Another Asian person sat next to me on the bus. Now people probably think he’s my dad.

So said Rebelspy on First-World Problems, when I checked the web to see what other awful, so awful first-world problems people are suffering out there.  For alas, Subbers, my mac is STILL in the repair shop – since Wednesday lunch time:  can you believe this?  HOW is one meant to write a novel?   What, with a fountain pen??!    !??       No, see, my problem here is that the novel is in the mac and I reread where I last left us, to walk the next steps up the path in recall/emotional recoil. 

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I wanted to let Rebelspy and the first-world problem share launchpad know I’ve quoted them, but they’re on the Tumble-thing and I couldn’t leave comment (trying to avoid the T word being hyperlinked here, for MY newfound first-world problem is Big Bro hyperlinking what I scribe, to point to her advertising foundations out there).

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Bollocks

…which reminds me:  thanks Johnny for your  email with linked suggestions on how to fix my mac.   I forwarded it to the repair guys (deleting identifiers). They had an open mind, and I appreciate that – they said they’d read what you suggested.

“I want to enjoy my beer in the garden, but the wifi doesn’t work out there.”

First-world proflem sufferer LoveIsEveryone (no link available)

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So I read that problem of Rebelspy’s and thought, ‘Oh mercy, I hope my son Daniel has never “SUFFERED” such a thing – Asian dude sitting next to him on the bus and people thinking the dude is his dad’ ‘!!!   - for as you know, Daniel is Polish-Irish, Indonesian-Chinese Australian. 

Tha, in turn reminded me of – which I think I may have expressed in my draft(?) – when Daniel’s father thought to reassure me, “Don’t worry; Daniel will look more like you as he gets older.”   I was stupefied by Chris’ comment, completely did not comprehend where he was coming from, and it only served to demonstrate – again – he did not know the person with whom he had lain, sweat over and come upon, his lifetime.  

I do not need my child to look like me, think like me or be like me for me to love him, let alone respect and see with what wonder I do, the individual that he is.

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So not having the mac which holds my novel, alongside a comment by Willow and others, some in sympathy, butwhich sympathy had me realise how ridiculous is my ”problem – all that inspired the first-world problem theme of this post/update

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I took out my detachable hard drive to see how much of the novel I had saved , and got to reading my old diaries – my earlier life as a teen, hiding under my bed as my father stomps into my room, or writing under a tree in Wattle Park, writing my heart out as I had no-one to turn to in my existence, writing thoughts dark,  including thoughts of that girl, a year or two up, who was raped…

Excerpt from my teen diary:

“We were locked in gaze, I don’t know for how long, when Zorran made a move. I could not have escaped if I wanted to,  for I was held entirely by the energy of the moment, was hooked on the life of it.

As Zorran approached me, I watched in awe the advance of man.

My eyes never left him as he tread the bridge of our energy, across the room.

Zorran then knelt before me, placed a hand on each of my knees, and slowly opened them. I resisted at first, I guess by reflex, but then surrendered as he opened them wide, so very wide. My legs open to receive Zorran into their fold, he crept forward, and soon he was before me, eyes directly before me, energy and body 100% before me.

I was wholly, wholly taken.“

Doh! Soz (as my son would txt) – wrong moment in my teen diary…

” ‘You’re not going through Wattle Park now, are you?” Kathy’s mother asks, and I have learned to say no, of course not to the seemingly caring adults, but Wattle Park is just outside Kathy’s door and it doesn’t make sense to walk around it.

I feel the nervousness returning and feel in a rush to get “home” so as to lie in bed under the musty blankets with the stray cat. I hope with all my heart that dad and his rage will bypass me tonight, going straight to the RSL.

A girl 2 years up from my class was raped in Wattle Park by a man known as the Silver Gun Rapist.  I wonder how often she walked through the park because I walk it twice a day.  I feel he should have chosen me, but have mixed feelings about that. I just want someone to handle me, that’s all, someone to touch, to want me desperately, because all I can see is my father’s foaming loth of me, and no-one ever touches me.   Yet they say that rapists don’t care about their victim; they just rip them from their path, destroy them, leave them for dead. I know I am wrong in this brief deluded fantasy, know that the rapist does not want you – he hates you, and that would just mean two men hating me instead of just one.

