I remember when I first moved to London. A sea of emotions suddenly washed over me and I realised that this was not the normal me talking, thinking, racing through highs and lows at warp speed. I went to my doctor and after some pills to settle my raging hormones I resumed normality and never really thought about it again until lately.
Being a woman is not easy. Is it not enough that we have to deal with men, that our own bodies wage war on our minds as well? I personally have decided that being natural is not for me. Give me drugs, give me whatever generic material you have available behind your counter, anything that will make me feel like my normal stable self again and not some raging lunatic who should be placed under psychiatric surveillance.
And yes, in the light of day I know that everything has a trigger and yes I am just a girl who has a man who is holding the gun. I hear what you are saying and in part you are right. No-one stays up all night crying herself to sleep just due to hormones. Depression may be a good word as I feel my body being pressed into the ground, the life draining out of me and a wave of exhaustion clouds my head and I have no energy to feel anything else around me. But then I do have the strange highs. The moments of laughter, of jumping around the office acting the clown.
The truth is I am broken. So is this any different from last time around? In someways not. But this time my heart has truly been broken. Did it really take me 4 months to figure this out? No. But it has taken me this long to truly admit it to myself. So what now?
They I say I should move on, meet someone new, close the book and find another page turner. I have tried to move on. But my heart says, "No no no."And when your hearts wants what it wants then seriously what is the point. I guess the point is that if they don't want you back then at some stage you have to make the choice of either turning your life around and moving onwards through the door to something else, or otherwise remaining in the limbo of hoping they will change their mind. Or there is the other option of giving up completely.
I feel like I have been in limbo for so long that I have no idea which direction I am even facing to find my way out. So if it seems like I have been sitting still, well I guess I have been. I mean didn't Pooh Bear advise that when lost to stay put until someone finds you? So I guess I have been waiting for someone to come find me, with the hope that that someone would be him.
And why would I live in that hope? I guess every time he has said he loves me I die a little more. And every time he tells me I am beautiful I become more confused. Whenever he makes me feel like the most important person in his world my heart breaks some more and yet when he is not there I feel desperately alone.
Where is the exit? Some say I have to lock him out and then the exit light will become clear, but I cannot. I pick fights and push him in away in the hope he may walk away himself and at times he has come close, but somehow we cannot let go. I say we, because in this two way thing, he holds me there as well.
In the meantime... I wish on every eyelash, every shooting star. I pray for the day that he comes to his senses to come soon. I get dressed, go out, attempt to move on... and I wake up alone.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Friday, October 05, 2007
Throw me a rope
I want you between me and the feeling i get when i miss you,
but everything here's telling me i should be fine,
so why is it so, it bothers below that im missing you every time?
i got used to you whispering things to me into the evening,
we followed the sun, and it's colours, and left this world,
it seems to me, that i'm definately, hearing the best that i've heard,.
so throw me a rope, to hold me in place,
show me a clock, for counting my days, down,
cos everythings easier when you're beside me,
come back and find me,
cos i feel alone.
and whenever you go it's like holding my breath under water,
i have to admit that i kinda like it when i do,
oh but i got to be, unconditionally,unafraid, of my days, without you,
so throw me a rope, to hold me in place,
show me a clock, for counting my days, down,
'cos everything easier when you're beside me,
come back and find me,whenever i'm falling,
you're always behind me, come back and find me,
cos everythings easier when you're beside me,
come back and find me,
cos i feel alone
Thank you KT Tunstall xxx
but everything here's telling me i should be fine,
so why is it so, it bothers below that im missing you every time?
i got used to you whispering things to me into the evening,
we followed the sun, and it's colours, and left this world,
it seems to me, that i'm definately, hearing the best that i've heard,.
so throw me a rope, to hold me in place,
show me a clock, for counting my days, down,
cos everythings easier when you're beside me,
come back and find me,
cos i feel alone.
and whenever you go it's like holding my breath under water,
i have to admit that i kinda like it when i do,
oh but i got to be, unconditionally,unafraid, of my days, without you,
so throw me a rope, to hold me in place,
show me a clock, for counting my days, down,
'cos everything easier when you're beside me,
come back and find me,whenever i'm falling,
you're always behind me, come back and find me,
cos everythings easier when you're beside me,
come back and find me,
cos i feel alone
Thank you KT Tunstall xxx
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Start Wearing Purple
More tests and a date for surgery has been set and in the meantime life goes on. Last week I think we were all feeling a little melancholy and looking to happier times to help us through this limbo we are going through. My mother found herself sorting through old pictures and came across an old photo taken in front of 11 Belvedere Avenue, the house I grew up in. A young girl stands posing with a red brick background showing off her pretty pale blue dress and purple sash with “Miss Personality” written in pink letters.
“Channah I have scanned the picture onto Facebook. You remember when you were named Miss Personality?”
I remember the day well, partly from my own memories and partly from hearing the story over and over again throughout the years. It seems like a million years ago, but looking at the picture I see the fearless girl I was and I think back and remember the day I became Miss Personality.
It was the beginning of the summer and while my parents were at home, my grandfather and his girlfriend, Ray, took me and Rebecca to the school summer fair. I was in my first year of Brodetsky Primary school and the school fair was new and exciting to me. I rushed from stall to stall, trying to win a goldfish, guessing how many jelly beans were in the jar and as I peered over the book stall at the Topsy and Tim collection, I heard on the loud speaker an announcement that grabbed my attention.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please make your way to the stage where the Miss Personality contest will begin.”
Growing up in Leeds we did not have the Beauty contests that are prevalent in cities throughout the States. In Leeds such contests where based on your talents; singing and dancing competitions, and in our school’s case Personality. I never realised at the time, but in order to partake in the competition, contestants had to fill our forms, partake in a grilling interview process and gain their parents’ permission prior to the event. For this reason although I was part of the school, I was still considered too young to apply, well if you cannot yet read or write well enough to fill out a form then how can you apply? Some of the girls waiting in line had been waiting for their moment for weeks, practising answering questions, and coveting the purple sash and silver trophy for the honour of Miss Personality 1984.
Little Miss Graham however, was blissfully unaware of this and on hearing the announcement let go of Ray’s hand and began to take off into the crowd towards the stage.
“Channah boo where are you going?”
I turned my head and called back to my Grandfather who was stood bewildered struggling with a large pram, “I know what I am doing!”
‘I know what I am doing.’ Every time the story is retold I laugh to myself how a four year old could say the words ‘I know what I am doing’. I am 28 years old now and I have little idea what exactly I am doing…
Anyway, back to the story. I think I had no comprehension of what a contest was because once I reached the stage, despite there being a line of girls waiting their turn while the first contestant was talking about her favourite foods, I walked up onto the stairs, smiled sweetly at the judges and declared my arrival.
I remember the commotion that was caused. The judges looked at one another bemused and as they shuffled through the application forms they had on stage one older gentleman asked me for my name and who I was here with. I thought the competition had already started.
“My name is Channah Ilana Graham. I am four years old, and I am here with my Grandpa Gerry, his girlfriend Ray and my sister Rebecca. She is the one in the pram over there.”
The man looked up and saw my Grandfather stood in shock wondering if he should apologise for his granddaughter’s Chutzpah or be proud of it. It turns out there was no need. As soon as he saw the look of amusement on the old gentleman’s face he knew that there was no need to feel anything but pride.
“So Miss Graham, would you mind answering a few questions for us as we seem to have er… misplaced your application form.”
“I would be delighted.”
“Delighted? Well in that case…”
Here followed a series of questions regarding my favourite foods, people and class at school. The man asked me who my heroes were and what my favourite cartoon characters were;
“Well I love Tom and Gerry. Gerry reminds me of my Grandpa and I love the fact that he is always cleverer than the silly Tom cat. I also like Speedy Gonzales and Mighty Mouse, but my brother says that Danger Mouse is the best mouse of them all, and all the rest are for babies.”
I remember seeing the judges laugh at my answers and I began to giggle along with them. The time flew by and I do not remember the girls before or after me, I remember answering my questions and then the Gentleman announcing me as the winner as one of the Female judges place the purple sash over my head and, as I was so small, lift me up so the people could see “Little Miss Graham is Miss Personality 1984”.
