Sometimes I get these headaches and they just slay me. My brain feels like someone has taken a hammer to it. These headaches don’t happen often, but just often enough for me to make a note of the consistency. Sometimes I take medicine, but it never helps. I can take them all I like, the headaches never even waver. They are acutely painful in a broad sense and there is nothing I can do about it except wait it out until it goes away, which it usually does. I am currently suffering from one of these headaches and I can’t say that it is something I will treasure in memory. I sometimes tell mum about the smaller ones but the headaches like this I keep to myself. I don’t know why. Every time I write a sentence I have to briefly close my eyes and once again summon up my strength again. This is the first time I have written about my headaches and I’m surprised it took me this long. Normally I write about anything and everything that even vaguely pisses me off, but my bravery is a slow concept. I don’t want anything to be done about my headaches. I don’t want the be rushed to the doctors or anything like that. It’s not like I have a brain haemorrhage I just… have a headache.
This is one of the many errors of humanity.
I am writing this because I have nothing better to do. I am feeling uninspired, tired and my head… my head is going through something that I cannot find the words for but I refuse to just shrivel up in a ball and feel sorry for myself. I will wait, not with any small amount of impatience, for this to end and then I will go to sleep, because that is what humans do. They wait.
I don’t know whether I am over dramatizing my pain or under dramatizing this, because I have nothing to compare it too. I am ignorant to anything worse. I am asking myself why I would even consider sharing this with the Internet for basically the same reason I am scared to ask the teacher for help in school. I wish to avoid unnecessary confrontation. That’s the teenage girl in me. Trust me on this one guys, every teenage girl is terrified of big things or even the possibility of big things. Ever wonder why they gossip about trivial things as if they were big? Think about that.
I’ve had these headaches for about a year now and they shit me like fish but if I had the option I would wish for far worse than this for the rest of my life so that other things would go away. Unfortunately, that isn’t how life works.
I am always wary of telling people about my problems because in general I am a fairly jovial person and they never expect it. A few weeks ago I accidentally told my art teacher, who is lovely, about cancer because he was bugging me about my art book right after the first chemo cycle. It wasn’t his fault, he didn’t know, but I told him anyway. He took me out into the corridor and I tried to tone it down into a little thing. It didn’t work. He told me that he had to tell the school and that it was his job, I understood but now when I get approached by also lovely school counsellors I regret that rash decision.
Anyway, this post is really just me sharing my tiny painful insecurity with the world and my headache is beginning to retreat.

Good times

When I was a smaller kid I had this reoccurring nightmare every few months. It was a long nightmare and just like my habit of story telling it had a plot line, characters and themes but it always ended the same way. I lost my dad. Over and over again I had this dream. We would go camping at the base of these two hills and each hill would have a warehouse on top of it. On the first night me and Dora would go and investigate the warehouse to discover it was filled with skins. Then skipping ahead dad and Harper would disappear and naturally this caused me quite a bit of distress, but then skipping ahead again we would all starting running away but we were all running away without dad. Me, Dora, mum and Harper just kept running. There was more to this dream but I really wouldn’t know how to describe it. I can’t remember whether I told anyone about my nightmare as I was very little but it scared me a lot. It was a theatrical waking up screaming and sweating sort of scared, but it was more of a ‘by god, am I happy to see you’ sort of scared.
When me and Dora were growing up mum worked and dad spent a lot of time raising us. A lot of people found this very cute. A big man with two little giggling girls under each arm. I had a good time. At this age I had a furious temper, still do, and shouting was a continuous occurrence but still it was a brilliant time. I felt loved and safe and… mysteriously always kind of tired.
This blog post is dedicated to my dad who is a great dad. There are so many experiences I could speak of at this moment. Dad once took me, Dora and mum to Jamberoo for a surprise. Sleeping under the stars. The countless camping trips. I remember coming home from the second three week holiday to England. Only me, mum and Dora went. When we got to the bit of the airport where you pick people up me and Dora went to the bathroom together, as we were coming back we saw dad and Harper hugging mum and we yelled out to them. I remember Dad coming towards us and scooping us up together. To be hugged like that… was… joy-giving. I remember distinctly that he was wearing his iconic grey jumper that had holes in the sleeves and always smelt like warmth.
Tomorrow he turns forty.
Happy birthday dad!

