10% Fiction » Writing

my notebook

Carla — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 13:54:13 +0000

I am by necessity a very organised person.

But I’m not very methodical when it comes to notebooks.

I always start with the best intentions.
I always start on the first page.

But then I find myself with a thought that simply must be committed to paper immediately and I leap to a fresh sheet somewhere in the middle of the notebook…
or unknowingly write down pages of ideas only to realise that I had the whole notebook turned upside down.

I have my notebook in my hand now. It contains of a years worth of scribbles and scratchings.

Some pages have one word upon them.
Others bustle with sentences fighting for line space.

There are thoughts aplenty, but because of my haphazard style there is no discernible chronology.
So reading back through it is an interesting task.

Now indulge me for a minute and let’s flick through this notebook together,
for today I have some pages I’d like to share with you.

Starting here…

See this… in green highlighter I’ve written: Start a blog.

I wrote it in response to a simple no-nonsense instruction delivered by my fiction lecturer, Dr Gaylene Perry.
She said: Write everyday.

And so with that in mind I sat in front of a virginal white page, or rather the blank screen, of a freshly minted freebie wordpress account and

I started writing.

One year ago today.

I started it in essence to practice writing. But I could do that on paper if I’d wanted.
With blogging it’s the audience that makes the difference.

Blogging is immediate.
It’s exploratory.
It forces you to tune your own editing skills.
It prevents you from being overly precious.

Pressing the ‘publish’ button on your blog quite literally means anyone can read your musings.
Anyone in the world (not just your mum.)
And the joyful thing that I never expected is: blogging envelopes you in a like-minded community.

Look here is the page where I’ve penned in blue biro a reminder to myself:
Email Mr Kramer re: linking to his blog. What is the etiquette? HTF do you link to a blog?

This was written after I stumbled across Neil’s blog.
His writing is the story of his days, a mixture of light and dark, of laughter and gravity, shaped by the tools of fiction writing to share with us a larger truth.
It was a style of writing I had been fumbling my own way through. I was equally inspired and intimidated.

I wrote a post and emailed Neil for permission to link back to his blog. Credit where it is due I believe I wrote. I was surprised when he wrote back to say that he was delighted that he had inspired me.

Hangon… a complete stranger taking the time to offer me encouragement?

It was my first real sense of the support one can find within the blogging community.

And hey look at this page… my old blog name “Blah Blah” with three fat question marks beside it in red ink.
I know who inspired this comment.
Quadelle, my blogging buddy from NanBlo-losemysanity-WriMo last November.
She asked me why I called my blog “Blah Blah” which, in her indomitable Canadian manner, really meant why the feck is it called something so condescending?

She was right.

A long walk later saw the rebirth of my blog as 10% fiction.
A name that paid homage to the fact that blogging for me is the truth of my experience, told my way, subjectively, and with a growing sense that I am never far from those fiction techniques.
That though my posts are non-fiction they are in essence shaped as the micro-stories of my life.

And here are two notes on the same page written in grey lead, HB I think,

Domain names? and PROOF!
These notes refer to David who set up my very own domain, when I knew I was really ready, and was patient through all my know-nothing-about-programming-questions.
And…
Rosa who often, as a real-reader, proofs my writing (including my bio for Miscellaneous Voices, my first ever, whatthehelldoIwrite? bio…) and offers me invaluable doses of encouragement served upon platters of realism.

And as we flick through this notebook together I realise with a pang there is but one page left. Somewhere left of the middle.
But perhaps that is perfect.
For I only have one more word to write in it anyway.

With my favourite pen I write:

You.

Some of you I know. And some of you will always be faceless.
But whoever you are and however you found me, thank you for clicking on that link that brought you tumbling across oceans, down through cables and wi-fi invisibility straight into my world for a minute or two,
this past year.

