Walking in my stepdad's footsteps......

I was so very proud, my first pair of four inch heels. It was wonderful, when I got home and realised I was taller than both of my parents (even my mother, whose hair stands an inch all by itself). Be that as it may, why was I not warned?? It's not walking, it's falling. It's not even falling, one leg ends up some place different than the other one. Perhaps this is just the grace of an under developed ugly duckling. I don't think so. It is something that all women hide, successfully and unsuccessfully, It is some kind of sadistic, evil conspiracy, that women do not tell the agony involved when it comes to wearing heels. Why would anyone want to make me feel this ridiculous?

I have a somewhat conspicuous feeling that this is revenge. Models make it look so easy, so simple. One leg in front of the other. Hip, Hip. And Hooray, your off, looking utterly gorgeous. In reality, this happy occurrence, is nothing but a delusion.

That is how the situation developed in to a lesson. A lesson given, not by my Mother, as you might expect, but by my Step-dad. That is how, we both ended up in heels. He, gliding. Me, falling. He may have had considerably more practice in this area, surely though, this is not natural. For a dude to be better in heels than me. That is kind of insulting. But not exactly shocking. Colour me jealous.

I've had writers block for the past week. All I have wanted to do is fall asleep. Constant exhaustion, its infiltrated everything. Finally, freedom for a whole week. I can cook, if I want to. I can listen to my MP3 at top volume, and no one will care. It's as if the Sun, my personal Sun has appeared suddenly. I'm Free.

Wake

When I wake, it is like a dream. Things are hazy, softened by the world, and the things in it. My bed is iron, a prison, I am the prisoner. Entrapped within the world of a fairytale. The carpet is spongy beneath my feet. The carpet is blue. A beautiful blue, fading in some areas. I lay on that carpet to read, to sleep, sometimes it appears bottomless, like a cave. Caves are shaped by water. Into patterns, swirls.In my mind I wander in these caves. Swimming in them, consumed by the beauty that they produce. Then I wake. The lights turn on, consequently everything becomes serious.

Orange HIt my Eyeliner

An orange piece landed in my pocket. No, I am not kidding. An orange piece, a piece of orange. It's juice went on my eyeliner (which I also had in my pocket). There are times when I want to punch people (and by people I mean immature pricks) in the face. Are we not past that yet? When we were six, then I could understand. But we're not. At least I don't think so. What next? An ear phone, rolled up sandwiches, a piece of orange. A Toaster Oven? What the Hell is wrong with this School? It seems, the more obscure, the more welcome. 

  

In the Canteen, whippersnappers stuff carrot up their nostrils (I never exaggerate). In the Science block there are black marks on the ceiling (of very questionable origin). And we (the young whippersnappers of today), are the Presidents and Prime Ministers of tomorrow (enter barely suppressed hysterical giggle). The World is Doomed.

It seems similar to Peter Pan, but reversed. On the exterior, children grow up. On the inside, it appears as if some remain four years old. Four was great. Words that worry me now (try Coursework), had no effect on me then. Chocolate buttons were currency. Almost nothing is the same. I like it like that. I still revert back to being my four year old self, it's solace. It is not good to be that way all the time. There has to be equanimity.

P.S the image is purely for entertainment value. It has a certain....je ne sais quoi

Way of the Fist

It is sometimes necessary to ogle beautiful things. Shoes, in particular. Shoes are more important than men's butts. They are at least consistent. They also fit nicely, and make me look good, which is more than some guys can do. I have in particular been 'checking out' shoes from the designer 'Iron Fist'. These shoes are the mother****** of all shoes. Here is my favourite shoe from their collection(Phwoar):

 How fabulous are these! Absolutely to die for....(intone sign of hopeless longing). The mix of shades and materials is calculated and clever. Black suade and sequins; I never thought that those would work together. Yet they still manage to mix Luxe and Punk. I think that 'Iron Fist' does some clothing too. Watch this space.

I fall asleep, often, with my head buried in a book. Simply to feel the pages, to smell the ink. It is a feeling like no other. Nostalgia and lightness of being rolled into one sleepy moment, half dream, half reality. Almost as if the story has been tattooed across my face in oblivion. If words equated to reality, the sparrow painted on my back would fly, its wings pounding against my flesh. I would feel it's heat, it's heart, it's bizarre beauty. I would feel its eyes.

Intermittently, I wish I could lay all my cards on the table, and finish this game. The game of relationships and Aces. I am not trusted by my friends, but what would I ever do, to them? I have to use my powers of deduction to figure out what is happening. And often, when I do piece things together, the jigsaw is wrong. And it starts again.

I feel helpless. When they are hurting, it is like some hideous side show. Like some kind of terrible glass, something I can see but cannot touch. Maybe they want it that way. Who knows?

Love After Love by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.