tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15476106684263773062024-02-07T18:47:04.704+11:00just a little disillusionedJust some random ramblings from a mind, disillusioned by present day realityTrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.comBlogger133125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-56889144034293691752021-11-30T20:26:00.001+11:002021-11-30T20:26:41.747+11:00<p>Welcome to my NaNoWriMo 2021 Journey.</p><p><br /></p><p>This year, as well as trying to write my 50000 words, I also chose to keep a weekly journal about the NaNoWriMo experience for me.</p><p><br /></p><p> Day one and the creative side of my brain is already stopped in start mode. It's like my car, a bit rough to</p><p>start. Yeah, Dad, I know, I probably need to service it - the car, not my brain. According to the neurologist</p><p>I spoke to back in March, everything brain-wise is ok. It may be soaked in sugary, carbonated caffeine</p><p>residue by now, but at least its working. Just wish the creativity would kick in.</p><p>It isn't like I haven't spent the last two months doing planning for this. It isn't like I have the storyboards in</p><p>place, ready to roll.</p><p>I could have spent time at lunch also writing, instead I got caught in my usual reddit loophole of #aita</p><p>posts.</p><p>It's not that I'm not interested in writing the story, I think it could just be that I gave so much energy to the</p><p>planning that I am not 100% sure that I can give another 1663 dedicated words.</p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b>Day eight</b></p><p>Number of words I should be at: 13 304 (give or take)</p><p>Number of words I am actually at 7800 (approximately)</p><p>Daily word average – way under the 1667 I need to be aiming at. (I know, I said 1663 in previous post,</p><p>but I was wrong).</p><p>What happened?</p><p>Well, as with all things planned, life gets in the way. I get home from work too tired. I write too few words</p><p>and burn out. Also, I’m finding my work station (freestanding lap desk sitting on lounge room floor) really</p><p>not conductive to long term writing sprints. Ok, so that one is on me. I should have thought of that earlier,</p><p>but, yeah, nope. My legs, knees and back start to ache and it all interferes with my writing.</p><p>I had a weird dream, that I want to incorporate elements of into the story, but I don’t think it fits in with the</p><p>theme of it all. It’s too funny, and while there are humourous elements to the story, I think it will be too</p><p>much of a diversion to include it, given that it will be at a tense part of the story. Yep, I have weird</p><p>dreams.</p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b>Day eight – later</b></p><p>So, I’ve written by hand the next 500 + words, just no one ask what I was supposed to be doing</p><p>otherwise. It’s a good way for my mind to drift, get that release of creative energy that my days have</p><p>been lacking.</p><p><b><br /></b></p><p><b>Day 10</b></p><p>So, after not writing anything yesterday, choosing social interaction over doing other tasks before I write,</p><p>I have been writing today. The plan I had written out, with all my details, isn’t fitting where the story is</p><p>supposed to be headed. Its still the same conversation being said, but the tone of it is changed, and the</p><p>path that one of the secondary characters is taking is very different. I still have her making a choice out</p><p>of ignorance, but I am adding layers to the why of it so that it has potential for more resonance.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>Day 23</b></p><p>Current word count approximately 11500</p><p>With seven days to go, I think its pretty fair to say that I am not going to hit the 50000 word goal for</p><p>NaNoWriMo. Not that it’s totally shocking. I would have liked to have reached the 25000 mid point, but I</p><p>think realistically, I probably won’t hit it. I might hit the 15000 mark, but I might not.</p><p>I think that the drive to write needs more work within me. I need to prioritise writing as a daily task to get</p><p>those muscles, once quite strong, to come back again.</p><p>Do I still like the story I am telling? Sometimes. I worry that, before I reach the end, there will come a</p><p>place where I go, actually, I do hate these characters, why can’t I just kill them all? There are definitely</p><p>paths that I am being taken on by the characters that I hadn’t planned for when I put together the</p><p>planning cards for the chapters. I have pretty much given up on pre-creating character cards with all their</p><p>details, instead just making notes along the way for consistency later on.</p><p><br /></p><p>I did have that aha moment, where I knew how I wanted the chapter to end. Again, it wasn’t a scene I</p><p>had preplanned on, more so it was just a drop of an image, and I knew, where I was in my story draft</p><p>notes, that I wouldn’t get to it, but I knew I wanted to get there, that I wanted that scene in the story. Kind</p><p>of like a few years ago when I knew that I wanted a scene where my central character fought a zombie,</p><p>ending with the zombie being pushed into an electric fence. That was a great 10000 word mark!</p><p><br /></p><p><b>Day 24</b></p><p>Transferred my handwritten notes, which I always pre-tally the word count. Then when I type them up,</p><p>the word count changes for the new addition, usually ending up in more words. Of course, the main</p><p>challenge is trying to translate my own rushed handwriting, because it is always a bit of a mess. Usually</p><p>because I am writing when I should be doing something else.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>Day 29..</b>.</p><p>Word count: Seriously, don’t even ask me!</p><p>The 50000 word deadline looms. I am not even within waving distance of it. I am closer to the starting</p><p>line than I am the finishing one.</p><p>I think, what I have learnt from all of this is that I need to go further back to my roots as a writer. I need to</p><p>start small, maybe a couple of short stories and the like. Maybe review (again) old NaNo projects that I</p><p>really enjoyed writing to see what changes can be adapted or made. Lately I have been thinking of the</p><p>one that started as a very short chapter story, that I later adapted into a NaNo project. I don’t know if I</p><p>still have a printed copy. I know that I had started to make some changes because there were definitely</p><p>elements that I didn’t like, that I just wrote for the sake of writing words as opposed to going working on</p><p>quality. Which is kind of how NaNo projects are supposed to be. Sometimes it is just words for the sake</p><p>of words.</p><p>I have also been thinking about the recurring themes and items that come up in my NaNo projects over</p><p>the years. Some of these include:</p><p>Magic in reality without any justification or explanation about why some people have access to</p><p>magic while others do not</p><p>Escape from circumstances that are unpleasant to characters</p><p>Road trips – usually done on foot. Might start off as solo but usually gather allies</p><p>Forests which have magical elements</p><p>Overturning authority figures and regimes</p><p>Reliance on weaponry, mostly knives, never guns because I don’t like them and know nothing</p><p>about them. That’s not to say I know a lot about knives. More so, I don’t know, a fascination with</p><p>swords maybe?</p><p><br /></p><p><b>Day 30</b></p><p>Yep, that happened.</p><p>At least I can say that I attempted it, that I made a start. I put myself through the planning stages. I</p><p>wasted a ton of paper and card planning, plotting and scheming.</p><p>I think that there were a lot of issues with the world I created. I had a lot of information, and I didn’t know</p><p>where to begin. A lot of the questions that I started with never got answered</p>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-70612327436402063872021-07-10T18:08:00.005+10:002021-07-10T18:08:58.904+10:00Meeting with the Muses<p> I sat down with my muses today. I say muses because I have more than one. Each one represents different aspects of my writing. I wanted to meet with them today, to see why they have been so MIA of late. Or, when they did visit, they never stayed long enough, just time to inspire an idea but not enough to fully develop the story into something more.</p><p>Horror was quick to point out that the monsters I was jumping at weren't her sort, therefore she didn't want to know anything about them. Romance chimed in, stating that there was nothing she could give me. Drama offered something, but was quick to state that she was in no way responsible for the tangents it might take on. </p><p>The key thing that they were all vocal about was how maybe if I drank less carbonated caffeine, maybe they could find their way to being more vocal. I scoffed at them, telling that I couldn't cope without my addition. Drama demanded an answer, asking if my taste for caffeine played in a part in my whole brain exploding episode a couple of years ago. Before I could point out that there was no scientific evidence, Fantasy, who had been off talking to a patch of grass, returned and asked if there could be a spell on me, cast by a wicked faerie or the like. We all paused, then laughed. Fantasy Muse isn't the most rational of thinkers, but her freedom is inspiring, some of the time at least. She just says something, lets it run wild and leaves me to create something about her meanderings.