‘Take one day at a time’ they say. ‘Time heals all wounds’.
But, like a weed that insists on ruining my
lawn,
tainting the perfectly designed flowerbed of my life, I begin to remember and
continue to regret
I can’t unlearn what I’ve already been taught, I have to let it fade into far realms where my French conjugation tables lurk like ninjas who will one day, I’m sure, save me from the plights of a typical ignorant English-speaker
I sw---ing my legs on the edge of my mind.
I turn my head back
to the murky shadows, swaying seductively (swaying seductively), and contemplate walking in but fear being AMBUSHED by emotions and truths which I don’t know how to fight?
‘Pray’, I am told.
To who?
How can I forgive, let alone worship, something which has severed a branch from my family tree?
It wasn’t beautiful, okay, but it was mine.
It was meant to grow large, protective, canopies which shielded us from Life’s prevailing winds and God’s
Heavy
Tears.
Now a side’s missing and all I see are more parasitic wEEds taking advantage of the fact that the oak tree is not as kingly as it once was.
My feet tangle in the haphazardly strewn reeds and I fall,
fall,
fall.
My hands descend in front of my face, less than a few inches apart and
, in between them,
Is something different.
It’s reaching towards the sun, which is shining through the gaping hole from the missing branch, and is as toxic green as Nature itself.
It’s a seedling.
It is Life.
‘Take one day at a time’ they say. ‘Time heals all wounds’. But, like a weed that insists on ruining my lawn, tainting the perfectly designed flowerbed of my life, I begin to remember and continue to regret. I can’t unlearn what I’ve already been taught, I have to let it fade into far realms where my French conjugation tables lurk like ninjas who will one day, I’m sure, save me from the plights of a typical ignorant English-speaker. I swing my legs on the edge of my mind. I turn my head back to the murky shadows, swaying seductively, and contemplate walking in but fear being ambushed by emotions and truths which I don’t know how to fight. ‘Pray’, I am told. To who? How can I forgive, let alone worship, something which has severed a branch from my family tree? It wasn’t beautiful, okay, but it was mine. It was meant to grow large, protective, canopies which shielded us from Life’s prevailing winds and God’s heavy tears. Now a side’s missing and all I see are more parasitic weeds taking advantage of the fact that the oak tree is not as kingly as it once was. My feet tangle in the haphazardly strewn reeds and I fall, fall, fall. My hands descend in front of my face, less than a few inches apart and, in between them, is something different. It’s reaching towards the sun, which is shining through the gaping hole from the missing branch, and is as toxic green as Nature itself. It's a seedling. It is Life.
Sunday 24 April 2011
Saturday 16 April 2011
How to see a dead body
Nothing will prepare you for seeing anyone dead. You could have known them your whole life or had a brief encounter many years ago, but there will always be that strange gasp your entire body seems to have upon seeing this corpse. You might draw away from the body (that’s what it is now really isn’t it?) out of fear, maybe even disgust. You don’t want to remember someone you love looking like that. Death is scary. Sometimes you just stare and soak up every detail as best as you can to realise that yes, he is dead. This is the last time you will see her so you must remember her lips, even if they’re not smiling like normal, or the shape of her infamous eyebrows. You must stroke his hair because, even though you kept some, it will never be the same. It will never be attached to him. You will never again tell him his head looks like a chip pan and to go and wash it. Remember the details. Be sad and regretful the moment you realise you’ve instantly ruined your image of them. When you regurgitate a childhood memory for the thousandth time since they’ve died, your mind will immediately pull up a distorted picture of them sprawled on the floor where your mum found them. You hate this. All you can think about is his face when you saw him dead for the first time, in the funeral parlour and then at the funeral itself - but at the same time you don’t remember it at all, just descriptions that you gave immediately after all three experiences. You make it up in your head. A purple face, blood near the eyes, bloated. It didn’t look like him, you tell yourself. It didn’t look like him. It didn’t look like him.
Tuesday 12 April 2011
Truths about grief
Grief can make you a schizophrenic bitch. You are irrational and do things the ‘old’ you would never do – such as steal bricks from gardens.
Grief can make you impulsive because you realise just how precious life is. For short, but powerful, bursts of time you think 'fuck it' and book trips to Thailand.
Grief can make you a walking tempest, a ball of pure rage. You hate everything. You compare everyone. You begin to resent friends who are alive for not being the ones who are dead.
Grief can make you Hollywood your life. You have an internal monologue for insignificant moments and create a soundtrack on iTunes labelled ‘Nik’ which you play when feeling particularly emo.
