Tag Archives: thoughts

Breakfast

To win the peace you must first fight the war.

History confirms the above saying and we witness one or other form of it happening in day to day life but still I have a trouble believing it must be so. Unjustified… Injustice… Unjustification…. are the words that playing in my head. I don’t know if it affects me greatly because I can relate to this- in my life there is no such thing as easy gain. I have to fight with all my might for every inch of space, every ounce of respect, for freedom, for personal rights… for my very existence- or being a warrior is just a part of my genetic makeup. In any case it doesn’t sit right with me. I feel angry by just reading these words. I can associate it with everything that is happening around me- there is no donuts anymore in the nearby filling station or anywhere close to where I live. There is no decent coffee either when you want it. The least you can get is half a cup of lukewarm brew- around the world- global warming and all the consequences of it. The disappearance of all the things that have something to do with quality, morals and values. I can’t rant on and on but I will not (as if this post is not ranting enough) not this time- I just cant believe one has to fight in order to gain something that supposed to be a birthright, right? Like freedom and the right to exist and be treated accordingly regardless of which walk of life you came from or the colour of your skin or if you are beautiful or not, female or male or member of the third sex or belonged to the lower class of animal (which for me is humans) handicapped or having mental illness. All because of these laws created by man which resulted to prejudiced society of supposed to be educated people from civilized countries who cannot even exercise common decency between them. And I’m ranting early in the morning just because I am sick and can’t sleep since Sunday. What that makes me?

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Aftermath

It took me three years to divorce him. I had to relinquish everything for him to sign. It was two years before I learnt to trust myself again. And another two before I dared trust anyone else. I still have trust issues… I still have nightmares… still run to the basin to wash myself… still check the bolt on every door…still jump out of my skin every time I hear a sound I don’t recognize… still sleep with a big knife under my pillow… I keep telling myself I’ve done the right thing and kudos to myself for having the courage to stand and fight back and eventually leave. Now all I have to do is believe I am safe.

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Summer In My Heart

“I question not if thrushes sing,
If roses load the air;
Beyond my
heart, I need not reach
When all is summer there.”
~John Vance Cheney

I wish I could hold on to that summer feeling. A deep contrast to the cold and dark labyrinths in my head full of bleeding pulsing wounds. In my heart, it is always summer, full of life, full of hope full of colors, full of dreams. Sometimes I forget my age or the color of my skin and only aware of the season inside me. I forget about onlookers who always judged the book by its cover and seldom thumb through the pages due to either lack of interest or lack of time. I’ve been on the other end of the spectrum and don’t quite reach the opposite end yet but I’m on the way and can’t help noticing the subtle changes over the landscapes through the seasons. The shifting gravity of time alters a little but at the same time a lot to my liking. Others for sure notice it too. But little they do know that underneath the fading vibrant colors of Autumn and fast setting sun, it is still and will always be summer till the day I die…

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Wednesday 4th Of July

It’s been a long month without rain. My garden looks crunchy and my water bill steadily rising together with the temperature. The breeze which made the last three weeks of intense heat bearable is now gone, get tired of holding the fort till the rain comes which is nowhere in sight. I don’t remember a weather like this. Not even in my country of birth. It is now forbidden to water the plants, wash your car, fill the pool and light the barbecue. Funny because it’s swimming pool/barbecue weather. Pretty ironic.  For the first time since I came here, there are at least eleven reported wildfires per day wherever vegetations are dried enough to be combustible. Scary. 

I have a lot of things to do in the garden. Hedges to trim spent plants to remove, seeds to collect and perennials to divide. But high ozone concentration and pollen counts made it impossible to even sit and relax in the garden. It’s too hot and humid I can barely breathe.

Not wanting to miss my daily walks, I often set out after it cools down and heads mostly near any body of water. I avoid forests and nature reserves because of murderous hungry insects. I walk along canals or lakes and on weekends I go to the sea where there is always some wind and the temperature usually lower than the mainland. I visit a different coastal area every time to have some variations. New places ignite my creativity. I need a changing horizon and different sun each day in order to function properly. It is always a long drive and I ended up with a stiff neck and sore muscles but I prefer the pain of being tired physically and satisfied mentally than being bored and in pain anyway.

