Hope.

We're all made up of broken parts.

We lose small pieces along the way.
That's just the way it is, my darling.
Limbs, memories, convictions, things we were given to hold for others.
So it has been,
so it will be, I expect.

But I have an arm and you have a leg, and together we'll make our way nicely.
Trundling along, not, as I once thought, like some grotesque parody of a child's toy,but as two somethings that fit.
And move smoothly.
We just need a little time to find our balance, some semblance of a rhythm.

And it's not that I don't know who I am without you, or that I am incomplete.
A puzzle piece is still a piece,

when apart from the whole,
it is recognizable for what it is.

Just that I am better, with you.
A whole piece of the bigger whole.

A letter.

Dear whoever might be listening.

I am occupying a fatalistic space at the moment.
Every time we drive down the street, or turn the corner, or cross the road I think,
"we might die".
And when we reach the other side, or continue smoothly, engine running, baby gurgling in the backseat, I am surprised.

I wonder if I'm normal.
I've been told that I'm not. But perfectly ordinary people die crossing the road, it happens all the time.
I've read it in the newspapers.

My head is empty today, and my chest is numb.
I took a tablet last night.
It's so peaceful.
If I sit very still I cease to exist.

I wonder, when I sign things "Love me",
do I mean, with love from me?
Or please, please love me.
Remember me, remember my words, think of me fondly from time to time.

Love me.

Therapy

Gratitude.
The very thing I needed, to be paused in my semi-organised ramblings, in my disjointed explanations; scraps of reality mingled with terminology and an assortment of jargon I knew all too well.
I have studied well, I know my histories.
Honest stumblings, and I don't knows. Please just fix me, sitting alongside of I'm pretty sure, because, and then this happened.
Of course I've heard of the amigdala (I think mine is broken, I flee and I fight myself, and only for others).
I learned this, as some girls learn to weed a flower bed, or stitch a seam.
I am quiet, calm, clear spoken, oh so poised. And if I steel myself, I can meet your eyes.
At my mothers knee.
Look, look at me, I know the answers. I hardly need to be here, really.
She steps through the door, sure to be welcome.
Opens, the curtains. Smiles.
"Put away your knives drawer girl, we're going for a walk".
My mind writhes, the questions are becoming difficult,
blank,
I am blank.
And not ready.
I watch as she performs seemingly small acts of kindness, and knowing how much they cost her, I am proud. Proud to be her daughter.
Continue, don't pause too long, don't ramble now, don't.
Gold stars plastered across my fingers, tremor beneath their weight.
Might I have some to cover my arms?
The very thing I needed.
Uncertain,
I know my family history.
I am becoming uncertain.
But recent happenings have me confused.
I'm not crazy, not even a little, you know.
I couldn't feel my skull. My head had a hole in it, and it let in a draft.
I am in control.
There were people, so many people.
And they just
kept
I am poised.
coming,
walking out of the darkness,
and
I am not calm.
throwing themselves,
beneath the wheels..
To be stopped, gently, looked straight in the eyes,
steady blue, like mine.
Blue eyes have forgotten how to lie, I know.
And they were never very good at it in the first place.
"I just wanted to say, I think you're incredible. Absolutely wonderful".
The very thing.
My head is faulty, my heart fallen out the hole.
My body trembles, yet my breath comes still.
And I am a wonderful being, absolutely wonderful.

Synthesete.

You make me think of the colour purple.
I don't know why.
There is nothing in your face to suggest it, none of it in your gold-oranged eyes.
You have the eyes of a lioness, my love.
But right before I see your face in my mind, purple flashes.
Violet washed through with indigo.
That's all, I just thought I would tell you.

I dreamed a dream. again.

I am so far from myself, that I can hardly see.

My eyes blur, and my head numbs, I change to thinking from my centre and knowing through my mouth.

They are the only parts that stay unmoving.

This room is the one that has always been here, I am sure.

Square with a bend through the middle. The lights vibrate across the ceiling, so loudly. I think they want new light bulbs.

The pattern in the couch is writhing, and grasping outwards, sickly brown tendrils.

"Don't go near it dear".

I am glad that I chose to sit in this chair. It is black and empty, nothing wriggles and if you ask it nicely it will let you stand. But the clamouring of the upholstery is giving me a stomachache. I need to leave.

I open my mouth and words saunter casually towards the faces.

"I think I will take a shower".

Yes, I got that right. That is the way it is done, yes

I feel proud for knowing, I am good at this.

Standing, and the floor hurtles upwards. It's ok, it's only teasing.

Like Mother says "don't react, don't react, they're only looking for a reaction, don't react and they'll go away". So I walk slowly, poised. You'd scarcely be able to tell that it caught me off balance.

I play the shower game, icy, hot, icy, hot, changing rapidly, burning and cooling.

Fill my mouth up and idly wonder what it would be like to drown.

Sink to the bottom with closed lids and lips, lean my head again the glass.

I am outside and it's raining, I close my hands against my ears, press gently and let go. It sounds like thunder.

Open my eyes to let out the tears, and red runs toward the drain, and oh god what have I done this time.

"Oh god", a soft cry to a deity I am unsure of.

And if I told you this, called it a dream,

would you love me still?

If this doesn't work, try speaking in lolcats...Oh hai Ceiling Cat, I can haz a happie naow? Srsly.. Kthnxbai

What's that?

You're sore, tired, and four times zones away from home, your darling girlfriend and eternal happiness?

No? That's just me? Oh...then why the long face, dollface?

Life gotcha down?

Try...Beth's erm..Tempory Remedy for all kinds of Misery.

A large mug of milk.

2 teaspoons of cocoa.

1-3 teaspoons of sugar.

A few squares of caramel chocolate.

Sprinkle of powdered ginger.

Smudge of wasabi.

Stir over a low heat, in an itty bitty pot, until it's all melty and frothy.

Pour into a giant mug emblazoned with kittens and hearts.

Serve alongside adorable love cake.

Guaranteed to replicate warm fuzzy feelings for at least 5 minutes.

No Refunds.

Anxiety Play.

Person A: Sir?
Person B: Yes?
Person A:You are under arrest.
Person B: No.
Person A: You are under arrest sir.
Person B: No.
Person A: I shall shoot sir.
Person B: No.
Person A: I shall shoot sir.
Person B: No.
Person A: I shall shoot sir.
Person B: No.
Person A: I hate you.
Person B: No.
Person A: I shall crucify you.
Person B: Not so.
Person A: I shall poison you.
Person B: Not so.
Person A: I shall murder you.
Person B: Not so.
Person A: Think of the winter.
Person B: Never.
Person A:I am going to kill you.
Person B: I said, never!
Person A: I will shoot.
Person B: You have already said that once.
Person A: Now come along.
Person B: You can't arrest me.
Person A: Why not?
Person B: You may take me into custody but no more.
Person A: Then I shall take you into custody.
Person B: By all means.
Allows himself to be taken into custody and lead away; stage grows dark, the audience feels duped and there are catcalls and whistles.
The chorus cries "Where's the author? Throw him out! Rubbish!".

