The glory of bouncing back to life

Life sometimes can take us on a path so winding, it is difficult to imagine how to go home again. It's when we want to be left alone, to wallow in our self-pity perhaps or just to be in the state of being. Life happens, it happens. It's not easy. Especially when all thoughts are making you so tired it's difficult to concentrate. It's like having been bashed with a metaphorical baseball bat. Physical weariness is something difficult to combat. Mental weariness is even more difficult. But both are difficult to tackle. We are born inexperienced, and experience is what makes us the people we are now. And each time we get a bashing, we battle and try to rise again. Because "Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall" - Confucious

Tired

I'm feeling tired, weary and, as babies do when they lack sleep, I feel like crying so that someone will hear me and put me to bed with a beautiful lullaby. I remember I actually had this lullaby ever since I can remember, it was Brahms' lullaby on a very colourful clock in my twin's and my bedroom. We loved dad tucking us in, switch off the lights, and play this lullaby for us. And perhaps I was just three when this happened, but I still think of it, and it's such a nice, warm feeling. So there you have it, I was being exposed to classical music at such a young age. No wonder all I ever wanted was to play music.

But I feel too funny to be able to describe it. It's not PMS, just something else, which I have to first figure out what. I am drained, mentally tired and it's not as if I were doing construction work this morning. Sometimes bed is boring, other times it's bliss. And sometimes you just feel like going into the womb again, without any worries. But doing just that is impossible, it would kill my small-framed mum! So will have to do with just a bed for tonight.

Green-eyed monster?

Finally the weather's cooling off a little bit, for me, it makes all the difference. And finally I can have a new hairstyle by Nigel who is a hair saviour from heaven. The way this young man can tease unruly locks to slick, defined, the-bomb hairstyles will continue to amaze me. I try using the same brush and hairdryer... the result is poor in comparison. He also says ' glamour is not natural, it's achieved by combs, brushes and hairdryers'... yeah right and a good pair of hands. I am tired of having to pull my hair up, now I can wear it down, and it does go down quite a bit. This is probably my last chance at wearing it this long, because I'm 35 (although the lady at Toni and Guy thought I was 28 and for the first time in my life I could have really kissed another woman).

And now I have green eyes. They look so natural with my freckles, they look like built-in appliances in a Scavolini kitchen. And since they do, hey God why didn't you give me green eyes?! It would have made life that little bit easier. But no, God goes and give my twin almost-green eyes, and gives me a hazel brown pair. Well it could have been worse, at least I have eyes.

School again. Now I can go with my new hairstyle. It's amazing what kids' comments can do. Put you on heaven #7, or drag you down to hell #100000. The thing is I don't get many go-to-hell messages there. Perhaps most kids need eyeglasses badly, but it is so beautiful the way I cannot get into the school door because of a million hugs. I am not a stuffy teacher, nor a strict one at that. I do not mind children eating, drinking, or talking sometimes, because quite simply, school is not a place to throw your weight around. I have loads of friends there, basically all kids, because I have always thought that the best way to teach is to befriend children. Even the most unmotivated child will take to that, and it has always worked.

Enough of work. I am no workaholic, and I love to just laze about. Let's see what this year has in store for green-eyed me. Hopefully something nice.

Back to designer school...

Back to school, and back to work. Feeling somewhat disgruntled and like walking in space. I am in denial after three months of holidaying. It's amazing how they stretched out at first; three whole long months of being my own mistress, now, looking back, we should have had at least another month. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, so why shouldn't we go halfway, 6 months of holiday and 6 months of work? It seems only fair.

So today the schoolyard was full of hustle and bustle. Definitely not the same one I saw last Friday. Kids were sporting new school bags, there was Barbie, High School Musical, Fairies, Barny, lots of pink pink pink with the girls, more Nike and Converse with the boys. Really we have become a designer nation, even kids want designer bags. And I cannot blame them, could I say no to a Cartier? It's useless pointing out that I already have three Cartiers, having one more wouldn't harm my life. Or another Dior, it would sit very prettily in my wardrobe. Or a big grand old Versace with a Medusa to make you gasp.