I don’t know what I’m going to do today. Maybe make a beeline for any garden center to find a replacement for the cactus that got sunburned the other day. I killed houseplants by TLC. I have over 200 of them inside. Acquired only this winter when I could not garden outside. When I was gone for three weeks, I thought they will not survive and often think of them while on vacation. I found them flowering happily when I came back. None of them have died. They can take care of themselves. They don’t need me. Since then, I killed at least five by moving them around looking for a better place for them and of course by overwatering. I have to learn to leave them alone. But I refuse to believe that anything could thrive on neglect.  Not even people.

I wish for the rain. My garden and I need it. Did I tell you that my favorite weather is stormy weather? I even wrote a post about it here. You click it when you have the time. Anyway, this all for now and till next time.

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Scared

My dark secrets are life-threatening. Pockets of unhappiness set in aspic that build and build. I have this primitive feeling that if something good happens, it is going to be followed by something bad. There is always a price to pay.  – Sue Townsend

What I’m scared of?

Happy. I’m scared to be happy.

My experience of happiness, the bits and snippets of it had always been threaded with pain. When bad things are happening for too long you’ve come to expect it that when good things come your way, you think it’s a trap, a trick to lure you only to find out that at the very end there is nothing but false promises designed to fool you in believing like with other people happiness exists for you too.

But sadly, experience had shown me otherwise. Good things indeed never last. I am so familiar with the cliché that it keeps me from enjoying the moment, knowing what will happen next, I am already dreading the inevitable before it’s actually there. Life taught me not to be attached to anything or anyone. I learned (without knowing) not to miss people and places. Everything is temporary. Heraclitus said: The Only Thing That Is Constant Is Change and I agree. Nothing lasts forever. Especially good things.

Someone somewhere asked: What exactly is the standard to be happy? And I thought: Yeah, what is? Success? Network? Family? Material things? All of them? None of them? I don’t know. 

Do you?

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Ghost House

The room, the room is cozy. Clean and bright and spacious. The walls are painted in soft earth tones, except for the feature wall directly behind the bed which is wallpapered with geometric pattern edged with gold on an eggshell background. The ceiling is white. Not stark white but warm like sunset’s glow on summer months. The night tables with curved legs are painted cream, distressed and dirtied to give them a used look some people find beautiful. On them are tall matching lamps with ornate base and aloe vera plants in white pots. Next to the plant on the right are a sheep and lamb figurines and an angel made of metal painted off-white and brown. On the left sits another angel, a rag doll with her own miniature doll, again off-white, with lace trimmings. Next to it is a bottle of water and a book. Aside from a painting on wood of some African image which looks like a Masai tribe from a distance but only blobs of faceless colors when viewed closer and a large rectangle mirror with carved wooden frame painted in nude color, the walls are otherwise devoid of any ornamentation.

The bed itself is a farmhouse-style metal bed with iron frame in a dark roast finish. It was once a canopy bed when it was standing in a much bigger room in a much bigger house. Now, the posts have been removed to accommodate the low ceiling of a cottage style house it now belongs to. The beddings are white with crocheted edges, two of the six pillows have crocheted cases. One of them is ergonomically designed suited for special needs. The comforter is thick and fluffy and warm. Too warm. There is a metal rocking chair at the foot of the bed piled high with stuffed toys in various sizes. All of them in neutral colors the darkest of them all, black. Nobody knows the existence of a big kitchen knife under the pillow. In case…

The woman on the bed can’t stop looking at the tiny gap between the curtains. Cream colored curtains that filtered the light softly making the room much brighter without being intrusive. It bothers her, the gap. Keeps her from closing her eyes and concentrate on trying to sleep. Not that it is the reason why she’s lying awake but it does certainly contribute to the agitation she’s feeling right now. Where is that coming from, this nervousness, the feeling of being incomplete and missing out on something? The state of being numbed and not there. Existing but not alive, dead, dead inside dead in her head. 

When she was eight years old, she found out while standing on the breakwater her father had painstakingly made to keep the waves from crashing against the dikes, that the world has nothing to offer to her. The certainty of being been there done that twice over and back again still with the same conclusion was so strong it took all her power not to jump in the water and drowned herself. That feeling never changes through the years but somehow she managed always to go on searching for anything that could prove her wrong and it kept her alive, able to enjoy momentarily pleasures, but only for a time before she embarks into another fruitless quest of finding even she herself doesn’t know.

