Today’s date.

​I think I catch a few people looking at me when I’m eating alone because I can actually enjoy my own company when I eat alone. It’s weird to them. They’re jealous, I’m just too strange. 
Or I’ve got some big snot hanging off my nose.

Whatever man. Life’s too short to be in bad company, so choose it wisely.

Silence

I can only begin this with a sigh of relief.

The world has gone to bed, and I am finally able to be at peace with myself.

I miss you, really I do.  I think about you every hour, on the hour.  More these few days because you’re away.  Now you’ve gone to bed too.  I’m sorry I didn’t reply when you wished me goodnight.

Sometimes I wonder if I care for you too much to allow this to happen.  It’s not you who’s doing it, it’s me.

I morph into someone I think you want me to be, someone I think I want me to be – more logical, more lively, more assertive, less timid, less serious, more adventurous, less sensitive, more accommodating, less snarky.

When in fact, at times when I’m just …here, with myself and the humming of the fridge, I’m okay with being all those things, without the ‘more’ or the ‘less’ because I believe I’m still those things but with just the right amount.  It doesn’t happen often but I’m actually feeling alright with being just me for a change.

It’s unfair on you because you always tell me to be myself, and you do love me for who I am – without a doubt; I can feel it in my bones.  Grateful doesn’t begin to describe how I feel about the fact that I found you. Even after so many years, I still can’t wrap my head around why you have chosen to stay.

It’s more telling about me than about you, I suppose – it’s my self-esteem talking here.

But I can’t shake this niggling feeling that you don’t know me as well as you think you do.  And when you find out what the depths of my being looks like, it’ll be over.

Perhaps that’s why I try so hard to be more or less of all those things, so you will still have a reason to stay and continue to have a reason to stay for the years coming.

I realise the onus is on me to carve out my own space, my own time, and my own silence to be able to show you the real me.  Something tells me you won’t run away even if I do.  I know I’m contradicting myself again.

I just like spending time with you, I love being with you.  Heck, I just love you.  I often feel like I want to spend every single moment with you even if that means putting away a bit of myself to do that. And yet, I also feel like you bring out sides of me I didn’t even know I had.  It’s mind-boggling.

I love your soul even if you might not believe in such a concept.  I love that you challenge me, that you don’t hold back your opinions, and you don’t back down simply because I’m your partner.  That’s respect to me.  I just wish I had the same tenacity and verbal prowess as you do to be able to return a good argument, and to feel heard and that I’m on par with you.  I’m working on that.  I realise you also do things for me, to accommodate me, to be gentle and considerate while acknowledging I do have a backbone and independent thought.

I also love that you are so in touch with reality.  At times it can be abrasive to my sensitive heart because I’m just so fucking naive.  But I like that about myself too.  It gives me hope and it lets me dream of a better world than the crap we are constantly swimming through.  My lenses are already grey; there was a bit of suffering as a child and those lenses have stuck with me. I need my naivety to survive day to day. Surprisingly, even with you realism, you have brought so much colour to my world.

So I guess the point is when I’m with you I’m just a little different than my naked self. And that’s okay. After all, we’re two very different people.  I’m sure your naked self is different to the one I see most days.  And let’s be honest, my naked self will not survive one day in this apathetic world.

I couldn’t ask you to change, I don’t want to.  But I admit it can be challenging to understand where you come from some days.

It scares me actually.

I’m scared I don’t know how to comfort you.  I’m scared I won’t be able to learn your ways to help you even though I try so hard to.  I’m scared I won’t be the one who can give you solace during the times you need it most.

I’m scared you won’t be able to do that for me either because we’re just…so different.  I speak abstract while you speak factual.  I speak black and white and you speak different shades of rainbow.

I’m scared I won’t know how to keep you interested because you’re always go go getting while I’m happy to be still.  Not stillness in relation to ambition, but stillness in just being still.

Like a speck on the wall.  Watching the world happen.  Watching the sun rise and the sun set and the clouds brush past and the colours change over the landscape.

Like silence.

With all that being said, it seems time and time again we have shown each other there is more than one way to skin a cat.  Our approaches may be different, but we seem to always end up on the same page.  And that page is we will keep fighting for us, not against us.  Ultimately we are a team, not one vs one.

