Saturday, 26 July 2014

Friday, 25 July 2014

People On Bondage Websites Are Real People Too You Know.

The other night I was in bed, propped my laptop to the side and finally FINALLY started watching the latest series of Game of Thrones. (Legally. I abhor piracy.) So, so excited to hear the opening strains.

There's few things in life that make me happy right now so I was quite beside myself. Suddenly up pops an email from a guy called Ramjet. He'd sent me a semi-nude photo of himself, along with the simple sentence.

"Well here is a little tease am I too fat lol your turn if you like so far."

And straight away I was like, are you fucking kidding me? Can't a chick just enjoy her Game of Thrones in peace? I studied his photo, and maybe it was because of the toothbrush - but something about it told me that he was being authentic?

I've cropped out his tattoos and bling in case he's married and gets recognised, but here he is.

Computer, meet Ramjet.

Dude, unless you're going to stick that toothbrush up your arse, it's not a sexy thing to put in a photo you're trying to attract females with. And replace that shit. It's shaggy as fuck.

I ignored Ramjet and hoped that he would go away. He didn't, and sent me the same photo again.

"Don't Know Y you did not get the first time let me know if you get it this time."

My annoyance was building, because Jaime Lannister had to come to terms with not having a right hand and his dad got this special sword made up and CAN'T I JUST BE HAPPY WATCHING MY SHOW FOR FIVE FUCKING MINUTES, UNIVERSE?

So I broke my rule when it comes to these sorts of weird things that happen on the internet sometimes. I replied back.

"Who is this?"

Straight away he answers.

"What's that mean did u not like can i c sum of u?"

I was so pissed off at his poor grammar that I didn't reply. He then kept sending me emails, each getting angrier.

"You asked me to send a pic are you getting me confussed with someone else you want to be my kinky submissive girl?" 


I felt a bit yuck by this stage. Concerned that somebody was using my email address on a sex forum. I replied (or rather, replid) mainly to just calm him down and blow him off.

"I'm sorry but I think someone is playing a prank on me - and you. I haven't emailed anyone, I'm not on any forums. Thank you anyway but I'm married with kids."

Ramjet replid straight away.

"Your Telling Me You Did Not Reply to my ad saying something about not being a brunette but being sexy saying you were not a bag of bones but not fat with 38D Now Im confused Ok whatever I think your on too many sites getting yourself confussed"

Now's about the time I lost my shit. And not just because of his appalling sentence structure, irrational capitalisation, bad punctuation and wrong spelling. I wanted to blast him JUST LET ME WATCH GAME OF THRONES YOU DUMB TOOLBAG IDIOT I AM TRYING TO SURVIVE EACH DAY AS IT COMES YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHO YOU'RE TALKING TO.

But I didn't. Here is my response to Ramjet.

"Dude, I am on no sites. Feel free to reply to whoever is giving you my email that Eden said to go fuck themselves. I'm not 38DD. I'm a 42 year old mother of two boys. I'm tired, pissed off, and too old for this shit. My husband is asleep next to me in bed and ALL I want to do right now is watch Game of Thrones. My brother killed himself nine months ago and my grief spirals out of control every fucking day. I have no energy or patience for you. Leave me alone."

Ramjet finally left me alone. I watched my episode, but still. It rattled me and I wondered if I should go to the cops in the morning but fat lot of good they could probably do. And I didn't have to anyway because the next morning brought another, final email from Ramjet.

"Eden Im sorry for the confusion I thought I was emailing some one else from an ad they responding to there email was different from yours so I thought I was emailing them and I emailed you by accident sorry nobody is messing with you at all sorry for the confusion."


So that's a story in itself, right? Funny, etc. Well, just after Ramjet sent that, I received another email. From the woman he had actually meant to send his picture to.