Mental note- Tomorrow: Notepad shopping.

comments

Carla — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 11:30:00 +0000

i feel insular,
inside out,
separated sock.
letters scroll past,
squeezing my insides,
sharp consonants around lungs.
soft vowels around hearts.
there’s some kind of feeling in here.
some kind of overly,
self-critical-analysis.
that tears through the blue.
and there’s some kind of gratitude.
but it’s laced with,
something incapacitating,
pulled tight, stretched taut,
strummed by self doubt.
you’ve left behind words.
words that contain feelings.
as you notched another,
inch on the graph,
that some obsess about.
but of obsessive realities,
i have little care.
i’m simply obsessed with this pen,
and the a, s, d, f, g, h, j, k, l,
and a world to create,
within a world,
from inside this one and zero place,
that is fiction,
and yet,
also strangely true.
but most of all,
i am looking at myself,
trying to see what you do.
and offering the two words,
that you truly deserve.
they are,
Thank,
and,
they are,
You.

why bother…

Carla — Sat, 24 Apr 2010 05:12:27 +0000

In the spider-web of facts, many a truth is strangled. ~Paul Eldridge

I’m standing in the reservations line of the campus library.
Behind me are two undergrads involved in a cracking-conversation.

The first one, who is wearing leggings-as-pants, is asking the second one (who is also wearing leggings-as-pants) how she is doing at Uni. The second Ms-leggings-as-pants laughs and says to the first Ms-leggings-as-pants:

Well… I’m just scraping the bottom of the barrel (oh, I think to myself, with metaphors like that I’m not surprised dearie…) but I don’t care, she continues, as long as I just pass.

The first Ms-leggings-as-pants thinks this is hysterical and laughs loudly. One of the librarians shushes her, as only a librarian can do, and I think the other one may have suppressed a snort, but I’m not sure because I get beckoned to the counter and become engrossed in flashing my ID card at a nice young lad, who toddles off to fetch my book.

The book is Sol Stein’s: Stein on writing, and as the librarian places it in my hand I catch a whiff of library air… or rather, odour.

It’s a heady mix of old paper and unwashed socks… with a bottom note of, something… hmmm what is that aroma… ? I sniff deeply… oh… yeah… it’s weed.

Paper and things-unwashed and pot… it’s a smell most particular to University Libraries. And as I maneuver my way into the slipstream of students heading to classes, I take a deep breath of fresh air and I examine the book I’ve just received.

I feel the weight of it in my hands. It’s impressively library-like.
The old, black hard-back cover is greying on the corners. There’s no title on the front, the look-at-me dust-jacket has been discarded long ago. I rest the spine in my hand and allow it to fall open to a random page.

“…Let’s be sure we understand each other… A flashback must illuminate the present story in an important way. Otherwise, why bother?…”

Cue: wavy, shimmery flashback effect from any 70’s tv show…

My little Miss has a homework assignment.

She yells from her room, Muuuuummmm I need a dictionary.
I yell back… it’s in your brother’s roooooooom.
She replies: Can yooouuuuuuu get it?
I say… Noooooooo get it yourself (and, to be fair, I may or may not have tacked on the words ‘lazeeeee-butt-cheeks’ to the end of that sentence… I’ll leave it up to you to decide.)

A minute later I hear a very muffled:
Muuuuuuuuummmmm I can’t find it.

I’m not surprised.

More often than not I’m positive yellow-crime-scene-tape over big brother’s door would not at all look out of place.

I venture in, step over a nike runner, the guts of a hard drive that he has pulled apart *juscos I wanna see what’s inside* and a box that contains semi-precious stones (otherwise known as rocks from the garden) and I have a poke around his book shelves.
But, I concur- I cannot see the dictionary with its clunky green spine anywhere.

I look at the little Miss and she looks at me.
Then she shrugs and says… don’t worry mum I’ll use the online one.

Fabbo! Problem Solved! I think as I head back to the blank monitor I’ve been staring at for the past hour.

I’m trying to write.
Trying being the operative word.

I’ve convinced myself that if I sit looking at the whiter-than-white-whiteness of the monitor for just a few more minutes the words will come… any second now… I say to myself… soon… maybe…
wait-a-tic >insertsoundofscreechingbrakeshere< “the online one”? What?

