Soft Toy Serial Killers

Everyone has an unpretty side. A part they don’t like to admit.  A dark side of the moon.  I can be a crappy person, I really can. I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t like what I see. I’m a crappy mother; I’m a crappy wife. I’m a lousy daughter-in-law; a rubbish aunt; a shitty godmother (whatever possessed them to choose godless me?) and I’m not always the best of friends, no matter how hard I try.  I was a damn good daughter though, and I sometimes think that sucked the goodness and prettiness out of me – it was so damn greedy it left me parched. 

I try, I really try but sometimes I just feel like I’m stretched too thin – pull me a little further and I’ll snap into two and the parts will float away, straggles of skin reaching helplessly towards one another as they vanish into the ether.

But then I suspect other people feel that way too.  And this isn’t a ‘me, me, me’ post – it’s not remotely asking for validation; for comfort.  It’s just an observation. 

And, anyhow, what does it mean, this crappiness?  That we’re not perfect?  Well, what human is?  We’re so quick to judge, so quick to condemn, aren’t we?  Some of us judge ourselves; we all judge others.  And what is it we judge?  Why, surely just our own shadow sides, displayed in other people?  A conversation at Zumba last night showed the point.  Someone I know gets a lot of grief in town – she’s the ‘bad girl’, the ‘transgressor’, the ‘scarlet woman’.  Tongues wag; people turn away, they give her filthy looks. And they are so perfect, right? They are so righteous?  I’m not one for biblical references but, by heck, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”   

I suspect she constellates their shadow – their dirty laundry, their fear.  Jung said that the shadow is the part of us that contains our secrets, all the forbidden feelings and ways of behaviour that lie hidden from our consciousness.  The shadow comes to us most strongly in dreams, as the frightening “other” – the harlot, the murderer, the thief, the zealot, the overbearing teacher, the pathetic wimp, the whining child, the down-and-out.  The shadow carries everything we push aside in waking conscious life, all those qualities that don’t fit with our ideal image of ourselves.

You wanna find your own shadow?  Think about who winds you up.  Who really really annoys you?  What is it about them that is so so so….fecking annoying, irritating, plain wrong?  Ten to one it’s your own shadow being reflected right back at you.

Anyhow… 

We’re all a bit crappy, okay?  Yeah, even the Soul Puppy.  Most of the time he is soft and biscuity and winsome.  But, every so often, he breaks into serial killer mode and chews the faces off soft toys.  He gouges out eyes; he bites off noses; he chews on cheeks.  Always faces.  Honestly, I have a pile of eyes sitting on my desk.  Can’t help but be reminded of my demon, Samael.  He’s a face biter too.  Tellingly this was an aspect of the book that editors couldn’t handle (along with the hacking off of zombie heads with spades L).  The face biting had to go.  But – see – he chewed off faces to reveal people; to show their true selves; to splice aside the façade and show the shadow…  

And, hmm, maybe people just aren’t ready to do that…


Lest We Forget: Those Who Have Fallen....

Badger: full facial removal

Panter: eye, nose excision

Snowy: eye removed; ear lost

Just a few who have fallen to the dark side of the SP....and no, we don't go for very imaginative names in this house... :)

Swollen Testicles v the Moon

Okay, so I’ve been trying, I really have.  I watch everyone on Twitter, chatting about TV, and I figure, maybe I’m missing out here.  Maybe I should join in.  I mean, I do watch TV a bit – but it’s usually Top Gear or The Gadget Show or The Simpsons to keep James company – and I’ll only have half an eye on Jeremy Clarkson (unless he’s driving a particularly juicy motor) cos I’ll be balancing on my fitball and waving a kettlebell over my head (yup, those triceps still need a bit of work). 

But the other night I thought, no, give it a go.  So I sat on the sofa, turned on and – OMG – there was a vast swollen scrotum staring me in the eye.  For one bizarre moment I wondered if James had signed us up for some Sky package that involved porn channels, except no…this was not even remotely erotic (unless you get off on infected scrota of course – and, don’t tell me, some people probably do). 

I then watched, slack-jawed, some poor man having six stone – SIX STONE! – of stomach “apron” excised.  Six stone? Sorry, I keep repeating it but you know, that’s a large child. I don’t think I will ever expunge that image. 

