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walk away

Get to know your parents. You never know when they’ll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They’re your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future. – Mary Schmich

 

21st November 2009,
Melbourne
 
 
Dear Dad,
 
Well it’s been ages since we spoke.
More than ages really … ages can be mere days when you are newly in love, or for most ages is weeks, or possibly even a month or two. But this ages has been over two years. And, yes I agree the time has just flown.
We’ve had our moments of silence before. Often in fact. But this time seems quite final. It seems to be over.
It’s not you who has changed. This time. It is me.
 
With age comes wisdom…well, that is something you always taught me, but I’m not sure if you ever realised that it might not work to your advantage. One day. 
For before when we’ve disagreed, which is polite talk for arguments of contempt and misunderstanding, I’ve been disconsolate and heartbroken and longed for you to remember the little girl who sought your attention.
And wanted your praise. And wanted your acceptance.
 
But this last time was an insult. You handed me a long draught of bitter pride.
Yes, for sure, it was just the same old arguments, tired rehashes of miscommunication.
But there was a difference apparent.
I am now a grown woman, with children of my own and a life of my own and failures of my own and successes of my own.
And a mind of my own.
 
And there is the difference.

It’s not you who has changed. This time. It is me.
 
So I look at you and see the man who was my father. Who provided me with a decent childhood. And all the comforts one could afford.
And I see the little boy who was raised motherless. Orphaned by his own father for convenience.
And I see a person of infinite pride. Stubborn and consumed.
 
So I am finished with the tears and the tantrums and the rage. I’m far too old for it all.
 
You were always good at teaching me, but I know now that you never accepted the lessons for yourself.
Yes, you were right, with age comes wisdom.

But it’s not always the wisdom of knowing when to keep one’s mouth shut.

And it’s not always the wisdom of forgive and forget.
 
 
 
Sometimes it’s the wisdom of simply knowing,
when someone is never going to change.
Of when enough is enough.
And,
of when to just walk away.
 
Your daughter,
Carla

mirror, mirror

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly. – Mary Schmich

Striking through this awful fury was the sound of breaking glass.

 

She realised that she’d smashed the mirror that hung above their bed, her bed, with the flung heel of her boyfriend’s left behind dress shoe.

 

Seven years bad luck reverberated throughout the apartment. It somewhat sounded like her own voice. And it somewhat calmed her rage. 

 

Sometimes, however, rage is more preferable to broody, pouty melancholy. 

 

She sat on the bed and picked up one of the shards of mirror; noticing the fierce edge, riveted by thinking of  the damage that could be done.

She saw that if she held the piece up close enough she could just see proof of her own face. The tiniest aspect. An eye. A wedge of perfectly proportioned brow. The sharp line that connects ear to jaw. Very jagged pieces of self,  reflected back.

Each piece was disconnect. But in every way they all were her.

Yes, that’s right, I am the model from the magazines. June Vogue.

His words cut through her thoughts, tumbling off the slammed door, like waves of nausea.

“…and you’re fucking, fucking ugly on the inside…”

She didn’t buy it.

Arse wipe, she thought. Nobody had ever told her she wasn’t beautiful.

mother's soliloquy

Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them. – Mary Schmich

 

 

I’ve been waiting and dreading

And yet also dreaming of the day

You would ask me this question.

 

The day you would come to me for advice,

Flushed and heady, sparkling eyes,

Full of that somebody new.

 

What will I say to you my love?

 

It will be a wrench to see you all grown up

And yet such a sweet victory too.

 

But truly…there are no directions for this.

No instruction manual, recipe or crib notes available.

 

You must wing it on emotions and stirrings of lust.

 

Look for chemistry,

 

In the worst of clichés,

 

Such as hearts that skip a beat

And falter

And are resuscitated by warm lips.

And soft words.

 

But,

 

Don’t ever think you can time it,

Nor tame it,

It is not yours to possess,

Or to have or to hold.

 

It’s organic and mysterious,

And grows in dark places.

Between words,

In the rain,

And on the sea.

