Interests:Eros & Psyche. Expertise:Gerontological and Palliative Care Nursing; Renaissance and Baroque Art History; Post-Modernist Critical Theory; Classical and Modern Rhetoric; Gastronomy. Occupation:Student (B.A./M.N.) Industry:Medical
In the city of Vardhamana in India there lived a powerful king named Vira-Bhuja, who, as was the custom in his native land, had many wives, each of whom had several sons. Of all his wives this king loved best the one named Guna-Vara, and of all his sons her youngest-born, called Sringa-Bhuja, was his favourite. Guna-Vara was not only very beautiful but very good. She was so patient that nothing could make her angry, so unselfish that she always thought of others before herself, and so wise that she was able to understand how others were feeling, however different their natures were from her own.
Sringa-Bhuja, the son of Guna-Vara, resembled his mother in her beauty and her unselfishness; he was also very strong and very clever, whilst his brothers were quite unlike him. They wanted to have everything their own way, and they were very jealous indeed of their father's love for him. They were always trying to do him harm, and though they often quarrelled amongst themselves, they would band together to try and hurt him.
It was very much the same with the king's wives. They hated Guna-Vara, because their husband loved her more than he did them, and they constantly came to him with stories they had made up of the wicked things she had done. Amongst other things they told the king that Guna-Vara did not really love him but cared more for some one else than she did for him. The most bitter of all against her was the wife called Ayasolekha, who was cunning enough to know what sort of tale the king was likely to believe. The very fact that Vira-Bhuja loved Guna-Vara so deeply made him more ready to think that perhaps after all she did not return his affection, and he longed to find out the truth. So he in his turn made up a story, thinking by its means to find out how she felt for him. He therefore went one day to her private apartments, and having sent all her attendants away, he told her he had some very sad news for her which he had heard from his chief astrologer. Astrologers, you know, are wise men, who are supposed to be able to read the secrets of the stars, and learn from them things which are hidden from ordinary human beings. Guna-Vara therefore did not doubt that what her husband was about to tell her was true, and she listened eagerly, her heart beating very fast in her fear that some trouble was coming to those she loved.
Great indeed was her sorrow and surprise, when Vira-Bhuja went on to say that the astrologer had told him that a terrible misfortune threatened him and his kingdom and the only way to prevent it was to shut Guna-Vara up in prison for the rest of her life. The poor queen could hardly believe that she had heard rightly. She knew she had done no wrong, and could not understand how putting her in prison could help anybody. She was quite sure that her husband loved her, and no words could have expressed her pain at the thought of being sent away from him and her dear son. Yet she made no resistance, not even asking Vira-Bhuja to let her see Sringa-Bhuja again. She just bowed her beautiful head and said: "Be it unto me as my Lord wills. If he wishes my death, I am ready to lay down my life."
This submission made the king feel even more unhappy than before. He longed to take his wife in his arms and tell her he would never let her go; and perhaps if she had looked at him then, he would have seen all her love for him in her eyes, but she remained perfectly still with bowed head, waiting to hear what her fate was to be. Then the thought entered Vira-Bhuja's mind: "She is afraid to look at me: what Ayasolekha said was true."
What makes an ideal wife? Brains, beauty or child-bearing hips? Lisa Pryor asks three men about their search for the perfect partner.
June 29, 2009
When Jane Austen wrote it was "a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife", she was writing, even then, with irony. Two centuries on, the very term "wife", let alone the idea that a man may be looking for one, seems almost quaint. With the W word comes connotations of aprons, obedience and gossip over the back fence, not to mention unflattering variants like fishwife, housewife and trouble'n'strife.
But while the W word may seem archaic, marriage remains hugely popular. Most men still choose to marry, even though they do so later in life than previous generations. So what do they look for when they choose a wife? A best friend, a sexpot, a maternal figure or a trophy?
Do their true desires bear any resemblance to what women think men want? The answers are as varied as men themselves.