I don’t know where this went

Mum says I shouldn’t write this. She said that I will write bad because I’m tired, or at least that’s what I’m guessing. She used a word starting with the letter P. I don’t know what meant, I can’t pronounce and I can’t spell. Sometimes people assume I have swallowed a dictionary, because I occasionally use words that sound like they have come straight from the Victorian era. This can be both annoying and charming.
Unfortunately for my mother, at least, I am stubborn and am really bad at doing what I probably should. I wanted to make this post about writing but I seem to of gotten off track. I can’t say that this is a particularly unusual thing for me. I start out thinking about something really important and then it’s gone. Vanished the thing you were just holding and all I am left with in the knowledge that it was really important.
I am sitting on the deck and it is dark and cold, but I am wrapped in a blanket that has green and red and matches my crimson headphones and the porch light in looking down on me. I can see the streetlights going over the bridge in the near distance. Mum’s ikea birds are sitting in the tree in our back yard like bird shaped stars. They are illuminated by little bulbs that look like little glowing hearts. That is both a clichéd and whimsical thought. Dad’s prayer flags that he brought back from Nepal are gently swaying in a breeze I can’t feel. The sky is not yet black but I doubt that colour is far away in the distance. Night is here but it has not yet taken us. One day dad brought home little disco balls to hang on the deck. They are twinkling happily at me. The bamboo wind chime is hanging a little ways a way from me as I sit. It sways like the prayer flags.
I always root for the underdog. Always. I don’t know why and I am always disappointed when they lose, but I can’t help it. It isn’t a voluntary thought. While I really don’t care for winning when I’m personally involved I can’t help but wish other people happiness and if winning is going to make you happy, go for you life.
I’ll root for you.
Something I have leant while going through cancerous period in my life is that I am completely indifferent to death. I believe that it is far braver to suffer than to die, but to be brave there has to be something painful to be brave against. Don’t get me wrong here, I don’t take death lightly. I just don’t care for the idea. My mortality is, as far as I’m concerned, only my business of I make it that way. I’m going to die. My family is going to die. My friends are going to die. Yes, this topic can be incredibly morbid, but fuck. There is so little we can do about it. As an atheist I don’t believe in heaven or hell, nor do I think there such fabulous ideas and in general I choose not to speculate about the great beyond, but I do ponder death. Not because it is morbid and scary, but because it is interesting. I’m much more interested in the ways of which we go than the even itself. In the end the same damn thing happens, the reasons why can be tantalising, but naturally sad.
I view cancer as kind of internal terrorism and that suck shit balls, but hell, it’s in my life, there is nothing I can do about that so the best thing I can do is figure out why.
Once again my thoughts have strayed from their original course, but I doubt I would have gotten far with my initial topic of choice. I wonder if I am writing in the way Mum said I would. I can’t tell but if I am I apologise, but if I’m not they I hope that this piece of writing does something good. I can’t think what but as long as it has a good effect on something I really don’t care.
When I was in year one I had a year of wandering. The teacher was really into talking to us about the most mundane things like why our parents might serve us veggies or why we shouldn’t go to the bathroom on our own. In general this was how we spent our mornings and afternoons. The other kids were happy because, well, we weren’t really doing any actual work, but I was seven and bored shitless. After a little while of almost falling asleep with the boredom of things I already knew being spelt out to me I did what bored seven years olds do I snuck out of class. I realise now that this probably wasn’t one of my wisest moves, but I never got caught, so what the hell? It wasn’t actually as difficult as you would think. All you had to do was back up while the teacher was chatting and sneak out to door as quietly as possible. I doubt the teacher even knew I was in her class by the end of the year. I never went out for very long, just long enough to gain the courage to come back in. Sometimes the teacher would ask where I had gone and I would tell her I had gone to the bathroom. She never questioned that. I don’t think I learnt anything that year. My year of wandering.
Last year my school held one of its many plats. The play was ‘The king and I’ naturally I went along because it meant I would get out of geography and science. All who have seen the play will know that the king dies at the end and while the king is on his death-bed he asks his eldest son who will be king after him what he will do for the new year ceremony to which the son replies “I will hold boat races” when the king asks why the boy answers “because I like boat races”. While watching this I thought ‘yup, that how I’m going to live my life, because I like it’.
Once again I have noticed that I have let this go one and perhaps I am droning but whatever. I will publish this anyway and see what happens.
When ever I think this it never ends in a good place.
Oh well.

