Marry Me #writeme30

 

Much love/ too much/ too many/ they say/ but maybe/ not enough/ rough the edges of your jealously/ with maybes//

 

The Photo:

                                         Photo supplied by Seb Robertson

 

 

The Response:

 

 

My love and I were legally married a year ago. Because we are heterosexual, a man and a woman, we were allowed to have our union legally recognized in Australia.

 

Because I was born with girl bits and my love was born with boy bits, through no design on our parts.

 

We talked about not getting married, as a kind of boycott in our way.

 

But reflecting on the limited influence we have, we felt that the people we were most likely to influence to think kindly of marriage equality were more likely to become defensive about their position (and therefore hold onto it tighter) in response to any boycott on our part and that perhaps instead our wedding could be a moment to share both our commitment to each other and our views and hopefully influence those in our circle against marriage equality with compassion instead.

 

We opened our ceremony with this:

 

Marriage has meant lots of different things to different people, places and times.

 

Historically speaking, there have been as many ways to wed as there are people and societies. Depending on the culture and era, marriage could be between two or more people, might or might not include living together or children, might be between strangers where the family arranges everything, and might well be acknowledged as legal without a vow being said. It might only be valid when dowry or bride-price is paid or be invalidated if monetary consideration is given, it might require consent of every living parent and an entire community to witness or it might require nothing more than a quiet promise said when utterly alone together. The crucial point was the will of those involved to be married and their commitment to stay that way.

 

For Alysha and Nic their wedding is an opportunity to bring together the people they love – the people who make up their community – all of you, to publicly acknowledge and celebrate their commitment to each other AND their thanks to all of you for being part of the community that helps keep the cogs turning in their lives.

 

Alysha and Nic would also like to acknowledge the significant social symbolism and recognition of marriage with the following passage:

 

“Marriage is a vital social institution. The exclusive commitment of two individuals to each other nurtures love and mutual support.

 

Civil marriage is at once a deeply personal commitment to another human being and a highly public celebration of the ideals of mutuality, companionship, intimacy, fidelity, and family. Because it fulfils yearnings for security, safe haven, and connection that express our common humanity, civil marriage is an esteemed institution and the decision whether and whom to marry is among life’s momentous acts of self-definition.

 

It is undoubtedly for these concrete reasons, as well as for its intimately personal significance, that civil marriage has long been termed a “civil right.” Without the right to choose to marry one is excluded from the full range of human experience.”

 

Today is an opportunity for Nic and Alysha to publicly share the private vows and commitment they have made and to formalize those vows through legal and social recognition – to remind themselves and their community of loved ones how important connection, commitment and care is in our daily lives.

 

I’d like to invite all of you as Alysha and Nic’s loved ones to give your blessing to this formal union. Do you as the community which supports and loves this couple offer your blessing and support now and in the future?

 

GUESTS: We do.

 

We also had this note within our wedding invitation:

 

*Note – Nic and Alysha fully support and believe in marriage equality under Australian (secular) law and while we feel that boycotting a legal marriage ceremony ourselves would have no impact whatsoever on changing the law, we hope that through celebrating our story and community, you might consider being part of recognizing this important legal change through your future vote.

 

 

Maybe our stance, our gentle (not entirely subtle point) had no impact whatsoever and we were just able to benefit from fitting the current laws expectations. But I hope something of it stayed with people. Sank in, just a little.

 

What does this have to do with Seb’s photo? Nothing and everything. But two things specifically.

 

One of the common arguments I hear against marriage equality is the ‘slippery slope’ one – this is the ‘if we let gay couples marry each other then * gasp * poly couple or incestuous couples or pedophiles or someone might want to get married’ argument.

 

There are lots of great breakdowns of why this argument is ridiculous and I won’t rehash them here except to say legally only adult humans can consent to a legally binding contract (marriage) so any comments about pedophilia or bestiality are just plain stupid.

 

As to the rest, well quite frankly why does where other people put their bits have anything at all to do with you (or anyone else)? If it isn’t harming anyone involved or anyone outside the relationship then actually who cares if it does lead to poly marriages or incest marriages?

