’t value love without pain, and you should feel the welt of each heartbreak with the new found joys of your future.
Spoken like a true masochist.
Not necessarily.
“Men are bastards. After about ten minutes I wanted to cut off my own penis with a kitchen knife.” – Will, About a Boy.
There’s not much new to that, if you ask any woman (or in some cases, man), who’ll rapidly offer a story depicting woe and some wanker. Post break up and ready to drown my sorrows in true Bridget-esque style (though I wasn’t too bad), of course I had to run into someone from my past. He agreed: “men are bastards. That’s why I’m dating a girl.”
So after two to three months, my stint as a couple was practically over before it began. It ended amicably enough – we’re both planning to move to entirely different parts of the world and our lives and plans simply weren’t compatible. So, I’m now faced with the dilemmas of post break up behaviour. Friends? People who speak? Or someone that you have to avoid if you run into them in the shops, or at a pub?
Through chatting to my best friend and seeing more and more unbreakable couples break, I’m coming to the conclusion that perhaps it’s something to do with age, and relationship inexperience. My first serious boyfriend was three years of teenage angst and using me as the solution and cure to his depression. The next one was a train wreck in itself; but I did love him, and learnt a lot along the way. After feeling that gut wrenching heartbreak, we’re all at least once due for, I travelled, dated (some shockers too), and grew up.
So onto the next one I was more confident of what I wanted from him; or a boyfriend in general, but stuck on my single and fabulous! (exclamation point!) dreams of the future. He was lovely and we never fought but I feel back on track and more eager to jump right into my future than ever before.
We’ve long since realised the idealistic tale of meeting and being with your one and only is too good to be true, yet so many people aspire to it with each new partner, as though the past can be deleted and has no swaying on the person you are, and why somebody loves you.
Perhaps I’m sadistic and my optimistic trite is fading away, or perhaps when I’m loved up it’ll grow again; but age is often a problem too. We’re barely familiar with ourselves at this age, let alone how we are as a partner. Perhaps each boyfriend and breakup sets the standard for who we are, and what we need in the future.
But for some optimism; you can’t value love without pain, and you should feel the welt of each heartbreak with the new found joys of your future.
Spoken like a true masochist.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)