I now look at this picture and the face looks familiar, the person is still there, the hair, the chin, the eyes. I smile at the fearless little girl I was and realise that we are not that different. Yes I am a little wiser, a little stronger. Yes I have experienced more of life, have learnt from my life’s lessons and come out the other end reasonably unscathed. Yes I know that I am still confident in myself, I still have that tenacity to go for something when I really want it, but the fear… somehow as I got older I became more fearful. I think it is the demise of all adults. Compared to our young counterparts we are more fearful. We have experienced life and we know that if we jump from sofa to sofa at some stage we will fall through the crack and hurt ourselves. So we don’t jump on the sofa, we don’t climb the climbing frames, role down mountains or jump into unknown lakes. We are safe, we won’t get hurt, but at the same time we don’t get to role down mountains or jump into lakes.
I look at the picture of myself and think that in my quest to find Little Miss Graham I have jumped into a few unknown lakes, I have taken some risks and come out the better for it. Would it be so bad to jump in head first and risk cracking my head just for the thrill of jumping?
I imagine myself retelling the story of how Little Miss Graham became Miss Personality to my daughters and I think to myself, I need more stories, I need more adventures for my children. Now is the time for rolling down mountains.
“Channah I have scanned the picture onto Facebook. You remember when you were named Miss Personality?”
I remember the day well, partly from my own memories and partly from hearing the story over and over again throughout the years. It seems like a million years ago, but looking at the picture I see the fearless girl I was and I think back and remember the day I became Miss Personality.
It was the beginning of the summer and while my parents were at home, my grandfather and his girlfriend, Ray, took me and Rebecca to the school summer fair. I was in my first year of Brodetsky Primary school and the school fair was new and exciting to me. I rushed from stall to stall, trying to win a goldfish, guessing how many jelly beans were in the jar and as I peered over the book stall at the Topsy and Tim collection, I heard on the loud speaker an announcement that grabbed my attention.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please make your way to the stage where the Miss Personality contest will begin.”
Growing up in Leeds we did not have the Beauty contests that are prevalent in cities throughout the States. In Leeds such contests where based on your talents; singing and dancing competitions, and in our school’s case Personality. I never realised at the time, but in order to partake in the competition, contestants had to fill our forms, partake in a grilling interview process and gain their parents’ permission prior to the event. For this reason although I was part of the school, I was still considered too young to apply, well if you cannot yet read or write well enough to fill out a form then how can you apply? Some of the girls waiting in line had been waiting for their moment for weeks, practising answering questions, and coveting the purple sash and silver trophy for the honour of Miss Personality 1984.
Little Miss Graham however, was blissfully unaware of this and on hearing the announcement let go of Ray’s hand and began to take off into the crowd towards the stage.
“Channah boo where are you going?”
I turned my head and called back to my Grandfather who was stood bewildered struggling with a large pram, “I know what I am doing!”
‘I know what I am doing.’ Every time the story is retold I laugh to myself how a four year old could say the words ‘I know what I am doing’. I am 28 years old now and I have little idea what exactly I am doing…
Anyway, back to the story. I think I had no comprehension of what a contest was because once I reached the stage, despite there being a line of girls waiting their turn while the first contestant was talking about her favourite foods, I walked up onto the stairs, smiled sweetly at the judges and declared my arrival.
I remember the commotion that was caused. The judges looked at one another bemused and as they shuffled through the application forms they had on stage one older gentleman asked me for my name and who I was here with. I thought the competition had already started.
“My name is Channah Ilana Graham. I am four years old, and I am here with my Grandpa Gerry, his girlfriend Ray and my sister Rebecca. She is the one in the pram over there.”
The man looked up and saw my Grandfather stood in shock wondering if he should apologise for his granddaughter’s Chutzpah or be proud of it. It turns out there was no need. As soon as he saw the look of amusement on the old gentleman’s face he knew that there was no need to feel anything but pride.
“So Miss Graham, would you mind answering a few questions for us as we seem to have er… misplaced your application form.”
“I would be delighted.”
“Delighted? Well in that case…”
Here followed a series of questions regarding my favourite foods, people and class at school. The man asked me who my heroes were and what my favourite cartoon characters were;
“Well I love Tom and Gerry. Gerry reminds me of my Grandpa and I love the fact that he is always cleverer than the silly Tom cat. I also like Speedy Gonzales and Mighty Mouse, but my brother says that Danger Mouse is the best mouse of them all, and all the rest are for babies.”
I remember seeing the judges laugh at my answers and I began to giggle along with them. The time flew by and I do not remember the girls before or after me, I remember answering my questions and then the Gentleman announcing me as the winner as one of the Female judges place the purple sash over my head and, as I was so small, lift me up so the people could see “Little Miss Graham is Miss Personality 1984”.
I now look at this picture and the face looks familiar, the person is still there, the hair, the chin, the eyes. I smile at the fearless little girl I was and realise that we are not that different. Yes I am a little wiser, a little stronger. Yes I have experienced more of life, have learnt from my life’s lessons and come out the other end reasonably unscathed. Yes I know that I am still confident in myself, I still have that tenacity to go for something when I really want it, but the fear… somehow as I got older I became more fearful. I think it is the demise of all adults. Compared to our young counterparts we are more fearful. We have experienced life and we know that if we jump from sofa to sofa at some stage we will fall through the crack and hurt ourselves. So we don’t jump on the sofa, we don’t climb the climbing frames, role down mountains or jump into unknown lakes. We are safe, we won’t get hurt, but at the same time we don’t get to role down mountains or jump into lakes.
I look at the picture of myself and think that in my quest to find Little Miss Graham I have jumped into a few unknown lakes, I have taken some risks and come out the better for it. Would it be so bad to jump in head first and risk cracking my head just for the thrill of jumping?
I imagine myself retelling the story of how Little Miss Graham became Miss Personality to my daughters and I think to myself, I need more stories, I need more adventures for my children. Now is the time for rolling down mountains.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Krazy Carma
I am not sure how I am handling myself at the moment. I don’t want to sit here and use everything thing that is happening around me as an excuse for the rollercoaster of emotions that flip and loop inside me, but perhaps they are right… Maybe I do internalize things.
Anon: Say it
ME: No
Anon: Say it… you will feel better
ME: No. I will feel like a fool.
I already feel like a fool. If I was my friend I would have slapped me around a long time ago. No, my father is not an excuse. “I don’t care how hard a time they think you are going through Miss Graham, get your shit together and stop behaving like a shadow of yourself! And don’t cry when I say this to you, just because you know that it is true.”
Anon: Stop being so hard on yourself
ME: Am I?
Anon: Yes. You should give yourself a break
ME: I feel like I am on a permanent break.
But really I am not. I cannot escape dreams that keep me awake at night. Dreams that feel so real that my heart starts racing, I feel punched in the face and awake to a tear soaked pillow. I drive to work in the morning with a vague idea of the dream, but when I sit I at my desk I just feel stripped, empty and sad. I drink my coffee, share anecdotes with my friend, perk myself up until I am running around the office, singing out loud, strumming my air guitar and flicking my hair while pretending not to hear them comment on how much fun I am. It is fake and within minutes I am head down at my desk wondering when 4.20 will arrive.
Anon: You know I love you
ME: I am not crazy. I know I am loved. I know that this is all normal. I know I am just going through the motions, but I want to move on now.
Anon: You will when the time is right.
ME: What you Yoda or something? What is ‘the time is right’? Am I not master of my own destiny? Can I not make the time? Can I not turn the wheels myself and get the motions moving?
Anon: Yes, but you won’t.
Who can argue with that?
Another round of dreams last night and I won’t bother repeating them to you. I know what they mean, I know where they are coming from, and although my pillow was dry this morning, the empty feeling in my heart is there all the drive to work and not even a hundred cups of coffee could cure the chill-blains left from the hot, cold, hot and cold wind chills.
Dad: We are not going to sit on the pity wagon
ME: No we are not!
Dad: We are going to be strong, tell them to “Bog Off!” Everything will work itself out.
ME: Yeah you are right
Dad: And if it doesn’t you’ll look after your mother right?
ME: And if it doesn’t I am sure the inheritance you leave us will cover putting mum in a good home.
Thank goodness my father taught me the art of laughing at oneself… I am laughing.
Anon: Say it
ME: No
Anon: Say it… you will feel better
ME: No. I will feel like a fool.
I already feel like a fool. If I was my friend I would have slapped me around a long time ago. No, my father is not an excuse. “I don’t care how hard a time they think you are going through Miss Graham, get your shit together and stop behaving like a shadow of yourself! And don’t cry when I say this to you, just because you know that it is true.”
Anon: Stop being so hard on yourself
ME: Am I?
Anon: Yes. You should give yourself a break
ME: I feel like I am on a permanent break.
