Category Archives: Sadface

Long silences.

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The world is making me terribly sad this evening. So much pain. So much pain! Individual pain, pain of thousands, millions, everyone with their suffering on tiny scales (a single candle, oh my god) to enormous scales (Gaza, Iraq, you know the places) and all of it so deafening. It drowns out the whispers of those who rescue dogs and volunteer to be doctors in foreign countries and old ladies who smile at people on the street. All the good in the world is so gentle and quiet that sometimes I think, against this raging bloody darkness, we have no hope. No hope.
And then I curl up in bed, and wait for sleep, and wonder how long it’ll be until that darkness finds me.

Soapbox Time

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“Pale Death beats equally at the poor man’s gate and at the palaces of kings.”
– Horace

I hate it when celebrities die.

I don’t hate it because I’m reminded of the mortal coil and our steady but relentless progression down it, or because the celebrity was a particularly meaningful person in my life. I hate it because of all the things people say in response to it.

Right now I’m seeing the occasional message remembering Whitney Houston. Most of the time, I’m seeing comment about how a famous wailing junkie doesn’t deserve all the attention because she finally dropped off the perch.

Don’t even get me started on my whole ‘respect for the dead’ spiel, because it wouldn’t end. I cannot stand people’s need to defame and slander another person’s name when they deserve forgiveness for their past mistakes. Death is a punishment in some countries. It’s often considered the most severe, and certainly the most final of all sentences. Should the dead not be given a moments peace removed from their minor misdeeds and drama?

That is not what this post is about.

This post is about the comments about the soldiers. About little-known scientists who created something great. About the starving children in Africa. About the saints and the sinners and the people in between.

No, I’m not saying they deserve more attention than Whitney. That’s what this post is about.

Everywhere, all over the world, people are dying.

People are dying of disease, of famine, of addiction, of heartbreak. People are dying in wars and rebellions. People are dying slowly at the age of ninety-four. People are dying quickly at the age of two hours. Many people are taking their own life, or having it taken by another. There is not a place in the world where death is not happening.

Every single one of those people is a person of importance. You may not have heard about them, you may not feel emotional attachment to them, you may not even have liked them if you knew them. That doesn’t make then unimportant. The soldier dying in the midst of a short, sudden battle is no more important than the little old man dying alone in his bed in his spartan apartment. The children freezing in the streets are no less important than the great leaders who are dealing with their fatal but slowly progressing disease.

Can you even comprehend the numbers? Billions of people ceasing to live. Billions.

Every single one of them deserves to be acknowledged and remembered. Every single one of them had a life and a story. They may not have been good people. They may not have been strong people. They may have had addictions and vices and anger issues and a tendency to leave the toilet seat up. Some of them would have beaten their children. Some of them didn’t even have children. A great many of them died trying to care for their children. Many more of them died thinking about their children, or lack thereof. They may have died with regrets, or with great pride in what they had done.

Can you imagine the stories they could have told you?

Can you grasp the adventures they may have had?

Do you know who they were, what they feared, who they loved, where their passions rested?

No?

Did you know Whitney Houston, beyond her image on a screen or on a stage?

No?

Did you know every one of the soldiers who fell and never got back up?
No?

Do you know the names of every individual child suffering deadly malnutrition and hunger pains?

No?

Perhaps that is why you cannot mourn for them all at once, and that is okay.

We as human beings are actually incapable of seriously understanding anything on that scale. We can quantify it, we can describe it, we can count and manage and organise it, but we cannot comprehend it.

The best we can do is understand what is near and dear to us. Mourn the dead celebrities. Respect the fallen defenders of freedom and justice. Do what you can to ensure that this year, the numbers of the dead on the streets is significantly lower. Feed the world, y’know?

Death is an excellent equaliser.

Just don’t run around saying that one death is more important than another. Don’t demand more attention for one person like the other doesn’t deserve it because of their failures in life. Everyone has done something in their life that other people wouldn’t approve of. That’s not the point.

You cannot mourn every loss in this world. Mourn your own losses, allow the people around you to mourn theirs, and never, ever tell another person that their loss is less important than yours.

