Drawing with Technology

I drew that on an iPad. My husband ordered the new one and it was released today, but don’t ask me what it’s called because I don’t know about all those things. All I know is that  so I took the shiny white pencil and decided to do some drawing. It’s a botchy attempt, and the shading is messy, but the experience was therapeutic. It really motivated me to draw more, and I will go so far as to say it is a better experience than drawing on paper.

It’s like magic, and you have all the functions and tools accessible to you straight away, no need to sharpen a pencil or go round hunting for the dark green (I lost my tube of dark green and it took three months to find it hidden behind the daffodils in my mum’s garden, don’t ask me how it got there!); it’s all there and all you have to do is do a little tap with your pencil and boom.

Drawing with it feels like I’m using brand new tools, and there are no glitches like you would expect with these technological devices.

I did that on a freaking iPad!?!? I can’t believe it. Am I gushing? Probably. I don’t care. It’s all perfectly, smoothly digital, yet so LIKE real pencils and the visual texture of the background is like really high quality paper, and technology has come so far, and growing up and experiencing its rapid change is simply magnificent and wonderful and I can’t wait to see what else they are going to come up with.

 

 

Wed 30 March 2016

You know, I forgot I turn 22 today!

My mum texted me yesterday saying ‘How are you Mrs 22??”

I racked my brains for a bit thinking, why on earth would she write that? Then I realised of course that she was the one who birthed me, and it was almost my birthday.

My husband doesn’t remember, though! I sat back and thought about it for a bit, and realised it actually doesn’t faze me. I know he loves me, and not remembering the date I was pushed out into the world kicking and screaming doesn’t make any difference to that fact.

Or does it?

I guess a tiny part of me would like him to acknowledge the fact. I know he has a million and one things running through his mind, though, so it’s ok. It’s OK. Okay. There.

Also today I was craving chocolate and my little sister in law who is eleven knocked on my door just now and came in with a pretty teacup filled with  Cadbury mini eggs. Which I thought was darling of her, and she deserves a big hug and a kiss from yours truly.

Anyway. I don’t know why I wrote this post. March 30 has always been a special day for me, because it’s just so symmetrical and in my diaries over the years it signified many growth milestones. Each March 30 was more dignified than the last, and each March 30 entry had better spelling than the last. Is it vain to pore over my own history like that? I don’t know.

I just remember small Len who kept looking down at her feet to see if they were any further away from her, and little Len who swore vehemently she would never become a ‘teenager’, and small Len who scoffed at the thought of boys and told everybody she would live in the countryside one day with animals and plants and run in the fields and lie amongst the wildflowers and adopt children and always always always play. She would never stop playing and laughing.

She was naive, and sometimes disillusioned, but she always saw life as an adventure and a happy place, and every month she had a ‘best day ever, even better than the last best day ever’, and she discussed how one can measure a ‘best day’ with her friends who, in those days were kindred spirits, and I don’t know what happened to her. She has vamoosed. She vanished and in her place is a girl who mopes a lot now and complains and is often sad.

So all the March 30s are little glimpses into what she became, and perhaps little motivations as to how she could go back.

Sometimes I wish she never grew up. Horrendous things happened to her and it was all my fault and I am so sorry, but I think I ruined her forever.

Growing Up

 

Love Letters #1

I don’t know if you know this, but I love you.

I thought I loved you in the first month of our marriage.

I thought I loved you last year, when we were married for a year.

I thought I loved you on December the 19th, when I threw everything out of the cupboard in anger, and you were furious, and we didn’t talk all the way back to your family home, and you went out until late, and I was bloated and felt horrible, and you came back as I lay in the darkness, and without a word you held me.

Or last month, when you slept holding me so tightly I woke up with neck pain, and you massaged it before hauling yourself up for that long drive to work.

I did love you then, of course I did, but as the time passed, it crept up on me more and more and poked me on the shoulder, and when I looked back to acknowledge it, it had become a mass double its previous size.

Threatening to envelope me and overwhelm me.

Shall I give myself up to it?