Two sided emeotions and wishful days

People are constantly telling me that my notorious impatience will never get me anywhere. Of course I can see that they sure as hell don’t know where I am going so it’s really like saying a boat won’t get me anywhere when I might be travelling by sea rather than road, nonetheless I have nothing better to think about and I think that two way emotions and characteristics are interesting so what the hell. In some way they’re right. Impatience can fool you into thinking that waiting for something you really want is pure personal hell when it really isn’t, but in others it can help you. I like to think that my version of impatience is the type that will simply let me work for it rather than wait for it though I may be wrong. I have been oblivious to things like this before.
It is the same with stubbornness. For example, we were doing pottery in art class this term and I am both fortunately and unfortunately a stupefyingly stubborn soul was having trouble. My cautious vanity would like to mention that this doesn’t happen often but that would be a really god awful lie. My friend who had been having the same trouble with this as me but had given up begun to do a different less difficult technique kept telling me that I should just lay down my guns. You can probably see where this little story is going by now. I didn’t lay down my guns at all, to be honest I provably picked some more up. The point that I won in the end. Of course I won, stubbornness can get you places, just like how it can hold you back. Impatience is the same.
On a completely unrelated topic a friend told me today that all of the kids in her street kind of band together because they don’t live in the most child friendly neighbourhood. I told her that I thought that that happened everywhere and personally I think I’m right. People think that you only know the tricks of a place if that place is a prison or a camp or a bad neighbourhood, but the truth is that we could all give that “so you’re new here huh?” pep talk on how to not destroy everything. Hell, I could give on solely on how to break the rules consistently and not get expleled after a week. The trick of the trade are things that we all know. Whether it is abiding by the rules or breaking them. We all get that. Where to go, how to act, that’s our deal. In times of need or at least when nobody is watching kids do generally band together simply because we get what’s going on in everyone else’s heads. Living in australia times are hot and even I have had my days of gang life. Me and Dora would go out every day to play. Play is the only word I can think of in the English language, but still it doesn’t quite fit it. It didn’t feel like playing. It felt like the feeling that a biker must get when him and all of his mates with beards go out on a ride together. There were days when I lived for those afternoons and summer days.
I remember distinctly this pair of twins that lived over the road with their mum. For about a year me, Dora and them were inseparable. It was brilliant. They were a year older than Dora so I don’t know why they bothered with us. I could fight and Dora had a smart mouth to be proud of. I know that saying that I could fight sounds a little trivial but back then if you had the ability to out master the boys you were pretty top notch, which I could do. I could fight. I could wrestle and I could piss other kids off like nobodies business. I guess I making myself sound like some kid badass. I wasn’t. I was a kid who could dodge and wasn’t yet timid enough to through a punch when annoyed. I guess that gave me some sort of appeal with boys. I remember playing video games when it rained and jumping off roofs and being fed Christmas lollies. It was brilliant. We had our own tribe away from all the stresses of growing up and the various judgemental eyes.
I miss that.