Nicholas Atgemis, Nightclub impresario
In a small journal, bound in black calfskin, Nicholas Atgemis keeps a list. A list of the 28 things he seeks in a woman. From "integrity", "charm" and "sophistication" to "perspective", "good skin" and "enthusiasm". Further down the list comes "culinary skills", "musical appreciation" and, finally, "heart".
"Every woman I go to bed with, ever, I'm thinking whether she'd make a good wife," says the 31-year-old. He has other thoughts on his ideal wife, beyond the list he keeps in his "make-it-happen book". For a start, there is the matter of how she balances work and family. Atgemis is fine with the idea of a wife with a career, so long as she stays home with the children for the first seven years or so; years he considers crucial to a child's development. He cites the example of a woman he knows with a "fabulous internet jewellery business she runs from home", which allows her to look after her children and maintain a career. "A woman's financial independence is emasculating - for me - but you have to deal with it."
Physical appearance is a factor, too, though less important to Atgemis than it once was. "It used to be all about beauty when I was younger," he says.
"It was, 'I want her to be hot; I want all my friends to want her.'" He would also prefer a girl who is not from his hometown - a previous girlfriend was Danish and his current girlfriend is Mexican. "I have for years not wanted a Sydney-based girl because, unfortunately, I find Sydney like a village," says Atgemis. "Reputation follows you around." He doesn't want to walk into a party with his girlfriend, knowing five of his friends have already dated her. And he doesn't want the kind of girl who is always nattering away to old school friends about ancient teenage gossip. "I want something a bit exotic, something no one else has got their hands on."
Oh, yes, and one more thing - "Ball breaking must be kept to a minimum," he says. "I mean, really, if a guy does everything you want, he shows you affection, why break his balls?"
And they say women are picky. Atgemis is still to marry despite myriad opportunities to meet women, especially given his background as the co-owner of a Sydney nightclub called Shh, which is known for its parade of attractive young socialites who can only get in by tottering up a dirty laneway strewn with garbage and divulging a secret code. And this is despite, by his own admission, having had three girlfriends who qualified as marriage material. "My expectations have been crushed every time because women do not conform to your ideas of what is perfect and, for a lot of guys, it is a search for perfection," he says.
Atgemis recalls some advice his uncle gave him: "You're walking through a forest looking for a straight stick, but you're going to come through the other side empty-handed because there is no such thing as a straight stick." And his mother recently urged him to get on with it, prodding him about marriage. She pointed to his hairline, then his waist, before telling him, "You're going off. Find a wife, quickly."
When Atgemis thinks about the topic some more, he postulates that maybe, deep down, what he is after is someone not so different from his mother - a modern version of her, someone "patient, caring, dutiful". His Greek-Australian parents enjoy a marriage that is successful and harmonious, and he wonders whether this might make it harder for him to find a mate, harder to settle for something less. "Sometimes the worst thing that can happen is having successful role models in your family for relationships, because what you find doesn't match up, and you feel disillusioned," he says.
Back then, husbands and wives did everything together, Atgemis says, and there were no boundaries the way there are today, with young men and women advised to maintain their independence and separate sets of friends; with people "always letting you know this relationship will not necessarily last forever. We're always having it banged into us to have a Plan B."
"The Greeks of that generation generally stuck it out, whereas some of my friends have this philosophy: would you rather one woman for 60 years or three women for 20 years apiece?" says Atgemis.
Justin Moffatt, Anglican minister
Justin Moffatt did not consult a list when looking for a wife. "One feels their way through this," he says. "It's very intuitive, how you see people, which is true of all friendships." He points out that people don't ask, "What do I want in a friend?" So why should they ask this question of a spouse?
Laurel, his wife of nine years, ticks many boxes - she is "beautiful, smart like crazy, she has a PhD in Shakespeare - she did her thesis on the idea of nothing in Shakespeare - she's competent, she's a great mother", but to him these are bonuses. "It is very possible to be shallow and myopic. It is possible to say, 'Here are my five things that I want in a wife and she meets four of them so I'll get married to her' and not understand the promise you are making."