 

I’ve seen no conclusive evidence that poly marriages are harmful to children or families within them (the opposite comes through in most research I’ve read) and in regards to incest, it’s icky because we’re been taught it’s icky because if everyone fucked close relatives that messes with the gene pool and heightens the risk of disabled/unhealthy children (so we’ve all taught one another that it’s icky to avoid that shit). That’s a tricky one because that does have a health impact that others foot the bill for (taxes – public healthcare) but if we follow that logic, anyone with dodgy genes that could result in a sick/disabled child also shouldn’t be able to get married, right?

 

My point being, I’m not going to do any sexy things with anyone I’m blood related to personally but why is it a problem if someone else does? – again with the proviso that BOTH are consenting adults at the commencement of the relationship?

 

Whose business is it?

 

And I don’t buy that’s it because everyone is bothered because of the potential power imbalance or emotional safety that they have a problem with it – BECAUSE if you were, you’d all be making a bigger stink about domestic violence (which is at you know EPIDEMIC proportions).

 

People need to get out of other people’s bedrooms.

 

The other thing this has to do with Seb’s photo. Suicide rates are significantly higher among LQBTIQ young people. I’d hazard a pretty strong guess that one of the reasons for that is that we still live in a world, that while more tolerant of diverse sexuality than a generation ago, we still live in a world that at almost every turn diminishes and silences and turns away people of diverse sexuality. Marriage is just a symbol, but it’s a very powerful one, one that is imbedded in our social conscious, in our TV shows and movies and books. And so as a symbol, by remaining only open to heterosexual couples, it’s a symbol that says loud and clear ‘your love means less and is less. You are not welcome here’.

 

And I’m not okay with that. I’m not okay with that at all.

 

PS – Look at the expression on Seb’s face! Sex is a natural part of life, something we should be able to laugh at and enjoy – not something that should trap and diminish people because some people disagree with how they do it….

 

This is probably a post where I’m trying to make too many points and simplifying complex thoughts into only a few words. But hey, so be it.

 

The Contributor:

 

Seb Robertson. Founder of Batyr – Giving a voice to the elephant in the room. @BatyrAus Social Entrepreneur. Interested in economics, sustainability and renewable energy.

 

That’s what his twitter profile says anyway.

 

In my experience Seb is an entirely charming fellow, clean cut, talking and walking the ‘right’ way but still entirely approachable and brimming with compassion. He’s basically too awesome to ever be jealous of. Seb and I met as Australian delegates attending the Commonwealth Youth Forum in 2011, where I was entirely happy to be one of his minions for much of the event because I trusted the vision he was trying to articulate. He’s one to watch ladies and gents.

 

He was also a 2013 Cleo Bachelor of the Year Nominee, which I hope he never lives down.

 

When he sent me this photo, he captioned it with “Good luck with this one!!!”

 

 

 

**

 

 

Always was. Always will be. #writeme30

 

History splintered into two rivers/ in one riverbed/ your blood, my blood, our blood/ washed clear, but not clean//

 

The Photo:

 

                                 Photo supplied by Warrick Clinch

 

The Response:

 

The Aboriginal Tent Embassy was established in 1972 on the steps of Old Parliament House to demand sovereignty for Aboriginal people. It’s a protest that’s been happening for over forty years. Since well before I was born.

 

And it’s a protest I’d never heard of it until well after my 25^th year.

 

In school, my ‘formal’ exposure to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander history and contemporary issues can be summed up by ‘Aboriginal people were here when white people got here,’ no context, no follow up, no detail.

 

I don’t think my experience was particularly unique. Ask a handful of people who went to school during the same time period and I expect they could list off more facts about Ancient Egypt than they could about the history of First Nations people in this county.