When I look at that girl’s eyes now, although everyone’s trying not to stare, I know that rapist took something which cannot be restored and I feel such immense anger that I choke in rage, silent though it is, sitting still as I am on the outskirts of the playground.

I want to cut his dick off, look him in the eyes, say, ‘How the fuck dare you change this girl’s whole outlook, how the fuck dare you alter her so’.   I am so enraged on her behalf and she has no idea because she just looks away from me, another person staring, trying not to stare.

When I get to our place it is dark.  I put my hand through the broken glass at the front, unlatch the window, climb through. I  stand in the darkness, moonlight on the scabby old furniture, all quiet but the hum of the fridge.“

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Those were the yesterdays of my life, the years which brought me to this moment; the times alone, wagging school and writing under a tree in Wattle Park, or visiting my sister in the locked ward at Willismere Mental Hospital… to face teachers the next day and their irritation, sigh, that ‘Noeleen has missed MORE classes’ and she just may not remember – on the occasion in my life it becomes essential to recall – that the Battle of Hastings happened in 1066.

“I cant find the right balance between my fan and my electric blanket.”

First-world problem victim ConnorMackenzie

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How irrelevant school was to me, when I needed more to speak through my pen, to be unhassled by humans/alone, to try not to contemplate suicide so habitually.   So, so bad I willed to die – right up until 2011 when I finally in a fit faced that fantasy, and nearly succeeded…thrice.

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Subbers, by way of update:   today Saturday has dawned no opoortunity with my mac, therefore secret and stolen moments on my son’s desktop.  But obviously, first-world problems and ”suffer” them I may, I will survive..

I count my blessings, even the most simple basic one of all:  I no longer will to die.

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The novel will continue upon return of my mac, but in the meantime I wish you all so well, sun, prosperity of heart and life. 

Whatever the problem is you’re experiencing today, or these days:  all storms pass, as you know, but not before you pass through them.  I wish you wellness to weather whatever storms are in your life right now.

*** Hope you all have an AWESOME day  

(I would say ‘life’, but that sounds like we’re breaking up…) ***

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And for your viewing pleasure (ha ha – don’t you just love my sense of humour?) a wee video I did upon a time, once, a few years ago..

Copyright, Noeleen

Words fall from my eyes, Your love on my thighs

Yes, I thought a racy title would bring you to my boudoir in cyberspace.  

Welcome.

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Today, Valentine’s Day, has multiple meanings to people.  Rather like multiple orgasms:  great, Greater, GREATEST.  I’m talking great moments here, for in every great moment is some kind of” meaning” which made it so, impacted you so.

My logic is that to some, Valentine’s Day has great meaning (e.g. the first year in a relationship and you are so infatuated, you think you’re in love [Cynic - Go back to your room!]).  And from there, it just gets greater and greater until, expired of orgasmic expressions of love over the years, it plateaus, and we have the “Valentine’s Day? Poof!“ set.

Some people don’t experience that spectrum of multiple greatisms, alas, and actually begin and end at the “Valentine’s Day?  Poof!” non-spectrum of romantic nil.

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I once told my man he didn’t have a romantic bone in his body.  “Yes I do,” he grinned with psychotic sex appeal, and revealed his hardened penis [Cynic - I said back to your room!].

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If you caught my last scribe – which is an aside from the novel I’m working on and presenting here in draft, for feedback of its impact, meaning to people, heart; spy my soul? – if you read it, you’d know today, Valentine’s Day, is “Show Me Yo Love“ Day here on WordFallFromMyEyes.  By that, I mean don’t bring me roses (as if you could) or this or that, just show me your “love” by hitting my advertising button.  

Yes, I know: it has come to this.  I have indeed been single so long, just the thought of that excites me.

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So, if you would be kind enough to click on the ad. at the end of this post, leave a comment that you’ve done so, I will come to YOUR space and hit YOUR advertisement.  This is what I, single as I am in this material world, call “showing me your love”.

If you don’t have any advertisements in your cyber-joint, don’t worry:  I still invite you to hit my “ad” (shall we call it;  flirt-flirt, wink-wink).  That’s what I call “loving me unconditionally”!

The upside is that we each get hit on, Valentine’s Day, and ultimately, best case scenario, we make “a dollar” from the ads we’re hosting.  And with that income, we buy ourselves a wee V/Day something.  For me, it would be reflexology, a foot rub, sauna, by which time I would be in the most laid back, agreeable mood, you could smell my vulnerability a mile off.