Grief can make you passionate and lethargic. You will never sleep as much, and as little, when grieving.
Grief can make you cry when you’re watching 'Lion King' but make you smile when listening to ‘Motownphilly’.
Grief can make you amazingly alone, but more claustrophobic and suffocated than ever. Everyone avoids you but everyone asks how you are?
Grief reminds you how nice some people are and surprises you when you find some people aren’t.
Grief can make you search for anything that is able to express the emotions you know are lurking somewhere there, but don’t know the names of.
Grief can make you feel old, because you feel more than ever before, and young because of how helpless you have now become.
Grief can make you wallow in self-pity but angry at others for doing the same. Everything is put into your perspective.
Grief can make you obsessive over the wellbeing of everyone you love. Every ache should be seen to by a doctor - and every doctor doesn't know what they're doing because, well, why did they die so young?
Grief reminds you just how bittersweet life is and brings back the fact that one day, if you’ve lived right,
People will be grieving over you.
For some reason, this is not scary at all.
Grief can make you impulsive because you realise just how precious life is. For short, but powerful, bursts of time you think 'fuck it' and book trips to Thailand.
Grief can make you a walking tempest, a ball of pure rage. You hate everything. You compare everyone. You begin to resent friends who are alive for not being the ones who are dead.
Grief can make you Hollywood your life. You have an internal monologue for insignificant moments and create a soundtrack on iTunes labelled ‘Nik’ which you play when feeling particularly emo.
Grief can make you passionate and lethargic. You will never sleep as much, and as little, when grieving.
Grief can make you cry when you’re watching 'Lion King' but make you smile when listening to ‘Motownphilly’.
Grief can make you amazingly alone, but more claustrophobic and suffocated than ever. Everyone avoids you but everyone asks how you are?
Grief reminds you how nice some people are and surprises you when you find some people aren’t.
Grief can make you search for anything that is able to express the emotions you know are lurking somewhere there, but don’t know the names of.
Grief can make you feel old, because you feel more than ever before, and young because of how helpless you have now become.
Grief can make you wallow in self-pity but angry at others for doing the same. Everything is put into your perspective.
Grief can make you obsessive over the wellbeing of everyone you love. Every ache should be seen to by a doctor - and every doctor doesn't know what they're doing because, well, why did they die so young?
Grief reminds you just how bittersweet life is and brings back the fact that one day, if you’ve lived right,
People will be grieving over you.
For some reason, this is not scary at all.
Tuesday 5 April 2011
Pick me, pick me!
Recently I was walking around aimlessly on Oxford Street and was approached by one of those charity fundraisers who emotionally blackmail you into giving money.
I did the typical thing of pretending I was busier than I was because 1) CBA 2) I give £10 a month to Christian Aid, which I can barely afford considering I'm no longer working at Tussauds (but was blackmailed into doing so) and 3) I recall this charity getting you to choose a child to sponsor based on their photo
This begs the question: what the fuck?!
How depressing is this? If I give money to a charity, I don't want to choose who it goes to based on their appearance! We've all seen 'Eastenders' - remember how shocked everyone was to find out sweet little Lisa shot Phil?
I don't want to be like 'yes, this adorable child with a nice smile by far trumps the munter. Therefore I shall endow them with £5 a month in return for updates on their progress at school where they bully others and pee in their teacher's coffee mug'.
The whole process just seems paradoxical: the moral act of charity is suddenly tainted by a disgustingly shallow way to go about it.
It reminds me of when we went to my granddad’s village in India after he had died. We stocked up on loads of stationary etc. to give to the children, almost to give him good karma. We gave stuff to every single mini Indian there. Some of the kids would pretend they didn't get anything so would come around again but we refused. That's not cool. Don't be that person. I remember no individuals from this afternoon - just a vague cloud of brownness - and believe that's what charity should be about.
Who are we to say one person in a given community is more in need and more worthy of our help?
I did the typical thing of pretending I was busier than I was because 1) CBA 2) I give £10 a month to Christian Aid, which I can barely afford considering I'm no longer working at Tussauds (but was blackmailed into doing so) and 3) I recall this charity getting you to choose a child to sponsor based on their photo
This begs the question: what the fuck?!
How depressing is this? If I give money to a charity, I don't want to choose who it goes to based on their appearance! We've all seen 'Eastenders' - remember how shocked everyone was to find out sweet little Lisa shot Phil?
I don't want to be like 'yes, this adorable child with a nice smile by far trumps the munter. Therefore I shall endow them with £5 a month in return for updates on their progress at school where they bully others and pee in their teacher's coffee mug'.
