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