Grace Notes @ Snarkattack

I might an adult now, and in some ways might be considered (by others, not necessarily myself) to have surpassed my parents. I remember that Z once said to me, and he said it full of sorrow for me (which was rare for him, being very steely), that he felt sorry for children who were smarter or more educated than their parents. At first I was angry at him saying that (both his parents being academics and so less of a problem for him) but I knew what he meant.

My father was responsible for teaching me how to read, and for as long as I can remember, if I asked him to explain something to me, he would do so. You can only imagine how frustrating I might have been as a child. My father, in many ways, gave me the keys to the world, or a world I came to adore: the literary.

Fast forward to now, where I am a woman of thirty. I open my Christmas card and read my parents’ messages to me. I read my father’s first.

My father spelled the word ‘opulence’ incorrectly. It brought a tear to my eye. Yet another reminder that my father did not know all, and would not necessarily be able to answer all my questions.

It may seem trivial to you all, but my heart broke just that bit more.

Am talking to Dee.

Just said: if one learns from one’s parent(s) that love (of whatever kind) is conditional or needs to be earned, then how is one supposed to expect that those outside the realm of family will love unconditionally?

Possibly my most profound thought all year.

(thank goodness for cats)

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.

A bit later, I call out for Dear Puss, the dialogue as follows:

“Woooo-llllll-fieeeeeee!”
Pause.
(faintly) meeow!

Take 2: “Woooo-llllll-fieeeeeee!”
Pause.
(faintly) meeow!

Take 3: “Woooo-llllll-fieeeeeee!”
Pause.
(faintly) meeow!

Take 4: “Puss?”
No answer.

“Are you there?”
No sound.

I try this a few more times, and come to the conclusion that my cat is answering me. And I think I know why: he’s stuck somewhere. I explain this to my mum, who looks at me wide-eyed and realises that he apparently dashed out before she had a chance to close the under-house door – it’s really small, and she’d reclosed it not considering that Puss had sneaked down there. It just seemed too odd that he was answering me: he’d just come when called.

Turned out, I was right, the poor dear had been holed up (not for long thankfully) and had cobweb dreadlocks all over him. Bless. Thank goodness he was ok!

Next crazy thing? Oh those wacky Canadians… Why? One word: Screech. I looked it up for a Canadian friend who was given some and apparently it had hit her for 6. So…what’s with the kissing the cod fish? Erk. Must be the cold, does something funny to their brains. But hang on, they’re the good North Americans…hmm…

Was hoping to have posted on Blogcritics by now to brag to you all, but some finishing touches need to go on the review, but keeping checking here for news and braggart-like behaviour.

Still a sleepy monster. But for once, with some good news.

I received a copy of the yearly journal of a society I’m a member of and – must have completely forgotten about it – it had a lengthy piece of mine published. It was sort of scary to see it in print, perhaps because to my mind, it still had so many flaws. But still, it was kind of cool, too. I can think of a few people I can’t wait to show it to. It does also mean I can’t submit it to another journal that it would have been very suited to. Eh well.

I also got my first spam comment. Yea. It had me a bit confused. I’m officially significant enough to spam! Eh. Not to mention some spam snail mail from the University of Torture (no, I mean the one I went to).

Having a bit of a possession dilemma…have this odd urge to get rid of a whole bunch of girlie makeup things I have, in a mass exodus. The time for comfort spending is drawing to a close, and it might also have had something to do with the fact that I was reading about Ayurveda on Wikipedia. Feeling very wasteful of late, even though I’m not actively wasting anything.

Gosh, getting sleepy again! At least it means I was able to write another blog post which will be ready for publishing really soon. Writing in the middle of the night has its benefits, even if it means you end up going nocturnal. A cat nap is in order, methinks. Please let tomorrow be normal! There are so many things I really should have done at the beginning of the week, groan.

…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!