It was about four times this size, btw

But really.  This is entertainment?  This is what we choose to do with our evenings?  Well, obviously because last night I found myself back on the sofa switching on again, with puzzled yet morbid fascination.  This time it was the women’s turn.  One poor girl had her humungous breasts lopped off and we got to see a woman with a prolapsed vagina expelling a squirt of urine up close.  In fact, the director liked the pee shot so much, we got it three times, until the woman finally managed to splash the consultant in the eye. 

Now, I’m not remotely squeamish.  I’ve watched operations up close; I’ve staunched a severed artery with my bare hands (not my own artery, I hasten to add) and I begged a surgeon to let me watch my own emergency C-section (he refused, the spoilsport) but, but, but…no.  Just no.   I turned away.

The moon was so huge, so bright.  It was flirting through the window at me, singing a love song to me and I just couldn't resist.  So I switched off the TV and walked out into the garden.  The daisies were shining like a reflection of stars.  The moon stroked my face so I lay down on the damp grass, stretched out and smelled earth and roses and lilies and the faintest hint of woodsmoke.  I felt the earth beneath me and gazed up at the clear night sky as the last vestiges of light faded to slate. For once I didn't go hurtling out into the darkness - I was content just to hang...just to hold the earth's hand and spin with it through space.

I so love moonlight.  Do you?  Do you ever really appreciate it?  Have you ever walked in the woods at night?  Your eyes adjust, you know – you don’t need a flashlight…  You see, you hear, you smell, you feel so much… Have you ever swum in a river at night?  Slid softly through black water?   Have you ever floated in the sea under the stars, your body caressed by moon and wave, floating in a nowhere place, twixt elements, inbetween time?  Oh, I know, I know….dangerous…  Oh whatever.  It’s beautiful, just beautiful…so beautiful….

….a million worlds away from the images on my TV screen.

For some reason Blogger won't let me embed a vid here:  but when I think of seas and floating this is the song that plays in my head:  it's Song to the Siren  by This Mortal Coil and it is just plain gorgeous.

It’s okay, btw – I know I’m weird, I know this isn’t the norm.  And I’m not judging or condemning, really I’m not.  It’s just…why?  Why do we watch TV?  Is it entertainment, escapism, bonding, numbing?  Honestly, I’d love to know. 

The show, btw#2, was Embarrassing Bodies and, having taken a look at their website I can see they do probably help demystify stuff and so on...and encourage people to see their GPs and check their bodies and....oh heck, there's a penis gallery and a vulva gallery....no, really, there is.  Jeez, sometimes you have to wonder about our bodies - I mean, couldn't they be a bit more aesthetic?  Couldn't someone run a competition or something - design decent-looking sex apparatus? 

Israel calling...

Yes, yes, I know this isn't Israel...but desert, camels right?

Seems I’m getting a bit better at this manifestation malarkey.  Not exactly spot on target yet but getting closer, a lot closer. Now then, you know I have this *thing* about deserts?  Not quite sure why but there’s something about all that emptiness that just calls to my soul.  Add camels, crusader castles, ancient cities, souks and falafel, and I’m close to heaven.  Ask me which countries I want to visit and – right through my life - the same ones come out on top:  Egypt, Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, Jordan.  Middle East – yeah, yeah, I know it’s problematic but, but, but… email pings in...

‘Would you like to come to Israel?’ 

Say what?  I read it again.

Tel Aviv beach - so,  no pressure then?!

I was being invited on a blog trip; a week organised by Kinetis, a non-profit organisation whose aim is to dispel the, um, conflict-laden image of Israel and show “opinion-makers” (*cough*) just how creative and vibrant Israel is.  Interesting.  Opinion amongst people I know is fiercely split over Israel.  My mother in law and best friend loathed it.  My brother and another good friend adored it. Maybe I should make up my own mind.  Could I blog on whatever I liked?  I asked.  Absolutely, they said.  Hmm. If you sit on your backside, nothing ever happens. It wasn’t Egypt but it was close.  ‘I’d love to,’ I said. ‘Yes.’