I don’t think so.

I think I will carry on walking through life, clambering up the steep bits, pulling myself up the stark cliff faces.

Sometimes you’re ahead, holding your hand out to steady me over the sharp rocks, and sometimes I am throwing you a rope, and slowly hefting your tired body up.

Sometimes you are leaping on way ahead of me, and I am out of breath and in tears, struggling to catch up, calling your name but my voice is so faint over the wailing wind.

But you always stop. You stop and look round, and realise I have fallen behind, and you wait for me. Sometimes you come back to help me forward, holding me tight in your strong arms, whispering sweet somethings in my ear. Somethings I will never forget.

I want to get old with you. I want to go everywhere with you. I want to see you smile, and watch you learn and grow and change. I want to see your awe and excitement, I want to be a part of your epiphanies. I want to make you happy.

I know sometimes we will fight horribly. I won’t agree with you and you will become cold and hard, like marble. But you know me, and I know you. I know what you are about to say before you say it, and sometimes you can guess what I am thinking just by looking at my face.

Sometimes I smile at you, and you ask me what’s wrong.

“That lip,” you say, “is quivering.”

You pull me away from the crowd.

“Your eyes,” you say, “are not happy Len eyes.”

“Your personality,” you say, when I am at my lowest point, sad and inadequate and demotivated, “lights up the room.”

I know I love you more today than I might next week. But know that even when the love wanes, and anger and frustration take its place, I will still get up early for you, I will still see you off, I will still kiss you goodbye and make sure you have your hat on your ears. I will make sure you have enough blanket at night. I will get your pyjamas ready for you on those late, exhausted nights. I will ‘sort you out’ for lunch, because I know better than you know what you want. I will make sure you eat when you are so focused on your work you forget to take your coat off. I will hold you until you fall asleep, your breathing gradually becoming deeper and deeper.

I love you in words. I love you in actions. I love you in thoughts.

Love and Laughter

 

After I Left You

By Alison Mercer.

I found this book by chance in a town called March, in March, and I read the blurb and thought it would be interesting, and so much to Damian’s disappointment (he thinks I buy too many books and is heavily concerned about where I am going to put them all) I carried it to the till.

Every broken heart has a history.

Anna Jones went to university in Oxford, at a college called St Bart’s. While there she meets a group of people who later become her friends. The relationships she has with these people are at times complicated and even fragile, everybody being young and wilful and in the process of growing up.

The story starts off in the present day, with Anna heading towards middle age. She has a chance encounter with her old ex, Victor, and this brings in a flood of all the old friendships and experiences of her past, which make her realise that she needs to face up to what happened at St Bart’s so long ago.

But what did happen? This huge question creates an atmosphere of suspense and trepidation throughout the book, and it is done so creatively and also craftily that there were certain points where I could not put the book down. I always wanted to know more!

I think the strength of this book lies in the massive secret that is slowly being unfolded. However the plot of a book cannot rely alone on the buildup to exposition, and what really carries this book forward is the wonderful characterisation, the strong, complex portrayal of human behaviour, relationships, the selfishness and insecurities of youth, all interwoven into these characters, making them very real and sometimes hateful. I also couldn’t help falling slightly in love with some of them.

After I Left You is one of those novels that will linger with me as life drags me ever forward. It belongs in my bookshelf, a place reserved only for books that evoke something inside me and ignite my mind. This is one such book.

All By Myself

Today I am going to have a house completely to myself.

All to myself.

Did you hear what I said?

ALL. TO. MYSELF.

With no risk or possibility of anybody coming home from school or college or work, no kids screaming, nobody. Nobody except me.

I will be free to walk around in my underwear. I will be free to have a long, hot shower without the risk of anybody knocking on the door telling me to hurry up or using the taps in the kitchen making my shower icy cold.

You know what I am going to do?

I am going to raid my mother’s freezer and cook myself a nice healthy nutritious meal. I am going to workout in the living room, window wide open, and something nice and loud playing. I am going to weed her garden, and throw away some junk in my sister’s room. I am going to hoover the whole house, make myself a banana and honey hair mask, and plop a bathbomb in a nice hot bath. I am going to watch a film in my mother’s massive bed, and sing really loudly. I am going to be FREE.