 

So the best advice I am able to give,

Is this simple message,

Without form or clarity, 

 

I will shrug my shoulders and say to you,

 

That you will just know,

 

You will simply just know.

 

 

 

Dance,

even if you have nowhere to do it but your livingroom. -Mary Schmich

 

Ladies and gentlemen… today I am taking a small break from our regularly scheduled programming… but it couldn’t be more pertinent, even if I had tried.

 

I’d like to dedicate today’s post

to a very dedicated little girl.

 

Who has jazz hands, and pointed toes, and can stretch and extend and cartwheel and smile, smile smile.

 

My daughter.

Miss eight.

Who has her big  Jazz  Ballet Concert this weekend.

Brava Bella!

Encore!

 

 

 

 

the egg convo

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own. – Mary Schmich

 

 

Gawd remember how contorted we used to get in the back seat of your Cortina?

 

Yeah…what was that colour called again?

 

Heh, yeah I don’t remember either…some kinda dark green…

 

ahh we were so young back then…oh… remember it had the sunroof that always leaked?

 

Ah yeah… that’s right it only ever leaked on me if you turned a corner too fast. You turned a lot of freakin’ fast corners back then…

 

Yeah heh… wet-tshirts always were your favourite… pfft…

 

Oh yeah that’s right…  british racing green…yeah racing green…

 

Gawd… remember the stick shift knob? It would always fall off…

 

Yeah really, reeeeally ironic… heh…

 

Oh my gawd… I forgot about that night…

 

The egg … heh heh… did it  fall on the boot or the bonnet I can’t remember?

 

On the boot, yeah you’re right… geez it gave me a fright… I knew we’d been egged… but remember what you said?

 

Yep that it musta fallen out of that tree… from a nest… fek me… yeah babe …you would have said just about annnyyyything…

 

Yes… of course I didn’t believe you…

 

I know, I know you wanted to prove it to me… heh… remember we both got out of the car to look…

 

You picked up the shell… remember what I said when we saw it?

 

Yeah, heh…that’s right..hehe… eggs from nests don’t have bloody use by stamps on them!

 

Gawd… do you think we could still do it?

 

You know…go necking… in the back seat of the car?

 

Yeah you’re probably right…

 

pfft… yeah family car now…heh…ah the booster seat would be in the way…

 

oh yeah… and your sore back…

 

Hmm? you’re right… my dumb knee…

 

God it was great to be young…

 

What?

 

Oh… yeah that’s right… we didn’t have a king size bed then though…

…did we?

 

 

nuptial half chances

Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have children, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else’s. – Mary Schmich

 

 


26-1
 This woman did not alight from the wedding car, on the morn of her special day, pausing for the photographer, smile and click, all the while thinking her marriage would be half chance.

 

99a

This gentleman did not raise his glass, as Father of the Groom, and say a toast to communal property negotiations.

 

107a

 

This newly married husband and wife did not smile and celebrate with their friends all the time wondering what their signatures would look like on the official divorce documents.

 

 

116a

These wedding guests did not stop the newlyweds, who were on their way to the honeymoon, only to wish them all the blessings of shared custody arrangements.

 

 

non formatted knee

Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You’ll miss them when they’re gone. –Mary Schmich

 

 …drink all the cow juice you want but it wont stop the dickhead in front of you who slams on his brakes for no apparent reason which makes you slam on your brakes in order to avoid impact which you thank g*d that you do but a fraction of a fraction of a second later you realise that the person behind you had far less control and the person behind them and the person behind them and you are rammed and rammed and rammed calling out to your mum to see if she is okay while you dimly realise that the red dash that your knee is crushed against had once upon a time been dark grey and there is a crutch that you need and there is a hobble and there is a recovery time that seems to drag on and on but eventually you are fine only to find many years later the pain has returned like an evil spirit once exorcised exacting its severe and unmitigated revenge upon your joint and you spit chips just to walk into x-ray where you say no I’m not pregnant but recognise pregnancy bodes you well for the agony you will feel later while watching the sharpest of needles be inserted deeply under your skin into the tiniest of spaces between knee cap and bone until it’s decided that the best course of action is a weekly injection of golden untouchable toxins that make you cry real tears of acid as you walk back to your car every single friday at exactly two-forty-five…

let me entertain you

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don’t.Mary Schmich


 

Fek me Mary! I don’t like where this is heading.