So, I'm off at the end of the month. Then I found out on Twitter that RosieScribble was going too and we got to thinking.  Neither of us has a stitch to wear.  I figure we need a wishlist…hey, maybe some smart companies or PRs could even pitch in here... Nothing ventured, eh?... and boy, we give damn good social media!  Here we go:

1. Swimsuit.  We're going to be frolicking in the waves on the beaches at Tel Aviv which, from YouTube, look pretty amazing.  We'll have stiff competition from sickeningly gorgeous teens but, hey, we're goddesses, right?  There's even a swimsuit named after us at Figleaves.

The "Goddess" - ho hum.

2. Handbag.  Mine is a sad, torn and frayed thing.  Yup, I have just the one. Contrary to popular belief on the part of men, not all women have a wardrobe full of handbags. Now, I'm not being greedy or anything; don't mind a bargain.  Have my eye on this little number from the Mulberry outlet store.  What you reckon?  78% off??! Still can't afford it though. :(

3.  Sunglasses.  Rosie stipulated this.  I have "vintage" Raybans bought from Miami airport on an aeon-ago press trip to the Bahamas. But if she thinks we need new, we need new.  Rosie likes Burberry, but I rather fancy these D&G aviators from Sunglass Hut.

4. Tops, cropped jeans, t-shirts.  Boden would work for this.  And, oh my, do I love these clog sandals... Just sayin'...

 

5.  A jaunty hat.  I have thick hair so it needs to be roomy... Have my eye on one in the Joe Browns catalogue - a snip at £12.95

Now then. What are we missing?  Ideas? Thoughts?  Offers?

Oh, and if you want to follow our *journey* (so far our Twitter conversations are getting well out of hand) follow Rosie as well as me...  she's @RosieScribble on Twitter and you can find her blog here  I hasten to add that she is a *pukka* sensible grown-up "parent blogger" - unlike yours truly.  ;)

My Karaoke song would be...

Well I was going to write something entirely different  today but it felt a bit maudlin somehow.  Then I found I’d been tagged by the lovely Erica for the ‘karoake meme’.  Say what?  What song would I sing karaoke?  Okay, I’ll admit, I’ve never done karaoke, not once.  Never had the chance.  Would I?  Sure. After all, I’m no stranger to making a complete arse of myself in public, am I?

But what would I sing?  When I think back to me singing, my first thought is hymns. I used to love singing in church for some strange reason, Christmas carols in particular – The Three Kings will still bring a tear to my eye today.  But you can’t do karaoke carols, can you? 

I do have this clear as day image of racing onto the dance floor, aged 18, every time Gloria Gaynor came on.  I will survive.  Now there’s a song and a half.  Young, passionate, desperate, with skin so thin it ripped at the slightest scratch, I’d dance and sing my heart out to that; in my skin-tight red jeans and Oxfam “vintage” spiky heels; fuelled by Southern Comfort and heartbreak.

But since then?  No, not really.  I sing in private though, all the time.  When I’m driving alone I let down the windows, turn the volume up high high high and belt out all sorts.  When I’m walking in the woods, with my iPod stuck in my ears, I am wont to sing along to Kate Bush’s Lily (which sends shivers down my spine)  – complete with arm actions – it’s a fecking good job I don’t meet anyone or I'd be typing this from a padded room.  And no, I can't sing that high.

Borderline by Kleemass on DeviantArt.com

But now? Hmm.  I rather like the sound of Rock Band for Xbox – might have to investigate that.  And, while my general musical inclinations lie with rock, nowadays I do most of my lip-syncing to Zumba dance tracks… So, I guess it would have to be this.. and yeah, I can do all the voices!

Now then.  Who do I tag?
Milla (if she says The Smiths I will strangle her).
Lulu
Mags
Tattie
Tee

So girls...hmm, all girls...funny that.  Okay, my lovelies - get to it! 

btw, Gloria is dedicated to a very lovely friend in particular who will survive...and to all of you really - because we will, we do, of course we do...

