Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Mortality
I love the beach. Actually, I love to swim in the surf. The sand is an unfortunate side effect of the beach that just has to be dealt with unless you’re in England. Then you have rocks instead.
I wade out into the ocean and meet the low waves with my back, turning around and throwing my arms in the air. As the waves crack against me it’s a smack that wakes me up, makes me feel alive. I yell with the exhilaration of it all, the bashing smacking rush of alive that comes with each onslaught of waves.
Then you’re out past the wash and into the relaxing, rolling calm at the back of the break. It’s here that I chill out and wait for a wave to bodysurf. I’m not good at it. Bodysurfing, that is. I grew up around the beach and knowing the surf but never had a body board or a surfboard. I can pick the waves, mostly. But my technique lets me down.
So today I hit the beach. Unsuccessfully I washed through a couple of waves before the big hummer came along. It looked brilliant, a pearler that would get me most of the way back to shore where I could start the whole process over again. Not so. It was a dumper. Unpatrolled beach, no other swimmers around me, and my companions were a couple of hundred metres up the beach taking photos of whatever they found interesting up there.
This wave… It flipped me. One second I was shooting forward on the crest. My arms were out, my head was down and I was a short stocky arrow of a waverider. Next thing… I was upside down. Flipped. Water forced up my nostrils and then BANG! I hit bottom. Actually, I hit hip on bottom. My body was twisted in way that I don’t think I can ever replicate unless I become a gymnast (which would be fantastic for my sex life… Maybe one day). The shock of that opened my mouth, so I received a gutful of salt water as well. I tumbled for a while and then finally I was free. I came up gasping for air, shocked and scared. I’ve discovered my mortality.
There was a point where I would have said So what if I die? I could wade out there and disappear and who cares? Gone. Fish food. But now I’m scared. I don’t want to be the next missing person. If I die… yes, it’s still who cares?, but I want closure for the people I love.
I wade out into the ocean and meet the low waves with my back, turning around and throwing my arms in the air. As the waves crack against me it’s a smack that wakes me up, makes me feel alive. I yell with the exhilaration of it all, the bashing smacking rush of alive that comes with each onslaught of waves.
Then you’re out past the wash and into the relaxing, rolling calm at the back of the break. It’s here that I chill out and wait for a wave to bodysurf. I’m not good at it. Bodysurfing, that is. I grew up around the beach and knowing the surf but never had a body board or a surfboard. I can pick the waves, mostly. But my technique lets me down.
So today I hit the beach. Unsuccessfully I washed through a couple of waves before the big hummer came along. It looked brilliant, a pearler that would get me most of the way back to shore where I could start the whole process over again. Not so. It was a dumper. Unpatrolled beach, no other swimmers around me, and my companions were a couple of hundred metres up the beach taking photos of whatever they found interesting up there.
This wave… It flipped me. One second I was shooting forward on the crest. My arms were out, my head was down and I was a short stocky arrow of a waverider. Next thing… I was upside down. Flipped. Water forced up my nostrils and then BANG! I hit bottom. Actually, I hit hip on bottom. My body was twisted in way that I don’t think I can ever replicate unless I become a gymnast (which would be fantastic for my sex life… Maybe one day). The shock of that opened my mouth, so I received a gutful of salt water as well. I tumbled for a while and then finally I was free. I came up gasping for air, shocked and scared. I’ve discovered my mortality.
There was a point where I would have said So what if I die? I could wade out there and disappear and who cares? Gone. Fish food. But now I’m scared. I don’t want to be the next missing person. If I die… yes, it’s still who cares?, but I want closure for the people I love.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Keep your head down
I started work at a food processing plant last week. I am in the section that makes salads. That sloppy juicey fruitsalad, the coleslaw that is chopped into little squares and will never ever taste like the hand made goodness your mother came up with, the pasta salad that has that peculiar sauce so tangy that it has almost off taste to it... For a whopping total of three days I have had a hand in some of these culinary tragedies.
It's a combination of "work is work" and "please shoot me now".
It's an experience - yet another thing to slip into the mental scrapbook of things I've seen and done. Another line to gauge further into the carving that is Vic. I've never worked in large scale food production of that type before so I can't say that I'm not interested to see what goes on. However there's no passion. I'm in a room all day with people who couldn't give a shit, making salads to be sold by people who couldn't give a shit to be eaten by who couldn't give a shit. I'm not being helpful toward the society that I want. I'm part of the stain.
This is not healthy.
Time to go to work.
It's a combination of "work is work" and "please shoot me now".
It's an experience - yet another thing to slip into the mental scrapbook of things I've seen and done. Another line to gauge further into the carving that is Vic. I've never worked in large scale food production of that type before so I can't say that I'm not interested to see what goes on. However there's no passion. I'm in a room all day with people who couldn't give a shit, making salads to be sold by people who couldn't give a shit to be eaten by who couldn't give a shit. I'm not being helpful toward the society that I want. I'm part of the stain.
