Category: Uncategorized

NINE NINE

Harper is literally throwing a fit right in front of the family albums. We attended a crafts bazaar for some Mother’s Day inspiration earlier today and we purchased two bouquets of wild petunias, paper bags, and decorative wood letters: F, I, and T, which she painted a dark, bleeding magenta.

Then she threw them. Up, everywhere, in her room. Kicked the F, tried (failed) to snap the I in half. The family albums sat intact, smiling faces judging her, Harper beyond care. It was a frenzy.

Brooklyn 99 has just been cancelled and Harper was one of the 16.1 million people who tweeted it to trending the entire day.

She says, “What do you watch when you’re feeling sad when it’s the show that you watch when you do feel sad?”

For once, I had nothing witty to say back.

 

#RenewB99

Advertisements

Fashion, secret sleeping.

Last night, Harper invited me over for hot cocoa and the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show 2016 full coverage that she found online. I reprimand her for not watching last year’s show and she all but skips to about halfway through the video when Gigi Hadid proudly and emotionally shows off her little sister Bella; it’s her first time to walk the coveted runway of the dazzling show.

I cried, she cried, they all cried. Harper has her ways of emotionally blackmailing me…and I thank her for it.

When Harper’s own little sister came barging in, I sneaked to the pantry for some dry biscotti.

“It’s a school night,” Harper tells me afterwards. “I have to keep the volume to a minimum. What’s the point of those ear plugs then?”

“She wears ear plugs?”

“And a purple unicorn sleep mask.” Harper does this eye roll that negates our combined failed relationships past and future, and I squirm.

“How old is your sister again?”

“Not old enough.” Then she starts crying again. Mostly for accepting half my biscotti just after the Fantasy Bra makes its underwhelming appearance.

I offer to drink the last remaining sips of her cocoa and she complies. The show just finished to the 24k magic song and I can see in her eyes that she’s starting to reminisce.

“My cousin’s expecting a baby, you know,” she tells me, wistfully, still staring at the video on pause. “Can you believe it’s been an entire year since that dream wedding?”

I could.

“Any weddings this year?” She nods her head.

“Just one. Sarah’s.” She smiles widely this time, like she’s been handed, you know, whatever her heart desired.

Victoria’s Secret!” she screams, ignoring the entire household this time. “I have gots to get her some lingerie!”

Yikes.

 

A brief summary of sorts!

I’ve perhaps been confusing all you, dear ghosties, with my POV swaps in the past entries. So here’s a solid summary of sorts:

Harper – the bridesmaid, the adventurer, the unapologetic; the traverser of literary steppes. She has signed off on an intriguing deal from her previous work, beating F.M. at a clutch. Her eyes are set to Write, Direct, Produce. Oh, and she’s the antagonist to F.M.‘s sojourn of logical thinking.

F.M – the documenter of Harper‘s frequent bazaars. Perfectly amiable with infinite patience for all concerned. Not entirely unambitious; a Ravenclaw to Harper’s Slytherin. A foreign correspondent now just despondent. Well, unless Harper has anything to say about it. Completely, and utterly devoted.

And I, the unopposed narrator when the two are singing karaoke. Harper has loads to tell about future projects that we’re all excited about. That one’s faith knows no bounds, I tell ya. F.M. will, as always, follow along with a Blackmagic Pocket Cinema Camera and a variety of lenses that sometimes suit Harper’s artistic eyes.

In no particular order, there will be visits to Melbourne’s best bookshops and the literary bargain to be had, an attempt to be taught tennis by a recent friend, a baking of a favourite purple sweet treat topped with coconut shavings, The Complete Plays of Sophocles, and a competitive dance-off at a classy club with beloved over 18’s.

Stay tonally tuned!

How glorious is authored destiny!

On my bed, I read The City of Ember. It’s a hard-bound copy, taped and sealed with a promise of a light darkness. To mark my passage across its pages is a deep, velvet red leather bookmark embossed with the words, The Hobbit. It often reminds me that I should return to my literary sojourn of Middle Earth very soon.

As I read through, I came upon plenty of pages that were left dog-eared by its previous borrower. I ask, why on earth do they perform such sacrilege to books!

(I’ll never get over it.)