The whole process just seems paradoxical: the moral act of charity is suddenly tainted by a disgustingly shallow way to go about it.
It reminds me of when we went to my granddad’s village in India after he had died. We stocked up on loads of stationary etc. to give to the children, almost to give him good karma. We gave stuff to every single mini Indian there. Some of the kids would pretend they didn't get anything so would come around again but we refused. That's not cool. Don't be that person. I remember no individuals from this afternoon - just a vague cloud of brownness - and believe that's what charity should be about.
Who are we to say one person in a given community is more in need and more worthy of our help?
Monday 4 April 2011
Jersey bore
Oh my God.
Monday night TV became shit enough for me to watch 15 minutes of 'Jersey Shore' where characters/people are made famous for being fucking ridiculous.
I'm probably not the target audience but when I looked on the ‘JS’ Facebook page, I saw all the people on my friends list who 'like' the show are either my age or older. Why? Is it captivating because it's so pointless, like 'The Hills', where you watch JUST INCASE something good happens or is it the kind of thing people genuinely enjoy these days?
I read online 'Snooki' was paid $32,000 - $2000 more than Toni Morrison - to speak at Rutgers, an American university. Toni Morrison is particularly well known in the UK as her book 'Beloved' is often an English set-text however it is more her general outspokenness about racial inequality that makes her the Nobel and Pulitzer Prize-winning scholar that so few know her for.
Fair enough, the talk was based in New Jersey so staff thought 'maybe we should get someone Jersey-esque' but why not get John Travolta (duh), Danny DeVito, Michael Douglas, Kirsten Dunst, Lauryn Hill, Whitney Houston, Queen Latifah, Ray Liotta, Frank Sinatra Jr., Meryl Streep, Bruce Springsteen, Ashley Tisdale, Dionne Warwick, Tate Donovan, Anne Hathaway, Chris Rock, Stevie Wonder or ANYONE you recognise that I don't on the extensive list of people connected to New Jersey found on Wikipedia? Because students voted on it.
In the same way JCRs here have a small fund designated for socials, so does Rutgers. To ensure student satisfaction and manifest the idea of a 'fun' university for prospective business (i.e. tuition fees) the committee suggested Snooki - who took more than 2000 votes. That's the sad thing. In attempt to win student support the university has probably undercut its reputation for being ACADEMIC. I know, it's crazy that we should actually LEARN while at uni!
I completely understand that the popularity and contemporary nature of 'Jersey Shore' is what makes Snooki look so appealing. Nevertheless what intelligent and inspiring things could a woman who bitches, and then lies about the bitching, ON TV (this is the episode I saw today) say to students who believe in academia enough to pay several thousands of dollars to attend uni - for jobs which will hopefully clear this debt? Oh right, 'study hard, but party harder'. No wonder RU parents are pissed. I could have given that advice for 32p let alone $32,000 (bear in mind that'd get me less far than if I'd accepted my fare in dollars. This is how generous I am and how shit the advice is).
I am in no way justifying the fact that Toni Morrison normally gets $60,000 for gigs because this too is an outrage (I cringed for typing that but it's true) but this Snooki-getting-paid-more malarkey is a par (see Urban Dictionary). The fact that modern students don't care about 'the bigger picture' and are more intent on spending their parents money on alcohol for nights they don't even remember is the greatest tragedy. One in which I am a character. Even then, I still would’ve voted for the Jonas Brothers over Snooki.
Orange County:
Principal: People, June is just around the corner - let's talk graduation speakers... Ideas?
Nerdy Guy: Toni Morrison... she's in town that same weekend for a book signing. She's won the Nobel Prize.
Principal: Interesting... Dana, didn't you say you have a cousin who was friends with Britney Spears?
Monday night TV became shit enough for me to watch 15 minutes of 'Jersey Shore' where characters/people are made famous for being fucking ridiculous.
I'm probably not the target audience but when I looked on the ‘JS’ Facebook page, I saw all the people on my friends list who 'like' the show are either my age or older. Why? Is it captivating because it's so pointless, like 'The Hills', where you watch JUST INCASE something good happens or is it the kind of thing people genuinely enjoy these days?
I read online 'Snooki' was paid $32,000 - $2000 more than Toni Morrison - to speak at Rutgers, an American university. Toni Morrison is particularly well known in the UK as her book 'Beloved' is often an English set-text however it is more her general outspokenness about racial inequality that makes her the Nobel and Pulitzer Prize-winning scholar that so few know her for.
