Grace Notes @ Snarkattack

Both my parents are postcolonials.

In terms of personal identity, sometimes it really fucks me up.

Other times it seems fantastic because it means I belong to several different cultures (Indian, British, Filipino, Spanish, Australian).

Anyway, I’m posting a note that a cousin of mine wrote. He lives in Canada, and unlike me, both his parents are Guyanese-born (Asian) Indian. He had a lot of interesting things to say about a trip to Guyana (my father refuses to take myself and my brother there, for reasons my cousin mentions). It reminded me a lot of my visits to the Philippines (my mother’s birthplace) where I’ve made similar such observations.
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I don’t really want to talk about it but I shall say:

Ladies, please make sure you either do breast self-examinations, or if you’re of the age, get regular mammograms and screenings.

Men, make sure you remind the women in your life - any women - to do the above.

If not for yourself, then for your loved ones. Scaring the crap out of your loved ones is not on (and I’m not talking about myself).

I recall my cousin’s words…”…check your boobies!”

The news I got today was a little…numbing. And waiting for a particular phonecall seems like hell.

But it could have been so much worse. And it reminds me of things and people that are. (my) Mental illness seems so trivial compared to physical illness (of course, someone taught me that lesson the hard way).

A lot lately, a friend of mine overseas has been telling me about a tattoo that she’s planning on getting.

Then tonight, I was watching Miami Ink after my friend showed me a link to some of their artistry (and it really is folks, wow, the stuff they do is amazing) and it got me thinking…I wonder if I should get a tattoo?
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I decided very late on in life, as in my twenties, that I wanted to do more with words than just read them.

It’s a pretty corny thing to say, but as soon as I was able to think consciously, I always wanted music to be a part of my life. This seems odd given that my immediate family have little artistic inclination - or is it that they chose not to follow it?
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Sheesh, and for once it seemed like a half-normal day!

I woke up at a half-decent hour, and of course wanted to know where Dear Puss was so opened up the patio door, to my mother watering down the concrete (somewhat illegal in water-restricted Melbourne) causing me to roll eyeballs in disbelief.
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Still a sleepy monster. But for once, with some good news.
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I hope NoMD (nerd of my dreams) finds this funny, but today, I had a most disconcerting thought.

I think I’ve become a bit of a techno-geek.

Why, you wonder?
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…hate chronic pot smokers.

How ridiculously nasty of me. How socially suicidal of me: d’you have any idea how many people smoke pot on a regular basis?
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It’s amazing just how much memory one loses for the ‘little things’ when one starts going off the rails. In a way, slipping in and out of mental stability is like losing and winning on the stock exchange or something.
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So this nice, hot guy that promised to call did in fact do so, and somehow I even managed to get him to cook me this absolutely delicious meal. Beautiful, but almost sublime. Really.

Apparently, according to him, I talk about sex a lot; I seemed to have some habit of mentioning or pointing out that various objects were phallus substitutes (thank you arts degree, my brain will never be the same). In my defence, I tried to explain that me calling myself a poet is really just a socially acceptable way of saying I’m a big ol’ pervert. I’ve said this to quite a number of people before, too.

One could choose to write anything they want in this day and age…why poetry? There’s so much bad poetry in the world as it is, why do I feel the need to add to it?

When in doubt, blame it on Freud. Sigmund, you old perv, this is your fault!