But never she felt as dead as now, disconnected unable to feel anything. Does she come full circle? Is this it? Is this the end? If she could only sleep. Then, perhaps she could think clearly. But the gap between the curtains bothers her. She must stand up and close it, prevent the light from entering and crowding her thoughts. But she knows if she stands up she will not be able to go back to bed and sleep. Oh, if there is only someone who could do it for her but there is no one, no one is around. She could kill herself and nobody would know. Not for weeks, not for months. Nobody would miss her. Is that a blessing or a curse?

Ignore the gap, ignore the light, ignore the feeling of being dead, she survives so far by doing exactly that, burying the feelings deep inside eventually she becomes numb. Close your eyes and pretend like always -she said to herself- just close your eyes… 

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Lights Out

I can’t find anything to write about these days. Since I’ve been back from a three week holiday I don’t put anything substantial on paper. Blame it on real life getting in the way (what a cliché) something I used to laugh about like all the things associated with getting old which I now suffering from. Blame it on the fact that they decided to shelve Daily Prompt and Photo Challenge. I can’t get over it. Yet. I (we) should have known when they suddenly decided to put a stop to ever useful lots of fun Blogging U. The platform where I used to put on thoughts is now dead and waiting to be buried. Not this, another one; my learning ground before I came here. A dating site in fact. I know, I know… I discovered it through my ex. I wanted to find out what he was up to and created a fake account. I found out one can blog there too and that’s how I introduced myself to blogging. I don’t say that this one will suffer the same fate because it seems to be thriving. Bussiness wise as far as I understand but of course I could be wrong. I’m concerned about the future of personal bloggers like me. Will there be still a niche for them (us) in the near future? I know about domains and such but I’m not convinced. You know what I mean. The bright side of all of these is I’m enjoying the real life or rather I decided I will practice not Carpe Diem But Carpe Omnia. It’s like suddenly I realized that it’s five to midnight and I have to hurry if I hope to get to the party. Let’s see coming Winter if I am still in the same mood. I have an inkling or rather to be on the safe side, I decided to go on holiday three times a year. Better than sitting on the front of the computer typing words that might or might not happen. Anyway, that’s it for now. Next time I will tell you about the time I was waiting for a bus in La Palma and saw something funny, painful and inspiring at the same time.

Till next time. 

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Invisible League

Like Alice plunging down the rabbit hole, I was suddenly not the fun girl at the party but the dotty auntie figure we humor for a moment before moving on. As older women we are no longer desirable, no longer perceived as anything but taking up space a younger person could put to better use in the job, in the relationship, in life. Age, I now realize, doesn’t creep up, it fells you with changes you didn’t see coming. And it happens at 50. You vanish, replaced by an old and forgettable woman.

This is an excerpt from an article written by Tracy Nesdoly for The Star (see the full article here) about At what age do some women begin to feel invisible? I came across this while looking for random things about age on the internet. One click and I was suddenly bombarded with page after page of written stories about women of a certain age who are invisible and no longer seen as important part of society. The titles are demeaning. Not only for us middle age women but for any woman young or old because whether we like it or not we will be in that position sooner or later. What do you think of: Dating: I’m the Invisible woman,  where the writer calling herself a mere plankton in the food chain of sexuality and the marketplace for relationships. A flimflam, a nuisance, an embarrassment of landfill. It hurts, doesn’t it?

In this post, ‘Invisible’ middle-aged women are fighting back English writer Helen Walmsley-Johnson talks about menopause, sexual, currency, dressing up for your age and hormones replacement. She recounted her personal experience with a group of young boys while walking through the park one day.

They made fun of her brisk walk, then began to crudely share their views on which of a group of passing schoolgirls they wanted to have sex with, clearly intending for her to hear. Tired of listening, Walmsley-Johnson asked them to move on — and to consider keeping their sexist remarks to themselves. They reacted with hissing, noxious anger, calling her a “dried up old c***” and suggesting that if a “real woman” were to talk to them about sexism, they might listen.