It’s like picking between Tony Abbott and Kevin Rudd

What do I think on the matter of communism?
I think it’s just as bullshited as capitalism. I accepted very young that almost everything in this goddamn world has its own personal stereotypes and generalisations and with something a world wide as both capitalism and communism you just have a pocket full of them. For a long time I couldn’t give two shits about either of them but now every with my tiny amount of knowledge of the history and understanding of either of the relating topics I have finally figured out that to me they both seem epically stupid like something my school would come up with.
Communism: advertising is bad!
No, my dears, it’s not. It is just someone trying to make a profit, thus the basis of basic human nature. Because profit equals food and shelter.
Capitalism: buy our fabulous product that was made by a Chinese man who can barely support his family!
No, my dears, if you start denying another humans right to eat and survive you can go fuck yourself.
I believe that it is okay to be rich. I believe that it is okay to have more than someone else. But I believe that it is a whole let okay to let other people struggle to survive. I think that the essentials have to be provided and if you want the luxury items you have to work for them. All humans have the perverse desire to win, and not matter how much we would like it that really just isn’t going to go away. Winning the race is fine as long as sneakers and water are provided for all.
I know that my idea of a hopeful future is somewhat unrealistic and, hell, when it comes to fatal flaws I have them coming out of my ears but neither of the approaches that have been put forward during our long duration of waring history are really getting us anywhere. I doubt that anyone wants someone you don’t know or understand to starve, so the question is that why are people still doing just that. Unfortunately the answer is something that I don’t yet understand and given how delicate these subjects can be I think that I’m willing to leave that be for now.
Just while we’re on the topic, I think that this whole show about advertising and ‘slave to society’ bullshit is total bullshit. Nobody is a slave to the fact that the shiny thing on the billboard is something they might consider paying for. That’s just being human. You find happiness in what happiness in. You don’t get to decided what it is, you just find happiness in it. Simple as that. It doesn’t matter whether someone is making a profit out of it or not. Sometimes you can’t get what will bring you happiness for whatever reason, but that doesn’t mean that your a slave to anything.
I have a lot of thoughts on many topic hang about around these too incredibly controversial ideas, but have not yet formed my own opinion on them.

Humanity the narcissist
Wishes to happily exist
Inside its own reflection
A type of self infection.

The miracle of singing birds
Overlook by human words.
The all too human views
And the sordid evening news.

-a poem by a news paper clipping.

Where I want to be is a place I don’t know

Grown ups are always asking me what I want to be, what job I will get and how I will earn my keep in this world of currency and I never know how to answer, I just kind of stare at them until something both defiant and interesting pops into mind which it almost never does. When I try to explain that I’m going to be a writer but I’m not going to go to university they always seem to get rather confused. I try not to point out how simple the concept is. I thinks it’s silly to need a piece of paper with my name on it saying I can write to be able write professionally. I already know I can write and people seem to enjoy reading what I write so I honestly don’t see the need for it. The more I think about the fact that I am thinking about pieces of paper with my name on it the sillier it seems that is bugs me but I can’t help it. Pointless things get to me.
The grown ups who ask me always seem even more confused if they don’t know me very well. I think that this is because I appear to be… ambitious, which is ridiculous, in a school and pointless pieces of paper with my name on it sense. I get good grades which can be misleading because, in general, the people that get good grades are the people that plan their time and study and work hard and shit. I don’t. I just know what I know and I listen and I gain information from, largely, educated guesses. This confuses people because the majority of my generation was raised on the stereotype that the people who are smart and get good grades are trying to get somewhere, which I am very firmly not, at least not in the ‘university’ and ‘getting a good office job’ sort of way. My plan of life is to make it up as it goes, and until I have the full freedom to do that I will just to what I want to the extent of my abilities. I have no idea where I will end up and even if I make an educated guess that guess is just going to continuously change as I change my passions and the person I want to be. I’m thirteen. I have no bloody idea who I am or where I’m going to be for the next thirty years. What I know know is that I like music and writing and I have found some people that like those things too and they seem to like me. That is it. The extent of my knowledge. Sure I know what 2+2 is but I don’t really counts as what you know in the sense of what I’m raving about.
I really don’t care for grades. I just don’t find them particularly interesting. I used to think they were as pointless and demeaning as awards, but I changed my mind the longer I thought about it. Grades actually make a bit of sense. I think how prioritised they are is stupid but the idea makes sense, just like tests. It is an overall evaluation of whatever. Occasionally the way that these things are tested can be rude, disrespectful and generally idiotic but the vague idea of grades makes sense. Even I have that tingling curiosity about this vague guideline of whether I can do algebra or whatever else. Grades are like the educational system. The base idea makes sense. The whole idea of school must of at some point dug back into a time where teaching the younger generation was an interest of survival. The idea that if you didn’t teach us how to survive then we just weren’t going to. Grades are the same. You need to know who is the best at hunting so that you can send them out hunting for food for the whole tribe. You need to know who can make the strategies for the hunting and who can make baskets out of reeds and who can cook. It makes sense, dose it not?
I’m am really not sure how to end this post as I have gotten completely off topic. I never plan these things. Oh, well. There are my thoughts on a page for now.