This 39-year-old Anglican minister believes the individual love story is part of a larger narrative of love in the world. And it was an understanding of hat larger narrative, the Christian narrative, which he sought more than anything in a wife. "Because I believe in a God who loves, is faithful and is graceful, I want to marry someone who knows that story of love, faithfulness and grace."
After spending several years in Manhattan with his wife and three young children, Moffatt, 39, is now a senior minister within the Anglican Church. One of his jobs is to counsel young couples before they marry. "The first thing I say to couples when they walk in the door is, 'Look, the wedding dress might rip, Aunt Beryl might cause a storm, your groomsmen might say silly things at the reception, the cars might not arrive, but there is one thing that is important, and that is the vows."
Moffatt explains that along with the two individuals involved, the wedding itself, and the vows made, is the third dynamic in a marriage. He cites Kevin Rudd's hero, German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who wrote of marriage as "a status, an office", and something more than personal. "It is not your love that sustains the marriage," Bonhoeffer wrote to a couple about to wed, "but from now on, the marriage that sustains your love."
"If it's just you and your spouse what happens when you hit a rough spot?," says Moffatt. "Instead of 'till death do us part', it becomes 'as long as our love shall last.'"
But what about the more practical concerns when seeking a wife - the daily business of dividing work and family? The Bible is "mercifully scant on detail", says Moffatt. "It doesn't say who takes out the garbage, who fills the car up and who makes dinner, so every couple has to work out what it means."
Luke Keller, Construction manager
For Luke Keller, 28, the ideal marriage is like a sports team with two players: the husband fields the ball to his wife, and she scores a goal. Then the roles are reversed. "Any good relationship is like teamwork," he says. "When you're up, you bring your partner up. When you're down, your partner brings you up."
Keller sees his future wife as a low-maintenance type who just gets on with things. Not too much of a princess; someone pragmatic and unafraid of getting their hands dirty - unlike a girlfriend he had, who wouldn't stay the night without her make-up.
"I think a lot of girls get caught up in trying to be perfect," he says. "Wearing the right things, saying the right things. The bottom line is, if you want to spend the rest of your time with them, you don't want someone who's always on guard - you want someone you can relax around."
Already a senior manager for a mining and construction business, Keller is happy to be with a woman who is similarly ambitious, or at the very least, a woman who has "some form of direction, some kind of career or interest". From what he sees from the men around him, this is not a universal desire. "I know guys who are very chauvinistic, who wouldn't want their wives to work. I know other guys who are New Age, who want to be a house husband."
Sex is significant, too. "Sexual compatibility is one of the most important things from a guy's perspective. If you've got a girl with a higher or lower libido than yourself, it creates all kinds of friction," he says.
"For some guys especially, sex is how they share their intimacy. If they don't get that, it's no good."
Though many of his friends are tying the knot, Keller is in no rush. He attributes this to modern religious freedom, the choices available to men his age - "being in your late 20s on a reasonable salary, you've got a lot of choice; it's out of control" - and the reticence that comes from having divorced parents. He notices a similar pattern among friends. "All the ones who came from happy marriages, they pretty much married young, while the ones who come from divorced families don't want to rush into it."
Keller sees marriage as something that will happen in a few years time, when he is ready to think about a family. In contemplating whether someone is marrying material, he is also contemplating whether they are mothering material. "The older ou get, the more important it is with kids," he says. "You start thinking what would your kids look like, whether they'd take after you or her, and what kind of a mother the woman would be."
And as he gets older, Keller is thinking less about looks. But attractiveness still plays a role, as can be seen from the way he describes his current girlfriend. "Just for the record, she's a glamour, all right."
Men & Marriage
Young men plan to marry, but they want to take their time. Last year, a survey of twentysomethings by The Australian Temperament Project found more than 80 per cent expected to marry some day. However, women were more likely to see a wedding just around the corner, while men saw it as several years away.