~Kurt Schwitters.

When I was 14, I wrote this on my door in thick, black permanent marker.
My mother was not impressed.
But I loved it.

When I was 15, I wrote underneath on a postit.
" Dada is nihilistic,
It has no meaning,
no soul,
I may as well be the reincarnated soul of this movement,
I think I will self destruct.
And be born again, unbeknownst,
into a different shade of misery"

Dramatic much?
Also spellcheck is pretty sure unbeknownst isn't a word.

So Play It Back In Reverse.

("..Like that good hole album, I can live through this, I have lived through worse...so play it back ...mmmhmmhmhm..yeah? You know the song?)

Recently I've hit a block. A giant concrete, rough to the touch, sitting in my front yard white-trashing up the whole neighbourhood block.

It's grey and ugly dreary, and stealing all of my words.

Nasty sneaky thing.

It's a damper on my spirits, creative failure, writers block- whichever way I decide to spin it.

Underneath the words; the labels, the explanations and elaborations, the scrawling black disguises, it is one thing.

One thing only, and complex enough in it's singularity.

A denial. Of my voice, myself, my existence.

I have knit up so much of my identity into words.

I think predominately through words, visual scripts, lettered pages, loud speaker system wired through my brain that crackles and hums and whispers.

I show myself through words, I choose to speak or not speak, and always, always I write.

I can spill hopes, dreams, many fears, a million associative memories (apparent to myself alone), into the space of a few lines.

Seal with ink, sign with half a name, lock away in the back of a drawer or launch into cyberspace.

In this way I live on, leading an inarguable existence.

I hold the proof, don't believe me? I can produce official papers.

I have been denying myself the ability to write. Because at the moment I am leading a reluctant existence.

In the same way, I have been unable to clean my room.

It's been three weeks. And the suitcase still sits there, in the centre of my floor. It's contents spilling over into a drawer, overturned in the midst of last minute frenzied packing.

I stumble over it every time I leave my room.

But to clean the space, would be to acknowledge my presence within it.

I no longer want to eat, or cook, or visit the grocery store. My favourite meals were with you, sitting in the middle of your lounge room floor, greasy fingers, and the television's blaring mingling with the incessant noise of children.

And I won't sleep.

Shaped around your back, I could hear your heartbeat.

Smell your skin.

Your hair, my cheek.

This bed is built for one, and I'm alone again.

But, in a few weeks, it will be one month.

One month before I leave again, travel back in time, to where I was before.

I was better there.

For the meantime, I'm unwell, and without you.

And the morning light slips under the blinds, cuts like knives.

Soft scars underneath closed lids.

But, enough with the musery. On with the bloggery!

Oh my, I just used an exclamation mark...so you know I'm serious, I'm emerging from this rut fo' real.

(also I want to change the name of my blog, it IRKS me every time I see it. And have you ever been irked? It's not at all comfortable and it itches. Oh great and glorious Internet, send me some inspiration, a sign, anything...rename my blog)

We Are Born To Love, And Wonder At The Stars.

Daddy, can you hear me up there? I'm never sure.

Daddy, I have something to tell you, but you know already.

Daddy, I am scared by this.

Daddy, I am crying, just a little bit. But I cry every time I talk to you, and damn it where are my tissues.

Daddy, life is confusing and overwhelming, and how dare you leave me to do this on my own?

I'm sorry Daddy, I'm emotional at the moment.

I laugh, and then I cry, and then I love a little bit.

But there's a light space in my chest. In that spot. The one that used to be full of grey, and made smiling difficult.

I smile more now Daddy. But you knew that too.

I wish she'd understand. But I don't think she can.

I know you loved her for a reason, and the reasons still shine through. From time to time.

But she lost herself a bit, when she lost you.

Daddy, someday soon I am going to break my mother's heart. A little more.

And you're not here to fix it.

Daddy, I dreamed last night that I was in a bathtub. I sank to the bottom, and looked up through the water at the stars.

Oh and Daddy, I'm getting a kitten. His name is Norman. He looks like marmalade.

I have a feeling you were a cat person.

A Formerly Paper Post, Once Lost, Now Found.

I want to run away, to Australia;

to Quebec;

to a small bookshop nestled in the Left Bank.

Sleep huddled in a corner, surrounded by dusty words.
Walk along cobbled streets while the dusk mingles with smoke.
Or run in the opposite direction.

Away from everything I have built my life upon. Hung my mind around. Like so many sticks, draped over with a many-holed canvas.
To somewhere heavily populated, where no one knows my name, or sees my face.
Or somewhere remote.

Run to Nowhere.
Where the words I know, have never existed.

To sit with people, while they make sounds, and I make sounds and that's all they are.

Sounds.

And then maybe I could do it.

Say "Hey! Listen, I'm not okay"

or

"So many mornings I wake, and lie here. And there's nothing to get up for, so I turn and will myself back to sleep. Until noon. Until dark. Until the next morning rolls around. But, I never make it that far. So I sit alone in the night."

"Some days I convince myself that life is good. But other days I know that society is flawed. And people are flawed and I am flawed. And we're all going to let each other down in the end"

And they would maybe laugh and nod, and talk to each other.
"Her hair is a strange colour"
"Listen to the sounds she makes.."
"Poor child, she is all wrong. But it cannot be helped"
And their words would tumble around me, violently. Like water through a storm drain, like falling wooden blocks.
Shattering noise, the trees in the forest.
And then, they would teach me to make sago.

I like the Left Bank idea best. If Mouse will come with me?
Something to prevent me from falling into a life of paper dreams, and words that stop at my throat. Hands that do not move, except to brush away the flies.

A Not Very Full Of Birthday Post.

I've received several gifts today.

From everywhere, and nowhere, and the sky.

A midnight happy birthday, as the night slid through my open window.

This song. And this.

And this,

O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc'd.
Tereu

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

T.S.Eliot,

The Wasteland; III The Fire Sermon

(And the earnest man who stood at the front of the room, and said "I'm not going to try and explain it. People...they dedicate their lives to this.")

Rain that fell lightly, caressing my face, with the lightest of touches. Misting against my eyelashes. Then heavier. Drenching, burrowing through my clothes to lie against my skin. The most affectionate and attentive of rainfalls.

I Missed You Yesterday, And I Miss You Today.

I'm reading this and thinking thoughts, at the end of each line.
For you. Saving them, to say later.
I wish that you were here, or I was there.
I still don't like Pink Floyd.
That's all.

A Series Of Ghost Letters, The First.

It was never sent.
Never written.
I simply sat, pen in hand. Blue plastic against the soft, alien and out of place.
(I am alien, out of place)
I sat, stiller than still.
Immobile, unchanging. (Do you see? This is what constancy looks like)
I have not moved. It is not hard, dear. Not hard at all.

A blank page. Not blank, lined. But unworded.

I had no words left.
I thought. I could roll it into a cone, perhaps. Hold it to the speaker, let the music speak for me.
The speaker.
Seal it, send it.
Let you know. That you were lost in your little life.
They have always known better than me. But I knew better than you.