Fair enough, the talk was based in New Jersey so staff thought 'maybe we should get someone Jersey-esque' but why not get John Travolta (duh), Danny DeVito, Michael Douglas, Kirsten Dunst, Lauryn Hill, Whitney Houston, Queen Latifah, Ray Liotta, Frank Sinatra Jr., Meryl Streep, Bruce Springsteen, Ashley Tisdale, Dionne Warwick, Tate Donovan, Anne Hathaway, Chris Rock, Stevie Wonder or ANYONE you recognise that I don't on the extensive list of people connected to New Jersey found on Wikipedia? Because students voted on it.
In the same way JCRs here have a small fund designated for socials, so does Rutgers. To ensure student satisfaction and manifest the idea of a 'fun' university for prospective business (i.e. tuition fees) the committee suggested Snooki - who took more than 2000 votes. That's the sad thing. In attempt to win student support the university has probably undercut its reputation for being ACADEMIC. I know, it's crazy that we should actually LEARN while at uni!
I completely understand that the popularity and contemporary nature of 'Jersey Shore' is what makes Snooki look so appealing. Nevertheless what intelligent and inspiring things could a woman who bitches, and then lies about the bitching, ON TV (this is the episode I saw today) say to students who believe in academia enough to pay several thousands of dollars to attend uni - for jobs which will hopefully clear this debt? Oh right, 'study hard, but party harder'. No wonder RU parents are pissed. I could have given that advice for 32p let alone $32,000 (bear in mind that'd get me less far than if I'd accepted my fare in dollars. This is how generous I am and how shit the advice is).
I am in no way justifying the fact that Toni Morrison normally gets $60,000 for gigs because this too is an outrage (I cringed for typing that but it's true) but this Snooki-getting-paid-more malarkey is a par (see Urban Dictionary). The fact that modern students don't care about 'the bigger picture' and are more intent on spending their parents money on alcohol for nights they don't even remember is the greatest tragedy. One in which I am a character. Even then, I still would’ve voted for the Jonas Brothers over Snooki.
Orange County:
Principal: People, June is just around the corner - let's talk graduation speakers... Ideas?
Nerdy Guy: Toni Morrison... she's in town that same weekend for a book signing. She's won the Nobel Prize.
Principal: Interesting... Dana, didn't you say you have a cousin who was friends with Britney Spears?
Sunday 3 April 2011
The things I used to write
I miss being this descriptive! I have no idea why I wrote either of these things but they're amusing :)
28/11/2004:
The room was painted in a graceful red that silently hummed an eloquent melody. The room smelt of ancient tomes lined against the ballroom wall. The floorboards were stained in a deep mahogany. I looked above my head and saw the most magnificent chandelier made out of only the finest diamonds. The room was truly beautiful and I was lost in a daze until I was woken up by a load thud. It was Ma’am
“What?! What on earth are you doing here you filthy brat! Have I not made myself clear- it is forbidden to enter this room let alone the adults floor!” her voice echoed throughout the four walls I was trapped in- with her. I simply looked at my feet, wondering if it was a rhetorical question or not. “Well then? Have you not something to say to me?” I did not know what the answer was.
Ten minutes later I was forced to polish the floorboards and clean Mistress Reed’s shoes. It was uncanny how my own aunt treated me, I thought to myself as I dragged my limp body across the floor. I looked around me and was flustered in a pool of colour. The picture rail clutched onto a painting of a women in a pink dress that floated around her like a cream-topped meringue. She was being pranced around with a gentleman dressed in a black waistcoat and top hat. It’s just like Ashputtel I sighed to myself.
25/06/2008:
‘Who the HELL stole my Mars Bar?!’ I roared, louder than most other 5ft girls. 12R silenced instantly and swung around in their seats to face The New Girl. Oh crud.
Wishing for myself to melt back into the distance, be swallowed up by the gum-stained ground or just DIE, I gasped and clamped my lips shut with my hand. This was officially the worst moment of my curricular life (Apart from the time where I walked out of PE without my skirt on allowing teachers and pupils alike to point and laugh at the knickers my mother bought from BHS as a multipack, patterned with ‘Glitter Babe’ all over the butt. I originally refused to wear them. ‘I’m 15 Mum, not 5’. But after being reminded that it would be a long, long time before anyone important sees them (a funeral director when I’m 80 knowing my luck), I supported the Pants Of Shame. Oh the horror.). I had drawn attention to myself in an all brown school! I know I’m brown myself but GOD, that doesn’t mean I’m used to brown people. After having been educated in a boarding school named Sir Winfred’s, you tend to adopt their Caucasian manners (napkin on lap, not understanding a word of Hindi, easy pronunciation of the letter ‘v’ etc.). Brown people scare the Indian out of me.
