Abstinence

So instead of wasting an evening feeling very hung up about tomorrow, I'm going for a SWOT analysis, because I have suddenly decided that 6 hours out of my life are a long time. I'm not going to be depressed and sad just because of one asshole. Why am I suddenly not looking forward to something which actually used to make my day and my week? I know why. It's because I'm suddenly going to be monitored by a puny churchmouse who doesn't even have the authority to monitor. And I'm a big gal, I'm not going to be scared off by a churchmouse half my size and with half my brains too. Why should a churchmouse throw me into a sudden sadness, it's not on. Oh hell no, I've braved sewage rats and won, a pallid mouse isn't scaring me. And now I don't feel sorry anymore for myself. And it's not as if I want to get into the boxing ring very soon. I don't, and I won't. Because sometimes abstinence is just as good as activity. And I can't help but smile. It's the sex issue again. Abstaining from sex is sometimes just as good as not abstaining. If not abstaining means you're going to stare at the ceiling and marvel at the perfect gypsum, then you'd just as well abstain and catch up on your sleep. Any girl (I'm abstaining from using the word woman) of 35 will have had her share of hours of staring-at-the-ceiling sex when suddenly you get so bored that you just go ahead and fake it praying it'll be over. (All men fall for this because men love having their ego rubbed more than they like having they privates rubbed. And then any girl of 35 will have had those minutes called rhapsody Oh Yeses when it will have been so much worth the time. But I cannot see churchmouses as rhapsodic in any way. Churchmouses cannot even do a decent lullaby. So it's just not worth the time to practice my imaginary boxing, and really not worth my time of feeling depressed. I'm so much perkier now. I'm abstaining from the whole issue. And just in case someone gets any wrong ideas, no I'm not sexually starved, and I'm no sex maniac. I'm just a seasoned gal that's all.

Under the lemon, carob, whatever tree

I am not looking very forward to tomorrow. It's not that it's Friday, it's just that I know I will lose my voice again. And yes it's also just that it's Friday. I am growing not to like Fridays very much. They are lonely days spent alone either with little people or alone under a tree in this quaint Zejtun mini-square, weather permitting of course. And I wish I could get some adult friendships but then if friendships are going to be struck with churchmouses then I'm better off alone. And I'm looked at in a funny sort of way. And it's no use asking why I am looked at in the funny way because they will say I'm very imaginative. I am imaginative, but this is nothing in my imagination. The looks. They make me feel alien, and no I'm not getting paranoid. This wasn't happening last year, so perhaps it's something the cat dragged in this year. Something like anti-black, anti-fat, anti-white and and more of that. So I retire to sitting under the tree next to Wasteserve's bring-in sites and feel very much like something dumped there by some wicked God. I just go on robot remote, do my job, which incidentally I feel I have to emphasize that I'm very good at doing, and go to the tree, do my job again and go to the tree again, do my job yet again, and go home. That's it, and it's the weekend. A lonely six hours, but I gather that six hours out of my life aren't a lot. I've survived worse than that. And so I will sit under my tree, thinking about the world, about the din that I've closed the door on and yet can still be heard, and about life. It'll pass, I'll be here again blogging sooner than I know.

The Rock

A good friend of mine who tends to be funny, if not hilarious with her comments is demanding about the ring, better still, about the rock. Hmmm I didn't think of that. But a girl like me, do you think I'd make do with a 000.1 carat rock Rob? It's all big with me, I don't know why but I like big things, and I like big rocks too. Big 8 carat rocks Rob. What do you think? As I sift through my knowledge of rocks, I remember that a Kobe Bryant who was charged with rape, gave his wife Vanessa an apology ring, with a stunning 8-carat purple rock worth about $4 million. And of course Mrs. Bryant forgave him as long as she had her rock. Who wouldn't? I would, and I guess you would too Rob dear. Adultery is a very small price to pay in comparison to a $4 million rock. But I wouldn't want a purple one, but a dazzling white one, and I'd probably not settle for an 8 carat either, I'd demand, not ask for, a 16 carat rock to compensate (rikumpens Rob!) for all the hardship caused. Yeah right, what hardship, nothing is hardship next to a rock like that. And even if you're done with a Mr. Bryant, just shed a few crocodile tears, take the ring... and make a quick exit... making sure your rock and ring are on your finger. I'm not sure why I like rocks on jewellery so much, seeing that I couldn't care less for the globigerina limestone rocks we are surrounded with. Rocks are so filthy and dusty unless they're coming from Antwerp, with a certificate and chiseled to perfection. Sometimes I am so confused when I see Sterling Jewellers ads, and Vascas ads, they have such small rocks on show. Is a girl really happy with a minute micro tiny rock placed into the claws of a thin gold ring? Why? Are men content with tiny micro sex? Of course not, they want the whole works. But a rock that small equals just a little bit of fondling, that's it. Rocks equal sex, the bigger the rock the better and the more lifelike the sex. And in very much the same manner, I am not content with tiny scraps of rock on a finger. What makes this girl happy is a big rock in the shape of a big big diamond, mounted on a proper ring. Because as long as I can flash it, I will.... do it.

