The Muse's Prayer

Dream a little dream of me,
Or sing the sun awake.
Paint me a prism or
Stage a scenic play.
Mellow me some musical streams,
Rhythm a rhyme or two,
Willow a whimsied waltz, or three,
Shimmy and shake shiveringly, but
Oh,
Please,
Soar my spirited seeds,
Inspire sweetly, for me.

For Robin Williams, who lost the fight, and for the rest of us, who are still fighting.

It's been a long time since I managed to write anything here. Yesterday, I woke up to the news that Robin Williams was dead, by suicide. I didn't want to believe it, but like everyone else I had no choice.

My Facebook news feed was flooded all day with RIP messages, and peppered with words of sympathy reaching out to those who feel suicidal and/or who are depressed to talk to someone, anyone, that they're not alone, and to seek help. There were also some expressions of confusion - how could someone so successful, who laughs all the time, such a people person, be moved to commit suicide?

I'm going to say a few things now that might offend some of those well-meaning people, so before I do, let me say this: I mean to educate others using an insider's perspective.

For perspective: I have battled depression since childhood. Along the way, I have had my own near-suicidal experiences. No, I don't want pity. There's no point to it, so put it back where it came from. This is just for those of you who would say 'How would you know?'.

The thing about suicide is that it's very easy to argue against it, if you're in your right mind. Therein lies the problem, of course. It's a well-known fact that suicidal people are not in their right mind - nowhere near it. You can argue against suicide all you like, but if you're trying to talk someone out of suicide, I can only say one thing: good luck.

I've experienced two types of near-suicide, which I've named 'suicidal phase' and 'suicidal impulse'. I found the first to be incomparable misery, and the second utterly terrifying.

Suicidal Phase: I can best describe this as a period of time in which the sufferer has such a 'low mood' [doctors, nurses, psychologists, fellow depressives, you know what I mean] that they cannot see a light at the end of the tunnel. There is no hope, no light, no joy, no bliss, no happiness; it is unending misery, loneliness, a dull ache that takes over your entire being and threatens to swallow you whole that no painkiller in existence could ease. There is no escape, except to make it stop.

Key word: escape. If the sufferer uses this word in their description of how they feel, psychotherapy and counselling should be able to help them get through this incredibly dire time. Talking things through may well reduce the severity of this episode, although it may not remove it.

Suicidal Impulse: I can't decide on a way to adequately describe this one. Imagine it as an almost physical compulsion. It comes on and you feel compelled to follow it. The sufferer might not be in a suicidal phase at the time, and they may even be doing very well psychiatrically, psychologically, and physically; or they could be in the throes of a nasty bout of depression, symptoms flaring like a fireworks festival, even within a suicidal phase perhaps. In the one case it seems to come out of nowhere, spontaneous, a great big shocking surprise; in the other, it seems like a natural progression. Either way, this case is the most immediately dangerous, because the sufferer has to control the impulse using mind over matter - and when you're already fraying at the edges, it can unravel you. You're driving along and out of nowhere, you want - need - to drive into a wall at full speed; you're walking along a high place, and out of nowhere, you want - need - to fall; you're doing sweet fanny adams at home, and out of nowhere, you want - need - to take all the pills in your medicine cabinet.

Key word: impulse.

It doesn't matter that the impulse hits - it matters that the impulse is overcome. Robin Williams killed himself last night - and countless others too, no doubt. How many times did they have to fight off the quasi-compulsion? And what toll did those fights take on their overall health? And why, oh why, do we get these moments and phases? Psychiatrists haven't found the answers to those questions yet, and I live in the hope that they'll find them soon.

So. There it is. Being cheerful, happy, full of laughter, in love with the world, in love with someone, glad to be alive, enjoying life, and all the good things possible, just aren't enough to stop an impulse hitting; and occasionally, they're not enough to save you when it does. No amount of seeking help will stop you at that moment in time if the impulse hits too strongly for you to fight it off, unless there's someone right next to you who realises what's going on and physically intervenes - and even then, it's a risky chance.

Obviously I can't speak about actual suicide, because I'm still here.

Robin Williams cheered me up to no end as a child, and captured my imagination through his films the way only books had previously. I'm going to toast him tonight, because he did his best to be a light in the darkness for others in many ways, and a particularly effective one as he was well acquainted with the abyss itself. If I do nothing else with my life, if someday I myself lose to such an impulse, I pray - as well as an agnostic can - that I will have been a light for others too. That's the best any of us can strive to be, I think. It doesn't matter how we end, what matters is how we live.

Sincerely,

Macs

Notes from Paris

In 2012, I went to Paris with one of my oldest and dearest friends, Erika. Heck, having gone to the same school and been in the same class for almost 12 years, we're practically sisters. Here are my journal entries from my first two nights there.

'3rd October 2012

There is a man standing across the street from my window. I had seen him when we first arrived outside our lodging, and took him for a tramp. When I saw him now, I stopped to watch what he was doing at 10:30pm outside, worried for a second that he was up to no good.

It became clear that he was watching something intently, and I wondered if I was about to witness something criminal. I followed his gaze to long bundles on the ground. He is watching two people sleeping on the street, a street of wonderful Paris. He is ever vigilant, or so it feels, watching over his friends or family while they sleep on the street. I wonder, in fact I hope, that perhaps he too will sleep when one wakes and relieves him of his post; a changing of the guard, the homeless guard.'

---

'4th October 2012'

Montmarte, with its many shops and the one humongous church, was our first sightseeing endeavour. No lover of architecture, masonry, glasswork, sculpture, giltwork, frescoes, or carpentry should leave Paris without paying Sacre Coeur a visit. Spiritual folk, on the other hand, needn't bother.

Even I, 'faithless' heathen that I am, must admit a sense of other when entering a church, or in fact any place that is sacred to people. This is not such a place. It is a monument whose purpose is forgotten to the modern man. It stands, instead, as a reminder of a once exuberantly aesthetic ideal peoplekind had; it stands, and international hordes flock to see it. Vultures abound, selling whatever gewgaw they can, badgering tourists to see, see, beautiful lady, listen, buy for 10 Euro, a bargain. This once holy place has now become a courtesan of capitalism's god, Money.

But to the lovers of aesthetic, I urge you: visit. See Sacre Coeur from streets away, glowing cleanly in the distance above buildings six, seven, eight storeys high. Marvel at its height before you ever lay eyes on the ten flights of stairs that torment you, making your goal tantalisingly far and close simultaneously. Relish that moment of peaceful bliss given by the gracefully tall trees surrounding you on your ascent to the pristine structure. Take in the unique script chiselled into the stones above the entrances, the majesty of the dome, the intricacy involved in every single object housed within.

Erika giggled quietly at a woman trying to catch something ahead of us, when I looked up at the inside of the dome to see four simple, gigantic, beautiful winged angels sculpted into the ceiling. As a feather floats lazily down, I think how splendid that it happened just then. Remembering Erika's giggle, I turn and point out the feather, just as a thought settles into place... "Qed nidhak 'habba r-rix tal-hamiema go knisja!"* she explains with a grin, confirming my thought. In a church where cameras are clucked angrily at and machine gun soldiers patrol threateningly, a pigeon finds its way into the dome, to redecorate with feathers and guano at will.

After much traipsing around Montmartre, our bodies finally deliver the bill for a day spent walking, lugging cumbersome baggage about, and heading up the wrong - and long - main street. My hip gives in, my feet are on fire, Erika's feet stab her with every step, and we both suffer cramped blueish fingers from all the carrying. Having hobbled to our lodging, we collapse at either end of the sofa, grit our teeth as the shoes are pulled off, and end up near-comatose watching a Steven Seagal movie in French.

I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.'

*Translation: "I'm laughing because there are pigeon feathers inside a church!"

---

Sadly, that's all I wrote about my visit to Paris. As you can imagine, we visited several other places, and ended up far more exhausted than we had been after our trip to Montmartre. I will say this about Paris: if you want to visit lots of cultural attractions, take a whole week and for the love of god people, don't skimp on train or bus tickets!

Sincerely,

Macs

The Secret to Writing

Writing is hard. Writing is easy. Mostly, I find statements about writing ignore the action’s purpose: exorcism. Ejaculation. Ejection. Expunging. Expulsion. Eviction.

I could go on. Really. I earned the title Walking Dictionary well before I turned 12; a BA and a third through a MA later, you can rest assured I’ve graduated to Flapping Thesaurus.