You can't always get what you want

You ever have those times when carrots are dangled in front of your nose and then snatched cruelly, capriciously, away?  Now, I’m not grumbling because really, I have absolutely no right whatsoever… but, but, but…

‘Do you wanna come for a week’s Boot Camp?’ asked Julie. 
‘Shit yeah! Of course I do!  When?’
‘It kicks off this weekend.’
Nooooo. Damn. Damn. Triple damn.  Adrian is off on his travels again next week so I’m left holding the fort.  Ah well, there’s always Zumba tomorrow night. Except – damn and blast again – he’s away then as well.  At which point I’m really wishing James had taken to flexi-boarding.  But, hey, what can you do? 

But then it got even more cruel.  I was whining on Twitter last night about my poor teeth – or rather lack of them.  Now, let’s be clear, in the scheme of things they’re not that bad – people don’t openly flinch when I open my mouth; I don’t get cast as the evil witch for Hallowe’en..except… hmm. 

Anyhow, it’s just that I had this weird thing whereby four of my adult teeth simply never appeared (dentists are always fascinated by that – they get quite excited even and, heck, it takes a lot to get a dentist excited, apart from the flashing of credit cards) so, once the baby ones went mank, there was nothing to take their place.  Hence four gaps. 
Add to that the ones at the front where I bit my mate Mark’s head at Heaven in the 80s and the ones I chipped on nougat and the whole lot really need sorting. In fact I was watching Knight and Day (possibly the worst film I’ve seen since Waterworld) and was just mesmerised by Tom Cruise’s incisors (though maybe they’d been photo-shopped along with the rest of him).  So then I get an email with the title ‘teeth’.  Open it up to find a PR is offering me a consultation with a top dentist. 

‘Well that would be lovely except I know what’s wrong and I can’t afford to get it fixed,’ I said in a self-pitying tone.

‘Well, if you could write about it in the press, he’d probably do it for free.'

What???  Free teeth?  I nearly snapped off the hand that offered except…  Sigh.  It’s about time I got my arse in gear and found a new outlet for my wellbeing writing, it really is.  Not that I’m feeling self-centred or anything…  But…new teeth??
I know this sounds self-indulgent, I’m really aware of it.  But it’s the dangling that gets me.  Now, if nobody had mentioned bootcamps or new teeth, I wouldn’t remotely be sitting here thinking, ‘Darn, hellfire, I wanna go exhaust myself with eight hours exercise a day’ or ‘I must have a gleaming straight white smile’, would I?  Whereas now – see - I’m feeling hard done by.  You ever have that? 

Should I be stoical and say there's a reason?  Or should I listen to Mick and think I might not get what I want but I might get what I need?  Oh feck that.

Soooo, world.  Don’t offer things if you ain’t gonna deliver.  Alright?  It’s plain mean. 

PS: check out Brealy BootCamps  - one place going this weekend.  It didn’t work for me but maybe there is a reason – maybe it's waiting just for you!  Go on...click the link!  ;)

I'm a spaniel

I was at the gym this morning, on the cross trainer, running uphill like a crazy woman (as always). I had Nina Nastasia on my headphones, listening to It’s a Dog’s Life, and the thought crossed my mind...  I am a spaniel.  A bloody spaniel. 

Let’s look at the evidence, eh?  What do spaniels do?  They run around, in circles, expending HUGE effort for, frankly, very little return.  They exhaust themselves (well, eventually) by covering every last inch of ground.  While sensible dogs are nosing around in the undergrowth, or ambling along the path, those spaniels are diving into undergrowth, tearing their ears on brambles.  They’re easy to train: relatively intelligent so can pick up instructions quite easily, learn new tricks and blindly carry them out, wagging their tails all the time and panting happily.  They’re dippy as fruit loops – neurotic bordering on delusional.   What else? Oh yes, they’re stupidly, pathetically, eager to please.  If you were to say, ‘Hey, dog, wanna dive into ice-cold water and go fetch that pheasant?’ they’d wag their tails and go, ‘How many times?’  Oh, and they eat shit.

So. I’m a spaniel. 

At this point you’re probably sitting there, thinking, ‘Now, I wonder what kind of dog I’d be?’ and, let me guess, you’re thinking German Shepherd, Boxer or Staffordshire terrier (if you're a bloke: I’m right, aren’t I?) or Border Collie (smart sassy woman) or Yorkshire terrier (cutesy woman). But  you know, it’s a bit like when I went to a shamanism workshop and we had to journey to find our spirit animal guides… I can’t begin to tell you how many eagles and wolves and bears were floating around.  Nobody had a hamster. 