Crumpled, blue lined paper. Momentarily stained with a blue plastic pen.

The bluest of Tuesdays.
I may have cried a little.

But only a little. I have cried more for others.

Letter the first,
in the right hand corner,
second window from the bed.

If you close your eyes, it looks like this

and it sounds like the sky, on a cloudy day.

Odds and Ends.

Here are the Odds.

I have to get sleeping pills from my doctor.

So says my mother. She says a lot of things. And I say everything and nothing in return.

I don't like the idea of not being able to wake up.

And I don't like small white things, that sit so menacing inside palms.

I have decided recently, that I believe in magnetic forces, sea tides, and the moon. I should really update my facebook "religious views" status.

Tangible is such wonderful word. And it always makes me think of citrus fruits. Even better.

Of fingernails pressing gently into pitted rind, bringing forth a soft spray. Leaving half moon trails.

I think that I would like to be somewhere else

...waiting for somewhere else to arrive.

It isn't working so far. I also think that I would like to try gardening, in the right moonlight.

My windows are very rattly,

Tomorrow I will stop up the gaps, with ghosts of love letters, the ones that were written but never sent.

Poor dears, they should be used for something.

This is the End. I know I said "Ends", but there is only one.

Two now. Good.

This is the real End.

Dreaming About Small Things. And Instruction Manuals.

I don't want to do anything today.

I want to sit in a corner, with my eyes closed and mouth shut.

I want to pull a blanket over my head. I want to fill my ears.

And dream.

Of other people, in other places, leading different lives. Carrying different hearts, in different cages.

Filled with older memories, newer hopes. Deeper breaths, clearer eyes.

Person. Sitting, standing, waiting.

In the small space, arms wrapped, back held straight, upright. Lips that move with breathing out words, mutters.

Less thought than felt. Like that letter we found "thinking without thought".

Hair pulled back, a naked face. Nothing to hide behind. The hardest thing.

Turn out the light.

(Open the door)

I like small words at the moment and always. They are real. Dense and solid, weighted.

They fit inside palms and hold down tablecloths.

Longer words float and sprawl. Flutter, catch the wind.

I like them too.

But the weather isn't right for kite flying.

Fairytales Don't Always Behave As They Should.

Mermaids sleep in seaweed tangles. With eyes wide open, staring up through green glass water.

I know because my brain told me.

I have been trying to write a mermaid story all week now, to make myself feel better. But I can't get past the murky darkness, and their fingernails.

Fish bone thin transparencies, sharp enough to draw blood.

I keep getting distracted, breaking concentration. Staring at the rust stained tips.

And forgetting.

Forgetting that mermaids need to breathe, forgetting the little gills, tucked behind ears, out of sight.

And then there is nothing to do but watch, and stay out of reach.

Watch as they thrash, and flail, and claw about. As fish-woman souls pour out from gasping lips.

My mermaids keep drowning.

I might have to stop the story for a while. I'm obviously not ready for it.

And I don't think I can handle the guilt.

I'm in such a morbid mood tonight. I think I spent too long staring into the meat chiller.

Supermarkets are not good for me.

I might sit out in the rain for a bit, and keep the clouds company.

I Don't Remember The Beginning.

I dreamed, about music and moving lights. And words, spoken-half-sung, written on the pavement with a fistful of chalk.

Falling away from the bottom. They asked me to remember, to hold out my mind.

Powdery hands, and soft gray movements. Just keep breathing.

Something secret.

And woke, wishing for yesterday.

I have been half real, all evening. I think I would like to sleep soon.

STOP. Think. And Um.. Hammer Time.

I'm upset and anxious at the moment.

I need to move, and go somewhere a bit more peaceful. Without rats, or stupid people, or Pink Floyd playing loudly while I'm trying to write multiple essays.

Or burglaries, or permanently stoned flatmates, or crazy neighbours.

Yesterday a virus tried to attack my computer, I'm afraid that I took it rather personally.

I need to finish writing said essays..and start studying for exams.

I need to start eating properly instead of living off of toast, chicken soup and pears. And coffee.

I need to talk at my doctor until she hands me pills and tells me to shut up. Or just ask nicely.

Think.

About happy things.

I have an email to read, from a lovely person,

and a blanket to be wrapped in, and a used-to-be-pajamas-cushion with penguins and gold sequins (made by baby sis) to hug.

I can never understand why people sit on cushions, when they could be hugging them.

I hug cushions. A lot. Its comforting.

Tegan and Sara,

On Twitter,

And Youtube,

And in my ears.

I have trouser, no, bootleggy somethings from some of their shows, and I've turned the volume up loud enough to drown out my flatmates.

I only like loud music in headphones, so it's inside, instead of surrounding me.

Otherwise I feel panicy and like I can't really see properly.

Their voices still work almost as well as the drugs. They bring me down. Gently.

Anhorse to bring me up, T&S to bring me down..and a serotonin imbalance.

Telling Fran that I was going to go through my blog and change her name to Squiggle Baby.

And then watching her pull faces, and go "Urrgg..do you haaaaaave to". While I giggled.

Nighttime walks round the harbour..ending [of course] with the two us of playing on swings , whilst critiquing society. Squiggle knows about sociologist theories and terminology. I am good at making up words. And passing judgement.

Happening upon a group of Fire Performers (I think they are deserving of capitals) in the park, and watching them for almost an hour. Sitting in the icy-bite air.

Listening to other people talk politics, and somehow being interested.

Deciding that I should maybe read the newspaper, watch the news and form opinions about government policies.

Changing my mind ten minutes later. Boring.

I think it may have been the talker that was interesting. And not the politic-y part.

I am being careful though; I might just place her on a tiny pedestal, a not-very-high one, so she won't get hurt, if she falls off.

I am going to make a sandwich, and drink some herbal tea.

And study. Says responsible Beth.

Or, I might just sit here a while, staring at the wall. And listening to the voices in my head.

It's okay. they aren't the bad kind. They are meant to be there. I invited them.

They run up through wires and spin away into the dark.

There is something in the Oh.oh.Oh. Perhaps in the centre of the middle o.

Something small, I will tell you if I find it.

And Ooh Look I'm Not Talking About Me..For A Change.

But still talking about me, kind of..I can't help myself.

Umm, all of my thoughts have been sucked out of my brain and replaced with other peoples.

It's okay, other people are more interesting than me.

Especially Adrienne Rich. She is amazing. I wish I was her, only I probably wouldn't be as good at being her as she is. And then she wouldn't be her, she'd be me, and I am not at all interesting, really. Or as amazing.

Maybe I just wish that I had access to her thoughts. All of them, even the "I need to brush my teeth, there's a funny taste in my mouth" ones.

"But it is more than these, although we may first begin to perceive it as a form of naysaying to patriarchy, an act of resistance. It has of course included isolation, self-hatred, breakdown, alcoholism, suicide and intrawoman violence; we romanticise at our peril what it means to love and act against the grain..what has been kept from our knowledge is joy, sensuality, courage.."

- Adrienne Rich

I think she probably knows all the things my mother never told me.