P.S. Rob RSVP

Time

So here I am trying to 'forget' about my last entry. Forget. It's something which is used in such a rude manner. Time heals, and it makes you forget. Wrong. Time does not heal nor does it help anybody to forget. Time.. it's measured by tick-tocks of every size and shape. So does it mean that each tick and tock pushes anybody nearer to forgetting or maybe that should be forgetful as in dementia? Oh no. It's not the tick-tocking which makes you forget. Because you never ever forget. And it's neither the tick nor the tock which helps you heal, it is after you've trashed your one million piece tragedy to a one billion piece tragedy. And then slowly, slower then any tick or tock, the glorious word healing starts settling in. And you're lucky if it does. Because the glory of healing comes through another glorious word, acceptance, which is found in turn through the glorious thing called patience. And time has nothing to do with it. Rien, niente, zilch. Time is only the something which is hallucinatingly scary. Time is the big big chunk which is taken out of your life because of the pain which feels so much like fear. And time is the thing you're robbed of. Because there is a time called happy and of course a time called sad. And a time called walking in an anguished trance of disbelief that it happened to you. Another time of asking why me. All are times. And there is a time when you think you've successfully put it all past you only to be brought back into reality with a horrific bang. And a time when you have a choice. And I've made my choice, without the tick-tocks.

Down the damn road

This morning I got to know that something which for a reason I cannot fathom out, caught my attention while I was idly browsing the Announcements section of timesofmalta.com. It was an obituary about a 25 year old, who, as the type said, had a son and a fiancee, parents, a grandmother, and lots of other siblings all with fiancees. It looked so strange that I kept looking and refreshing the page because I somehow sensed that something was extremely wrong. A 25 year old with a small child and fiancee suddenly dead? Why? And it was no accident otherwise it would have been in the news. And for another reason which I cannot work out, I kept thinking about it all day. I felt so sorry for his fiancee`, for his parents. It looked so odd, because someone who has just had a baby cannot suddenly turn psychically sick. And I thought to myself, poor fiancee`, God knows how many plans she must have had, only to end up listed in a newspaper obituary. Now I know. And I'm creeped out by the way it hit me full force. Maybe we who have gone down that road instantly recognise each other even just through a newspaper obituary. I don't know how, maybe my heart just knew, like a magnet of some sort. And now I feel even more sorry for the survivors who have, without a choice, been thrown onto that hellish road of trying to put the pieces together. And they never will put any of the pieces next to another, because it's that road which has stop signs marked 'Agony', no entry signs marked 'Anguish', pot holes filled with fear and pain, and a zebra crossing which is indefinitely on the amber light which says 'Never the same again'. I feel so bad, I wish I could take just a little of their pain away, because now, 8 years later I think I could endure it. And I hated all the speculations of the people. Go away people, you don't know what you're talking about. Do not keep chit-chatting trying to find a plausible reason. Because there might be a reason, but it will not be plausible. They will never understand. I could sit here and write volumes about the whys and hows, because now I have a precious thing called hindsight. But don't bank on sympathy, or empathy. They will never understand why you go back to work knocked up badly after the funeral. They will think you're faking something. They would understand if you'd broken a leg, but they don't understand when you've broken all the bones in your system. They force you to keep going. And it's so very cruel I know. If ever I am in a position to understand, I will understand. Because only us who have been left alone and cold in the damning aftermath will ever understand what it's all about. I just pray that one day, although in the very distant future, they might at least put their heart to rest. And perhaps smile a little like I have.