Sunday, 31 August 2008

Crush \Crush\ (kr?sh)




From Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary (1913) [web1913]:

Crush \Crush\ (kr?sh), v. t. [imp. & p. p. {Crushed} (kr?sht);
1. To press or bruise between two hard bodies; to squeeze, so
as to destroy the natural shape or integrity of the parts,
or to force together into a mass; as, to crush grapes.

I have a crush at the moment. I always thought they would stop when I grew up, and they never did so I am either not grown up yet or I was wrong. I don’t mind them so much now, I kind of like them. But they are risky. I think the term needs redefining in middle age though, because I don’t find it unbearable, it lightens me up, puts some spark in my day.
The only heavy part sometimes, is knowing from long experience that the object of one's affections never feels the same. That in fact, the whole point of a crush or infatuation is that the crushee is unobtainable. After a fair few crushes in my life, I start them off with a sense of grief, knowing that soon all the giddy sensations will be gone.
My heart is not so much destroyed or bereft of integrity, as in an altered state. It hammers, rather than beats, skips, rather than pounds. My breath is ragged and my blood rises.

2. To reduce to fine particles by pounding or grinding

To act too early on a crush can leave you demented. It’s a kind of temporary insanity, and you are kept safe by never fully realizing the madness you are engulfed in, until you are safely through it. One day, your crush says something racist, or reveals an extreme side you cannot reconcile yourself with, and the feelings are gone. But if you approach them before this moment, if you ask them to feel the same way too…

3. To overwhelm by pressure or weight; to beat or force down,
as by an incumbent weight.

To crush the pillars which the pile sustain.
--Dryden.

Well, we all of us have been there. People are not always kind.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again. --Bryant.

It's not that crushes can never become a real relationship. In some cases, when both people get the pheromone shot, or they spend enough time together to get past the whistle stop of hormones and find a real bond, then it can form into a deeper thing. But for the most part, a crush is something you get from afar. It's someone you don't really know, so the odds are stacked against you. It may even be someone you have never met(and are unlikely to meet). It may be someone fictional. But the feelings are real enough, for a time.

Crush \Crush\ (kr?sh), v. i.
To be or become broken down or in, or pressed into a smaller
compass, by external weight or force; as, an eggshell crushes
easily.

And of course, sometimes you are simply blind to it. If you are lucky, only once in your life you will be tempted to turn a crush into something more in your mind, to blind yourself to the utter lack of feeling on the recipients part, and to leap into the pan fully buttered up and ready for frying.

Crush \Crush\, n.
1. A violent collision or compression; a crash; destruction;
ruin.

I will lie for you
Beg and steal for you
I will crawl on hands and knees until you see
You're just like me

Violate all The love that I'm missing
Throw away all the pain that I'm living
You will believe in me
And I can never be ignored
- Garbage, #1 Crush


But for now I enjoy my crush. I circle the fire very carefully. It helps me remember I can feel this way, that there are possibilities, that the heart still wants what it wants. But unlike the younger me, I won’t act on it. Not ever, not until it had turned into something else.

In Greek, the word love is not enough. They had distinct words to cover all the aspects of love. English is curious, after all, how can we think one word would suffice for the emotion we write about, go to war over, lie about, lie for, die for, kill for? We confound ourselves with it. Eros is fire.

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,
Brief as the lightning in the collied night

My heart sings. Just for today, for a brief moment of time, I secretly love him.

The Season Of The Hungry Ghosts



Around home this month, red lanterns are left burning to repel demons and ancestors wander purposefully seeking fulfillment on the earth. Our neighbours protect us each year from these hungry ghosts with black tea, oranges, and candy of a peculiar pink and white. Crawling with ants, they resemble fat gums with teeth still embedded, piled beside the long red candles.

The usually litter free streets are filled with strips of paper money, burned to appease lost relatives along with paper cars, cell-phones and other appliances. Each evening behind the condo, from the pool, I can see the plumes of smoke from the offerings. Incense spikes the air and the footpath verge has a patina of red wax droppings.

I miss the grass-side offerings when they are not here. You can walk past and see hordes of industrious and no doubt cheerful ants carrying away the candy. Brightly decorated flags are improbably pushed into brown, pork floss covered cakes and fruit is carefully piled into triangles.

In the early hours of pre-dawn, monkeys cross the Malayan railway from the rainforest and forage in our gardens for the food. They are gone by sun-up, only the few bravest, those willing to risk encountering a dog, remain. When a pet appears they swing high into tree branches and chatter wildly, clutching hard won prizes of paper money and oranges in their hands.

The condo guards see them off by walking the fences running a stick along the rails.
Monkeys are not afraid of ghosts.

Wednesday, 6 February 2008

Daily Planet

I don't do enough for this stuff, especially lately as I have my head up my own butt worrying about small stuff. But this is inspiring and it's worth spreading the word...

Anything else you're interested in is not going to happen if you can't breathe the air and drink the water. Don't sit this one out. Do something. You are by accident of fate alive at an absolutely critical moment in the history of our planet. --Carl Sagan


And if that isn't enough, don't listen to the naysayers (who probably have shares in non sustainable construction companies) - go to the links

Good News of the Day:
Imagine a home that heats itself, that provides its own water, and grows its own food. Imagine that it needs no expensive technology, that it recycles its own waste, that it has its own power source. And now imagine that it can be built anywhere, by anyone, out of the things society throws away. Thirty years ago, architect Michael Reynolds imagined just such a home - then set out to build it. From building houses using aluminum cans in the 1970's to the state-of-the-art "Earthships" currently being built around the world, Reynolds has devoted his life to building self-sufficient homes, including simple shelters in the aftermath of natural disasters.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2TbxhpG-Y4Q

Be The Change:
Check out a 1 minute CNN International video feature of Michael Reynolds.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IDRstVYF7wA

Thursday, 24 January 2008

Losing My Mind

... seems to be a part of loss. Not the going insane kind of losing my mind, and not the kind of mind absence I had when pregnant. This is like a part of me is missing, gone fishing, out to lunch.