</p><p>I rationalised to them that I had brought them out to the waterfalls, hoping that surely, something out there might inspire them.</p><p>Horror and Drama co-told a story about a loner, sitting at a bench, writing in a spiral notebook. It was a long, passionate diatribe that turns out it could be a suicide note. Romance chimes in that it could work, add in some lost or spurned love. Then after death, the loner's ghost comes back to haunt everyone who goes there. Fantasy is quiet. She doesn't like this idea. She shifts in her seat, then begs us all to consider something else, something lighter. There isn't anything in the story that she can work with. Ghosts aren't her thing. She asks if there are faeries or pixies around the falls, trying to prevent people from jumping or falling. Instead, catching them mid-jump, taking them through to the world of the fae instead to experience a different life while they heal. Horror sighs, then asks Fantasy if there could be a darker element for them to work with. Fantasy agrees. Then she turns to Romance and Drama and says that their elements can also be a part of it.</p><p>Then, they all turn to look at me in expectation. They tell me that, surely I can do something with their ideas. Instead I drink my Raspberry and Lime Slurpee and listen to the water running over the waterfall. It's cold there, but I am not cold inside. I am warm, at peace. There are stories still to be told. I want to go and write them, but first, another walk.</p><p><br /></p>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-90602954270146897032020-10-03T19:23:00.003+10:002020-10-03T20:18:40.437+10:00Why I am participating in the Black Dog Institute’s One Foot Forward Challenge<p><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;">I was going to do a video talking about why doing the 40000 steps for the Black Dog Institute’s One Foot Forward Challenge, but I suck at the whole talking about my emotions verbally, and I am feeling a lot of them of late so it would just end up being a garbled mess. It’s not to garner sympathy that I share with, nor to encourage people to donate, but rather share what is sometimes happening behind the quiet facade people see.</span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19.1px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;">When I was a teenager, I struggled with my mental health, but back then teen anxiety and depression were still very much something that no one talked about because of the stigma attached. I was sixteen, my connection with my friends was a thin thread, becoming tauter every day, ready to snap. When I did talk about how I was feeling overwhelmed, instead of support and kindness, I was told ‘make sure you do it right’, leading me to believe I was worth nothing, that my life had no meaning. No wonder I clammed up emotionally after my first attempts to open up were met with intense scorn. It also meant that I didn’t develop proper coping skills, instead spiralling when things got tough, falling apart each time, rebuilding over a weak foundation.</span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19.1px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;">I have been through therapy a couple of times, dealing with grief over the loss of a family member and also at the time of my parents divorce.</span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19.1px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;">I have also been on anti-depressants for short times, as well as tried St Johns Wort, although the latter had the side effect of nausea on a daily basis and it scared me off of taking them. One of the times I was on anti-depressants, I had actually gone to the doctor for medication for nerve pain after a case of the Shingles, and was put on the tablets without the doctors talking to me about the side effects or with a mental health plan to support me.</span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19.1px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;">After my aneurysm ruptured, while I was still in the hospital in Melbourne, waiting for news that there was a bed for me to go to in the hospital in Ballarat, I had a horrible anxiety/panic attack. All that I wanted to do was leave one hospital and go to another but I wasn’t able to until there was somewhere for me to go. My dad was there, and later my mum. Afterwards they both noted that they had never seen me have such a bad attack. I was virtually catatonic at one point, caught in the loop of ‘I want to get out of here’ and being able to break myself out of that loop for several hours, couldn’t eat and barely drank any water. I think I exhausted myself later that night and, after a visit from a friend, I settled.</span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19.1px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;">During COVID, the isolation necessary to keep me safe has highlighted how far I have come, and also how far I have to go on my mental health journey. I have my anxious moments and plenty of when my depression feels like it is going to overwhelm me all over again and I have struggled to keep on top of things like I usually do .</span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19.1px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;">What helps me:</span></p><ul class="ul1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><li class="li2" style="font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s3" face="Menlo-Regular" style="font-size: 11px;"></span><span class="s2">walking </span></li><li class="li2" style="font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s3" face="Menlo-Regular" style="font-size: 11px;"></span><span class="s2">Driving to random places</span></li><li class="li2" style="font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s3" face="Menlo-Regular" style="font-size: 11px;"></span><span class="s2">Crying</span></li><li class="li2" style="font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s3" face="Menlo-Regular" style="font-size: 11px;"></span><span class="s2">Watching old Whose Line is it Anyway clips on YouTube </span></li><li class="li2" style="font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s3" face="Menlo-Regular" style="font-size: 11px;"></span><span class="s2">Writing really bad poetry</span></li><li class="li2" style="font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2">Silly SnapChats </span></li><li class="li2" style="font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2">Memes</span></li><li class="li2" style="font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2">Pet shaming stories</span></li></ul><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19.1px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;">My name is Patrica, my demons are depression and anxiety.</span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19.1px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;">This is only a part of my story, there are other elements that I am not brave enough, or strong enough to share yet. </span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19.1px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;">Stay safe, and travel well people. To those who are struggling, I am here for you, I am listening. You are enough, you are important and you are valued. Even if we don’t speak, or are not close enough for you to feel like you can or want to talk to me, you are not alone in your journey.</span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19.1px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;"></span><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;">We are all survivors and we will keep on fighting our demons with weapons of our choice.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></p>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-35917058261935225672017-02-23T20:51:00.001+11:002017-02-23T20:51:34.418+11:00Some days you just can't...Some days it is easy.<div>You get up and do things and you are able to function as a relatively normal human being.</div><div>Some days you just can't.</div><div>Some days you can't find that bright, shiny light.</div><div>You struggle to breathe because it hurts to not be able to say the words that are bouncing around in your head.</div><div>You can't say a word because you feel choked up with what feelings you have, that you might just cry.</div><div>You can't think of anything but self destruction and not caring about who you might hurt.</div><div>Some days you don't </div>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-11544699076941541762017-01-28T18:51:00.000+11:002017-01-28T18:51:19.130+11:00Short Stories Are Hard To TitleAs part of my challenges for the month, I wanted to write a draft of a short story. To hold myself accountable for completing it, I also decided that I would share the 'warts and all' first draft. The only revisions have been putting it through a spelling and grammar check.
