The Big Fat Metaphorical Leaf

Reader, it is 2012. I can't help the twinge of disappointment; I thought we'd all be driving flying cars by now, living with androids or wearing self-lacing trainers. (Obviously I learned a lot about the future from Steven Spielberg, but that is what happens when you're born in the 1980s.)

Regardless of my shattered illusions, it's still a brand new year. There is something about this new phase on the cosmic chart that encourages us to wipe away the webs and shake out the dust. It's a yearly ritual full of hope for improvement, achievement and potential. It's a chance to start afresh, turn over a new leaf; make resolutions.

But I've never been one for resolutions. Never. I still remember the first time I learned about them during an assembly at primary school. Lines of children sitting crossed legged on the cold hard floor, we stared intently, puzzled, as our Headteacher asked us what we going to do differently that year; what did we want to change about ourselves? I was five. I didn't know myself. I only knew my love for playing  Barbie and watching Button Moon. 

Twenty-two years later, not much has changed. Barbie rests in a dust covered box in the loft and Button Moon lost its allure and magic long ago. And though I know more about myself now, making a New Year's resolution to change something makes me feel uncomfortable. It's not that I don't have things that could warrant a change; it's the fact that it only seems normal to do it at the start of the year. 

It still surprises me that an arbitrary date on the calendar can hold so much influence over the way we approach self-improvement. The strength and power to evolve is a source we carry at all times and we can tap into its supply whenever we choose. If you want to stop smoking, do it now. If you want to lose weight, don't start tomorrow. 

I think where people fail is that they see the New Year as this pinnacle thing that has the power to tackle all their bad habits and behaviours at once. But human nature is such that motivation fades and willpower falters and at some point down the line, come February or March, resolutions can (and will) be broken. After such focus and determination and hope, the failure only serves to heighten our human frailties and make us feel worse. Do we really need that feeling? 

But if we wipe away the webs and shake out the dust each day, it makes doing the task the following day a little easier to accomplish until, eventually, it becomes a habit. A good one. Filling our days and months, our whole lives, with little goals and commitments and changes, makes them easier to achieve and far more sustainable. Think of it as a new New Year's resolution, if you will: Don't make any. An amazingly novel idea, don't you think reader?

What say you? 

Happy New Year

I had high hopes for this final post of 2011. Full of insightful wit and charm; something that pushed my readers into the realm of wonder and thoughts and dreams.

But I'm going away for New Year and, consequently, I am surrounded by un-ironed clothes and mismatched shoes, tired thoughts and a mind wired in lists of things to do and to be and at this point, Hamlet always resurfaces in my memory and I am not sure if it is entirely possible to string a plausible sentence in this state.

So I shall leave you with this; this pithy thing that has played through my mind, dashing and delving between the lists and the inappropriate thoughts of Shakespearean soliloquies:

As a little bud with shallow roots

You filled me with wonder

Found in every shard of sand

Handful of dirt,

Speck of dust.

Clouds were friends

Stars were dreams

The sky was my future...

In this dawning of a shiny new year, untarnished and unwrapped, let's look at the world with childlike eyes again. Let's see its potential.

Happy New Year, dearest Readers. Here's to a good one...

The Bright Side

At school I was once chastised by a 'friend' for being too positive. Yes. Me. 'You always see the good in everything. It's so annoying.' Was it? Well, mum had taught me to 'count my blessings' and 'smile when the going got tough.' Clichés featured heavily.

Still, seeing the good in people, life, in the world: what was wrong with that? In response I was nonchalant; a shrug of shoulders and the straightening of my school tie. But underneath my air of indifference, I ached. That one remark carved itself on me like an unwanted scar.

Unnerved, I thought about it for days. Sure, I saw the good in things. Championed happy endings. Appreciated silver linings. Tread in dog poo and I'd thank the stars I was wearing shoes.

Whenever something bad was said, I'd defend. In my eyes, there was a reason why that boy was so angry that he threw chairs across the classroom, or why that girl's uniform was never clean. I may not have know what it was but there was always a bigger picture. There was always a beginning - and middle - to everyone's story.

And yes, I had a penchant for smiling at strangers; the old lady at the bus stop, the pram-pushing mother on the street. Even if my smile could not elicit one in return, it did not matter. They were in a hurry; they weren't in the mood; it was a grey area. Understood.

Even so, I didn't think these things were noticeably a nuisance. But yesterday, as I voiced my anger on the news, mum sighed: 'You should look on the bright side a bit more often.' I wasn't sure how one could 'look on the bright side' of someone doing only two years for murder, but at that moment the point was shelved. Like the new pain of an old injury, memory stirred.

