Wednesday, February 28

life

that's a pretty huge title for what is a very simple post about my plants.


here is my frangipani: a limb ripped from the mother plant and stuck into a bag of soil, it spent most of last two months looking like it was dead...

and then:




amazing huh?

this is my avo tree:


from just a little pip. i find it endlessly fascinating - how a whole tree can creep up from a hard little stone, perfectly formed and continuously moving up up up with more leaves, barkier bark and little buds of life popping out in some rhythmical magic.

i guess the whole relentless life thing struck me when i willed my first bonsai back from the brink of tree death. i found it dried out and brown on a friend's farm years ago. now look at it: some water, some superthrive and some attention.


i don't think i want to ever know the mechanics behind how things grow and the force of life that insists on living.


it's just too wonderful as a mystery

Wednesday, February 21

Hair today, gone tomorrow

Over a bottle of quaff last night, it was decided between myself, friends and almost-friends, that what I really should do this month is shave my head.

Although it’s an idea I’ve been toying with for about two years, I’ve never quite mustered the hutzpah to follow through on it. I’ve spent the time creating and mulling over an exhaustive list (of which I can only remember about 7 or so now) of reasons why this is a bad idea:

In winter, my head will be cold.
In summer, my head will burn.
My skull shape is not conducive to a pretty Sineadesque look.
I cheeks are not prominent enough.
My chin too flabby, my mouth too small, my ears too eary.
My head is too small for my body – I am not skinny enough to pull it off.


But essentially, it boils down to one thing for me: vanity.

And I’m not alone in this. No matter how paltry our god-given crop, we wash, condition, product, blow dry, curl, straighten, bleach, perm, cut, set, colour, defrizz, highlight or, at the very least, brush sometimes. Whatever lengths we go to perfect the coif, an even cursory glance in the mirror will take in what our hair is doing for our face, our body and – let’s not beat around the bush here - our entire day.

Historically, culturally and across religions, hair is a symbol of self-love, virility, vanity, sexuality or even possession in the case of Edvard Munch’s ghostly femme fatales. Whole myths and stereotypes have been created around one’s dead head pieces – red heads, blondes, brunettes; the long-haired princess, the wild-haired whore, the bespectacled and bunned librarian; the eighties Italian Stallion wave, the mohawk, the afro, the mullet, the fat bald guy, the touped twirp, the princess leia - the list is practically endless.

But I guess, it’s also about personal power.

After the break down of every major love relationship in my life, I’ve always done something to my hair, generally cutting it substantially shorter than it ever was. Maybe it’s a throwback to the art of biblical sackcloth-and-ashes mourning, maybe it’s a form of socially acceptable self-mutilation in the face of extreme inner pain, maybe it’s as simple as an out-with-old-in-with-the-new spontaneity…whatever the unconscious will towards the act, I’ve always walked away feeling empowered.

This time, it’s about both: vanity and personal power.

I’d like to experience my head without it’s cover, my face without its frame. I suspect I will cry (I never have whenever I cut my hair – no matter how long it was before the chop). I suspect I will feel less attractive, less woman according to gloss art, less candy box sexuality.

I suspect I will feel stripped.

I wonder what I will find underneath? I think what I will find is that raw sexuality and womanhood has little to do with hair.

I have nine days to go according to shavesa.

Anybody care to join?

Wednesday, February 14

Happy Hallmark Day

Although my stomach isn’t usually strong enough to tolerate the barrels of saccharine love messages that spill about so carelessly on this particular day each year, I find myself still choking on the taste of surly singledom today. I woke up – alone - in Togi’s bed this morning (having promised to do his dishes for him while he was away) and stumbled down the stairs for a coffee and a fag.

Morning world.
Morning Dorothy.
How are you today world?
Very well, thank you Dorothy, now piss off and leave me alone to tend to matters of the heart.
Thank you world. Good bye.