I suspect this is what we both need from each other.  Someone so different from ourselves it will be a never ending puzzle.

After all, we both like puzzles.  They’re interesting.  Frustrating at times, but in the end they’re worth it.

Pogo anecdote, Darling Quarter

As a pogoer I’d like to share an anecdote from tonight: 

My partner and I were walking around a popular hotspot this evening and a group of pogoers walked past and gave us a tip of a sought-after pokemon ‘over there by the fence’. Excited, we shouted back our thanks and pretty much ran to the spot. When we got there another group had just arrived in a hurry from another direction. We all tried to catch the pokemon; it must have looked funny, even ridiculous, to non-pogoers that all these people were tap tap tapping furiously on their phones by a random fence, some of us grumbling at our screens.

I was lucky enough to catch it – I did not hide my excitement – but my partner was not so lucky. He was a little frustrated especially as he and I get competitive. All in good fun though. The guys from the other group also missed out, but my partner struck up a conversation with them and to my surprise, they shared their own experience with him, frustration vividly painted on their faces. The boys and my partner had just shared a moment together. It’s nice to find such a simple common ground with complete strangers.

I’m not sure why people are so quick to judge, especially when they have no experience in the matter. It’s just a game afterall. Like any other video game it takes time, effort and patience to level up. It’s fun. But with that kind of investment, it also leads to invested emotion: joy of playing, a drive towards a goal, a sense of achievement, and frustration when things don’t go to plan.

There are definite positives to this game that other video games cannot provide. For one, people are out and about and getting some sun and exercise they normally would not with other video games, whether PC, Playstation, Xbox or even Wii. Secondly, people are actually talking to each other, face-to-face – it’s like an unspoken camaraderie amongst Pogoers, and it warms my heart to see it in action as opposed to reading scrolling text at the bottom of my screen in the form of a chatbox.

Gg bro.

Ultimately it’s up to the player how they choose to interact with the game, how ‘addicted’ they become, how they interact with the gaming community and their surroundings, just like any other video game.

I suppose the difference is, pogoers are now visible to the larger ‘non-gaming/pogo’ community and when people don’t understand, they shit on it to try process it in their heads, to make them feel somehow ‘superior’ because they don’t ‘buy in to that stuff’. Their justification for not participating. Thankfully not everyone is a self-righteous douchebag.

I don’t condone the inconsiderate pogoers however: the ones that leave rubbish behind or act obnoxiously loud when it’s late at night and people around are trying to get some sleep. Or those who don’t watch where they’re going and bump into people on the street or even worse, cause an accident. But I don’t condone jerks and stupidity in general. If you can’t be in charge of your own safety, who can? And don’t say the government or local council because all it takes is a little common sense. ‘Don’t pogo and drive.’ Do we really need that warning? Really? For good measure, I suppose… sigh.

Again, it’s a choice. There is no need, it’s even a bit unfair, to paint all pogoers with the same brush. 

It’s just another hype, one that could even improve a lot of people’s mental health without needing to address mental health specifically as unfortunately there is still stigma associated with it. The walks, the bike rides and surprise catches are doing wonders for my own struggle with depression. Having something to look forward to is key, even though it’s arguably trivial as afterall, we’re chasing after virtual ‘monsters’. But hey, they’re freaking cute and the process itself has brought so much joy.

In the end it’s just a damn game. Why not let people have some fun? Must you be a killjoy? 

And if Pokemon Go is not your kind of thing, sure, we can find something else to talk about.  Like movies and music and books and dance. Even Probability if that’s what rocks your world. 

To each their own, right?

It’s time to resurrect this

Beer in hand, book in the other.

No, I lie. The phone is in the other as I write this. The beer stays.

The urge to write is overwhelming at this point.  I never know what about, as inspiration strikes I guess.

But that’s an armature’s work, to write only when inspired.

I must work on my craft. I must grind through it. We all need to grind at something to be good at it.

I am starting to understand why so many authors write when they’re drunk. Its free-flowing, liberating, completely consuming. Edit when you get sober eventually.

Not a quote by Hemingway by the way.

Battery going.

I’ll be back.

Be sure of it.

