you+it

you wake weaker stronger.

more determined. this time.

you don’t need it anymore.

you’ve said your dozens.

whispered.wept.wailed.

seethed.

you dare yourself:

to stop.

stop.stare.breathe

until it gnaws in.

urge rips. claws back.

heats through.prickles under.seeps deep.

you don’t know how your body coursed before.

without it.

what if your blood needs it?

needs it in it.

to move around. to get to heart?

will you stop. if you stop?

just.end.stop?

no more?

?

We Need To Talk About.

'We need to talk about Sally.'
'Sally? Right...'
'Don't act like you don't know what this is about.'
'Take a deep breath Mary.'
'This isn't about me, I don't want to talk about me Harry, I want to talk about--'
'Sally. Yes I hear you.'
'If you heard me, then listen to me.'
'Errrrrrrrrrrr here we go...'
'No. Here you go! Why are you making this about me?!'
'Mary.'
'What?!'
'Mary, I'm not making anything. I'm sitting here, chilling out, enjoying this brew and you're flapping about getting yourself in a frenzied tizz.'
'Why do you like fighting with me? Is this fun for you? Stop looking at me like that would you?! I can see what you're thinking...'
'You clearly have no idea what I'm thinking. You're in a state, Mary. One of your bloody states.'
'I'm not in an anything! Just. Just fuck off then! Forget I mentioned fucking Sally!'
'I've forgotten already.'
'Good!'
'Can I finish my beer now?'
'Fuck off!'

Sky. HIGH.

You hold your breath.
Sink. UP. Deep. 
Float. Swim. 
To it's. Edges.

Sky. HIGH. 

xMuseandskipx

Antique-e-fied

Scouring out the vintage and valuable is not a new urban ‘hipster’ phenomenon but for those of us that don’t know our Wedgwoods from our Staffordshires (and don’t particularly wish to learn!) it can be an expensive gamble into the well-worn foray. The good news is, alongside the plethora of antique, buy&sell, and local garage sales in your woods is the abundance of choice! In order to help you save, and score, I have put together an Antique Roadshow ‘how to’ (or rather, how to shop for Granny’s wears without forking out your future inheritance):

Rule 1:

Know what you want: sounds straight forward but I have lost count of the times I have intended on hunting down a wooden ladder, a 70’s lamp or a bunch of beakers, only to come away with the kitschiest porcelain rendition of the Virgin-Mary-come-dust-collector. It may look awesome in store, and be a weekend ‘bargain’ but it is only going to clutter up your life! Stay ruthless.

Rule 2:

Know your space: take a tape measure. Yes, the 1950’s Blackwood drinks cabinet is amazing, but will it fit in your tiny weeny inner Sydney apartment? And, if you can (miraculously) manoeuvre it up five flights of stairs and puzzle piece it into your one empty corner, will it trump over all your other furniture? Measure your space to be filled, then (properly!) measure your lust new wares.

Rule 3:

Is it funky: not the disco kind. Be aware that mould, smoke and general moth-ball-living-in-a-dark-dewy-closet smells can actively linger – in your nose. You’re going to have to get in there and sniff it. There are methods of removing and/or disguising an array of mildewy smells (Google it) but you need to determine whether you can live with it and whether it is worth the effort.

Rule 4: 

Is it LOVE? Then get it! Or someone else will.

xMuseandskipx

[images pinterest sourced]

Happy Mr & Mrs Anniversary x

She liked to wander the late night.

He liked to swallow the early morning.

So they met there. To wander-swallow the new day.

They clung to the morning’s first corners.

They hid in the night’s closing ink.

They watched the morning night’s passers-by. Pass by.

She whispered not to wake.

He shouted to morning break.

Together they entertained feathered silence.  

The seeker owls were curtained while the morning’s sparrows stretched to trigger.

Their bodies; their together shadows spoke a hushed clear waltz.

And they nodded. To their intrinsic coursing composed strum…

 Forever together x

[photography by the wonderful Sarah Williams, words by museandskip x]

Fail?

So the summer (able-bodied) Olympics are over.  I hear the opening and closing ceremonies were a good show?  I might have a YouTube peek. 