“You are certifiable if you think that your father is going to let you stand and compete at the testing ceremony,” Kingston stated as he lifted another hefty book back up to the shelf.
Seeing that he was having difficulty with its weight, I reached out to the book with my connection to air and lifted it with him so that it could be placed back on the shelf. “Yeah, I know that I’m insane. I also know that if my dimwit cousin goes up, we will lose the challenge,” I pointed out.
Kingston turned and looked at me. “Luna, you won’t be allowed to compete. You’re the wrong gender,” he said, trying to keep his tone gentle.
“You’re telling me that because you think that I don’t know?” I asked him.
“No, but I think that you’ve conveniently put that criteria aside, just as you have the realisation that you’re not going to be able to slip in as an extra contestant. Only one, one, candidate from the generation of each of the four families is allowed to stand and be tested,” Kingston recited. “They are going to recognise your name and won’t let you compete.”
I waved my hand and released some of the energy that was building up inside of me as I heard him speak. The heaviest of the books on the desk lifted, as did the desk, hovering in the air an inch above the floor before falling back.
“Just because you’re pissed that I’m right doesn’t give you the right to come in here and throw my stuff all about like that,” Kingston reminded me. “Since when can you lift a desk?” he added.
I shrugged. “I’ve been practicing. Just because I can’t compete doesn’t mean that I can’t keep my skills up.”
Kingston actually seemed impressed. “Yeah, I get that, but that right there, well it’s damn near levitation,” he said. “You aren’t supposed to be able to do that if there isn’t any wind about, right?”
“Technically the gift is linked to air, as in the stuff that we breathe. It’s easy to manipulate when you understand the interconnectivity of it all. Hell, you’re the Scholar here, tell me that it is impossible,” I added with a wry smile.
He bit his lip and turned away instead of answering me.
“Okay, now what was that all about?” I asked, moving so that I stayed in his line of sight. “Come on, share with your best friend.”
“I’ve been reading a lot lately,” he said.
“That’s kind of like when you told me I was a female just now. That’s not that much of a surprise to hear,” I reminded him. His family were part of the Scholars, a group of knowledgeable people who studied the scripts, looking for portents of things to come.
“Yeah, but this is more like the stuff I’m not supposed to be reading about,” Kingston explained hesitantly.
“Well, what is it that you’re trying to tell me without telling me about?” I demanded, getting sick of the way he was skipping around something. When he did it in the past, it usually meant something big, possibly something bad.
“Is air the only element that you can manipulate like that? Is it the only one that you can summon from next to nothing?” he added.
I paused. “I’ve never tried any other one. I mean, my family are all air users, much to my father’s chagrin. My mother, he doesn’t speak about her and what her family were connected with but I believe that there had to be some connection there.”
“You don’t know if your mother was an elemental?” Kingston asked me.
“Well, no. I mean, she died when she gave birth to me and my father doesn’t like to talk about it and her family had dropped all connection with us. I assume that they were some kind of elemental given the way my father goes on about the dilution of magical blood, just not air users because if you’re an air user, chances are there’s a blood connection to other users,” I explained to him, even though it was unnecessary. He knew it from his talks with my father. As a member of the Scholars, Kingston was permitted access to the ruling families to consult on a variety of things.
“Do you know anything about your mother or any of her family?” he asked me.
“I don’t even know what her name was,” I reminded him. “I mean, if she had have lived, maybe I would have gotten to know her family and all but I didn’t. Why are you asking about all of this again?”
Kingston looked at me. “Have you ever tried, even just on a whim, to summon fire into an empty fireplace?” he asked me.
“No. I was told that it’s too unpredictable to try that sort of thing. When my cousin and I were being told of our family’s elemental connection it was drilled into us.”
“That’s not really an answer to my question. I mean, I know you. Whenever someone tells you not to do something, the first thing that you do, once you’re out of their sight, is to try,” Kingston explained. “So, come on, tell me, did you try anything?”
I looked away from him.
“You did,” he said, and when I turned back to look at him, I saw him smiling at me, almost to the point of laughter. “What did you do?”
I sighed. Might as well admit to it, I thought with a shrug. “Do you remember the lake that appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the forest?” I asked him, knowing that he did.
“Given that my father and I spent a month trying to find something in the texts about something like that appearing like that, yeah. That was you? Which part did you create?”
I raised my eyebrows at him and attempted to look innocent. “I connected with earth to create the hole,” I admitted.
“How come it’s full of clear water? How come it isn’t a huge mud puddle?” Kingston asked me. I noticed that as I spoke he was making notes of our conversation. I looked at him until he dropped the pencil. “Sorry, old habit.”
“There were a few tyres that I found nearby. They were like huge tractor ones. Anyway, I connected with fire and when I touched each one they softened to the point of being malleable enough to cover the sides of the hole,” I said, moving to sit at the table.
“And the water? Were you the one to fill it up?”
“Actually, that wasn’t me. I had to get home and when I came back the next day I figured that some water user had filled it for me,” I told him. “What’s with all the questions anyway?”
Kingston turned to the set of shelves to his right. He reached up and pulled down a heavily dusted tome. He put it on the table between us so that it would open facing me and moved to stand behind me. He reached over my shoulder and rubbed at the dust on the cover to reveal the front of the book. There were glyphs that I couldn’t read in gold gilt set into the leather of the book cover.
“It’s the writing of the Ancients,” I said, recognising the glyphs that were catching the light and shining back at me. “Care to translate it for me?” I asked him as I pointed to the words. “I mean, after all, you’re Mr Language.”
“It’s like you know that sucking up to I will get you what you want. Aren’t you going to touch it?” he asked, nodding at the book and the way that my hand was hovering over the top of it.
I shook my head. I didn’t know how to explain to him that I couldn’t bring myself to touch the cover of the book. Every time that I even thought about doing so, it filled me with a sense of impending doom.
Kingston smiled and reached over to the cover and turned it gently. Sometime in the moments where I had been staring at the book he had slipped on a pair of thin, cotton gloves. “What you’re looking at is a book that no one else in this locale has ever seen. Their ancestors from maybe five generations back might have seen it but I can guarantee that no one else has.”
I thought about asking him to justify what he meant but watched instead as he turned the pages in the book. “What are you looking for?” I asked, noting the determined way that his hands were moving through the pages as if he were indeed searching for something.
He stopped at an opening and ran a finger along the page, coming to a stop midway. The entire page was covered in the same glyphs that were on the cover. “This,” he said.
“Well, again, I can’t read it, so please, by all means, translate and tell me what it is all about,” I said, with an encouraging nod at the page.
“‘There will come one who embodies the five gifts. They alone will be the leader of all, and usher us into a new age of prosperity.’ That’s what it says,” Kingston told me. “And no, that wasn’t an error in translating. The ancients did not specify a gender for their prophesised leader.”