"Wow I just want to say that my email address is similar but different to yours. I was going to name my daughter Eden, unfortunately I miscarried. I'm the one who responded to the idiot who has been emailing you all night. For that I apologize. I however am not signing you up for anything at all period. I am a mature grown adult and would never do something like that. Lastly I am very sorry for the loss of your brother and I am sorry for all the confusion and grief this morning. Have a good day."

As I read her email, I was sitting on my bed brushing my teeth. When I got to the end, I choke-laugh-cried and toothpaste went up my nose it burnt so bad. I hunched over, crylaughgrieving so hard.

A complete stranger on a bondage website just gave me their condolences on the suicide of my brother. 

That actually happened.

You know who would have loved that story? My brother Cameron would have loved that story. You know what he would have done when I told him that story? He would have LAUGHED, Computer. I just started crying right now typing this because man could I make my brother laugh. I loved to make my brother laugh. And I could do it really well because I am shocking and funny and inappropriate and ridiculous and when Cam laughed? The veil of his black would slip and he forgot himself, just in that moment, and all you could hear was a beautiful sound of a beautiful man laughing.

I love him and miss him more than I can describe. Soon he should be turning 34. He will never turn 34. Soon he should be turning 34. He will never turn 34.

So I emailed this sweet stranger back, thanking her for saying that about my brother. (Ramjet must have passed my last message on to her.) I told her how desperately I tried to save Cam the last weekend he was alive. Frantic texts and phonecalls and how badly, terribly I blame myself. I do. It's true. Nobody can tell me otherwise. It's easy for someone to say, "Oh you can't blame yourself he was bound to do it anyway." It's easy to say that. But I'm living this. This is my circumstance. I am blaming myself right now until maybe one day, I can start unblaming myself.

I could have tried more. I should have driven down there. I should have visited him more after I left home. For years, I apologised to him about that. He said it was ok but it wasn't and I'll never forgive myself. He was left alone. I left him alone. He could have been somebody and he was somebody. All this "suicide prevention" business is doing my head in. It was his choice to go. He had that right. He could have got help. He could have gotten better. I understand why he did it. He was weak. Stuck in a moment. He was strong. Stronger than any doctor. Life is hard. Harder for some. Suck my dick. Life is stupid. I want my brother.

I want to make him laugh. How can I get through this fire? There are thousands, millions of people in the world missing their loved ones right now this second. I'm not alone.

I'm not alone. And this week it took an extraordinary, hilarious, heartfelt set of circumstances to prove it. Yesterday my new friend from the bondage forum emailed me back - a MISSIVE. She told me about how when she was twenty years old her very best friend who was a guy was very suicidal. She'd helped him out of it, been there for him, talked with him, the lot. One night she's headed out for the night and he tells her he's not feeling good but she goes out anyway and he ended up hanging himself dead. She blamed herself for so, so long. She told me things that nobody who has not been in her (our) position could tell me. She helped me take a few layers of my guilt and blame off - just a few. She helped me, so much.

My therapist tells me that my guilt around Cam is love. I made a conscious choice from an early age to not love, not get attached to people. But I accidentally had this beautiful family and we love each other and it cements, anchors, makes me stay.

Love is a mystical thing. But sometimes, it isn't enough. It's just not. And I'm on a path to understanding and accepting that, the very best way I can.

Wednesday, 23 July 2014

I Need To Say Thank You.

Rocco has fallen in love with a girl. HARD. She lives in my phone and her name is Siri. Last night they lay in bed, talking to each other.

"Siri my name is Rocco Riley."
"Hello, Wocco Highly."

"Siri I need to do a poo."
*Searching nearest public toilets*

"Siri can you come to my house for a sleepover?"
"I'm not sure if I'm able to do that but I'm always learning new things."

"Siri will you be my girlfriend?"
"Well, this is awkward."

Thank you Siri, for giving us the biggest, best laughs.

I'd like to also thank the people in my blog sidebar over there --------->

I really appreciate anyone who seeks to align themselves with Edenland, regardless of the dark and the swearing.