Show respect for the dead. All of the dead. Even the ones you didn’t know.

Okay?

Because….

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…. I want to make a difference.

I have been single for a month now.
I didn’t post about it because it hurt too much. It’s managable now. The pain isn’t so bad.

What is hurting, I find, is suddenly discovering all over again what homophobia is. What inequality is.

I want to marry a girl. The right girl, when I find her.

In Australia, I won’t be able to do that, unless things change.

I don’t want girls calling me and telling me how they suffer because they’re gay.

I don’t want boys getting the shit beaten out of them because they looked at a boy the way they look at girls.

I don’t want the news to label a family as abusive because they accept their child for who She is.

This world, the way it is, disgusts me. There is so much hate, and not enough love.

Worse than that, there are restraints in love. Laws, rules, boxes and labels.

There is no way you can put a price or a tag on something as beautifully divine as love.

Please, if you feel the same way I do, regardless of your sexuality or gender, DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.
Blog, take photos, make art, protest, donate. Raise your voice, be loud, be proud, be amazing.
Be in love. Celebrate other people being in love.
Help those who need it, and help yourself.

Teach Tolerance.

Learn Acceptance.

Love

is

Love.

Too Many Deaths

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My grandmother died yesterday morning.
I found out just before dinner. My phone has been disconnected, so Dad couldn’t contact me until I got home and could use Jai’s phone.
I don’t really feel much. There were the initial few hours of crying and shock, some sadness, but right now I’m pretty numb. I didn’t see her all that often so it isn’t real to me yet. My mind is convinced that she’s still alive because this is just another day of not seeing her, not calling her, not finishing her painting or wondering how her fat and smelly little dog is today. I imagine it will hit me at the funeral. I am prone to teariness at family events.
I knew it was going to happen soon. I’ve been… waiting, I suppose, since christmas.

The only thing I feel bad about is that she never got her Trickster King painting. Procrastination until it’s too late is a bitch.
Actually, so is everyone dying all at the same time. That’s a bitch too.

 

 


Alannah Jackson
(15/5/1938 – 9/8/2011)
Rest in Peace
I’ll miss you.

One foot through the door.

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Sometimes I wish I were either straight or lesbian, so I wouldn’t keep feeling like no matter what I do, I’m giving up on part of who I am.

Don’t get me wrong, Jai is not the problem. I love my fiance. I am happy to give up the world just to have him, he gives me meaning and softens my soul. He is my heart and humanity, and my life would be horrible without him. He’s my strength and peace and sense of self control. He’s my companion.

The problem is that the grass is always greener on the other side. Or rather, not so much a greener green but a lush field of a different colour, something tempting and just as beautiful as where I stand now, only with different qualities. The grass on this side adds +5 to constitution, while the grass on that side is +5 to dexterity. I can only pick one, but without the other, I am lacking.

Most of the time it doesn’t bother me. I can deal with my own choices, I can even be happy in them. Somtimes it creeps to the forefront of my mind and sits there, like a toad, croaking comments like “You could have had that.” or “Don’t you think you belong there more?” and I am unfortunately inclined to listen. It’s easy to believe it. I am aware that I’m caught between worlds, I belong neither here nor there. Or perhaps I belong in both.

Polyamory makes sense to me, but the world doesn’t accept that at the moment. (Polyamort in the sense of multiple closed relationships. Not swinging, not an open relationship.) I can’t marry Jai and have a girl to bring home to my parents. If there’s anything worse than being torn in two, it’s knowing that people think you’re living a lie, playing marriage, belittling love. I don’t personally believe that, I believe it’s a way of making a person whole.

I hope that there is a point in my life where I become comfortable with this feeling. When it all settles, and I stop thinking that I’m denying half of myself. Understand that I don’t want to be alright with this. I’m very passionate about who I am, but a sense of self-preservation makes it a necessity.

When will all this be… okay?

Dreams and Desperation

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I have a secret to tell you.
It’s something important to me, but otherwise mundane, and it’s something I don’t like to admit.
I am about to tell you why I want to publish my books.