What’s my point? Oh yes. Writing.

The thing, the real thing, about writing is that it’s a personal action. It doesn’t matter what medium you use, what form or genre you write, it doesn’t matter – in the end – how you do it. The real ‘thing’ about writing is that no-one else can do it for you.

… Ah, I hear a few readers snarking. Yes, you could tell someone what to write and they would then write it for you, but they’re not in your head. You have to dictate. You have to enunciate your thoughts to them. Jackass!

… As I was saying. If you don’t communicate that idea in your head and transform it into an artefact – visual or audio – then it stays in your head, doomed to gather dust, stagnate, or go to the place all unvoiced thoughts go to die. THAT, my friends, is the real problem with writing.

The ones we talk about all the time, like writer’s block? Poppycock. I’ve used an old word that sounds ridiculous because the idea of writer’s block is ridiculous. You do not have writer’s block. You have fatigue, possibly; a lack of ideas, maybe; an aversion to thinking your way out of that wall you say you’ve hit, quite probably. But writer’s block, an inability to begin, continue, or finish writing something? No. And I’ll tell you why:

Assuming, that is, that you are a writer, and possess the language fluency and linguistic acrobatics required to write well, then saying you have writer’s block is an insult to yourself and your abilities. It means that you think you’re not good enough to write what you want to write – you’re essentially saying that you’re not a writer. For the love of whatever you hold dear, don’t call it writer’s block. Describe your problem, talk it out, and you’ll find a way out of that box you constructed in your head.

You want to know the secret to getting down to writing? It’s the conviction that you can write. That’s how we all started out, and that’s how we all continue. We believe, to the point of knowing, that we can write and therefore will write, until eventually we actually write. We have the ego that says we are writers and will brook no argument to the contrary, teachers and critics and readers be damned.

A powerful concoction of conviction and ego. That’s it, folks. That’s the big secret.

Sincerely,

Macs

Singing in the rain

I had the mother of all bad ideas today.  What did I do? I bought groceries on a rainy day.  On foot.

Malta.  An island that doesn't have winter so much as 3 months of flash floods.  It is actually possible for the town most notorious for flooding to flood a foot in 15 minutes - at least, it did when I used to work there [and I'm actually willing to bet on a shorter time-frame].  It is also possible for a tiny hilltop village, my current home town, to flood 3 inches in 15 minutes.

But I didn't know that before I headed out to a local grocer.

I am drenched.  I may have changed out of my sopping, soaking, sodden clothes and squelching shoes and into warm dry ones, but I can't shake the feeling of having walked through a thin waterfall.  If I had known this would happen, I wouldn't have bothered showering before I left.  Or washing my hair last night.

Did I mention my jacket's zip broke? Haha! Haha! Ha!

NEVER AGAIN.  Somebody get me a cup of tea and a hair drier.  And for the love of god, folks, avoid going outside when it's raining hard in Malta.

Steaming by the heater,

Sincerely,

Macs

2013: Curse of the Lucky, or, Damn Well Kicking

I swore I wouldn't make a list of all the good and bad things that happened this past year - you know, the usual crappy stocktaking we all do when faced with a 'new' year.  Is it new, though? Isn't every day new? So what makes one year different from another? Well, nothing at all really.  It's a convention agreed on centuries ago to mark the passage of time with numbers, so we got used to marking mid-winter as the end of one year and the beginning of another.  And around this convention, we've built a whole gamut of traditions to make this particular moment in time seem more important than any other time of year.

Newsflash, darlings: it's not.  It's just another day in our lives, and there is nothing different about it in the least.

Not that I'm complaining.  For one thing, it's a public holiday, and I love public holidays as much as the next person.  Possibly more, because I usually have to be pushed into taking any leave from work, and it's never to relax anyway, so they usually provide me with some much needed R&R.  [But I digress.]

There is something satisfying about laying the past to rest, and opening your arms and heart to the future.  The more time passes, the more I realise that most people don't do this on a regular basis and actually require the rigmarole of New Year to carry out this essential mental and emotional cleansing.  I do it every few months anyway, because I've learned the hard way that letting dead issues stack up in my mind is the correct recipe for a festering, maggoty mess inside my head.

Got that cheerful postcard firmly imprinted onto the screen of your imagination? Excellent! There's nothing quite like the mental scarring of some good advice for some character-building! ;)

I've decided that instead of regaling you, dear reader, with a list of glorified 'Thank god it's over!' and 'Thank god that happened!' moments from the past year, I shall write you a list of lessons that have served me well.  Yes, lessons, because whoever said education stops at school or university or any kind of formal training was lying to you, the bastard.

1. You will find yourself faced by obstacles of all types throughout your life, because life is hard, and would be terribly boring if it weren't.  Accept this fact and get on with living - because if you don't, what's the alternative? Losing your place in the gene pool? Oh dear.

2. Humans are a destructive, invasive species.  As a sentient being, appreciate that you, your loved ones, and the rest of the race are a poison to the very planet that supports you.  Be kind to your environment while you can, before it becomes as poisonous for you as you are for other organisms.  Because once it does become deadly to humans, memories of the non-murderous environment may be the only thing keeping you warm at night.

3. Stupidity abounds! Be grateful for your intelligence, and understand that the smarter you are, the greater your capacity for stupidity - 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall', as it were.

4. Medicine is a godsend, but deities are renowned for their cruelty as well as their kindness.  I'm talking about side effects.  I'm talking about chemical dependency.  Mostly, I'm talking about quality of life.  Don't swallow a pill when another solution exists.  Pills should be used with caution, when necessary, and not because you want a quick-fix to your health problem.  Quick-fixes are notorious for a reason.

5. Treat your body with respect: it's the only one you have, and the only thing you'd be left with if you lost everything but your life.

6. If you don't want to do something, for whatever reason, but it has to be done and there's no way around it, quit whining, suck it up, and do it.

7. Always have at least one hobby: you'll socialise, you'll have something to talk about, you'll have an outlet for stress, you'll be a better, happier person overall.

8. Resist technology at your peril.  We live in an age where society is no longer just physical, but digital, and any attempt at staying away from the digital world will actually cut you off from a growing portion of society.  I'm not saying go out and buy the latest hardware and software; but I am saying get comfortable with the changes in social interaction.

9. Get creative.  Use your imagination, exercise it.  Watch movies, read books, view visual art, listen to music, sing, dance, act, paint, make things; but more importantly, engage with whatever creative outlet you're into.  Passivity is for puppets, and last I checked we're not made of wood.

10. The single most important bit of advice that I've come across in my short lifetime: keep moving forward.  Don't dwell on your failures, don't dwell on the past, don't obsess over 'what if?', and don't get stuck in the now.  Just... Keep. Moving. Forward.  

As posts go, this is perhaps one of the grouchiest I've pattered out.  I have yet to experience a year's end free of stress, running about like a beheaded chicken, free of ridiculous expenses, and so on; in short, I have plenty of reasons to be grouchy [don't we all?].  And I'm thankful for that, because it means I'm (a) alive, (b) surviving, (c) in control, (d) happy, (e) doing my damnedest to keep things that way.  I am lucky enough this year that I can tick off (a) to (e), and while it's hard, because living is hard, I'm bloody glad about the whole thing.

Here's to us, my friend.  We're alive, and we're damn well kicking.

Sincerely, 

Macs

Running Commentary: Rehab by Amy Winehouse

I don't know about you, but whenever I watch a movie, tv show, listen to a song, or do anything that involves taking in popular culture, I hear a voice in my head with a running commentary.  This affords me no end of amusement and food for thought.

Case in point: the song Rehab by Amy Winehouse.  

If you don't already know this, Ms Winehouse lost her war against her demons, fell to temptation once again and died of alcohol poisoning on 23rd July 2011.  She was diagnosed with manic depression, had a drug habit that she amazingly managed to kick after several years, only to once again develop an addiction albeit to a different - and legal - substance [alcohol].  Although she tried to help herself, she didn't want outside help, refusing psychological treatment.  And not long after that, she drank a hell of a lot of alcohol and died.  Draw your own conclusions.

Now on to my nefarious yet humorous observations.

1.  Is there a more fitting vice for someone with a surname like Winehouse? I swear it's like Malvolio or Toby Belch in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night!

2.  She wrote a song in 2006 about refusing to go to rehab, because at the time she thought she didn't have a problem.  Looks like Alanis Morissette's Ironic needs another unironic line: It's like refusing to go to rehab, then dying of alcohol addiction. 