I go to Miss 9’s bedroom and there she is expertly clacking away on her laptop “looking up” words via an internet dictionary. She looks like she knows exactly what she is doing.

I say to myself, most convincingly, this proves that the internetz is quite the convenient answer to many daily problemz.

But really what I’m thinking is hang on… is convenience really the priority here?

Cue: wavy, shimmery flash-forward to current day effect from any 70’s tv show…

As I open the door to the Uni lecture room I’m debating with myself the value of online dictionaries and the love-hate relationship I have with the *check spelling* and auto-correct feature of word processors.

They are so freakin’ handy, but I’m alarmed at the rising trend of poor spelling. I’m quite convinced text-slang and spell-checkers are assisting this sad turn of events. However, I remind myself philosophically, language changes over time, ‘tis verily the nature of thine world and the natural process of social evolution… and as I’m pondering the thought of whether there is merit in deleting the question mark from the pages of punctuation books forever, I realise that my fellow post-grads are having a lively discussion of their own.

It’s that old chestnut: online learning vs. on campus learning.

One student, a shiny-sweet undergrad who has gone straight into her Master’s degree, has just denounced professor whatshisface for having a strict no-interaction policy with his online students.
As I write professor whatshisface’s name on my notepad I say loudly… this is just to remind me not to select his subject! The group laughs then the girl looks at me earnestly, helpfully and says… aha… but if you want an easy subject his assignments are basic…
I stop, a little too quickly, and say,
But I’m not here for easy.

There is a thickness in the air.

Then I laugh.
The tension is broken. The group chuckles. I hope she was joking they think collectively.

But, truth is, I wasn’t.

As I walk to my car after class, I have one of those doh-moments-of-clarity.

Online dictionaries do not require you to know that-
el comes before emenoh-pee.

I beep my car open, toss Sol Stein onto the seat and fossick around in my bag for my iphone.
I finger-flick past the page that has my dictionary and thesaurus apps searching for the voice recorder.

I press record.
And I say:

Mental note:
tomorrow go and buy the little Miss her very own dictionary.

Stein, S 1995, Stein On Writing A Master Editor of Some of the Most Successful Writers of Our Century Shares His Craft Techniques and Strategies, St Martin’s Press, New York, p 144.

the book

Carla — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 13:17:30 +0000

Oh! Mum said… you should put this away! Somewhere safe. It’s precious! Umm… no, I reply, I mean, yes it’s precious, but it was made to be read. To become dog eared. To maybe even, shock of shocks, get a corner or two folded, (but only when I’ve come across something that ripples across my soul so suddenly that I haven’t the time to look for one of the gadzillion book marks I’ve accumulated over the years.) Books are made to be handled, held, cradled. That is why they are hand size. They are made to fall on your face when you read them as you drift off to sleep. They smell and they get stained by tears or oily fingers, especially if you read them while eating salt and vinegar chips. They fit in your bag. Or poke out of your pocket, if you have one big enough. And you never really worry about losing them, because they didn’t cost five hundred and ninety nine dollars at the Apple store. You share them and then converse about them over lattes. Good lattes, not crap instant coffees. And when you are doing the aforementioned conversing you make a point, and flick through the pages, looking for the paragraph you are referring to… and feel a tiny breath of book air whisper over your face, as the contents whiz by. And now I can see my name in print, look there, at the top of a crisp white page. Where before I’ve only ever seen it on a screen. And I look at my Mum and I say, but that’s just the point of it. This book was made to be held in our hands and read.

And she looks at the book.

And she agrees.

I received an advanced copy of the anthology,
Miscellaneous Voices Australian Blog Writing #1
and I have to say… I’m really quite honoured to be included amongst such fine Australian writers.
Launch date: April 14th 2010, Readings, Lygon Street.

endings and beginnings

carladelvex — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 12:55:49 +0000

In honour of our month of blogging inspired by Mary Schmich’s Commencement Speech of 1997, Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young it was decided that a fitting way to end our journey-of-torture-and-pain would be to write our own commencement speech.