 

Off the top of my head, some of the things I remember being taught during my formal schooling experience:

 

• To sing Frère Jacques – I still know the words (no idea what they mean) and the tune
• Pythagoras theorem
• How rain is made – evaporation, precipitation
• Basic grammar
• Persuasive writing
• Hello and goodbye in Spanish and Japanese
• The first fleet
• Burke and Wills
• Evolution
• Cricket
• Indoor Hockey
• Stanislavski
• The words to Advance Australia Fair

 

Things I was not taught:

 

• How to say hello in any First Nations language
• What an acknowledgement of country is/is for
• The history of the tent embassy
• The history of black theatre
• The frontier wars
• How to recognize and respond to racism (my own and others)
• Genocide/stolen generations
• Treaty/sovereignty/constitutional recognition
• Anything about First Nations people’s culture, language groups, history, dreaming, science, nutrition, political issues

 

 

My formal schooling experience taught me only that Aboriginal people were here before white people were. My ‘informal’ experience during primary school taught me that Aboriginal people were usually poor and not in positions of power and that Aboriginal men were usually scary (and drunk) and that Aboriginal women were mostly non existent. The only Aboriginal person I remember seeing on TV when I was growing up was Ernie Dingo.

 

Hopefully I don’t need to break down for you how fucked all of that is.

 

I shared a number of articles on ‘Australia’ Day about changing the date.

 

I saw some incredibly racist, offensive and poorly informed comments on those articles.

 

I felt furious.

 

But not at them. Or at least, not directly and only at them as individuals.

 

I felt furious at all of us.

 

For staying ignorant. For keeping others ignorant. For choosing to benefit from and hold on to our own privilege. For staying safely in our own corners and clinging to what we know. For accepting, believing and perpetuating all the single stories told to us*.

 

My husband and I watched the youtube video a Harry Potter fan (kcawesome13) made which cuts together all of Snape’s scenes from the movies in chronological order.

 

 

 

My point – in case it’s not bleedingly obvious – is that the lens we view a story through changes our experience of that story. Who we empathise with. What we understand and what we don’t. When our formal and informal education is entirely through a white lens, we continue to empathise with and think from a white perspective. If you don’t understand why this is a problem, I would recommend heading over to read some of Celeste Liddle’s work as a start (but don’t stop there).

 

I’d like to think that the situation is improving. That our formal and informal education is exposing us to more perspectives and stories. My children have access to NITV and some amazing presenters and stars on mainstream channels (case in point – Deborah Mailman #totalgirlcrush). The National Curriculum identifies Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander histories and cultures as a cross-curricular priority (though there’s controversy around that of course * sigh *).

 

Yet, I still don’t think it’s enough. Not nearly enough.

 

My son is learning about the things I didn’t learn about because I care about them, because I’ve made them a priority and we seek opportunities to engage, learn and support outside of formal education. But what about everyone who doesn’t have a personal stake or interest?

 

Where are they learning and being exposed to anything other than their own experience? We’re risking more than just ignorance. More then just racism.

We’re risking losing whatever lessons the past has to teach us. Dooming ourselves to repeat the mistakes of the past. Over and over and over again.

 

Perhaps worse.

 

We’re risking our potential.

 

I’m more than worried. I’m scared.

 

*for an introduction to the idea of single stories, check out Chimamanda Adichie’s TED talk here.

 

 

The Contributor:

 

I met Warrick through Youth Parliament. I was a taskforce support officer supervising participants for the South Australian Youth Parliament program. Warrick was a participant of the South Australian team of the national Indigenous Youth Parliament, their team was sharing accommodation with our regional participants for training weekend. I think it was 2011? Maybe 2012.

 

Warrick and I ended up facebook friends, as often happens from these kinds of networks/events. I don’t want to embarrass him or anything, but he’s one of those men who has so much more potential and awesome than he gives himself credit for. He’s a good lad. More than that, I’d vote for him.

 

*

 

Photo of a Photo #writeme30 #depression #family

 

Concealed in folded edges is someone I used to be/ grainy with waiting, with wondering/ I am drawn by light// #tinytwitterpoem

 

The Photo:

                                         Photo supplied by Celia Boyd

“I wasn’t sure what to send you, this is a photo that I just keep coming back to and always makes me feel all the feelings when I see it. It’s not one that my family has framed or anything, its always just been kept in a drawer in their house and not put on display, but for some reason I kept thinking of it when you told us about your project.”

 

The Response:

 

I have loved ones who are hurting.

 

Everyone does.

 

I have loved ones who are hurting themselves.

 

Too many people do.

 

When you love someone who is hurting themselves, it’s hard to look at them. To be with them. To see them.

 

Someone very, very dear to me is hurting.

Has been hurting for a long time.

Is hurting themselves.