Do you really want me to perform a slow strip in front of all these people? Do I really have to expose myself, one painful revelation of dumbass at a time? Button by button? 

 

Have I ever known what I wanted?

 

In High School I aced English and Lit, but my teacher was a smarmy bastard with a porno moustache and squinty eyes. The Graphics teacher on the other hand was young and cute. Suddenly I wanted to be a Graphic Designer. 

 

I walk stage left and begin peeling off one long, elbow length white glove. 

I drop it to the floor. 

 

Here’s the problem… I was shite at graphics and very ill-prepared to boot. 

 

I walk stage right and work the other glove…

I’m rolling it down to reveal a smooth bare arm…

I’m  peeling it off slowly finger by finger…and then…

I wait for the perfect drum beat,

the perfect dramatic moment to flick it hard to the floor.

 

At Uni I fell into an English major, stirring in a little education degree on the side. Everyone was convinced that I’d be a great teacher. And at some point everyone convinced me. But at graduation there was regional work and a few nail-biting gigs teaching year nines. The effen little horrors.

Suddenly I was no longer convinced. 

 

I return to the middle of the stage and am grateful for the lights that shine into my eyes.

I begin unbuttoning my blouse starting at the unobvious bottom.

Slowly…I undo them and  push one shoulder forward,

exposing pale glowing skin and a peek of cleavage. 

 

Then a job that unexpectedly fell into my lap became somewhat satisfying. Marketing in the pretty-pill-whorehouse of a multi-national pharmaceutical company. 

It had never been in my dreams, but there were words and brain usage beyond what I had experienced. And it was a comforting way to pretend it was all I’d ever wanted. 

Until the day of the big whoop-it-up congratulations-to-us marketing meeting.

An A-List product had hit a milestone of dollars and sales worthy of tooting trumpets. The product was an anti-depressant. And during the back slapping and champagne corks I felt no less than emptiness.

With pin prick focus all I could see was the sheer volume of money being spent by all those depressives and the irony of toasting the good health of this product. 

Hooray! Hooray! For all you sick-with-the-business-of-livings out there! 

It was time to go. 

 

I stay centre stage and know it’s time for a bit of skirt…I unzip it at the back and shimmy, shimmy…

 

I’ve always had this niggle of a feeling, of tickets in my hand that held promises of excitement and adventures to come. But when I look at them I’m painfully startled by the realisation that they are stamped use-by the early nineties.

 

Well my friends there’s little left between you and me ‘cept for these heels and this ridiculously long and cleverly placed black feather boa.

 

Fek it.

Sorry, but I’ve never once desired to be the perfect-stay-at-home-mum.

I had itchy feet and itchy palms and an itchy need to find that something I could do, something I could call my own.

But I never picked up my pen.

I answered that call stupidly inhaling the cafes one by one until seven years later I am all coffee beans and gen-y staff and freakin’ cake crumbs. And the deep secret that the thrill of the treacherous learning curve was over, far earlier than anticipated. 

 

I know I’ve wafted through the last seven years of my life under a radar of sorts, dodging the admiration of my friends who all look at me as if I’m some kind of 

 

successful business woman.  

 

I understand why they think that way. But it can only feel like fraud to me.

  

I’m all feathery black and ivory…

and then suddenly

I’m sick with the realisation of how close to raw-exposure I’ve become.

I clutch at the curtains and wind myself around and around, until I’m deeply wrapped in a warm red-fringed-velvety cocoon.

 

“Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do” is all bloody well and good Mary. 

It’s the guilt you feel when you know what you want to do…and never do it that is the fuck-note of your life.

 

One day I’ll admit it to myself. Out aloud.