“Five gifts? Don’t you mean four? That’s all there is,” I reminded him.
Kingston lifted an eyebrow at me. “Are you sure? I mean, how do we know?” he stated.
I looked back at him, wanting to argue with him about it, mostly because I wanted him to tell me that it was true. “Okay, so, say I believe this is true, what is that fifth element?” I asked finally.
“Well, once, many, many generations ago, the fifth element was something akin to heart, but I think that might be the old scribes over describing things. I don’t actually think, if what they describe is true, that there is any heart involved in the people they describe.”
“Why not?” I asked him, not liking the way that he looked as he spoke about the ancients. I definitely heard some criticism. “I mean, I could be, for all we know.”
Kingston nodded. Then he walked out of the room and returned with a metal bowl. He motioned for me to move all the books out of the way and then, when I had done so, he put it in the middle of the table. “Fill it up with water,” he told me.
“Now, just like that?” I asked him. “I told you that I can’t do something like that,” I added.
“Try,” he insisted. “Think of this as your testing ceremony and the room is full of people, judging you, waiting for you to fail because they think that you aren’t good enough because of your gender.”
I gave him a dirty look and then cleared my mind. Okay, I can do this, I thought as I held a hand above the rim of the bowl. Okay, water, right, fill the bowl, I added, realising that I probably had to focus more to get it to happen.
The bowl on the table shook and looked as if it were on the verge of almost rolling over.
“I think that you’re summoning air,” Kingston added, a wry smile on his face.
Bastard’s enjoying this, I thought as I tried to keep my focus on the bowl.
Then a thin curl of smoke came off of the bowl, even though there was nothing in there. Then, a single low flame curled up from the edge of the metal.
“I’m pretty sure that’s fire, like the complete opposite of water,” Kingston said as he moved to extinguish the flame.
Watching as he doused the flame with a cup of water he had brought in with him, I felt a little disappointed. “Okay, so, I’m not the one. I can handle the disappointment. What are we going to do about finding this one though? I mean they should be told about their birthright so that they can step up and do something. Does that book of yours give any indication of how to find them?”
Kingston shook his head. “Nope.”
“So, what happens next?” I asked him as I picked up the bowl of water and walked it to the kitchen.
“Well, we go to the testing tomorrow and see what happens next,” Kingston suggested. “I’m kind of hoping that we end up with your dimwit cousin as our next ruler. The devil you know and all that.”
“Yeah, possibly,” I agreed, albeit half-heartedly. Admit it, for a moment there you thought that you could really be the next ruler, the voice in my head whispered. No, I thought at it firmly, but the potential to find them is out there and that’s what I think I am going to do with my life.
(C) Patricia Kekewick 2017TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-52235075024684813252016-10-22T21:41:00.001+11:002016-10-22T21:41:12.136+11:00Welcome to my world<div>Trigger warning: contains references to self-harm, suicide</div><div><br></div><div>In my world, things aren't easy to explain, to vocalise. When I am hurting, I tend to shut down, refusing to let anyone in. So many times, I wanted to reach out but I felt like I didn't have the right to.</div><div>Here’s what it can be like in my world.</div><div>I get so anxious that my heart isn't racing do much as humming. I know that’s not healthy but I won't do anything to stop it except try and breathe deeply.</div><div>There have been times when I get so anxious, I curl up in a ball on the floor and become almost catatonic. I just sit, stare at nothing and let my brain overwhelm me with worst case scenarios. I have moments still where my brain and body go on pause and I have to work through it.</div><div>I am not ‘actively suicidal’ but my mind does go to ending my life at times.</div><div>I don't drink heavily or use hallucinogenic drugs, not because I don't enjoy it, but I know that I am at risk of addiction of anything that numbs my inner turmoil, even on a temporary scale</div><div>I have a diagnosis of high blood pressure, but because of my size the doctor’s hesitate to look for a psychological cause, refusing to acknowledge anxiety because my diet or exercise regime is easier for them to attack that my mind.</div><div>When I go into ‘full anxiety mode’, the worst thing that you can do is touch me. Seriously, just don't, and while you’re at it don't tell me that it is all going to be okay, or to not think about it.</div><div>I crave physical connection, but I can't bring myself to actively touch another unless it's on my terms, and there is a reason for the action. </div><div>I can't verbalise how much people mean to me because, even though I want to say it, the words aren't there.</div><div>I babble like an idiot, saying too much, or other times I am distant, not saying anything at all.</div><div>What goes on in my head can be beautiful, or it can open up doors to horrible self destruction.</div><div>I am numb right now, I feel even as I write this that I should feel more, that there should be a physical pain to compensate for what is going on in my head.</div><div>There’s probably more to tell you, but I will leave those confessions for another time</div><div><br></div>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-1723668904241811312016-07-05T22:09:00.001+10:002016-07-05T22:09:47.108+10:00Struggling With Inner Darkness: An Ongoing BattleWe tell people to reach out when they need help, that we are willing to listen to them. How many people would or would they just dismiss the call, the cry as being not important.<div><br><div>After a suicide is attempted, whether it results in the ceasing of life or not, we tell ourselves that these people <i>could</i> have asked for help, that we were there and willing to listen. Of course, these words offer us comfort, but inadvertently shame survivors by putting to them how they <i>should</i> have acted, how they <i>could</i> have acted if they truly wanted to live. We shame them for their inability to ask for help. We try to dictate how they are supposed to feel or respond. Without meaning to, we harm. We guilt them about not reaching out before they got to a point where they greeted death with more energy than life.</div><div><br></div><div>To a suicidal mind, sometimes it is impossible to vocalise what's exactly going through their minds. Feeling nothing but pain, they can't express just how much it hurts because they feel like no one is listening anymore. There is a complete numbness, making them wonder if they would feel a thing us a knife were to slice open their wrists.</div></div><div><br></div><div>That's the breaking point. It's the point where you make a choice: life or death. To see if you can survive another day of pain, of numbness because there may be light somewhere unexpected along the way. Maybe, just maybe those people will tell you after your attempt how much they care, maybe they will see the pain in your eyes and listen to you when you choose to open up.</div><div><br></div><div>That's life. It's full of maybes, of possibilities that something better coming along. You just have to want to live through the pain of today. You have to want to see another tomorrow, more than you want it to end. You have to be willing to feel everything: the good, the bad, the sweet and the unbearably bitter. You just have to pretend to be okay for just another day, even though you know it's just a mask, a facade to get you through.</div><div><br></div><div>To a perceptive mind, this is more than just a release, an outpouring of dark emotions.</div><div>What if it is reaching out to the wider world, hoping for someone to see the pain that lies within, to say before it's too late, that they genuinely care about this one life?</div><div>Of course, by then it might be just too late. Then there will just be the guilt trips, the questions of 'why', and the need for justification that the soul is broken from within. A survivor cannot heal through guilt or shaming about what they should have done.</div><div><br></div><div>Written 23.1.16</div>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-18916135744242235742016-06-02T11:27:00.001+10:002016-06-02T11:27:38.525+10:00Writing on the train: the story starts<div>No idea where it was going to end up, but the prompt was: returning home and realising everyone thought you were dead</div><div><br></div>"I know it's really materialistic of me to be upset because my things are gone but there you are," I said as I leaned back in my seat and looked at the good doctor in front of me.