After three months of living in two houses full of humans everywhere, with very little private time, today looks like it will be simply magnificent, and I will enjoy every. single. moment.

Did you hear that, everybody? EVERY. SINGLE. MOMENT.

Also, it’s really sunny and warm today. It really feels like spring!

Adios, folks, and happy Good Friday to you.

Image Credit

A Scattering of Thoughts

“Oh, you’re wearing a lot of makeup!” My mother squints at me in the dim light of her bedroom.

“I’ve been here for three hours how did you not notice?”

“I didn’t really look at your face,” was her nonchalant reply.

Well, that’s my mother. I do love her, despite our differences. She is a good mother, never mind she doesn’t like to give out hugs. She sacrifices a lot for us kids, and we don’t half treat her as well as she deserves. She comes from good mothering stock, that’s for sure. Her mother was wonderful. One of the best women I know. In fact, I will go so far as to say my grandmother is the best woman I have ever come across, and our family feels her loss very sorely. I mean, right now I could do with a soft warm hug that smells faintly of herbs. I used to play with my Nan’s hands; her skin was paper thin and so so warm and soft, her fingers swelled at the joints with arthritis, poor thing, but she would knit away everyday. I learnt how to do a braid on my Nan’s hair. Long and silver and silky smooth, although thin because she was on blood thinning medication and that made her lose a lot of hair. She smelt wonderful and warm and like motherly love. Do you know that smell?

Anyway. My mum’s going away for two weeks and she is stopping in Turkey for a flight change and I am scared and worried and anxious for her. I do hope she will be okay. She kept saying things like ‘I’ll leave all my bank details, and if anything happens you have to take my death certificate to the town hall and get a probate.’

I don’t want her bank details, I just want her. Oh dear.

Also yes I am wearing lots of makeup. It’s the end of the week. Tomorrow is bank holiday! I am wearing several layers including primer, foundation, concealer, bronzer, highlight, blush, setting powder, eyeliner, three coats of mascara and a lime-crime velvetine in Riot.

I feel very glamorous, even though my hair is a bush and you can see my scalp very clearly. I shall just muss it about and hide it and carry on with my work.

Ta-ra folks!

I thought she was American

I thought she was American,

I really don’t know why.

Her frame was large,

shapely.

Her purple vintage coat,

fell over her knees

in neatly pleated frills,

Vibrant, dazzling.

Her heel was ladylike

Her hair elegantly, gently,

pulled

to the back of her head.

Her smile was wide, flamboyant.

When she opened her mouth,

her Liverpudlian syllables filled every corner of the room,

and a small stone of disappointment

dropped in my chest,

with a muffled plop.

I thought she was American.

How stereotypical am I?

On Soul Pollution

Can you un-think what you have read and watched?

The fact is, you just can’t. And it will pollute your soul, whether you agree that you have a soul or not.

All humans are born pure and innocent. Yet as we develop, we display certain tendencies which aren’t completely unblemished, but in the majority of cases children are naive. Especially in our society. When presented with adult themes before they are ready to learn about them, children can be traumatised and it could hinder or stunt their emotional growth.

Even as adults there are certain things that we shouldn’t be privy to. Not because it is ‘inappropriate’ or ‘sinful’, but to preserve our own sanity. Too much exposure to perversion can desensitise society to it.

My mother used to tell me to stop watching horror films because they would ‘pollute’ my soul, and I would scoff at this notion, but she was right. When it’s dark and the world is asleep, I am frequently plagued by existential thoughts that often involve demonic tendencies.

Watching programs in which paedophilia and even pornographic scenes play a hefty part in the ‘art’ of the film is polluting. I’m sorry if you’re liberal and think this is how art is expressed. There is an abundance of ways in which art can be expressed sufficiently, and it doesn’t have to be through the shock factor that many forms of media today use.