Vulnerable, my a*se!  Come here, TIGER.   r o o o o AAAAAARRRRRRR!

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Whatever Valentine’s Day is to you, I hope it is to your beloved too [Cynic, I'm warning you...].  

OK, ok.  

Whatever Valentine’s Day is to you, don’t worry, it will pass – just like the Christmas season.  ’Twas the season to be jolly, now’s the season to be sexy.  And those with no passion for either can just bide their time, allow those bunches and bunches and bunches of roses to be carried past your desk to other ladies in the office (or if you’re male, that promised “date” this evening the glint in his eye, be promised to all the other blokes).

You see, life’s like that:  one person’s oversight is another person’s treasure.   This beautiful bounty may still be waiting to be excavated from the masses here in suburban Australia, but true gold does not tarnish.  So I can wait .

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1.  ”Love” me (hit the ad. below)

2.  Let me know (comment) you “loved” me (just in case my mind wanders to thinking of England – though not likely! not likely!)

3.  I will visit your blog and “love you back”/hit your advertisement and let you know.

Anticipated outcome:  we both get “something out of“ Valentine’s Day, hopefully – as in, royalties from the Advertising God for attracting viewers.  And we buy ourselves something special.

I have been regarded in my life as having skewed logic, but baby, I think this could work for me… and you too.

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HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!

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Copyright,

Noeleen

Google image

A Collection of Knives

Having collected Daniel from Chris and Tracy, I felt both nervous and hopeful for the future. 

I had to accept that if Chris would not support me working then I had to make the decision to either put Daniel into child care, or simply not work.  It wasn’t a great pay-off to have Daniel in care all those hours at such cost – much better to be with family – so while driving I decided that if I were to not work in the acting job (that I was stunned to be thought good enough for, having passed auditions), then I would look for other work. 

We would get by, we would be fine, I determined, slowing down for the lights.

“How are you, gorgeous?” I turned to say to Daniel, and he gave me a big rosy-cheeked grin.  He then burbled something in the trill of a song bird, sounding excited and eager. I laughed.  The joy which emanated from this young being was so charged, I was begifted every minute by his very life.

I turned to continue driving.

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It’s important to not hope on Chris’ support, I thought to myself.  I did not like the sense of power I felt Chris possessed in being able to say yes or no, he will care for his child.  I had no power of sway (also did not care for power games) for I had said ‘yes’ to Daniel with all of my heart upon his birth.  Thereby, I would always be there for him – but Chris had the power to be available for his son and assist us, or not be available to his son and be absent, a father.
I had to remember Chris had it in his character to disappear from Daniel’s life at will, like when I started talking maintenance and he spat, “I’ll piss off, you’ll see!” – and then was uncontactable for a month.  That had been such a torture to me, isolated in Western Australia without family, no friends with children, night clubbing buddies lost to the night and lost my number, no adult to talk to but Tom when I ran into him.  And it had happened just before Robert ambushed me sexually. 

I could have rung Des from theatre days but he could not relate an iota, single man living a single man’s whims; I could have rung Tom my yoga teacher but preferred him not know me depressed for he was always so positive; I could have rung the theatre director Andrea who’d said, “Keep in touch, now” – but who ever means that?; I could have rung my grandmother but I had not exposed her to Daniel yet, and wasn’t sure how she’d receive me as a parent single; I could have rung my sisters over east but I didn’t want them to know Chris was toying with me (that’s my pride, my downfall)… really, I could ring everyone and no-one; besides all of which, utterance of the word ‘help’ had not crossed my lips ever, not ever, in my life.

“Neighbours are more curious than concerned (don’t ever seek help/tell what’s happening)”, dad had hissed at us.  Still, Wendy during an argument with him, had flung open the window one day and screamed into the world, “I DON’T CARE IF THE NEIGHBOURS HEAR!”  I can never forget my father’s freezing at that moment, and I did too:  she was so, so brave.

I had got through everything alone and I would again (if Chris doesn’t help), I decided resolutely as I turned down Eric Street, Cottesloe Western Australia.  

Who am I?  Had I determined at an early age self-imposed exile?  Was I abandoning myself from the human race, so that I cannot be abandoned; not asking for help so I cannot be rejected?