I have yet to experience this sort of things. Do I have to consider myself lucky?

I have always been younger looking than my real age (thanks to my ethnicity and good genes- the only good I inherited from my ancestors) not only by few years but by more than a decade, let’s say at least fifteen. When I’ve met my current husband I was thirty-seven but he thought I was twenty-two and so were his family and friends. When I was twenty-five they don’t allow me in the discos because the guards thought my ID was fake. I was once banned from accompanying my daughter to sexual orientation class because they thought I was her sister and only parents were allowed. And so the years go on like that, me being used to getting attention (lots of it actually) I don’t care for and wishing I’m invisible.

No, I don’t wear sexy or provocative clothes, figure-hugging attires will not find a home in my closet, I don’t wear makeup, high heels and go to the hair salon only once a year. In short, I am a low maintenance girl. Attracting attention to myself (any kind of attention) was and will never be my purpose in life and it irritates me enormously getting more than I think I deserved. And I thought it will go on like that till the end. Never cross in my naive brain that it will change someday.

The first sign happened when I turned forty- three. I was in the pharmacy and the guy behind the counter referred to me as ‘Madame’ instead of ‘Mademoiselle.’  I was taken aback. Shocked in fact. It hurts. I was always been ‘Mademoiselle’ instead of ‘Madame’ and suddenly it’s the other way around. I thought then that ‘now the process had begun.’

When almost a decade had passed with nothing or little changes to my status as a desirable woman I again thought it will never happen, until this year.

I am still looking at least fifteen years younger than my real age but I’m fifty-one, and forty isn’t twenty. And gradually I noticed subtle changes. The guys who are looking at me now are not the sixteen years old anymore. The twenty-something still glance my way but soon averted their eyes when they realized in which age category I truly belonged. Their gaze never lingers anymore or check more than once, they bestow me an interested glance which quickly fades and then move on without looking back. I can walk now into a restaurant without commanding attention. There was a time that wherever I walk men (women too but with hostility) stop whatever they were doing and look, and keep looking till I was out of sight. I have out of this world experience related to my sensuality and it’s strong effect on men you wouldn’t believe if I tell so I would spare you the details. I was by no means a ‘beauty’ or ‘femme fatale,’ the truth is I never know why I had this such effect on men, my ex once described me as magic but whatever it is, it is soon disappearing.

And with it comes the realization that I don’t want to be invisible. Not only as a woman but as a human being. I’m getting old yes, I’m losing my magic, probably so, but I still have feelings. Feelings never change. Who wants to be irrelevant?

Deborra-Lee-Furness, in her interview with Australian Women’s Weekly magazine, talked about jaw-droppingly insulting titles of stories written about her (and others who are in the same situation) being married to uber hunk Mr. Hugh Jackman who happened to be thirteen years her junior. She said: “People think a 58-year-old woman doesn’t deserve a big-shot, funny, handsome, movie star husband at all. It’s still acceptable for there to be a million internet articles about being a supposedly unattractive middle-aged man and be able to “punch above your weight” and bag yourself a younger, stunning partner.”

What could I say? I am married to someone 11 years my junior. Do I have to be scared? He’s getting old too I know but everyone is aware that getting old is not the same for men and women. I don’t have to list the differences because it is a common knowledge. Damn the double standard.

Marina Benjamin, author of The Middlepause found an essay from a 1903 issue of Cosmopolitan magazine in which a woman of 50′ used to be perceived as a person of achievement and grace and was “characterized as having ‘distinctive charm and beauty, ripe views, disciplined intellect, and cultivated manifold gifts’.” That is so clearly not the case nowadays, and for the woman approaching this milestone age, there is a good reason to feel anxious, or sad, or pissed off. She said:

“Fifty feels tarnished as an old coin, and worn — worn down and worn out,” she says. “There is nothing glamorous about 50 that I can see, not even in some retro way.” 

How about you? Do you have Invisible Woman Syndrome?

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Reflection

Where have the years gone? Sometimes I have to stop and think about how old I am. When I wake up in the morning, before I move this tired old body or look in the blasted mirror, I swear I’m still a young woman. It just feels like yesterday. I don’t know how it’s gone so fast.

-Lea Davey, Silkworm Secrets

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