"Wake me up when September ends." Title of a song by Green Day. A rock band I sort of like. Good music.
That song, was my mantra towards the end of the A-level part of my high school. It is just so...sad. Nothing particularly gut-wrenching sad in the lyrics, but sad. That sad that creeps up on you, finds a comfortable corner in the centre of your already-bruised heart and curls it's lukewarm self in there. The sort of sad which doesn't have you doubling over in inexplicable pain. No.
The sort of sad Meredith faces when she asks McDreamy to choose her over Allison. And he doesn't.
The sad that does not prod or pinch, this sad is maddeningly polite. It just settles over you in a manner so complete and total...and subtle but entirely felt...it clouds and doesn't bring forth tears.
But sighs, yes. Deep, inner sighs that take the life in you and....make it one huge, burden of a sigh. This sadness doesn't present in form of wails, no. It has the ability to hide behind a good number of cocktails or a good book.
Then the morning comes. And the movie ends. And the book runs out of words.
September was bad. September was slow. Tediously slow. September was horrible. September brought no creativity, zilch inspiration and plenty melancholy. September was cold, and rainy. And awesomely ass-holey.
I fought dread. Yes, most of the past 30 days were filled with dread. Of the unknown. The horrible fear that doom and gloom were in the neighbourhood. I prayed.
Dear Lord, I prayed. And prayed. And run to Melanie. And Sara. And we prayed. But doom and gloom were just happy keeping around me.
So, in that manner of easy vulgarity I had mastered in my O-Level, I flipped them off. I flipped gloom, doom, despair, writer's block, inability to read any of the several amazing books that stood by my bed side.
I flipped them all, called their fucking bluff and told them I would be just fine.
At the right time. The fight to be gleeful and joyous...do you get the irony in that phrase? "The fight to be gleeful and joyous...?" We are NOT meant to fight for joy. We fight to recover our waspy waist lines after child birth. We DO NOT FIGHT FOR JOY.
Screw Eve and her lack of self-control. A fruit? Come on.
Screw death. Death that went and took the mommy of 6 beautiful, intelligent babies.
Death that took away the mommy of my insanely gifted friend.
Fuck death that attempted to break the spirit of a vibrant, spiritual and God-loving man.
Screw death that made us sit in that church and try especially hard not to curse the God that is supposedly harboured in it.
Fuck death for reminding us all of our immortality. Our fragility. Our short spanned life times.
Fucking screw death for the unwanted, unnecessary and uncalled for reminder that, we are on borrowed time.
You gotta give it to death. We plan. And dream. And hope.
While the arse snickers. And then grabs. Steals. Tears apart.
We, the word bearers, we the writers, the grammatically and lyrically gifted. We who somehow manage to convey any message with a couple of well articulated paragraphs. We who always have the sharpest responses to the queries, errors and ineptitude of others. We...who make our living from stringing words together.
We were helpless. And speechless.
I sat with some of the most gifted writers in this town and all we could do was hold hands. And lean on shoulders. And cry. Silent, endless streams of tears as we watched the hearts of our friend and her family get ripped out.
Let me tell you about grief. The words to describe it have not been invented yet. You pray, and hope that you are dreaming. Or, night-maring. That you will wake up. That you will hug your broken friend and drain the hurt from her soul.
That she will stop crying, because you are getting bloody teary-eyed and she doesn't need you crying.
You want to hold her head on your laps and try to soothe away the pain you know without a doubt, will never really go away.
Our mommies are supposed to be with us forever. Oh, we scream at them, and yell, and bang doors in their faces and try to explain our excessive love of alcohol to them, but our mommies are not supposed to die.
Because our mommies are the rocks, the walls, the cooks, the doctors, the cleaners, the huggers, the embarrassing ululaters when our names are called out on graduation.
Our mommies are the grandmothers of our unborn babies. Our mommies should see us first dance with our husbands on our wedding days. They are supposed to tell you why your colour schemes are "too much" or why you do not need a wedding planner, "you lazy children of these days" and guilt you into inviting all their friends to the wedding.
And then break into sobs as she watches her gorgeous girl redefine bridal dazzle(ness.)
My mommy is supposed to walk me down the aisle. Because while she has broken my heart in various and callous ways, she is my mommy.
Mommies are our angels. They are not meant to have a shelf-life.
Dear October.