I remember that school essay, “Write on the theme ‘No man is an island’.”  But I am, I had thought to myself.

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But torture, it had been – his disappearance for a month after I tried to discuss maintenance.  And psychological endurance.  I would not ring Chris, I’d decided at that time, when he told me “The other mother doesn’t ask for money; why should you?”  (What other mother?… You have a daughter you don’t support too?).  For, if Chris loved his son he would come to see him, have time with him.  Oh – but was that me playing games, too?

And when Chris did ring after that month, I needed to pretend I was fine, we’d been fine (to not allow him the power of seeing me broken).  No, no, OF COURSE I didn’t leave our son playing on the floor when I was immobilized by depression, lay in my bed so Daniel would not witness the real me, a tear welled from the little girl still inside me, welled in my eye.  And unfallen, it glazed my vision.  So I stared, something like an hour, at the vacancy of space spread across my bedroom wall.

Mum used to lay just so – get up, get up.  You can’t do this to Daniel:  get up, get up.

But I can’t move my legs, I can’t feel my legs – or my body, my hands.  I’m numb.  I’m stuck.  I’m stuck in tragedy in time.  Get me out.  Move me.  Someone move me.

Snap out of it:  “Depressed (sneer) yer don’t know the meaning of the word” – Dad: circa, Yesterdays.

Stumble,

to the bathroom, wash my face,

to Daniel, big smile.

Him looking at me quizzically.

Me sitting with him, lifting a toy but it’s so heavy, just so heavy.  Trying to act, “Hee hee – ha ha – smile – beautiful! darling! gorgeous! we’ll go to the beach later!”

But I couldn’t do it.

‘Kung fu is practiced every where every way’ – Sifu of Yesterdays.

I can do it!

Stare, freeze, stun, numb.

“Mum?”

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I had gone to the kitchen drawer one of those bad days, those terrible terrible days when I had carried Daniel with me every waking moment for more than a week unending, given him the whole of my attention unending, when my back felt broken, when my body shut down on me, collapsed on me. 

I had gone to the kitchen drawer in desperation, as Daniel wouldn’t settle and was bored of his toys and I needed to rest.  I needed to find something to occupy him before I lapsed into unconsciousness, so unslept was I, unwashed, ravaged by depression, aloneness, Chris’ departure from Daniel and all it implied about who he was by way of Daniel’s other parent.

I had yanked it out of the cabinet, the drawer, and plonked it on the kitchen floor. Daniel, fascinated, took to it immediately.  I watched a few seconds, then stumbled away to my room and collapsed.  I blacked out with fatigue, extreme fatigue.  Not sleeping at night.  Not sleeping at day.  How do they do it in the Army?  How do they march on?  Only those who could march on, survived Mao’s long march.  Would I have died, therefore, weakly now resting on my plush bed?  We all think we’re strong, think we’re survivors, but we all collapse – at some point we collapse.

Mum?  Are you there?

Daniel’s clanking and rattling the kitchen utensils.  There’s a great commotion out there.  Are you a Guardian Angel, or are you just pleased to see me?  Ha ha – hee.  That’s not funny.  Not funny.

Black.

~

When I had woken that time that Chris disappeared for a month – I remember so clearly, I came to consciousness with that good feeling in the body, where your whole being thanks you for stopping, just stopping in your strides of life.  Refreshed, I’d sat up and looked across at Daniel’s cot, but he wasn’t there.  He wasn’t in my bed either, where he crawls to, and we become two pearls in one oyster clammed off from the world, secure and warm ‘neath blankets.

I had got up and said his name, but there was no answer. 

“Daniel?” I’d said again, panicked.

I had rushed quickly out of my bedroom to the kitchenette and there, slumped alongside the kitchen drawer on the hard ground, was Daniel.  My boy in my care:  not one year on earth yet: was slumped on the cold wooden floor.

I tiptoed close, seized with fear.  What had I done to my boy?  I had slept, had neglected my boy.

Once close, I saw peace a gentle veil lain over Daniel’s face in rest.  I would not disturb him. 