Power couples are on the rise, with high-powered men less likely to marry homemakers than before. In the 1980s, the higher the salary of a man, the fewer hours his wife was likely to work. This trend has since reversed, according to a study in the UK journal Labour Economics in 2007.
Generation Y has not given up on the idea of marriage. When Australians aged 15 to 29 were asked by the Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS) whether "marriage is an outdated institution", 73 per cent disagreed. When it comes to pre-marital hijinks, eight out of 10 men shack up with their partners before they marry, says the ABS.
Grooms are getting older, too, but most are in their 20s when they first marry. In 1988, the typical groom was 27 years and nine months. By 2007, according to the ABS, he was 29 years and seven months old.
Most Australians are supportive of gay marriage, too, with a recent poll finding 53 per cent of men in favour, compared to a more accepting 68 per cent of women.
You may not be her first, her last, or her only. She loved before she may love again. But if she loves you now, what else matters? She's not perfect -- you aren't either, and the two of you may never be perfect together; but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice, and admit to being human and making mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can. She may not be thinking about you every second of the day, but she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break - her heart. So don't hurt her, don't change her, don't analyze and don't expect more than she can give. Smile when she makes you happy, let her know when she makes you mad, and miss her when she's not there.
Darkness descends over city lights, and butter beats oozed from bars, cars, clubs, casinos, spilling onto streets and homeless people. Fine women float over cold concrete in sky-high stilts, bright like hothouse flowers, showing off their legs, décolletages. Finer women flirt with money in gamblers' dens, hoping to pick one up for the night.
This is the world of men; a world where youth and beauty are the means by which a girl could pay her bills. Fantasy was a commodity. Love was a currency. Glib tongues licked silver spoons. Tender flesh belied thick skins.
Fanny knew this world like the back of her hand, but Fanny wasn't there tonight. Fanny sitting in her apartment, wondered how time passed so quickly and where did it all go?
Once a courtesan, then a madam; she's over 50 now, though you could never tell. For the meagre fee of companionship and a globe of Paradis, she opened up to me about the glamour and the grit. Fanny is my godmother, my mentor. Fanny is my friend.
"It doesn't matter whether you're a high-class escort or a low-life crack whore, this truth will not discriminate: once a hooker, always a hooker." She started, nodding to her picture on the wall: hair coiffed into a pompadour, soft smile, false lashes, hand on cheek, Vaseline on camera lens.
"I was 25, then."
It all began at 21. Fanny worked the circuit in Macau of the 80s, arriving as an impressionable country girl; a mainland girl from Shanghai with no qualifications, she fell into prostitution after having difficulty looking for work elsewhere, out of insufficient funds and a mouth that spelled trouble.
I stayed with her, listened to her, as she told me stories about tourists who wanted to try every girl once, regulars, successful girls, foolish girls, competition and camaraderie. Watching her, it was as if she'd been transported to some other place in time, and her ageless face cloudy with brandy and reverie.
"But men -- you must know -- men, they always leave for fresh faces. These relationships by nature, however long-standing, however beautiful, are like dreams, and we'll all wake up. A luckier girl might become a kept woman, and gain houses, cars, an allowance. The rest of us could only ever hope for a steady income. Money, when well-managed, will linger. Love? Never."
"How many non-espoused, decent men are out there? Moreover, how many of these remain unmarried by choice? Better -- how many men of high calibre would even consider us as worthy? Those who worship you are below you -- no money, no power. Of these, some simply leech off women. It'd make more sense to nurture a healthy bank balance than nurse a broken heart."
She is single now, cynical for sure, still glamorous, lovely, lonely. She doesn't cry.
"What's the point?" she asked rhetorically, half-laughed, then sighed. "Acquired numbness is an occupational hazard and no one tells you these things."
Dumbstruck, I looked at her.
