When someone tells you that everything on tv is put together by writers and producers and lawyers and that scripts come from news that has long been dissected and diluted by the online community.. well you know it makes watching regular tv a little painful.
Advertising helps – it is a little break from all that stuff – but then you get into all the wanky titles that the media types award themselves for their creative genius and the fact that their ultimate aim is to make me remember a brand or a product or an offer that will eventually take more money out of my pocket – I start to feel ill again.
So I could walk down the road and find a movie to watch but I’d need to weather the stares of the gymbunnies out for a midnight powerwalk and deal with the depressed goth at the movie store who demands to know a password. Which password? What password I have 563 of them? Why do I need so many?? What is the world coming to? I live up there, up the road, just past the gym – yeah you hate them too? yeah up there can I please have a movie that is not full of cliches?
Did I say the person at the counter was a depressed goth? How cliched. Anyway I think I am going to sit here in the dark with my tv off and wonder why I don’t read more often.
Out the window is where the real people are. They are not in here amongst all the words and wills of the everyday. This isn’t some poetic setting; an Indian community of downtrodden, a diamond studded champagne bubble of highflyers, a circle of hardened criminals. This is just every day every person every sitcom without the situation or the comedy. This place with its uniforms and rules and way of speaking and its walls, has only this window and that sound to save us.
What is that sound? Is it a drum?
Don’t let your heart sink when the icy blows of others rip at your body and soul.
Don’t let Celine Dion sing some sappy song when you think you are falling in love because real love is not like that.
If you make a mistake, and the whole world is going under the water, tears will just add to the problem.
If your heart aches – at least you still have one.
Actually there is nothing wrong with me.
All my bits are where they should be and all of them function. I don’t look like the magazines and movies say that I should and I certainly don’t think like the next person. Then again I do, more or less. Nothing is wrong. It is okay not to want to dance in this minute. It is ok not to want to spin and spin until you are giddy with the grinning and spinning.
But I am happy.. it is there in the white egyptian cotton sheets drying in the sun that smell so good when the swift wind dances with them. It is there in the franjipani that every year gets a little stronger and a little wider. Where else is it? In the candles that sprout those warm shadows on the walls. My smile is on the end of a pink glass elephant swizzle stick in a concoction of who knows what. It is in the decadent resort style plunge pools I sometimes see behind my husbands more conservative glasses.
My heart remembers it is a muscle when a cockatoo lands in my backyard or a possum hides in my garden shed or I find a baby snail and let it slide its crazy crystal path across my palm. When I get to share a discovery with my children and when I feel like I haven’t let everyone down.
There is nothing really wrong with any of that.
Except maybe the snail.
I’ve been thinking about this for a while. The need to have a big explosion. I am not talking about the in-your-pants kind. I think there is a build up of emotion and particularly (pronounced par-TICK-YOU-LARRIKAN-illy) when most of your interaction is digital.
Really where is the place to have a big all out brawl online? Shouting in caps just really doesn’t cut it and there is nowhere to have a big sob. Most of our inter-reactions are just words words words and then some more words in case you feel you haven’t said enough.
But there is no effective plate smashing happening.
No fist through the firewalls of the network that sound with any kind of satisfying smack.
I can’t really chuck a good tantrum online. My face doesn’t turn all pufferfish and raspberry juice.
I am a big girlish hush of passivity. A beige sock hung on a limp foot.