Today is my brother's birthday. Arnold is my favourite man. He is growing into the man that will make God change His mind about annihilating all male species.
Dear October, come laden with blessings. And joy. And inspiration. And friends. And love.
September took the life out of us.
I came close to self-destruction.
I do not know how my usually perceptive friends were not able to see it.
The alcohol I was drowning in wasn't meant for recreational purposes at all.
The intention was to forget. But I couldn't. You cannot forget the despair that resides in the depths of your soul.
I lost alot of me to September. Creativity. Love-that came a tad too late, joy, passion, hope, sleep.
I lost the will to be alive. September. You hit me hard.
October...
I am a recovering life -and-it's stupid happenings-patient.
Be gentle.
On us all.
Rest In Perfect Peace, Mildred's mama.
"Wake Me Up When September Ends"
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
wake me up when September ends
like my father's come to pass
seven years has gone so fast
wake me up when September ends
here comes the rain again
falling from the stars
drenched in my pain again
becoming who we are
as my memory rests
but never forgets what I lost
wake me up when September ends
summer has come and passed
the innocent can never last
wake me up when September ends
ring out the bells again
like we did when spring began
wake me up when September ends
here comes the rain again
falling from the stars
drenched in my pain again
becoming who we are
as my memory rests
but never forgets what I lost
wake me up when September ends
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
wake me up when September ends
like my father's come to pass
twenty years has gone so fast
wake me up when September ends
wake me up when September ends
wake me up when September ends
Green Day.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
minus you.
The weather people predicted that this would be a hot season. Hot and dry.
Obviously, they were wrong.
It rains about three different times each day.
My mind said I would forget.
And I did. Most of the time anyway.
But my mind forgot to mention that I would remember. Like the weather people whose inept predictions have caused us to be caught unaware at 3 am at a bar with really not enough inside sitting room, my mind is failing itself. Betraying its former stance. Because I remember.
Everything. All of it, at the most inconvenient times.
At the end of a long, bothersome and uncreative day. This day could do with a warm, alone-with-the-one-I-am-with close.
This day should not end with me in my bed, with a good book but with aches. Dull aches.
Not the ones that sting and pinch. But the ones that weigh down all the life in me.
This day should end with you making me laugh, and reminding me that I am brilliant and talented and mentally-not-so-stable but gifted. You should be making me un-doubt my lack of creativity as a sign that I am in any way, less than amazing. You should be telling me that I'll be just fine.
You should be here. To be my friend, my mentor and my personal comedian.
You should be pouring my gin and tonic, to make just the perfect blend.
Then stare at me until I get so uncomfortable, I beg you to stop.To which you'd cornily reply that I was cute and pretty and hot...and literally begged to be stared at.
Then I'd blush. And smile. And know that tomorrow would be better. Not because it would go perfectly, but because you would be there. At the end of it all, you would be there.
And give me the perfect close to the most imperfect day.
You should be here.
Obviously, they were wrong.
It rains about three different times each day.
My mind said I would forget.
And I did. Most of the time anyway.
But my mind forgot to mention that I would remember. Like the weather people whose inept predictions have caused us to be caught unaware at 3 am at a bar with really not enough inside sitting room, my mind is failing itself. Betraying its former stance. Because I remember.
Everything. All of it, at the most inconvenient times.
At the end of a long, bothersome and uncreative day. This day could do with a warm, alone-with-the-one-I-am-with close.
This day should not end with me in my bed, with a good book but with aches. Dull aches.
Not the ones that sting and pinch. But the ones that weigh down all the life in me.
This day should end with you making me laugh, and reminding me that I am brilliant and talented and mentally-not-so-stable but gifted. You should be making me un-doubt my lack of creativity as a sign that I am in any way, less than amazing. You should be telling me that I'll be just fine.
You should be here. To be my friend, my mentor and my personal comedian.
You should be pouring my gin and tonic, to make just the perfect blend.
Then stare at me until I get so uncomfortable, I beg you to stop.To which you'd cornily reply that I was cute and pretty and hot...and literally begged to be stared at.
Then I'd blush. And smile. And know that tomorrow would be better. Not because it would go perfectly, but because you would be there. At the end of it all, you would be there.
And give me the perfect close to the most imperfect day.
You should be here.
Friday, September 2, 2011
THE STATE OF ME.