3.  I now present you with the lyrics to the song, undermined by my comments. [Spoiler alert: I have a very catty running commentary voice.]

They tried to make me go to rehab, I said, "No, no, no" - I think you'd agree now that that was a bad idea.

Yes, I've been black but when I come back you'll know, know, know - We would, especially since now it would require a feat attributed only to Jesus and other unnatural beings.

I ain't got the time and if my daddy thinks I'm fine - you're 24 and you still think Daddy always knows best? Oh honey.

He's tried to make me go to rehab, I won't go, go, go - Tantrum, anyone?

I'd rather be at home with Ray - Really? You can't listen to music anywhere except at home?

I ain't got seventy days - Not any more you don't.

'Cause there's nothing, there's nothing you can teach me 

That I can't learn from Mr. Hathaway - Shall we make a bet?

Didn't get a lot in class - *Gasp* No! Really?

But I know it don't come in a shot glass - There I was thinking you preferred it by the bottle.

They tried to make me go to rehab, I said, "No, no, no" 

Yes, I've been black but when I come back you'll know know know

I ain't got the time and if my daddy thinks I'm fine

He's tried to make me go to rehab, I won't go, go, go

The man said, "Why do you think you here?"

I said, "I got no idea - Har har har.  Good one Amy.  Pull the other, it's got bells on.

I'm gonna, I'm gonna lose my baby

So I always keep a bottle near" - ...to beat him into submission?

He said, "I just think you're depressed" - No shit Sherlock. Give the man a prize!

Kiss me, "Yeah baby, and the rest" 

They tried to make me go to rehab, I said, "No, no, no"

Yes, I've been black but when I come back you'll know, know, know

I don't ever wanna drink again - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZ7BcumfEXo

I just, ooh, I just need a friend

I'm not gonna spend ten weeks

Have everyone think I'm on the mend

And it's not just my pride - Really? It's not?

It's just 'til these tears have dried - So that's why she looked shrivelled! SHE WAS DEHYDRATED!

They tried to make me go to rehab, I said, "No, no, no"

Yes, I've been black but when I come back you'll know, know, know

I ain't got the time and if my daddy thinks I'm fine

He's tried to make me go to rehab, I won't go, go, go

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the sort of thing that runs through my head when my brain refuses to shut up and enjoy what I'm listening to or watching.  I am a self-confessed commentator - you should have heard me muttering at yesterday's Master It! meeting - and the worst person to sit next to at the cinema [hey, at least I don't go into full-blown critical analysis like this one guy I know].

Until next time folks!

Sincerely,

Macs

Would you risk your life for a contraceptive?

No.  I don't care how badly you don't want to get pregnant, the answer to that question is a definite, absolute, resounding no.

What's got into Macs today?, asks my dear reader.  Let me correct you.  It actually got into me 14 days ago.  Wow, that's specific! How do you know that?, you question.  Oh, well, I'm glad you asked.  I put it there.

Let's rewind to my yearly gynae appointment in the last week of September.  It went well - I was recovering from a bladder infection so I got to miss the smear test [this is the only time I will be grateful for having urethritis!], the doctor was pleasant and helpful as always, and very sympathetic to my plight.  What? Oh, my plight, yes well.  I wanted to change my contraceptive, to something ideally non-hormonal, or else to something with a small dose of hormones, because I'm prone to depression and would like to reduce anything that could affect it.  The non-hormonal options I was interested in were shot down in seconds because I've never had kids, and even though I explained exactly how much I don't want and never have wanted any anklebiters of my own, the doc was adamant.  No to the intra-uterine non-hormonal devices.  I gave in when she used the words 'uterine tearing', because I am extremely squeamish [thinking about it, I'm surprised I'm fine with the sight of blood].

So then we went through all the possibilities remaining to us: hormone injection every 3 months [downside: if I react badly, there's no taking it out], contraceptive patch [downside: fly abroad or give my prescription to someone going to the UK to bring back a supply, because Malta is of course run by idiots who thinks preventing pregnancy is a bad thing, ergo a contraceptive that's only good for contraception is the devil], hormone implants [see downside to hormone injection], or other pill-type contraceptives [downside: I get sick too often for this to be reliable, reason 2 for changing contraception].  That left only one option: a vaginal ring that releases the same hormones the pill does right at the source of all potential trouble.

Here's the sales pitch: no remembering to take it daily, you just put it in, leave it for 3 weeks, remove it, let 7 days pass, then repeat.  Hardly any side-effects, maybe some spotting during the first month of use, but otherwise it's perfect, especially because it doesn't cause mood swings.

-_-

You know what that face means people.  You know it, I know it.  Allow me to fill you in on the hell that has been my life since 5th October 2013.

Day 1: fine and dandy.

Day 2: fine and lazy.

Day 3: worry.

Day 4: worry worry.  Stress.

Day 5: stress.  Anger.  Stress.

Day 6: stress.  Anger.  Anger.  Anger.  Stress.

Day 7: stress.  Anger.  Stress.  Try not to cry.  Misery.

Day 8: misery.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.

Day 9: misery.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.

Day 10: misery.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.

Day 11: misery.  Crying.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.

Day 12: misery.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing. Misery.  Stress stress stress.  Anger anger.  Crying.

Day 13: misery.  Stress.  Sobbing.  Stress.  Anxiety.  Stress.  Anxiety.  Sobbing.  Weeping.  Bawling.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.  Crying.  Try not to kill myself by driving into something intentionally.  Sobbing bawling sobbing weeping sobbing crying sobbing bawling sobbing groaning.  Fear of leaving the house.

*something awesome and cool happens*

Day 14: Fine.  Fine.  Fine.  Anxiety.  Fine.  Anxiety.  Okay.  Anxiety.  Stress stress stress.  Okay.  Anxiety.  Okay.  Crushing disappointment.  Admit defeat.  Pretend all is well.  Try not to sob.  Calm down enough to explain what's happening.  Okay.  Bitter disappointment.  Frustration.  Frustration.  Super-frustration.  Anger.  Anger.  Crying.  Misery.  Fear of seeing other people.  Fear of communication.  Panic attack.  Anxiety.  Panic attack.  Crying.

If you bothered going through that, you'll have noticed the part where I said I tried not to kill myself.  I haven't had seriously suicidal thoughts since I was a young teenager going through the double whammy of puberty and depression.  As you can imagine, these sudden feelings of wanting to die added to my already excessive levels of panic, because if there's one thing I love it's living, and I wouldn't swap my life with someone else for anything because I really really really love my life.

Bring on resorting to the Internet.  I typed in 'nuvaring causes depression anxiety' and a plethora of forum posts show up.  You can imagine how sane I then felt: I wasn't the only woman turned overnight into a psychotic bitch whose crying exceeded her water intake all because of a little ring.  Yay me.  Then I saw the dates on the posts: 2008.  2007.  2006.  2005.  'Ah, so this bastard has been around for ages after all.  Interesting.' thought I.  Then: 2011.  2012.  2013.  'AHA!'  And I'm thinking, how does a gynae worth her salt not know how badly this thing can affect women with a history of depression?

Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to say: if you, or your lady, have had problems with your mental health, stay far away from Nuvaring.  I know I'm getting rid of my supply.

Sincerely,

Macs

Experiments in cooking

Coming to you live from my bedroom, I have been sitting down for at least half an hour because I'm tipsy.  Been having a go at the bottle, have we? No, no, not at all.  Actually yes, just a little.

Oh hush.  It's not what you're thinking, so wipe that smug smirk off your face you cheeky muppet.

Every now and again, motivated by cravings and boredom, I get the urge to cook.  I usually end up cooking the same recipes over and over, so sooner or later I get exasperated and try to change humble recipes into something tastier.

Today's attempt: vegetable soup.  Special ingredient to change up the recipe: red wine.

Yes, that's right, I'm tipsy on vegetable soup.  Since I'm sure many of you like, if not love, wine, and food, and wine in food, I'm sharing the recipe while it's fresh in my mind.  I call it... *tum tum ta TUM!*

Vino Veggie Soup [Alas, there isn't a synonym for soup starting with v! Join me in disappointment.]