(Well… it seemed like a good idea at the time…)

So Ladies and Gentlemen,

Forgive me this indulgence,

and

Without further ado…

I welcome you all,

and offer this Guide to life for graduates.

Dear class of 2009,

Today is not about endings or beginnings.

It is about continuations.

From the moment of conception it’s true that you were already the winner of that million to one swimmy-race. Keep striving for success. For aiming low becomes nothing less than a self fulfilling prophecy.

Don’t wake up grumpy in the morning. It’s a doleful waste of time and it certainly doesn’t make the coffee taste any sweeter.

Don’t drink and drive.

Don’t sms and drive, don’t talk on your mobile phone and drive, don’t do your lipgloss and drive, don’t twitter and drive, don’t eat a big mac and drive.

Do sing and drive.

Speculation is the work-of-the-devil. Think clearly and plan ahead for any eventualities but know that speculating on what other people may or may not do is like trying to catch moon dust with a tennis racket.

Never be afraid to admit when you are wrong.

Never be afraid to reach out a hand for help.

Always say thank you.

Remember there is very little in this world that is not about advertising. Impartiality on all accounts rarely exists. Deal with it.

When you fall in love allow yourself to free-fall hard. But never fall for anyone who wants to change you.

Unless you have a bad underwear habit that needs amending.

That change is perfectly acceptable.

There’s nothing wrong with men being men and women being women. But there is definitely something wrong with inequality.

Note that the universe is a place of synergy. Even the most annoying bug has it’s reason for existing in this chain of life. There is only one thing that does not belong and should be eradicated from this planet.

And that is prejudice.

The voice inside your head is powerful. Tune in and pay attention.

Never forget to enjoy simple pleasures. When you were a child a trip to a park with a sand pit was a delight. As we grow older cynicism controls our excitement meter. Don’t ever forget the wonder of flying through the air on a swing, or the first suck of a shiny red lollipop.

Look inside when you are troubled. Rarely will you find the true answers that you seek from any external source.

Not everyone you meet on the internet is a freak or a geek or a sexual deviant.

Most are,

but not everyone.

Absorb technology and stay ahead of the latest fads but don’t forget to read books. Real books made from real paper with real spines and real smells.

Flowers die, diamonds are forever. But if you can’t afford diamonds, write a letter.

Walk straight, tall and proud. Never hide behind grey clouds when you can be wearing rainbows.

Be a traveler not a tourist. Inhale the sights and taste the sounds. Read the Lonely Planet guide from front cover to back, but then leave it at home.

Attitude belongs in a box with all the other remnants from your teenage years. It will have good company with pimples, underage binge drinking and MSN. Pop a lid on it and reminisce about it when you are fifty.

When you apologise do it with sincerity or don’t do it at all.

Choose items with the least amount of packaging. Buy chicken that has roamed the earth and is hormone free. Grow fresh herbs in your own garden. Take smaller steps in this big world.

Till the end of your days keep your brain active. Your hips may fail and your teeth may drop out, but if your mind is alert your life will always be Spring.

Perspective is everything. And Dogs are not accessories.

Potential unrealised will be the biggest regret of your life. Don’t have regrets.

Good Luck Class of 2009.

Continue on this path graduates, and try not to allow anything or anyone to interrupt you.

Interruptions may at times happen.

But is entirely up to you,

as to whether you stumble over them,

or let them completely halt you.

full circle nostalgia

carladelvex — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 21:35:55 +0000

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it’s worth. – Mary Schmich

When I was a kid we walked to school every day, rain, hail or shine. We had to cross over Simonelli’s farm to get there. Marcello sometimes played his…what do you call it in English again? Harmonica? Si, yes, the harmonica…he played, I sang and we did our best not to fall in the ditches on the way…

When I was a kid I rode my bike to school or sometimes Mum drove us in the yellow station wagon. It was only three minutes by car. Lucky…cos listening to her home-made mixed cassettes was not ‘groovy’, not ‘groovy’ at all. Back then all I wanted to do was listen to was Abba… but instead I got Simon and Garfunkle and Carly Simon. It took me forever, but eventually I appreciated mum’s choice in tunes. Yeah, I really did.