‘Oh BHAGWAN, you mind not screaming in my ear Newbie? That’s the last thing I need in the morning,’ said Narier as he took out his earphones who was the first Brown Boy to talk to me outside my own family- hence my silence. ‘Cat’s lost her tongue now!’ he informed the rest of the already informed class, smiling cheesily at me as if aware I was peeing my non-BHS pants. No response. ‘What’s this about a stolen Mars Bar?’
‘My Mars Bar was..stolen’ I finish stupidly.
‘No kidding Sherlock. So you get all garam about CHOCOLATE..?’
Nod.
Suddenly his face solidifies, mirroring that of a typical Disney Channel bully, and he again adresses the spectators- ‘well?!’
Silence. The class is frozen, fearful. Guess he IS a bully.
‘If you lot don’t find her chocolate, you’re all gonna paaaay,’ he almost sings as he reaches into the uniform blazer pocket, ’10..9..’
Erruption. I find myself on the movie set for Titanic and people begin freaking out, bending over tables, crawling under chairs, fingering the floor surface as if reading Braille for the sodding chocolate.
‘8..7..’
Rude Boys began tipping out the contents of everyone’s bags onto the floor, Emos stopped bitching about the Rude Boys and rummaged through drawers.
‘6..5..’ he smiled. I begun get the impression that this boy was a masochist.
‘Oh my God! Hurry up, hurry up! He’s paagal man, he’ll kill us!’ screamed a well-groomed, make up- plastered, fake gold-covered girl.
‘4..3...’ Nariers voice began to grow impatient, angry. Would he kill me too?
‘Mars Mars Mars Mars Mars Mars’ one scrawny little boy whispered to himself without pause as he paced the room.
‘2..’ the smile returned as he pouted at me and winked. Oh my God. My heart fluttered. Wedding bells (which now I look back and realise is a full sign of my lack of brown-ness) began chiming in my head.
And in exact unison- ‘1!’
‘Mars Bar!’ a bulky Sikh boy cried with it clutched in his sweaty palm and he raised himself up from the floor.
Cheers. Fanfare. A whole bleeding fireworks show should’ve happened.
Narier again reached into his blazer. Everyone, including myself, fell to the floor and looked up to see the class bully laughing as he sprayed a jet of water from a toy keyring into the air. The atmosphere changed. His smile was wiped off his face as his mouth shouted ‘it was a joke! It was a joke!’ and his mind thought ‘run!’. So he did, the class minus me in tow.
I was alone in a room with The Mars Bar in my palm. I looked at it.
‘This isn’t even mine!’ I exclaimed.
28/11/2004:
The room was painted in a graceful red that silently hummed an eloquent melody. The room smelt of ancient tomes lined against the ballroom wall. The floorboards were stained in a deep mahogany. I looked above my head and saw the most magnificent chandelier made out of only the finest diamonds. The room was truly beautiful and I was lost in a daze until I was woken up by a load thud. It was Ma’am
“What?! What on earth are you doing here you filthy brat! Have I not made myself clear- it is forbidden to enter this room let alone the adults floor!” her voice echoed throughout the four walls I was trapped in- with her. I simply looked at my feet, wondering if it was a rhetorical question or not. “Well then? Have you not something to say to me?” I did not know what the answer was.
Ten minutes later I was forced to polish the floorboards and clean Mistress Reed’s shoes. It was uncanny how my own aunt treated me, I thought to myself as I dragged my limp body across the floor. I looked around me and was flustered in a pool of colour. The picture rail clutched onto a painting of a women in a pink dress that floated around her like a cream-topped meringue. She was being pranced around with a gentleman dressed in a black waistcoat and top hat. It’s just like Ashputtel I sighed to myself.
25/06/2008:
‘Who the HELL stole my Mars Bar?!’ I roared, louder than most other 5ft girls. 12R silenced instantly and swung around in their seats to face The New Girl. Oh crud.
Wishing for myself to melt back into the distance, be swallowed up by the gum-stained ground or just DIE, I gasped and clamped my lips shut with my hand. This was officially the worst moment of my curricular life (Apart from the time where I walked out of PE without my skirt on allowing teachers and pupils alike to point and laugh at the knickers my mother bought from BHS as a multipack, patterned with ‘Glitter Babe’ all over the butt. I originally refused to wear them. ‘I’m 15 Mum, not 5’. But after being reminded that it would be a long, long time before anyone important sees them (a funeral director when I’m 80 knowing my luck), I supported the Pants Of Shame. Oh the horror.). I had drawn attention to myself in an all brown school! I know I’m brown myself but GOD, that doesn’t mean I’m used to brown people. After having been educated in a boarding school named Sir Winfred’s, you tend to adopt their Caucasian manners (napkin on lap, not understanding a word of Hindi, easy pronunciation of the letter ‘v’ etc.). Brown people scare the Indian out of me.