Ingredients!
2 round marrows
2 carrots
1 garlic clove
1 large celery stick
3 small potatoes
1 cup of broad beans [Maltesers, these be our beloved ful]
1 cup of red wine [I used Bardolino, much to my horror upon discovery - far too good to cook with surely!]
1 teaspoon of salt
1 chicken stock cube
2 tablespoons of tarragon
1 teaspoon of turmeric
1 cup of rice
Lots of water [I play this by ear ;)]

1. Chop les vegetables!
2. Grab ye a big pot, turn on ye olde burner on a low flame, pour ye sunflower oil [or any oil suitable for light browning of les vegebables] in ye big pot.
3. Add les vegebables to ye big pot, biggest/hardest ones first, leave 5 minutes and add the rest.  Stir every so often - obviously don't let it burn!
4. Add yer turmeric and 1 tablespoon of tarragon.  Leave the veggies a-cooking till they darken a tad.
5. Add 3 cups of water, yer chicken cube, and yer cuppa vino.  Take a nice big swig of yer bottle of vino [This may have been unwise of me].  Leave yer pot on a low flame, add yer other tablespoon of tarragon, and leave yer pot like so for about 10 minutes.
6. Pretend I'm not saying 'yer'.  I'd stop but I've an Irishman yammering in me 'ed.  Yer lucky yer only getting an overload of 'yer'.
7. Back to yer soup! It should be steaming just a little.  Now's the time to add as much water as ye reckon yer pot will hold without watering down the soup too much.  Add yer cuppa rice.
8. Ye can turn up the heat now if ye like, or ye can leave it slow cooking, use yer judgement.

As for how long you cook it, well, I like my soup veggies to have a bit of a crunch, so I don't leave them more than 20 minutes simmering away.  It's all according to taste, ye ken?

I think I'm off for a lie-down.  Oh, deary, deary me.

Sincerely, 
Slightly tipsy,
Macs

That Time I Talked About Feminism

Feminism.  It's an ugly word isn't it? Upon hearing or reading it, a plethora of images come to mind: angry women, men-haters, bra-burning, butch lesbians, machismo-rich men, women-haters, men beating up women, men sneering at women, men 'putting women in their place', 'make me a sandwich' jokes, 'get in the kitchen' jokes, most of the jobs at the top all over the world occupied by men, women at the top being viewed as power-hungry bitches whose careers are their pride and joy [tantamount to sacrificing an infant on an altar to Satan while laughing with glee], women who are anti-family, women who are anti-children, hippies, underarm hair, leg hair, protests, heated discussions in all forms of media, women with pretty nails and pretty hair saying 'oh no, I'm not a feminist' or 'I hate feminism', women with pretty nails and pretty hair saying 'I'm a feminist', men standing up for women, women's rights,

and the list goes on and on and on.  It's endless, and most of the images aren't positive - whether they're in favour of or against feminism.

So many people don't understand why feminism is important, why it is still needed today, why it will always be needed, and why the name should be done away with and the whole concept called something else.

The truth about feminism is this: it's not about women.  It's about men.  It's about everyone.  In fact, if a completely new gender showed up, it'd be about people of that gender too.  It's about straight people, gay people, bisexual people, transgender people, asexual people.  It's about mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, cousins, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, colleagues, enemies.  It's about everyone.

What do you mean it's about everyone Macs?! It's feminism, read the name - F E M I N I S M.  That's got to be about female, feminine, women, girls, and all that jazz, so why are you going on about all that stuff you just rattled off in the paragraph above this? Bitch you CRAZY.

Alright, I'll bite that bit of baiting.  Feminism is usually about sticking up for females, agreed.  But tell me, what will happen if all the females in the world were wiped out? Mass extinction, that's what, because we're half of all populations [I'm not just talking human, people], a hell-ton of grieving from all the males whose beloved females of all relations were gone, economic meltdown because hey women are part of the workforce, and the destruction of life on the planet.  So clearly, sticking up for females is a good thing.

Guess what though: the same thing would happen if all males magically disappeared at one go.  And no, the survival-due-to-pregnant-females clause won't work here, because all male unborn offspring would be gone too.

BALANCE, PEOPLE! That's what I'm talking about here! Without one gender or the other, no species can survive for long.  Why would anyone want either gender to be 'better' than the other? Clearly both are necessary, so why screw the species?  This means that all parts that make up a population need to be looked after, cared for, and appreciated.  [Note: this same argument explains why racism - and racialism, don't think I don't know that loophole - is stupid]

This of course explains why feminism needs to be, at the very least, rebranded.  And this is happening, don't think it isn't.  One of the things a feminist doesn't have to be is female.

What makes you a feminist? That's an easy one.  If you believe that people should be treated with respect, regardless of gender, you're a feminist.  If you believe domestic violence is wrong, you're a feminist - because most victims are female.  If you believe men and boys who wolf whistle, catcall, holler at, cajole, and leer at women and girls walking down a street are disrespectful, you're a feminist.  If you believe women are not just meant to be mothers, you're a feminist.  If you believe women and men have the same capacity for intelligence, you're a feminist.  If you believe that when a woman or girl says no, she means no and you should back off, you're a feminist.  If you believe you would want to beat 10 kinds of hell into anyone who physically hurts your sister/daughter/mother/cousin/aunt/grandmother/friend/colleague or any female, you're a feminist.  If you believe girls and women should have the same education as boys and men, and be given the same opportunities for education, you're a feminist - because, newsflash, this doesn't happen everywhere.  If you believe it's wrong to abort a pregnancy because the gender of the foetus is female, you're a feminist.

Why didn't I say anything specifically about men up there? Because the sad truth is that still, in this day and age, women are still holding the short straw, when there shouldn't be a short straw, and worst of all when we are all fooled into thinking that gender discrimination is a thing of the past.  Women can vote, women can own property, women can go to school and university, women can work, woman can work while having a family, woman can provide for themselves... women can, same as men.  What women can't, involves a bunch of things that unfortunately aren't as obviously wrong.  Women can't wear short skirts without being taken for sluts; women can't wear tight clothing without being taken for sluts; women can't wear low-cut tops and dresses without being taken for sluts; women can't wear nailpolish without being taken for bimbos [yes, I'm using that old word] or sluts; women can't wear make-up without being taken for bimbos or sluts; women can't go around without make-up and be taken for real women [and I cannot stress enough how MORONIC this is]; women can't have very short hair without being taken for lesbians or anti-men [again, MORONIC]; women can't have long hair without being taken for airheads [-_-]; women can't have a family and work without half the people around them thinking they're selfish; women can't talk to men in social situations without giving the wrong idea to many of them; women can't tell even their loved ones, let alone police, that they've been raped because they'll be accused of lying or of instigating it [as if that absolves the rapist]; women can't reject someone's advances and have that person subsequently not try harder;

and again, a hell-ton of other things that women can't do without being thought of as inferior, not taken seriously, brushed off, taken advantage of, given a hard time, and so on.

----

So now I'll go on to some experiences of my own as a woman living in an anti-women world.

- I gained weight about 6 months ago, and haven't felt comfortable enough to wear strappy tops and short skirts.  Since I stopped wearing clothes that show more skin than arms, shoulders and legs, I no longer get reactions from men when I'm walking.  When I show less skin, I am not viewed and treated as a piece of steak they want to sink their teeth into.  I have thus found a way to become effectively invisible to men, both when walking and when out in clubs.  And let me be clear: I have a pretty face, very big boobs, a big ass, hips, I wiggle when I walk, and a friendly smile.  Tally that up, and even with the big thighs, occasional spots, and curly hair that seems to be a turn-off in my country, I'm attractive [remember this blog is about sincerity; if I were boasting I'd have said something like 'gorgeous'].  Even so, I'm ignored because I'm not showing skin.  While I enjoy the invisibility this gives me [sitting on my own in my favourite bar sipping a drink and enjoying the music without being annoyed is brilliant], I deplore the implications for the society I live in.

- Whenever I have worn anything showing even the slightest bit of cleavage, or short skirts, I have endured men's eyes following my until I was out of sight, calls of 'aw SABIHA' [equivalent to 'hey gorgeous'; female brain decipher: 'hey meat-I'd-like-to-ram-with-my-dick'; other male brain decipher: 'hey sexy, wow you're hot'], 'aw SEX', 'PSST', 'ejja ha nkellmek' ['come here let me talk to you'; female brain deciphering: 'come here let me stare, cop a feel, and proposition you for sex'; other male brain decipher: 'come here let me try to chat you up while I admire how attractive you are].

- In a group of men and women, all aged in their 20s, all supposed to be friends, one so-called friend still interpreted my talking to him as being interested in him - and I wasn't flirting in even the remotest way.