But really I am not. I cannot escape dreams that keep me awake at night. Dreams that feel so real that my heart starts racing, I feel punched in the face and awake to a tear soaked pillow. I drive to work in the morning with a vague idea of the dream, but when I sit I at my desk I just feel stripped, empty and sad. I drink my coffee, share anecdotes with my friend, perk myself up until I am running around the office, singing out loud, strumming my air guitar and flicking my hair while pretending not to hear them comment on how much fun I am. It is fake and within minutes I am head down at my desk wondering when 4.20 will arrive.
Anon: You know I love you
ME: I am not crazy. I know I am loved. I know that this is all normal. I know I am just going through the motions, but I want to move on now.
Anon: You will when the time is right.
ME: What you Yoda or something? What is ‘the time is right’? Am I not master of my own destiny? Can I not make the time? Can I not turn the wheels myself and get the motions moving?
Anon: Yes, but you won’t.
Who can argue with that?
Another round of dreams last night and I won’t bother repeating them to you. I know what they mean, I know where they are coming from, and although my pillow was dry this morning, the empty feeling in my heart is there all the drive to work and not even a hundred cups of coffee could cure the chill-blains left from the hot, cold, hot and cold wind chills.
Dad: We are not going to sit on the pity wagon
ME: No we are not!
Dad: We are going to be strong, tell them to “Bog Off!” Everything will work itself out.
ME: Yeah you are right
Dad: And if it doesn’t you’ll look after your mother right?
ME: And if it doesn’t I am sure the inheritance you leave us will cover putting mum in a good home.
Thank goodness my father taught me the art of laughing at oneself… I am laughing.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
The 'C' Word
They say the worst part is not knowing. I think that not knowing was pretty great. Not knowing meant not having to think about it, not even putting it as a consideration in your mind. Now it is there, not even a figment of the worst parts of my imagination, it is real and when something is real you have to deal with it. No hypotheticals here. This time I am not being a drama queen, although I wish so much that I was and it was not really as bad as it is… even though I am aware it is not as bad as it could be. ‘Not as bad as it could be’ is small consolation. It is bad enough.
The worst part is having to tell people. People want to know. They want to be there for you, they want to show they care and although you say you need to be on your own to absorb it all, you want to know that they care… It does help. But in order for them to know, you have to open your mouth and say it:
“Hey, how are you doing? I am doing ok I guess. Actually my dad has Colon Cancer.”
I feel embarrassed saying the words. Mostly because I know the words of pity that will follow, and although you want to be pitied, at the same time it is not me who is sick and even if it were, I by rule of thumb don’t want pity. But then again the pity does help. I guess it is the same as admitting you have a drug problem. The hardest part is getting the words out of your mouth. I mean what is the polite way to shit all over your friends’ good mood and tell them your father has a serious illness.
I don’t even know why I am writing this blog about it… maybe it is because I need to get the thoughts out of my head and onto some kind of paper. Maybe it is just another way to sit at my computer, pretending to work, not feel sorry for myself while not Googling the words ‘colon cancer’. I actually did, but just to check the spelling and after getting a quick glance at the number of people Wikipedia claims die per year from it, I quickly closed the window and did a speed walk of the office to get it out of my head. Clearly it is not totally out… but I accept it and am disregarding it.
I know there are friends who would have me doing all kinds of research into the illness so that I have a better understanding of it, but right now I don’t want to look the thing in the eye… I want to just see it from the corner and be aware of what it is, where it is, and be ready to crush it. I leave the understanding of the beast to the experts, and those friends of mine who are interested and then trusted to give me the PG version. I hate horror movies.
It is funny to see who are the first people you call in this kind of crisis. I guess not so much funny as telling. I guess not so much telling as necessary. I noticed that the first thing I wanted to do was be held… I still want to be held. My bed never seemed as big as it did last night… I have never felt so alone and I craved the touch of someone. I know all about this… grief somehow makes you crave a touch. Perhaps it is a way for us to feel human, feel alive despite the idea of death being in the air. I needed it so much last night. I needed to be held, to feel another body next to me, holding me, letting me know it would all be ok. But there was no-body, nobody that I wanted. At 1 am I considered calling the girls for a group hug to fill out my bed, but reconsidered and decided that that might be a bit weird… especially after spending the evening watching The L word. I think it could have taken our friendship to a whole new level.
That is the other thing… laughter. I crave laughter and I am joking about having colonoscopies and regular colonic irrigations. Bottoms are a very funny topic and there are endless possibilities to make a crack about your crack. I’m not sure it is normal or appropriate to make jokes this early on… I’m not sure my friends and family expect it, in between tears I am laughing. I am even trying to make light of it, because seriously, what else can I do?
The say laughter heals. They say things like, “Be positive. There is something healing in positive energy.” I believe that. I believe that if you are afraid of crashing into the tree you ultimately will. I believe that if you set your sights on the horizon you will ultimately go into that new and brighter day. I believe that my sadness cannot help my father, nor would he want it. I guess we are alike in that way. We don’t want pity. We just want someone to make us smile. As he once said, “I know what I want on my tombstone. The same as Spike Milligan, ‘I told you I was sick’...” Appropriate no?
Laughter will heal. So I promise dad this will be the only time I morbidly mention the C word. I love you.
The worst part is having to tell people. People want to know. They want to be there for you, they want to show they care and although you say you need to be on your own to absorb it all, you want to know that they care… It does help. But in order for them to know, you have to open your mouth and say it:
“Hey, how are you doing? I am doing ok I guess. Actually my dad has Colon Cancer.”
I feel embarrassed saying the words. Mostly because I know the words of pity that will follow, and although you want to be pitied, at the same time it is not me who is sick and even if it were, I by rule of thumb don’t want pity. But then again the pity does help. I guess it is the same as admitting you have a drug problem. The hardest part is getting the words out of your mouth. I mean what is the polite way to shit all over your friends’ good mood and tell them your father has a serious illness.
I don’t even know why I am writing this blog about it… maybe it is because I need to get the thoughts out of my head and onto some kind of paper. Maybe it is just another way to sit at my computer, pretending to work, not feel sorry for myself while not Googling the words ‘colon cancer’. I actually did, but just to check the spelling and after getting a quick glance at the number of people Wikipedia claims die per year from it, I quickly closed the window and did a speed walk of the office to get it out of my head. Clearly it is not totally out… but I accept it and am disregarding it.
I know there are friends who would have me doing all kinds of research into the illness so that I have a better understanding of it, but right now I don’t want to look the thing in the eye… I want to just see it from the corner and be aware of what it is, where it is, and be ready to crush it. I leave the understanding of the beast to the experts, and those friends of mine who are interested and then trusted to give me the PG version. I hate horror movies.
It is funny to see who are the first people you call in this kind of crisis. I guess not so much funny as telling. I guess not so much telling as necessary. I noticed that the first thing I wanted to do was be held… I still want to be held. My bed never seemed as big as it did last night… I have never felt so alone and I craved the touch of someone. I know all about this… grief somehow makes you crave a touch. Perhaps it is a way for us to feel human, feel alive despite the idea of death being in the air. I needed it so much last night. I needed to be held, to feel another body next to me, holding me, letting me know it would all be ok. But there was no-body, nobody that I wanted. At 1 am I considered calling the girls for a group hug to fill out my bed, but reconsidered and decided that that might be a bit weird… especially after spending the evening watching The L word. I think it could have taken our friendship to a whole new level.
That is the other thing… laughter. I crave laughter and I am joking about having colonoscopies and regular colonic irrigations. Bottoms are a very funny topic and there are endless possibilities to make a crack about your crack. I’m not sure it is normal or appropriate to make jokes this early on… I’m not sure my friends and family expect it, in between tears I am laughing. I am even trying to make light of it, because seriously, what else can I do?
The say laughter heals. They say things like, “Be positive. There is something healing in positive energy.” I believe that. I believe that if you are afraid of crashing into the tree you ultimately will. I believe that if you set your sights on the horizon you will ultimately go into that new and brighter day. I believe that my sadness cannot help my father, nor would he want it. I guess we are alike in that way. We don’t want pity. We just want someone to make us smile. As he once said, “I know what I want on my tombstone. The same as Spike Milligan, ‘I told you I was sick’...” Appropriate no?
Laughter will heal. So I promise dad this will be the only time I morbidly mention the C word. I love you.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Feel Good Inc.
