100wordsfor100days-blog
100 words for 100 days
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Death of a fish...
One of my fish died the other day. I felt neglectful. I was a bad fish parent.
I sometimes wonder how I raised a child to adulthood if I can't even look after fish properly. But I did. So that is something.
My guilt comes from me feeling like I should never have been responsible for something/one else's well being as I didn't have a proper mother to teach me how to do it correctly. I have always just guessed what I should do, just like with the fish. I think people should have to pass some kind of aptitude test to have either children or pets. Having this unconfident view of the care of loved ones makes surely for a messed up mind.
But, my only casualties have been fish so far. Another one looks a little lack-luster now, so I am worried. My first reaction is denial. And to eat potato chips.
As I get older, my ability to blindly accept responsibility is waning, as I know what that means. Maybe by 70, I will no longer be responsible for anything or anyone, and others will be responsible for me? That is a somewhat comforting thought.
I have been lucky with children. Very lucky. That makes me happy. Lets hope the fish make it.
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Enjoy your life
Enjoy
verb (used with object)
1. to experience with joy; take pleasure in: He enjoys Chinese food.
2. to have and use with satisfaction; have the benefit of: He enjoys an excellent income from his trust funds.
3. to find or experience pleasure for (oneself): She seems to enjoy herself at everything she does.
4. to undergo (an improvement): Automobile manufacturers have enjoyed a six-percent rise in sales over the past month.
5. to have intercourse with.
Do what it says - eat Chinese food, invest in trusts, make sales and have intercourse.
That is all.
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A hand across a divide...
I watched Amanda Palmers new video for 'The Bed Song' today. Twitter was alive with the tweets of the weeping, sappy suck-up's that where so gushy over it I thought she must be groaning about how people never tell you the truth when you are famous. I was almost 100% certain it would not make me cry, just as when others say something is 'hilarious' or 'cutest thing ever', it usually isn't. So, I watched in bed this morning to prove the dumb-asses wrong.
It tells a story of a couple's relationship journey, from teenagers to oldies, narrating the distance that comes between people as life happens. This is never an intentional fissure, it is something that is inevitable, but its what a couple does with that gap that defines the story of their love. Do you actively reach across the divide? Do you ignore it and hope it resolves itself? Do you pretend it doesn't exist and that love will make it all better? I have been in a situation where all of the above was true, and although there was always love, sometimes the distance is just too far to come back from, and you find yourselves looking at each other from across a great stretch of mundane, ordinary memories - as a great song says, you are the archive of your failure.
The bed is representational of the space between and it slowly grows wider as the time progresses. The scenes are heavy with words that will never be said, and opportunities lost in the wind, until finally it is too late.
I watched it till the end - and then burst into tears. Thats not something that typically happens with me.
I was stricken by the memory of this happening to me, and others I know, over and over again. I decided (again) right then, to not only never let it happen again, but to actively prevent this in my life. It is our egos and pride that stop us from putting our hand out to offer resolution, of even the most trivial things.
So here it is. I want you all to watch it, and hear her words. Then I want you to cry too, and tell the person next to you that this will not happen in your life, with them.
Marry that woman, commit to that man, say 'I love you' out loud, even if its scary and makes you vulnerable. Be the first to say sorry. Do whatever you have to do to make sure love stays with you.
You have a lot more to lose if you don't.
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New year, new writing challenge...
So my previous attempt at restricting myself to 100 words and committing to 100 days made it to about day 25, but thats okay, it taught me a valuable lesson.
I'd like to continue to write on this blog and experiment with styles and words (now that I have a computer again) so stay tuned! I am more likely to write with no restrictions, so it really will be interesting to see what the length and frequency turns into.
Feel free to offer me any themes or titles to write about
Cheers
Diana
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Thursday, 29th November 2012
This is a song of a hundred words
There are many things I could say to you
But I don’t have the strength
Or the time
I could say you hurt my heart
Or that you should die
But I don’t have the strength
Or the time
I could say you were the best
Or the worst I’d ever had
But I don’t have the strength
Or the time
I could say that you saved me
Or killed me, or loved me
But you didn’t, you didn’t have the time
We don’t have the strength
And we don’t have time
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Sunday, 18th November 2012
I have been really slack. I have failed in my task of consistently doing this challenge, so for that I am sad.