Looking back, to that moment outside the food hall, I understand. Confronted by peers, my thirteen year old self was afraid. Defend the foundations of my personality? As if: courage was just a word in the dictionary. My 'annoying' optimism was wrong in the eyes of my so-called friend. And so my ability to believe in the unbelievable, to treat people as I found them, was bludgeoned out of me with one cruel and unnecessary remark.

Well, I certainly thought so at the time. As a result, through choice or circumstance, I allowed it to change me. Like a guilty secret, I hid that side of me for so long it started to fade. But it never disappeared. It was always underneath the surface.

Life often makes it hard to be optimistic. Repeated knocks and obstacles only serve to dampen the spirit and lose faith. Black and white, ignore the grey. It feels easier to accept defeat and wallow in the gloom. I've done that. We all do. It's the norm. But sometimes it doesn't hurt to take a walk on the bright side. In fact, it feels quite good...

'Tis healthy to be sick sometimes...'

It's that time of year. The over 65s get flu jabs. Tesco runs out of tissues and Vicks vapour rub. The red-nosed germ infested man breathes heavily down my neck on the central line. Everyone is coming down with something. And so am I. A relentless scratch at my throat. An annoying sniffle. A plague of headaches that will never cease. I am sick. Of. Everything.

I'm sick of hearing about the X Factor. In Sainsbury's. The pub. Boots the Chemist. Even the oldies in the Post Office give me their two pennies' worth. Just the sound of their admiration for the 'sexy' swinging hips of Olly-can't-sing-but-will-probably-win-Murs results in ear ache. Plus an annoying hum that won't end. A bit like the high pitch that accompanied the BBC test card with the little girl and the freaky clown.

I'm sick of reading about Tiger Woods and Tiger's Wood (now an upcoming porno- get ready people). As mistress number thirteen comes out of the woodwork (pun intended) I wonder how he managed to have sex with all those dirty women and play golf. Contemplating levels of sanitation makes stomach heave. Chunks threaten to rise.

I'm sick of Gordon Brown and all the other waste of space MPs who've spent all our money on golden syrup, potted plants and pay-per-view porn. (I've now said this twice in one post. It's getting out of hand- no pun intended).

I'm sick of people thrusting their iPhone's in my space. As if I want to use a phone that doesn't have keys to press and looks like it's been made by aliens. And no I don't care if you have an 'app' that makes the screen steam up like a shower. Will that help me when I need to call 999 after I've had a mental breakdown from all this rubbish? No. But it will look pretty. Sod off.

Henry David Thoreau once said it was healthy to be sick sometimes. If that's the case, I'm the healthiest bloody person I know...

If Only...the two saddest words in the world

A recent post by fellow blogger Hunter (over at the brilliant Time Crook) got me to thinking. I could demonstrate my wittiness here by inserting 'yes it hurt' or 'that's new' but it would be a lie.

Thinking does not hurt. Nor is it new. I think far too much. All. The. Damn. Time.

As I approach my 25th birthday (8 days, not that I'm counting), I am taking stock of my life. To some this may seem premature; the kind of thing appropriate only for the wrinkled as they sit in armchairs approaching 90. But I like to reflect. See how far I've come, what I've achieved. What I'd like to achieve next. Introspection is good for the soul.

So it follows that Hunter's post resonated with me. He wrote a moving account of childhood regret and I was surprised that his younger self experienced this cruel emotion at such a young age. I've always assumed, perhaps wrongfully, that we only regret things at a more advanced age. When we've seasoned the ability to understand and appreciate our actions, in-actions and wrongdoings. Consequently, I started to think of my own regrets in life. And here came my unintentional revelation:

I have none. Sure, I used to. I thought I did. But as I've got older, I regret not a single thing. Moment. Choice. Person. Situation. Event. Feeling. Not even wearing that pink and green shell-suit when I was five years old. (It was the 80s and fashion was flammable; give a girl a break).

Okay, so that's a silly example. But I figured, if I was to regret everything that has bought pain or difficulty, confusion or disappointment; I'd be crippled under its weight. I've learned from every choice and action that has resulted in a mistake. If I regretted those mistakes, it would mean I'd regret that chance to learn and the path I'm now on. I cannot and will not regret that.

Regret isn't wrong. It is, after-all, a human quality that we cannot escape. But if we learn to accept our mistakes, actions and in-actions that result in this cruel emotion, we won't waste so much time in the past. We'll be more open for the future, for the here and now.

Sure, life is hard sometimes but it's also far too short.

What say you, reader?

Top Ten: Things to know before going to University

Five years ago I was on my way to Sussex University. Sitting in my Dad's car, next to an old toaster that wasn't needed and a kettle that would burn me more than it boiled water, I felt excited. Anxious. Completely unprepared. It seemed crazy. I'd relished in writing endless lists, delighted in trips around IKEA. Upon arrival, fear gripped me. What should I do now? Where do I go? What do I do? I wanted to vomit. Thankfully, I didn't. What a first impression that would have been...