I had trouble sleeping last night, despite sleep walking home from drinks with my favourite people in Tel Aviv. Just as my eyes closed the ‘feel good’ intro began thumping in my ears… dum da dum da dum feel good! My eyes wide open, I stared upwards at my ceiling and just as thoughts began to swarm into my mind I closed my eyes in the hope of closing out the thoughts and then…
Dum da dum da dum… Feel Good!
Lord! Let me sleep! I stare back up at the ceiling and try not to let the thoughts come into my mind, but after a number of failed attempts and a rendition of Feel Good to try and get it out of my system, I give in and allow myself to absorb myself in thought.
I think about how the month as gone by so quickly, and my time in England was now a month ago. I think about events leading up to my going to England and how miserable I was. I think about a year before. I think about how happy I was just being me. I think about the people around me, those who I love who make me feel good about myself, those who I love who make me feel bad about myself and those who I love to hate who can make me feel good or bad on any given day. I think what my life would be like without all those people in my life and dismiss the thought immediately.
I then move on to thinking about the weekend. I think about spending Friday cooking new Israeli foods I have never tried before and being surprisingly impressed with the results. I think about the simple pleasure of feeding the hungry, watching their faces as they take their first bite and seeing the glazed look of satisfaction on their faces when they realise they can stuff in no more. I think about my mother and how she would make dinners ever day for us to sit together as a family and how she must have felt watching us all wolf down her delicious meal. I then think how she must have felt when we grimaced and said, “Urgh I hate brussel sprouts!” I think to myself ‘ where can I find some brussel sprouts in Israel?’
I think about my time in Israel and how much I have changed, and yet how I will never really change. I think about a week filled with the comment, “Everyone needs a little bit of Channah in their lives.” I think what a sweet thing it is to hear, and what and honour to hear more than once, and think how deep down I wish I really believed it. I think it is a good thing there is a lot of me to go around. I think maybe I have been spreading myself too thin. I think that giving yourself is a wonderful thing. I think I have nothing left to give. I think that there is always more to find.
I think about the writing I am doing and how I am neglecting my blog. I think about the topic I am writing about and how the first paragraph might actually offend someone I really care about. I think maybe I will cut it out and start again. I think about how many times I have just cut it out and started again.
I think about he who shall not be named and find myself torn. I think about what David said and wonder if being open and honest really does make a difference. I think about protecting myself and then realise that that must be what they mean when they say Cancers are shell people. I think about cutting him out of my life and never looking back. I think about walking away with a smile on my face. I hear his best friend’s voice in my head and so I stand still. I think for the moment there is nothing wrong with standing still. I think that one day everything will work out. I think about what made me feel good a year ago and I think about what makes me feel good now.
I close my eyes and the feel good melody comes back into my ears, but this time I drift off to sleep in time with the beat and I know that regardless I do feel good.
Dum da dum da dum… Feel Good!
Lord! Let me sleep! I stare back up at the ceiling and try not to let the thoughts come into my mind, but after a number of failed attempts and a rendition of Feel Good to try and get it out of my system, I give in and allow myself to absorb myself in thought.
I think about how the month as gone by so quickly, and my time in England was now a month ago. I think about events leading up to my going to England and how miserable I was. I think about a year before. I think about how happy I was just being me. I think about the people around me, those who I love who make me feel good about myself, those who I love who make me feel bad about myself and those who I love to hate who can make me feel good or bad on any given day. I think what my life would be like without all those people in my life and dismiss the thought immediately.
I then move on to thinking about the weekend. I think about spending Friday cooking new Israeli foods I have never tried before and being surprisingly impressed with the results. I think about the simple pleasure of feeding the hungry, watching their faces as they take their first bite and seeing the glazed look of satisfaction on their faces when they realise they can stuff in no more. I think about my mother and how she would make dinners ever day for us to sit together as a family and how she must have felt watching us all wolf down her delicious meal. I then think how she must have felt when we grimaced and said, “Urgh I hate brussel sprouts!” I think to myself ‘ where can I find some brussel sprouts in Israel?’
I think about my time in Israel and how much I have changed, and yet how I will never really change. I think about a week filled with the comment, “Everyone needs a little bit of Channah in their lives.” I think what a sweet thing it is to hear, and what and honour to hear more than once, and think how deep down I wish I really believed it. I think it is a good thing there is a lot of me to go around. I think maybe I have been spreading myself too thin. I think that giving yourself is a wonderful thing. I think I have nothing left to give. I think that there is always more to find.
I think about the writing I am doing and how I am neglecting my blog. I think about the topic I am writing about and how the first paragraph might actually offend someone I really care about. I think maybe I will cut it out and start again. I think about how many times I have just cut it out and started again.
I think about he who shall not be named and find myself torn. I think about what David said and wonder if being open and honest really does make a difference. I think about protecting myself and then realise that that must be what they mean when they say Cancers are shell people. I think about cutting him out of my life and never looking back. I think about walking away with a smile on my face. I hear his best friend’s voice in my head and so I stand still. I think for the moment there is nothing wrong with standing still. I think that one day everything will work out. I think about what made me feel good a year ago and I think about what makes me feel good now.
I close my eyes and the feel good melody comes back into my ears, but this time I drift off to sleep in time with the beat and I know that regardless I do feel good.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
LDN two years on...
Shopping in Oxford Street, trying on new clothes, realising that my body is changing and the fashions are not making me feel any better about it as everything makes me look pregnant, I got a call from a friend. "Channah get out of the city there has been a bomb on Park Lane!"
I chuckle to myself and think 'oh how typical' and carry on picking out clothes for my new wardrobe. Another call from the same friend, "Channah seriously I am worried about you! They are closing off Oxford Street, you are going to get stuck in town!"
Resisting the urge to remind my friend that she was an Israeli and should not be so quick to freak out about these things I continued to take the items I had found and proceed straight to the changing room. "Look if there has just been an attempt in London then the last thing I want to be doing right now is getting on a tube. I think I'll just wait it out in the my haven of fashion."
After whittling my allowed 5 items in the changing room to the one item that didn't look like a moomoo, I went to purchase my single item.
Considering what was supposedly going on outside the store still seemed very calm. The same drab music was playing in the background, and the sales people were still walking around with the fake smiles and name tags.
Next customer to check out number 1
"Good day madame. Did anyone help you with these... I mean this item?"
ME: No.... Sorry I don't mean to sound weird, but have any of you heard about the bomb in Park Lane?
The guy at the check out looks startled and his boss behind him suddlenly shifts and moves towards her walkie talkie to speak to the security team.
ME: Aparantly they are closing off Oxford Street... My friend just called me in a panic.
"Lord! Well I haven't heard anything, but we'll look into it."
ME: Yeah. Sucks really last time I was in London it was the July 7th bombings.
"Where are you from?"
(Wha do I say? The truth? A lie? Ok how about a white lie?)
ME: Leeds
(Well I am originally from Leeds!)
Some say you always take the weather with you... Seems like for me it is terrorist activities!!
I chuckle to myself and think 'oh how typical' and carry on picking out clothes for my new wardrobe. Another call from the same friend, "Channah seriously I am worried about you! They are closing off Oxford Street, you are going to get stuck in town!"
Resisting the urge to remind my friend that she was an Israeli and should not be so quick to freak out about these things I continued to take the items I had found and proceed straight to the changing room. "Look if there has just been an attempt in London then the last thing I want to be doing right now is getting on a tube. I think I'll just wait it out in the my haven of fashion."
After whittling my allowed 5 items in the changing room to the one item that didn't look like a moomoo, I went to purchase my single item.
Considering what was supposedly going on outside the store still seemed very calm. The same drab music was playing in the background, and the sales people were still walking around with the fake smiles and name tags.
Next customer to check out number 1
"Good day madame. Did anyone help you with these... I mean this item?"
ME: No.... Sorry I don't mean to sound weird, but have any of you heard about the bomb in Park Lane?
The guy at the check out looks startled and his boss behind him suddlenly shifts and moves towards her walkie talkie to speak to the security team.
ME: Aparantly they are closing off Oxford Street... My friend just called me in a panic.
"Lord! Well I haven't heard anything, but we'll look into it."
ME: Yeah. Sucks really last time I was in London it was the July 7th bombings.
"Where are you from?"
(Wha do I say? The truth? A lie? Ok how about a white lie?)
ME: Leeds
(Well I am originally from Leeds!)
Some say you always take the weather with you... Seems like for me it is terrorist activities!!
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Speak Up!!
Someone sent me this series of adverts as they were printed in The New York Times... So here is my take on the message to the British Journalists:
ASK YOURSELVES...
