Today instead of blogging, I could just put a link to this post adding the words, what she said. It seems some days blogging worlds and words collide.
Instead, I am musing over my own thoughts. Determined to see this blogvember challenge through to the very end. I know this is my space. I can write, blog, comment however, whenever, whatever I want. Say, or not say the things that need saying. The choice is mine.
Today, as I head into week two of operation go slow I am beginning to see that I am not as good as doing nothing as I thought. Bathing in the middle of the day is all very nice, but I feel time is slipping away. The days are slipping away. It’s the age thing getting to me again.
In an attempt to be contemplative and reflective I filled the hot bath with sweetly scented salts. I am now prune like and smell of frangipani. My heels have been pumiced into submission and my face exfoliated to a sheen. I am shedding skin.
I wonder at the words I choose to write. The ones of which I press publish. I am thinking about what they do not say as much as what they do. Readers cannot read my mind I tell myself. But then I do not think I need to tell everything to tell a story or share my life. Some things are not for the telling.
I contemplate what movie to watch. Consider if I should go for a walk or just rest; and wonder if a glass of wine will tip me over the edge of good health. I press perfume to pulse points, look for the bright side and tell myself good health is more than resting up.
As for blogging and writing, perhaps this month has been better for me than I am ready to admit to. It’s all very well to say I can blog when I want, but perhaps sometimes I should blog when I don’t want to. Ah, the shedding of skin. It’s more than exfoliating and a pumice stone.
Winter. Cold, bleak, grey. Outside the air is heavy with lazy breath rising through the cold. Sound carries well through the thick air of winter. Nothing else seems to get through. Nothing.
The warmth of bed and pillow seem all that matters. Not the brace of a run on a frozen blue morning. Not the thrill of a walk with footfall crunching the icy ground below. The promise of comfort food is empty.
The cold has taken hold of me this year. I can not embrace it.
I don’t like to complain. The thought of voyeurism stops me from writing some days. So instead of saying what is happeing I write nothing.
Words tapped out on the keyboard. Shallow nothings while inside my head the words I really want to write bang noislessly against each other. It’s crowded in there.
I need to run. Need. The fog of flu is lifting finally. Soldering on may not be what the doctor ordered, but it is what I did. I’m not asking for sympathy or a medal. We all soldier on. Family and work are commitments not a hobby.
I need to write. Need. Words, like a good run are part of my make up. It seems winter has sent my words to slumbering hibernation. They raise sleepy, heavy lidded eyes occasionally, but I can not grab hold of them before sleep takes them back again.
I could whisper write the words. The ones that bang most often. Jumbled up like scattered magnet pieces on a fridge. But then you see, readers, there would be hints at what I will not write. There would be comments and declarations of hang in there and it will all be fine. There would be stories of support. There would be naughts for hugs and crosses for kisses. And I don’t need them. I just need the words to come out of my head. Spilt out on the page. Spent, tired, words.
So I will type. Tap away and write it out. That’s what they say to do; the great mystery mass of they. Just write. So I am. I will. I did. And now, now I will run.
Neigh. Eden’s Fresh Horses Brigade is back, and she’s asking; Who the hell are you?
Who the hell am I?
Easy question, right? I am mother, daughter, sister, wife. Friend, teacher, a lover and a fighter. I run, I laugh. I dance, badly.
I am woman. Hear me roar.
But that, that’s what I am. Not who I am. I think. Maybe.
Perhaps I’m indecisive.
I know I am not the same person I was in my twenties. Or my thirties for that matter. I know that while some things stay the same, many more change. Mostly for the better.
I know I am still learning, and, perhaps as a sign of ageing, am sometimes even able to admit when I am wrong. If that’s not learning I don’t know what is.
Is it a wank to say I’m complex? Because I think I am. Perhaps that makes me a complex wanker. Or a wanker with a complex.
I deflect with warped humour.
Sometimes I’m a scaredy-cat who makes her husband phone the mechanic for me. Sometimes I’m a fighter for basic human rights, right here on the outskirts of suburbia.
There are days when I decide I want a modern clean house, with all its shiny, oh so carefully chosen minimalism. Sometimes I want to pack it all in; get full sleeve tatts, live in a flat in the dodgy part of the city and hangout in cafes. Or be a self sufficient farmer, eat the chooks I raise by hand and name after Brontë and Austin characters. Sometimes I want to change the world one injustice at a time.
I always carry change incase I’m asked for a spare dollar.
I wear my heart on my sleeve. I always want to see the good, be the glass half full kind of person. But sometimes I forget. I say spiteful things, I laugh at the joke I know I shouldn’t. I make generalisations. I am human after all. Even us pollyannas have bad days.
I have enough guilt for all of us. I carry it around like a big heavy lump. All the things I did I wish I hadn’t. All the times I said what I shouldn’t have. The times I said nothing when I know speaking up was right and just.
When I laugh it sounds like a snort. Sometimes wee comes out.
My kids are amazing. Not because of anything they do, or say. Just because they are mine. Because I made them. Carried them. Birthed them. Because they made me cry more than I ever thought I could. Because I know if I can be as sleep deprived as they made me, I can do just about anything. Because I have love for them that can not be written into words.
I believe in true love. But that doesn’t make it easy.
When I was young, I thought shouting the loudest, protesting the most, arguing the point was always the best way. Now I know it’s actions. Be the change don’t just shout about it.
I swear. A lot. My kids have always heard me. I believe there are worse things in the world than for a child the hear their mum say fuck.
I don’t like seafood. It tastes all fishy and yuck. I like pork. But not if it’s porky tasting. I eat vegemite by dipping my finger in the jar.
I believe butter is better.
As I get older, I cry more. My emotions are right there, under the surface all the time. I like to think it’s because I am too tired for the bullshit anymore and get straight to the point if it. Whatever it is.
Music speaks to my soul.
I think too much. I over think. I think myself in circles. Between that and my heart on my sleeve, it’s a messy, over thought out place in my head. It’s also a place full of song lyrics and inappropriate jokes. But mostly, it’s the place I go to when things get real. It’s my retreat from the world. Where only I can be.
Some days I know exactly who I am. Others, I haven’t got a clue. But that’s alright, its just the way I like it.
And yes, I know I’ve already posted this song, but when I started writing it came into that messy space that is my over thinking mind and stayed there. So here it is again.