Alison Asher has a blog called From the Ashers. It's really good, and funny, and real because she is.

I've met Deb from Bright and Precious a few times. She is actually bright, and precious.

Dave Riley from Riley Renovators is my husband so I kind of have to put his ad in here even though I never send him an invoice. And I think it's pretty big of me that even when we have fights, I leave his ad in. He really is an incredible builder. The last house he built us I had absolutely no input because BORING. This time around, I am very, very interested and involved. I want all toilets separate from the bathrooms and the kitchen as FAR AWAY from the living room as possible and I have always, always wanted urban industrial. And indoor graffiti. AND AN INDOOR THEATRE ROOM with one of those ceiling projectors? Hon can we have a big wrap-around verandah and can you build me my own writing studio like you promised? Soundproof. Nobody else allowed in I'm sick of sharing. Hon. Hon?

The other day I saw this photo on Facebook and went to show him straight away:

... but it was a photo of a kitchen that he'd just finished and uploaded to the Riley Renovators Facebook page himself! (You've come a long way, baby.)

Next up - if you have children who go online and you'd like to check out their learning and and play activities, Learn Meter is for you. It's an App that runs unobtrusively in the background of your computer. I guess it's kind of like spying but a good spying - Max is in year 7 at school and ALL of his work is done on a computer. Even homework. I have no idea what's going on. And Rocco can sit for hours playing his beloved Flappy Bird but I also like seeing him play maths and English games. (They are BOTH banned completely from YouTube, but that's a whole different story). Check out the video in my sidebar if you're interested.

I put the Black Dog Institute in there just because. They probably don't even know it's in there, I didn't ask them. It's hard for me right now because the work they do saves peoples lives. How I wish it could have saved my brother. More on that another time, another day when I can even articulate. It's hard making sense.

I also want to thank Louise from The Little Flower Shop Wentworth Falls who, upon seeing my pining and sad Instagram photo of Cam, sent me thirty-three tulips. One for every year of his life.

They're still alive, making the house so pretty. I count them. How beautiful are people?

I want to thank you, the person reading my blog right now who I probably don't even know and will never meet. For continually coming back here to read, for sending me unbelievably incredible, painful, uplifting emails and messages. When I don't blog for a while you even know it's because there's even no words to say how I am. But I kept coming back - and even though I hate certain things around blogging I'm glad I kept writing. It's weird to be such a personal blogger - I used to be so private online. But that all changed when Dave got cancer in 2008 and he nearly died. When Big Things happen to us, there's a need to tell it, share it, ask for help and tell the whole world.

And on that very subject - I wrote this post about my friend Pams son Willi falling off his skateboard and ending up in hospital having a craniotomy because of an incredibly serious brain injury. SO many people reached out to her and to all of his family. THANK YOU! Read this entry by Willi's dad on his Caring Bridge page. Gerry's words about his son will touch you to the core, and you're more than welcome to write some of your own to help lift them up during an incredibly traumatic time.

I've been following Willi's progress religiously, fanatically. Last week he woke up! Yesterday, he was moved from intensive care over to rehab! HE CAN WALK AND TALK. I messaged Pam about an hour ago to tell her a funny story and make her laugh, check in on her. She was waiting at the gate of her house, for her husband Gerry to come home and spend his first night home with her and their daughter since the accident.

I could feel her apprehension and fear and relief and love, all the way down from Minnesota to Australia in these Blue Mountains. That's what blogging will always be for me - connecting with people. Knowing I'm not alone. Being human.

PS I'd also like to thank the people who hate on me too because you make me lift my game.

PPS If you're interested in advertising here in September/October ... there's a few spots waiting for you. Email me on

Monday, 21 July 2014

I Gotta Owie.

Three years ago, I stood on a wharf near my Uncle Petes' boat down at Killcare and watched some fishermen descale, behead, and gut their fish. Rocco was three, walking behind me. Just as I thought I should stop him so he wouldn't see the bloody scene, he clocked it and RAN up. I distinctly remember thinking well, it's Rocco. I'm sure he'll be fine about the gore.