WHAT KIND OF MESSAGE ARE YOU SENDING?
WHAT KIND OF MESSAGE ARE YOU SENDING?
ASK YOURSELVES..
WHAT ARE YOU ACHEIVING?
SPEAK OUT!!!
Boycotts are Bullshit... I've been boycotting the BBC for years, and they are still there!
So why don't you stop whinging and get back to work... or change your career maybe. Thank you! :)
Sunday, June 17, 2007
The Demise of a Wanton Harlot
As a child you do not acknowledge the romance of the cherry blossom tree. You see it. It is pretty. You reach out for it as you swing high on your multi-coloured swing set, jumping out in the hope that you might catch a bunch before you fall to floor and bruise your arm. You sit at the trunk for hours and look upwards to a sky of pink and wonder if it tastes as much like candyfloss as it looks. You ask yourself why it is called cherry blossom when no cherries grow from it. But you never see the romance of the blossom as it buds and blooms and then ultimately falls seductively from the tree and cover the brown ground with its delicate colour.
I would gaze for months on end at my sad and lonely tree shivering in the harsh winds of the cruel English autumn and only wish the snow would come soon to blanket her bare branches. Weeks would pass and I would wait with the patience of the child I was for any sign of her re-growth. And then one day the sun would come out and with trepidation I would gaze out of my window and find her blushing pink and shouting out to the world… “the Spring is here!”
But with Spring follows the Summer, the unbearable heat weighing us down, temperatures and tempers rising and only the Winter to look forward to. And I sit under my tree and watch all the blossom falling off and wonder why Spring sprung off so soon… could I not hold the coil for any longer?
Time to cool off and jump back in the sea.
I would gaze for months on end at my sad and lonely tree shivering in the harsh winds of the cruel English autumn and only wish the snow would come soon to blanket her bare branches. Weeks would pass and I would wait with the patience of the child I was for any sign of her re-growth. And then one day the sun would come out and with trepidation I would gaze out of my window and find her blushing pink and shouting out to the world… “the Spring is here!”
But with Spring follows the Summer, the unbearable heat weighing us down, temperatures and tempers rising and only the Winter to look forward to. And I sit under my tree and watch all the blossom falling off and wonder why Spring sprung off so soon… could I not hold the coil for any longer?
Time to cool off and jump back in the sea.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Good Mourning
I fell asleep last night with a tear held fast in the well of my eye, a pain in my chest and a heart out of beat and waited for the dreams to begin. After three nights of dream filled sleep minus the grey foxes that run through my legs, I saw myself walking in the city. Every face that passed me was the same and the tears could no longer be held in. I found refuge in an old stairway with a yellow bike blocking my route and tried to regain my composure and breath. But I could not breath. The grey fox was staring at me, shaking his head.
“What do you want from me? I have nothing more to hide. I am not concealing anything.”
He carried on staring at me, unfazed by my words and sat on the ground and licked his wounds.
I stood to walk back out into the street. The fox jumped to attention and followed my every step. I walked down tree filled boulevards, in between the familiar faces, avoiding the cyclists and the eyes of those faces staring at me. The fox ran in between and around my legs as I walked and under the purple blossomed tree he stopped blocking my path. Forced to stop I looked up and the face was staring back at me with a smile.
“Why?”
No answer
“I miss you”
No response. Just a smile
“I hate you.”
The face turned grey and cried and I cried, and we stood staring at each other, crying. There was a hug somewhere between us, but we could not reach it; a kiss somewhere in the void, but our mouths were tight shut. I tried to run away, but I could not move. I looked down at the fox and he looked up at me and mouthed the words “I love you”.
“What do you want from me? I have nothing more to hide. I am not concealing anything.”
He carried on staring at me, unfazed by my words and sat on the ground and licked his wounds.
I stood to walk back out into the street. The fox jumped to attention and followed my every step. I walked down tree filled boulevards, in between the familiar faces, avoiding the cyclists and the eyes of those faces staring at me. The fox ran in between and around my legs as I walked and under the purple blossomed tree he stopped blocking my path. Forced to stop I looked up and the face was staring back at me with a smile.
“Why?”
No answer
“I miss you”
No response. Just a smile
“I hate you.”
The face turned grey and cried and I cried, and we stood staring at each other, crying. There was a hug somewhere between us, but we could not reach it; a kiss somewhere in the void, but our mouths were tight shut. I tried to run away, but I could not move. I looked down at the fox and he looked up at me and mouthed the words “I love you”.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Dear Anonymous
You may be wondering why I rejected your comment. You may think it is because I was offended by you branding me a “fat whiny cow”, something that I have never thought myself to be, but clearly you felt quite strongly that I am a fat whiny cow, so therefore that must be what I am, and as a result I am going to do everything in my power to embrace that fact and try to better myself… or perhaps just use it as an excuse for being a moody and rude bitch 24/7… “Sorry, no I cannot come out tonight I am a fat whiny cow!”
Anyway, the fact that I am a fat whiny cow is not the reason that I rejected your eloquently put comment. No, I rejected your comment because you are a sad and pathetic individual who hides who they are under the cloak of “Anonymous”. In truth you could be even more fat and whiny than I am, but sadly we cannot see that because you are “Anonymous”. It is funny because for the most part I associate Anonymous with being Irrelevant… I guess is it better to be something than nothing/ than irrelevant/ than anonymous… perhaps even fat and whiny.
So thank you for your comments Anonymous. You make me a better person everyday.
Channahboo (With a Perm-a-grin on her face)
Anyway, the fact that I am a fat whiny cow is not the reason that I rejected your eloquently put comment. No, I rejected your comment because you are a sad and pathetic individual who hides who they are under the cloak of “Anonymous”. In truth you could be even more fat and whiny than I am, but sadly we cannot see that because you are “Anonymous”. It is funny because for the most part I associate Anonymous with being Irrelevant… I guess is it better to be something than nothing/ than irrelevant/ than anonymous… perhaps even fat and whiny.
So thank you for your comments Anonymous. You make me a better person everyday.
Channahboo (With a Perm-a-grin on her face)
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Virtual Disbelief
Can you believe that it is 6.30pm and I am still in work? I feel like the office has sucked me in and will not let me leave. I know that this is nothing compared to the hours I used to work in the UK, and I know that I only came into work at 10.30, but right now I am struggling.
Everyone has left my side of the office and there is an eerie silence all around me. The sound of computers humming on standby act as mufflers for the activity that I know is taking place on the other side of the office where the lawyers and trainees actually work long hours and are probably in the middle of discussing some big deposition.
I don’t think I can do this again. Stay late. Pretend to work. Feel the neon light strips above me get brighter as the light outside dims. I don’t think that this was a very good idea; coming into work late to see what it is like. It is bad. It is shit. It is wrong.
And even though I know that it means missing out on walking with him to my car in the morning and kissing him good-day, I have decided that I am giving it up for early ends to my working day. I did try!
He cannot understand as he spends his day constantly on the move, constantly meeting new and interesting people, constantly communicating in dulcet and sensual tones to shmooze every innocent passerby, as opposed to voicelessly and emotionlessly (well apart from the emoticons you spent a day and a half downloading) communicating in the virtual environment of email, MSN, Facebook/ Myspace and any other website you sign up to, to avoid doing the immortally boring work you are paid close to minimum wage to do.
But please understand. As someone who is always the first to run home from work, I now see how sad it is to be the last one at work, as you slowly watch your friends leave one by one. And you know that they are free of the burden of work, while you have to still sit there, even though you are doing nothing and have closed down your Outlook, pretending to work until you have come close to completing your compulsory 9 hours a day.
Ok that is it! I quit!!!! Sushi is calling me… fuck the computer!
Everyone has left my side of the office and there is an eerie silence all around me. The sound of computers humming on standby act as mufflers for the activity that I know is taking place on the other side of the office where the lawyers and trainees actually work long hours and are probably in the middle of discussing some big deposition.
I don’t think I can do this again. Stay late. Pretend to work. Feel the neon light strips above me get brighter as the light outside dims. I don’t think that this was a very good idea; coming into work late to see what it is like. It is bad. It is shit. It is wrong.
And even though I know that it means missing out on walking with him to my car in the morning and kissing him good-day, I have decided that I am giving it up for early ends to my working day. I did try!