When I pinched the dog-eared page with my fingers, I felt, suddenly, an instant connection to whomever once read the same written words, and felt the same roiling emotions as we followed Lina and Doon on their quest to save a city forgotten under the earth.

I often wonder if our destinies, our individual strings that lay across the world in tight leashes or unspooled across the continents, have always been so active in our every day but we simply forget, or are whimsy to it, because we are tragic creatures who’d rather dream of it, or watch it unfold in other people’s lives than our own?

What if we pledged our days, bygones and so, tightly to the reality of our own authorship of our lives? If we but say when and allocated a smile for the littlest touches between all of us; the lingerers and wanderers of this magnificent terra!

Can you imagine?

The unfolding of our watery courses in this vibrant/muted suburbia, country town, village, anchorage, city.

The illustrations we produce for each other without knowing; the photographs we share, seen by eyes thousands, millions of measurements away.

The same breath, the same persons.

Every one, every soul.

So entwined, connected, affiliated!

Destiny! Like, how glorious is authored destiny!

In that, it’s la Nouvelle Année!

I cannot believe that we have passed the juncture to a new age already. Here’s some stats:

21% of my time this year has been about the contemplations of creativity. There were no physical, actual iterations of it. Just mere whims.

64% has been quite sad. Often, I dreamt about a life different from the one I asked for, prayed for. The pipe of gratefulness having burst mid-way and I attempted to not fix it wholly.

15% were the laughter. Much repressed, and mostly during the first half of this year when we had destination weddings, and I slept late, woke up late, free to write and adore and stand in the rain as it fell in torrents by torrents. And New Zealand. O, magnificent New Zealand.

100% a mixture of what seems to be the consensus for most of us for this year. It seemed like a travesty, all of what has happened, your sense of purpose dwindling to the social structures that are starting to crumble around us.

But hey, Harper, my compadre, believes in glorious faith. In the destiny written for us, some as black as the darkness between the stars, some as bright as light reflected on a metallic surface. It is a destiny that binds us all together. A journey where we equip ourselves in accoutrements for every experience, wonder, awful, tragedy, happiness.

And the never giving up.

So let’s be grateful for our family who are annoying and who are annoyed by our foolishness and loud/soft voices. Let’s be grateful for the times spent on trains, car rides, planes or dragging wheelbarrows. The feeling of being full (even though there’s still room for dessert), and hey, the failures too.

We have come a long way. And I’m excited that we are two years away from calling this new age, the ’20’s. My absolute favourite.

Richly flavoured yellow.

I still remember the spring of last year. When September rolled around and the canola flowers bloomed in rich yellow as we passed in our daily haste. I remember feeling the still chilly wind as I ambled around my backyard with my hose, careful, knowing that the thorns will start to breathe life and colour once more.

I took out my journal, 31st of August 2016, dog-eared (an accident) and I’m reading through my flowery script as I regaled nobody – myself – something to do with rainy days and sweepstakes, and missing verdant Massachusetts. The plane ride to Hartford, Springfield from Dallas was a nightmare, but the landing was a dream. Fresh lobsters served butter-hot in our exhaustion, quaint, rustic, American dream house with its trademark squeaky floorboards.

It’s haunting, alluring, and I feel so unapologetic that I fainted while waiting in line for a ride at Six Flags.

Spring has a quality of superstition about it. Hades and Persephone, a fave. It can be dark, but light, humorous, but itchy. I wonder how this year will go. Will it be inescapable? Will it be richly flavoured?

Hmm, hmm, hmm…

I wish

I wish the ocean chose me.

Or the sea, the river, the pantheon in its destruction.

I wish they stretched long, structured, crumbling limbs and I saw the stars reflected by the waters, the ripples pooling beneath my teeth.

I wish the constellations chose me, the stars chose me, the wind, the Sun, Spring, chose me.

If I were to be chosen,

I want to be chosen by the earth, by the universe, by the melted snow, and the dying flowers, and the cascading brush of ice and deep, coldest waters.

I wish the tallest mountain chose me. Or the regime of stalks and wheat, of rice-steps, and hawks in mid-flight.

I wish the winds chose me. And the bright, luminous cascades of the ethereal, burgeoning of life, and sound, and music, chasing me, hounding me. The invisible, and the real.

I wish,

I wish,

I wish…