- Young women often deplore their singledom and say that 'at this rate, I'm going to end up a crazy cat lady'.  You will never hear a young man saying anything negative about ending his days single.  From this I conclude: a single woman is to be pitied for having a wasted life, a single man is to be toasted for having enjoyed life.  Many of the single women I know are happy, vivacious, busy, have several hobbies, travel, and are easily the people I know who most enjoy their lives.  The crazy cat ladies I know are not single, were crazy before they got the cats, and have cats not because of a lack of human loved ones but because humans aren't fuzzy, can't purr, and talk back when you don't want them to.

- About half the girls I went to school with are already married at 26, quite a few with children.  Half, folks, half.  Many of them were girls who wanted to be doctors, lawyers, successful psychologists, business women; yet very few of them are both married/married with kids/mothers and on the path to their dream career.

- 3 women I count among my closest friends were raped, and not by strangers; 1 woman was almost raped; 2 women I know had boyfriends who hit them, and 1 of these women has a scar on her leg where one boyfriend cut her with a knife while he threatened to kill her; almost all my straight female friends and acquaintances have had psychologically and/or verbally abusive boyfriends at some point in time; I had a psychologically abusive boyfriend; and the pathetic fact is that the number of women on this list will only grow as I get older.  Even more pathetic? This is the status quo.

- There are very few women in local politics, and most [if not all] of them are past 40, while younger and younger men are getting involved in local politics.

- In local media, when a rape case not involving relatives is reported, the comments section is full of victim-blaming. 'She must have done something', 'She was teasing them, what did she expect', 'She's lying', 'She didn't report it right away so it must have been consensual', 'What was she wearing?'.  I am ashamed to say my country is part of the European Union, and that my fellow Maltese think they are up-to-date, civilised, and come from a first world country.

- In local media, when a rape case is reported, the word 'raped' is replaced by the word 'defiled'.

- A local woman spoke at a domestic violence conference about one of her experiences with the police in Malta.  She had separated from her husband, who used to beat her horribly, and one night she was woken to shouts from said husband outside.  He was holding a shotgun, trying to break the door down, and shouted repeatedly that if he got inside he would kill her.  When she called the police, they told her she had to go down to the station to file a report, and then hung up.  And no, one of the mobile squads did not show up at any point during the night to at least check on the situation.

- I have given up on talking to my male friends about feminism, women's rights, and domestic violence.  The reaction is always a variation of 'Oh come off it, you have the right to vote don't you? You're making a fuss and hating on men'.  This leaves me speechless, flabbergasted, and disillusioned.


----

And there you have it.  The post that I've been wanting to write all summer, but avoiding at the same time.  That's just the tip of the iceberg.

Sincerely,
Macs

Alternative Ambition: Dancing

I never wanted to be anything lucrative, like a doctor, or a lawyer, or an accountant.  In fact I never even wanted to have a desk job, office job, or anything remotely requiring me to sit still for long periods of time.  My friends always amaze me because most of them have an aim in mind, a career that they chase with all their being, even going so far as to move to countries that don't speak any of their languages.  I don't think I'll ever be able to say how much I admire these people for these things.

I myself never had that kind of ambition.  The truth is that the only things I've ever had a passion strong enough to follow are the sort of things that aren't viable in the long run.  I wanted to be a ballerina, a singer, an actress, a dancer, a writer, a performer known as an all-rounder because of being great in several different things.  These are all things that take a ridiculous amount of time and effort to do anything with, and that put me off for a long time.  That and the fact that, in all honesty, I was never particularly good at any of the above, except at writing.  

I was a terrible ballerina as a child, my body kept growing and growing and growing which made controlling it rather difficult.  When I hit 12 and had my grade 5 ballet exam, I had finally stopped growing and developed my technique so well that everyone expected me to get a Distinction [ie. an A].  Instead I fell flat on my ass during an adage exercise.  No, really, I'm not using an expression there - I lost my balance and fell smack on my bottom.  I was so mortified and my nerves were so badly shaken that I couldn't do anything right afterwards throughout the exam, and ended up failing.  Everyone was shocked.  My confidence while dancing ballet never recovered, and I always felt like shit in my ballet lessons afterwards.  Add to that the fact that I hit puberty and became boobed and wide-hipped quickly, which is a humongous no-no in a ballerina [or was back then], and you have the death of my ballet dreams.

I turned to jazz dance instead, and enjoyed it tremendously.  Unlike ballet, it was actually fun.   I could so see myself pulling out all the stops in amazing routines on world-famous stages in the future! Unfortunately, once again my size and shape came under fire.  This wasn't blatantly apparent until after 2 years at the same school, when the head and my then-teacher looked at me and congratulated me in front of the whole class on my weight loss.  The only reason I lost any weight that summer was that I had been sick with glandular fever/mononucleosis/Epstein-Barr virus for 2 months, 2 weeks of which I spent being unable to eat more than a fistful of food three times a day.  It also had to be liquidised.  The weight I lost wasn't even fat, because I was by no means chubby; I lost muscle mass, because fever day and night for a month turns you into a decrepit thing with jelly-legs and jelly-arms, unable to walk more than 5 metres without collapsing into a chair.  Fun times.

I stopped dancing that same year because I couldn't afford it, which was a terrible shame because I had finally become one of the best in class.  But it was a blessing: I escaped the pressure to lose weight, be skinny, be the best, and all the other crap that comes with the most serious of dance training.

Fast forward 4 or 5 years to when my friend Hannah became obsessed with bellydance and convinced me to try it out, and you have the beginning of my ongoing love affair.  I began American Tribal Style belly dance, and loved the movements but wished there was more room for creativity, along with moves carried out with the left side of the body [strange as it may sound, ATS, Tribal Improv, and Tribal Fusion almost always work with the right side of the body, and I have no idea why].  Then I started Tribal Improv, which had more combinations to sink my teeth into.  TI is great fun and a fantastic challenge to coordination and reflexes, because it's a follow-the-leader style of dance: one person leads, deciding on what moves to use on the spot and indicating by pre-arranged signals [yips, hands flicks, head turns, and more] what comes next so that the rest of the dance troupe knows what moves to perform.  The faster the music, the quicker you have to react so that the audience doesn't realise you're not actually doing a full choreography.  And nobody notices that we do this, which adds to the fun - we're totally winging it, and it's our secret! We learned and grew together, became perfectly synchronised, put on a couple of shows and took part in the first regular burlesque show on the island.  Dancing was good to us, and life became better.

There is a 'but'.  The problem with TI is that you need a troupe, and unfortunately life got in the way of ours: our director moved country [the lovely Hannah again!], the girl who took over fell in love and got pregnant [we all joked that she'd have twins if she ever got pregnant; 9 months later she fulfilled our prophecy], another girl moved country, and when I finally took over the classes I had to give it up or risk failing the second year of my BA.  So we went our separate dancing ways, which was awful: in any form of bellydance, the people dancing together become like family - that's how it started out after all, with women dancing together while doing chores, and men dancing together while doing their thing, and everybody dancing at weddings [albeit with a lot of self-censoring].  I cannot stress enough how different this is to ballet and jazz, which are dominated by one-upping and competition, creating a tense atmosphere that stops you enjoying yourself to the full when you're dancing, because somewhere inside you're thinking 'I have to be better than the others!'.  In bellydance we don't do that.  We each revel in what we can do well, applaud each other on the things done well [you should see and hear the reactions in our classes when a bellydancer does a perfect belly roll!], and we all encourage each other when facing a baffling move.  I am proud to say that I found the sisters I never had, and to this day even though we no longer dance together and in some cases haven't seen each other in years, we support each other in all we do.

This means that when bellydancing, I associate it with all my bellydancing friends and feel love, which makes me dance with love, which in turn adds an element to the dancing that I have yet to see in other types of dance.  This love isn't just about the bond between dancers though.  It's also about loving your body and yourself.  There is no pressure to be fatless, toned, muscular, as small as possible, and all that crap, in bellydance.  Whatever way, shape, or form you have, it's great, because it's your body, your instrument, and you are dancing.  Whether you're an apple, an hourglass, a pear, a banana, your shape is perfect.  Whether you're huge, or large, or medium, or small, or tiny, your size is perfect.  A piano is no better than a flute for being bigger, a violin is no better than a harp for being smaller; they are different instruments and together create complex and beautiful music.  Nowadays in fact, I can see that I dance well, because I'm no longer busy worrying about being the thinnest I can't possibly be, or being better than the rest. [There had to be a moral to the story, didn't there.]

