Visualise defeat, hanging by its tender threads,
Dread pushed down to box proportions
Packed and sealed and ready to discard.
Guarded by the mighty brain,
It’s blind and deft to complex terrain.
Visualise light, bursting through a dampened flint,
Printed there in rainbow colours
Dancing fox-trot in your mischievous eyes.
You can achieve anything you want in this world.
If life were a game of Olympics I would get bronze for everything. Because mediocrity is key. I strive to be consistently average.
Picture this. My secondary school was single sex. Single sex and a Grammar school. Single sex and a Grammar school and Catholic.
We wore purple. For years after I never wore purple again.
We were called ‘purple-virgins’ and ‘Ribena bottles’ and girls would meet with the brother-school after the final bell rang to show off how short their skirts were rolled up (tight, so tight we all had tire belts around our stomachs). We compromised faux-muffin-tops for showing off our knees and thighs.
The only thing that wasn’t purple were these hideous black mafia coats that were compulsory to wear. I was tiny, probably the shortest in the year so my awkwardness stuck out when the black coat swathed by body. We had grey tracksuits for Physical Education and almost every piece of uniform had our school crest patched on.
Purple, dressed in shades of purple.
I hated secondary school. I hated trying to fit in, trying to change myself on a bi-weekly basis for other cooler, more popular girls, girls who could pull off the colour purple. It was a nightmare, an insecure mess of a dream turned inky violet I just wanted to escape.
Now and then I see old teachers, old now, they’re old, and the bitter bitch inside of me urges me to walk up to them and tell them that they ruined my life, it’s true, they did (because I’m bitter).
This one pooled over a stark shade of blue,
Spilled spitefully on top of tender reds and yellows.
Hollow shell of thistle plum, cut brittle on the midnight run.
Bruising violet, violence riotous reaching for an answer,
Cancer spreading forcibly from lavender stem to petal.
The bruise was only penny sized and dispersed like poisoned hives
Contrived and grew like orchid buds, flooding to the corners.
feel like i just need to write just to feel less hopeless about everything around me.
Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson
I haven’t found myself reaching for the dictionary as much as I have until this book by Marilynne Robinson.
Eloquent and lovingly expressive, Housekeeping tells the story of sisters Ruthie and Lucille, who have been passed around a succession of family members, until they end up in the care of their estranged and enigmatic aunt Sylvie.
Although slow for me to get into, the story opens itself up in wonderful and revealing ways, leaving me to want to live in the seemingly strange and bleak town of Fingerbone.
The writing is remarkable, and almost a handbook for creative writing students; I read passages of nothing but beautiful glimpses into the lives of these characters, and Robinson showers attention onto every little detail of Fingerbone. Even as the weather is slowly warming up in London, I feel the cold almost biting at the tips of my fingers, the way she describes heating up bricks on a hot stove to warm up, or skating on the lake frozen over.
Let’s be honest for a second. This story, and its plot, and the characters within it, it has all been done before, over and over, tirelessly published and bought off the shelves. And I usually steer clear from that. But I will say this – there is such a beauty in her prose that even so, it’s worth the read.
They had projected sharpie onto me
Black and smudged and permanent.
Then I lost the label declining in denial
Rifle ready in my hand to cause a riot
Black ink spreading til my lips were sealed in quiet
Detrimental poisoning caused me lastingly riled
Deranged, hopped up, unbalanced, more,
Torn from the bladder,
Left strewn on the floor.
A tag in which was covered in matter.
Burned thirteen times, stamped on, stabbed,
Dragged through wild winds and pinned
Still pinned, and permanent to my skin.
Girls in school were so mean. Girls in Catholic grammar single sex schools were downright nasty.
This world wasn’t meant for me.
Not for my existence, or my anxiety, or my depression, taking up necessary atoms and photons and neutrons and particles to help make the earth spin on its axis.
This world doesn’t belong to me.
I let it go unwillingly with volatile and timid hands, the very pair that left me maimed and afraid to face society. Instead I developed a habit of losing things.
This world will drive me insane.
By midnight you’ll have loved and left me stranded on a platform with no way to stay asleep and no destination but still nervous of having to wake up the next day.
oh, i’m still here.
Of Things Gone Astray by Janina Matthewson
See that guys, it’s a succulent plant that ISN’T DEAD (yet). It’s still alive. It lived longer than my last kid – at this point my old one was leaking water and crying out for help.
Anyway, Of Things Gone Astray is like the type of book I would one day like to write. It’s imaginative, and comforting, and I don’t feel overwhelmed by any type of plot being forced in my face.
The basic premise is that a group of individuals wake one morning to find something important to them missing: the front of their house (yes, really), their sense of direction, their status, their looks, material and immaterial possessions. Told in the form of drabbles, this collection of perspectives is wonderfully unique and funny, and puts a smile on my face when I have shit days (note: every day is a shit day).
At the end of it I’m not even 100% sure what I’ve just read but it’s made me think about all the things I’ve lost, of all the things I hope to gain. It’s realistic in a sense that it’s not realistic at all but just enough for me to feel like, if I don’t hold on tight to the things that matter to me, they could be gone the next minute.