But the cutlery?  There was no cutlery in the drawer.  I wondered if I was half dreaming, if I had removed the cutlery from the drawer when I gave it to him – but all that clanking???…

I looked under my writing desk, alongside the refrigerator, behind the bin, but there was no cutlery.  I then opened a cupboard door, and there discovered a collection of knives and teaspoons.  I opened another door and saw on the shelf where I kept the dish cloth and detergent, more knives, more spoons, and forks.

My God! I thought to myself in horror: how stupid, stupid, stupid am I, to leave my son playing with knives.  My God, what is wrong with me, I thought to myself as I stared, a little awed at the completely stashed collection.  I looked back at Daniel but he was not cut, was simply sleeping like none but an Angelic cherub can.

How curious it was that Daniel had so meticulously shoved all my cutlery from the drawer into the cupboards.  He must have decided to divide the stash as it must have been spilling from one, requiring another.  Not yet walking, he would have crawl-walked little bundles of cutlery across to the cupboards.  How curious, how odd, how funny and cute.  But I just could not believe I had been so stupid.

Thank you, dear God, I said in my head.  I so, so meant it.  God knows what Daniel and me were spared in my stupidity, fraught with exhaustion and despair yes, but – it could have been horrific – an eye out, anything.

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That day, then, I returned to my bed and, refreshed, mentally lay, new plans to survive Chris’ withdrawal upon my talk of maintenance.  We would be fine, we would get by, I’d thought; just as I was thinking now.  I released Daniel from his car seat in the car park of Cottesloe Beach, Western Australia, and brought him across to the front seat with me.  We’ll be fine if Chris doesn’t support me working.  I will find another way.

I remember reading once that there are infinite paths to the same end – you just need to be flexible, adaptable and persevere.  So, simply, I would take another path.  I had sold every material possession of mine that was sellable:  sold the kitchen table, my music tapes, books, work clothes, but, “We’ll be fine”, I said to Daniel, our cheeks like two marshmallows squashed against each other as I hugged him.  I could have almost squeezed him to death.

I unbuckled myself and, not caring, at the ocean’s shoreline I removed my jeans.  Then in t-shirt and knickers I played with Daniel.  We splashed, made holes, I buried his feet so he couldn’t move, and giggled when I pretended I couldn’t move after he buried my feet.  

Time brought us through the day on its tide until eventually we were warm, clean and in nightwear.  Then the day closed like the heavy eyelids of a child who has had so much life in one day, they’ve grown a mile.

Thing is, I thought to myself, lying alongside Daniel in my bed, him sleeping – that time Chris “pissed off; you’ll see” - that time, just when I had buckled up and adjusted to the all new brand of non-support (absence, instead of unpredictable presence) – just as I had adjusted, Chris returned.  And it all started again.

~

I would not let Chris have such an effect on me again, I decided, amongst my last thoughts before sleeping.  I will pretend to the agent that I can make the acting assignment at the Police Academy.  If Chris pulls out and I have to cancel, lose my good standing, then so be it.  Some thrilled actor will step into my place, and I will never be called up by her again.  So what.  That’s life.  It’s only acting.  It’s only something I want – not a need.

The most important thing is – Daniel snuffled, his long brown eyelashes fluttered.  I smelled him.  I loved him.

The most important thing is, because I had to learn from that month’s absence and how it destroyed me alone in a flat, facading wellness to passers-by in my life – I’m okay, we’re okay:  what I would learn this time was, I will not rely on Chris.  I will even start looking for other work, while waiting for Chris to say yes he’ll take some responsibility for his son in support of me working and bettering Daniel and my lives.

If there’s a road block, we’ll take another route.

~

~

Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

 

What goes UP must come DOWN – if you drag it down, kick it & stomp on its Happy Head

AN ASIDE…Of today.

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It is just that edge of perverse, when you shop for poison.  Yet, one man’s pen is the other woman’s poison, so that which I bought myself last night without appetite for it, without desire, wholly knowing what it would do to the physical being that is me – it wouldn’t be poison to a l l.

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Like smoking cigarettes,

like eating so excessively you make yourself sick,

like choosing relationships that corrode you, as you thought no one could, how your father did, again

and again and again.

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Like pouring that liquid down your throat, it bubbles in your belly, burns to death all good in its path to the liver,

to damage to kill to destroy, you.

You.

Rather like a like on a Facebook page, it is false comfort.