And now I'm finally doing one of my favourite styles of bellydance, called Tribal Fusion, a style based on flamenco and bellydance, seasoned with hip-hop and a bunch of other dance forms.  This style doesn't use improvisation, so there's a lot more room for creativity than the others I've learned, and that sets me gleefully a-glow.

So I may not be performing at the West End, and I may even have stopped performing locally at all, but I'm dancing and I'm loving every second of it.  I've always felt the most alive while dancing, putting my heart and soul into even the tiniest of movements, letting the music take over and becoming part of it, using my head to make my body do beautiful things, and I couldn't ever give it up again.  That would be like cutting off a limb.

Sincerely,

Macs

PS. Here are some links for you to see the different bellydance styles I mentioned.

ATS improv, performed by FatChanceBellyDance

Tribal Improv, performed by Gypsy Caravan

Tribal Fusion:

Rachel Brice, the biggest name in TF

Kami Liddle, my favourite TF performance to date

UNMATA, my favourite bellydance troupe, practising their own special high-octane Improv Tribal Style

Things I Hate Thursday

Any of you who have blogs or online journals will 99.9% have heard of the custom 'Things I Love Thursday', a list of things that happen on the relevant Thursday of the week that the person writing the list loves.  Today's list, as I think you've guessed, is about things I hate on the Thursday I'm having today.

1. I was late for work.

2. While driving to work I saw a dog lying on a pavement looking dead, exhausted, injured, or asleep with her eyes open.  I wanted to stop and check on her but no, I was late for work.

3. Day 3 of period cramps making me uncomfortable throughout the morning whether sitting, standing, or moving in any way.

4. The eyelashes on my lower right eyelid have grown so long they're sticking together, pulling at my eyelid, and generally making me want to rip my eyelashes out.

5. Making a mistake at work and discovering it while on the phone to the business's HSBC representative.

6. Finding out emails I thought were meant to be insulting were actually from people who were being genuinely nice, so I've mistakenly felt insulted, and thought these 2 well-wishers were being snarky and mean, for 2 days.

7. Invoicing idiocy.

8. Feeling the urge for a hot cup of tea thanks to the beautiful storm we had today, and knowing that it would just make me sick because I've suddenly become intolerant to black tea.

9. Being pissed off and frustrated for no reason, and feeling angry at everything and everyone, thus affecting everything I do, despite being a reasonable, rational, logical, intelligent person.  

Anyone trying to sympathise with my bad mood will face evisceration in my imagination.

Did I mention I hate today?

Sincerely,

Macs

Of Dreams and Stories...

Every morning I wake up and desperately try to go back to sleep.  While sometimes it's because I'm tired and need more sleep, it's most often because I'll have had an intricate and intense dream that I want to go back and finish, because I must know how it ends.  This compulsion applies to all books, stories, movies, series and songs that capture my imagination.  There is nothing more annoying for the imaginative than a story ending prematurely and without an ending, as it were.

I've had this idea for years now, and the past week I've voiced it several times: if I could hook my brain up to a visual projector and recorder while I sleep, and then sell the results to film companies, I'd be a multi-billionaire.  Possibly the quality of cinema would improve drastically, and many film viewers would be left feeling like the ground they were standing on disappeared.  The universe would be filled with so much 'what the fuck?!' that it would seep into the collective human subconscious and, probably, make the world implode.

Alright, alright, so that last part was excessive hyperbole [haha, haha!], but you get the point: my dreams [and nightmares] are incredible and awe-inspiring.  It's such a shame that I frequently forget them within 10 seconds of waking.  Not so with this morning's dream, which so captivated me that I'm working it out as a story.

It's funny how writing hits me.  I call it the itch.  When it strikes, I feel compelled on all levels of existence to grab something, anything, to record my ideas and get the pictures in my head out.  It's kind of like an exorcism, expelling some presence from deep inside, or a purging, but what comes out is a positive thing and only gross if my creativity takes me that way.  It's spontaneous, overwhelming, and feels like it just won't - and can't - be denied.  Translated into words, my body tells me 'DAMMIT woman get writing now now now now NOW NOW NOW NOW!', varying from a whisper through to a bellow.

My psychiatrist [go on, get over it, I dare you ;) ] said there's a weird connection between mental illness and creativity, and speaking from experience this is true in several ways.  Some of the most intense things I've ever written are a result of the ghastly misery I suffered while in cycles of depression.  The more acute my feelings, the more poignant my writing becomes.  It seems obvious then when I say that antidepressants effectively cut my creativity and imagination from my being.  Happily, these old friends of mine only went on holiday, rather than relocating permanently.  When I finally reduced my dose of antidepressants significantly, within a week of my body getting used to the low dose my brain suffered a barrage of amazing ideas, beautiful sentences, and stories.  I wrote one poem in a frenzy at work one day, and composed another two while driving home on the same day - sadly the latter two are lost to whatever graveyard verse inhabits when it disappears from its author's brain.  HOWEVER.  The point is that I hadn't been able to write anything creative, anything at all, for 3 years.  3 years folks.  That's beyond tragic, especially considering I used to write at least one poem every few weeks from the age of 12 to 19.  And weirdly enough, mental illness doesn't just inspire and trigger creativity, it also kills it.  Thanks to depression sinking its hideous talons deeper and deeper after 19, I wrote less, and less, and less, until one day I realised I hadn't written anything in 2 years.  I can't describe the sadness that realisation caused.  It actually is beyond words.  And here I am now, cured of a horrible bout of the Evil Sad, able to write once again, and willing.

Guys, I'm ecstatic.  Join me in a hilariously dorky and gleeful happy dance.

Sincerely,

Macs

That time when things got personally awkward

There are times when writing with a certain level of maturity is beyond me and I run the risk of making a fool of myself in ways I just don't care for.  The past 2 weeks of silence happened because I just didn't feel like writing, I just didn't want to think, and I just could not be sincere without facing certain consequences.  I'm here now, I'm writing, and I guess it's time for me to face the reality that, whether I like it or not, I have to write about things that have been... bothering me.

On my mother's birthday I met my then-boyfriend of 2 years and a bit, in the knowledge that we were going to break up, that he was going to start off the process, and that I was fine with it because it was time to admit defeat: we no longer worked as a couple and could no longer keep trying.

I now realise there were a few things I wasn't prepared for.  I wasn't prepared to hear that he had long since given up trying to try to make things work between us, when I had done my best right to the end to try to make 'us' work.  I hadn't prepared myself for the fact that now he would be talking to other girls, friends or otherwise, when before he seemed fine with cutting himself off from all but his closest friends.  I hadn't prepared myself for the moment when I would realise that, despite how far into each other's heads we are, he no longer loved me.

This is where I say I no longer love him, and where you believe me, and where we move on to something else.  But.  But.  As a horribly caring person, I find it impossible to stop caring.  About anything, really.  It's a drawback.  I should have developed into a heartless bitch given what sensitivity and caring got me as a child, but that just didn't happen.  So instead, I care.  This is an infinitely bad thing when I'm going through the process of getting over a break up.  I care about that person's well-being, I care about their life, I care because I put time and effort into that person and it's actually very difficult to let that go.  You'll notice that I haven't used the word 'love'.  That's because what I feel is different to what I used to feel back when I was in love.  Now I just feel the same attachment I feel for my best friends, 'just' being an understatement, because I love my best friends dearly.

Part of the problem I feel bothered about all this is that I can't actually be a best friend to him, just as he can't be a best friend to me.  Forget the usual 'you've seen each other naked, you can't be friends after that' litany, because that's not the problem.  The problem is censorship.  I have to censor everything I say to him - indeed, to anyone I've ever had a break up with - and be careful what I ask and how I react.  How inappropriate is it for me to ask about his dating life? Extremely, which is the same answer to 'how inappropriate is it for him to talk about his dating life'.  If there were things we didn't do together for specific reasons, and now we both are doing them, it's a potential bone of contention that needs to be kept buried.  In every conversation we now have, it feels like there's a big fat elephant in a neon pink tutu and a neon orange headband sitting between us while humorously trying to play a trumpet.

And of course all of this is rather irritating, because we were both happy to end our relationship and happy to remain friends, but the reality and truth is that we can't be proper, honest to goodness friends.  The past gets in the way, doesn't it? And there's nothing to do about that but lump it, and get on with things.