"Imagining the landscape of your sorrow

..Is it yellow..or is it blue?"

Yael Naim is amazing too. In another way.

This picture has nothing to do with the post...but I like it. It appeals to me. I'm not sure why.

Conf-Bem-Am-used.

Ok..so..I want you to look at this...




While listening to this...




Confused?
...Me too.
Welcome to Saturday Morning.
Come in, come in, it's cold outside.
Meet my flatmates.
They are odd, and no, you probably won't "like them once you get to know them".

Blatant Procrastination.

I'm addicted to Twitter. And Facebook.

The other night I chewed through an entire packet of blueberry gum. In fifteen minutes. Then I played with it and stuck pins in it. Disgusting but fun, the kind of thing you do and hope no one finds out about. And then tell everyone about anyway.

I start writing posts while I'm meant to be studying. But I usually forget to finish them. Or decide that I don't like them.

I am about to complete half a terms worth of coursework.

In ten days. I might cry a lot. Or I might be fine.

I own bunny slippers, they are not cute. They are old and raggedy. I love them.

I also own a fluorescent green dressing gown.

It glows, and gives my face a greenish tinge.

If my house was ever on fire..I would save my laptop, probably.

And my Rosie-bunny. I'd probably actually save her before the laptop.

Rosie-bunny has led a long and interesting life, she now spends the majority of her time sitting on my bed.

In her heyday she was an avid traveller, she once spent an entire year in Garden, getting to know the locals. I forgot to undig her after a slightly emotional game of "funeral".

But the Gardener eventually returned her to Bethroom. It pays to be friendly with the locals.

It also pays to bury bunnies in lunch boxes, so they don't rot.

The trouble with bus-crushes, is that you see them twice, do stupid things like drop books down the aisle, and then never see them again. However, life goes on..currently moving on to "real-people-with-actual-names" crushes.

Crush is a horrible word. It should probably never be used beyond the age of 14 and never written outside of a tweenie mag.

I'm feeling very pre-teenish though. So I get to use it. Crushcrushcrushcrush. I'm 12.

I don't really believe in time, but unfortunately my tutors do.

Really not wanting to start my essays.

Ooh, maybe I should spend a lot of time on weheartit.. looking for a picture to go with this.

Oh, that didn't take nearly long enough.

Love To Order.

I'm good at things, sometimes.

I'm good at making people laugh, sometimes.

I'm good at being slightly outrageous.

I'm good at being spinney-whirling-round-in-circles, until I'm dizzy and don't remember all the hurty things, and why would they matter anyway, when the world is moving? Like this.

I'm good at crying.

I'm good at being angry.

I'm good at making other people angry.

I'm good at making them cry.

I like making them angry, not so much the tears.

When people get angry, you know that they've heard what you had to say.

When they cry, you know that they've taken it to heart.

I don't like doing that to peoples hearts. Trespassing, and leaving little bits of poison.

Speaking things that should never have been spoken out loud.

But I'm good at that too, catching at thoughts out of air, the thoughts they didn't even know they had. The thoughts they caught a glimpse of, once, and pushed away in a panic.

The thoughts they hoped to god no one would ever know about.

I'm good at it.

Knowing them, and repeating them back in a moment of ugliness.

I'm good at loving people. Especially lonely people, who need love. And people who aren't lonely, but still feel alone. Or do I mean that the other way ?

There's so much loneliness in this world. It makes me sad.

So I send them some love, in smiles and words, or just an eyes-shut-pressure-building-in-my chest-who-knows-maybe-they'll-feel-it?

The quiet friend, the girl who walks quickly with her head down. The man with the tired eyes, on his way home, but not sure why.

Lonely.

Love to order. Tell me what you need.

I attach too quickly. And trust too easily, or not at all.

And it was my fault really. No really. Because I saw you, all of your unhappy places, the desolate stretches in your mind, the thoughts that arrived whether you willed them or not. And sometimes you did, you did want those thoughts.

I could feel your need. Desperation.

And I knew. That you were the kind of person to take hold, tightly. To suck another dry, discard them, move on. And never think of them, of me again. Except for maybe during three clock's,when you couldn't sleep. And wanted to hate yourself.

And so I've become a thought. A dark thought filled with self-hatred, when all I thought I wanted was to bring you some light, and love.

It's my fault. Really. Because I didn't think I could change you. I'm not that girl.

I don't tell myself lies.

Except, that's probably a lie.

I dreamed about you once, one dream, out of thousands. It seemed to matter at the time. You couldn't breathe, and I helped you and held you.

I found out the other day, that that's what you're meant to do, compress the person. Hold them tight until their heartbeat slows. I guess my subconscious knew all along.

It makes it worse, somehow. When the song plays, or your name shifts across my eyelids. Not blaming you. Because I get angry at myself, and I make myself cry. You were such a bad idea.

This has taken too long to write. Because all of the spaces, between the lines, are filled up with words. They are distracting me.

I'm a little bit lost. And tired. And sad.

And I stopped taking the pills again.

Last time you were there, to pretend to care.

And you told me to be careful. While you picked over my broken parts.

I think I'll just lie here. And refill myself, ready for the next person to reach out and grasp me. Empty me, while I lie, passive and all knowing, in their hand.

Ramblings About Coffee, Birthdays And Kate Cooper.

I'm listening to An Horse again. And drinking coffee with a lot of marshmallows...possibly, actually, eating marshmallows with a small amount of coffee...Mmm gooey, sticky mess. My heart is happy.
An Horse...I think Kate Cooper might be my new favourite person. I'm resisting the urge to go all Fangirl and find out everything about her though. Partially because I'd feel creepy, but mostly because I don't want stuff like "how old is Kate Cooper?" to show up in my Google search box every time my flatmates borrow my laptop. Because then they would think I was creepy.
Also when we meet and become best friends for ever, she might find it creepy...Ha, sometimes I think I'm a bit funny. But it might just be the caffeine or the copious amounts of sugar/ red food colouring.

I'm already excited about my birthday...even though it's still over a month away. I'm EXCITED!
I feel like I have to make up for my lack of excitement last year.
I was away from my family..and it was during the first week back at school...and I was broke...
and I'd only been in Wellington for a few months....so I hadn't met many people...
and ALL of the new friends I'd made had left for the States a week before. Words of advice, by all means, befriend the international students, but make other friends as well, because they leave. And then you're just a loser with two friends. Yup.
I'm pretty sure I cried the night before, in anticipation of the suckiness to come.

In the end my birthday didn't suck though...mostly because Fran is Best Ever.
When I miserably emerged in the morning our teeny little lounge was full of balloons, and she gave me birthday cake with candles, and a tiny music box.
And when I went to take a shower she'd taped bits of paper with "Happy Birthday We Love You" all over the bathroom...And later we got drunk and played the "Drink Every time My Mother Would Be Shocked" game watching The Breakfast Club and Heathers...and Skyped our Gaby in Germany during her lunch break.
Actually, when I meet Kate Cooper, she might have to be my almost-best friend for ever.