Whatever we say, and however much we condemn our people for being more and more materialistic, I cannot blame society. I, too love designer brands. It doesn't necessarily mean that I wear them all the time, most times they are in my wardrobe for a long time. But acquiring them is the biggest part of the fun. The world is what it is, and I am just part of it.... of the designer bit.

Nails and life

I just need some form of distraction today. Any form will do, so it's down to my nails again. This is one of those days when I am quick to shed a tear in memory of my lovely baby, I keep reliving the last moments. Big big sigh....I just cannot understand this thing called life... and death. Why do loved ones just die on us, and will I be left just too long to see everyone go away? Shit, that's a cruel thought.

Anyway on to my new nails. Black, because I am in mourning, but with a fiery red because the spirit inside is hard to kill. It is probably what has kept my sanity/insanity, through all that life has thrown at my feet. A lot of sadness, but then a lot of happiness too. Perhaps it's the yin-yang of life trying to balance out an extremely happy childhood. If I had to choose I wonder what I'd choose, having it easy early in life makes you automatically think it's going to be one easy ride. But the equation doesn't work out that way. Would I rather have had a tough childhood and an easy adulthood? The thing is that what I would have preferred is useless because we do not get to choose. It's still hard though. So here's to my nails, while I keep thinking of my Figaro. He is now pain free and I'd rather have him on Rainbow Bridge and happy then next to my side and in pain. That's life, it's how it evens all the bumps out with a grand big steam iron.

In Loving Memory...

It has been two years since my Figaro passed over. And that does not make it any better. My first-born grandchild, the first to go, spending just two and a half years with me; way too little. And yet in just so little time, this cat made its way into my heart. such a loving cat, one would have thought he had some canine blood in there. He shared my tears, and left me to shed much more.

Each baby's life has a purpose and meaning and the love we share when they come into our hearts is sacred. A bond of love too strong to be ever broken even when the physical body is gone, the spirit remains.

Grief is not measured by time. It is when the heart dries of tears and the mind comes to acceptance that the healing starts. It is a life-long process and we, or I, allow myself to be fragile on days like this. I like to think that my Figaro has passed onto Rainbow Bridge before me. And there is some comfort in knowing that a loving God, creator of all live things, would never allow the innocence and unconditional love I shared with my Figaro to be taken cruelly away from me forever. Meanwhile I can only think of him fondly and hope that he thinks of me too. I don't care for people who will say, "but it's just a cat'. Yes just a cat, and my baby too.

http://rainbowsbridge.com/residents/FIGAR005/resident.htm

It's PINK!

I finally managed to put another keyboard out of 0rder. Probably the 12th. in a row. Now I got this "virtually indestructible" keyboard, and as a bonus, it's all pink! Lovely lovely pink as in bubble gum pink. And it makes you swear hard. This ultra flexible pink think is hard to get used to. But it's too pink to throw away so I'll just keep trying. And maybe get a case of Repetitive Stress Syndrome in the process. But.... it's pink!

Me and my gay

Judging by the amount of gay men who I have come to know, I should be fully qualified with a first class degree on how these flamboyant, but ever so nice-to-be-around men act, speak, dress, and conduct their relationships with boyfriends, girlfriends, family and the world. I am not talking about gay men who would love to be women, but gay men who love being men and being gay, but still would never trade their bodies for a female one. They like ogling at breasts, butts, and whatever nature decides to present them with, but they still rejoice in being male, and love watching women for the sake of art and beauty because their feminine side appreciates women in the opposite way that a straight man would be ogling at breasts. The way they look at women is not as if women were two breasts and a butt happening to be adjoined to a face and legs, but rather in the way I look at Salvador Dali` paintings... in appreciation and fascination. Their stare is not meant to be demeaning, but instead a stare of celebration at nature.. when it seems to have done it's bit correctly.

But there is just one thing I will never get to understand about gay men, and that is the way they conduct relationships between themselves. They can be sisters, and if so they will be blood brothers with no sexy going-ons. They sometimes choose to be mama and daughter, so sex for them would be like what we know as illicit incest. And then they sometimes choose to ravage each other in a sexual way. Most gay men I know are not monogamous, something which i will never understand. Variety is healthy, but varying sexual partners is not something to be recommended. Then again, were it not for these men, the people working at the sex clinic at Boffa Hospital would be given the sack.