Today I am going to add a short story I wrote which has 2738 words in it, just to make up for it. It is a personal and true story which took place a year ago. I think it is my penance to share this. I hope you like it.
Diana
______________________________________________________________________________
Well, there it is. The modern world’s answer to the private detective.
A Facebook message from a stranger. Some words that remain on the surface of anonymity, not quite sinking into my reality. No context at all to my current life.
‘If you are the person we think you are, your Mother urgently needs you to contact her…’
I can only think of how unfair this statement seems. It becomes my decision, my issue, my resolution to an unknown problem. That definitely reminds me of my mother alright.
It also implies something dire – something vitally important, which only can mean one thing. She is dying.
Again.
In the last 6 years, she could have been in touch, resolved our differences, offered the opportunity to move forward, but no, it is now, when the time has come for absolution. Well I’m not buying it. Death bed dramatics.
I guess I really should explain this as I am sure you will be only thinking how callous and uncaring I am.
In some ways, you’d be absolutely right – I am uncaring and callous when it comes to my mother. Its quite a long story so I shall try to stick to the facts instead of the long winded version that takes several glasses of wine before it can even be considered.
My mother left my father when I was seven, and my sister was nine. She packed her bags in the night and was gone when we woke up. My father was devastated.
As children we could only consol him so much, all the while in our undeveloped minds, trying to think what we did/said to make her abandon us. We didn’t hear from her for a very long time.
My Dad did the best job he could raising us. We did only what was necessary to get by, laundry on Saturdays, dishes done when there was enough of a pile, beds made only when people were coming around. It was not an unpleasant life by any means, but I still to this day find it difficult to be a good ‘house-wife’. My sister was the same, although being a bit older than me, could better remember what it was like to have a motherly figure around, and therefore understood the principals at least. I don’t have many memories from the days before, and cannot for the life of me remember a time of great love from her towards me.
Which brings me to when she reappeared into our lives.
My assumption is, my father had been in contact with her, although I am not sure at what point. I was eleven I think, when he told my sister and I that our mother wanted to see us. I can remember how grey his face was when he said this.
It seems she was living in the next town, and had been all this time, twenty minutes away, in a grungy flat.
I recall feeling a bit elated, happy to be given the opportunity to be a normal kid, with two parents again. I could make up for whatever it was I did to drive her away. We dressed in our Sunday best to make the trip.
She met us at the door. My dad left us there after a cursory greeting, and said he would be back in an hour. I just stood there, wide eyed and scared, like a statue.
The house was rundown, small, and beige. To a child, it seemed to lack the usual colours of a life we were used to living in on the farm. And then there was the woman herself.
The first thing I remember is that she smoked. I was stunned by this, and had never known anyone until then that did. I felt choked by the swirling, snakelike coil that floated from an ashtray in the corner of the room.
She had cut her hair short, which was still black, but with a streak of blonde she had added to the front, she said it was for the band she sung in.
She smelled different too. Not like the perfume bottles and face creams that she had left behind, that the two of us would smell to remind us of her. She smelt like ash, and musk. She hugged us both awkwardly.
My sister, who was then thirteen, was not in any mood to be reconciled with her. They had always been too much alike, even then, but all I wanted was for her to like me again. I was very pleasant, and answered all of her questions politely and with a smile. My sister sat sullenly in the corner. I desperately hoped she wasn’t going to ruin this chance for us both, and wished she would just smile too. But she remembered more than I did about life with our mother. She was not happy.
Our dad returned, and left with us, without much said between them. This was the beginning of several visits to her, in almost identical meetings.
Within the next year or so, she had moved in with a man who was a lot older than her. We continued to visit her there, in his house. I felt very uncomfortable around this man, as he always hugged us just a little too long, and was always just a bit too affectionate. We were both scared to be alone with him
Still, I was just happy to have a mother, and enjoyed being spoilt by them on our weekend stays.
They soon decided to move to the West Coast, as his job was transferring him. I was once again devastated. That was about seven hours away on a train. But I had only just got her back!
Our visits became holidays to see them, maybe once or twice a year during school breaks. It was expensive back then, but our father did what he could to get us there with the limited funds he had.
We spent Christmas with them when I was twelve. That’s when she told us she was dying of cancer. On Christmas Day, while about to eat dinner. She said she they had given her six months. We cried a lot that day.