As students across the UK enter the world of academia; all eager to jump start on destroying their livers, I thought I'd make this Top Ten an educational one. Here I impart with four years worth of experience. Wisdom. And it's free. Take it, please:

1) It's okay to introduce yourself to every person you see, including the maintenance guy. He may come in handy when the light bulb blows at 3am and everyone has to pee in the dark.

2) Make every single moment of Freshers' Week count. No one told me this. Or they did but in a really flippant way as if they had asked me to buy them a pint. 'You want anything at the bar?' 'Yeah, I'll have a Bud, oh and by the way, make freshers' week count.' Doesn't really get into the thought processes, does it? Maybe if they had written it down in capital letters; they seem to do the trick. MAKE FRESHERS' WEEK COUNT. GO TO EVERY BAR CRAWL. CHAT UP THAT CUTE GUY OR GIRL. DANCE ON THAT TABLE. You'll know what I mean in four years' time. Comprende?

3) Don't buy every book on your reading list (or read them). Not only will you still have those books (unopened, in pristine condition) five years later, your wallet won't thank you for it. Then you'll be all, 'Sorry guys, I can't go out tonight, I bought a book instead of dancing and laughing and generally having a good old time.' Sitting in halls, penniless and alone, your new books will start to mock you and that's never fun.

4) SAVE SOME MONEY. The capital letters return. By the third week of uni, after you've paid rent, bought way to much food for one person, and wasted enough money getting wasted, you'll be scraping inside the smelly communal sofa for extra coinage. So be prepared. It will save you sticking your hands down that sofa. Worth the effort alone.

5) Learn how to cook. Even just the basics. A diet consisting mainly of toast, kebabs, chips, and alcohol will age you thirty years. And possibly give you an eating disorder.

6) Go to the Freshers' Fair. You may think it looks like a load of drab tables lined up in the drizzly rain with naff home-made posters pinned to trees. You'd be right. But there are freebies. Baked beans. Light bulbs. Spoons. What more could you possibly want?

7) Sign up for the Doctor asap. Yes, there is such a thing as Freshers' Flu. No, it is not a rumour and/or a conspiracy theory. I wish.

8) It's okay to not go out drinking every night. It doesn't make you un-cool or antisocial. It makes you normal. This is good.

9) Attend lectures. You never know, you may actually learn something. Learn, she said? Of course! Remember that grey matter inside your head? The brain. It's quite handy.

10) Whatever you do, DO NOT break your foot a week before starting University. Crutches and drunken people do not mix. Trust me...

So reader, anything you'd like to add?

It's not the end, it's the beginning...

Mondays. Manic. Happy. Sometimes cheap. Mine was dull. It was graduation, part deux. Dressed in my finest I begrudgingly slipped on that monstrous cap and gown and made way to my seat. Two minutes later, the music started. Personally I wouldn't call the organ, music per se. It's more like the wail a piano makes as it crashes to the ground, dying. You know; like they do in cartoons.

The organ continued for ten minutes, bleating and thundering, forcing every eardrum to endure its slow painful death in a ten mile radius. I wondered if the pianist was deaf. And then wished I was.

Eyes darted to the nearest exit. If I took a quick left, back ten paces and then out the door, I'd be free. My ears could rest. I would breathe in the fresh air, smell the freedom. I imagined it smelt good.

I didn't find out. Couldn't. I was squished between two people; our chairs packed so closely together I deduced that the girl next to me was extremely fond of garlic. Or perhaps she was terrified of vampires. It wasn't pleasant, either way.

Suddenly, a procession of people appeared; dressed in multicoloured gowns depicting their levels of education. Boredom hit me. Struggling to compress a yawn, my face contorted to demented levels and Garlic Girl gave me the evils. Stop doing that, weirdo, she said. Well, her face said it all.

The speeches began and I found myself dreaming of what I would do when released. I would eat cakes and drink vodka and go for long walks on the beach, relishing in my freedom. Phasing back to reality, the Mayor was staring at me intently. I turned to the right of me; nothing but a row of empty chairs and an angry woman at the end, beckoning. If she could have punished me, she would have. Oh yes.

Led backstage, I awaited with my fellow graduands. Some spoke of their nerves, their excitement, their achievements. I prayed I wouldn't fall over my own feet and land on my arse. When I finally reached the stage, name called, my mind drifted again. Somewhere above in the clouds I hovered whilst my body dumbly nodded and shook hands with I don't know who. One step, two step. Here come the stairs. Don't fall down them. Nearly back at your seat. Ah. Potential embarrassing situation averted. Relief.

The rest of the ceremony fluttered past in a daze of monotony. Hands went numb from all the clapping. Garlic Girl continued to breathe her smelly self all over me. And the Mayor couldn't take his eyes off me. I doubt he had a little crush. Looks like I won't be welcomed back any time soon.

