Mojo Pin

Looking through photographs of old friends turned new. They’ve travelled along the same paths as I have, turned into indie rockers and found lovers. Still in Brisbane, some have taken up smoking. Some smoke my brand of smoke. Some have quit. Some have found love and so many haven’t changed very much at all.

I just want to be moved.

I’m a realist.

My job takes up so much of my life, I want it to define me. Being a realist takes a lot of the fun out of life. I’m an animal and a farmer. Life defines me. I don’t define my life.

I was feeling very creative tonight. Jeff Buckley made me stop moving and stare at the wall.

Why I don’t sit on other girl’s laps and let the boys take pictures.

I think I missed that part of my adolescent years where I had the chance to be frivolous and carefree about taking my place as a ‘woman.’ Could’ve been that 32-y-o I was dating at 16, or perhaps the 21-y-o with the child, that I looked after as his replacement mother, at 18, for a year or so.

Who knows.

Something went awry that left me without a few key life skills, I’ve come to realise, the least of which being that all too feminine drive to come across as a sex object for the attraction of men. Despite what some men and women might have you believe, I’m actually not that interested in the sexual attention of anyone, at all. I understand the advantages of having a nice smile, but the rest is up to the good graces of the sex-charged societal backflip that we seem to be living within, that makes any woman, honest or otherwise, into a walking, breathing potential cock hole, most of the time.

To be honest, there hasn’t ever really been a time when I’ve had much attention from men, until recently. Up until now, I’ve had these pseudo-masculine figureheads that I’ve loved so dearly that have all turned out to be extremely protective boyfriends who refuse to let another man glance at my goods, ever, without severe consequences. All these years I haven’t had to worry about my looks, what I come across as, how other men and women perceive me, because I’ve been spoken for.

But the single world is cut throat, I’m coming to realise. Since I’ve been single now for a whole year and a half, I’ve come to realise some interesting tid-bits about the nature of many women. I live in this single world of ours, but I’m definitely not used to the smell yet.

I never had any sisters, and my best friends have always been guys. I grew up with four brothers, a backyard full of cars and the smell of oil and sweat loitering about my bathroom every moment of every day. Mechanics shops, to me, feel a lot like home. These days I can race a car up the Spit, and win, with the right wheels, but I can’t walk in cork shoes for the life of me. I can rig a safe electrical connection between a back shed out a kitchen window, through a back room, over the clothes line and down past the garage … but I can’t hold another girl’s hand during a scary movie, when I know she’d love nothing more than a little comfort.

Let’s pretend for a moment that I’m at a party, sinking a beer at a table on a back veranda, under the stars … looking down at the clothes line past the railing, that holds in a decent amount of room to swing a few chairs around on the deck. In this instance, I am sitting at the table with the guys, sinking this beer of mine, and shouting stories about the good old days.

I will not, and I do not mention this lightly, I will not, and never will this be revoked, I will not ever sit on another girl’s lap and pose for the boys with my finger in my mouth, with come-get-me eyes and a sly smile to suggest that there’s something I got, that he wants.

Never in my life, is that girl me.

On the contrary, the mental process behind such a display actually confuses the hell out of me. My place, in this instance, is sitting at that table with the boys in their jeans, elbows on the bench top, lips pursed and eye brows raised, smirking slightly at the girls being silly for us, us guys, … wondering, not so strangely, what went wrong in my life, that left me sitting here, on this side. Sitting on the other side, staring at the girls while they touch each other and pretend to kiss, and then giggle about how they almost kissed and then oh my god, who wants us to do it!? I would sit there, staring at them, feeling nothing for these women but contempt. Jealousy that they have a skill that I don’t understand, that I will never possess. A skill that these girls have, to stop my conversation about movies and shoes with the blokes, and take their attention away for a seemingly ludicrous ritual of ‘play’ and flirtation.

If only I was a lesbian, they all say. And I’ll admit, I’ve said a few times. If only I was a lesbian, things would be so much easier.