Doodleling

image

Forgive me, dear readers, for my edits on published posts.  I generally alternate between my handy ‘phablet’ (a term so ridiculous yet so succinct in describing the product in question, it tickles) and my laptop, which as you can understand, would have a different page layout for the same webpage compared to the phablet (giggle).

So now, the resizing of the new addition is done, the page layout is less cringe-worthy, and I promise next time all checks will be made before a post is published.

As you can see, we have a new face on the blog.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Tallulah.

Feed her with sexy words and phrases and she will sing for you.

Slipping into the rabbit hole

http://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/rear-window

Lately I’ve been falling in love with writers left, right and centre.  I’ve been reading like I’ve never before – so hungry, so restless, so insatiable for the strings of words that would make my heart flutter.  I’d liken this experience to maybe casually but inconspiciously slipping through the dubious rabbit hole after hearing the townsfolk talk about the elusive few who have already made the leap.

This world is huge.  The sheer size of the skies, earth and the mysterious watery wonderland around us. Our societies, our cultures, our unspoken rules and customs.  Our morals, our ethics, our accepted social graces. Our ecosystems, our relationships and the ubiquity of politics.  We try our best to make sense of it all.  It’s still all unfathomable chaos and so much is swept under one rug or another.  Yet at the entrance of the rabbit hole I stand, now gazing inwardly at the unknown, guarded, defensive and yet yearnfully curious about this hidden world where its inhabitants are often described as (and I quote from David Gilbert’s piece above) ‘gloomy, depressive’ and ‘too egotistically sensitive for the world’.

Ha, such truth!  Here I stand, inspecting the network of tunnels the rabbit hole has presented me – each with a sign above to mark its destination – and notably, other destinations, crossed-out and scribbled over only to have the same words rewritten over the top again – I guess to illustrate the path chosen is never straightforward. News articles, biographies, ghostwriting, copywriting, screenwriting, young adult novels, erotic fiction, poetry, advice columns, comedy… a newly discovered labyrinth of creative, written adventures of my choice.

For my particular chosen track, possibilities are endless, rules are made up and animals can talk. Heck, even the notion of gravity can be overridden by the mighty pen.  I would love to create a world where people can fly. Just because I fucking can.  And assholes will get a spectacularly brutal ending they all deserve.  Insert evil cackle here.

“It’s in literature that true life can be found. It’s under the mask of fiction that you can tell the truth.”

– Gao Xingjian, novelist

Finding the right boots

I’m finding this whole new world of writing and the reading about writing (i.e. the writer’s journey) rather exhilarating.  I feel like I’m finally finding my own feet – the feet with actual flesh and bones and nerves – not the heavy, titanium knee-high boots I convinced myself to put on every day because, well, they were just oh so shiny. So very red and shiny and presumably magical, if the Wizard of Oz was anything to go by.

I put those boots on every day since I stepped into uni, with the hope that they would one day make me fly.

Surprisingly, I did fly.  Not that I would have forgiven myself for anything less back then.  In hindsight, I flew higher than I ever thought I could in the time it took me to get there.

But the boots were heavy.  Stupidly heavy.  It was taking every ounce of my being to get them off the ground each morning, when it ‘should’ have been like breathing.  It took much more energy than I thought I even had in me to sustain my flight day after day. I began dreading putting on those shiny red titanium boots each morning.  I would look at them and start crying, then look at them again to see if I was merely allergic to something in the room (Life, perhaps, har), nope, and start crying again.  All before I’ve even had my morning coffee.  All before I even got dressed for the day.  Yep, very red.  Red flags everywhere.

So for now, at least, I’ve put them boots away.  Life is too short to be suffering long term when you have a choice not to.  Even if that means having to confront another type of risk head on.

I may not be a published author, or even have a published article or a well-received blog.  Heck I don’t even have a story line nutted out in my head to say, “I’m working on a novel”.  Also, apparently writing for a living really isn’t the most lucrative business out there.  But something in me stirs every time I read, something in me ignites every time I write.

I don’t care if I don’t write the next novel-turned-shitty-but-profitable-hollywood-blockbuster.  I just want to be able to make someone else’s heart tremble – with joy, with sorrow, with bittersweetness or even fear.  All but with a set of carefully chosen words.

I want to make someone fall in love.

And I’ve a long way to go.