This is not healthy.
Time to go to work.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
In search of The One
I am on a quest. It is very important, and potentially very fulfilling on a daily, personal level. The quest will be frustrating as I requires me to obtain perfection in a tactile form, however I do not yet specifically know what form perfection will take. Many times I will see something that is close, but will need to be left by the wayside because it is flawed in some way. I will reject many in search of the one. Yes, there can only be one.
I will have to beat my way through jungles of children in discount shops. I will have to use my senses, staying alert for the stench of Dencorub that warns the presence of nursing home escapees who find refugee in these places alongside the children. I will need to be agile, even a contortionist, to squeeze past the fat bastards looking at the cheap, shitty chocolate. I will steel myself against the inevitable intolerant anger at the bunch of asians arguing noisily in their own language over the last two dollar frying pan. I will remain focused on my goal.
My quest may take from the dangerous slums of the discount shop aisles to more delicate but equally dangerous surrounds - the boutique kitchen shop. Cat-footed, I will make my way through the too-close shelves lined with expensive bakeware. I will laugh at the frustration of the saleswoman behind the counter - she will be wanting to keep her eyes on me, but will keep losing me behind the shelves that are higher than my head. My horror at the fifty-two dollar price tag on the toothpick holder will be contained to an inner snigger. I will easily dismiss the Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsay signature designs. I may be briefly distracted by the now discounted Nigella Lawson signature lines, but I will find strength and dismiss the pastel faffery in favour of my higher goal, my object of perfection.
No more being "Ms. Bitch" for me. I will no longer be "Quietly Plotting My Revenge". My object of perfection will be the one I wake up to every morning, warming me, snuggling into my hands, giving me strength for the day.
My quest... to find the ultimate coffee mug.
I will have to beat my way through jungles of children in discount shops. I will have to use my senses, staying alert for the stench of Dencorub that warns the presence of nursing home escapees who find refugee in these places alongside the children. I will need to be agile, even a contortionist, to squeeze past the fat bastards looking at the cheap, shitty chocolate. I will steel myself against the inevitable intolerant anger at the bunch of asians arguing noisily in their own language over the last two dollar frying pan. I will remain focused on my goal.
My quest may take from the dangerous slums of the discount shop aisles to more delicate but equally dangerous surrounds - the boutique kitchen shop. Cat-footed, I will make my way through the too-close shelves lined with expensive bakeware. I will laugh at the frustration of the saleswoman behind the counter - she will be wanting to keep her eyes on me, but will keep losing me behind the shelves that are higher than my head. My horror at the fifty-two dollar price tag on the toothpick holder will be contained to an inner snigger. I will easily dismiss the Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsay signature designs. I may be briefly distracted by the now discounted Nigella Lawson signature lines, but I will find strength and dismiss the pastel faffery in favour of my higher goal, my object of perfection.
No more being "Ms. Bitch" for me. I will no longer be "Quietly Plotting My Revenge". My object of perfection will be the one I wake up to every morning, warming me, snuggling into my hands, giving me strength for the day.
My quest... to find the ultimate coffee mug.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
Mailbox Monday
Machinery seems to be colour coded for easier identification.
Big tractors are green.
Little tractors are red.
Earthmoving gear is yellow.
In case you couldn't figure it out by looking.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Hard-hitting movies
You’ll say “Girl, you kicked some butt” and I’ll say “I don’t really remember”
- Ani DiFranco, You Had Time
The first “lesbian” oriented movie I watched was a film called Lost and Delirious. It’s brilliant. I don’t care what orientation you identify yourself as, go watch it, even though I’m essentially going to ruin it for you right now.
I was shown it by the girl I came out for, the girl who stole my heart literally. I wanted to marry her. She was my everything, this captivating force that had me completely wrapped up in a totally different world. It was not long after we got together that she showed this film to me. At the time I was gathering momentum in a graceless downhill race toward depression. I was a hell of a long way from the bottom, but the journey had certainly begun and the signs were all there for a doosey.
This movie depicted that first love being torn to shreds. All I wanted was a happy ending, to find out that somewhere, even only as a fantasy in a movie, it could be okay to be the way I am in this world. That I don’t have to end up torn and unhappy. Possibly, that I deserve to be loved as much as the next person despite my own destructive thoughts. But there it was – a girl being torn to bits because her lover decided she no longer wanted to be in the relationship, mostly through not wanting to be viewed as different, not normal. She “went straight”. Hell, hindsight is a wonderful thing. There’s so many parallels there to the way that the relationship I was in finally ended.
It gutted me completely. I remember lying on that futon after the movie had finished with tears pouring down my face. My forearms were wet with them so much that I gave up any attempt to wipe them away. I was screaming wordlessly in anguish and it felt as if I would never be able to break out of it. When I did it was through exhaustion.