For example, I started watching a TV series created by Lena Dunham called ‘Girls’. It started off alright. A bunch of girls living in the city, and their respective problems. However as the series progressed, each episode became strings of scenes in which violent and perverted and deeply personal acts were being committed by humans, things that most humans just don’t need to see, not even for art. I really enjoyed the show at the beginning but now I am left feeling filthy and horrible, as though I peeked into a room I wasn’t supposed to.

I have never watched porn in my life, and nor do I ever intend to. Sure, it’s fine for the people who do, to carry on with what they choose to do, but for me personally it is unappealing and frankly downright disgusting. I respect your choices though so don’t eat me. In this season of Girls, there is so much sex. Just scenes of naked people having sex. The THING is, this sex has NOTHING to do with the storyline whatsoever. Like the themes it is trying to portray can be depicted more powerfully without the portrayal of several minutes of human beings going at it like animals. I tried my best to analyse how these scenes (not one or two per 20min episode, but several VERY LONG ones) fit into the narrative. They did not. They only served to highlight to us what we already knew about the characters involved in the sex. I forwarded through the whole show and saw more sex, more nudity, and very little else. What started off as a show depicting the different ways people approach life has now morphed into publicly accepted pornography.

IT WAS NOT IN THE NAME OF ART. I know art, folks, I study it extensively in my course, it is something I am often confused by but always appreciative of. I appreciate the endeavours of others to make sense of their worlds, through sometimes unsavoury means. I mean, go for the graphic sex scenes all you like, some are actually enjoyable, if a certain amount of elegance is used to portray them. But this show is downright perverted. They are taking the darkest aspects of humanity and highlighting them in a manner which is just shocking. Will it keep an audience happy? Probably. It is not in the name of expression, either, because to achieve the effect I think they are going for, one scene would have sufficed. But they have consecutive scenes of intimate sexual behaviour over numerous episodes; and each scene depicts more or less the same thing. I felt as though it was vulgar and overdone and really unnecessary.

It’s not just the sex, though. I mean, if it was just the sex I wouldn’t be writing this post. My point is that although art and self expression is great and shows people the dark corners and crevices of humanity and human minds, it can also be dangerous. The whole point of unsociable thoughts being hidden is so that these ideas don’t go mainstream and get into the most impressionable of minds, who would take such ideas to an extreme and cause perverted chaos in society.

People go around thinking it’s ok to rape and hurt and abuse because they are being desensitised to it, and yes maybe not being helped enough by the mental health system in our society, but these sorts of crimes are rising steadily and it’s not just because there are more people around, it’s because more of us are being exposed to perversion, and it does have an impact on some people’s minds.

This is why it’s important to have a sense of sensibility when watching and reading things.

Anyway, this analysis was purely personal. I honestly feel so disgusting after watching that show. I’ve stopped watching it since the last episode (lol. ironic.), and have decided to watch things that are intellectually stimulating and artistically articulate. Just a personal preference. Maybe people do this and find it normal, but it’s not right, and I don’t want my kids to watch people have sex because it’s just something that should be private as its between two people. Also makes people expect things that just don’t always happen in real life.

Also, disclaimer, I absolutely do not judge anybody who enjoys such things and who doesn’t feel disgusted by it. Everybody is subject to their own tastes and preferences and I fully respect that.

This is just my two cents.

Image Credit

Skyscraper

When I was a little girl, I lived in the torrid Arabian Peninsula. My schooling there was heavily influenced by American culture, and my father, an English professor at a university, had lots of thick books designed for literature students filled with short stories  written by Americans, for Americans.

I learned about Langston Hughes and Maya Angelou and the vibrancy of the early years of New York, I listened to the voices of African American writers and singers, and my view of America, although informed by the media, was mostly shaped by this romanticised idea of the biggest, brightest city in the world; New York. My favourite place there? Why, Harlem, of course. The dentists and doctors of Harlem, the mothers and aunts, hardworking and unfortunate, the white supremacy felt deeply by all the growing children of Harlem, the red popsicles and the hanging onto the back of pickup trucks, getting ankles scraped and leaving trails of blood everywhere.