When I was a kid mum drove us to school every day. She said it was too dangerous to walk by ourselves. Gawd I hated the cd’s she played. Robbie Williams mostly sucks. I thanked-the-lawd for my i-pod.

When I was a kid we always tried to carpool to school. Mrs Wilson let us listen to the free-to-air radio, but dad always had some oldies playing… stuff like Kings of Leon and Robbie Williams and some vintage Queen. He always said that Robbie Williams reminded him of Grandma. I don’t get it. But I do miss Grandma.

When I was a kid Mum always drove us to school, heh, as long as she’d remembered to power-up the car. Poor mum, every second week we were running up the staircase to Mrs Arnold’s apartment to try to mooch a lift of her. I liked Mrs Arnold’s car though, each seat had it’s own flat screen and dock station. Back then that was a big deal.

When I was a kid I just fired up my lappy and bing I was at school. Well… I guess the air’s a little better now than it used to be back in my day. Music? We used to file share podcasts on g-wave 19.0. I know, I know… it’s old fashioned protocols for you mod guys. But that’s how we did it back in the good ole days…

When I was a kid we walked to school. Son…we’d all learnt our lessons by then.

combing

carladelvex — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 12:34:32 +0000

Don’t mess too much with your hair or by the time you’re 40 it will look 85. -Mary Schmich

The regular walked in and for the first time she was wearing a happy-coloured head scarf. Coffee’s on me today, I told her. Decaf right?

***

I only ever fancied men with dark, dark hair, but Legolas and Spike once caught my eye. However, they’re not human are they?… So does that really count?

***

She was bigger than Miley in China, a pint-sized-fair-superstar. The locals all wanted to pose with her for photos, but none ever, ever touched what they prized the most, her long, spirally, spaghetti-coloured hair.

***

Granny always was a red-head. Frizzy, curly and cropped short. An orangey-halo. The day she stopped dying her hair I stood frozen on the linoleum floor looking up at her. She was completely grey. And she suddenly looked old…like a… granny.

***

Shite the hairdresser sighed holding my hair in one hand. At least I wont need to thin it out anymore, he said, oh…don’t worry…I doubt anyone else would notice. I looked down at the effen-awesome-heels I was rockin’.

***

What are you doing? I asked eyeing the box in the bathroom. It’s just getting too grey he said. But I thought quietly to myself… that’s the way I like it.

***

Dad was completely silver by twenty-five. Look at my back though, he would say…not a silver one there. Go fucking figure.

***

Our friend the ginger-ninja once admitted that she couldn’t find a scrunchie so she used a g-string to tie her hair up with. My daughter wanted to know where the ginger-ninja got a violin string from? I wanted to know who the bloody-hell still wears scrunchies?

***

Nonno’s head looks like a bowling ball! They laughed. Hey! I said, that’s not a nice thing to say. What? Why? We love bowling!

***

My hair is curly and I straighten it every day. I curse at it, and at how effen long it takes to make look nice. And then I remember the regular.

And… I curse at it a little less.

lessons in cold hard cash

carladelvex — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 12:08:29 +0000

Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you’ll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out. –Mary Schmich

For the past couple of years my son has begged during the Christmas hols to work at my café so that he can earn a little extra pocket money.

Only problem is he was nine when he first started asking…and well… although my capitalist heart beats to the sound of cheap labour even I knew that would be breaking some terribly important child protection laws…

But he was devo when I said no, so one day I allowed him to tag along with me and armed with a green-cloth set him about cleaning vacated tables and flat-packing cardboard boxes for recycling… all under my eagle eye.

Last year he even asked for a work uniform. He’s a tall lad, in fact at ten he was taller than some of the fully grown staff I’ve hired and he looked so terribly eager that I thought…well what was the harm?