<div>"They thought that you were dead. There were searches after the war and bodies were buried," Doctor Schauss reminded me. </div><div>"And it's a way for them to get closure, I get that," I said. Then I shrugged. "But it's not like I had a lot of stuff to begin with so losing even a little seems like too much!"</div><div>"Have you told them all of this?" Doctor Schauss asked me, his pen poised to write down my response.</div><div>"Yeah. It lead to another fight though," I said. "I didn't realise coming back from war would throw such chaos into their lives."</div><div>It had been five years since the official declaration had sounded but it still felt newer, more recent than that. </div><div>"Sorry, what did you say?" I asked, realising that I had been lost in my own thoughts.</div><div>"I asked if your understanding of where they are coming from has changed at all?"</div><div>I shrugged. It had become my fallback response when I wasn't sure how to answer. Funny thing is that before and during the war I had hardly shrugged at all. I had an answer for everything, and a filter that only worked some of the time. "Part of me does."</div><div>"They buried a body. They thought that body's my was yours. They went through the funeral rites thinking that you were dead."</div><div>"It's not like I made them think that," I reminded the good doctor, knowing how petulant I sounded.</div><div>"There was testing. A DNA specialist confirmed that it was you based on the sample you provided when you volunteered," Doctor Schauss reminded me.</div><div>I had heard it all before. "Well, yeah. The whole point of going off to war against shape shifting zombie creatures is that one might turn in to you after it bites you and start to turn in to you, right down to the DNA."</div><div>"One bit you?" Doctor Schauss asked. He hadn't heard that before.</div><div>"Yeah," I said, trying to make it sound like it was nothing.</div><div>The doctor wasn't convinced. </div><div>"It takes more than one bite to change you into a Shape shifting zombie," I told him. "It takes like a ton more and blood and organ exchange."</div><div>"I always wondered that but I was never sure of its accuracy," he said in return. </div><div>I looked at him and raised my eyebrows in disbelief. "You're a medical professional. I thought you would have known all the facts," I told him.</div><div>"I am a psychologist, not a field doctor. I only need to know how to help you, not how to become what you were fighting against."</div><div>I laughed. Even after so long, so many people had trouble admitting what we were fighting against. They refused to use the words 'shape shifting zombie" because it meant that they wouldn't be able to deny their existence. Part of me wanted to goad him into saying it, to force him to say the words, but a larger part of me just wanted the appointment over and done with. "So, back to my family and friends then," I said in a clear way to indicate that the subject had been changed. "how do we hope about fixing this?"</div><div><br></div><div>© Patricia Kekewick 2016</div>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-44945470285634086582015-04-24T12:29:00.001+10:002015-04-24T12:29:01.851+10:00ANZAC thoughts<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span><blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 0.8ex; border-left-width: 1px; border-left-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-left-style: solid; padding-left: 1ex;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">They fought for us<br>In wars, experiencing things most of us cannot comprehend.<br>They deserve to be remembered for their sacrifices, instead of being a reason to have a day off work.<br>They have earned the right to be acknowledged for doing things most of us wouldn't dream of doing, not trivialised for commercial means.<br>Even if we do not see war as 'the answer', we must respect those people who fought, because without what they have given, we wouldn't be the nation we are now.<br>Three words, ingrained in monuments and minds across the country. A statement that makes us sit up and take notice.<br>Lest We Forget.<br><br><br></span></blockquote>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-64880107869436510372015-01-06T20:22:00.001+11:002015-01-06T20:22:14.785+11:00Not Your Body, Not Any of Your BusinessHere is my opinion, as both an employed person and as someone who receives part welfare payments, on the 'No Contraception, No Dole' discussion.<div><br></div><div>I get why people are in support of the whole idea. On the surface, it might appear to be a reasonable solution to the way things are happening with regards to welfare recipients.</div><div>However, as I read the comments on the Facebook post, all I felt was despair, because it felt that people were 'liking' the concept without considering the depths. Some people on the Facebook posts even went so far as to suggest sterilisation for these people.</div><div><br></div><div>People choose, or choose not to, access contraception for their own reasons. The choice to do so, or not, is their business alone. To force them to use it would be to violate their freedom to choose. Their reasons might be moral, religious, health or a variety of others that they shouldn't have to justify to anyone else.</div><div><br></div><div>It is also not unrealistic to anticipate that, despite the most stringent use of contraceptives by both parties, might still result in a pregnancy. If that were to happen, what new 'choice' would the unemployed mother (because, let's face it, women will be targeted the most at this point) be forced to make under this idea? Adopt it out or abort? Would they be allowed to keep their child if they did everything they were supposed to do by someone else's decree?</div><div><br></div><div>On to the topic of females being targeted in this plan, let's look at what people would be asked to provide to either Centrelink or their job networks. Most contraceptives that involve a doctor's visit are more likely to be used by a female than a male.</div><div><br></div><div>I feel like this also is a very dismissive plan, which with that statement 'no contraceptives, no dole', omits those people in same sex relationships, while practicing safe sex, would not be accessing contraceptive items for the 'birth control' aspects.</div><div><br></div><div>Let's also recognise that people would just say that they use it, have all the right documentation to get their payments, but then forget all about it unless called in to question about it.</div><div><br></div><div>These are, at best, my concerns in this plan. Agree with them, or do not, but consider them and consider also what you would do if someone in an office, which is not a medical professional, were to ask you what form of birth control you use. I know if someone in either Centrelink or my job network were to ask me this: it is <i>none</i> of their fucking business. <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">It is not for us to try to control the actions of others, to dictate what they choose to do with their own bodies. It isn't any of our business.</span></div>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-42990683231062818112014-10-05T11:00:00.001+11:002014-10-05T11:00:14.053+11:00Hard to breathe... A Commentary<div>Warning: Here lies darkness...</div><div><br></div>We get so down on people who are depressed and suicidal for not asking for help, but when it comes to it, do we realise just how hard it is to say those three words?<div>Do people who have never been there know how those words get stuck in your throat, unable to move and making it impossible to breath?</div><div>Do they know the pain of reaching out, only to be made to feel as if you were a burden for speaking of these horrible dark things and ruining <i>their</i> day?</div><div>Do they know that you feel selfish for asking them to hear, really hear, what you have you say?</div><div>Do they know that really you're just waiting for them to notice how you are not dealing with life?</div><div>Do they know the pain of having your every effort dismissed as if it were worthless, making it even hard to open your mouth and tell them the pain they are (likely without meaning to) causing you?</div><div>Do they just assume you are cold and distant because you have nothing to say, not realising that if maybe they asked you why, you might tell the truth instead of just saying that you're fine?