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I have been doing extremely well, because I found another passion.  No – NO: my son re-presented that passion to me.  It is in both our blood.  I was doing it before he fired in my womb.   And like Sifu Gawain Sue said to me at purple belt, “Martial arts is to be practiced everywhere, every day;  not just here in the dojo”, and l realized I’d been practicing it for many years, long before I entered the dojo…

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Sorry, I’m being cryptic.  I don’t mean to be:  Daniel gave me a one month pass to his dojo, to practice BJJ, muay thai, fundamentals (core strength training) – anything I like, for a month.

“But don’t you want to spend it on one of your friends?”

“You can have it, Mum.”

His response did not address my question, but it answered my veiled question.  My son still loves me, though our years brought me to my weakest moment in my whole life.

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I’m rambling, but I need to get this off my chest before I can write freely again:

Been doing good.  Really good.  Felt good. 

Was feeling stronger. 

Was feeling power return to my life

as I did martial arts again at my son’s dojo. 

Was doing good at work too

–coping with the stress better,

not just coming home and drinking, hating whereat I had lost myself. 

Daniel was feeling good, his Mum being better

- and better and better.

Then, I got up. 

I went to the shop. 

I bought some poison. 

I drank the poison. 

I blacked out. 

I woke up. 

It was today.

Self-sabotage. 

The echoes of voices past

(you may not be happy, you may NOT be well).

I was doing SO well, I HAD to kill it.  I HAD to poison it.  “Don’t think your shit don’t stink.”  “Yes dad.”

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I realize (now) that I am having a hard time letting go of “her” – the other me, the me that has been fallen, struggling, aching, breaking for decades.  

CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?

I am actually having difficulty

in embracing the wellness

that the last week suggested

could be my life.

I felt good for one week, ONE week I tell you, and then I drenched it in alcohol. Drowned her.   Every step forward I had edged myself last week, I drowned back to square one last night.  Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.

Is she dragging me back, or am I holding on to the broken her, absurdly afraid of allowing happiness, so accustomed am I to its opposite?   Get away healthy, well, fighting you:  YOU are not allowed to BE.

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I guess I’m speaking this aloud, Subbers – I’m sharing now because there is a sub-theme running with this whole novel that you are unwittingly privy to… besides which, I don’t know many people in this Melbourne town and, well yes, this blog is something of an outlet to a fairly reclusive writer like me. 

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The main theme is Daniel and me living beyond what hell we went through, and the sub-theme is me here and now trying to get beyond way much else within, still haunting, still struggling, still holding me down and stomping on my happy head, when my happy head dares to rise.  

Boots like dad’s.

Ah, pathetic, we humans can be.

Or not.

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One of the videos from my blog VodkaWasMyMuse, which I let drop to focus on the novel this year, to put closure to the novel this year, to blossom forward.  I guess I’ve dragged this out to remind myself after bludgeoning my wellness so repulsively,

sigh,

yesterday is SO passé.

 
Copyright Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

I don’t usually take so long … TRUE!

I REALLY don’t…

~

SUBBERS,

I’ve noticed a few new people join the story of Daniel and me, and I welcome you open arms .  I embrace you because the comment, feedback I receive from you in writing my heart out here, finding resolve in the unfold, is very meaningful to me:  thank you.

It’s meaningful because writing is a lonely process, especially when you’ve landed yourself on the opposite side of Australia, escaping … well, anyway, my book means ‘all’ to me, having started in Aug’11, just after surviving near-death.  So yes, thanks, sincerely.

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I don’t normally take so long between scribes (or drinks, as my old faithfuls know!), but thing is, with my video diary blog on giving up alcohol - VodkaWasMyMuse - I joined a challenge for the month of November.  The challenge is to post daily (DAILY!  WHO posts DAILY??!!) on issues of health.  Right up my alley, health (mental and otherwise) issues…

Being a full time working mum, well, the inevitable…. exhaustedly, I have slunk into a deep warm bath peppered with Radox mineral salts at the end of the day here there.

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So this post is apology for the number of days since my last confession, because I’ve been dedicated myself to this daily health challenge & it has been quite the commitment (for ME).  If you can hang in there with me, by the time November is over I will be back to my normal rhythm of regular (at least a couple of chapters) a week.   If you can’t hang in with me, please do say ‘bye before you slide out of view because truly, I have appreciated you being there .