So here I am getting on with things, and having got that off my chest, I can get on with bringing you my thoughts on any subject under the sun in other posts. :)

Sincerely,
Macs

Everyone gets a little crazy sometimes - 1

There are different ways you can tell that someone is kind of, maybe, just a little, teensy weensy bit gaga.  Cuckoo.  Plemplem, as we like to say in my family.  Batty.  There are many reasons people exhibit this, uh, hm... behaviour.  Some are born mad, some become mad, and some have madness thrust upon them [fellow literature freaks, can you spot the reference?].  Some of us exhibit madness on occasion, because sometimes certain circumstances just plain drive us up the wall.  We're going to take a look at some of these situations, along with a few things that seem to be typical symptoms of their corresponding craziness, over a number of posts.

Number 1 Crazy Behaviour: Road Rage

Someone overtakes recklessly, pulling into the opposite lane completely and putting the pedal to the metal to increase speed so as to effectively and quickly overtake the poor slow turtle that tickled their speed itch.  You're on that opposite lane, and they're heading straight for you if they don't manage to pull back into their lane as soon as friggeting possible.  Your heart rate accelerates drastically, your eyes fly open, you stomp on the brakes, blare your horn, become horrifyingly aware that you're going to die, and gabble 'Ohgodohgodohgod' or 'Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck'.

And the reckless driver pulls into his own lane, successfully overtaking the turtle while reducing your life span by 20 years, increasing your number of grey hairs significantly, and making you a candidate for a heart transplant in 30 years time.  Now that you're sure you're not tasting metal, the madness begins.  The bastard! THE BASTARD! HE ALMOST KILLED ME! I COULD HAVE DIED! SON OF A BITCH! ROT IN HELL YOU MOTHERCHUCKING MORON! WHO THE BLOODY BUGGERY GAVE YOU YOUR LICENSE?! MAY YOU DIE HORRIBLY WHEN YOUR CAR BARRELROLLS! AAAAARRRRRGH!!!!!!!

And more thought of that ilk rampage around in your brain and out of your mouth until you eventually catch sight of yourself in the rearview mirror.  Rabid animals the world over give you a round of applause at the froth bubbling on your lips and the insane look in your wild eyes.  As you thump the steering wheel while revelling in livid rage, you catch a glimpse of a passing pedestrian's face.  WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?! KEEP WALKING ASSHOLE! And the person breaks into a power walk.  You reach the end of your swearing vocabulary, so you make up new words and phrases as you carry on your tirade.


Eventually your ranting and raving bubbles down into mumbling and muttering.  You arrive at your destination and grumble about crazy, suicidal, homicidal drivers, for another 5 minutes.  The moment food or drink appears on your horizon, you forget all about your brush with death.


______

This one goes out to one of my best friends, whose passenger road rage is always an odd surprise.  You know who you are.  ;)


Sincerely,

Macs


Ps. Hey folks, feel free to add whatever sweet little word you use instead of 'crazy' to the list. :)

Much Ado About Nothing deserves much ado.

I should probably give you a couple of warnings before I get seriously underway: a) having listened to three hours of Shakespeare, I might use somewhat outdated language, because the Bard has that effect on me, b) I am about to gush copiously, so prepare the mops!

I've just returned from a wonderful three or so hours of watching and listening to Shakespeare's 'Much Ado About Nothing', put on by the MADC, and I am delighted.  The acting was perfecto, the casting was spot on, the wardrobe choices were numerous and exact, the stage was cleverly arranged, and the props and stage hands could not have worked better.  Seeing that I decided to attend tonight's performance alone, I desperately needed the show to cheer me up.  Add to that the fact that I got caught between two fuel-sucking traffic jams on the way to the performance and arrived ten minutes late in a vile mood, you can guess that the MADC had its work cut out for it tonight regarding this miss - and here I am in bed, a happy, satisfied bunny.  If I could purr my contentment, I would.

Allow me to explain.  Having been introduced to the world of performing at the tender age of three thanks to ballet, I've been on stage and in front of audiences many times over the years, and I've been backstage, and I've waited in the wings, and I know the horror of watching something go horribly wrong.  On top of that, I am now a stickler for quality, and nothing irks me more than a cast member who isn't up to the standard of the script or the other actors, a poorly thought out performance space, or indeed anything that just does not deliver as it should.

Much Ado had none of these problems.  Certainly, two or three actors stumbled on a word and had to repeat a line, but they pulled it off by keeping in character and not letting it phase them one bit, and quite frankly who doesn't end up tripping over their own tongue in real conversation? It's perfectly natural.  So to them I say: well done, you.  But other than these tiny moments of tongue-teasing, there were no slip-ups: when actors needed to interact with props, they did so without mistakes; cues were followed flawlessly; comedic timing was followed without a hitch; the actors were all very much equal to their roles, the script, and the constraints of the stage; and there were no dreaded wardrobe malfunctions - a miracle considering how many costumes there were and how many changes were made!

Let me go into what I loved about this production, bit by bit.

1. The location and stage: San Anton Gardens is in my opinion the ideal spot for an open-air performance, and with the background of the palace it truly is the perfect place for Shakespeare's work to be showcased.  The stage was long and narrow, making audience placement far more intimate than the norm with all spectators being rather close to the stage no matter where they were seated.  And a gate into the palace was used to wonderful effect as the main entrance and exit for the actors, which really added to the idea of the characters' moving from one place to another.

2. The wardrobe: my word, did the wardrobe mistress go all out! The clothing was 1940s style, and lovely.  All the costumes fit, and every scene had a change of clothing for the women, with the men sticking to the same formal dress during formal scenes such as the wedding and the funeral, but otherwise also having a change every scene.  What I thought was lovely was that every actor didn't just have clothes suiting their roles, but that also suited the actors.  I think the only thing that jarred - and this only happened when I really thought about it - was that the clothing and music was all set in the 1940s, but the men carried swords when they were in their army formal dress.  Even then, considering these were high officials [a count, a prince, a prince's bastard brother], so perhaps their uniform at that level would mandate swords at the time.  Regardless, the time period worked.

3. The actors: there were a few actors and actresses whom I haven't seen on stage before, and they played their parts wonderfully.  To be honest, I had first decided not to see this production because there were so many names I just didn't recognise, but having spoken to an actor friend who knew what was going on in the play, I decided to give it a shot.  And I'm so very glad that I did! Folks, I've said this before and I'll not stop saying it, we have so many talented people on this tiny island [to non-residents, non-Maltese, strangers to the island of Malta, we've a population between 400K and 500K] and we don't make enough of a fuss about them.

While the whole cast did a fabulous job, I must pinpoint some moments of excellence: the moment when Hero is asked to speak regarding the horrible claims laid against her was gold, with actress Nicola Abela Garrett putting raw emotion into her voice and still projecting perfectly; Imogen [Mrs Leonato]'s moment of chiding Count Claudio and the Prince for causing her daughter's death via public shaming, reducing them to nothing but boys [as the speech entails, in fact] was masterfully done with class and the pride only a mother can have; the love scenes between Benedick and Beatrice, played by Malcolm Galea and Fay Paris respectively, flowed so well that I could have been watching a real courtship; Colin Willis pulled off Hero's father Leonato grieving for his daughter's reputation with such desolate misery, I think the glass and bottle of JB were hardly needed as props for that scene.

4. The comedy duo:  Oh gods, did I laugh! Dogberry and Verges, played respectively by Erin Stuart Palmier and Joe Depasquale, had me bring out the silent laugh for the benefit of everyone around me, otherwise I can't guarantee their hearing would have survived my screeching cackles of laughter.  These two had the comedic timing down pat, and delivered their lines and actions with the right amount of gusto.  A match made in heaven.

5. The language and tone used: Now here comes the cherry on the cake.  Malta is a bilingual country, and we all code-switch like crazy, adding and substituting words in Maltese when speaking in English and vice versa, which adds to the colour of interaction thanks to the fascinating fact that both languages have phrases and expressions that just don't translate properly into the other language.  So it was with glee that I eventually realised the actors were using Maltesisms in between their Shakespearian dialogue for emphasis! Now hold your horses before you roll your eyes or tut tut in disapproval.  I'm talking about the typical things we say like 'eh' and 'mela'.  Well, except in the case of the clown sergeants Dogberry and Verges, whose dialogue was delivered with the thick accent of Maltese who aren't fluent enough in English to avoid carrying over their Maltese pronunciation - a great idea in my opinion, because the sergeants' scenes are used to counteract any seriousness that occurred in the previous scenes, and there really is nothing as amusing as that accent when coupled with the appropriate Maltese buffoon stereotype.  Oh, the hilarity! I'm not one to enjoy slapstick, but this was done so well I couldn't but end up gasping for breath at the end of each of their scenes.