But

you know what

I’m just, not.

I’m just a woman that was taught to value her hands instead of her cunt.

Which is a shame, really, because the world isn’t really set up for women like me.

Sex and Love, as usual

Everything keeps coming back to a few key points about relationships.

Sex without love is fruitless. It is a tree without purpose, for beauty only.

Is my sex, an ornament?

A garden filler?

What is sex, without love?

Not for me. That’s what.

It’s a good thing love comes naturally to me.

I fell in love with a man today, crossing the road.

I hoped that my eyes would penetrate the back of his head and into his soul, that he would turn around to let me see his face, let me touch his face and put his hands around my body.

It was his shirt.

I fell in love again with a woman last night, that I’ve never spoken to, one I’ve only seen in pictures. A woman so beautiful that my heart skips beats when I look at her hair, her face, her skin tone.

I fall in love so easily, all the time, in and out. And I worry.

Have I built too many walls around my lasting love that my standards are unreachable?

Am I still yet to experience true love?

No, I’ve definitely felt true love.

He was a challenge like none I’ve known before or since. A real man with love in his heart, and an alcoholic sleeve to rest his worries on. I fixed him for a long time, I looked after him, and he kept me busy. Kept me wanting, and kept me in arms reach of perfection.

I loved him so much, that I moved heaven and earth to make a life for us, as he did.

But addiction is a terrible affliction, and he had too many. Too many addictions ahead of me in the line, I couldn’t bare it.

So I made a list.

Things a man would need to do in order to be my forever-lover.

- Love me.
- Sing to me.
- Read stories to me at night time.
- Enjoy the music I enjoy, whether he dances or not, his appreciation is of the utmost importance.
- Willingness to change his mind, and compromise.
- The ability to see great things in his future, and dream, like I do, without depending on whether or not he’ll get there.
- Hair that suits my mood. If his hair-do becomes unsuitable, he must be willing to change his hair back to the way that I like it. Any man of any colour of any size of any stench could win my heart with a hair-do. And that’s no word of a lie. It has to suit them, too. It can’t just be any, just one, that I like on everyone. It has to be the one that suits them, best.

I can’t decide if I’m happy in my life or not.

I think I am.

I Want

I remember now, what to blog about.

Thanks for the support in the interim.

Love works, relationships work, when the people involved have the same level of comfortableness sexually.

Thoughts like these are the ones I used to blog, the ones I like to blog. Random thoughts that didn’t go anywhere else. Days awash with emotion that warrant an audience, a bored audience that enjoys peering into my life. I could write anything, provided it’s written poetically.

Things I want at the moment.

You around.

A trip to Canada.

A trip to Japan.

A new pair of shoes to wear with my new skirt and tops.

Daniel Jackson as a husband.

My best friend back. Any of the four that have recently, and not so recently left my life.

Time for books, and interest again.

Alcohol.

The ability to cook.

Guts.

Weight loss.

A degree, or at least the start of a degree, and also the money to complete a degree.

A job with security.

A job that takes no less than, and no more than four days a week.

A new journal.

My psychologist back, but only if it’s free.

A savings scheme.

A decent bra, or two, that are not too tight.

A sense of uniformity, continuity, universal oneness, ascension, adventure, and momentum.

Companionship.

Better grammar, spelling and historical knowledge.

The chance to fight for my life, or that of another.

Fear. Real fear.

A working jaw.

More hours in the day spent physically active.

A father in arm’s reach.

My mother living much closer.

The ability to move matter with my mind.

A loyal pet. A soft pet. A low-maintenance pet.

A mask, dreadlocks, sandals, a flowing skirt, and a cool stream.

More art.

The eye of Ra.

A teleporter, a private jet, or one billion frequent flyer points.

A lost treasure, a hand device and naqueda in my blood.

Bullet proof skin.

My brothers much, much closer.

You around.

We all have our vices.

…ten points for guessing the exact episode I was watching while writing this.
…five for the name of show.

That’s all for the moment.