</div><div>Depression chokes us. It tells us the lie that we are a burden on the world, that we are being selfish for wanting to talk about it out loud with someone, that what we are doing is making their lives that little bit darker and harder yo deal with. Depression shows us for who we are, and those vulnerabilities and truth make other people afraid of us.</div><div>One day a year we ask people if they are ok... Maybe we should ask more than that and actually listen to everything they are communicating with us, from their words, to the non verbal communication.</div><div>Because it is so easy to say that we are fine, that we are okay when people ask us, because our depression allows us to shape those lies, because it knows that people will accept them at face value,</div><div>The real fight is to go beyond the choking sensation and look someone in the eye and tell them that no, you are not okay and if they can/will listen, you might be able to fight your inner demons long enough to express the words that you need to say.</div>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-44253935323651341822014-05-21T11:18:00.001+10:002014-05-21T11:18:13.130+10:00Sneak peek of upcoming project<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 24px; font-family: '.Helvetica Neue Interface';"><span style="font-family: '.HelveticaNeueInterface-M3';"><br></span></p><p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 24px; font-family: '.Helvetica Neue Interface';"><span style="font-family: '.HelveticaNeueInterface-M3';">We were taken on a tour of the facility.</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 24px; font-family: '.Helvetica Neue Interface';"><span style="font-family: '.HelveticaNeueInterface-M3';">We saw the rows of beds where participants were bound to as their bodies adjusted to the hardware. The stench of fear was overpowering, smelling akin to human bodily waste. The sheets on the bed were messed, as if the facility had been abandoned on that last day.</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 24px; font-family: '.Helvetica Neue Interface';"><span style="font-family: '.HelveticaNeueInterface-M3';">We went to the Procedure Chamber, where our looks of revulsion were barely mirrored in those horrible shiny blue tiles that were cracked under their film of mildew. The smell of excrement was strong in this room, wafting to out nostrils from the rotting, sodden mattress on the bed in the middle of that room. A dish of lights to shine down on people hung from an angle in the ceiling. Several of those globes were cracked or completely missing. The dish itself was tarnished.</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 24px; font-family: '.Helvetica Neue Interface';"><span style="font-family: '.HelveticaNeueInterface-M3';">This was not a space to linger in.</span></p><p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 24px; font-family: '.Helvetica Neue Interface';"><span style="font-family: '.HelveticaNeueInterface-M3';"><br></span></p><p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 24px; font-family: '.Helvetica Neue Interface';"><span style="font-family: '.HelveticaNeueInterface-M3';">(C) Patricia Kekewick 2014</span></p>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-88117754751710246322014-05-03T22:15:00.001+10:002014-05-03T22:15:30.308+10:00On the train ride home...<div>It was the jewel that got my attention first, not the silver lacework setting or the long chain that it hung on. I only had eyes for that large, red, multi-faceted stone.</div><div>I told myself that it had to be a fake stone. I thought that no one would wear something like that in a town like this if it was real.</div><div>Then, to distract myself, I looked closer at the setting. I really paid attention to that silver, metal lacework. It was an unusual design, a unique one. One such as only few people ever wear it.</div><div>Whoever this woman was, she was either a brave sort of stupid or someone very dangerous.</div><div>It couldn't be, I told myself, forcing my eyes to the phone in my hands. I lifted it as if checking a message and snapped a photo of her to show my friends.</div><div>Then I dropped the phone back into my bag and went to looking out the train window as if I thought the back yards we passed by were utterly compelling.</div><div>I couldn't wait to show my friends that I had finally seen one of Them.</div>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-13105378964831563962014-03-24T10:35:00.001+11:002014-03-24T10:35:56.887+11:00On you marks, get set...It's almost Camp NaNoWriMo time and because I am super organised, sometimes, I am getting my ideas together so that I can add another 35 000 words to Dark Destiny, bringing it to almost 80 000 words.<div>I am getting my picture prompts, one sentence ideas and character sketches ready.</div><div>So much busy.</div><div>So many words.</div>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-23070872966218416322014-01-07T10:17:00.001+11:002014-01-07T10:17:09.377+11:00It's the end of the year as I know it...2013 is drawing to a close and I thought I'd share some of my personal milestones with you all (both major and minor)...<div>* read over 25o individual books</div><div>* submitted manuscripts to publishers</div><div>* participated in Nanowrimo 2nd year in a row, getting to the 50000 word point</div><div>* <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Holding 3 jobs at the one time, one for more than a year!</span></div>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-14332618609362394722013-08-06T10:31:00.001+10:002013-08-06T10:31:41.881+10:00Back To Where It Feels BadHow do you explain to someone that the reason you're there is because you feared being there in the first place?<div>I am in the process of signing up with the job network again (3rd time's a charm apparently) and one of the first questions they will ask, before begrudging my educational background, is why I flunked my last interview. It's a valid question and it has a simple answer: I was anxious about ending up in the very place that I inevitably ended up. I knew it was a possibility that I might end up back in the system and so I was plagued by that insecurity. How can you perform well, knowing that you will end up in a place where your mental health is treated like a child's plaything or is analysed by people with no more psychological insights than your average Dr Philip viewer? It is all a little too much. The fact that after I interviewed so badly, I went back and performed the same job that I'd interviewed for was a hard task, but I am a professional, so that is what I did. Same as when I have been called in to fill in for someone in the same role since. I bear no grudges to my interviewers. It isn't their fault I lack the capability to speak positively about myself or represent myself confidently.</div><div>So, that's where I am, back to where it just feels bad.</div>TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-48552938387406503072012-09-10T10:02:00.000+10:002012-09-10T10:02:46.182+10:00World Suicide Prevention Day 2012 Post“Please stop talking about this. I don’t want to hear about it…”
I have heard this in relation to both my battles with depression and my battles with looking for work in a world that isn’t fair or responsive to my applications.
I kind of wonder if these people really know what they’re saying or asking?
So, what could this be interpreted as?
To a mind plagued by the muddle of depression and anxious, self doubting thoughts, they might perceive that their words are not worth being mentioned or heard, that people really don’t want to hear about it, lest they feel some sort of responsibility to help.
Thinking along these lines, they may eventually stop talking about it altogether, for fear of constant negative comments to be thrown back at them. These comments are not helpful, and can sometimes cause deeper wounds than the person intends. For most people, their intention is not to harm, it is to present an aspect of the world that those in dark places cannot access, however harsh those words can appear. At what point though is this helping, instead of mere bullying someone into thinking the ‘right’ way instead of accepting that people need a place to vent, a place to express the light and dark that they feel plagued by.
What happens when people stop talking about the darkness within them? Nothing. You think that they’re better, that they must be getting help, but it is nothing of the sort. They’re still dealing with it, away from your negative influence, still trying to prove that they have something offer to the world, but they’re still falling apart on the inside on a regular basis because they have to do it alone, believing that to ask for help is considered ‘wrong’ and it’s asking other people to ‘support’ them in ways they’re not prepared to.