Brave the criticism, the self doubt and the but you’re so, so, unworthy.

 

And I will have the whole world hold me, 

in just two hands.

 

 

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYltYpRv-rA]

IRL

I am intrigued by you. 

By your inspiration, your process, your thoughts.

Where do you sit when you write?

Do you pen it or tap tap tap?

 

At home,

The study, the office,

a cosy corner café with wi-fi?

 

Within procrastination city

You are not In Real Life. 

Yet I know that you

Breath and make love and you cry.

 

Here you share platitudes.

Gracious with each other. 

Funny.

Jolting.

Hidden. 

 

Reality in here

can be the reality of anonymity.

 

I am real. 

This is what I see when I am writing.

 

IMG_0403

 

I wish I had a long dark room,

silent in the night to the world of Mummy and Carla,

With wall to ceiling bookshelves,

sighing under the weight of sturdy spines and wordy words.

Instead,

There is a gum tree outside,

and here on my desk

is the only plant I haven’t killed. 

Yet.

 

I smell vanilla and paper.

And see

Scattered images, attempts at inspiration.

 

Today they are little squares of mostly me. 

Little me. 

I was as real then as I am now.

Yet before me they sit

like the avatars of the one hundred and forty.

 

But I tell you that it’s true…

 

I am real.

 

And so are you.

Stretch- Mary Schmich

shepherds-pie

Recently I signed up for devilishly-evil-literary-genius Neil Kramer’s  world renown- The Great Interview Experiment .

Immediately after I had joined the comment queue I sat wondering who would land on me  (for me to interview) and who would land under me  (to interview me).

I waited, nervously looking up and looking down… 

feeling oddly trapped in the kitschy opening credits of the Brady Bunch… 

then voila! 

I saw that I had luckily ended up the meat in a lovely-erm-lady-sandwich.

*Cue the lights and fanfare* 

I was to interview Ms. Velvet Verbosity.

I tentatively stretched a hand of welcome out into the wobbly ether of the internet, hoping it would be accepted and clasped, (as opposed to slapped and spat at) and much to my delight it was gripped and shook firmly by a character, of wit, warmth and intelligence.

Over the past two days I’ve spent some time tip-toe-ing stalkerishly through Velvet’s web site and found I was fascinated by her penchant for 100 word challenges.

 I love a challenge. 

So I set about designing the Interview based on something I thought Velvet would like (even though it fully screwed with my mind.)

There is not an *and* or a *but* more than 100 words in the questions which I sent her,

and here is how it went…

 

 
You have a stunning name, Velvet Verbosity. How did you come up with it?
 
I’d like to say that my rapier sharp wit just pulled that one out of the air, but choosing the name actually took a lot of time, and a lot of cruising through the dictionary and thesaurus.  What I knew was that I wanted the name to relate to writing, and somehow capture the particular flavor of my writing, and I also knew I wanted it to start with V.   Because V is the most awesome letter in the alphabet when you stop and think about it.   It is completely contradictory.  Visually, it is strong, clean, sharp and decisive, yet acoustically and sensationally it is entirely luxurious. 
 
 
What inspired you to create the 100 word challenge?

You know, I started blogging a few times on various other platforms before landing here.  I started out on Friendster (show of hands please!) and had a built in readership with my friends, and whenever I posted something new it showed up on my profile.  Kind of easy-peasy.  When Friendster died, I tried moving it to Myspace.  I wasn’t really looking to blog-blog at that point, I just wanted to write when I felt like it and have a few people read it.  Anyway, Myspace was awful on so many levels, so I joined a small network of blogs that were operated under an early template of social networking sites.  Again, built in readership, only this time it wasn’t people I knew first hand, but I quickly became friends with a few other people that were serious about trying to write something good.  The 100 Word Challenge was started there, and not by me, as a fun writing exercise we could share.  