Gay men are terribly terribly good for the economy. Women shop shop shop and love getting a bargain. Gay men want the expensive stuff, the more expensive the better. They want designer clothes, eau de parfum (eau the toilette version is too cheap for them), fabulous shoes, and oh the way they are groomed.... oh la la! There's no denying it, me-and-my-boy will always be a staple in my life.

When they leave....

I am gobsmacked. Flabbergasted. Dumbfounded. People enter your life, and your heart reacts. It slowly makes more space for yet one more. My heart is like the walk-in closet I'd love to have; endless space, plush velvet, silky stuff all over and adaptable, flexible, it can make space for one more. And it did. But now... there lies an empty space. A dent in the velvet, and a crease where the silky garment lay, an empty hanger. A stark reminder of what perhaps was not to be. For two years plus it's happily found its space. Not anymore. I do not take very well to separations, it is something which will forever get under my skin. I barely have the strength to write. Yet people are in and out of relationships like running water. Because it is all very well trying to squeeze you into my close, but what happens when I am left with an empty space? And what happens when the space is a poignant memory of times good and bad. And what about me? What happens when they leave?

PMS and other matters

So my friend thinks this sort-of-permanent bad mood of mine is just temporary because it's PMS. That is so unfair. And we are expected to compete with our male counterparts who do not even know what PMS is, if they did they would give women time off and declare each day of menstruation a national holiday. And what should happen if a woman does not need ovulation, PMS and menstruation, not necessarily in that order? Nothing, she still has to grin and bear it. Ok maybe not grin, just act disgruntled and bear it because there is no solution to that. And we are supposed to be the weaker sex. Yeah right! If we are the weaker sex then howcome do we get to give birth, something so hard to do that it's called labour? And I would just like to see men breast-feeding, the poor newborn choking on some real hairy chests. So that's reserved for women. Because they are the weaker sex. But they're not. And we've never been. We have just been very crafty all along at making men believe they are strong and macho. Just as women used to feed food to their male partners every day, (some are still doing it till today), we have just as well fed their ego. The way to a man's heart is not through his taste buds, but rather through his ego. And for those of us who just couldn't be bothered to cook tell them that they are marvellous in everything, and that includes gastronomy. I wonder what having a lesbian lover would be like, but there would probably be more hard work involved than in a heterosexual based relationship. I can safely talk about a gay relationship between two men.... that's easy. One falls into the pattern of a wife, the other of a husband, but both have egos and each man caresses the other one's ego. But for a man-to-man relationship to work, one has to caress the other's ego that little bit harder. In some of the gay relationships I have come into contact with, one feigns a moody PMS, because the one has no idea how bad it can get. Some even go as far as allowing themselves sick-leave for a purely imagined menstruation. They just lie low for a while. But that is also because they have never experienced the pain and cramps that comes with it.

And all this makes women naturally better for the economy than man. The minute a baby girl is born, Nuvenia, Carefree, O.B. and Tampax probably rub their hands in glee. Just that tiny baby has millions of eggs in her ovaries which will be, in due course, contributing to the economy. Next come Max Factor, Coverderm, la Roche Posay, Maybelline, and probably something like l'Oreal for the baby's teen years. It includes a lot of spot concealer to cover the odd blemish right before menstruation. Then the girl gets cleverer and it's on to Estee` Lauder's best of them all... Maximum Coverage which gives a model-like cover, and nobody can resist Christian Dior because it's flawless. Of course Gillette has a hand in it too, as do beauty therapists with their savage waxing strips. It never ends. And for the boys? Well in boys as in hetero boys, it's just Gillette, perhaps Nivea, that's about it.

And then we're supposed to get the same pay-check. Come on, it's about time we got extra benefits ... just for being a girl.