Despite the bad experience, it is a brilliant movie, and deserves to be seen by all, not just the lesbian audience who treasure the meagre amount of films available to them. It’s brilliant because it made me feel so much – Dead Poets’ Society had a similar effect on me. Head on out to your video store and walk past all the lovely guy-meets-girl blah blah blah versions of the same happy ending and go find the film that tore me to bits. If you can’t find it, (which is likely), go up to the counter and ask for it. If the place does not stock Lost and Delirious I have one request… Ask the staff why the fuck not?
- Ani DiFranco, You Had Time
The first “lesbian” oriented movie I watched was a film called Lost and Delirious. It’s brilliant. I don’t care what orientation you identify yourself as, go watch it, even though I’m essentially going to ruin it for you right now.
I was shown it by the girl I came out for, the girl who stole my heart literally. I wanted to marry her. She was my everything, this captivating force that had me completely wrapped up in a totally different world. It was not long after we got together that she showed this film to me. At the time I was gathering momentum in a graceless downhill race toward depression. I was a hell of a long way from the bottom, but the journey had certainly begun and the signs were all there for a doosey.
This movie depicted that first love being torn to shreds. All I wanted was a happy ending, to find out that somewhere, even only as a fantasy in a movie, it could be okay to be the way I am in this world. That I don’t have to end up torn and unhappy. Possibly, that I deserve to be loved as much as the next person despite my own destructive thoughts. But there it was – a girl being torn to bits because her lover decided she no longer wanted to be in the relationship, mostly through not wanting to be viewed as different, not normal. She “went straight”. Hell, hindsight is a wonderful thing. There’s so many parallels there to the way that the relationship I was in finally ended.
It gutted me completely. I remember lying on that futon after the movie had finished with tears pouring down my face. My forearms were wet with them so much that I gave up any attempt to wipe them away. I was screaming wordlessly in anguish and it felt as if I would never be able to break out of it. When I did it was through exhaustion.
Despite the bad experience, it is a brilliant movie, and deserves to be seen by all, not just the lesbian audience who treasure the meagre amount of films available to them. It’s brilliant because it made me feel so much – Dead Poets’ Society had a similar effect on me. Head on out to your video store and walk past all the lovely guy-meets-girl blah blah blah versions of the same happy ending and go find the film that tore me to bits. If you can’t find it, (which is likely), go up to the counter and ask for it. If the place does not stock Lost and Delirious I have one request… Ask the staff why the fuck not?
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Friday, March 14, 2008
Weird stuff
I was sitting at a traffic light today, grooving out to The Cat Empire as seems to be the usual soundtrack lately. As you do when you’re stuck at a red light itching for it to turn green, I checked out the occupants of the other cars around me. Straight through the passenger window in the brand new white Commodore was an old man minding his own business. Staring straight ahead intently and holding the steering wheel… Wearing a pair of gardening gloves. Grey, budget, worn and dirty. Gardening gloves of the cheapest denomination. While he was sitting there waiting, he removed one absently, scratched his ear, and then put it back on again.
So, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve seen at a set of traffic lights?
So, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve seen at a set of traffic lights?
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Google asked...
What's a Blog?
It's been a while.
I went to sign in to Blogger just now to write whatever drivel came into my head, just to prove to the world that yes, I still exist. The Rifle Range of life jasn't claimed me yet. On the sign in page there is the option to take the tour - who ever does this unless it's trying to see a little more of that certain porn site's offerings? - but the title that it sports is What is a blog?
My blog. It's, well... Mine. My virtual soapbox in place of my real-life milk crate. It's my place to delve into those depths I thought I could never talk about and surprise myself by putting them out in the world for anyone who happens to click "next blog" to find. It's a place to meet people - people who in cases now I could not imagine my life without. It's... me. More than that, it's home.
I've had a hiatus from posting, and I think that also proves something to me - I've been having a hiatus from myself. I've been doing the do, seeing new things and gathering the experiences under my ever-expanding belt. Some of these experiences have been utterly awful and I've hidden away from processing them. It's time to make my head snap out of holiday mode.
That's what a blog is for, after all.
It's time to come home.
It's been a while.
I went to sign in to Blogger just now to write whatever drivel came into my head, just to prove to the world that yes, I still exist. The Rifle Range of life jasn't claimed me yet. On the sign in page there is the option to take the tour - who ever does this unless it's trying to see a little more of that certain porn site's offerings? - but the title that it sports is What is a blog?
My blog. It's, well... Mine. My virtual soapbox in place of my real-life milk crate. It's my place to delve into those depths I thought I could never talk about and surprise myself by putting them out in the world for anyone who happens to click "next blog" to find. It's a place to meet people - people who in cases now I could not imagine my life without. It's... me. More than that, it's home.
I've had a hiatus from posting, and I think that also proves something to me - I've been having a hiatus from myself. I've been doing the do, seeing new things and gathering the experiences under my ever-expanding belt. Some of these experiences have been utterly awful and I've hidden away from processing them. It's time to make my head snap out of holiday mode.
That's what a blog is for, after all.
It's time to come home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