We visited her more during this time, and with phone calls often, with her updating her illness. She had lost a lot of weight with the medication. Her hair was thinning. I recall expecting the worst when we would visit the next time, and being surprised how she looked the same when we got there. It was explained that she was feeling better and had gained the weight back, and had been taking less medication. She had apparently had surgery, but there was no evidence that this had happened. Then, miraculously, she went into remission. No more cancer for her, although it could potentially come back at any point. In the meantime, we celebrated.
I know this was supposed to be the short version, but I only now realize, there is no short version. I apologise for that.
This was the beginning of several years of repeating this process – over and over again. ‘I’m dying…’, ‘I’m cured!’…’Its back…’ ‘I’ve beaten it again’ etc
I think there was about 6 times this happened over the course of the same amount of years.
In the meantime, my sister had begun to express her doubts that she had ever been sick at all. She still hadn’t completely bought into the new found mother relationship as fully as I had. I recall getting angry, defending her to the end. How could that be, no-one would ever pretend such a terrible thing. I could not comprehend the concept of this. It just wasn’t something that fitted in my mind.
My sister stopped visiting her with me, making excuses and bowing out. She was older by then, and was ready to have a life of her own. She found the whole thing to be repulsive, so was happy to let it go.
I stood my ground, hoping that eventually things would be resolved between the two of them. It never really was. I doubt my mother knew the real reason she avoided her.
Lets skip forward a few years. The pattern continued as before.
I had had my daughter by then, and was about to get married. We had continued to have a relationship of sorts, by phone, and the occasional visit, by then, I was twenty three. At that age, I too was taking everything she said with a large grain of salt, as it had been over ten years and she was still alive and well.
All conversations started with her asking how I was, and then before getting a chance to answer, she would get on with talking about her dramas, her illnesses, how many pills she would have to take, the men in her life, whose husband was in love with her and was her soul mate – it was endless, and I was disturbed by everything she told me. I would feel drained and aged when I would finally get to end the conversation, if you could call it that when you are only ever being talked at.
I was angry with her at my wedding. She insisted on staying at my house, with some man she had previously gone out with, but who had a car, so she was making him bring her down. She demanded separate beds for which I could not accommodate her, and spent several hours sulking on the night before the wedding.
The morning arrived, and my in-laws who I loved dearly, were on hand to assist in any way possible, including my sister-in-law’s doing hair and make-up, cooking lunch for the masses, and generally being my saviours.
My mother came in and sat at the kitchen table, lined up at least twenty brightly coloured pills and proceeded to gag them down, one by one, until all attention had been sucked her way. Someone bravely asked about what they were for, and then came the cancer story, with teary eyes and all. I have never been so embarrassed.
It only got worse from there, but I will spare you the details. But it definitely solidified my feelings that my sister had been right all along. Our mother was a compulsive liar.
I stopped talking to her so much after that. Blamed life getting busy and that kind of thing.
She would still manage to get a few hours in each month about her latest big thing. I clearly remember one time in particular, when she told me about her two men she was involved with, and they both knew about each other, and had agreed to share her. They were both her soul-mates apparently.
I think that was the first time I told her I found her lifestyle repulsive. She didn’t like that much. She said it was my turn to call her next, and I said if she was waiting for me to call her, it would be a long wait, as I didn’t intend on doing it anytime soon.
She didn’t call for a long time after that. I was relieved. I had realized how toxic and manipulative she was, and that she sucked the life-force out of me. I just couldn’t do it anymore.
The absolute last straw came, when I got an invitation in the mail, about a year after we last spoke. It was to my mothers wedding. She was marrying a man I had never heard of, and had moved to another town.
It was the last thing I wanted to do, so I declined the invitation.
Not long after, on my daughter’s 13th birthday, I answered the phone. It was a man, claiming to be my mother’s husband.
I said, ‘Okay, what can I do for you?’, he said my mother wanted to speak to her granddaughter on her birthday. I agreed, although wondered why she didn’t call herself, instead of a stranger calling for her. Then I understood why. She got on the phone, and was so drunk, she could barely form sentences.
When I called her out on this, she started in on the ‘woe is me’ and I just ended it there. I said she wouldn’t be speaking with her granddaughter that day, of any other. She literally whined like a child that I was being mean to her – it was then I truly realized how damaged she was. She had psychological issues, and major ones.