Anyway this year's is going to be amazing. I've decided. I'm making lists. Even present wish lists, which is weird because I don't actually like birthday presents.
I like presents, especially small, weird ,unexpected, but it's not even my birthday presents (like rocks, and chocolate, and crayons, and look I drew you a pictures) but I don't like birthday presents.
They always make feel awkward and but, I didn't get you anything-ish...also nervous. I think the nervous part is because of my mother, she buys strange gifts. Which are sometimes awesome...and sometimes not.

Once she gave me a bike lock. I didn't have a bike. And for my 15th birthday she took me to "Owlcatraz"...lots of owls..fun if you're 6...or like animals.
She also (recently) went through a pottery class phase, I have a glazed plaque somewhere that says "Jesus Rulz" (thanks Mum)
Awesome presents = A bike...so I could use the bike lock. A Tibetan dagger (which the antique dealer swore was authentic and had been used for chopping off peoples' ears, but I think he was lying, I hope.), a set of old leather binoculars ( that have "le club de courses de chevaux de Paris" stamped round the side) and the year I turned nine, I came home from school and she'd squished an old piano into my bedroom, because she'd decided that I should have lessons.
The awesomeness outweighs the less-than-awesomeness really...but I still get nervous.

Maybe I should send her my wish list...since I've been making lists.
Wanna see my wish list? Yes.

Beth's Birthday Wishlist.

A Kitten.
Drawing pencils.
Books.
Shoes- Of the impractical hard to walk in kind.
- And the sparkly sneaker kind.
Ribbons and sparkly things.
Woolly stockings.
A teapot.
A snuggly coat.
Cook books.
A singing toothbrush.
Vivids...for graffiti-ing.
A typewriter ( I have one, in a box somewhere, maybe someone could just bring it to me?)
Groceries.
Stickabubbles.
Zebra Finches
Miniature people to live in shoe boxes underneath my bed and come out when I'm bored.
A Unicorn.
Someone to write my assignments for me.

But mostly I just want a unicorn. I'll probably ask for groceries though.

I'm Not A Vampire, But I Do Like Music.

So oh oh oh oh...it's Sunday morning...Happy Sunday Chickpeas.

I'm not asleep, because before Twilight came out and ruined everything for all of us, I was a vampire.

But now..

Vampire = Lame (I am not lame) therefore I = Someone who cannot sleep, but isn't a vampire.

A little word math for ya...and some bad grammar.

I'm not actually going to write about anything in particular, because it's 4.30 am. And my mind most closely, at this present moment, resembles that of an A.D.D 7 yr old who's been drinking espresso...and possibly dropped a couple of pills while they were at it.

I know, scary thought. Poor child.

Also my flatmates (who coincidentally have been pill popping) are blasting horrible, ugly music, making it hard to hold onto thoughts long enough to finish a sentence.

Music, music, music...I wish they'd at least listen to good music.

Tempted to hijack their iPods and replace all of their "bitches and ho's down in the ghetto, yo yo crib homie shit" with music that I like..

Ooh look... I'm going to throw some music links at you (yes, at all 3 (?) of you).

You should click on them, and listen to the mellifluous lovelies... it's Sunday, what else have you got to do?

An Horse...I am in band-love, their music makes my eyes squeeze tight shut and my chest hurt..in a good way.

(and yes, I just quoted from my own twitter...maybe I am lame enough to be a vampire?)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uJ42ilIcRBc

This one's stranger, I think they're still just a Youtube band..super-cute little Danish sisters. Aww. And they're actually really good...presenting Pil and Liv. (Sounds like a Disney Channel show, right? Cute.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Wjc7KSUsAo&feature=channel_page

Emily Wells covers Notorious BIG - Juicy.

Yes, I realise that I talk about her way too much..but um, girl crush.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hv35AY_3Row

I only heard this Kimya Dawson song today (thank you Chesca dear) but I already love it..."I like giants/ especially girl ones/ cos all girls feel too big sometimes/ regardless of their size"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kFvRe_Zk3VI

Also the video made me giggle.

Just because this is possibly my favourite song, ever...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=74ezTBSuKy0

And finally, I have had this song in my head for about 5 days now...how embarrassing.

I keep catching myself humming along to it (while it plays in my brain) in public...foot tapping, yeah, yeah-ing. I don't even know if I like it. I don't think I do. But I secretly might.

Lady Sovereign http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dYxu2QVlpk blatantly ripping off

The Cure.

Good Night/Morning/ Whatever...I'm going to go and sleep forever. Or at least stare at the ceiling for a few hours.

Needles, Thread and Anarchy.

Look what I made yesterday...oh I feel clever.

After making it, I sat in McDonalds and ate a cheeseburger,

while Fran sat across from me finishing "Fuck the Patriarchy".

It's pink and purple and awesome. I think she should give it to me.

Also a Slight Incident took place...went something like this..

"Wow, this vending machine has condoms and perfume"

"I think it's been there since the 80's...probably"

"Mmmhmm, so, if you wanted to, you could have safe sex...um, in the school toilets.. and smell nice"

"Handy ..'Our version of a sophisticated ladies perfume' "

"Think the machine still works?"

"I don't know...it's $2..."

"I have $2!"

Update from Fran:

She's had two showers, and still smells like a hooker who's been fermenting since the 80's.

I also went late night grocerying, blew bubbles at cars and spilt glitter all over my carpet.

Best Tuesday ever.

In other news, my boy-flatmates are right at this moment, watching Hannah Montana. Again.

Girl, Seeks Understanding Of Herself Or Others.

Lately I have been feeling as if I have lost myself somehow, along the way.

This, I regretfully admit, is not an unfamiliar feeling, I am careless.

In the past I have been discovered sitting under trees, or once on a park bench, patiently waiting to be reclaimed.

However, this time I suspect that I am unrecoverable.

I fear I have fallen off of the edge.

I considered putting out a Wanted ad...

"Wanted: Complete persona, in good condition. Second hand acceptable, in fact pre-loved preferable".

Or something in the Personals, "Girl, seeks understanding of self".

But responses to previous, similar enquiries have proved quite strange.

Clearly not the path to take.

I am finding, these days, that the only time I understand myself remotely, is when I am explaining myself to others.

Hearing the words float from my mouth, I recognise them, vaguely. Reach out and catch them. Store them away.

I am re-learning me.

This is what I have so far.

Beginning from the beginning...a strange place really. To begin, I mean. My memories, so far as I can recall, travelled backwards., cycling rapidly in reverse toward the end. Or the beginning.

No matter, these first are not memories. Merely things I must remember.

I am born wrong.

Pale and small.

Limbs splayed awkwardly in all the wrong directions.

Fists clenched tight.

And I have scarcely the sense to breathe.

Entwined in tubes, placed in a box.

First breath, tastes like plastic. And saline.

To this day, I am a claustrophobe.

Here is a happy thought, the kind to fly with.

My father wheels himself out into the corridor, faces the expectant faces.

"It..it...it's a baby!"

"It's a baby". That was always my favourite bit.

