cookie cutter world

Soon the boxes will arrive. Neat little boxes in which to pack my entire life.

To say I cannot wait to move is an understatement. My feet are itchy and I need to move. I have outgrown this piece of suburbia and need to feel new grass beneath my feet.

My family comes in fluctutations this week. One child away at camp, the husband away at work, a sleep over and a child curled on the couch playing hookey from school. They all pass each other like ships in the night. And yet I remain. Always here, never there, never going, never gone.  Sometimes I tire of being the known constant….just once in a while I would love to be the unknown integer…..

food for thought….send me an email about your sexual experiences with members of the same sex, or an email of why you never could go there. Or your fantasies you would never fulfill and why.  pierah@aol.com

Mind Dumping

I was thinking to day about writing methods. Since, I seem to have done very little writing in the past week. Of anything. the blog serves as a means of writing something. With the slim hope that will fire up enough anything into myself to make me keep writing something of substance long after I hit the publish button.

Yesterday as I sat drinking a cup of coffee, I scribbled notes, ambiguous, abstract notes of something that has been stirring in my mind for a long time.  I have paper all over the house with scribbles and scrawls, sometimes just a single word, stained napkins with a paragraph or random thought, post it notes stuck to random surfaces….in short my entire house is a notebook full of my scribblings.

Yet very few of those scribbles ever make it into anything concrete. And the purpose of this post? Nothing. I am mind dumping. Writing myself in circles, waiting for lightning to strike.

And wondering if anything more will come after I hit publish……..

Channeling Erma Bombeck

I’ve hit critical slump moment. I sit here, trying to pretend there aren’t cocopops on the floor that require vaccuming, that the washing needs to be hung out and the garden needs watering.  I need to make a dash to the store to get some Lemsip for the spouse who is losing his voice via a combination of being ill and shouting at recruits from sparrow fart to just left of midnight.

I am distracting myself from the fact that I still need to get in at least 30 minutes of vigorous excercise and think up something for dinner whilst trying to convine my children that the sao’s they ate at 11am where lunch so that I don’t have to make them something now….(now that it’s 3pm this afternoon)

Couple that with an exhausting week ahead,  and I am tired and hurt just thinking about it. Not to mention I haven’t written a single word today….as I wasted my writing hours on facebook writing smutty insults on my sisters wall. (Way to use my talents)

At least last nights quiche worked and tasted pretty darn good.

I curse the catholic church and it’s sacraments today, as the daughter’s confirmation nears (which is why my in-laws are coming, I am not confirmed so I cannot act as sponsor and the spouse is busy with work and my daughter feels a need to be confirmed, insists on it really so she asked her Nanna to be her sponsor, and I need to contemplate discussing the baptism of a five year old boy with Father Peter which I am sure when they pour the holy water on his little blonde head that he will melt like the devil spawn he is and I will need to prepare myself for that very likely event.. ) It’s my fault for marrying a catholic. (And that my mother concieved me with one hence the baptism and holy communioin but lack of confirmation…my mother is a pagan she left that choice to me and I had two names already that I didn’t like and couldn’t figure out why on earth I would want to add a third)

So concludes my weekly whine. I promise, well not sunshine and lollipops, but  no more needless whining about things not really worth whining about.

I better put my shoes on and go to the shops….I think I’ll buy the $15 roast chicken dinner at the takeout. It may not be figure friendly, but it’s badmum friendly.

the girl on the bus

This latest piece of writing has me all at sea. Firstly, it’s not like other pieces. They evolved slowly, a spark, an idea, a rough plot. But this. This is a solitary character, dictating to me as I type. She talks and I type. There seems to be no plot, as yet. She’s just talking like a random stranger on a bus, telling me snippets of a life. I don’t know where all the pieces fit, or why.  And yet even as she speaks, I feel she is secondary.

I don’t normally write like this. It’s new and strange and I am not at all  sure it will turn out to be anything viable, at least not yet anyway. I tend to be a write by the seat of my pants kind of gal anyway, but usually I at least know the outcome. (the journey tends to  take me by surprise, but not the beginning or the end. )

 I keep typing though, hoping for iilumination, sooner rather than later.

writers angst

Writing can mess with your head. Seriously. Having only written a handful more words today than I did yesterday, I have sat staring at the screen, my mind working overtime, deconstructing sentences, trying to find where I am coming from.

When I was a kid I used to write stories compulsively. They were always about a girl and her Dad, her mother either having died or runaway. They always lived in shacks and the Dad was always either a farmer or a fisherman. Always.  Looking back, I can see I was dealing with my feelings of abandonment from the men in my life.  (My family details are complex and complicated)

Now as an adult, I find myself writing about women. relationships between mothers, daughters, sisters and friends.  I have strange relationships with my sisters. I don’t have a relationship at all with my mother and my relationship with my daughter is probably the only healthy female relationship within the familial confines that I have.

Which puts me in a pickle. Because no matter what I write, there’s so much of myself staring back at me from the page that I find it startling.  And a little unnerving.

Is it always necessary to sacrifice a small piece of yourself for your art? It’s a painful experience. To pour your blood onto the page.

well, let the blood run free.

1000 a day or die

I’m still sick. I have been oozing seven shades of mucos and hacking up my left lung for what feels like days now, with no end in sight. And somehow yesterday whilst curled in on myself on the lounge with a hot mug of tea and a book, I was actually inspired. 

I dragged out the laptop and my fingers flew at the speed of a fast snail (which is break neck speed when your head is full of sinus congestion and a thousand tiny red hot hammers pounding away)

But I did it. I wrote 1100 words and the best part is I like them all. I don’t know what they are a part of, or where exactly they fit in, but it’s there, finally, bubbling just beneath the surface breaking free in mini spurts between body wracking spasms.

 I only hope I can finish before I am well, or at least hold onto the cloudiness in my head so the words can free fall until I am done.  If not, I’ll get my small boy to breathe all over me. “Come make mummy sick so she can write…” Now there’s a writing method that warrants some examination.