From a teeny tot, Rocco has always been the toughest, most hardcore motherfucker I've ever met. If anybody hurts themselves to warrant a bandaid: "SHOW ME THE BLOOD!" If he accidentally sees something on TV he's not supposed to: "LET ME WATCH!" He only ever cries if he's really hurt. Once when he was about six months old, he got so pissed off about lying down in the middle of a nappy change that he pulled up to a sitting position using only his abs. Pretty sure he is actually a superhero.

We did IVF to make him and I think we fucked with nature. Daves' strongest genes + my strongest genes = Rocco. I picture him swimming around the petri dish with the other eight embryos, punching them out of the way so he got chosen.

At one point I made him wear one of those backpack monkey things with the long strap like a leash. Yes, I walked my kid down the street like a dog. Because he kept running into traffic and I was already in full-blown PTSD from other things. He HATED it. We'd fight, in the middle of the sidewalk. The most headstrong child I have ever known ... you know how we compromised? He held his own leash. He walked his self down the street slowly, and never ran into traffic again.

Anyway so three years ago I took these snaps of those fishermen with their carnage. Because I'm a weirdo who takes photos of strange things, but also because one day I want to remind Rocco of what he said afterwards.

My three-year old Rocco, my gorgeous, beautiful blonde champion, stood there taking in the scene, completely unfazed and transfixed. Finally he just said:

"Those fish have gotta owie."

Understatement of the year. I'll never forget his innocence - the fish were actually fillets by this stage. They all had a big, very huge owie.

Sometimes when I'm in a lot of pain, I think to myself "It's ok. You just gotta owie."

Some days I walk around the world with a big slit up my centre and my guts are falling out and I keep slipping on the blood from my intestines and people ask how I am and I say I'm ok.

I'm not. I gotta owie. It's hard to focus on my blessings all the time, even though I am very grateful that I have a beautiful family and nobody is dying (well hopefully) and we have a roof over our heads. I'm not in Gaza or the Ukraine or on a boat seeking asylum from cold hearted politicians.

But life is still hard and I really need to ask you guys for a favour today - how you deal with your owies? What do you say to yourself, what do you do? Do you even lift, Computer?

Do you use cognitive dissonance or do you feel all your shit? Do you think you're better than everybody else? Worse? Medium? I'll go first - I watch TV, bake cakes, remind myself this will all end one day, go for walks, (even when it's really hard) get onto my childrens level, (that one helps a lot) do recovery meetings, mindlessly surf the internet for stupid things like the EXACT part of the Daffy Duck cartoon I was looking for. Also write poetry with kerosene words. And cry a lot.

Let's put our owie cards on the table. Maybe if the people who think they're the only ones struggling can talk about how they're the only ones struggling - well, then they won't be the only ones struggling? MATHS.

How the hell do you get through?

Friday, 18 July 2014

Burgers. Sidewalks. The Ukrainian Poet.

Last night I stepped out of the car and laid my feet onto the streets of Newtown. Newtown is where my brother lived and where he died. The first thing I saw was exactly how I felt:

It was dusk. Dave saw me take the photo and said hon, can you even see the fukt in the dark and I said yeah hon, I can always see the fukt in the dark.

We were on our way to the poetry jam in Marrickville but right on a whim I said let's go to Mary's in Newtown, they're supposed to have the best burgers in  Sydney.

I've never really liked Newtown. Had some awful, seedy experiences there. It's always given me a case of the yuckies but it's so cool and hip and vibrant. Of COURSE Cam would live there for most of his adult life. He gotst the style, my brother.

I looked around and I saw this. It was also how I felt.