Is hurting me.

When I sit with them and talk, I want to run away, retreat, leave, shout at them to ‘SHUT UP’. It takes all the patience in me, all the patience I don’t have to be there with them. To sit with them. To see them.

 

I found a stray photo of them in amongst old photo albums early last year. Real, physical photo albums with real, physical photographs printed on glossy paper. A novelty. The photo is of a younger them, smiling cheekily into the camera with two dimples prominent on either cheek. I looked at that photo for a really long time.

 

And then I cried.

 

For a really long time.

 

I cried for all the distance and time separating that tiny human in the photo from the angry, grown-up, hurting human I know now. I cried for me, and all the ways I don’t really have the energy to keep watching them hurt themselves. I cried for both of us, for all the lost things, the forgotten things, the promised things.

 

And I cried because no matter how hard it is to watch someone you love hurt themselves, it’s harder and hurts more to not have them anymore. I cried with the fierce joy of having them still here when we’ve lost so many others.

 

I cried. And cried. And cried.

 

And cried.

 

And then I placed that photograph gently back into my photo album.

 

They are no longer a dimpled child.

 

They are an angry hurting adult.

 

I can’t untangle the past that’s brought us here. I don’t even know where to start.

 

But I can sit.

 

I can listen.

 

I can see.

 

I can swallow my impatience and fill my skin with the radiance of loving them enough to wait.

 

I can be myself. Just that.

 

 

The Contributor:

 

Celia Boyd, another of the YSP tribe, mother of many ideas, creator of deep change. Celia is currently living in Cambodia building new opportunities for Cambodia women through her enterprise SHE Investments.

 

SHE Investments is a social investment business that focuses on women entrepreneurs in Cambodia by providing business training, capital and mentoring.

 

Living in an extrovert inclined world means that amazing people like Celia, who are more introverted in their approach, don’t always appreciate how truly amazing and inspiring they are.

We think you’re a rockstar Celia. Sending big love to Cambodia!

 

What is #writeme30?

*

 

 

Another Deck #writeme30

 

Layers too vague/ too sunk in history stink/ too heavy with rant/ go flag wave in some other window/ we don’t want it//

 

The Photo:

 

                              Photo supplied by Ben Duggan

 

The Response:

 

I’ve started and changed this response three times. Because there are many things this particular photo stirs in me.

 

I started thinking about the American education system, which got me thinking about the Australian education system and the many complex feelings and interactions I’m having with our system. I’m not in the right head space to share some of that, and also because of how it reflects on my son’s experience, I’m wary of both how I represent him and respect his privacy. I need to percolate more to find the right time and way to share some insights on that one.

 

The other big thing that sprang to mind in response to a photo of the American flag is #blacklivesmatter, which hopefully you’ve already seen and read about all over the internet. (If not, some places to start here and here and here). This is an important movement and conversation and I think the backlash against it speaks volumes.

 

Then I realized I was over thinking it all and trying to come up with something intelligent to add to the conversation and actually I’ve got nothing to add. Except my support that #blacklivesmatter.

 

So then what else could I write about for this #writeme30 post? My last few posts have all been quite personal and heavily poetic/creative writing. I wanted to step away a little this week and do some a bit more non-fiction.

 

So flags huh? Oh yeah flags.

 

Flags are a powerful symbol. We use them to show our allegiance, our pride, our sense of connection to a place and associated ideas of that place. How unfortunate that the Australian flag represents such a narrow experience of what it means to be Australian. And how unfortunate that it is most often flown by ‘everyday’ people in a show of racism dressed up as patriotism.

 

“In representing only Australia’s British heritage, the flag is anachronistic, and does not reflect the change to a multicultural, pluralist society. In particular, the flag makes no mention of indigenous Australians, many of whom regard the Union Jack as a symbol of colonial oppression and dispossession.”

– Source unknown

 

When the flag was decided on (by voting on competition entries) it was 1901. Aboriginal people still had murky voting rights and certainly considering how racist we still are – who do you think ‘decided’ on our flag and who and how it would represent us? #justsaying

 

Symbols can and do change over time. And so they should. Words come to mean new things. New information and sophistication in our thinking changes how we view events and ideas from the past. And so it should. So it should.