Now – I am ALL for sport.  Full admiration and respect for athletes at the top of their game, chosen to represent their country because they are the (hopefully drug free) BEST; the best at hopping, skipping, running, jumping, throwing, treading, prancing and precision.  I just cannot imagine being that physically elite and alert!  While I am running for the train in the morning, these peeps are in cold pools, running hot laps and balancing their drive with the day-to-days of life.  WOW.

I didn’t watch the London Olympics but have viewed the games in the past.  What struck me this time around was the amount of social commentary around money invested in sport in Australia.  Primarily focused on the medal tally and the supposed ‘lack’ of Australian gold medals, the general consensus was that if we (being tax paying Australians and the Australian Government) paid more to and for head coaches and propped up sport sponsorship, we would be laden with GOLD. 

I get that the rivalry surrounding the Olympics is like a beefed up interschool carnival, but it is once every four years!  I am no expert on the coaching recruitment process or how much Australian coaches are paid in comparison to their overseas counterparts.  Further, I am not trying to discredit the amazing commitments elite coaches make, but the argument for increased funding and pay simply to boast about a gold medal haul seems ludicrous. 

Justifying Australia’s position on the Olympics medal tally was equally laughable:

‘If the UK had to compete as separate countries, we would have more gold medals than Ireland’

‘New Zealand does have more gold, but Australia is beating them in gold for stand-up events, all their wins have been for sailing.’

Just. What?!

Does this inspire anyone?  Does it build up future elite athletes to train, commit and strive for personal bests?  Why is gold all that really matters?

I won’t go through the athletes who appeared weeping, disgruntled, crushed at winning silver and bronze, no doubt you were subjected to the replays and the callers’ disappointment at another opportunity missed to yell ‘PRIDE!’.  My first reaction to these scenes was quite simply ‘spoilt brat!’ because in my mind coming second, third, even fourth (god forbid!) in the WORLD would cause an instant reason to forever party, but…I didn’t build the moment up in my mind for four years straight.  I didn’t lose by a fingernail, a millisecond, a centimetre after four (plus) years of hard fought training.  And I wasn’t feeling the pressure and disappointment of a nation obsessed with analysing a medal tally.

Of course elite Australian athletes should be supported financially for representing their country, for being the best that they are and can be.  But is it necessary to increase funding for Olympians to achieve gold every four years?  Or could the money be better spent on providing free sport, coaching and clinics for children of school age?  Better spent on providing sporting and educational resources and facilities in underprivileged and remote areas?  To be ‘hanging our heads’ looking at a medal tally that reflects the world’s most elite is itself shameful. 

We should be applauding the accomplishments our athletes have made in even making it to that level, and then opening our eyes to notice where else this kind of obsessive dedication and funding is needed. 

fun&games

Seems it is the season for the weird, wacky and downright awesome in the name of competition.  Stuff the London Olympics and the Tour de France – I would much rather hear about the training regime of five time World Wife Carrying Championship competition winners Taisto Miettinen and Kristiina Haapanen, or how one decides on the art piece that will become their entry for the North American Beard and Moustache Championships!  But ultimately, I have got to get myself to Moscow next year for Glamour Magazine’s annual high-heels run…and I have already signed myself up as taste tester for the Diageo Reserve World Class Bartender of the Year competition – the perfect way to top off a world of fun and games.

xmuseandskipx   

  

Motivate.

Today the on screen sentences are disappearing faster than they are appearing as I cull last night’s ‘genius’ short story beginning from a stark looking word document. I must have dreamt that I had passed the 1,000 word mark…and dreamt that the words linked to make any sense, made any form, were tied to a central theme. It is 10am. My cup of tea is cold.

I flick back through an accumulation of post it notes scribbled on during breaks in slumber. Depressingly, they too seem to be disjointed, but I add them to the increasing glaring desktop document titled ‘WRITING INSPIRATION’. ‘Star anise’ is added along with ‘truss’ ‘viscid’ ‘mettle’ and ‘birr’. I add a reminder note to ‘make every sentence clear’ and ‘not get caught up in complicated description’. And then I begin to procrastinate.