I actually went off at her. I yelled, and ranted, and shouted down the phone at her, for all of the years of doing this to me. For leaving me and my sister alone so young. For never apologizing for any of it. For so many years of lies, and for not seeing anyone outside of herself and her own internal games.
My husband at the time left the house in fear – he had never heard me raise my voice to anyone, let alone go completely crazy at my mother.
It was a bad ending to a bad situation for me – I did feel a lot better and purged afterwards, but I wish I had been more mature about it now. However, I doubt she would have noticed though – demonstrated clearly by the fact that when I was about to slam the phone down, she said ‘Remember, its you turn to call me next…’
And slam the phone down I did.
So that brings us to today. Nearly six years later. I kept my promise – I was done, and I still am. I have not for one day missed what we had. There was no love. Love is something that you give, not just take. And just because someone is related to you, doesn’t give you the right to an endless supply. It is okay to say no. She is not someone that adds any value to my life. She has been a cancer to me, and I was lucky enough to see this when I did. If that makes me callous and heartless, so be it. I am not bitter, or damaged by this woman, in fact, the exact opposite. I have been made stronger by this break. I have not regretted this.
So back to the issue at hand.
They, her and her husband I assume, are trying to reach me via Facebook.
And I am faced with a dilemma.
Do I go back on a promise I made to myself, that I would not let this ever happen to me again, or do I give the woman an easy out, a way of making her, in her twisted mind, forgiven before she dies?
Also, I am presuming she is dying, she could just want money. That wouldn’t surprise me in the least. She would be interested in that as she can see that I am doing okay for myself. The irony of that would be spectacular.
One key fact here – she is still alive. It’s been twenty-five years since that Christmas dinner. My sister is no longer with us. My mother is still here.
For that, I am bitter. I will concede that point, and own my bitterness on that one alone.
There is a catch here – if I don’t get in touch with her, it gives her more fuel for this fire, she could milk that one for a long time, as I am sure she did when I called it quits on our detrimental relationship. I am quite certain there was sympathy about being given up on by her heartless daughter, especially when she is so sick and all. I really doubt anyone knows the full story, but there you go.
Maybe I should send this to the strangers Facebook page. Then they can decide if they truly know who they are dealing with.
They only thing I would like to say to my mother at this point would be this:
You have made me who I am today, so you can blame yourself for my lack of empathy. You have made this bed, and you will have to lie in it. As will I. You cannot have forgiveness from me; you will have to ask God for that.
But I won’t.
My reply to the Facebook message:
I am sorry, you have the wrong person. My mother died when I was seven.
_____________________________________________________________
Footnote:
My mother died about this time last year. I didn't really say that last bit of the story, I just wanted to, but I managed to give her nurse a message, wishing her well and that I hoped it had been worth it, and that she had lived a good life. That was all I could do. Apparently she passed away before she received it. I didn't go to the funeral. She was 54 years old.
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Sunday, 4th November 2012
I saw a man today, on the street near where I live. He was scavenging for clothes at the Salvation Army shop where people had abandoned bagfuls for the poor shop workers in the morning, ignoring the ‘do not drop your crap here’ signs of course. He was happily undressing and trying his newly found treasures on – sans pants and shirt at this stage. He was also deeply involved in a conversation, with himself it seems. It was a rip-roaring story for which he was highly entertained. Some days I wish I was just like this man. Crazy happy.
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Saturday, 3rd November 2012
I have my Grandmother’s veil. It is in a ‘Little Ladies’ shoebox.
It is a tiny shoebox, which must have held a young girls Sunday best slippers, lace, size extra small, 15/L as written in faded pencil under the flowing script of the 30’s logo.
Sometimes I open it, and delicate lace spirals greets me, reminding me of a koru, or fern unfurling to meet the day.
It looks a little coarse, gauzy, but when you gently touch it, it feels downy, like feathers rather than the fine mesh that has been woven a long time past.
I miss her.
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Friday, 2nd November 2012
You wrote me a Haiku once. You loved me a lot more back then. I still remember it:
You are beautiful
Lying with your hair around
You are home to me
You no longer see me in the same way, as we are now so familiar you only see me as an accessory to your life. Something that would be sorely missed if not there, but replaceable. An inconvenience for a short while. Like a favourite pair of old shoes on their last legs. No more poetry, or expressions of love. For now it is just ‘where’s my clean underwear?’