The long irrational, deliberately childish rant of the other day was the best impulse I followed all month. And it set still some turbulent waters. I found myself able to giggle again.

Now I await another wave of sadness and I find myself curiously paused. This, I believe, is a more apt state for the moniker 'absent minded'. This is not forgetfulness, nor is it confusion. This is a part of me in hiding, covered with a veil, in-waiting. It is, I imagine, somewhat merciful as well as downright scary.

I watched Oprah. Curious. She is like a latter day saint. Or a modern girl's Jesus. I sat slumped in front of her listening to women rabbit on about menopause. I am an agnostic. Not an athiest. Agnosticism is possibly the last refuge of an escaped catholic. I am too afraid of divine retribution to rule out God entirely, but the skeptic in me sees no evidence. At least, no evidence that he she or it is all loving. Like many parents, he goes by the rule of thumb.

My leg ached and I formed an unshakeable conviction there was a blood clot inside me ready to shift and alter my course.

Oprah said "It's time to put away childish things".

Chucked out the smokes.

Trudged to Bukit Timah Plaza and bought vitamins.

This morning I had a space breakfast of two shiny pills, two speckled pills, one brown pill and a blue and white pill. And a coffee.


Listened to Starman.

Happy to not have my mind fully in place, let it rest, let it rest.

Monday, 21 January 2008

Losing Dad

On the 23 December 2007 my Dad died. So if things like this bring you down I suggest skipping my Blog altogether for a while. Not that I imagine anyone is reading it at all.

I am on the roller-coaster called grief. With some detachment I look up the symptoms and common experiences of grief and recognise myself in all of them. Yet I powerlessly experience each one of them like a cork bobbing.

The most frustrating thing today is the anger. Combined with the tears it is exhausting and hard to manage. Relentlessly inappropriate, I find myself wanting to direct it at someone, anyone, something. Daniel receives the short fuse but mostly it is low key stuff. The burning molten volcano anger is directed towards work. Today, I am so entirely sick of the mishandling of this. It has reached comedic proportions, almost as though they printed out the 'suggestions for dealing with a bereaved workmate' brochure and set out to do the exact opposite of each bullet point.

So here is my rant.

If someone you work with or know has lost someone close to them, then try doing the following simple things:

1.

ASK them if they want to tell people, and then, if they do, TELL EVERYONE. This avoids them having to endlessly repeat the horrifying fact of their loss over and over again.

2.

SUGGEST things you can do to lighten their load. DON'T ask them what they want you to do, it's really bloody hard thinking through the to-do list and making a decision. It is better when people just say, let me do (insert specific task here) for you today.

3.

SEND A CARD. It may be old fashioned, but it just isn't good enough to ignore it and pretend everything is normal. Sending a card is a simple way of showing you care. I was amazed at the lack of sympathy expressed by my management. Only my direct colleagues bothered to send anything. It isn't necessary to be profound, just buy a card off the shelf, sign it, and send it.

4. DO NOT under ANY circumstances, tell the person to look on the bright side, be positive, cheer up, find the silver lining or any other CRAP. Death SUCKS. Yes I will get over this, yes I am sure there are positives, but for FUCKS sake, Dad has not even been gone for a month. I don't want to look for positives, I shouldn't HAVE too. It's rude and obnoxious to expect me to cheer up so that you can feel better.

God, that feels better. I hate the place I work right now, self centered, emotionally consitipated fuckwits. They vary from 'just get on with it' icebergs to 'don't go crazy on us' cattle prodders.

Mostly I hate God, death, missed chances, mortality, the universe, myself and everything.

I hate people for not knowing that I might need someone to come visit me on the weekend, that being invited out wasn't really OK cause going out means being cheerful.

I hate my flatmate for not even asking me one single time how things are.

I hate my friends for not offering to take Daniel somewhere so I can have some time to grieve alone or even just get my hair done or something.

I hate myself for being so godamned needy.

I hate that I hate everyone and everything that might be of help.

I hate death.

I hate chance.

I hate slippery grass, ankles that break, and casts that hold people still enough to clot their blood.

I hate that I never got the chance to make Dad proud of me. I wasn't finished yet. I'm sorry Dad.

Tuesday, 11 December 2007

Crayola Monologues

A moving example of feelings expressed in wax.

Thursday, 6 December 2007

What Do Teachers Really Make? Taylor Mali Explains...

Being a teacher gives me an excuse for discovery, the reward is the learning I am involved in on a daily basis, as I seek out things for my classes.

This I found entirely by chance when I was looking for some examples of spoken poetry for my Grade 8 English class. It was a timely find because it was exactly what I needed to hear after and evening of serious doubt about the choice I had made. Even the title of this blog, the Invisible Actor, summed up how I was feeling about putting my own creative identity onto a high shelf for a new career.

For me, a good poem shouldn't just entertain, it should prod, or uplift, or anger, or change people somehow. It should change the way you think, like learning another language. Poetry is English language mastery. Poetry that shocks, inspires, humours, saddens, shifts, hounds, nags, reminds, envelops, carries and sweeps away.

Sometimes a day can just turn around, when you realise that somewhere, someone else wrote something that got under your skin.