 

Our flag is frozen in time. It doesn’t represent who we even were then, let alone who we are now. Nor does our national anthem. So why do people want to hold on so tightly to a symbol that’s past it’s use by date? To hold onto a symbol that discounts the history and feelings of our first peoples (not to mention our new peoples)? Why does the mere suggestion of changing our flag create such anger and hostility?

 

Why, indeed?

 

And then after all of this stopping and starting and digging for something to say for this post – I realized that actually that’s all I really want to say about flags too.

 

“Sheldon Cooper: Why are you waving a white flag?

Amy Farrah Fowler: I’m surrendering… to fun!”

– Big Bang Theory

 

The Contributor:

 

Ben Duggan, founder of Raising Hope and another of the YSP tribe. Bless his cotton socks. Ben is embarking on a new adventure next year with Teach For Australia. He is pretty much a rockstar in a well tailored suit. I’m a fan.

 

*

 

Access Denied #writeme30

 

Sand breathers/ envious and bitter/ in tight skin and mottled waves/ they’ve waited their turn/ for you//

 

The Photo:

                              Photo supplied by Ashlee Harrison

 

The Response:

 

Everyone longs for the beach. They talk about long summer days. Tans. Waves.

 

Me?

 

Not so much.

 

I love the idea of the ocean. I’m awed by it’s scale. It’s depth. It’s mystery. The sound of crashing waves. I love the taste of salt.

 

And I do like to visit the beach.

 

For maybe half an hour.

 

To stroll along while I eat an icecream.

 

After that?

 

I am mostly bored.

 

So the beach. Not so much.

 

I have a beautiful office a stone’s throw away from a gorgeous, picture perfect beach. It’s fairly wasted on me. I think sometimes a lot of wonderful things are wasted on me. Not because I don’t appreciate them. I do appreciate them in the sense that I feel grateful for the offers, the opportunities, and in that I recognize the enormous worth of every (well, most) single thing placed into my hands. Sometimes too much. But wasted in the sense that in the year I’ve had that office, in all the lunch breaks I’ve had, I’ve visited that beautiful beach once. Just once. And I think about all the people who long for the beach, whose souls are fed by its sights and sounds and who are stuck in tiny cubicles in the middle of the CBD.

 

I have other privileges I haven’t asked for.

 

I am white.

 

I am Australian.

 

And despite a less than stellar start to adulthood, I also now fit (rather awkwardly) into the ‘middleclass’ (whatever that means).

 

I didn’t ask for those privileges. I didn’t seek them. But I do benefit from them. In large and in subtle ways. On a daily basis.

 

I have a friend who loves the beach. She yearns for it. She works in remote Australia far away from the beach. She can’t visit the beach on her weekends. But she can see my Instagram photos of my visits to the beach. She can live vicariously through the access I provide. If I visited the beach more.

 

This is a bigger conversation I’m having with myself.

Obviously.

 

I don’t know what I’m trying to say with all of this exactly. Just that, it matters to me. Trying to find a way. To find justice. To have access. To share this light, this love, this world.

 

Access denied/ the way forward/ cleared with love/ words shouted into the wind/ together, or alone/ we must/ breathe//

 

 

The Contributor:

 

Ashlee Harrison. Clipboard Queen. Superhero in heels. Zero to Hero CEO.

“Cut the fluff.”

 

Another precious member of the YSP tribe. Check out and support her phenomenal work with Zero to Hero here.

Zero to Hero delivers school based programs to empower and educate young people to effectively deal with mental health issues.

 

What is #writeme30?

 

Sprung Open #writeme30

 

The Contributor:

This week’s #writeme30 photo supplied by Matthew Church. I met the lovely Matthew through my involvement with JUTE Theatre Company’s Enter Stage Write (2012 and 2013). Matthew and I were both playwrights in the program, with Matthew being our youngest playwright (still at school at the time). He’s now a uni kid doing all sorts of awesome. He’s supplied a rather lovely photo that I really haven’t done justice to with my response. I think there’s a song somewhere in my response but I couldn’t quite reach it, so it’s a lot of words tipped onto a page for now.