I write because I so desperately love telling stories. I feel an incredible urge to just get what’s in my head out here, in the world, so that others can read it and I can know I’m not the only one witnessing these people and these worlds.

I suppose that’s part of why I want to publish my stories too, but it’s not the true reason. The true reason is that I somehow associate publishing a book to aquiring the things I want.
Don’t misread that as a desire to be wealthy in a monetary sort of way. Wealthy in a life sort of way is the desire of most human beings; the desire to be happy, healthy, and in the ‘perfect’ home.
Those are some of the things I want, I’ll admit. It would be nice to be healthy, it would be nice to be happy, it would be nice to have enough money to keep myself comfortably buried in the newest technology and highest culture.
What I really want is a place that is mine.

The inspiration for this blog post was that I saw someone who had that.
I am a fan of Anne Rice, and the lovely lady is selling her house. It’s expensive, far beyond what I could ever afford in my lifetime (assuming nothing changes) and very well designed. It was built for a woman with a million friends. Friends, fans, family… Many bedrooms, places to entertain all these transient housemates.
I wanted it. I wanted it so badly I felt like I was going to be torn inside out with this overwhelming want. I didn’t want it because it was hers, though. I didn’t want it because it was pretty. I didn’t want it because it was a big ole ‘perfect’ house in a ‘perfect’ place.
I wanted it because it was filled with light and creation. Things became real there. Stories were created, built upon, told to the world. Private stories flourished and became secrets between lips and ears, between priveleged minds and souls. I wanted it because it’s something I crave deeply: a niche, a space to weave tales. A space to entertain with comfort, to sit in the hours of the early morning and feel the cool breeze, to type and paint and have family come to stay.
I want my stories to be the things that make it possible to have that.

I don’t mean that I want them to bring in millions of dollars in royalties. That would be pleasant, but what I mean is that I want my world to be built upon creation. I want the house I transform into a home to be the result of the successful birthing of my mind into this universe. Just as people want their family to be the result of their creation of new life, I want my place in the world to be shaped by my stories.

I’m not a fool, though.

After realising that this was why I wanted that house so badly, I immediately felt a hint of despair. I feel, with a kind of certainty, that my books will never be best-sellers like those of Anne Rice, Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, or any of the other great authors whose names are known around the world. I know it. Up until now I had accepted this fact. It didn’t change that I wasn’t going to kick and scream to change it, to fight for a chance to be in that tiny percentage of the literary world, to have my little plot of land with its little well-lit house and a place where the cool air can find me in the morning.
I do not have much luck. I have a pretty good sense of survival, but luck? Luck is the thing that gets these people to where they are. Luck, imagination, and tenacity.
I question my imagination all the time. I believe that all true original ideas have died out, that everything is just recycled something else. I have no issue with that, there’s no problem with recycling knowledge. We do that with the very language we communicate in, verbally or otherwise.
What I do have a problem with is the concept of being mundane.
I don’t want to be special. I am happy being an unknown in this great big world. I want my stories to be special.
I want people to fall in love with the characters. I want people to long for the world I created.
I am well aware that what I have right now is not what people love, however. I’m aware that it doesn’t have that special glamour to it that makes people feel for the story they are reading.

Do you know what that tells me?

That tells me that I will never be there, in my house filled with light, balanced on creation.
It tells me that at best, with a lot of work, I’ll be able to push myself out of the lower-middle-class bracket and into plain middle-class, or perhaps even upper-middle-class. That’s only if things go extremely well, and don’t push me further down the ladder. I can have the curse of the middle-class: Having things that look like the possessions of a successful upper-class person, but knowing it’s not the real deal.
I can have a house filled with light, and rooms for entertaining. High ceilings and brightly painted walls. It will be built on hard work and plain earth, honorable things and desirable in their own way; but I fear it will suffocate all I had within me that enabled my own form of creation.

The fact that I believe this, however, has given me new strength to fight hard to get my dream. There’s nothing like the scent of failure to push you harder to get to that elusive finish line.

Wish me luck.

 

I used the word ‘Create’ too many times in this post. Apologies.