I was British at heart, of course, that comes with parenting and daily living. In writing, however, I was North American. I was influenced by Anne of Green Gables and Jean Louise Scout. My style was American in the way I used slang and my views about freedom and coming of age.

When I first heard the word skyscraper, I imagined tall buildings that literally scraped the sky. Maybe shavings of cloud drifted down on the streets of New York as they floated lazily by. Maybe Langston Hughes, at nineteen, put his hand out the window and caught the sprinklings from the tips of the skyscrapers.

I never wanted to go to New York, I just wanted to drift through its gaudy streets and meet its uncertain inhabitants. I wanted to hide behind a door as I watched an old lady slap her son silly because he stole somebody’s purse. I wanted to hear all the stories by the evening window, and I wanted to be privy to the arguments that took place behind closed doors. It was life. It was living. It was people and magic and light and electricity flooding through the minds and souls of children just like me.

Everybody has a story.

What’s the best thing about being married?

What’s the best thing about being married?

The license to have sex. No I am joking, also these days nobody needs a license, that was scrapped some sixty to seventy years ago.

So being married isn’t as great as everybody makes out. Some people say the first year is always the hardest, but oddly I don’t agree. My first year of marriage was pretty happy go lucky. Yeah I used to get irritated because my husband would never tell me anything and discuss all his matters with his mother instead of me which would frustrate me to no end, but we worked on that and it all seems okay now. We didn’t have huge spats, he washed dishes and cleaned the house and I cooked meals, he went to work and I worked from home. We moved house twice. We did a bit of travelling and had one pregnancy scare.

I didn’t have any of those agonising worries that lots of other people say they had. We didn’t argue all the time because we were ‘getting used’ to each other.  We just… lived. In fact we lived in close proximity to each other for a very long time, when we spent a little more than a year living in an attic bedroom with one tiny kitchen that wasn’t big enough for both of us, we were literally in each other’s pockets and that didn’t bother either  of us one bit.

In fact when the agent came to show somebody around, the person seeing the place said, “Gosh you live here with your husband!? That’s a test to a relationship if anything is. I’d go mental if I had to live in this tiny place with anybody, least of all my SO.”

I was shocked to hear that, really. When my husband wants some peace and quiet he plugs his earphones in or goes to the gym and when I want some, I go and cook or read or paint or walk or cycle. It also helps that he is at work most days and I am busy with my online business and online university course. Also I guess we are both amicable (mostly) and have learned how to live around each other.

My husband is also very logical and doesn’t let his emotions factor into arguments, which is why I am a blubbering mess and he is a frowning robot when we argue. I think that dynamic works because I am the sort of person who has to let off steam in an angry and upset way, while he needs to retreat into himself and frown at the computer screen for a few hours. Sometimes it’s frustrating but mostly it works and then we eat dinner and watch a movie and it’s all fine.

My husband doesn’t want any kids. He thinks they are messy and loud and blubbery and that they would hinder his freedom. Which is entirely true. That is why I think he wasn’t too happy when I got pregnant, although he was heavily concerned and worried when I miscarried. I also think he was slightly relieved. Who am I kidding. I was slightly relieved. I don’t think either of us are ready to have kids. We both want to do so much more and be so much more before we are limited by having to take care of another vulnerable human being. Also he is worried he will make an awful dad and I know I will be a mean mum.

I love my husband very much and think that I need to step up my game as his wife. For example I have a good body but I don’t make the most of it like I used to before I got married. I guess I figure that I am secure now and don’t always need to make an effort because I know he loves me. However this sort of thinking is wrong and I know that I should make the most of my body while I am young, both for my own sanity and also because I think D would like it very much indeed.

Another example is my hot temper which I tend to unleash on his poor unsuspecting self. He is very good to me and always tries to make me happy and buy me unexpected gifts and push me to be better at everything I do. He is ambitious and hard working and aspirational. So he doesn’t deserve my wrath. Except when he does deserve it, but not that bad, maybe a little toned down.