When I left to set up an independent blog, I didn’t have a clue about “real” blogging, and I also didn’t have any particular direction in mind.  I hadn’t even really started reading other blogs, most I found randomly weren’t very good.  Somehow, I heard about NaBloPoMo and joined that in 2007 where I picked up a small readership, and suddenly felt like I had to pick some sort of direction. I saw some common ingredients in “successful” blogs.  

There was the “Let it All Hang Out” method, where anonymity is thrown to the wind, and entire lives are put out there in the public eye.  I’ve never had the stomach for it.  One of my readers has said I’m radically private for a blogger.  What I’m looking to share are parts of my mind, my art if you will, not my whole life.

Then there was humor, or to be more accurate, snark.  These days the two seem to be interchangeable.  I can do snark, when I want to.  Trouble is, I like snark as much as the next blogger, but I do get bored with reading it after a while, and kind of like I need a shower after reading an abundance of it.  So I feel disingenuous when I try to move my blog in that direction.  I save it for random Twitter moments, and to deflect personal questions. 

Finally, the popular expert method -  staying focused on one topic until you’re deemed an expert by the sheer volume of unique hits per month to your blog. In 2007, I wasn’t ready to dedicate a lot of time to blogging, and would have needed 3-4 blogs to focus on my passions.  

So, as I was wrestling to figure it all out, I introduced the 100 Word Challenge, sort of as a stop gap, but also because I had loved this exercise in the community blogging, and I was really hoping to revive it with the readers from that community that were still following me.  As luck would have it, two of the three bloggers from that community confessed that they had always hated the exercise.  Oh well.  My other readers, however, snapped it right up, so really, it all sort of happened because a butterfly flapped its wings somewhere and this is where I ended up. 

Incidentally, I’ve also seen it done on other blogs. In fact, there’s a blogger whose every post is 100 Words, and another blog where the entire blog is focused on a 100 word challenge, and recently I “met” a college English professor who uses this exercise with her students.    

Banana Sandwiches with ketchup sound positively torturous.
What food is your ultimate pleasure?
 
Shepherd’s Pie is my comfort food.  When I was in college, there was a market across the street from me that had the best Shepherd’s Pie, so during high stress times (every day for four years), I was single-handedly wiping out their supply. 
And chocolate.  Of course chocolate.
 
 
You signed up for NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo? Why? Are you certifiable?
 
Possibly.  Seriously though, I’m that woman who has been writing her whole life, but never dared call herself a writer or pursue that passion because it wasn’t practical.  Then you reach this point in your life where you realize if you don’t start doing what you love, your soul is going to shrivel and blacken and you’ll end up being that crazy old woman who has a permanent scowl, eats children for breakfast, and smells like decay on burnt toast.  When I thought about that, signing up for both seemed the most sane and practical thing I could do.  
 
 
What book on your shelf could you not live without and why?
 
What is this, like Sophie’s Choice?  I’d have to choose from the Eastern Religions books, the Neuroscience books, the Feminist books, the Fiction, and the beloved Children’s books.  But I guess if you were going to murder them all if I didn’t choose one, it would be “If you Give a Pig a Pancake”, because it makes me laugh, and it makes children laugh, and if all my books were gone I would need that.
 
On twitter you say your location is: Who Invited the Stalkers?
 
Who would you like to be stalked by? Why?
 
Is this a trick question?  Like I’m going to invite the stalkers?  You know, now that I think about it, I wouldn’t mind telling people that Pete “Geeky-Sexy” Cashmore once stalked me.  Why?  Just note the middle name.
 
 
Who would you stalk? Why?
 
In today’s online world, I feel like I’m all-stalk-all-the-time.  You ever feel that way when you’re reading Tweets, or looking at someone’s newly posted photo album on Facebook?  I do.  Every once in a while I suddenly feel like I know way too much about pretty much everybody.  

I would probably totally stalk The Bloggess, because I really want to know if she and Victor really have those conversations the way she says. 

 
If you were the first sentence in your very own novel what would that line be?

 
When she was asked the question, “If you were the first sentence in your very own novel, what would that line be?”, she answered, “I don’t give out the genius for free”.
Cheers,
VV

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