Haagen-Dasz

My back still hurts, my head too. And I feel empty. And there is not much to write about emptiness, le sentiment de vide. Empty is just empty. Maybe it's the fact that I have only 4 days of holidays to go and I am not ready yet to settle down into another routine. Perhaps it is because I need changing a lot of things, and I still keep being dragged into this muddy marsh which is a big part of my life. I don't even want anybody to kiss it better. I want to just be. Except for one thing, and that's Haagen-Dasz in Belgian Chocolate. Since I am lacking energy, all the calories inside it will be a good thing. Or perhaps it's PMS. Or that age is catching up on me, secretly. I realise that it's only 5 years before I turn 40. That sounds ancient. And I realise that people have their own lives which they have to live in a Saturday night. My Saturday night is going to be Sex and the City and Haagen Dasz. Especially when there's no sex, no city but just Haagen-Dasz.

Haagen-Dasz... that's the best thing to go for, well, for now at least.

...ARANI ISSA! DONE.

My back hurts, and no it's not because I've been lying on it having some fun. It's because ARANI ISSA! articles happened to grow from a 35 to 40. But I have met the deadline. It's all done now, oh and I've backed it up for safety's sake. I feel like hitting my twin for putting me through so much misery, but I won't because I gladly do it and every year his requests are getting bolder and bolder. He actually told me it would be 25 articles, which grew to 30, then to 35, and finally to 40. I have written so much about medical stuff that I think I can call myself a doctor, or at the very least a skilled plastic surgeon.

But I don't like gore and blood. And to be honest, sometimes I think people do not need plastic surgery but a full-time shrink. Body Dysmporphia runs high in ARANI ISSA! applicants. On interviewing them, a lot see what isn't there. How can a 55kg young woman think of herself as fat?? And why do they all use the nastiest of words to describe themselves? And is ARANI ISSA! really fixing things?

The world seems obsessed about image. But how did my Nanna Ginnie and my Nanna Karm survive without plastic surgery? They went on about life and aged gracefully, and nobody ever thought they were ugly. They liked wearing jewellery on occasions (that's were my jewellery gene comes from), they dressed up during the village feast, on weddings. But apart from that, they did not make a fuss when the first grey hair popped out. And they were loved people who were kind, who smiled and who didn't have it easy.

And about ARANI ISSA! That translates to Watch Me Now! Hmmmm it sounds rather as if someone has a bone to pick with the world. As if hey world, I've had enough of you treating me like shit.... watch me now! The poignant truth is that we are treated the way we allow ourselves to be treated. I have gone through so many stares and giggles, and tears. Not now. Now I stare back, hold the stare and make whoever it is actually take a step back. Because yes, sometimes you do have to throw your weight around. I could have an ARANI ISSA! makeover in a snap And people actually ask.... why don't you get yourself on TV? Because as a complete opposite to my twin I hate TV, there is no way on earth I am letting a camera and a boom mike onto my personal life. That stops with me. And why does ARANI ISSA! grow stronger each year? Because we are a nation of speculative, nosey people who love to know what's going on with this one and that. It is the same as if flicking venitian blinds to see what is going on with the family opposite us. But this time, it's all right to do it because you just switch the channel on. Because opening the door to another one's suffering makes us feel we are not alone. And that makes it all easier to live with.

ARANI ISSA!... Phew!

