Tuesday, 13 August 2013

Having To Move, Yet Again

In the 28 years since I was born, I have been moved ten times. The longest I have spent in one place was 13 years. The shortest, which is my current residence, will be two months by the time I have been moved out, and so I will be on to my eleventh house.

I don't think it's hard for me to come to the conclusion that all I've ever wanted is a secure place to call mine, something that no one can take away from me.  Yet why is that so fucking hard to achieve?

I finally thought I had found somewhere that was secure, that was mine.  My little nest.  Yet once again, some mechanism of fate or luck or plain old spite has thrown a cog and broken the machine.  I got rid of all my cardboard boxes for crying out loud.

Stop the carousel, I want to blow it up.


Sunday, 14 July 2013

Question

The manslaughter of Trayvon Martin. Because that is what it was, lets not call a horse a duck.

The manslaughter of Trayvon Martin occured because of one man's choice to confront this boy. Yes, he was legally a youth, and this man chose to follow him. With a gun.

Lets pause right there.

A man, George Zimmerman, chose to follow this boy, Trayvon Martin, with a gun. Now, that makes me ask a question right there.

Why? What possible reason, does a man who is not in law enforcement have for following a boy, and confronting him, with a gun on his person.

Now lets play a game. Lets pretend that instead of a boy this man with a gun follows, it is actually a woman. Perhaps the same age, perhaps the same skin colour. Perhaps a 40 year old white woman going home from work. Perhaps me, a young woman of Mediterranean heritage. What would i think, if i discovered a man following me, and then found out he was in possesion of a gun.

I would be terrified. Instantaneous fight or flight mode. And what thoughts would be running through my head?

He's going to mug me at gun point.

He's going to rape me. At gun point.

He is going to do something that will hurt me, even kill me, because he followed me and he has a fucking gun.

I wonder what Trayvon Martin thought, when confronted by this man and his gun. Perhaps he thought exactly the same, that he would be mugged, or raped, or hurt.

You know what? My opinion is not important. I'm just an angry white female looking for her next rant.

If that is what you want to believe.... go ahead. If you want to believe that George Zimmerman acted correctly, go ahead. If you want to believe that Trayvon was innocent, be my guest.

But lets not ignore the facts.

George Zimmerman chose to follow Trayvon Martin.

George Zimmerman had the gun.

George Zimmerman confronted Trayvon Martin.

And that boy died, because that man had a gun, and he used it.

Tuesday, 5 March 2013

Milk

"I'm sure I put you in the fridge..." I muttered as I hefted the bottle of semi-skimmed milk up from the counter and into said cold-creating device.  That done, I opened the oven and retrieved my dinner, lightly steaming my face and rendering myself temporarily blind as my glasses misted over.

Sometime later, full and a little bit annoyed at the downturn M Night Shyamalamalam had taken moviewise, I returned an empty plate to the kitchen.  Where I discovered the milk bottle, sitting on the counter.

"I know I put you in the fridge," I whispered.  Setting down the plate, I grabbed the wandering container and threw it into the fridge, containing the bastard.  I closed the door on it for good measure.

I turned round to the sink, making sure to glance over my shoulder at the closed fridge, knowing that by simply looking at it I could hold off any shenanigans.  But presently I became more and more pre-occupied with washing my damned plate.  And then I turned back.  The milk had returned!

I ran screaming in horror from the kitchen, and cowered under my duvet.  But I knew the milk was coming after me....

Toppling off the counter.  Splatting on the floor.  Sloshing its way up the stairs.

I peeked out from behind my duvet.  And there it was!  Poised on the edge of my bedside cabinet, having displaced my detritus!  Ready to stave in my skull with its plastic exo-skeleton!  Twas then I fainted.

I drifted through dairy nightmares of evil laughing cows, their eyes red and stabby with evilness.

When finally I awoke, the sun was shining through my bedroom window, and that horrible bottle of milk was nowhere to be seen. I jumped out of bed and scooted down the stairs, pausing momentarily to wonder if it had all been a dream.

In the kitchen I discovered nothing amiss.  Except for an empty bottle of milk.  And a post-it note attached to its side.

"All I wanted was a bloody glass.  Thanks for making me drink from the bottle like an animal!  Yours sincerely, Esther the Ghost."

Sunday, 13 January 2013

Right Now...

Right now, the Black Dog has me.

I can feel its teeth, biting my heels as it chases me down the spiral into darkness.  I am out of my mind, terrified and lonely, and even though there may be arms reaching out to save me, I can't see them. 

As my thoughts go round and round without resolution and its serenity, I become more distressed, more detached from my mind and emotions.  I am no longer mistress here, this house has no occupier, and I can feel it falling down as I watch on from the winding garden path.

I ask myself questions to which I have inadequate answers, queries that I feel I am not clever enough to solve, claims that fall apart with the closest scrutiny as if they are castles made of sand.

The negativity chokes me.  It chokes the vital part of me, the creative part of me, the living vibrancy of my soul, unless that too is a lie and all I am is the sum of my cells.

I have gone through this many times before.  And each time, the woman that stands before you smiling is the ghost that haunts an empty shell.  She is a part of me, but she is not the whole of me, the true me.  That woman lies screaming beneath the floorboards and the earth, buried up to her neck and unable to save herself from the ghost that taunts and floats and prances round with the shape of her body, the cadence of her voice, but lacking anything that makes her the woman you truly know.  For how could a shadow of a person be that person?

I have come out of this many times before.  I have moved the dirt, with a little strength that somehow I find down here in the basement.  Perhaps a caller comes to the door, a familiar voice that drifts down to my ears.  My strength nearly always comes externally, you see.  From you.  And I surge up, cracking the wood and freeing myself to stand in my house, once more mistress of its interior.  The ghost slinks back to her place high up in a room where she can do little damage.  Though I hear her sometimes, banging on the door.  And her pet, the Black Dog, will scratch at the walls.  When I go outside I see the marks of his claws and teeth upon the bricks of my house, ugly and sharp.  I paint them over, bury them with gloss and colour so that no one will see and remark upon the damage to my house.  It must always be pristine, as perfection is the shield against another's gross opinion.  But it is a small shield, easily wrenched from my hands, even though I hold it tight.  And that is when the Black Dog growls, and the ghost-woman howls with glee.

Though they would do that anyway, without giving reason, at any hour of the day or night.

A curse on my faulty brain and all its wicked voices.