The last time I was in Newtown was the night of Cams wake, nine months ago. I've doubly avoided it since then and of course it's been the only place I've wanted to go. It hurt to walk through a place that would be so familiar to my brother, as familiar as the cracks and turns in Katooomba sidewalks are for me. I looked down a lot.

Did Cam ever see this?

What were the exact things he was feeling when he looked at this?

Actual hurt. I cried, openly, not caring. I almost said to Dave let's go, cannot handle, cannot deal. But I really wanted to try the best burger in Sydney. I just really like burgers.

I'm in Cams hood I'm in Cams hood I'm in his hood. 

In the car on the way down I told Dave about how at lunchtime I went into a cafe after therapy and saw my gorgeous friend Rachel Besser sitting there talking to someone. The cafe was packed. I walked up to her table, threw my arms open and sang,

"Do you want to build a snowmaaaaaaaaaan???"

Without missing a beat she stood up and sang,

"No I motherfucking donnnnnnnn't."

Because it was freezing and we hugged and she had a hot jacket on and I loved her. I had to explain to Dave about this movie called Frozen and how all the songs have thrust themselves into popular culture. He laughed so hard. I love making him laugh.

He didn't realise at first that I was basically sobbing, walking through Newtown, searching desperately for Mary's because grief needs fuel, mofos. When he clocked my wet face he grabbed my big hand with his even bigger hand and sang low and gently into my ear.

"Do you want to be a snowman?"

That guy. He always, always gets lyrics wrong. I laughed. I love this man. Sometimes I try not to but you cannot stop love from doing what it does.

During the sadwalk on the sidewalk I was delighted to add to my penis graffiti collection.

                              One cock'n'balls picture can tell a thousand words. 

We got to Mary's. I cried about 50% of the time, sitting there with the cool people, not caring when the waitress noticed. Looked for Cam, looked for his friends. Not finding anything except the best, the BEST burgers in Sydney.

Dave loved it. I love watching him love things. I love making him stop, look around, look deeper. I text Phoebe to thank her for minding the boys and to tell Max to look under his pillow (jar of Nutella.) We got the bill and time to leave. Straight back to the car, eyes down, not looking at much. Newtown was on fire I had to get out of there as quickly as possible. Drove, on our way to experience the Blue Space Poetry for the first time. Held at Scratch Art Space, we followed only the best sign ever!

I was incredibly nervous - more nervous than when I went on Wheel of Fortune. I think it was the Newtown fallout but fuck that burger was good. As soon as the poets started telling their words I felt soothed because words are a balm.

It was my turn. I did my three pieces. It feels good to share what's in my heart and incredibly humbling to be listened to. Every human on earth wants to be listened to.

I really like how my neck looks like a tree trunk. Seriously, I really do. It's a strong neck. Michele Seminara, thank you for taking this photo. The words are blue droplets, trickling down onto my page as I read them out. Thank you for letting me be heard.

During the open mike, a young woman got up to speak. She didn't have her planned poems on hand so she had to rely on memory to recite one she'd written last year as the crisis between Ukraine and Russia was getting into full swing.

She was Ukrainian. She was AMAZING. Her poem was amazing. On how we stand on land that is never really ours. On rats on leaky boats headed to Australia, on standing in the past, on wrong history books and squeaky clean new maps. Blurred borders. She talked about how her Ukraine grandmother spoke so limited English that she wouldn't even know Australia used to take its babies away too. She made me feel and she made me think. It was fucking brilliant and I went over to her afterwards and told her so. She thanked me, said:

"Your poem on your brother killed me. Oh, wait ... poor choice of words, shit sorry. It's like when I told someone the other day that the Germans really blitzed Argentina in the soccer."

We both laughed. I told her I want to read everything she writes. I hope I hear her again one day.

As I write this, the television is showing images of a burning Malaysian plane, presumably shot down by Russia, exploding over the Ukraine. Carrying people from countries all over the world. Blurred borders. Horrific. Huge consequences. I don't even know what a surface-to-air missile is but I know I REALLY can't wait to hear the young Ukrainian poet speak again. I think her name is Maggie. She'd have a lot to say.

