July 19, 2011 § Leave a comment
I’m sorry to say goodbye to this stodgy old site. I’ll miss the spontaneous muck I spewed forth on here for your filthy reading pleasure, but alas, I have found my thoughts a new home that is more like ME. The site is still under construction, but please go have a squiz at what is sure to be an enjoyable romp of a blog.
Click here to see it in its full (half-finished) glory.
I’m so excited to start this new writing adventure! Please go and SUBSCRIBE, so you will know when the expedition begins.
Loads of love,
June 18, 2011 § Leave a comment
My Mum’s Just a Little Bit Racist
My mum’s just a little bit racist.
She got back from Europe, and at the arrival gate
She told me ‘this little bloody Arab girl kept kicking the back of my seat!’
Through a half laugh
I rolled my eyes and waited til I got in the car before I asked her ‘Does it matter
That she was Arab?’
And my dad chimed ‘Yeah! Stop being so prejudiced!’ from the back seat
And we both felt mildly righteous as I pulled the car out
And drove the hour home.
It reminded me of that time she told me
About the man who stood behind her in the post-office
A Greek, who jeered at her when she asked if she could pop out of line
To grab a book of stamps. She huffed ‘You know Greeks
Just don’t have ANY respect for women!’ And pegged the book of stamps at the refrigerator watching
The bills she hadn’t paid yet slide swift
To the floor.
And I thought of a boy I once knew, Greek
Who asked me out but I thought he was too young for me
Only a year younger but with a pudding face
The kind a mother pokes her fat fingers at on the street and he had the utmost respect for his mother
And me. And then he was killed in a car accident
About 6 months later, give or take, from what I remember. I can’t tell you
What it’s like to have a guy who asked you out
A guy you only knew really through a friend
Who you kissed once for the hell of it and thought he was sloppy,
But Greeks have no respect for women, I heard
Even 16 year olds.
Then I noticed, on a warm day
An Asian man walk down the street, what kind of Asian?
I don’t know. They all look the same but not Indian
Who to me
Look like white people with too much fake tan
He passed a Lebanese woman, wearing a hajib
But then do Lebanese women wear hajibs? Are they muslim? Anyway, she was angry
About something and steered into a half empty parking lot
Flush flesh bundled to guard
From the glare
And the Asian man watched her with shrewd dark eyes and I wondered
If he was just a little bit racist too.
May 25, 2011 § 2 Comments
Let me begin this by saying that I do not believe in magic. I had an eye opening experience with a magic kit as a child with which I could not render my brother permanently disappeared, and since then have approached the whole practice with a keen sense of cynicism. Nor do I believe in Mermaids, Witches, Zombies, Jesus rising from the grave or Fairies (but I invite you to clap your hands if you feel so inclined). I can’t stretch my imagination far enough to describe to you the things that I do not believe in, but I do, somewhat against my better judgement, believe in destiny.
Destiny is an annoying term, because whenever I mention it in a positive fashion I feel like a genuine arsehole; the kind of person who expresses opinions in singular, worthless cliches with wide eyed expectation that you will absolutely, without a doubt agree with every syllable uttered from their flapping mouth. ‘Uh…sure, I suppose everything could happen for a reason, but that doesn’t change the fact that my dog is dead.’ Of course this particular kind of arsehole generally has the best intentions, and the most naive of dispositions. So why do I feel so compelled to fall into their ranks?
May 12, 2011 § Leave a comment
I was hanging with a friend complaining about being fat, as I am wont to do far too often for someone who will stand in the kitchen and lick all the icing off a three layer cake unconsciously while trying to decide what to have for lunch, when he whipped around and with staggering contempt called me a ‘fucking idiot’. I met his derision with the wounded yelp of a stupid dog who’d caught its own damn tail. Bewildered by my sore butt, I turned away from him, scratched my nose, watched a fly land on the tiled floor and rub its legs together for a while, then finally stated that I was thirsty.
I contemplated the glass arrangement in my cupboard for a while before I asked if he’d like a drink, too? ‘Sorry’ he said so matter-of-fact I wanted to punch him, ‘I’m just so tired of girls who are perfectly aware they aren’t fat trying to fish for compliments.’ Wow, I thought smugly as I chugged my water and wiped the dribble off my chin, does this guy have it wrong.
May 6, 2011 § Leave a comment
Today I asked myself if I have ever had to face a terrible situation on my own. I then picked around the feta cheese in my greek salad and read a poem by Ali Cobby Eckermann* titled ‘I Tell You True’.
I can’t stop drinking, I tell you true
since I watched my daughter perish
She burned to death inside a car
I lost what I most cherish
I saw the angels hold her
as I screamed with useless hope
I can’t stop drinking, I tell you true
It’s the only way I cope!
A terrible situation on my own? I asked myself again. I thought about the lonely archetype of the drunk nursing his ninth scotch at a dodgy bar, gurgling his sorrows to a bartender trained to nod, smile, move on. I thought for a moment of what death can do to a person, and then what a person can do to death.
May 2, 2011 § Leave a comment
I have a friend, let’s call him TJ, who once laid it all out on the table for me. “You aren’t a nice person, Kara,” he said with deftly focussed eyes nudging at my soul. “You’re a good person, but not a nice person.”
While I watched TJ dodge my quick fire slap, I felt oddly compelled to restrain my go to violent streak. I wanted to know what insights this guy could grant me before I strung him up by his little finger. ‘I’m nice, you arsehole!’ was the only argument I could muster. I paused for a moment, dropped my forehead down onto the salt-stained MacDonald’s tabletop and muttered something about him explaining what the fuck he meant by it.
April 2, 2011 § Leave a comment
Dead bodies are strange things. We don’t often speak of them because, well, maybe instinct drives us away from the corpse for all the diseases it can carry, or else we hold a natural aversion to the very idea of their unfathomable immobility. I’ve often heard that this aversion could also stem from the notion that a corpse is no longer that which it was. The idea that, like a growing hermit-crab leaves a shell in the sand behind for a roomier, more comfortable fit, so too do our souls.
As a non-believer in gods and monsters, I have always permitted the soul to be a somewhat archaic and idealistic concept, figuring we are more like sand crabs who live and die within their own soft shells. Yet I have never thought much about the impact this has (if any) on looking upon a dead body, or in fact grieving the absence of life within it.