I am writing and writing, and sounding like a mad typist on a manic bipolar day. My head hurts, my nails are probably getting shorter because of the friction with the keyboard keys. And I think I'm going slightly mad. But I have a deadline. And that is Sunday. Silly day for a deadline, but it's still a deadline. But i cannot take much more of this. I have to write 35 articles for ARANI ISSA!'s entire season of programmes. I'm up to 15, it's more than half to go. I am becoming a medical expert, writing about rhinoplasty, breast reductions, augmentations, ears pinned, liposuction, tummy-tucks, weight management, corrective laser eye surgery, cataracts, dental treatment and gum disease, laser scar removal, laser hair removal, hair transplants, tissue expansion, rejuvenation procedures, psychological issues, obsessive compulsive behaviour, sad childhoods, even sadder marriages and breakups, drug addiction, alcohol abuse... it just goes on and on. And although I am grumbling because 35 articles in a week is a hard deadline, I realise I am writing about pain. ARANI ISSA might seem a quick miracle fix, but to us who work behind the scenes, well it takes its toll on us too. Or maybe it's just me. But knowing all about what leads to the reason why a woman would want to inflate her breasts, or why a man would want a serious tummy-tuck; well it's all the same. We are living in a world which worships image. And while image is nice, what about what's all behind it. It is the same; a search for acceptance by other lesser mortals. Because some people have been bullied beyond reason, or else they have been made to feel like freaks by today's society which supposedly celebrates diversity. And what is worse is that it seems as if we insular farts on this tiny island think it is our business to accept or not accept. It is not the same in London, where everyone is so busy you'd think you were invisible. No, here we have to point and stare and look and giggle. Shame on you Malta. Because while I am here trying to meet my deadline while writing about medical procedures, I am writing about all the pain these people have had to endure. And this is coming out of the Maltese 'generosity'!!!!! Yeah right. Stuff it!

The God Issue

I have an an anonymous someone reading my blog. No problem with that. It's also a God-loving someone who is reading my blog. No problem with that either. But it's funny not in the funny way. Funny how this someone thinks goodness and evil are responsible for all the shit that happens in life. What about all the good things? Me, I think that both the bad and the good come from life. That is what life is all about. And no, just in case this someone thinks I do, I don't blame God and I don't blame devils either. I was brought up to think that God meant goodness, a loving God. And if it's a loving God then He does not bestow on us trials and tribulations. That wouldn't be fair, in the sense, why did she get less shit than me, and why did the other get it worse? No. my God is someone who watches day and night, even when we are so consumed with the on-goings of the 2008 world. What happens in life is determined by ourselves, where we happen to be, who we meet, what we do, and perhaps by fate. Because my God seems to have a penchant for free-will to his followers, so He is actually powerless on what happens. It is a powerful God if he so desired, but not just now, maybe later. If I think swearing and killing is one cool way to live, God cannot stop me because He said He would give me free will. If I choose to pray every day it is not because God decides to robot me into action but because of what I decide to do. But then again, free will is love. In love, of any form, we have to be as selfless as to be able to let our loved one go. God does not take them, that is total bullshit. Illness takes them, disease, accidents or the circle of life. God is there to pick us up regardless of whether we ask Him because He is sorry that we are hurting. It would be a cruel God had He to just wake up one day and say, " hmmm let's see what kind of trial I'm giving AnnMarie today..." It would be an even crueler God had He to behave in such a manner and expect more love and praise in return. Let's be real, can anybody praise someone who is cruel? No. It is against everything. If we have to love ourselves first, then it cannot work that way. So please let's forget the flowery language of God being a number 1 friend bla bla bla. God is God. That's enough.

My Cuddle-Puddle

I love this word. Cuddle-Puddle. It makes me think of Indian tribes and pregnant women. Because Indian tribes make a big fuss out of women who have been knocked up, whether planned or unplanned. It doesn't matter, once a woman is with child then she is welcomed into tents where they get to meditate, relax, eat exotic fruit, sleep,, talk to others in their same position. That's one version of a cuddle-puddle. And if it works in India, well I have nothing less than Indian women so I get my own cuddle-puddle. I'm not pregnant, and I'm not planning to be, yet one never knows. So until then I am gathering my own cuddle-puddle, which funnily enough does not consist of meditation but delving the soul completely into music so that's a good second. Exotic fruit... well I buy pineapple, then forget about them until they start getting mouldy, then one evening I'll remember them, work a big appetite only to find they're uneatable. So then I'll work up an appetite for something else, chocolate only to find I've eaten every single thing which has even a micro gram of cocoa on it. So then I turn onto something else (yes it's a pattern so it could qualify as obsessive-compulsive) -Haagen-Dazs' version of Belgian Chocolate ice-cream...... oh so heavenly!!!!!!! and I always have a hidden tub stuck somewhere in the freezer, for those days when i would love to go into an Indian tent. But I just don't have a tent, Indian or not, and tents would probably make me feel claustrophoic so the next best thing is my dear sofa complete with the ice-cream tub, Diet coke, and a smoking parlour.