‘Oh BHAGWAN, you mind not screaming in my ear Newbie? That’s the last thing I need in the morning,’ said Narier as he took out his earphones who was the first Brown Boy to talk to me outside my own family- hence my silence. ‘Cat’s lost her tongue now!’ he informed the rest of the already informed class, smiling cheesily at me as if aware I was peeing my non-BHS pants. No response. ‘What’s this about a stolen Mars Bar?’
‘My Mars Bar was..stolen’ I finish stupidly.
‘No kidding Sherlock. So you get all garam about CHOCOLATE..?’
Nod.
Suddenly his face solidifies, mirroring that of a typical Disney Channel bully, and he again adresses the spectators- ‘well?!’
Silence. The class is frozen, fearful. Guess he IS a bully.
‘If you lot don’t find her chocolate, you’re all gonna paaaay,’ he almost sings as he reaches into the uniform blazer pocket, ’10..9..’
Erruption. I find myself on the movie set for Titanic and people begin freaking out, bending over tables, crawling under chairs, fingering the floor surface as if reading Braille for the sodding chocolate.
‘8..7..’
Rude Boys began tipping out the contents of everyone’s bags onto the floor, Emos stopped bitching about the Rude Boys and rummaged through drawers.
‘6..5..’ he smiled. I begun get the impression that this boy was a masochist.
‘Oh my God! Hurry up, hurry up! He’s paagal man, he’ll kill us!’ screamed a well-groomed, make up- plastered, fake gold-covered girl.
‘4..3...’ Nariers voice began to grow impatient, angry. Would he kill me too?
‘Mars Mars Mars Mars Mars Mars’ one scrawny little boy whispered to himself without pause as he paced the room.
‘2..’ the smile returned as he pouted at me and winked. Oh my God. My heart fluttered. Wedding bells (which now I look back and realise is a full sign of my lack of brown-ness) began chiming in my head.
And in exact unison- ‘1!’
‘Mars Bar!’ a bulky Sikh boy cried with it clutched in his sweaty palm and he raised himself up from the floor.
Cheers. Fanfare. A whole bleeding fireworks show should’ve happened.
Narier again reached into his blazer. Everyone, including myself, fell to the floor and looked up to see the class bully laughing as he sprayed a jet of water from a toy keyring into the air. The atmosphere changed. His smile was wiped off his face as his mouth shouted ‘it was a joke! It was a joke!’ and his mind thought ‘run!’. So he did, the class minus me in tow.
I was alone in a room with The Mars Bar in my palm. I looked at it.
‘This isn’t even mine!’ I exclaimed.
The dead interesting dinner party
5 dead people I fancy hanging out with...
Helen Kellar. I was a very odd child growing up. I’ve never read a single ‘Goosebumps’ story but around about the age of 8 I developed a slight obsession (as I am prone to do) with Helen Kellar after repetitively reading her biography. Helen became blind AND deaf when she was less than 2 years old but with the help of her teacher and friend, Anne Sullivan, she learnt how to speak, read and write. In my opinion this woman embodies everything amazing about human courage and determination. We can do anything.
Hitler. I know this is such a typical one but the man is a fucking mystery. I just wanna be like ‘hey man, what were you thinking? I really feel like you just need a hug and a bit of Robbie Williams to soothe your soul. Your aura’s looking a little bit crazy today. Also, perhaps you really should’ve shaved off that moustache because you totally ruined the look for everyone. Oh and you DO realise you don’t have blonde hair and blue eyes, yes?’
Roald Dahl. I really struggled with this one because there are so many dead writers I would love to chat to (C.S. Lewis, Oscar Wilde, George Orwell, Ted Hughes, William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Vladimir Nabakov, John Milton, Jack Kerouac, Franz Kafka, Roger Hargreaves...this isn’t even all of the possibilities) but Dahl won because he is hilarious and wrote some of the best children’s fiction ever. He made me want to read and his books have the added benefit of being equally amazing as films. Roald Dahl just seems like a nice guy.