He cannot understand as he spends his day constantly on the move, constantly meeting new and interesting people, constantly communicating in dulcet and sensual tones to shmooze every innocent passerby, as opposed to voicelessly and emotionlessly (well apart from the emoticons you spent a day and a half downloading) communicating in the virtual environment of email, MSN, Facebook/ Myspace and any other website you sign up to, to avoid doing the immortally boring work you are paid close to minimum wage to do.
But please understand. As someone who is always the first to run home from work, I now see how sad it is to be the last one at work, as you slowly watch your friends leave one by one. And you know that they are free of the burden of work, while you have to still sit there, even though you are doing nothing and have closed down your Outlook, pretending to work until you have come close to completing your compulsory 9 hours a day.
Ok that is it! I quit!!!! Sushi is calling me… fuck the computer!
Saturday, April 07, 2007
What is it?
I have been doing a lot of thinking lately, a lot of thinking about my life. Right now there is nothing really coherent I can reveal... at least not at this point, but once I have a plan I will fill you in on it. Right now I am just full of questions... questions and quandaries and wondering perhaps if someone out there has the answers that baffle me...
You see, I often tried in my youth to not think too hard about things. To let everything happen as it should and perhaps this is why I find myself now wondering what it is I want, like and care about age 27.
Then there is the B side... The side that is not the side you necessarily bought the album for, but always happens to have those little gems on it that are once in a lifetime and you cannot believe that the artist decided that mixing the record with some other random artist, not within his genre, but are so glad he did! Sometimes I find myself listening to that B-side over and over again and thanking whoever is up there that I decided to jump out of my bubble and then there are times when I just think about it and realise that I am slightly crazy... well I must be.
Am I crazy to suddenly change everything at age 27?
Have I lost the plot to after finding my home and friends that I love to put it all to one side to sit in solitude for an indefinite period?
Is it weird that I don't want to meet anyone right now, because it will hold me back from uprooting my life again?
Is it strange that I cannot say I love you to a guy?
Is it creepy that he calls just to tell me has a confession to make?
Is it odd that the confession is that he is showing my picture to his friends?
Do you think it is freaky that he shows my picture to his friends?
Do you think it means something that he says he loves me just the way I am?
What does it mean when he says he loves me?
What does it mean when he says he loves me and I freeze?
Do you think he has issues because he loves me, shows me off to his friends, but doesn't want to be with me?
What is it about me that make guys love me, chase me, and then ultimately when they have me, try and convince me to be their new best friend?
What is it about me that makes me now try to figure all this out?
What happened to me?
What is it?
You see, I often tried in my youth to not think too hard about things. To let everything happen as it should and perhaps this is why I find myself now wondering what it is I want, like and care about age 27.
Then there is the B side... The side that is not the side you necessarily bought the album for, but always happens to have those little gems on it that are once in a lifetime and you cannot believe that the artist decided that mixing the record with some other random artist, not within his genre, but are so glad he did! Sometimes I find myself listening to that B-side over and over again and thanking whoever is up there that I decided to jump out of my bubble and then there are times when I just think about it and realise that I am slightly crazy... well I must be.
Am I crazy to suddenly change everything at age 27?
Have I lost the plot to after finding my home and friends that I love to put it all to one side to sit in solitude for an indefinite period?
Is it weird that I don't want to meet anyone right now, because it will hold me back from uprooting my life again?
Is it strange that I cannot say I love you to a guy?
Is it creepy that he calls just to tell me has a confession to make?
Is it odd that the confession is that he is showing my picture to his friends?
Do you think it is freaky that he shows my picture to his friends?
Do you think it means something that he says he loves me just the way I am?
What does it mean when he says he loves me?
What does it mean when he says he loves me and I freeze?
Do you think he has issues because he loves me, shows me off to his friends, but doesn't want to be with me?
What is it about me that make guys love me, chase me, and then ultimately when they have me, try and convince me to be their new best friend?
What is it about me that makes me now try to figure all this out?
What happened to me?
What is it?
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Lucky Mojo
I have had this niggling feeling that I have lost something. You know the feeling when you pack your bags, walk out of the door, get in the car on the way to the airport and remember that you have forgotten your toothbrush. This is where Boots comes in handy as you rush through duty free.
Anyway, I know that I have lost something, but surely it cannot be something so important to me. My view has always been that you only lose the things you don’t really care that much for; the ring you haven’t worn in weeks and just left on the side of the sink, the extra mosquito repellent you bought but did not need at the time. Of course I acknowledge that there are people in this world who lose their most treasured items, and for these people I have a mixture of pity and ridicule… How can you really lose something you care so much about! Surely if you cared so much for it you would never let it out of your sight. Or so I thought.
TP: So how have you been?
ME: I think I lost my Mojo.
TP: How can you lose your Mojo? You are Mojolicious!
ME: I am sure it was here somewhere
TP: You checked your pockets
ME: First place I looked!
The truth is I looked in every pocket I own. I searched at the back of my draws, in my cupboards, under my bed. I know I had it somewhere…
TP: Ok I will find it!
ME: How?
TP: I am not sure… Let me have a think and I will come up with a plan.
ME: Ok I leave locating my Mojo in your hands
TP: Phew! That is a big responsibility.
When was the last time I had it? It is hard to tell, as it was always there whether I used it or not… Ok when was the last time I used my Mojo?
It was not that long ago was it? I remember that it was around the time my hair grew a personality of its own… Did I leave it in the hotel? I can hardly walk back in there and ask for it back. Did I give it away? Can you give your Mojo away without knowing it? No! Although, it might have been stolen! Oh that dirty rotten…
While TP continues his search I approached the only person I knew with Mojo to spare to see if I could borrow some to keep me going.
JO: You’ll have to ask the Bitch herself. But I warn you. She is not a sharer.
ME: Lucky can I borrow some of yours for the time being?
LM: Er… I don’t think so!
JO: I told you.
ME: Yup. Bitch!
Anyway, I know that I have lost something, but surely it cannot be something so important to me. My view has always been that you only lose the things you don’t really care that much for; the ring you haven’t worn in weeks and just left on the side of the sink, the extra mosquito repellent you bought but did not need at the time. Of course I acknowledge that there are people in this world who lose their most treasured items, and for these people I have a mixture of pity and ridicule… How can you really lose something you care so much about! Surely if you cared so much for it you would never let it out of your sight. Or so I thought.
TP: So how have you been?
ME: I think I lost my Mojo.
TP: How can you lose your Mojo? You are Mojolicious!
ME: I am sure it was here somewhere
TP: You checked your pockets
ME: First place I looked!
The truth is I looked in every pocket I own. I searched at the back of my draws, in my cupboards, under my bed. I know I had it somewhere…
TP: Ok I will find it!
ME: How?
TP: I am not sure… Let me have a think and I will come up with a plan.
ME: Ok I leave locating my Mojo in your hands
TP: Phew! That is a big responsibility.
When was the last time I had it? It is hard to tell, as it was always there whether I used it or not… Ok when was the last time I used my Mojo?
It was not that long ago was it? I remember that it was around the time my hair grew a personality of its own… Did I leave it in the hotel? I can hardly walk back in there and ask for it back. Did I give it away? Can you give your Mojo away without knowing it? No! Although, it might have been stolen! Oh that dirty rotten…
While TP continues his search I approached the only person I knew with Mojo to spare to see if I could borrow some to keep me going.
JO: You’ll have to ask the Bitch herself. But I warn you. She is not a sharer.
ME: Lucky can I borrow some of yours for the time being?
LM: Er… I don’t think so!
JO: I told you.
ME: Yup. Bitch!
BE RIGHT BACK
Please be patient with me... I have a Mojo deficiency
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Sleep Studies
This week I found that I could not sleep. So exhausted from all the running around I have been doing lately, I found myself in a trance-like-state where although I could not sleep, I could not wake up enough to uncover the reason for my sleepless nights. The only constant was at one point in the night I would find myself scratching my right foot against my left ankle. Even Nooman commented on my lack of sleep and being able to hear me toss and turn throughout the night! Who needs a sleep study?
So I decided that one night I will consciously rise above my exhaustion and attempt to undercover the reason my covers were off my bed every morning. I lay in bed, hearing The Gossip’s “Standing in the Way of Control” pump out in my brain and despite my best efforts I fell into a deep deep sleep. I dreamt that I was walking through a forest, meandering between bending birch trees with soft curtain like branches whose material was the finest green leaf that allowed the sun to shine through and yet act as sunglasses for my eyes. I was in a white dress and my hair had become fair and was tied half up with a braid running through it. I looked at my hands as they pushed through the foliage and noticed a dark brown leather strap running from my finger up my right arm. It was then that I heard the voice.