The manager bossed him around good and proper, told him he wasn’t allowed anywhere near the kitchen and sent him off to empty bins and clear tables. Surprisingly he was actually quite good at having a chat to the customers as he cleared away their little messes, and as his parent I was right pleased at how well he conducted himself for someone so young.

An elderly lady took the time to tell him he was doing a very good job, then her husband asked,

“How old are you sonny?”

“I’m ten” he answered.

“And do you work here?” the old man said.

I suddenly had a nooooooooooooooo-in-slow-motion-moment as I heard him answer proudly…

“Yes, yes I do.”

I could have swore that the old man dropped a wrinkly little F-bomb as they turned and walked away mumbling something along the lines of ‘damn cheek the owner has’… and I remained on high-alert for a letter from child services for the next three months.

Luckily none arrived.

At home that afternoon my son was busy telling a relative about his “new job”, and this relative, being the stirrer that he is, got my son all fired up…

“So how much do you get paid?” the stirrer said.

“Mum gives me five dollars an hour.” my boy proudly answered.

“What? Only five dollars?” the stirrer said with a mock-astonished tone to his voice, “Mate, you’re getting ripped off!”

“I am?” my son answered, puzzled “What do you think I should be getting?”

“Geez well your mum owns that café, let’s see, she should at least pay you ten bucks an hour.”

I sat waiting for a call from the Shop-assistants union… and sure enough it came a little later that night…

“Mum,” my son said with an exceptionally brave look on his face, “can we talk?”

“Of course.” I said…knowing exactly what was coming.

“Well I’ve been thinking about work [...you know I'm trying very hard to stifle a giggle and keep a straight face at this point...] and I think I probably should get at least ten dollars an hour.”

“Hmm,” I answered casually, “you know, you’re probably right. Sounds only fair.”

My son looked jubilant.

“But,” I continued “if I give you a pay rise then we need to consider the cost of the things you eat and drink when you’re supposed to be working… so let’s see, you had an iced chocolate and cinnamon scroll at the start of your ‘shift’ today… then you had a sausage roll… oh and a bottle of water… and when you left you took a banana muffin…so let’s see that adds up to…hmmm… oh imagine that…you actually owe me six dollars and forty-five cents.”

I hold out my hand.

“Oh,” my son said “on second thoughts I think I’m pretty happy with the five dollars an hour… ”

Thought so! I think to myself as I watch him sheepishly backing out of the room…

dominos and card games

carladelvex — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 11:28:30 +0000

Respect your elders. -Mary Schmich

1979

She sat very quiet. Some might say as quiet as a mouse, although really she was more of a chameleon. Merging with the beige couch, her little knees together, back straight, eyes looking, but absolutely no speaking.

When it was time for dinner she was beckoned to join the adults at the table. In front of her the grandmother placed a fine bone-china bowl brimming with hot soup. It was thin with golden coloured slicks of fat and a twig of limp dill floating on top. She was afraid to eat the dill because she didn’t like the look of it. So she took her spoon and carefully maneuvered her way around the bowl, pushing the herb to one side and doing her best to avoid the lump of soft carrot that lay on the bottom. She would have liked to have a piece of the hard rye bread that sat in the silver bread basket, winking darkly at her from between a crisply folded cloth napkin. But not one person offered it and she would never reach for it, nor ask. So thoughts of sopping soup up with chunks of brown bread remained just that, mere thoughts in this child’s mind.

After dinner she returned to the couch, knees together, back straight, eyes looking, but absolutely no speaking. The grandmother placed in front of her a rectangular box that she knew was filled with neat rows of black domino tiles. The grandfather smiled briefly and then returned to his adult conversation assured that his granddaughter was now well entertained. But dominos were not much fun to play with by your self. She touched the top of the box and slid the lid back and forth on the tiny wooden grooves. Then she wondered to herself if the dominos ever felt as though they were living in a coffin.