This Isn't A Really Real Post

I just really love this song.
And watching her recording process is all kinds of amazing.
I'll write something real later, right now I'm missing my bus.
Monday, we obviously don't get on so good...why do you visit so often?
I think we need some time apart.
To grow, as people...or in your case as an abstract pronoun referring to a 24 hour period of time reoccurring on a scheduled weekly basis...
It's for the best.

In Celebration Of Slightly Unconventional Parenthood.

That's not my mother. That's Tina Fey. But my Mumma could be Tina Fey if she wanted to. She doesn't though, she doesn't even know who Tina Fey is.

And yes, even though I'm approaching the (not so) big Two Oh, I still call my mother, Mumma...

and intend to keep on doing it.

We argue a lot. But the rest of the time I appreciate that she did a fairly amazing job raising me.

She tells this story about me as a toddler...

She says that after my dad died, whenever I was tantruming, I'd shout at her and run away. Only to realise that there was no one else to run to, and turn around to come straight back for a cuddle.

I think that pretty much sums up our relationship.

I've got further to run now, but I'll always come full circle.

I love my Mumma...

I love... that when my playmate's snooty mother snootily said "Ah-re you ah-ware that there is a trah-il of socks down your gah-rden pah-th?", my mother said

"Oh, would you look at that! And look, there's a shirt under the trampoline...really must get the hang of that washing-line-thing"

...and called her an uptight cow after they'd gone.

I love that she swings between a vegan-sugarfree-saltless-non-processed-organic lifestyle, and oh-theres-a-pizza-in-the-freezer-defrost-it-would-you?

I love that she's a terrible cook and doesn't care.

I love that she can match me quote for quote, watching "The Princess Bride".

"Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya..."

I love that she took us to hippy-dippy, three day, bring-your-own-falling-to-pieces-tent festivals. The kind that have vegan pancake stalls, and "learn to play the spoons" workshops, and people who sit around drawing other people's auras.

I love that she filled my life with strong, independent female role models.

I love that she was incredibly strict about my television viewing, loosened up for my brother, and had entirely given up by the time my sister came along. And is now addicted to Top Model...and references Tyra in conversation.

I love that when I took her to an insanely loud, offbeat Wellington cafe for lunch, she loved it. And wanted to go back for dinner.

I love that she never thought to screen what I was reading... and only realised that I had moved on from Enid Blyton, and was reading all of her library books when I handed one back to her, saying gravely "I don't think you should read this one, it has Very Rude bits".

I love that the one and only time it snowed close to my hometown she piled us into the car and drove for over an hour, so we could see it. And stood at the top of the hill shouting "You're okay baby!" as I plummeted to my death, screaming, clinging onto a body board..

And apologised after I emerged, slightly winded, clutching the broken board...

"Oh honey, I just didn't see that ledge"

I love that we have screaming, loud, terrifying for all those around us, fights. Because even though we're angry, it's good, honest anger. It's unafraid, "because I know you'll still love me tomorrow, no matter what I do", anger.

I love that our house was always teeming with unusual pets...chickens, frogs, lambs, goats, lizards, crabs...as well as the expected bunnies and guinea pigs, cats and dogs.

I love that she's always respected me enough to allow me a voice. And encouraged me to use it, to be opinionated.

I love that even though other parents would rent movies and take us bowling, my friends always wanted to come to my house. Possibly because we were allowed to play with matches.

I love that she "borrows" all of my jewellery. And asks my opinion of her clothing choices.

I love that she took care of me when I first got sick. And never stopped researching treatments after I was finally diagnosed (with CFS, I should add -nothing scary)

I love that I grew up knowing that it was okay to fight for anything I believed in. That it was okay to challenge conventions. And I loved watching her do it daily.

I love you Mumma, but god forbid you ever find this blog. You will be receiving this in email form.

Because Where Else Shall We Bare Our Souls, If Not On The Internet?

So.

I have this dream.

A waking dream. A daydream. A pretty little pipe dream. An awake-again-at-three-am dream. A keep fighting through, even though it's all so hard today dream.

A dream that appears in sleep. And stays after I open my eyes.

A heart dream.

In my dream I'm in a white room.

It's just a room, but still more.

It's my room. Within my house. Home.

The walls are smooth and bare.

The floorboards are pale wood, and worn.

White cotton curtains move gently in the breeze.

The windows are open and I smell salt. And sunshine.

I sit in the centre of a white bed.

On the floor, a stack of papers, sometimes the wind scatters them.

Sometimes, I catch at one.

They are blank, always, clean and unsoiled. Untouched.

Void of meaning and full of possibility.

I never move from the bed. I never stand, never move beyond the door. Never think to search for unfamiliar objects, listen for laughter, voices, footsteps.

I might not be alone. I wonder, half hope, for another?

But I will know when I need to, and not before.

It seems a strange dream, an odd hope, a mundane fantasy.

Simply a quiet room, in a house that is my own, shared with a maybe-someone.

On the very best days, this seems all I could ever want.
On a bad day, enough, this thing to work towards.
And on the very worst days, a comfort thought, a safe place, in which I, once more the crying child, may rest a while.

A home, security, a place from which I cannot be displaced.
Less, and more than I ever thought I'd have.
This modest castle-in-the-air.

Dangerously Close To Fandom...(In which Sara Quin is proved to have much the same effect upon my sanity as a produce shelf)

Outwardly I am not a celebrity obsessed kind of a girl.

I don't have posters on my walls (I do have swatches of vintage kimono fabric, pretty). I never read teen magazines as a wee one. And people whose voices reach ultrasonic frequency whilst talking about Zac Efron scare me. A lot.

I feel that the blame for these obviously inhuman, social discrepancies lies squarely on my mother's shoulders. Never a fan of the superficial mainstream world, as a child my television viewing was closely monitored by mater matres.

One of my earliest memories is of presenting a petition as a five year old, extolling the educational and moral benefits of watching "Barney and Friends".

Of course I may not have used those exact words... more like "Its really cool and you learn things. Like sharing, and how to use your imagination. And everyone else is allowed to" .

As soon as the last sentence slipped through my baby lips, I regretted them. Even as a five year old, I realised that I had just determined my darling Barney's fate.

"Barney comes to play with us, whenever we may need him, Barney can be your friend too, if you just make believe him....sob"

Alas, Barney and I, Beth and Barney, we were never to be. No magical rainbows in the air for me.

Barney was deemed; (1)An "unhealthy influence" upon my already "overactive" imagination (fair enough really, this was only days after I had fallen backwards down a flight of stairs running, screaming, from the Giant Toucan Heads* in my playhouse).

(2)An inappropriate and irresponsible show, in which small children were left unsupervised by their parents with a middle aged purple dinosaur.

(3) A worrying indication of my desire to "fit in" through the expression of similar tastes to my peers (Baaa! baaa!)

Once burned, twice shy. I would never again openly admit to a shared enthusiasm for anyone or anything. I would be a Fan no more.