So my new lady love whom I gushed about in a previous post asked me to whip up a post on THE STATE OF ME.
Its part of a blogging meme started by http://angelakintu.com/ , another blogger. And because I welcome any excuse to gush about my tres hot and vivacious self, I jumped at the opportunity. Yes, I am going to go on about my favourite topic; ME. Be prepared please. Shocks are bound to happen. Gasps even.
This woman is going to spill the beans and provide the dirt on herself. The real, dark and muddy dirt. No masks.
We go.
I have a big heart.
Literally.
I have the hugest heart ever. While the truth is it accommodates a few, well-chosen individuals, my heart is still big. I do not know how to feel in halves. I do not know how to love but hold back half of myself . I do not know how to be a friend but not help you fight your battles.. I have never understood the point in staying in a relationship that doesn't make you happier or smile-ier. Because I am the woman that will love her lovers, her friends and her families with every inch of my heart, mind and soul.
And on a really good day for the lovers, I will throw in my body. Or a bit of my body, anyway.
I am a Gemini. And passion is my blood.
I am shallow. Excessively so. People who are not well spoken and well written turn me off. Literally. I turn up my nose at them and make no effort to hide it. I use the ability to do cross words as an S.I unit for any man running after me. Yes. A girl's gotta have her words.
I am not above judging you because you wore the wrong top for even wrong-er jeans. I am also not shy about sneering at people who think Ragga Dee and Soulja Boy can do any sort of singing. On a day when I'm in the really-narrow-minded-and-judgemental zone, I will dismiss any sort of seriousness in your persona just because I think watching "How I met your mother" spells serious humour dysfunction.
Friends rules.
I am thoroughly self conscious. My hips give me day and nightmares. The things have a mind and life of their own. I'm still uncomfortable when people look at them pointedly.
Me is a caffeine addict. Happy junkie. Coke, coffee...any time.
I love good food. Crappy food gets me cranky. And totally bitchy. So does crappy restaurant service. I've been known to write burning reviews on hopeless eating places.
I LOVE GOD. I cannot break that down.
I do not comprehend meals that are meat-less. Vegetables are not meant to be a major sauce. Ground nuts are evil. Matooke is NOT food.
I am 5'2 tall.
I love heels. Mostly because of the 5'2 factor.
I am attracted to men who are much, much taller than me. Something about tilting my head a bit to look into their eyes. And get me a snog.
Dark, manly men get my blood racing. The light and pretty ones make me think of....make-up. Making them up.
Sean Connery is one of my greatest loves.
Clooney has my heart.
I LOVE MY FAMILY. Mama, Martha, Arnold and Lindah, I would kill for.
I suffer from migraines. So, no chocolates please. I am trying to get off red wine. It's not easy.
I want to be a vampire in the next life. A smouldering, female vamp.
Or a man. So I can get the big deal with booty.
I am the world's bestest grudge holder. I block people out when they hurt me. In their place, I see dark spaces. Or voodoo dolls which I stab with my mind-needles.
I have never had a true or real love. I have had love, but I always left when things started to get un-pretty. Because I don't think love should hurt. Or demean. Or smother. So, I am a runner. Me and my friends await the one who will catch me. We're praying for him because, if I haven't said this, let me. My mental wires are loose. Perilously loose.
I have a shocker of a temper. I have broken crockery in fits of anger. And verbally broken people.
And slapped someone. I love you, my pretty.
I love gin. Seriously. I love gin.
I love, love, love to read. Anything written gets me.
I love to write. I was born to write. Writing is my life line. When I'm not typing away, I write in my mind. Most of that fades away, though.
My bed is my favourite place. I love the water. The ocean-type of water. One day, I hope to own a beach house. Complete with a cocktail genius of a bartender.
Rock music is one, big soundtrack to my life.
I am insanely private. I do not let people see me cry. I do not let people see me broken. Unless I am intoxicated.
I believe in love. And fidelity. Cheating men have no place in my life.
I cherish my me time. No men, no friends. Just me and my thoughts. I have been called anti-social. And I do not care.
I have a tattoo.
I am still learning. Still growing. Still getting to know God. Still fighting demons and ghosts from the past.
But I am a strong one.
And will emerge victor.
Calling it; STATE OF ME AS AT 13:10 hrs. Friday, 02 September, 2011.