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Thursday, 1st November 2012
I am a lemon tree. My branches are lean and flexible. The rain feeds me – I feel refreshed as my tightly wound roots have their fill. My leaves turn to the sunlight, ready to soak up its life giving goodness, like a blessing from above which I receive gratefully. My flowers are fragrant and tender, subtle petals attracting bees to bathe in my golden pollen. My fruit burst from beneath my leaves to ripen with glistening skins of yellow, juices just below the surface readying to be shared, for I am generous with my abundance. I am a lemon tree.
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Wednesday, 31st October 2012
I don’t know how long I can hold on. The water is rising, the wind tearing at my body as I cling to the staircase. I should have gone like the others, when they told us it was the last chance to get out before it hit. I just couldn’t do it. This had been my home for the last 70 years. And now it is being destroyed around me, ferociously and without mercy. My hands are getting weaker. There will be a moment soon when I will have to let go. I will see you soon Johnny, very soon.
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Tuesday, 30th October 2012
You are my salve, but you are also my wound. As much as my body yearns for your touch, my mind has said ‘Enough.’ Not a shout, or a cry for help. Just a quiet statement. I am done. Let me leave before there is nothing left of me. As much as I want to stay with you, the bitter taste of loathing fills my mouth with blackness when we are together. I am less with you. The weight of us uses me up, until I am a nubbin of worn down flesh. I am the same to you. Enough.
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Update at Day 16 - 1600 words down...
This has been a crazy experience - not what I was expecting at all. I find it really frustrating at making something be exactly 100 words - more often you want to write a whole lot more, or make it as short as a tweet. I have also realized how hard it is to say ANYTHING in only 100 words. Its totally not long enough.
One side effect has been I tend to feel so frustrated that I will write something else that can be a few thousand words - so if anything, its encouraging me to write actual stories. Its been fun to be asked whether certain things are true (like the falling in love one, which is really funny as it was a completely made up thing), or the ones that I am doing from a moment in time, when I got someone all excited that I was back in Europe. Also todays one was a request :) - you'll find a flat soon Brooke!
Sadly no, I am just experimenting in how I write, how it feels, what's hard, what's natural. For the coming weeks, I'm going to get a bit more intense, and have some actual difficult topics. I can't learn anything if I don't push myself right?
With 8,400 more words to go, I think I will be quite a different writer. It certainly opens you up a bit. Geez its so far off! Anyhoo, back to it. Hope you are having fun with me, my 4 followers! Woohoo!
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Monday, 29th October 2012
It’s hard to find the right house, whether flatting or buying. The key is to be polite but firm when it comes to securing it as your own. Renting, for instance, is a ruthless sport – people come in and under cut you for the best places, a bit like sale time at Brides’R’Us. In this case, make it very clear you want the place, and that you will better any other offer. Don’t leave the place without a signed agreement if it’s the one for you. The opposite is true when buying. Acting aloof and bored wins. (For you Brooke).
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Sunday, 28th October 2012
Oh dear God, I think I’m going to be sick. I’m clammy and pasty – please don’t let me throw up! Get a hold of yourself! Big breath in. Okay, it will be fine. Just concentrate. One foot in front of the other. That’s it. Nearly there. Oh no! My mind is blank! What was the first line? Shit, I don’t know! Stop shaking hands, its not helping! Okay okay, I got it, just hum the intro, it will come to you. Da- da- da- dum…here we go, the first notes are playing, the lights are coming up…its showtime! We’re on!
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Saturday, 27th October 2012
I fell in love with you once. It was just a moment that passed quickly, but for a small while I felt the pull of our fates that could easily have exploded into the rest of our lives. We could have fallen and never gotten up. Stayed there in that place where no one else can be. But regret is when you feel that moment, but know it is not for this time or place, not even this lifetime. It is a connection to the past or future, or alternate universe we feel, but only for that brief passing second.
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Friday, 26th October 2012
The meaning of ‘Friend’ has really taken a turn. With the era of all things online, advertisers, manufacturers and retail outlets are all about ‘sharing with your friends’. It has never been so easy to share any moment with whomever you like, as it happens. This has led to ‘friends’ now being ‘anyone you have ever made contact with’ – not even ‘anyone you have met’, just someone for who you have made a reciprocal connection. So what happened to actual ‘friends’ in the old school sense? Who do you cry with? Drink or laugh with? What are real friends called?
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