The Photo:

The Response:

You are the seamless sides of me

Painted in liquid leaps of colour

Splashed in rain drops

To kill with

Live with

Bleed into and out of and bent within

 

In night time dreams

Softly sucked

Gently rocked

And blended

Two into one

Many dreams into singular traps

Opening maws beneath peep toe shoes

Feet painted a glorious yellow to let the light in.

 

Spilt

Spilled. Streaming out. Threads of hair woven into your sheets.

Left bare. Left bare. And given there. To you. To me.

 

I’ll see you there. I’ll see you there.

 

Are you even listening to me? Is anyone? Stringing these sentences into more nonsense in your mouth. Reaching out. Fanning out.

 

Boxes blaring. TV shows never caring.

Your hands in mine. His eyes in his face. Your eyes on my back. Spilling. These secret sorrows. The ones we have no words for. Only a yearning too big to breath through.

 

You and I. wrapped together in these silences. These soft smile moments. We’ve broken them. And built them. And woven them together. Into this one life we have to live. Together. Apart. Together again.

 

What saves you? Saves me. Makes me? This precious time. Used well. Used to overfill hours we can never have back. Who are you. Have you been. Will be again.

 

I am my own silence. The frozen moment. The moment I stopped myself. The moment I said nothing. Did nothing. Was nothing. And then smiled. Bowed my head to a world too big for me.

 

No more. Ever. Then. I’m breathed into a new silence.

 

A wordsea to rock you to sleep. When my arms are empty. Emptied by words unspoken, unseen, unknown.

 

We will weep together you and I. Quietly. In between newspaper sheets and multiplying tabs. Sprung open with the force of their fear.

Three Eyes #writeme30 #travel

 

The Contributor:

This week’s #writeme30 photo supplied by Tully Bates of Purple Carrot Catering (delicious food in the Riverland!)

 The Photo:

The Response:

One breath of colour in an ocean of maybe;

Two inhaled doubts to cover the silence;

Three eyes to see the world with.

 

An empty passport to taunt your fingers

A full wallet to promise your dreams

We’ve remembered, you and I.

A blank space between #writeme30

August was too full for me.

Full of loss. Sickness. Work stress in both camps. Full of letting people down. Letting myself down. Full of being lost. Full of saying goodbye. Full of saying thank you and hello. Full of fear. Failure. Mistakes. Sorry’s. Full of loved ones. Full of forgotten letters and overdue bills. Full of feelings. Full. Too full.

and here I am tired.

With this blank space filling August’s attempt at #writeme30 – not a single post to be seen.

I’m not going to try and fill it by posting double in September or playing catch up. I’m just going to leave this blank space here to fill August. Because sometimes that’s how life really is. Overfull. Empty. Both and neither.

But here’s something beautiful to listen to (by one of my favourite lyricists) from me to you:

 

Night, lovelies.

Ruin Filler #writeme30

 

The Contributor:

This week’s #writeme30 photo is from Milly Hoffmann. It’s an old photo of her being held by her Mumma Bear Jeannie. Two glorious women. Full of deeper things.

I think the first time I met Milly in person her first sentence contained the word fuck at least twice. She’d just arrived for the first day of the first Creative Development of PressureLands. She’s been a precious lass ever since.

We like her a lot.

 

The Photo:

 

The Response – Ruin Filler:

*All characters/events  etc are fictional

 

My mother was 26 when I was born.

Her hair was long and straight.

My father was 31.

His hair was short and cropped close to his head.

I was born in the centenary year.

My hair was short and dark and stuck straight up in the air.

 

This year I am the same age my mother was when I was born.

 

I spend time in hospitals.

Hours of time.

Great, deep chunks of time.

Of my life.

Hours spent.

Cutting bits out.

Putting other bits in.

I am sick.

Have been sick.

Will always be sick.

 

I met him on one of those brilliant blustery ridiculous days. When the wind whips your hair and the ground dust into your mouth and into your eyes. We’d been waiting in line for a hot dog at the Field Days. He tried to put mustard on his, the opening was glued shut with old hard mustard so it squirted out unevenly, unexpectedly. All over me. I burst into tears. It was the first Field Days I’d attended in three years. I was wearing a new and beautiful dress my mother had made for me. Day ruined. He was horrified. Stumbling over his words to apologise to me. And I felt bad for him. I did. Really. But I also kind of didn’t really care. This was meant to be a day for me. To forget the awfulness. The darkness. To see people and be seen. Healthy. Alive. Present.