And thus began my clandestine love affair with Pop Culture. Clandestine, a deep forbidden desire, masked by outward indifference....Much like that guy in your high school calculus class, the one you'd make eyes at, but never actually admit to liking in front of your friends. You know the one...and he was definitely in your calculus class. I refused to attend math class past the age of 15, clearly abstaining from "Barney" paid off. I was an uncooperative, non-conformist teenager. I didn't want to "work together", I didn't want to "get along" and I possessed a highly developed aversion to numbers. But that's neither here nor there. My point was that you had a thing for the math nerd.

Also that I, very secretly, love all things entertainment related. In much the same way that an experienced flatter will hide their chocolate biscuits in the veggie crisper, I conceal my well worn Marie Claire and Rolling Stone collections beneath tomes bearing frightening names such as "A Complete Anthology of Feminist Literature Through The Ages". In the past I have fuelled my secret addiction by taking "Popular Media" classes, "because it's just like so interesting, the way the media impacts our society, right?". And when making small talk with a new acquaintance I'd much rather discuss the weather, or Sylvia Plath, or shoes, or kittens. At least that used to be the case...

I have a confession to make. I am a Tegan and Sara F..Fff..Ffffa..Fffffttt. I'm sorry, I can't say it.

But you get the idea. These two adorable, talented women have come close to breaking my snobbish crunchy outer layer. I own all of their music. I know things about them, their taste in literature, allergies, even their birthday. So big deal, they're twins, it's one date right? wrong... I'm that bitch friend who forgets everyones' birthdays... I forgot my own mother's birthday this year (Yes, I know, I'm a bad person, I felt awful though). When I "run out" of things to draw, I sketch them. If I was ever to met say, Sara, I would most definitely have an anxiety attack (which actually isn't saying that much, the more "stressful" sections of supermarkets are currently provoking the same). When I meet people for the first time these days, I manage to work T&S into the first few minutes of conversation..and lose interest when they say "uh, who?"

It began with the music...with a mix cd, to be exact. On the 21st of December, 2007(?) ** , one Francesca handed me a cd; included in her selection of "music I should be listening to", three Tegan and Sara songs. It was like she'd poured me my first drink, delivered my first hit, introduced me to a previously unwatched Australian soap opera***. I listened to it twice and in due time, lost it. Because that's what I do, I lose things. So really it was a bit like she'd handed me my first drink, I'd taken a sip and spilled the rest down my front. End of. Not an exciting story really, I just wanted to use the drink simile. I thought it was funny.

Assignment time rolled around at Uni and being the conscientious wonderful student that I am, and possessor of a fantabulous work ethic, I was hard at work, reorganising my Media Player.

When Lo A Shining Light Appeared...

Fran had infiltrated my computer and added the same three songs. Because that's what best friends do...they beat you round the head (metaphorically....mostly) until you wearily agree to submit to their superior taste in music. Anxious to avoid doing anything remotely productive, I gave the songs a listen, and then again. And again.

Four days later I had finished my assignment and felt incredibly calm, I had travelled to a musical happy place. My flatmates however were irritable...and sick of hearing the same three songs on repeat. And so humbly, with a heart hungry for music (much like Oliver Twist) I went to Fran, with my little bowl held out in my hands and said "Please sir, can I have some more?"

A new world opened it's doors to me, a world filled with music and wonder, a fifth dimension inhabited by inked up twin elves and various other magical creatures...

It's comforting, knowing that if I'm having an urghish day I can use up my share of the internet on youtube, giggling my face off...have I mentioned how OhmyGod funny these girls are? They make beautiful music, are politically active (but not to an irritating degree), inspire laughter and actually pull off strange indie mullet hair, what's not to love?

(In' they cute? Everyone say awww on the count of three..)

(....one, two, three...Awww!)

This week I nearly spent my rent money on a pair of Sara shoes. The fact that I refrained from doing so is by no means indicative of my admirable self control. I just couldn't find them online.

Dangerously close to outright fandom. I would almost put up posters.

* Giant Toucan Heads, fairly self explanitory; oversized toucan heads borne on human shoulders. Social structuring similar to that of the notorious"Three Bears Organisation", most commonly found in threefold packs- "Papa" Toucan Head. "Mama" Toucan Head and "Baby" Toucan Head. Partial to porridge and five year old girls.

**ok making shit up, don't remember the date. or the year.

***O.M.G who watched home and away last night?...embarrassingly but undeniably addicted.

Note To Self. Never Use "Visualising" Or "Chakra" In Conversation Again..

So I stayed home last night, watched Project Runway and cut up bits of paper...yup, home on a Friday night...by choice. My flatmates laughed at me.

In retrospect I probably should have said something like "I'm tired and just want to sleep" instead of "Oh I have to be up at 7 tomorrow. Venus goes direct at 7:25 , so I really want to spend some time clearing out my creative spaces, cleaning, visualising...it's really the best time to do it, you know?" ...um, yeah "I'm sleepy" would have definitely been better.

However...this morning, they all have hangovers. And I have a lovely tidy desk and a handful of pretty paper words for my wall.

Sometimes ridiculous New Ageism really pays off.

Feeling Very "Deer Caught In The Headlights"

Sometimes the flash goes off before I'm ready.

What I Wish I Had Worn Today, Instead of Pajamas.

What I wish I was Wearing Today. by molly-the-insomniac featuring Carolina Amato Gloves gloves

Happy Easter Love Ducks.
And yes, my Polyvore username sucks. I'd had very little sleep. And was going through a "wish my name was Molly" phase. It happens.

Conversations With Crazy People...Indulge Me...I Miss Them.

Oh, nice, make fun of the short girl...

Mum- "Wake up Thumbelina."

Me- "What?...why am I Thumbelina?"

Mum-" She slept a lot."

Me- "No. She was the tiny one."

Mum- "Oh. Get up Thumbelina."

So proud...

Baby Sis- "Last week at school we told everyone that Nicole has severe anger management issues...Well, I may have told everyone....She maybe doesn't know....but it's awesome! Everyone's scared of her. Yesterday Bailey (who is like, so mean, Beth) was like "you can't sit there, I'm saving these seats" and I just wiggled my eyebrows and said "Sure about that?" "

Um, what?!

Brother Boy- "Hey Beth, what are the symptoms of heroin withdrawal?...It's for school, drama, we're playing drug addicts. We want to be as realistic as possible. So I told everyone I'd ask you."

The Architecture Of Sound, And Some Other Significant Things.

I think this picture is beautiful.

Perennial is one of my favourite words.

As are Maudlin. Melancholy. Macabre.

I like purple and turquoise and orange and red.

Especially together.

Listening to music with my eyes closed, I can see it.

Not in notes.

Or words.

Or moving lips.

More like seeing, and sort of feeling and being at the same time.

It's like the music is building walls. And houses and ladders and stairs.

A landscape full of multidimensional geometric shapes.

Unfinished building sites. Lyrical floorplans. Lines.

And I'm moving between them. Falling towards them, saved by the bass line.

I should point out that this is not a lame attempt at poetry. Just the way I hear things.

I like people, and talking.

Words, I love words.

But some days I don't want to talk, at all. So I don't. I swallow my thoughts and leave white spaces in the air.