Marvin Gaye. Equal opportunities, and all that. Even though technically he’d be a guest at my Dead Person’s Dinner Party, I’d still make him sing and dance around like a performing monkey. I heard about Marvin on the grapevine and thought ‘there ain’t no mountain high enough’ to stop me from getting this event on. Yeh. I punned.
Eve. No imaginary dinner party is complete without a religious figure. Why didn’t I invite someone from Jainism? Because we don’t have the same level of controversy in our religion and also, because I want to know what the hell really happened with the Forbidden Fruit. It's like wanting to find out a cliff hanger before realising the show has been cancelled. I also think Eve would provide an interesting perspective of God before he became famous.
Helen Kellar. I was a very odd child growing up. I’ve never read a single ‘Goosebumps’ story but around about the age of 8 I developed a slight obsession (as I am prone to do) with Helen Kellar after repetitively reading her biography. Helen became blind AND deaf when she was less than 2 years old but with the help of her teacher and friend, Anne Sullivan, she learnt how to speak, read and write. In my opinion this woman embodies everything amazing about human courage and determination. We can do anything.
Hitler. I know this is such a typical one but the man is a fucking mystery. I just wanna be like ‘hey man, what were you thinking? I really feel like you just need a hug and a bit of Robbie Williams to soothe your soul. Your aura’s looking a little bit crazy today. Also, perhaps you really should’ve shaved off that moustache because you totally ruined the look for everyone. Oh and you DO realise you don’t have blonde hair and blue eyes, yes?’
Roald Dahl. I really struggled with this one because there are so many dead writers I would love to chat to (C.S. Lewis, Oscar Wilde, George Orwell, Ted Hughes, William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Vladimir Nabakov, John Milton, Jack Kerouac, Franz Kafka, Roger Hargreaves...this isn’t even all of the possibilities) but Dahl won because he is hilarious and wrote some of the best children’s fiction ever. He made me want to read and his books have the added benefit of being equally amazing as films. Roald Dahl just seems like a nice guy.
Marvin Gaye. Equal opportunities, and all that. Even though technically he’d be a guest at my Dead Person’s Dinner Party, I’d still make him sing and dance around like a performing monkey. I heard about Marvin on the grapevine and thought ‘there ain’t no mountain high enough’ to stop me from getting this event on. Yeh. I punned.
Eve. No imaginary dinner party is complete without a religious figure. Why didn’t I invite someone from Jainism? Because we don’t have the same level of controversy in our religion and also, because I want to know what the hell really happened with the Forbidden Fruit. It's like wanting to find out a cliff hanger before realising the show has been cancelled. I also think Eve would provide an interesting perspective of God before he became famous.
Saturday 2 April 2011
When I grow up I wanna be a Jayshree
'All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his.' - Oscar Wilde
Wilde was often right with his witty one-liners but this time, he wasn’t. Despite my mother's poor dress sense which resembles a marshmallow, nosey disposition and general need to embarrass me; I would be very happy to be half the woman Jayshree is.
Here are reasons why my mummy is better than yours:
1. She is the least materialistic person I have ever met. Mum hadn't even heard of Swarovski until I was like 'errr you do realise you're giving me ridiculously expensive earrings?'. She taught me to be natural and grateful.
2. She uses slang. Not only does Jayshree understand what 'butters' means, but she also feels the need to say it - it's gone past being used for ironic purposes. This makes me cringe. However there have been a few occasions when she says things incorrectly. In attempt to say 'he stole from me' she said 'he jacked me off'. I don't want to know about my mother being jacked off, thanks.
3. She can be amazingly immature and often cries with laughter about stupid things e.g. when she hung two baby carrots from her ears like earrings EDIT: She cried with laughter again when she read and rememebered this moment
4. She is stoic and handles things like the Duchess of Malfi when shit goes down. She is not a blubbering mess who whines about how crap their life is. My mum has balls.
5. She always revises with me, even when she has no idea WTF is going on, and manages to make it Indian. 'Quatre is 4 in French.. Just think of Gujurati for scissors! (Katre)'
6. She is not a typical Indian woman. My mum is opinionated and assertive about things that matter. She encourages me to try new things and do what I want - as long as it's not stupid
7. She has accepted the fact that I will probably marry a white man. This is a big deal.
8. She takes the piss out of me. Not in 'A Child Called It' kind of way but she just talks to me like she's one of my friends. For instance, I bumped into a friend’s Gujarati grandma while on the phone to Mum and my instant response was ‘Kemcho!’... How my mother laughed. She also pissed herself when I fell into the toilet after having only just gone past potty training. Supportive.
9. She cooks the best food ever. Most people think their Mum's food is amazing but that's because they haven't tried Jayshree's. This is why I am fat.