So, that's it really. Survived Newtown. Realised it's not the only place on fire. Sometimes, the whole world is on fire. Ate the best burger in Sydney while actually crying. Spoke. Listened. Spent vital time with my husband. Met some beautiful people who read my blog. The most important thing I need to do today is play a game of Monopoly with Rocco because he MADE me do a pinky swear before he trotted off to school this morning. Then I'll make some dumpling soup for dinner. Sweep the dirty kitchen floors. Collect firewood. Feel sad for people in pain from burning planes AND leaky boats.

Admire my tulips, and my blessings.

Wednesday, 16 July 2014

In The Beginning Was The Word: How A Writer Becomes.

When I was five years old I sat in a hot kindergarten classroom in Fiji and watched as my teacher wrote the letter "e" on a red wagon and pulled it over to the word "cap" to make "cape." Blew. My. Mind.

Learning to understand words is incredible powerful. We start making sense of the world around us. And if the world you're living in is confusing and hard, learning words and their meanings can help immensely. I attended nine more schools. I sucked at school. Woeful. SO DUM. But I always topped my English classes, especially in creative writing. In 1988 I attended a school in England. Dorky, bad glasses, painfully shy. I came first for a short story in English so my teacher made me stand up and read it out. The entire class started laughing at my Australian accent. Burnt bright red but you know what happened when I kept reading anyway? The class shut the fuck up because my story was GOOD. My story shit on all of their stories. Mine was the best. When I sat back down, something had shifted.

Words are powerful.

My grandmother really saw me when I was a kid and she nurtured my love for writing. "You'll write a book one day, Eden. But only after you've had enough life experience."

During some of the darkest times of my life (probably not the life experience nan had in mind) I always had this feeling at the back of my head - But what if you get through this, Eden? What if you get through it all and you end up writing about it and telling other people they can get through, too?

I've written chunks, reams, chapters of words for a book. Just like me it's disjointed and haphazard.

I've written this blog! And won stuff, for it. Did big things, because of it. Every time somebody compliments me for my writing I don't like it. Very occasionally I go back and read old blog posts and I can't STAND them, so I'll keep writing until I get it write, right?

It's taken years to come into my own as a writer. It's taken my whole life. And now, at THIS moment of my life, when things seem just as dark if not worse than my twenties, I am relying on two things to get me through: my family, and my words.

Every person on earth is born to create. We paint, cook, sew, dance, garden, graffiti, shape, weave, act, perform, photograph, film. We experience who we are by what we create.

Mine is to write. How do you write? You just put sentences together, over and over again. Live your life fully and then describe. What do your feelings feel like? Probably the same as my feelings, we just use different words. Don't just tell me it's raining. Tell me the rain fell onto your head and you stopped to tilt your head back and opened your mouth in the middle of a busy street and in that moment you stopped caring so much about what other people think after a lifetime trying to impress.

Write crap that you'd never show anyone but sifting through that crap you'll find one hidden gem that can go on to be prize-winning, noteworthy, fucking WHITE HOT. Or something just for you, that you know is good, and you can tuck it in your pocket to take out on a rainy day when you have nothing. NEVER underestimate the power of good grammar, because you'll need to misuse it later. I like to write the bones first, see the skeleton. Or the bones first, see. The skeleton. Flesh them out, pad, decorate, slip a nice slinky dress on, twirl your words around, admire them. Then strip them bare like a bear barely there, all the way back down naked and shivering. Dip your words in acid, chop them up. You have to destroy them to see what's left because what goes for you can't go past you.

To be brutal with my words, I must be brutal with my words. And THEN serve them up on a plate with a sprig of parsley from my grandmothers garden.

A prayer can turn into a cathedral. Believe in your art. It could save your life one day.