I'm still pleased that I went. I have stories to tell, memories to recall. That's the best part. Oh and the whole getting a degree thing. Oops. Forgot about that...

So in light of graduation season, I thought I would leave you with a few words of wisdom:

'There is a good reason why they call these ceremonies 'commencement exercises.' Graduation is not the end, it's the beginning.'

-Orrin Hatch

Fingers crossed he's onto something there...

Words to Live Your Life By

I am trying to write a play. I have already done this; my first attempt deemed a success. I feel, however, that was pot luck. A fluke. Last year there must have been a magical creative current flowing through the skies above my house that poured its imaginative contents into my brain.

But I stood outside last night, stared into the lifeless sky; the kind of sky that is neither grey nor white. There was no magical current flowing above me. Just grey rain from a dove grey sky.

Sadly, I am suffering with an acute case of ‘inspiration-lackus.’ All writers encounter such problems. It happens. Free-flowing words get tangled up and eventually we trip and stumble upon them. The words stop. The cursor blinks, the pen dries out and we panic. Our thoughts become clichéd and stale.

In this situation, I have to jolt myself from all the wallowing in self-pity. This is where my beloved quotations come in. I take pleasure in finding some pearls of wisdom scattered about the internet, hidden away in the many ‘Os’ of Google like lost treasure. As I am not an evil pirate who hoards her treasure, I thought I would share it with you:

‘Nothing in the world can take the place of Persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan 'Press On' has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race.’

-Calvin Coolidge

It amazes me that words spoken over eighty years ago still have such resonance. However much we may argue against it, human work ethics have not changed in that time. We have and always will need to work hard at everything we do.

So despite my resentment at my blinking cursor and stale ideas, I must persist with my play. Without a struggle, without any effort, success has no meaning.

Wish me luck! :)

To Me, Love from Me

Hindsight is a powerful thing. Magical some might say. That is probably why we don’t have such ability. The power of it is far too great for us mortals to handle.

Last week I read the God’s letter to his sixteen year old self. By God, I mean Stephen Fry. In it he talks of the difficulties surrounding his sexuality and the repercussions it had growing up. The letter was such an inspired idea that it sparked a mass of replies from regular Joe Bloggs, like you and me; all writing their own letters to their younger selves.

I sat down yesterday intending to read a couple of these letters. There’s something quite alluring about having a window into other people’s lives. I never thought I would spend over an hour reading pages and pages, peeking into hundreds of windows. Hundreds of souls. Because that is what it felt like. I had access to years of resentment and heartache. It’s been a long time since I’ve cried that much. I felt like I was bleeding tears.

It got me thinking. What would I write to my sixteen year old self? If I were to have the power of hindsight, what would I do with it? Some people, a bit like the Old Biff in Back to the Future Part II, would tell their younger selves to bet on winning races. Make the future a little bit richer. Other people would warn themselves away from trouble, be it people or otherwise. Make the future a little bit safer. And me? Read on reader and find out:

To me,

The year is 2009. Firstly, there are no aliens here, robots or flying cars. The Fifth Element, Total Recall and all Philip K. Dick books were not predictions as we so thought. I’m sorry. It’s a big let down. There’s more future to come so fingers crossed.

Secondly, I want you to stop. Put down the book, revision card and highlighter pen and breathe. Look out the window. There’s a world out there. Life. Education is important but you’ll waste enough of your future on it for you to make such an issue of it now. So go out. Enjoy yourself a bit more. Remove that scrunchie and let your hair down. Oh and by the way, you will regret ever wearing a scrunchie. I mean Carrie Bradshaw hates them. You will find out about Carrie and Co in about a year. Oh and don’t stress too much; she does ends up with Big.

I also want you to stop worrying what other people think. You are still doing this now and we are growing weary from all the worrying. Paranoia is not healthy. If you get a bitchy look from someone, it does not mean that this person hates you or that you have done something wrong; it just means they are jealous of something or their face is naturally like that. I’m afraid there have been no developments on a bitchiness cure. Yet.

Unfortunately you will meet a few more bastards on top of the ones you feel have already ruined you. I would name names and tell you to steer clear or murder them if murder didn’t result in prison but alas, I will not. I cannot. Because Lou these people, like it or not, will make you. They will be the reason you know when someone is feeling sad, lost and alone because you have felt that way. They will be the reason you can spot/smell/sense a complete arsehole/twat/bully ten miles away; a very good safe quality to have. In spite of all the crap that will naturally happen, you are still here. And you still have your heart. You are a lot stronger than you realise. A lot.

So just remember, everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end. (I know how much you love quotations). Good luck Kid.

Love from Me

PS: When you go travelling in a couple of years, watch out for the homeless man hiding in a bush on Hollywood and Highland.

xxx