Now, proof I REALLY HAVE been busy, is my latest post for the November daily post challenge (the video below, I made).  Aptly about ‘procrastination & your health/life‘, it covers the day it was meant to (the 15th) & the next (16th) & the next (17th) and to make room for me to write the remainder of my WordsF

.                                                                       .a

. .                                                                         .l

..                                                                           …l                                                                                                                            

..                                                                             …..FromMyEyes chapter on Daniel’s first birthday in life, planet earth this his generation, I even made my procrastination post cover today, Sunday the 18th!!  (way to bend the rules … being a parent single, I have learned to be resourceful..).

For those inclined, a video by me (below)

and for those not inclined, I shall be spilling more from my heart on this our story, harrowing years truly, in a few days.

Thank you for being there.

Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

A (love) Story of a Tongue in Cheek

Hello Subbers! & everyone who spies this page, perchance…

THE BEST OF THE DAY TO YOU!  

~

Please allow me to indulge my sense of humour as I polish the next chapter already written.  An ad. break, we’ll call it.  

Creativity hankers often.  I’ve never really questioned it because I KNOW the response would be all the adults of all my life, declaring, “Now that’s just silly nonsense!”

‘Long live the nonsense’, I’ve always answered in my head, but not aloud – ever

- until now.  

In a whim of utter unabashed (as is my style) nonsense, I introduce to you the trailer for the upcoming must-see classic, ‘Noeleen&Alcohol – A Love Story”…

Copyright Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

Freshly pressed words into wine

Hello all -

Wonder where you’re at while I write this with insomnia 4.27 am – I’m guessing Prenin at 2.01 a.m. writing his novel, MyBeautifulThings no doubt contemplating beautiful things, Ribbons Undone polishing off a stunning resume & letter to an employer (excellent! ), Missus Tribble in that wonderful ‘honeymoon period’ … & so deserving…Nelle putting together words in a way ONLY NELLE can…and Willowdot21 – yeah, I bet you’ve got the kettle on the boil ALWAYS

Well it’s hello ALL, and I can’t help but share with you some news that has me sort of chuffed.  It’s nice, when things like this happen.

So, as you’d know from a past post, I made a second blog to take on a different theme.  It’s entirely video (except for the odd few words in intro), a VIDEO DIARY of me giving up alcohol.  Man, imagine it, since age 15 ingesting that poison to the perfectly made machine we are born with, most of us, and corrupting it and corrupting it.

I DO know the theme isn’t for everyone, & that’s understood, but the thing is, in making my videos I often access free music & sound effects from www.freesound.org.  A couple of times I’ve use the tunes of Klankbeeld (aka Marcel).  And that I did today.  As usual, I gave credits, and as usual, I let him know his music is out there in the world by way of a video blog post.

WELL, whadyaknow!  He really, really liked what I said, what I’m communicating, how I delivered it, and he has honoured me with putting me up on his own creative site. It’ll live a short lifespan, I’m sure, before something else takes its place, but I’ve gotta say I’m chuffed.

If you’re interested in a highly creative site, give Klanbeeld / Marcel a view, and specifically to watch my video that he put up, view it here:  

http://klankbeeld-freesound.blogspot.com/2012/05/alcohol-was-my-lover-vodka-was-my-muse.html 

 

So in between chapters of my novel, I hope you don’t mind this aside, because really, I felt pretty honoured by it.

Thanks for reading!  Thanks for being there

N’n.

 

Between BEEF TITS and DAIRY QUEEN, there’s something going on here

She broke her neck while training to get her black belt in tae kwon do (which didn’t matter!) whereas I only got to purple belt in kung fu and I didn’t break anything.  Sure, we’re all different, and that’s exactly why I love Chattermaster’s blog.

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Yes!  This is another edition of my inspired-by-subbers project to do an expose of everyone on my blog roll … and when I’m done, to shuffle it up by adding MORE subscribers (subbers only; paying it back) and expose more of you to each other.

My project here, it’s sort of like we’re in this big cyberspace gathering at someone’s mansion (surely one of you have a mansion??) & I’m intro-ing subbers to subbers as we motley of people from all nations enjoy our union in cyberspace.

“This is Colleen of Chattermaster and in her ‘Who I Am’, she says what matters most, apart from family and the obvious, is Dairy Queen!  We don’t have that in Australia, I wish she’d post me some!”