I love ellipses...I frequently use them...and abuse them...and misuse them.

I'll tell anyone, anything. Anything, anything. All they have to do is ask. If they don't ask I won't tell them anything. Not even my name.

Yesterday I started to feel pale and insignificant. And like the rain might wash me away if I didn't hold on to myself tight enough.

I put on some raspberry lipgloss. It helped.

Why Public Transport Is Awesome. (alternate title- why I shouldn't be allowed out unsupervised...)

Forget saving the planet, yadda yadda, blah blah...Public Transport isn't just eco-friendly and socially responsible. It's Super Fun.

Four Fun Facts For Fun-loving Fellows?.....Fffff ff, I give up...stuff about buses.

In four parts.

Part One.

Bus Drivers.

Some are good, some are great, the greatest of the great, is "Fred".

I named him myself. "Fred" is marvellous, from the moment I stepped onto his bus, from the moment I heard his gruff voice say " 'Ello love, 'ow's yer day bin?" I knew that he was the one.

The one that I would name Fred.

I had already named several bus drivers; "Ernie", "Harrison Ford", "He Who Drives Like A Bloody Maniac", but I'd been saving Fred for a someone special.

And "Fred" is Special. He sort of reminds me of that old guy on Coronation Street. I like to think that when he's not Busing he gives out emphatic advice and cheerfully chops up meat.

Part Two,

Passengers.

Okay, may need several subcategories...

"Characters"... larger than life, wondrous specimens of humanity, entertaining, sometimes even inspiring. Providers of fodder for the regalement (funny voices and arm waving vital) of flatmates.

My current favourite...Miss Margery.

Every Monday I sit on the bus, impatiently waiting for Miss Margery's stop. Every Monday, without fail, she bounces her surprisingly sprightly, 70+ form, up the steps of the bus and greets "Fred" with a cry of "How low can you go?!"

...to which he, without fail, somberly replies "Mornin' Miss Margery, 'ow was yer weekend?"

and, without fail, she responds with a dance step, a (rather raunchy) shimmy and a glee filled giggle.

When I grow up, I want to be Miss Margery.

"Crushes"... Chances are, that at least a third of the people on your bus/train/oversized rickshaw are cute.

I am a serial bus crusher. I am quite capable of developing an irrational infatuation (the best kind) over the space of 40 minutes. As a result of this, I frequently miss my stops, spill the contents of my bag down the aisle and (probably) disturb the thoughts of any nearby psychics with my internal yelps of "No, no! Don't get off yet, don't leave me....byeee....I love you".

Its fun, with a capital F.

(Dear bus girl, oh yes, I saw you smile today...I will win you over yet)

"Corporates"...neither crush-worthy or inspiring...feel free to think of these folk as giant pieces in your Game of Life. There are many, many games you can play. Be creative, use your imagination. My personal favourites?

"Smiling Sweetly At The Shy One"...watch him start, stare and hide behind his newspaper (extra points if he changes colour)

And "Grinning/Winking At The Suspicious One"...much the same as above, but watch him fret over "the dangerous youth of today"(you), the threat they pose to society and their unpredictability (bonus round, eye up his iPod).

People are lovely. I however, am a bit evil.

Part Three.

Music.

In my opinion bus trips are the perfect time to listen to music.

And (there's always an and) if you turn the volume on your headphones up loud enough, you can share your music with the entire bus! They'll love you for it! Music Game!

Why not introduce the impeccably coiffed businesswoman sitting across from you, to the musical stylings of Amanda Fucking Palmer...or brighten the sad Emo's day with a Flight of the Concords singalong....give Blokey(staring at your chest)Bloke a taste of Peaches...

Even better (um if you're me), play Tegan and Sara (or adored band of choice)...watch for smiles or nods...if someone actually hums along, pounce!

They are your newest friend. They just don't know it yet.

Finally, and I consider this to be the most compelling part yet,

Part Four.

Yellow.

The (Wellington) buses are yellow! Apart from when they're orange and purple...or lime green, or occasionally bright pink. And who wouldn't want to ride around in a brightly coloured rectangle?

It's almost like sitting in a giant shoebox...there, another fun game...

Pretend to be a shoe. What kind of shoe are you? Are you pointy and dangerous? Or cute and uber-comfy?

Something to think about...while you sit inside your shoebox, singing loudly, making friends with All and Sundry....um actually, maybe not Sundry, he is a bit scared of you.

The Infamous Underwear Incident Of 2007

Whilst talking about my family to friends, I often receive looks.

Looks that say quite clearly "whatever Beth, you are exaggerating" (Peoples' eyes are generally a lot less polite than their voices)

(With the exception, that is, of the lovely Francesca. Her eyes usually say something like "Hahahaha! Tell your cousin I said Hi". Fran, having met most of my family members, knows the TRUTH.

She also, incidentally,witnessed the following Event ...or at least I think she did? Did you Fran? Did you?)

My grandparents like to travel. For as long as I can remember, they have packed up their little yellow caravan and hop.hop.hopped all over the country (it only takes about three hops, this is New Zealand). Sometimes they bring back gifts...Awesome, right? Right.

Their last "big" trip was to the South Island...

On their return we were subjected to two hours of "and look there's another lake..." photos.

I dutifully sat still and "Ooohed", because I am sweet. Um, or because I am a mercenary little soul and love presents...and I'd been promised a Very Special Present.

After an eternity (metaphorical of course, ha), present time had arrived.

Giddy with anticipation, heartbeat racing into overdrive, I tore open my package...and made a noise that went something like this

" Ooohooumer-squeak-yaycool-thanksum?"

and bared my teeth in a terrible rictus of a smile.

Eager to display the Very Special Present, my nana swooped down and grabbed the unisex Yfronts from my (confused) fingers.

Holding them aloft in all their androgynous glory, she proceeded to explain their Special status...

"Now Bethy Buttons, these are Very Special Pants. I bought them in Queenstown, at the ski resort.." pauses to beam "They are very fashionable! All the Japanese girls are wearing them...and even some Americans!"

I smiled, hugged her, said thank you properly (because I'm a polite brat) and excused myself.

I spent five minutes hiding in a linen closet, in hysterics.

Once I had sufficiently recovered, I plastered a beatific smile on my dial and re-entered the room, clasping the treasured article to my chest in a (rather convincing) display of enamoured appreciation.

My grandmother then succeeded in destroying my composure (and caused me to once more take flight) by remarking briskly "So glad you like them m'dear, now remember, these are nice pants. They're for good, not for everyday! And they're just for you. So don't you go sharing them around!"

I have never been able to ascertain exactly how my grandmother determined the undergarment preferences of her fellow tourists..

Or for that matter, work out what she imagined my extracurricular activities to be...Underwear swappage? Orgification? Some mysterious activity/ ritual involving the removal of underpants from my body...to be placed on someone elses?

Why you may ask, am I recounting this sordid tale of bizarre benefactory and ungrateful granddaughters? Dredging up the past? Ahem, er, airing dirty laundry?

My grandparents get back from Christchurch in a week. Ima' gonna start practisin' my happy face...