Wash away

That's the second round of laundry done, so now I'm waiting for the third and hopefully last. I have no idea how clothes washing and drying was ever possible a hundred years ago. My great great great grandmother (or father, seeing he was married to a snobby, rich, terror of a woman) must have had a hard time. I cannot even imagine what all that clothes washing would do to my nails. Or my hands. Oh no, that's not happening, ever. It's amazing how the dirt washes off. I just wish I could wash off a lot of things, not just the dirt. Dirt is easy, other things aren't. Is there a washer big enough to wash away happiness? No, but then nobody but a sadist would want that. But I would really like the government to install a life-size washer ( in extra large of course) to wash away the loneliness that will be going around this Christmas. I've seen it today in one really nice old lady, who, if she had had her way, would probably have abducted me just to have someone to talk to. Another washer installed (not necessarily in extra large) to wipe away abandonment, tears and the why's of little children who are promised that it's always for the best without ever letting them have their say. Little people are small in size (at least next to me), but that doesn't make them stupid. They have their feelings, and no, not every decision taken in their regard is taken for the best. Because the people who take the decisions will be holiday-ing too, and they will be out of office because of a staff party. And where will the little ones be? Cooped up, tired of understanding and resigned to a not very appealing fate. Because they're small, they don't know what's best for them. We adults do, because we think we are oh so clever. We take the decisions, the little ones carry out the sentence. Because we have studied so hard to get degrees. Because giving birth automatically gives a person rights on an otherwise innocent creature. They get the rights, I don't. Because nature made it that way. And nature is not always right, it is up to us to correct it. I have worked ever since I was 13, I have completed every degree and diploma in the book, there is nothing further which I could sit for. I have duly paid my taxes every year. I have never been entitled to a government grant, but that was ok, because I worked my way up. But I have failed in the degree called giving life. The actual physical part of giving life. And that, although a teeny weeny bit sad, is ok too, because somehow I keep believing that it has happened this way for a reason. A reason called "love another child". That is what makes me sad, what makes me want to pull the covers over my head and not think about it. But it's not what I want. Because I have no degree in the something called giving life. I do have multiple qualifications in everything else, but degrees do not make good people either. I just wish that the grown-ups, qualified all about little people would give the small ones a chance. Sometimes they have precocious wisdom which we big people lack because of a lot of things. We've made enough mistakes, perhaps it's time we turned to them and asked them what they'd really love. Oh, and have a just-in-case washer to wash away our mistakes. And while we grown-ups give it our all while making merry during this season, perhaps nature will hear me and maybe throw a couple of lamposts in these peopls' ways so they may walk right into them and jolt their brain. I hope it happens soonest. Or else, pass the microphone to the little ones and let's give a round of applause... to them for being strong enough to bear it.

Cigars

I'm waiting for my most blessed washing machine to do a second round of laundry. Yes it's almost 11pm and people are either out partying or in their comfy pyjamas watching some TV until they nod of to sleep. 11 pm might be a strange time to put on the washing machine, but it doesn't seem to mind. My washing machine is now used to its owner who spends a lethargic day, then suddenly wakes up come 10pm. So I'm not very domesticated and will never be. I have just read on my facebook that a dear friend of mine "is preparing preliminaries for Christmas lunch." Preliminaries? Christmas Lunch? I have no idea on how that is done. Of course I know how to eat it all up with a fork, spoon, knife. But preparing it will never be on my agenda. I have seen my female colleagues ganging up these last two weeks, and every time I pass by them, I hear unexciting words like recipes, turkey, roast, simmer, bring to the boil... I just can never relate to that. But I could relate to other words which still describe the festive season, words like Christmas Tree, angels and lights, pudding (made by someone else of course), shopping, and shopping, and shopping, and yet more shopping. Oh and cigars. No woman will ever admit to liking cigars. Firstly because so many have quit this filthy habit of smoking, secondly because cigars do not exactly spell out the word feminine. But I still like cigars, especially the woody kind of. I guess I should have thrown out all my ashtrays very long ago, but I can't, or maybe I don't really feel like it. There is nothing like a cigar at the end of the day. One drag of that makes me feel so powerful, I wonder why cigars give me power trips. They transform me from a girl into this oh-so-powerful woman who tolerates no kind of crap. Cigars kill all my shyness, all my inferior feelings. Me and my cigar.. one had better just get out of the way. And there is why I understand the reason behind so many men dragging at their cigars when really they're making themselves sick and would love to find a loo to puke into, but hold on... because it's so very manly. It hasn't always been this way. I used to hate the slightest hint of cigar smoking, although I was already a smoker myself. But then an ex boyfriend smoked them, my relationship was not with just him, but also with his Cuban cigars. And I started liking them to the point of loving them. Perhaps it also reflected the relationship which was like a match made in heaven. It's not my fault he is now an ex, not his fault either, it's because life throws us bad things such as illnesses which become very serious and which take our loved ones away into the other world. It's a hellish thing to happen to anybody, but I've been there too. There where I kept hoping and hoping, and there where there was hope no more. That's where my love for cigars started, because he was no longer there, I could never call him again, see him again, talk to him again, I couldn't even say a proper goodbye. And I missed him so. I missed the smell around the house, the cigar smell which meant he was there and all was well. Anguish and agony makes us do funny things. I just had to create the smell again, and since I was totally on my own, then it just meant I had to start my own cigar relationship. It helped, and it didn't hurt anybody. And years down the line, I still light up my cigar, his exact same brand which is so hard to find, light a candle for an unknown reason and relish the smell. Because it smells so much like him. He was my world until it all came crashing down. I don't know if there is another world. But I don't really want to know if there is no other world. I still miss him, but the anguish has now been replaced with a helpless sigh. And as long as I light up my cigar sometimes, well, it somehow works because it's the only thing that just has to work.

The Holidays

That's it. Officially I'm holiday-ing. Realistically I'm holiday-ing too. And on the inside my brain's working overtime, and my heart is exhausted. It's as if I think I need to grow up somehow. Or perhaps I am mistaking it for the feeling that I'm becoming so child-like that nothing's tallying with anything. And I think this last sentence doesn't make much sense either. I just remember Quasimodo's statement, God you made the world all wrong. And while I have my reservations as to if that is true or not, I think I can understand. But then I am no Esmeralda, seeing I have finally killed my spiral hair out of professional blow drying. And I don't look one inch of Bohemian any longer because I've turned into a fiery redhead. But I am still looking for a purpose and perhaps it's the same as love. It happens when you just get so tired of looking that you don't care anymore. But I'm not tired, I'm not too sure I will manage it, but I will try not to care, so that perhaps it happens. And that isn't making much sense either. It doesn't matter what I wanted for Christmas. I got myself a Chanel and a Dior and another Chanel bag to cheer me up and to do my bit so as not many shop assistants get laid off. Depression will be coming along with the recession. I think I'm safe in that department, but hundreds of people aren't. The ones who will be making the most of it are shrinks, although wording it like that isn't fair. Shrinks are essentially doctors, and doctors help people. If they weren't there it would be a lot harder, and at the end of the day, everybody has to make a living, even if it is out of me going down with the flu. Although I wonder if depressed, laid-off people will be able to pay for the service. I hope so, because it does not come cheap. If not, I can only prescribe some early Mozart to lift up the spirits, some late Beethoven to help you have a good cry, and perhaps a touch of Debussy as a topping. Because I am no doctor, just a musician, and that is all I can give.