So I decided that one night I will consciously rise above my exhaustion and attempt to undercover the reason my covers were off my bed every morning. I lay in bed, hearing The Gossip’s “Standing in the Way of Control” pump out in my brain and despite my best efforts I fell into a deep deep sleep. I dreamt that I was walking through a forest, meandering between bending birch trees with soft curtain like branches whose material was the finest green leaf that allowed the sun to shine through and yet act as sunglasses for my eyes. I was in a white dress and my hair had become fair and was tied half up with a braid running through it. I looked at my hands as they pushed through the foliage and noticed a dark brown leather strap running from my finger up my right arm. It was then that I heard the voice.
Channah I love you…
Awake, I could still here the soft high pitched voice brush against my ear.
Channah I love you…
Now fully awake, I look to my side and I see him hovering about my ear whispering softly words of love. We decided then and there we were getting married. I mean he clearly has a thing for my ankles.
The next night the same thing, and despite swatting him away; telling him to leave me be; even hiding myself under the covers, somehow I could not escape from the now high pitched screeching of his voice.
The next night the same thing, and despite swatting him away; telling him to leave me be; even hiding myself under the covers, somehow I could not escape from the now high pitched screeching of his voice.
Channah you are soooooo tasty… I love to suck on your ankles…No one loves you as much as me!
I could see this going on forever, I could see me letting him take his bite out of me bit by bit and leaving me punctured, swollen and itching all over. So I smiled and wished him goodnight… and the next day I did what any girl would do. I killed him.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Lily of the flood
Last week seemed to go on for a century and I was struggling to keep my head above the water when suddenly Thursday appeared. I had plans of Tika Masala, Dorothy Gale and a whole weekend hanging with the Maximus to look forward to, and how I needed it! Work has had my head spinning around and yet I have been standing still for almost two years, so the dizziness churns my stomach all the more and I am left feeling light headed and wobbly on my feet. Why as children did we spin and spin around? I now understand. Boredom.
I have to find a new response to the old question “How you doing?” “All good”, is also pretty boring. But I guess when nothing is bad, but nothing is particularly great, you are left with Parve. On top of that I feel myself loosing my voice more and more. I hear myself and I am bored. I find something interesting to say and I am shushed. I see me, age 5, shrinking in my big chair, under the faces of my family telling me not to be such a drama queen or that I remind them of Sarah Bernhardt. I know that in part neither insult nor intentional injury, and I do not repeat this to feel pity, a fool can pity themselves. I say it to point out a pattern that has encroached upon my life without me realizing it. Have I really taken on the same role among my friends as I have within my family?
All these things swirl around my mind as I lay down for my Thursday afternoon nap before a long and rewarding night ahead. After I awoke I attempted to shower and change for my evening, only to find that the bath would not drain and was full of dirty water. I tried to unclog the drain, but no use. With only half an hour left before I was supposed to meet the girls out I began to stress before regaining my head and deciding that the bath could wait and proceeded to whore wash myself over the sink.
My hair washed and feeling relieved I turned to walk out of the bathroom only to be greeted by water gushing out of the old unused shower and under the door. I was shocked at the amount of water… the noise sounded like a river running down my hallway and I leapt to my feet to try and soak up as much as possible before anything of worth was damaged.
It was not quite too late. The water was using the Twins old technique of when there is only one person to deal with you, separate into two different directions. So I was stood in my hallway naked, because I used my towel to try and stop the water going out of the bathroom, faced with the decision of saving my room or Nooman’s room. I leapt into action throwing on some clothes in case anyone came to my rescue only to find me dancing around in my birthday suit. I then ran, as fast as I could in 3 inches of water without falling on my ass, and grabbed the mop and began the work of saving Nooman’s computer. The water was already halfway to its target, soaking his checkbook and papers left on the floor, taking a bite out of the rug before deciding to snake under the bed, covering his shoes and out towards his study and his massive collection of discs and his new computer. I tried to save as much as I could as I ran towards the head of the flood to stop it in its tracks. As I did I called Nooman… COME HOME NOW!!! YOUR ROOM IS UNDER ATTACK! WE HAVE A FLOOD!!!
Three hours later; after forcing my landlord to do something for the money we pay him each month; crying; taking out all the water; crying; manually moping up the water that had got into the basement; crying; helping the plumber release more water; crying; clearing up more water… Nooman and I eventually collapsed, our Thursday evening sodden. Feeling too sorry for ourselves to give sympathy to the other, Nooman went to bed, leaving me to cry some more alone. A pathetic sight until a friend came baring the curry I had not been able to eat and another with Vodka to drown out the flood and dry away my tears. “You cannot end your bad day this way. We are going out.”
After a night of dancing, drinking and hiding from slimy Israelis, I collapsed into my bed. Unable to sleep I thought about the evening. At least the apartment was clean. A year of dirt never touched under certain beds was washed away and I began to think of the symbolic relevance of the flood. Like for Noah the flood washed away the dirt of our apartment and so too I felt it washed away the stale cobwebs for me, leaving behind a blank canvas to start again. What do I do with this canvas? I think I will paint a picture of what I would like my life to be, but without the high expectations. Instead I will step away in order to come back and be able to look fresh-faced and appreciate the wonderful family, friends and life I have around me.
I have to find a new response to the old question “How you doing?” “All good”, is also pretty boring. But I guess when nothing is bad, but nothing is particularly great, you are left with Parve. On top of that I feel myself loosing my voice more and more. I hear myself and I am bored. I find something interesting to say and I am shushed. I see me, age 5, shrinking in my big chair, under the faces of my family telling me not to be such a drama queen or that I remind them of Sarah Bernhardt. I know that in part neither insult nor intentional injury, and I do not repeat this to feel pity, a fool can pity themselves. I say it to point out a pattern that has encroached upon my life without me realizing it. Have I really taken on the same role among my friends as I have within my family?
All these things swirl around my mind as I lay down for my Thursday afternoon nap before a long and rewarding night ahead. After I awoke I attempted to shower and change for my evening, only to find that the bath would not drain and was full of dirty water. I tried to unclog the drain, but no use. With only half an hour left before I was supposed to meet the girls out I began to stress before regaining my head and deciding that the bath could wait and proceeded to whore wash myself over the sink.
My hair washed and feeling relieved I turned to walk out of the bathroom only to be greeted by water gushing out of the old unused shower and under the door. I was shocked at the amount of water… the noise sounded like a river running down my hallway and I leapt to my feet to try and soak up as much as possible before anything of worth was damaged.
It was not quite too late. The water was using the Twins old technique of when there is only one person to deal with you, separate into two different directions. So I was stood in my hallway naked, because I used my towel to try and stop the water going out of the bathroom, faced with the decision of saving my room or Nooman’s room. I leapt into action throwing on some clothes in case anyone came to my rescue only to find me dancing around in my birthday suit. I then ran, as fast as I could in 3 inches of water without falling on my ass, and grabbed the mop and began the work of saving Nooman’s computer. The water was already halfway to its target, soaking his checkbook and papers left on the floor, taking a bite out of the rug before deciding to snake under the bed, covering his shoes and out towards his study and his massive collection of discs and his new computer. I tried to save as much as I could as I ran towards the head of the flood to stop it in its tracks. As I did I called Nooman… COME HOME NOW!!! YOUR ROOM IS UNDER ATTACK! WE HAVE A FLOOD!!!
Three hours later; after forcing my landlord to do something for the money we pay him each month; crying; taking out all the water; crying; manually moping up the water that had got into the basement; crying; helping the plumber release more water; crying; clearing up more water… Nooman and I eventually collapsed, our Thursday evening sodden. Feeling too sorry for ourselves to give sympathy to the other, Nooman went to bed, leaving me to cry some more alone. A pathetic sight until a friend came baring the curry I had not been able to eat and another with Vodka to drown out the flood and dry away my tears. “You cannot end your bad day this way. We are going out.”
After a night of dancing, drinking and hiding from slimy Israelis, I collapsed into my bed. Unable to sleep I thought about the evening. At least the apartment was clean. A year of dirt never touched under certain beds was washed away and I began to think of the symbolic relevance of the flood. Like for Noah the flood washed away the dirt of our apartment and so too I felt it washed away the stale cobwebs for me, leaving behind a blank canvas to start again. What do I do with this canvas? I think I will paint a picture of what I would like my life to be, but without the high expectations. Instead I will step away in order to come back and be able to look fresh-faced and appreciate the wonderful family, friends and life I have around me.
