Parties, invitations and anything new sent her belly butterflies into an awful spin – as did the thought of hurting someone else’s feelings. So she came to the frightful conclusion that she’d be better off alone – but there was a creepy uncertainty about this great big decision. At that horribly nervous moment, a wise thought arrived … maybe all that was required was some time and peaceful quiet to think again, and again, and again about who she let in – and where and when she went. Pass it on – or keep it all to yourself…
(Reposted from 2011. Find her in Clunk & Jam book, 2019)
She held her breath for the longest time, for she believed by keeping perfectly still she would never ever feel the BOO! again. But one fine day, the dark skies parted and she felt the warmth of a breath on her shrinking shoulders. And as she turned to meet her fate, she was met by the view of a life beyond her own – and the realisation it had been there all along.
Red ink drips from slaying words of mine. So I play with pictures. Pour things into heads half full. Make nurseries not rhyme. Flip all that makes me go flop.
She’d been told off so many times for making mistakes that she no longer believed she could ever do anything right. Over and over again people pointed out how messy her writing was, how ‘bad’ her spelling was, how unsatisfactory her story was. And so the ink, like her desire to learn – dried up. And it didn’t end there. She’d also been told there was something wrong with her, so she gave up wanting to know what was right anymore. And when she was curious, she was told to put her hand down or not to ask questions like that. After a while she stopped questioning her world and lost confidence in ever asking anything of herself. But experience has taught her that if she keeps her hand up, it will save her from the lies. And she’s also come to understand that it’s not the writing that’s important anyway – it’s the story. A story she feels no need to defend, she simply needs to tell it for her own good … and to write the wrong.
Footnote: She flunked English at school – but it didn’t stop her writing. Didn’t get the commas or the full stops in the correct spot – but it didn’t stop her telling her story. She was made to write the same thing over and over again – but it didn’t mean what she had to say didn’t matter. She was told she was wrong – but she kept asking: “What’s right?”
(Reposted from 2009. Originally in ‘Rock The Boat’ handmade book. Now in Clunk & Jam, 2019)
While some are scared of flying, I’m frightened by air hostesses. Not them personally, but what they collectively represent. The Barbies of super service. Minding their manners and following rules. Trained and conditioned to endlessly serve. To not rock the boat – or should I say plane? Plastic and animated puppets of the sky ways. Dangling mid air. Secure and falsely content in the narrow strip they patrol like soldiers, serving not country, but seats. Saying nothing to pinched bottoms as they travel to end up nowhere. And from their demonstrations of survival tips I take my own … never, ever be satisfied with being a puppet. A follower of mindless instruction.
So join me in flight, to the tune of, “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your golden hair”. May we unravel from the tightly bound plaits of expectation. Let our hair down and fly freely, into our selves, with no need for wings, or plastic things – or air hostesses and heels for that matter.
(Reposted from 2011. Find her in Clunk & Jam book.)