10. She taught me to love unconditionally and forgive often.
11. She always knows when I'm drunk, even if I simply text her with ‘alright babes?’. This woman is a ninja.
12. She saves me newspaper articles, pictures or anything she thinks I might like so when I come back home from uni I tend to have to sift through a pile of animal photos
13. She has Facebook and regularly insults or embarrasses me on it
14. She smells nice :)
15. She is very talented and can swear at me in Gujarati and English in the same sentence
16. She knows who I’m referring to when I randomly exclaim ‘Jason!’ (Mraz) or ‘JT!’ (John Travolta) or ‘Dad!’ (Mr. O’Sullivan) and then rolls her eyes in a way that says ‘what kind of person did I raise’
17. She can see the positive side to anything. A few years ago, after an angiogram and having just learnt how to text (a minute a letter), she sent me a message saying ‘Don't come too early, I’m radioactive L.O.L’. At last she knows the dots are unnecessary.
18. She sits with me every time I watch 'Love Actually' or 'Bridget Jones' Diary' (this may also be due to the Colin Firth Factor).
19. She knitted me the only scarf I ever wear – something which looks like a Care Bear vomited on
20. She is a massive nerd who used to do the algebra, which I cried over not understanding, for fun.
I get it from my momma!
Wilde was often right with his witty one-liners but this time, he wasn’t. Despite my mother's poor dress sense which resembles a marshmallow, nosey disposition and general need to embarrass me; I would be very happy to be half the woman Jayshree is.
Here are reasons why my mummy is better than yours:
1. She is the least materialistic person I have ever met. Mum hadn't even heard of Swarovski until I was like 'errr you do realise you're giving me ridiculously expensive earrings?'. She taught me to be natural and grateful.
2. She uses slang. Not only does Jayshree understand what 'butters' means, but she also feels the need to say it - it's gone past being used for ironic purposes. This makes me cringe. However there have been a few occasions when she says things incorrectly. In attempt to say 'he stole from me' she said 'he jacked me off'. I don't want to know about my mother being jacked off, thanks.
3. She can be amazingly immature and often cries with laughter about stupid things e.g. when she hung two baby carrots from her ears like earrings EDIT: She cried with laughter again when she read and rememebered this moment
4. She is stoic and handles things like the Duchess of Malfi when shit goes down. She is not a blubbering mess who whines about how crap their life is. My mum has balls.
5. She always revises with me, even when she has no idea WTF is going on, and manages to make it Indian. 'Quatre is 4 in French.. Just think of Gujurati for scissors! (Katre)'
6. She is not a typical Indian woman. My mum is opinionated and assertive about things that matter. She encourages me to try new things and do what I want - as long as it's not stupid
7. She has accepted the fact that I will probably marry a white man. This is a big deal.
8. She takes the piss out of me. Not in 'A Child Called It' kind of way but she just talks to me like she's one of my friends. For instance, I bumped into a friend’s Gujarati grandma while on the phone to Mum and my instant response was ‘Kemcho!’... How my mother laughed. She also pissed herself when I fell into the toilet after having only just gone past potty training. Supportive.
9. She cooks the best food ever. Most people think their Mum's food is amazing but that's because they haven't tried Jayshree's. This is why I am fat.
10. She taught me to love unconditionally and forgive often.
11. She always knows when I'm drunk, even if I simply text her with ‘alright babes?’. This woman is a ninja.
12. She saves me newspaper articles, pictures or anything she thinks I might like so when I come back home from uni I tend to have to sift through a pile of animal photos
13. She has Facebook and regularly insults or embarrasses me on it
14. She smells nice :)
15. She is very talented and can swear at me in Gujarati and English in the same sentence
16. She knows who I’m referring to when I randomly exclaim ‘Jason!’ (Mraz) or ‘JT!’ (John Travolta) or ‘Dad!’ (Mr. O’Sullivan) and then rolls her eyes in a way that says ‘what kind of person did I raise’
17. She can see the positive side to anything. A few years ago, after an angiogram and having just learnt how to text (a minute a letter), she sent me a message saying ‘Don't come too early, I’m radioactive L.O.L’. At last she knows the dots are unnecessary.
18. She sits with me every time I watch 'Love Actually' or 'Bridget Jones' Diary' (this may also be due to the Colin Firth Factor).
19. She knitted me the only scarf I ever wear – something which looks like a Care Bear vomited on
20. She is a massive nerd who used to do the algebra, which I cried over not understanding, for fun.
I get it from my momma!
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