2009

She sat very quiet. Some might say as quiet as a mouse, although really she was more of a chameleon. Merging behind the beige couch, suppressing the giggle that bubbled up into her throat as she spied on her grandfather, walking backwards and forwards, ever so near and yet still ruminating loudly on where-oh-where could she possibly be? Finally, bursting with impatience, she leapt- arms wide open to surprise the old man who never failed to clutch at his heart as though the shock would be the very end of them all.

He took her by the hand to the table where the grandmother had placed a hot bowl of penne to cool ready for her, white and floating in butter, just the way she liked it. The grandfather got her a soft bread roll and the grandmother gave her a glass of cool lemonade before they sat to their own meal of pasta drenched in red sauce and smothered in hard flakes of stinky cheese.

After dinner they sat together for hours, slurping on orange segments and spitting lupini skins. They taught her the old village card game of cups and clubs, smiling at the grandfather’s obvious attempts of cheating by storing aces in his top pocket, purposely visible so that his granddaughter would be delighted at catching him out every single time. At the end of the game he played a trick that she adored, pulling a shiny gold coin from her ear. She smiled and laughed out aloud with the joy of it all- throwing herself into his arms for a long hug which ended with two little kisses on his bristly cheek. Then he popped the shiny gold coin in her hand and kissed the top of her head in a quiet blessing of praise for the precious gift he had been given.

the truth is down there

carladelvex — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 13:32:23 +0000

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you’ll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders. –Mary Schmich

You probably all think the only truth that can be counted on is death. Right?

Bollocks!

We know very little about death.

All that shite about walking into white lights, heaven and hell, being reincarnated as the gnat on a donkeys ass and ghostys woooooo!

Wooo indeed.

Really who the fek knows?

So death, sure we can count on it… but if we barely know anything about it- can it truly be considered a truth?

There is one truth we can definitely count on.

It’s something which surrounds you right now.

It grips you and you are totally compliant under its power…and you never, ever, ever, even think about it.

It’s like the hypnotist who can make you cluck-like-a-chook at the click of his fingers…

Yes, ladies and gentlemen…

Introducing…

Gravity.

Gravity the single most compelling force of our universe and it is there for every stage of our living existence…

When we are young… and we jumped up consumed by a childish tanty-rage it was gravity that pulled us back to earth just in time for a swat to the tushy by our frazzled mothers.

And gravity is there again for us as teenagers, planting our feet firmly to the ground when our heads fill like expandable helium balloons swelling with our own self importance (cast your mind back…remember how clever you thought you were at fifteen?? Effen idiots weren’t we?)

And for sure- if gravity is quite simply the effect that pulls two particles together, the explanation for the force of attraction between all masses of this wondrous universe, then it stands to reason that gravity is the catalyst for the romance in our lives…

What do you mean you don’t believe me?

Well… what if I told you gravity is horny.

Need further convincing?

Okay follow me…

In space when enough matter collects- the force of gravity is strong enough to propel the teeny tiny hydrogen atoms into the teeny tiny helium atoms and this fusion releases enough energy to turn on a star.

Only gravity is sexy enough to actually turn on a star…

And let’s face it…what’s more romantic than a stroll together under a starry night? All those stars baby and all thanks to gravity!

So far, so good? Okay.

Well, this my friends, is where my love affair with gravity takes a steep and nasty turn down Fugly Street.

Let’s face it gravity is not so much of a friend as you get older.

It’s the reason for that little sag you spy. The little part of you that used to be perky and is now…well, perhaps best described as creeping a little closer to the use-by date.

Not expired as such, just a little wilted, like a lettuce leaf left in the sun perhaps a half-hour too long.

It’s okay at first, barely noticeable even… but as the years progress gravity will become the most bitter lolly you suck on.

Laugh all you want at the thought of men’s balls sagging down into their white sports socks… it’s the image of my hubby reaching down under the table for a boob-grope that terrifies me…

Gravity. Ugh.

By that stage in our lives it will be no freakin’ bloody wonder the other meaning for gravity is “a manner that is most serious and solemn.”

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PeyOnNple4M]