 

His guilt covered me in kindness. He shouted me a helicopter ride, above the square lines of this place. He bought me fairy floss and a scarf to cover the mustard stain. He told me about his brothers and parents and the farm he grew up on. And I told him things. Words spilling out into the dust and the sugar. The fear. The doubts. The rooms that smell like toilet cleaner and loneliness. The friendships that don’t last because words on paper don’t taste the same as hugs. And a day was lived. One day. A day that tangled my tears and his guilt into laughter that lasted nearly seven years.

Seven years of hospital rooms. Seven years of being sick, being well and growing into out skin. Seven years of dust and good food. Seven years of mingled families and learning to be friends with our fears. Seven years of bliss.

 

Until this.

Seven years that can’t undo how sick, sick is.

Seven years that have no answer to an empty uterus for a man with hungry arms.

 

It’s been coming. For a little while. A little while longer than I’ve wanted to share with myself. The space appearing between our hands. The smiles that feel too crisp. Too clean. Too far away to touch. But even seeing it. I’m still caught by surprise. Still rattled by the quiet closing of the car door leaving us behind.

My phone is full of numbers now. Full of friendships full. Friendships I could call, but I don’t. I call her. My mother. My beautiful, strong, glorious mother. She answers. Nothing comes out of me. She knows.

Says “I’ll be there soon. Open the curtains and let the light in”. I hang up the phone and wait. Perched nervously on the front step like it’s my first day of school.

 

And then, then she’s there.

Her arms are strong against my back. Wrapped tightly around the cage of my body. Her arms are strong. My sobs are stronger. We rock together. She and I. Chaotic and heavy with doubt. We rock together. She and I. This is all there is. This love. This mothers love.

This mothers love.

 

 

* I will be a few weeks short of photos so if you would like to submit a photo for me to respond to, you would be very welcome to. Email it to me at: pressurelandsATmeDOTcom

 

Caught by the Now #writeme30 @FELTspace

 

I’m about to put up this week’s #writeme30 in a separate post, but for anyone who is actually counting, you may have noticed that I’ve missed a few weeks.

*slaps own hand*

I don’t want to make excuses. So I won’t, but I do intend to play catch up so I end up with 52 posts by 18th March 2015. So the reckoning will come then…

And although I’ve missed some weeks for #writeme30 there has been other writing happening.Which I wanted to share.

Like this:

“I am fascinated listening to both artists talk about their work. Listening to them attempt to unpack complicated thought processes and articulate the process of making to explore those thought processes. My ears and heart leap towards the crossovers and juxtapositions between the two works and the artists who’ve made them. My fingers itch with the questions they’ve asked in discovering these works. As artists their creative output is a lens for me to discover my own answers. I’m ready and reminded.”

– Excerpt ‘Caught in the Now’ for Feltspace Writers Program

and this:

“THEY BECOME FRAGMENTS. Memories. Flashes of who you have been, who you are, who you could be. Bleeding together. Blending out. Too many things to hold inside of yourself. The more you try to make sense of them, the more they slip into your peripheral vision. The more dreamlike they taste on your lips.

Twelve-year-old me being kissed by a sixteen-year-old boy in a shearing shed. With tongue.

Fourteen-year-old me being held down by a man for the first time. Screaming into the pillow over my mouth.

Fifteen-year-old me sitting my parents down at the kitchen table to tell them I’m moving out. My mother crying quietly in her bedroom.

Sixteen-year-old me working fifty hours a week in a factory. My feet hurt. Home to a house that stinks of hopelessness.

Seventeen-year-old me holding a tiny screaming bundle of flesh and bone in my arms. My son, ready or not.
THESE ARE SOME of my memories. The ones that bleed into my story.”

-Excerpt ‘Not for Me’ for Griffith Review, Cultural Solutions.

 

I’m not sure where I’m at right now. I’m full of lots of feelings. Lots of fears. Lots of hopes. But it’s good. It’s all good.

 

 

Come play with me. I’m keen as.

 

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