That's enough gushing from me I think, you should find out how great it is for yourselves folks.  What's the worst that could happen? ;)

And thus, good gentles, reiterating my fervent wish that you all rush to the MADC website to book your tickets for the last three performances, I bid thee adieu!


MADC's Much Ado About Nothing on Facebook

I'm sick and tired of always being sick and tired

I'm lying down on my bed, tapping away on my laptop, with tears streaming down my cheeks.  The fan whirs in the background, I can hear faint popping sounds of fireworks from far off, and my mother is clattering pans in the kitchen while she prepares our lunch.  I'm sniffing, and getting a headache from the combined effort of crying and not sobbing.

I should be a normal healthy adult, but I'm not.  To all outward appearances I'm hale and hearty.  I dare say if I had a blood test done, I'd be given a clean bill of health.  Yet I have the immune system of ... of ... I don't even know what to compare it to.  I don't know anything or anyone with my problem.

Let me make it perfectly clear that I am not a hypochondriac.  Please believe me when I say that something goes wrong with my body on a monthly basis, on average.  I don't want to think of all the money I've spent on doctors, medicines, fuel to get to doctors and to pharmacies to buy medicine.  I don't want to think of all the days I've spent with restrictions on my activities - the school days missed, the work days missed, the fitness classes missed, the dance classes missed, the fitness boot camp I had to drop out of, staying away from other people, forcing myself to lie down and not do anything - because once again, my body wasn't fine.

(One long overdue hullabaloo when Mum asked 'what's wrong?', and lunch later...)

The only thing I can assume is that my immune system was destroyed when I had an incredibly bad bout of glandular fever at 16.  I was sick for a month.  The glands in my neck, groin, underarms, and throat were swollen, my tonsils were so enlarged that I had 0.5cm space between them, my liver and spleen were swollen, my fevers varied between 102 in the day and 104 at night, I couldn't go from one room to another without sitting down upon arrival, I couldn't sleep more than a couple of hours a night, I couldn't eat more than a small bowlful of liquidised vegetable soup, and it could only have been worse if either my liver or spleen ruptured, which would have resulted in death, or so I'm told.

Now let's forget that it took 6 months to build up my strength again, to turn from yellow [because with a swollen liver you get jaundice] to a natural colour, to recover to a reasonably normal state of well-being.  Let's consider how often I used to get sick as a child, and with what: 3 times a year, with cold, flu, or a cough.

Since January, I have had: 2 bladder infections, labyrinthitis, 2 bouts of thrush, 1 cough, 1 bout of hives [allergic reaction to I have no fucking clue what], a repetitive strain related pain in my left arm [elbow to fingertips], and the current bout of cigarette smoke allergy.  Count: 7 months; 9 problems.

That's not the only problem. What? There's MORE?! Yes, yes there is.  I don't just get sick often, I get sick badly.  I don't get a sore throat for several days that might turn into a cough if not taken care of.  I get a sore throat for a day, a cough the next, and a chest infection the day after.  And take the bladder infections, for instance.  Most people get a burning sensation when they pee, and a frequent urge to run to the bathroom for about 3 days, then it gets painful, and then they develop blood in their urine.  Dear old me gets all of those in the time period of 2 to 4 hours.

Did I mention that it's usually on a Sunday afternoon? Yep, that's what usually happens, along with public holidays [Merry Christmas!], and sometimes if I'm really lucky, at 7pm on such days.

This sort of disaster happens with every one of my ailments.  When I had hives this year, I was misdiagnosed twice: first I had highly contagious measles, then I had a somewhat contagious fungal infection.  Finally 2 doctors agreed it was 'just' an allergy.

And that, ladies and gents, is perfectly normal for me, and has been ever since I had glandular fever.  Why? I have no fucking clue.  Actually, I do, just a little.  Apparently, glandular fever [aka Epstein Barr Virus, Mononucleosis shortened to Mono in the US] delivers such a hit to the immune system that many people suffer from a weak immune system for several years after that fact.  It's been 10 years.  10 years, folks! A decade.  A decade of spending money on doctors and medicine and constantly getting sick.  In the 6 months after I had glandular fever I got a super-flu bug.  I was sick for 3 weeks, hoarse for over a month, and missed a week of sixth form, when I had Pure Maths at Alevel, and missing just the one hour was enough to make you struggle to catch up.  I missed 8 hours.  No matter how much I tried to catch up, I couldn't.  It was all downhill from there that scholastic year.

So here I am, 26 and something wrong with me on a monthly basis.  I was overjoyed because up until last week I hadn't had anything for 2 months.  Cue two things after each other.  I have no words for the frustration.  Argh.  And argh again.

Just in case any reader thinks this, let me shoot it down: fibromyalgia and ME, also known as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, are not what's wrong with me.  I have no unexplained pains, I have no debilitating symptoms that floor me for days or weeks.

My problem is the frequency of getting sick, and the prolonged recovery of each problem - because as if getting sick often wasn't bad enough, I also take long to get over each thing.

If I ever become rich, the first thing I'll do is fund extensive research into the immune system, particularly in cases of diminished immunity.

The last thing I have to say is this: Bahumbug!

Sincerely,

Macs

Link it, baby!

Afternoon, folks!

So you may have noticed I skipped the midweek post.  This week has been hectic for me.  I started a new job and am at the training stage, which leaves me somewhat brainless for the rest of the day - there's a phrase in Maltese that fits perfectly for the effects of 5 hours of training by a frazzled woman: 'xorbitli mohhi' [literal translation: she drank my mind; sensible translation: she drained me so now I can't understand a damn thing].  Add to that an attitude I developed 6 months ago to always do my best to make it to my various commitments, and you'll find that despite being rather tired out I still went to my belly dance class on Monday... and fitness on Thursday... and singing on Friday.  I tried to attend fitness class on Wednesday but alas, it had to be cancelled when the instructor was pretty much grounded for overtime by her boss.  Include a certain fireball issue in Malta that had me on an ethical rampage for 3 days [and you'll find out my views on that fireball in a few weeks once I've settled down and had time to carry out some research ;) ], and you've got a Macs whose physical, mental and emotional energy has been sucked out with a straw until long after the horrible sound you get once there's nothing left.

'Why are you telling us this Macs?', you ask.  Well, it's like this: I don't have a long post today.  Nope.  Nothing insightful, nothing confessional, nothing funny.

What I do have is a handful of links that I consider very worth reading.  I hope you enjoy them as much as I have.

In gender discrimination, we find 2 fascinating posts.  And they're both by men.

http://qz.com/103453/i-understood-gender-discrimination-after-i-added-mr-to-my-resume-and-landed-a-job/

http://www.slate.com/articles/life/family/2013/07/life_as_a_stay_at_home_dad_everyone_i_meet_calls_me_a_hero_for_taking_care.html?wpsrc=upworthy


And in the food industry, the lovable Jamie Oliver shows us what goes into McDonalds burger meat, and many other minced meat products...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20Yg-c6iBF8


Did you hate school as a child? I know a lot of people who did.  Personally, I loved the learning part of it.  Whatever you loved or hated about school, there's bound to be something you're incredibly thankful for about having been sent to school.

 Is that clear in your mind? Yes? Good.  Now imagine children who aren't allowed to learn, who are actually banned from being educated. Go one step further and imagine a teenage girl on a school bus being asked to identify herself and be shot, or everyone on the bus gets it, and she speaks up and gets shot in the head.  And survives.  Who shot her? A Taliban gunman.  Why was she shot? Because she's been speaking out about girls' rights, educational rights, and children's rights, since she was about 11 years old.  Happily, Malala Yousufzai survived, and judging by her address to the UN this week, she's recovered excellently.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B5X70VyjU0g


Here's another survivor whose story sets the old cogwheels grinding.  Have you ever wondered how the heck you're going to navigate your way out of a place in pitch dark?Well, maybe it's just me, but this is just too interesting to leave out.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2013/jul/13/experience-blindness-echolocation-daniel-kish?CMP=twt_gu


Did you enjoy that brain food? I know I did.  Now here's something to set you squealing with glee - and maybe singing too.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10200168194676529

Cheerio until Wednesday!

Sincerely,
Macs