My day starts earnestly enough. I don’t much like Valentine’s Day anyway - I have a Philosophy against this sort of ridiculous commercialisation and a Philosophy is a far better thing to have than a box of chocolates. Right? So, what of it if the only person to send me a valentine’s so far is a gay friend.

Why then this surprising surliness? This little irritation in my belly? It’s not that I feel today is any more important than the next, dear world, but for fuckssakes is one little sms to much to ask? One insignificant secret admirer somewhere too much expect? That couldn’t be too difficult to manage, now would it world? World?

I think back to school and remember how even then I never received those momentos of undying like and wonder why I haven’t simply gotten used to it. And besides, what’s stopping me from making love out of air and sending roses and organising picnics with wine and sex? The answer is about as empty as my heart: I have Boundaries see? And Philosophies.

Once in the office, my sometime-lover sends me an emoticon rose. It hangs lonely in the pool of msn space with not much to say that isn’t already blatantly obvious about our affair. I ignore it with a flourish.
There are these Boundaries he explains later.
I know, I want to yell back, I put them there – I am aware of that. But still! I want undying love on this day of bloody cupid bloody-hell. I want roses and hearts and bloody blood dammit. Even if I am vegetarian.

Togi calls me later and tells me that his Valentine’s Day plans involve a romp at Spur with his sister, brother-in-law and their twenty children. Get drunk quickly I advise, it’s the only way to see your way clear of that travesty of food. On second thoughts though, I’m starting to wonder if dining at a local Spur wouldn’t be the perfect way to cure me of my Valentine’s Day blues. That place is full of unimaginative couples mindlessly parading through the motions of courting in a one-act play of Love totally devoid of irony! It’s totally the perfect way to dispel any flounced up notions of Valentine’s Day.

The thought plays in so well with my Philosophies and Boundaries, I am almost envy Togi his experience. Now. If I could just get me someone to go and be ironic with…

GO HERE. IT'S FUNNY.

Thursday, February 1

Dear Blogger

I’ve been meaning to write this letter to you for a while now. But I’ve been trying to put it off. Yesterday, a friend gently suggested that it was time. Time to bring this all out into the open. Blogger, you and I have had many good times – we’ve laughed, we’ve cried; we’ve made some great blogger friends. Life has been good for us.

Do you remember when we first met? How we couldn’t stay away from each other and every day was another opportunity to draw closer to all those wonderful topics that brought us so much joy to talk about? Do you remember how I would rush to you first thing every morning, even before saying hi to Gmail? Even ignoring all those others clamouring for my attention in MSN. Do you remember how your Dashboard would welcome me without fail, without expectation? God how I loved your clean, sleek simplicity.

The thing is Blogger, things have changed; it’s not the same for me anymore. Please don’t misunderstand me, it’s not I don’t love you anymore. It’s not that. And there is no other I swear (you know how I feel about Myspace). It’s just that, well, I’m just so busy with other things you know - there’s all this other writing that needs to be done; and other places to…you know…put it. I’m so tired of all these empty promises we make to each other. Me promising to post something ‘worthwhile’, you promising to change your ways without leaving me in the cold with my posts faceless, or worse still, lost and alone in some virtual neverworld. We don't need to go into that again. I won't play the blame game and I don't want to hurt anyone, Blogger,
least of all you.

It’s not that I don’t want to be with you anymore. I just feel we need some space from each other for a while you know. Just a little bit of down time. I guess I’m being a coward. I mean, essentially it’s the expectation you know. Like you expect me to visit every day, and if I don’t you’ll start ignoring me. I just couldn’t deal with the rejection.

So, what I’m trying to say is just…I don’t think I’ll be coming around as often anymore. The sheen’s gone a little from our relationship. I think you realise this also. I’m kind of hoping that in a little while, maybe when all this ‘Real Life’ stuff starts becoming less of a nuisance, I be able to dedicate more time to you…maybe even every day again.

But I don’t want that to be another empty promise.

So, I’ll just say goodbye for now. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe I won’t. Don’t hate me Blogger. Remember the good times. There will be more. I just don’t know when.

All my love,
Dorothy