Its part of a blogging meme started by http://angelakintu.com/ , another blogger. And because I welcome any excuse to gush about my tres hot and vivacious self, I jumped at the opportunity. Yes, I am going to go on about my favourite topic; ME. Be prepared please. Shocks are bound to happen. Gasps even.
This woman is going to spill the beans and provide the dirt on herself. The real, dark and muddy dirt. No masks.
We go.
I have a big heart.
Literally.
I have the hugest heart ever. While the truth is it accommodates a few, well-chosen individuals, my heart is still big. I do not know how to feel in halves. I do not know how to love but hold back half of myself . I do not know how to be a friend but not help you fight your battles.. I have never understood the point in staying in a relationship that doesn't make you happier or smile-ier. Because I am the woman that will love her lovers, her friends and her families with every inch of my heart, mind and soul.
And on a really good day for the lovers, I will throw in my body. Or a bit of my body, anyway.
I am a Gemini. And passion is my blood.
 |
| This....and more. |
I am shallow. Excessively so. People who are not well spoken and well written turn me off. Literally. I turn up my nose at them and make no effort to hide it. I use the ability to do cross words as an S.I unit for any man running after me. Yes. A girl's gotta have her words.
I am not above judging you because you wore the wrong top for even wrong-er jeans. I am also not shy about sneering at people who think Ragga Dee and Soulja Boy can do any sort of singing. On a day when I'm in the really-narrow-minded-and-judgemental zone, I will dismiss any sort of seriousness in your persona just because I think watching "How I met your mother" spells serious humour dysfunction.
Friends rules.
 |
| Shut up already. |
I am thoroughly self conscious. My hips give me day and nightmares. The things have a mind and life of their own. I'm still uncomfortable when people look at them pointedly.
Me is a caffeine addict. Happy junkie. Coke, coffee...any time.
I love good food. Crappy food gets me cranky. And totally bitchy. So does crappy restaurant service. I've been known to write burning reviews on hopeless eating places.
I LOVE GOD. I cannot break that down.
I do not comprehend meals that are meat-less. Vegetables are not meant to be a major sauce. Ground nuts are evil. Matooke is NOT food.
I am 5'2 tall.
I love heels. Mostly because of the 5'2 factor.
 |
| SHOESES!!!! |
I am attracted to men who are much, much taller than me. Something about tilting my head a bit to look into their eyes. And get me a snog.
Dark, manly men get my blood racing. The light and pretty ones make me think of....make-up. Making them up.
Sean Connery is one of my greatest loves.
Clooney has my heart.
I LOVE MY FAMILY. Mama, Martha, Arnold and Lindah, I would kill for.
I suffer from migraines. So, no chocolates please. I am trying to get off red wine. It's not easy.
I want to be a vampire in the next life. A smouldering, female vamp.
Or a man. So I can get the big deal with booty.
I am the world's bestest grudge holder. I block people out when they hurt me. In their place, I see dark spaces. Or voodoo dolls which I stab with my mind-needles.
I have never had a true or real love. I have had love, but I always left when things started to get un-pretty. Because I don't think love should hurt. Or demean. Or smother. So, I am a runner. Me and my friends await the one who will catch me. We're praying for him because, if I haven't said this, let me. My mental wires are loose. Perilously loose.
I have a shocker of a temper. I have broken crockery in fits of anger. And verbally broken people.
And slapped someone. I love you, my pretty.
I love gin. Seriously. I love gin.
I love, love, love to read. Anything written gets me.
I love to write. I was born to write. Writing is my life line. When I'm not typing away, I write in my mind. Most of that fades away, though.
My bed is my favourite place. I love the water. The ocean-type of water. One day, I hope to own a beach house. Complete with a cocktail genius of a bartender.
 |
| Somethin' like this. |
Rock music is one, big soundtrack to my life.
I am insanely private. I do not let people see me cry. I do not let people see me broken. Unless I am intoxicated.
I believe in love. And fidelity. Cheating men have no place in my life.
I cherish my me time. No men, no friends. Just me and my thoughts. I have been called anti-social. And I do not care.
I have a tattoo.
I am still learning. Still growing. Still getting to know God. Still fighting demons and ghosts from the past.
But I am a strong one.
And will emerge victor.
Calling it; STATE OF ME AS AT 13:10 hrs. Friday, 02 September, 2011.
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