‘Red’ wanders by, nibbling a canapé.

“Oh! Here, Red!  Everyone meet Red she’s got a great blog called Momma’s Money Matters that covers subjects like Friday’s Follies and Story Time and Writer’s Spotlight – so varied, & interesting – and subjects of real substance, too.”

A waiter passes by with a tray full of drinks and gestures toward our group.

“Oh yes, please, I’d love another tomato juice.  Thanks.  Want a drink, Francis?  We’ve got champagne, pineapple juice, good ol’ Foster’s Beer from Australia.  Hey everyone, meet Francis.  He’s my latest subber, subbed on 9^th May – how cool!  Francis’ page is Niltsi’s Spirit.  He lives in a town north of Ontario, Canada.  Francis is into graphics, photography, painting, wood carving and his blog, like many, is about LIFE.  That’s what I love about wordpress – it’s life here, life there, life everywhere that I’m not, and I love hearing it.  Francis’  latest post is about his friend Lucinda who needs help and all you need to do is click a link and you’re helping her.  You’ve got to check it out.  And vote!  It’s a great cause!”

Viveka wanders by and Michael smiles at her.

“Viveka!”  I cry delightedly.  ”Great to see you at the cyber mansion, at Wordsfall Subbers Unite 2012!   Michael, you’ve got to meet Viveka.  She’s got the most sensually suggestive gravatar I’ve ever seen – and she photographed it herself using a mirror!  From Sweden!  Lovely!  But she’s more than a pretty picture, BELIEVE me – you’ve got to read her blog, My Guilty Pleasures.   Viveka, this is Michael, or Ocular Manifestation Maelstrom, which I think speaks for itself – hee hee!  No, no-one says it better than Michael himself.  His blog is ‘A typhoon of thoughts, words, pictures thrown in a blender and hit frappe!‘”

Noeleen notices David Bowie has stepped into the room and heads straight for her.  She trembles with all the delight, esteem, wonder, admiration, respect, ‘love’ she’s held in her being for Bowie since he entered her life, by the vibe of music, at the age of 12.  David Bowie joins the group of subbers in the cyber space party mansion.

“Hi,” the most brilliant Mr David Bowie says with his GORGEOUS lips, teeth, cheekbones, eyes, tone of voice, manner, stance, style, “I’m David – “ and UNFORTUNATELY, Noeleen faints in cyberspace, and when she comes-to, can’t remember the rest of the party (cryyyyyyyyyyyyy).

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But I digress!!  So sorry.

This post is an accolade to Colleen’s blog, Chatter master, which features on my blog roll.

In her post Black Belt Path to Life, Colleen starts out with saying she weighed 220 pds.  I didn’t know how much that was as I’m used to kilograms in Australia.  When I learned it is 99.79 kilograms I was, like, wow… HOWEVER, thank goodness Colleen’s daughter had a horrible, non-inspiring and totally discouraging cheerleading coach, because now she weighs 155 pds – or 70 kg!  I know that doesn’t exactly figure in so few sentences, but you’ve really got to read the post to understand:  and it’s a great story, inspirational, true.  Sometimes we’re devastated in life when something doesn’t go our way (cheerleading) only to find there was a greater plan panning out and life actually DOES go our way, alternatively, and what a journey it proves.

Chattermaster is what I consider a very down to earth – INTERESTING – blog of someone’s daily life.  Now, if Colleen were unemployed, childless and a fan of Judge Judy and Days of Our Lives, that wouldn’t be so, but she’s not.  She lives a very full life – decidedly full – and writes about it, from delving into family history (and I LOVE old b/w photos, the faces in them, posture, the look in the eyes which appear to be viewing you there in 2012, looking into them, then).

Colleen’s posts are so varied, from old ladies objecting to being served beef tits for dinner to declaring I’m Not Gay and I Don’t Hate You (this one was sad) to Integrity is Not Part Time.

One of her best posts, I’d say though, was Colleen’s collaboration with me. She wrote it, I was inspired by it, I asked could I video her words and she said yes. I was stoked. I took to the words, the meaning, the message immediately, and together Colleen and me made ‘I am Not Ashamed‘ 

I am Not Ashamed

Try I may for this accolade to subber Chatter master, I really can’t sum up her blog style because it’s just so, so, how do I say this? um…

so Colleen!

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Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50