I have been thinking… If you were to change your name you would be a Lily to me… The Lily is not a dramatic flower like the rose, the Lily is not overly dramatic although it has the ability to be so… It does not demand attention… Its symbolism is both good and evil… it has both capabilities… but for the most part it prefers to not stand out like the rose… It is funny how you fit into the same mould as you do within your family… The one capable of being dramatic, yet never demanding attention when none is willingly give… And then there is Lily Allen.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
A Candle in the Wind
This weekend was a big old funky foo faa for Purim. We all put on our glad rags, in the form of wigs, costumes, funny outfits and ridiculously long fake eyelashes and headed to the roof top of Tel Aviv to party the night away. At least that was the plan…
After deciding that I could be sexy any day of the week, I decided to go for the funny option and went as an over the top Elton John. Now although I had thought a great deal about the costume, the hair, the make-up, the glasses involved in being Elton, I did not really think a lot about what it would really mean to be him… No the men in tight t-shirts were not my biggest worry… I could not remember his songs. All I could think of was Rocket Man.
Now I know that I risk my ‘cool’ status by saying this, but I like Elton John. I think he is one of the best singer songwriters of our time, at least he is high on the list. And no his work may no longer be ground breaking, but it is solid… So why could I not remember any of his songs? Now sat at my desk I can think of at least 50 off the top of my head… On Thursday night however, I struggled to remember that he had written the music to the Lion King! But then I remember that on Thursday night, after 2 glasses of wine with sushi, 2 large glasses of Vodka red bull as I got dressed and the rest of the bar I drank at the party, I actually struggled to remember who I was dressing up as in the first place.
This is not a good place to be and generally I know how to ensure that I finish the night still standing straight, but not this time. This time I was head bent over toilet wondering what the black bits were. It has been a long time since I have done something so stupid, but as I have cut down on my drinking and this was a one off bit of stupidity I will try not to be so hard on myself… we have our reasons… there are always reasons.
Talking to a friend today I find myself thinking more and more about running away. I like the idea of just disappearing. Walking into the sunset and not telling anyone around where I am going… A nice idea… in theory.
After deciding that I could be sexy any day of the week, I decided to go for the funny option and went as an over the top Elton John. Now although I had thought a great deal about the costume, the hair, the make-up, the glasses involved in being Elton, I did not really think a lot about what it would really mean to be him… No the men in tight t-shirts were not my biggest worry… I could not remember his songs. All I could think of was Rocket Man.
Now I know that I risk my ‘cool’ status by saying this, but I like Elton John. I think he is one of the best singer songwriters of our time, at least he is high on the list. And no his work may no longer be ground breaking, but it is solid… So why could I not remember any of his songs? Now sat at my desk I can think of at least 50 off the top of my head… On Thursday night however, I struggled to remember that he had written the music to the Lion King! But then I remember that on Thursday night, after 2 glasses of wine with sushi, 2 large glasses of Vodka red bull as I got dressed and the rest of the bar I drank at the party, I actually struggled to remember who I was dressing up as in the first place.
This is not a good place to be and generally I know how to ensure that I finish the night still standing straight, but not this time. This time I was head bent over toilet wondering what the black bits were. It has been a long time since I have done something so stupid, but as I have cut down on my drinking and this was a one off bit of stupidity I will try not to be so hard on myself… we have our reasons… there are always reasons.
Talking to a friend today I find myself thinking more and more about running away. I like the idea of just disappearing. Walking into the sunset and not telling anyone around where I am going… A nice idea… in theory.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Creating Chemistry?
A couple of weeks ago I was at a close family friend's wedding, just minding my own business, dancing with my dad, when a young man took the initiative to get my attention by asking my mother to dance with him...
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I guess that is one way to create some Chemistry... But for you all you boys out there... You want the girl to fall for you? Or at least her parents to fall for you... shmooze the Mama!!
Monday, February 26, 2007
A Long-term Investment
Last night I went home. Not the home I grew up in and not the home that I currently share with Nooman and his computer, but my home… or should I say where my parents’ live. This should not be such a bold statement to make, but as I admit I am not the best daughter/ sister/ aunt in the world, so when I do step out of my Tel Aviv bubble I try to appreciate my time spent with the people I appreciate most and who probably realise it the least.
Earlier in the day I had a meeting with a financial adviser to discuss how I was going to invest my Pension fund that I (a year too late) have received from my work. I remember back in England, meeting with a financial advisor and gazing over is head wistfully as he droned on and on about high risk and low risk investments, while I contemplated how I was going to spend my money and promptly told him “Just give me the cash”. This time around, a little more mature, and a little more paranoid about the future, I asked him in depth questions about how I could get the highest growth out of my savings, the best way to invest it for the long term, and what other options I had to be a millionaire by the time I retire. In turn he, amazed that someone was actually interested in how their money was going to grow, talked about stocks and bonds, interest rates and the ever unstable market. He asked me questions about my health, lifestyle, family and finally came around to the most difficult part of the process…. What if I die?
Being young, and not having a husband or children of my own to consider if and when I leave this world, I had never really considered what would happen to my ‘things’. I mean I have never really owned anything of great worth… a car… a wardrobe full of clothes… There is nothing that anyone would really want. If I died tomorrow my family would more likely be cursing me for the inheritance of clearing out my draws, jammed full with crap that I have just thrown in over the years, forgotten about and have been too lazy to sort through and throw away. Perhaps that is something I should consider when I next get the cleaning bug.
So I am sat in the main meeting room, looking at the financial advisor with a thick Scottish accent and a large jovial grin on his face and my gut reaction is, “My father, I would like my father to be the beneficiary.” I think it was the right thing to do. I would never want to take favourites amongst my siblings. The advisor continues to look at me and I feel the heat rising to my face, my eyes watering slightly and I flush red. “Does he know how much you love him?” he says winking at me. I say, “Probably not”, and nervously laugh.
Sleeping last night in my parents’ house, in the only single bed in the house, I felt so strangely safe. There is a different feeling you feel sleeping under the comfort blanket of your parents building. I may prefer my bed in my apartment, I may find the mattress hard and unforgiving, but the sleep I have is like the sleep of my youth. It is like the rest of the world is really cut off. My eyes shut, relaxed… no monsters will come out of the wardrobe to get me, no-one is going to break in tonight. In the middle of the night I woke up and heard my father snoring across the hall.
Earlier in the day I had a meeting with a financial adviser to discuss how I was going to invest my Pension fund that I (a year too late) have received from my work. I remember back in England, meeting with a financial advisor and gazing over is head wistfully as he droned on and on about high risk and low risk investments, while I contemplated how I was going to spend my money and promptly told him “Just give me the cash”. This time around, a little more mature, and a little more paranoid about the future, I asked him in depth questions about how I could get the highest growth out of my savings, the best way to invest it for the long term, and what other options I had to be a millionaire by the time I retire. In turn he, amazed that someone was actually interested in how their money was going to grow, talked about stocks and bonds, interest rates and the ever unstable market. He asked me questions about my health, lifestyle, family and finally came around to the most difficult part of the process…. What if I die?
Being young, and not having a husband or children of my own to consider if and when I leave this world, I had never really considered what would happen to my ‘things’. I mean I have never really owned anything of great worth… a car… a wardrobe full of clothes… There is nothing that anyone would really want. If I died tomorrow my family would more likely be cursing me for the inheritance of clearing out my draws, jammed full with crap that I have just thrown in over the years, forgotten about and have been too lazy to sort through and throw away. Perhaps that is something I should consider when I next get the cleaning bug.
So I am sat in the main meeting room, looking at the financial advisor with a thick Scottish accent and a large jovial grin on his face and my gut reaction is, “My father, I would like my father to be the beneficiary.” I think it was the right thing to do. I would never want to take favourites amongst my siblings. The advisor continues to look at me and I feel the heat rising to my face, my eyes watering slightly and I flush red. “Does he know how much you love him?” he says winking at me. I say, “Probably not”, and nervously laugh.
Sleeping last night in my parents’ house, in the only single bed in the house, I felt so strangely safe. There is a different feeling you feel sleeping under the comfort blanket of your parents building. I may prefer my bed in my apartment, I may find the mattress hard and unforgiving, but the sleep I have is like the sleep of my youth. It is like the rest of the world is really cut off. My eyes shut, relaxed… no monsters will come out of the wardrobe to get me, no-one is going to break in tonight. In the middle of the night I woke up and heard my father snoring across the hall.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
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