Even if your intention is to help, it can be the wrong thing to do to make this big presentation of what you think people should be doing to ‘get better’. You can’t possibly know the true depths of that person’s suffering, or of where they have been or the path that they may already been on, and your words might just be that extra push down the wrong way.
It’s fair enough to say that I’m not good at asking for help with my mental health issues. I still have low self esteem, a self worth that, were it counted by numbers would be almost zero, and a history of self destructive thinking. And yet, despite all that, I still try. I try to make my life better.
Yes, I still get frustrated when things don’t work out the way I had hoped they would. I make comments about it on social media, only to suffer a negative backlash and accusations of not trying hard enough, but these people only know a quarter of the story. They are looking through lenses at only part of the picture. The total solution isn’t as easy as they believe it is. They do not live the life that I have, they do not deal with harsh realities in the same way because they choose not to. They don’t know the true impact of their words because I don’t share it with them.
I don’t talk about the true darkness that I go through because, simply put, I don’t want to burden people with it. I don’t want them to pity me because aspects of my life kind of sucks.
This post was written in relation to Write Love On Your Arm day on September 1O. On this day, people across the world will write the word ‘love’ on their arms as an acknowledgement of the pain of the sufferers of mental health issues such as self harm and suicidal thoughts and to raise awareness of this ongoing issue.
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TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-28420215991138859402012-08-16T10:21:00.000+10:002012-08-16T10:21:04.989+10:00The We: A ConspiracyFrom the day that the Rise Up Program was created, nothing was ever the same again.
Feeling a need to combat the rising unemployment rates, the Australian Government asked for tenders depicting programs that would create employment opportunities for the thousands across the country. From out of the murky shadows stepped United Front, a training facility. The whereabouts of its corporate headquarters remains unclear, as do the identities of its administrators.
United Front Presented the Australian Government with a program that not only provided unemployed people with work skills based training opportunities, but also a rehabilitation and mental health facility to combat the other issues that plague jobseekers. This program was to be a not-for-profit run piece-of-good that United Front were prepared to administer. This program was Rise Up.
Initial running costs for Rise Up were high. The reason for this was a one-of set up cost. There is nothing untrue about this statement. To engineer equipment to make such radical changes, the cost would have been quite high.
High costs were paid by all, but perhaps none more so than the individual participants themselves.
In their truly unfortunate existence, these people refer to themselves as 'we'. They have lost all personal identifiers of their former lives. Their time is spent in the endless pursuit of long term employment. This journey can last anywhere between three and six months, depending on the individual needs. If required, a participant is enrolled in a unit of study. Scholarly types may excel in such an environment, but many of the 'We' feel pressure to pass a course that they have no interest in.
Their futures are pre-determined for them, filling industry gaps without care for individual wants or needs.
At the time of publishing, it has been suggested that for those who defy orders, reasonable or not, plans for enforced conscription in the armed forces are already in place.
The rumours of behavior modification have never been fully proved by this media outlet or any other despite effective searches.
For every element of truth that we uncover, several lies surround it, thus making the truth all that more surprising and ridiculous.
The truth of the We has been difficult to find.
That alone leads questioning minds to wonder whyTrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-75438541926151613872012-08-01T12:11:00.001+10:002012-08-01T12:11:21.876+10:00Cross-Gender-ExaminationWhen I wrote the post about building a desk, I never thought it would get the amount of reads that it did. At the time, I didn’t really have a clear idea about how gender image, when discussed without referring to sexuality, could be seen.
Anyhow, I did some research over the last week and I read this book called <i>Delusions of Gender: The Real Science Between Sex Differences</i> and it raised some interesting points about how we see particular genders and how those expectations of societal ‘norms’ can shape and damage us.
If we see a child dressed in pink, we assume that the child is a girl, just as we assume the child dressed in blue is a boy, because that is the way we’re told to think, ever since we were children ourselves. It is what society and retailers expect of us as we see onesies in those pastel colours all over the place. To overcome any errors when talking to friends who have infants, I ask the parents what the child’s name is before making any out-loud assumption on gender.
<i>“Cross-gender behaviour is seen as less acceptable in boys than it is in girls: Unlike the term ‘tomboy’, there is nothing positive implied by its male counterpart the ‘sissy’. Parents were aware of the backlash they, or indeed had, received from others when they allowed their children to deviate from gender norms.” Page 2O3</i>
I put a reference to this quote on Facebook to debate with my friends. The responses were interesting, with one person asking if Tomboy was ever used in a positive way. Possibly this was after my comment that it was semi-positive, though never having referred to myself of had it used to refer to my own behaviours, I may have the wrong end of this. I know of people who used this term as they were growing up to define themselves and their behaviour when it went outside of social expectations for females.
I didn’t grow up with brothers. If someone needed to bring wood up for the fire, including cutting it up, my sister and I were expected to do it. My mother and father shared lawn mowing and cooking duties. If my car needed an oil change, my father taught me how to do it, so I didn’t have to rely on others to fix it. I will try to lift heavy items myself safely, but will ask for help if needed from anyone near me. I can put up a tent by myself. My use of manual tools to put together shelves and desks isn’t a thing of perfection, but the fault of that lies in my home-grown skills and not in my gender. I was even in the scouts briefly, leaving because I was made to feel uncomfortable because of my gender minority.
This book discussed a lot of issues relating to gender stereotypes and how we can restrict our own choices because of gender expectations.
Have you ever been put in a situation where gender stereotyping has stopped you/ restrained you from participation in cross-gender activities?TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-17733909617422944482012-07-26T10:08:00.001+10:002012-07-26T10:08:28.895+10:00Roller Derby Training MusingI was watching roller derby training last night, seeing how skaters whipped off of each other when I realised, not for the first time, that since I began roller derby several years ago, a lot has changed in the evolution of the roller derby whip, at least for my league.
I'm not an expert or anything remotely cool like that. I choose not to do contact now that I'm not aiming to get my star levels of minimal skills, but as I watch, I do notice how things have changed.
It used to be that, as the person giving the arm whip, that you weren't allowed to hold onto the other skater. You were just there to give up some of your momentum to help them. I can see the point of directing skaters on the right path though, but sometimes it seems a little less powerful.
It's more noticeable, to me, watching them give and take booty whips. It used to be that you really pulled on another skaters hips, really almost pulling them to a backwards stop, now it's almost a gentle caress of their hips as people skate past.
It is probably just a change in the way that we're training as opposed to a genuine fear of whipping properly for fear of hurting your own team-mate.
It's also possible that I'm just rambling because I haven't blogged in a while.
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Image for this blog piece taken from: http://www.kaboodle.com/reviews/whip-it-roller-derby-t-shirtTrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-46753709950180120962012-07-09T10:18:00.001+10:002012-07-09T10:18:16.176+10:00Muse Missing InActionI haven’t written anything new in ages. It all seems to be rethinking old ideas that flourish brightly but never make it past the whole ‘idea’ stage.
It’s the dreaded Writer’s Block, here with me in all its nasty blankness.