Back to my cuddle-puddle. Who would I have in there? Well, all my cats, and dogs. And Brigitte and Jess and Yan because they know how to be real friends and their hearts are in the right places. And..... something I thought I would never say, a special someone else whom I have known for a lifetime but only recently got back! Because life has its plusses too. And that's my cuddle-puddle complete.

The pretty Englishwoman

I've been out. Shopping of course, and not the Saturday kind-of-trawling-in-supermarket Shopping. I never do that anyway, it's so boring, no worse, it makes me bad tempered. It all started as it always starts, I was actually certain that I wouldn't buy anything, but alas ( or hurray) I did. I walked past Franks, the smell was lovely because my olfactory nerves are nerves which really work overtime. So I went in. I did buy, but I think I'm never going there again. The girls there are snobs, they probably think being a salesgirl is like being president. It's not the first time it's happened there, on one other time I was badly abused by another girl. This time the vibe was excruciatingly painful, usually girls breathe down your neck, these two didn't even acknowledge I was in there, and it's not as if I'm exactly invisible. The last time I actually filed in a report. Now, I won't bother anymore. There are plenty of other perfumeries, and I have enough to last me a lifetime. Most are still sealed so they're not going off. Too bad for Franks, because I am good for the economy.

On the other hand, in the course of my heavy shoe-shopping I have made some acquaintances who know my feet like the palm of their hand. They are not heavily plastered in make-up like the girls working at Franks, but they are good enough. The minute I walk in it feels so much like home. They are welcoming, genuine people who are happy to help. They give good solid advice, and I like being in there. That is one reason why I am unable to kick this shoe habit. Apart from the fact that shoes make me feel good, these people are an added bonus. But as it turned out, my usual shoe shopping haunt didn't have anything new in yet, or perhaps I have bought most of the styles already in the last two weeks of taking my business there every day. So I went to another. I've been there quite a few times too, but I was feeling somewhat disgruntled, because of the treatment at Franks, and perhaps the heat had a part in it too. Anyway, I walk in, this pretty English lady comes up to me immediately and gives me such a heartwarming smile, and asks if I wore the killer snakeskin shoes I'd bought there about a month ago. Geeze she must see so many customers and this woman actually remembers the shoes I'd bought. And she wasn't wearing any of the light-reflecting mineral foundation that the perfumerie girls wore, but her smile lit up her face, and consequently mine. And here it comes, the talk turns to shopping and she tells me of how her boyfriend never grumbled on shopping trips. Then she drops this bombshell, she says.... but God took him away from me. Shit, I was about to cry. Here was this pretty woman trying to make ends meet, with the face of an angel and with a past not unlike mine. Perhaps salesgirls should refrain from personal talk, but I don't agree because it felt so right and I really didn't mind, I actually stood there rooted with one foot in one shoe and realised that she still smiled, didn't think she was the President, and that she was no robot but a human being hurting. And so pretty. An old head on young shoulders and far prettier than the Frankie girls. She just had unfinished business, so like myself. She was a normal human being with feelings not a snooty robot who smirked at God knows what. The result... I walked out with three pairs of shoes and would have gladly bought more but it was almost closing time and I realised that this woman had been on her feet all day.

So now I keep thinking about her, I don't even know her name. But I know she is a big sweetheart. The shoestore is so lucky to have her, and I really have learnt something.

Mousey Mater Dei?

I have been caught, for once, very late in adjourning myself with current affairs. And I hear a mouse found it's way into a salad, packed in polystyrene, at Mater Dei. I actually thought I was being had when I heard the story, a mouse in a salad?! Geezeeee that's enough to set me off salads for life. You see know why I don't like salads, because mice might be lurking in that, all fresh. There, now I have a perfect excuse. For disliking salads and Mater Dei.

