On a night in Wandi
There was a man with crazy hair
And a golden beard
His laugh was a match for the blasting music
I discovered he was twenty-one
Only just a man
With wisdom beyond his years
Although we just met
I felt like I already knew him
Like we were old friends
I was drawn to his ‘tell it like it is’ attitude
He was an open person that exuded honesty
Our birthday’s were only two days apart
Although separated by two years
Everyone was dancing, singing and downing drinks
It distracted us from the extreme cold
When the party settled down we all slept in a mess
On the living room floor
As I shivered in my sleeping bag in the darkness
I couldn’t help but glance his way
As he lay nearby
The next morning he left in a flash
Like the piercing sun on our hungover eyes
Something in me knew I would see him again
Now it’s a year later
And we couldn’t be happier
On that night in Wandi
On the freezing living room floor
He was curiously looking back
(Happy One Year M!)
From some recent conversations with friends, I have found that I’m not representing myself to the fullest during these times. Sometimes, the conversation takes a turn where I feel extremely uncomfortable in, but in fear of causing confrontation I say nothing. I really don’t want to do that anymore. I need to be someone I’m proud of. I can’t do that if I’m not standing behind my beliefs. It’s important to be self reflective because you might unconsciously turn into someone you’re not proud of.
Lately, it seems a few people have been judging those around them based on their level of ‘success’ since leaving high school. They are measuring success based on academic levels, income and living situations. I think success should be determined by how happy the person is, because what’s the point in living ‘successfully’ if you’re not even happy?
Because we might not know these people on a personal level, I don’t think we have the right to say how ‘successful’ they are, because we don’t know their own situations.
To a degree, I was also judged based on my situation, by people who are relatively close to me. I get judged on my field of study in The Arts. People always ask me where it is going to lead, or what the job prospects are when they already know my field is highly competitive. I might not have a definite plan for the next five years, but I do have an idea. I plan to live the way I want to live. One day I might want to do this, the other day I might want to try something else. I’m still figuring it out. The important thing is that I’m happy, and especially happy with who I am. There was a excellent quote from the Daria episode “Gifted” that I watched recently that explains exactly how I feel: “My goal is not to wake up at forty with the bitter realisation that I’ve wasted my life in a job I hate, because I was forced to decide on a career in my teens.”
So I’m going to try and be a better person and just be honest with my friends, starting with this post.
Dear Grandpa, wherever you are,
I recall sitting on your knee and goggling at your false teeth.
Cackling at the sight of your bare gums you bared sneakily behind disapproving Grandma.
Honking your nose as if you were my very own clown there for my entertainment.
You were a contradiction; you had a dignified countenance but a slapstick alter ego.
In old photos you were the typical English gentleman, clad in a suit, slight smile and lovingly by Grandma’s side. Those photos were black and white, but I can remember your olive skin and subtly vibrant personality.
I choose to remember you like this.
Towards the end, as I sat anxiously across the dining table from you, I might have well as been a stranger for that’s all that I was to you but I know it wasn’t your fault, nor your wish.
It almost made it easier I was six at the time, as I couldn’t imagine going through it now. My age shielded me from too much grief from lack of understanding.
Now it seems almost bizarre you passed away in the living room. I felt confronted with fear for the first time, seeing you still on the rented hospital bed. I was too scared to kiss you goodbye because you weren’t you anymore. You were the first dead person I had seen.
Although it makes me sad I can’t remember your thick accent, at least I have one or two happy memories of you. I would have loved to get to know you, and grow up with you. I know everybody, especially Grandma, misses you very much.
Love your Granddaughter.
I haven’t posted anything new recently because Uni has started up again and that oh so familiar cortisol kicks in and it feels like you’re trying to walk around balancing books on your head that keep falling and crushing your feet. Why is it that when things get so stressful that, instead of dealing with your problems, sometimes you ignore them until they become so big and ugly it’s impossible to ignore them anymore. I want to know why some of us just don’t seem to have that frustratingly perfect gene that allows some of us to get ahead with their work, finish it early and submit it with sickeningly sweet smile.
Sometimes I wonder why I go to Uni…the whole point is to help set myself up for a good future right? Even though what I’m studying I mostly get tutors saying: “This field is extremely competitive…”, “Finding work is going to be very hard…”, “You’re going to have to move to Melbourne if you want any sort of chance at getting a job.” Not to mention the horrible looks of pity on peoples faces when I tell them what I study and the classic line: “Will that lead to much?” Basically, from the reactions I’m getting, this really isn’t going to help me much at all. The future looks bleak.
I want what everyone wants: to live a happy life. It’s just hard figuring out what makes you happy and if you can make it happen in comparison in what society deems as normal. Right now, a good weekend for me is getting take-away and watching some TV with my boyfriend. Yes, I want to travel, go out for lunches and shop, so that means I will need money…and to get money means working a 9-5 job. If I’m spending my life working this 9-5 job I hate, it means the majority of life won’t be fun or happy. That’s our ‘lot’. Life isn’t always fun. It’s complicated and we made it that way, otherwise we’d be killing each other basic things like food, water, and shelter…Wait…in a way…aren’t we still doing that?
I apologise for the vant (vent/rant). This is my form of therapy. Hey, it’s either this or slapping people in the face, and hopefully this is a little more bearable. I will have a glass of wine and cheers to you for making it through. 🙂