Anyhow. I’m sick of being a spaniel.  I want to be a terrier.  Look at Asbo. He doesn’t give a flying feck about anything.  If he wants to go on a walk, he’ll go.  If he can’t be arsed, he will refuse, point blank, to leave the house.  If he chooses, he can be perfectly well-behaved - it’s just that, most of the time, he doesn’t choose.  He does what he likes and doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks.  He behaves appallingly and blithely whistles (metaphorically).  He isn’t scared of his own voice, he steals shamelessly and, if he doesn’t like the cut of someone’s jib, he bites – hard. 

So, there you have it.  I’m unleashing my inner terrier.    

What kind of dog are you? Are you obedient and perfectly trained?  Maybe it’s time to chew up your lead, bite the postman and pee up the curtains.  Wanna join my badly-behaved pack?    

 

Me, myself, I

So I was going up to London for the Stoke Newington Literary Festival. So I spoke to my oldest bestest friend Jane.
‘Um, I’m coming up to London next weekend…’  Pause.  ‘Could I?’
Pause. ‘Damn. I’m going to Istanbul.’ 
‘Oh.’  Remembered my manners quickly.  ‘How lovely.’
But really. Damn, damn, damn.
‘Never mind. I can crash somewhere else, no problem.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’ll put the keys in the post.’
Oh my.

So there I was, in London, solo, for the weekend.  It was like being in my 20s again. I had the keys to the castle - a flat of my own, albeit borrowed. 

Now, let’s get this totally in context.  This is not some cruddy old flat.  Jane’s place is tucked away down a leafy street behind Essex Road.  It’s the bottom half of a Victorian house so I suppose it’s not really a flat per se, but let’s call it that for the sake of argument (and because the word maisonette sounds unpleasant – frankly anything that ends –ette always sounds a bit dodgy and smacks of “feminine hygiene” to me, but that could just be me.) Actually I don’t like the word ‘flat’ either but…

Anyhow, this is a clean, pristine flat. It is a flat that is not covered in dog-hair; a flat that does not have partying ‘energies’ on the stairs; a flat that has nice normal rooms, not spaces that deserve labels like ‘doom’ and ‘despond’.   I walked in, kicked off my flipflops and just sighed with total utter decadent pleasure.

There were flowers.  There was a lingering scent of Jo Malone rather than the stench of stale dog sick, fetid trainers and damp.  I dumped my bag in the bedroom and threw myself onto the big wide bed with its fresh white Egyptian cotton sheets and – oh oh oh – its memory mattress.  The silence was intoxicating.

I padded upstairs into the open-plan kitchen, living room area and flung open the tall wide windows.  Sunlight streamed through and tickled my toes.  Opened the fridge and, bless her soul, Jane had left me a whole shelf of veggie heaven (falafel, dolmades, halloumi, veg curry, various types of tofu).  Smoked tofu with almonds and wild garlic? Basil tofu? Seriously? 

Jane has the soundtrack of our shared past pretty well covered and so pretty soon I was trying to decide between The Cure, Bruce or Kate Bush. Shuddered a little over David Cassidy (no, I never did, nor Donny Osmond FFS); The Specials (did, but only live – they were cracking live); The Smiths (don’t get me started). 

Now don’t get me wrong.  I love my family, I really do, and I even have a sneaking softness for the Bonkers House. I do love Dulverton too.  But, but, but…sometimes it’s just lovely to be me.  Just me.  Not a mother, not a wife, not someone trying to juggle a gazillion balls at once.  No responsibility. Nobody to please. Nothing that has to be done.  A holiday from life, from reality.  You know what I mean, don’t you?  If you don’t, I’ll take it you don’t have children – or are male.

So I put the music up high. Had a long hot shower (without anyone yelling that they needed this or had I seen that?). I did my tarot.- and, frankly, didn't believe it.  Made a pot of coffee. Stretched out on the sofa, wiggled my toes and just sighed with pleasure.