This mouse thing is all I have been able to think of since yesterday. I found something while eating a salad, a live snail making it's way meekly along the lettuce leaf. and I went berserk. But I'm not scared of snails, they are cute little things, but still I hit the roof. There was no way I was eating anything with a snail. Poor snail anyway. But a mouse? dear Lord had it been me I would have made one big purcissjoni to the Redentur of Senglea, gathered people along the way (after all it's all downhill from here), charged them 1 Euro for candles, another for flowers and gone to ask the Redentur... Hey I know You made all things, created day and light, but mice??If You could create butterflies, why would You stoop so low as to create mice? and I would have been unanswered, but richer because of all those euros pocketed during the purcissjoni.

I guess I'm not sure what I'm writing. I'm so drowsy I keep hitting the wrong keys. Off for a nap.

D-I-V-E-R-S-I-T-Y

There is such a thing which hits you when you least expect it. Love is one of those things but I'm not sitting here today talking about love. Instead, it's another thing which has hit me, something which out of the blue has come thundering down my mental memory. Victor Hugo. Normal vs freak. It's Quasimodo and Esmeralda. I have of course been enthralled by the beauty and rapture of such a free bohemian character as Esmeralda. But I have always had so so so much compassion for Quasimodo. God made Esmeralda and God made Quasimodo. God must think variety is the spice of life, but really God, did you have to go to such extremes? Not fair on Quasimodo, put yourself, for one moment in his shoes and doesn't it instantly feel as if God made the world all wrong? Get into Esmeralda's, we feel enthralled and then it seems God made the world all right. And so we've come up with an in-word... DIVERSITY which really means nothing as long as it's not put into practice. I have to admit we've conned a very nice word for whatever is supposed to mean something on high patriarchal political levels, but in the light of day? You're still the freak. The freak who nobody will adjust to, but who has to adjust itself to the world. And you think you're OK because you've been doing it for so long you can actually apply for a Masters in Diversity and sail right through your degree.

And sometimes as if it's not hard enough you get another situation of freak vs beauty, and that's in twins. Yes my brains work, my heart works, my eyes work so I know exactly what you're thinking also because some complete stranger will have the audacity to express himself too. Yes my twin is not stupid and his eyes work too and he knows exactly what you're thinking. So what was God trying to do there? Was He, dare I say, trying to take the piss? Or was it His sublime idea to create variety or diversity?

And why is it always Beauty and the Beast, why never Bello e` La Bestia? Couldn't it have been a Quasimoda and an Esmeraldo? God has made me no moron, but if only He could give something more? Please? It hurts. Bad. No, badly.

London

London's calling. And I am missing it. Because instead of becoming familiar with automobile mechanics, I chose to get familiar with London, breathe it, live it, and get London degrees, give London concerts, and fall in love with London's West-End as well as London's Covent Garden. Oh and I also love London's Soho haunts with a vengeance. And has that made me richer, in the pure sense of rich as in loaded with money? Absolutely no. It has made me a qualified person, a daydreamer as well as a night one, but certainly quite poor. Poor, yes perhaps not as in a person, but as in bank accounts. Dearie me, why the hell did I ever come back anyway? Probably because Malta was calling as in the love stakes. Perhaps actually venturing to the British capital was a mistake, because you never miss what you don't know, and what you don't know doesn't hurt you. But then I wouldn't have London degrees.... yeah right and so what? I could have become a mechanic or a tile layer or a plumber. Rightfully that would have interfered with my manicured hands, but who cares as long as your wallet is bursting at its sides? Mine does but it doesn't keep bursting for long, because I start thinking about jewellery and shoes. Because I need them right? Yes a girl needs all those. So maybe we girls should have added extra benefits to our salaries as nontaxable expenses. That would probably be all of my salary, but I pay so much already in tax. It would be nice to have an extra 500 Euro instead of it going to the Inland Revenue Department.

And if I were in London, I could be at Tiffany's right now, or at Harrods, or at Sloane's Square watching the highly coutured gentlemen, or maybe at Camden where I could get anything for 99p. It's a love-affair this thing about me and London, and it seems I'm never going to get over it. Period.

Phew.... that's smelly!