Even writing this is like a trial, feeling like I’m using up space on my computer where something else might go.
Instead of writing I’ve been thinking, stressing and making fun of reality tv and the people that populate them because that seems to be the extent of my brain capacity lately.
Even putting together a submission for a publisher takes me forever, thinking about what to write instead of letting my instincts take over my fingers.
There isn’t much else to say.
Other than:
“Hey Muse, come back! I want to be a writer again!”
Please come back muse.
I miss you and the work we create together.TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-79535418818319636552012-06-25T13:14:00.000+10:002012-06-25T13:14:18.602+10:00Simply The WeIt all began with a simple, united voice speaking to me of identity loss and other painful things.
It all began as a way to stay awake while sitting in Parliament House during debate time with the youth parliament. It looked like, to the casual observer, that I was taking notes about each bill. I was really writing a story. Elements of that original story still remain in future drafts, the words a powerful reminder of where things began.
It's simple. It's <b>The We</b>.
Actually, it's not that simple. Nothing ever really is though.
It is a social commentary that is my way of exploring the issues that have plagued me while I have looked for work. The lack of control over my near future is something that I have fought against, along with the fight to maintain a personal identity.
I didn't even realise when I first started writing it how close in theme it was to George Orwell's <b>1894</b>.
Over the years, it has overgone many reworkings. One of the things that I struggled with as a writer was maintaining the universal voice. By intercutting it with articles and a single voice, I have been able to better explore themes and ideas that, while writing as a universal voice, would not have been done so.
The paranoia that the characters feel is very real. In reality, jobseekers are monitored closely, though not as closely as represented in the story.
I believe it speaks to those very real fears we all have that someone's watching our every move, looking for us to make an error. Security cameras watch us in public. We are aware of their placement. We know that if they are watching us, if is likely that if we do something wrong, they will catch us.
This story is my way of venting my frustrations as a system that sometimes seems unfair and unjust, While some of the thoughts expressed are my own, most of which is simply exaggeration.TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-15409979960665628342012-06-05T10:28:00.001+10:002012-06-05T10:28:54.625+10:00A Writer Growing UpLet’s take a step back in time. Not a massive leap or anything, just ten short years to look at what I was writing back then.
This time ten years ago, I was halfway through my first year of university. I’d almost finished my first semester doing a uni course [as opposed to a TAFE one] and realising that I might actually be able to make it.
My stories were dark, horror noir, slasher types without any real insight into the whys or hows the attacks were happening. Or they were ghost revenge stories. There was no real depth to them. Just straightforward exposition/dialogue/description pieces that were a filler to the anthology my Diploma course put out at the end of each year.
I was still in that whole ‘oh my god I’m at uni’ mind-space. It was a big step for someone that no one else expected to leave home, let alone my home state!
At the time I was experimenting with the ‘slice of life’ type stories that didn’t need to have a beginning or a conclusive end. My characters rarely, if ever, got a happily ever after.
My central female characters had a bit of Buffy in them, because of how much time I spent rewatching old episodes of <i>Buffy the Vampire Slayer</i> and marvelling at Joss Whedon’s story creation.
I think, at that time, I was working on a piece that surrounded a central female character with telekinesis who was working in some sort of factory with her friends, each one possessing some ‘supernatural’ ability. Then they all went to a training facility to teach them how to use their powers.
Then The X Men came out and I realised that, even without knowing about this world, I had created something similar. So I put mine aside while I worked on other projects.
Flash forward to now:
I experiment with different genres. I wrote <i>Ferris Wheel</i> in the magical realism genre. <i>Dark Destiny</i> is a horror with supernatural overtones. I’m currently working on a dystopian noir fiction piece that is a speculative look at the unemployment system.
Now though, I understand a bit better about the psychological insights into each of my characters. I want their motivation for their actions to be clear to myself as a writer, and to the reader. I understand the need for action that progesses the story as opposed to brings it to a screeching stop.
Growing as a writer doesn’t mean that you have to necessary let go of what you know to create something new. It’s a lot about building on what you already have within you to create something else. Something different. And not being scared to show another that this piece came from within your mind, dark and scary as it might be.TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-15471384882932338712012-06-01T10:21:00.002+10:002012-06-01T10:21:15.386+10:00Drawn to WritingI’ve been thinking about what I write, why I write it etc. Not altogether riveting stuff to some, but I thought I’d share a bit of it anyways.
Genres: I’m drawn to writing genres like speculative fiction, gothic horror, fantasy, dystopian fiction because there are elements in them that connect to me at a deeper level. As a reader I’ll read anything, but as a writer, I get pulled towards the darker aspects.
I studied each of these genres in depth at uni, connecting with them on a larger scale than other topics possibly because I understand the depth and darkness that these stories can encompass.
Characters: Every one of my characters is flawed because humanity in itself is flawed. If I were the religious type, I might say that we’ve been flawed since that day in the Garden of Eden when Eve ate the apple. In Ferris Wheel, Sasha and her co-workers are all so flawed, each one seeking out a way to make the world better for themselves without care for anyone else’s desires.
Themes: I have a slip of paper next to me with the themes of my next book, which echo throughout all of my story drafts. These include power, control, conformity and the exploration of human’s darker nature. It disturbs the reader, makes them uneasy, which as a writer, I understand, but keep pushing at those boundaries.
In my life, I struggle with each of these things on a daily basis, fighting against the idea that I have to be what another person tells me to be. I fight against conforming to the concepts others present to me, and I do constant battle with my inner dark demons which, as I’ve stated in facebook statuses of the past, are nasty little bitches willing to put up a fight of their own.
As a reader, we are drawn to things that allow us to connect and escape from our mundane realities.
As a writer, I am able to explore, in depth, those things that challenge and scare me on another level, bringing out a lighter or darker outcome as I choose.TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1547610668426377306.post-6353164113471525152012-05-31T10:08:00.002+10:002012-05-31T10:08:58.464+10:00Hitting the highs and the lowsI hit the highs and I hit the lows.
I pretend that I’m okay,
When all I want to do is cry.
I fight the darkness that surrounds me,
Telling myself it isn’t real.
I scream inside while my mouth remains silent,
A placid look of disturbed peace across my face.
Can you tell what goes on inside?
Do you feel the way I shatter,
Only to be remade anew in a day’s time,
Pattern never the same as before.
Prey on the weak,
Pray to your gods,
Tell yourself it’s for my own good.
You don’t have the scars.
Aphorism 1
The good moments are not as permanent as we would like. Reality merely creates the illusion of happiness and pleasure which covers like a plastic plaster the fractured darkness within.
What we must do is understand this and grasp the moments of light, cherishing them for the promise of hope they present to us. Then when we inevitably experience the fathoms of the dark, we appreciate the preciousness of the light.
Aphorism 2
The giving of advice should only be done by one with real knowledge and/or experience in the area causing discontent. Those who recite what they see on television in an attempt to help another may cause more trouble than they intend.TrishKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15585808935956627017noreply@blogger.com1