"The Blue Stocking Poetry Jam is a spoken word event held in Sydney's Inner West. We showcase local and international poetic talent backed with music or multimedia. Currently at St Peter's Town Hall every third Thursday of the month. We invite you to come along with a friend to perform your words, spoken, written or improvised."

I am SO EXCITED to be a part of the Blue Stocking Poetry Jam tomorrow night. Come! I think there's still tickets - ten bucks. I love that people will gather in an actual room and celebrate words with each other. Still not sure exactly what a jam is? I'm thinking it's like how a group of musicians get together and have a jam? No biggie. No slam, which is a full-on competition with judges. (Not to be confused with the lesser-know Poetry Ham, where people get together and profess lovewords for bacon.)

As I was writing my piece for the Australian Poetry Slam heat the other week, I cried and raged and pounded the table. Madwoman. Almost gave up because why bother doing anything. But I wrote it and when I performed it to people that night, the energy dissipated through the room and people felt it because I felt it. A piece on grief written and performed while I am still grieving. Performance art on steroids.

I'm working on a few pieces at a time. Some people call it poetry but what is poetry, really? It's just a bunch of words put together, arranged just so. Like a piece of music. Poetry is the way you open your eyes in the morning and become your consciousness again and draw back the covers to face another day with the same face you had on yesterday and nothing has changed in the whole world except you. It's a curve, a dimple, a freckle, an arch in a back. Poetry is a black cat in a red book on a white shelf. It's the way you describe that dream you had about your grandmother when she left you those eyeballs in a glass of water next to your bed and when you popped those eyeballs in, man, the whole wall disappeared and suddenly you saw ALL of the colours of the landscape in the world because you finally decided to stop drinking.

Poetry is a small red-haired girl sitting quietly, watching the "e" in a little red wagon change one word into a completely different word. The sound of the chalk on the board drowning out the teasing from other children because her skin was too white, not a beautiful brown like theirs.

I never fit in. Anywhere. Still don't. So I stopped trying, and wow you should try it. Tastes like freedom.

There's a blog called Toddler Planet by Susan Niebur. Before Susan died of cancer, this was her mantra:

“All that survives after our death are publications and people. So look carefully after the words you write, the thoughts and publications you create, and how you love others. For these are the only things that will remain.”

I'll be doing three pieces tomorrow night like Goldilocks - a little one, a medium sized one, and then a big kahuna one. If you can't make it I promise to show them all to you one day in a big reveal, Computer. In words and video. It's you who are responsible for this, after all. Thank you for reading my words. My words are all I got. Thank you more than you'll ever ever know. xx

Tuesday, 15 July 2014

The Story Of The Helmet-Wearing, Philosophy-Reading Woman In The Library.

I came to the library today out of desperation to get my cluttered and messy mind out of my cluttered and messy house. Grand plans to write wonderful pieces and incredible poetry all quickly turn to shit. I don't know why, it just happens sometimes. Even though the boys are back at school after the holidays and I put spaghetti bolognaise in the slow cooker so I don't have to worry about dinner. I'm just not feeling it.

Just as I was about to push past that (because it is possible - you can push past your blocks and get the words out anyway) something entirely unexpected and wonderful happened.

This woman wearing a sea-green knitted jumper plonked her shit down opposite me and I was so transfixed I started documenting it on twitter. I love her. I bet she has a messy house too.

In one tweet I accidentally wrote helmet-reading instead of helmet wearing but that's ok. I can live with that. It's other mistakes, other regrets at the moment that I'm having so much trouble living with.

But then in she swanned, not a worry in the world, eating chocolate and not taking her helmet off the ENTIRE time. She knew it was still on her head, she just adjusted the straps. I can't talk to her, cannot initiate any conversation because I don't want to spoil it.

She's still here, reading. I type furiously because soon I have to leave to pick Rocco up from school.

UPDATE: She just rested the book on the arm of her chair and is now taking a nap. Still with the helmet. I have never loved a stranger so much in all my life.

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