It's still summer here, not as in London. They didn't have much of a summer anyway poor Brits. We did, have, will probably still have for some more time. But why do we also have to have smelly people around too? I am a pretty girl/woman but I'm not of the small kind. The vast intelligence God has bestowed on me would never fit into a small girl. So I am of the voluptuous type. It was either that or getting a normal IQ to fit into a small body. God chose the wiser of the options. And that's OK, but I get stares. In my days we were taught not to stare however diverse a person was. That's history now, kids take a good look, people do, whatever. With an intellect the size of a pea, I cannot really blame them, I cannot ever be on their small wavelength, so I am content. But heyyyyyy we do not have just eyes to see, we have noses to smell. And though mine is cute and tiny it does the job as well as any other nose which is so big that it is always checking their owner's bra. And although small it can detect smelly people from a mile away. when will it dawn on people that water is not their just to drink but also to wash, have a shower. And anti-perspirants were not invented to sit prettily at perfumery stores but to be used as underarm protection. A little while back I have had to smell people who reeked of bad bad bad body odour. It really used to go to my head and make me cranky. Shame on them, in 2008.There was this one Mr. S in particular and boy did he smell. Summer or winter, the stagnant smell of leeks, onions and garlic; that was how he smelt. And he was so sassy as to tell tales of women he pulled... yes smelling like that. And while the stories were probably true, also true was the fact that he hit on women with trouble in their nasal cavities. They would drive Mater Dei's E.N.T. Department crazy. It had to be like that. Nobody, even if you haven;'t got laid in months, would actually make out with someone smelling like that except if they had a stubbornly blocked nose.

And in this intolerant world where big seems out, shouldn't smelly be totally out too? Or is that OK, as long as what meets the eye is OK, then it's OK. Well I have a nose too, one which functions and which has a right to declare unwashed bodies to hell. Olfactory system, here we come!

Les comments s'il vous plait!

I write and write and write here. And it is therapy. That is something a shrink would love to hate, but I am not a shrink and I love to love. I know people read my blog, but please please please would you mind acknowledging your reading by leaving a comment here and there even if it is just your signature. I have gone down the blogging memory lane today, and this is the 179th. blog I have written. It seems a lot! And there have been periods where I didn't blog for weeks, most times feeling too sad or too euphoric to actually write. There is always a reason for everything. And the reason I don't write is always emotional, but not always bad.

But down blogger's memory lane, people used to leave comments. And I'm a spoilt brat and I will holler and stamp my feet for something I want. So.... I WANT SOME COMMENTS. THANK YOU.

A.M.

Traumurei

I am not sleeping well and instead, dreaming well. Dreaming well as in the meaning of dreaming a lot, but they are not necessarily pleasant dreams I am having. Sleeping is becoming a traumatic experience because I never know which world I am going to end up in during my sleep. So I remembered dear old Schumann, himself not a very mentally stable person, but one who could write beautiful romantic music. And one who actually wrote music in honour of dreaming, which he called, in his native German tongue, "Traumurei". "Traumurei" is one healthy to listen to piece of music, it's calm, and makes your mind wander off to pleasant things. But I figured since Dreaming meant Traumueri, my German being completely lacking, what would a dream as in a noun be in German? So I looked it up and just as I was expecting, there it was, the word is TRAUM. Perfect. So dreaming should actually be traumatic, the Germans must really have a way with words because that is exactly what each night is becoming; a traumatic experience which thankfully solves itself by night breaking into day.

Why do I dream, and why do I have to dream every single night? Well, what I know is that my brain receives stimuli from many different sources all day long, stimuli which are probably way too many for it to process. The mind prioritizes the stimuli and makes me aware of those that need immediate attention. The others are put on some subconscious level in my same 35 year old brain. Then I am an emotive person, so then there is a whole lot of emotions which the same brain acts on or represses. Example, when someone gets on my nerves for being really foolish and I want to kick his behind but I don't. Add to this the daily tasks I take for granted, That's a whole lot of work for my brain to do daily. It's a pretty neat system, if it weren't for my poor brain probably needing some time out.... hence the dreaming. Or at least that is what a normal brain does, hopefully one which is 35 years old too. So it must be that when I sleep, my physique also sleeps but my brain remains active. And the brain then, after a hard day's work goes off to play.

I really hope it is what's happening.