There is a program that allows you to ban yourself from social media for a period of time. I should really Google that, find out the program I need to install, but not today. I scroll down the Facebook News Feed, clicking on high school ‘friends’ with fresh offspring, travel plans and Monday vices. Already bored of it, I am ALT TABing from Flikr to Tumblr, Pinterest to LinkedIn, Bloglovin to Gmail. I have to get out of the house...

xmuseandskipx

Timed. Tock.

She practices your in and out.  Whispers into your soothe.

Breathes in deep your dreaming.

She fears loss.  Ebbs by clinging in.  Clinging on.

Tangles about you in weathered worry.

She forgets your memories.  Stitches you in together depths.

Hollows vessels.  Pinches spirit.

She watches the trees grow winter.

Nestles in closer.  Feeds on hibernation.  Scratches at your bones.  
Until they become hers. 

Until she can’t separate.

Until you need her too.


xmuseandskipx

Giddy Loving x

My nearest and dearest are getting all love-giddy: engaged, married and baby-ed. They are walking around in a spring, all beautiful glow and doey-eyed planning their dream days and spouting about their one-trues. And I am THRILLED to the edges for them. I want to hear all about it. More about it. And be the first to know it.  
I want to toast them with the best bubbles. Hug them to their bones. Quote them my favourite poetry. And do my crazy dance to Calvin Harris' 'Feel so Close'. 
I just love love. 


xmuseandskipx

 

Your Blog is Shit.

I just received my first ‘this is awful, you are shit’ comment about my blog. Sitting ugly in my inbox by Anonymous, I have no means of responding directly to the reader’s assertion of spectacular boredom at my self-interested ‘attention seeking’ writing.

Wow. Humbling.

The post that Anonymous read and chose to leave criticism about was my very first one. A post where I explain my blogging-turn-to-point (for who? Probably a justification for myself). So I re-read it. And you know what? It does sound a bit fucking whingey. What I had hoped to get across was that I was at a turning point, a point where I could continue to sail along on a university degree that allowed me a certain amount of consistent work and bill paying ability. Or, I could make a change – skip towards my dreaming. Dance with uncertainty. Holler at my self-doubt. I thought I was saying that I was scared to skip, dance and holler…but more frightened not to.

Don’t we all go through times in our lives where we are a bit ho-fucking-hum? A bit ‘oh shit how did I find myself here – not there?’ I know I am not alone in considering how to juggle extra trips overseas while saving for white pickets, still needing those shoes and that outfit and tickets for those festivals. AND questioning whether what you are doing right now, the work that increasingly fills in life-balance, will satisfy you in 10, 20, 30 years?

I think it is OK to question these things as a way of evaluating your own goals and motivations. Since writing that post I have changed direction ‘done something about it’ as Anonymous so kindly suggested I should. For me, writing it down was a means of owning it – here is how you are feeling about your path right now – here it is; transparent. I could have saved it for myself. Bought a new journal, typed up ambitions and action plans in bulleted form, written myself motivational sticky notes in a rainbow of colours. I am not saying that posting something on the internet should be applauded, but for me it was a hard thing to do, to admit that I was floundering and needed motivational help. Attention seeking?

Writing for me is easiest when I have a beef to voice. When something or someone’s action has crawled under my skin and spurred enough emotion to motivate me, or when I am particularly sad, reminiscent, lonely, missing. Most of the time life is all crazy fun, rainbows, vino, midnight, dawn and easy. But no one wants to hear all about that all the time, do they? The Jeff Buckley, Plath, Dylan, Poe and Elliot Smith fans tell me no.

Life is bloody good and I am getting to where I want to be. Even if I don’t make it all the way, I have enough of the good love to satisfy me for lives to come. No regrets. Thank you Anonymous for urging me to write today – I need all the motivation I can get.

xmuseandskipx 

Dowed.

Flicked.

Licked.

Shelved.

Flashed.

Glow.

Gloss.

Sweat.

Rip.

Played.

Swayed.

Sparked.

Burned.

Glare.

Dart.

Shoot.

Tremble.

Owned.

xmuse & skipx