"Realize: no matter how well we think we know this world, it does not, will not ever belong to us. In a man's world, this fact is not ours to change. Rebelling will only cause you hurt -- concede defeat, take what you can, and move on."
Such bleakness felt out of place amongst gaiety and neon lights, yet she related all this with a smile.
"Everything's a farce..."
She sighed again. Again I didn't know how to reply.
"As a sex worker, you learn to see this life for what it is, not how it could be. There is no cloth to disguise ugliness, or sweetener for bad taste. People of both genders fear you for what you represent. And you represent the darker side of human existence. Everyone seems to have a negative opinion about us, yet you must realise even these stem from ignorance. It's always so easy to say nasty things about people when you don't know their situation, know who they are, when you don't even know who you are, when you're too afraid to open your eyes to truth."
And what is truth but that light which overpowers darkness -- the same neon lights beaming through smoke and night; the woman swathed in gold and Cavalli trading her body for a need, sex for money, money for loneliness, loneliness for understanding? The very avatar of humanity's moral impoverishment is also she who knows it best.
Fanny could've been out there tonight, hustling, sending out her girls, lips dripping with honey. Instead, she is here, with me.
"It's colder now... So cold..."
She gestures for me to come to her. I crawl over. She holds me. I hold her back to realise she was right: it is cold out here, and it frightened me. Truth was easy to explain, but what is this chill?
That was many moons ago. I never did find out.
Strawberry-Sweet Sunday Funday
If beings knew, as I know, the results of sharing gifts, they would not enjoy their gifts without sharing them with others, nor would the taint of stinginess obsess the heart and stay there. Even if it were their last and final bit of food, they would not enjoy its use without sharing it, if there were anyone to receive it -- Itivuttaka 18
Time passes by louder, faster. We'll make the most of what we've got.
Mr. Nobody Trailer
We must see this.
Missing A Miss
To the world, you may be just one person, but to one person, you may be a huge pain in the ass.
Where would I be, were you not here? How am I to scorch Sydney-town alone? What might my motive be? Who will be my voice of reason?
心肝啊, I miss you already. I miss you because you're necessary to me, such a big part of my life now.
Just wanted to divulge all that before we run out of time -- passes so quickly, n'est pas? Whilst I realise we'll meet again before you leave for Canada, I just know, being the silly sausage I am, that I'll forget to say it.
I love you (in the least creepy way imaginable).
A Lady's Story
By Anton Chekhov
Nine years ago Pyotr Sergeyitch, the deputy prosecutor, and I were riding towards evening in hay-making time to fetch the letters from the station.
The weather was magnificent, but on our way back we heard a peal of thunder, and saw an angry black storm-cloud which was coming straight towards us. The storm-cloud was approaching us and we were approaching it.
Against the background of it our house and church looked white and the tall poplars shone like silver. There was a scent of rain and mown hay. My companion was in high spirits. He kept laughing and talking all sorts of nonsense. He said it would be nice if we could suddenly come upon a medieval castle with turreted towers, with moss on it and owls, in which we could take shelter from the rain and in the end be killed by a thunderbolt...
Then the first wave raced through the rye and a field of oats, there was a gust of wind, and the dust flew round and round in the air. Pyotr Sergeyitch laughed and spurred on his horse.
"It's fine!" he cried, "it's splendid!"
Infected by his gaiety, I too began laughing at the thought that in a minute I should be drenched to the skin and might be struck by lightning.
Riding swiftly in a hurricane when one is breathless with the wind, and feels like a bird, thrills one and puts one's heart in a flutter. By the time we rode into our courtyard the wind had gone down, and big drops of rain were pattering on the grass and on the roofs. There was not a soul near the stable.
Pyotr Sergeyitch himself took the bridles off, and led the horses to their stalls. I stood in the doorway waiting for him to finish, and watching the slanting streaks of rain; the sweetish, exciting scent of hay was even stronger here than in the fields; the storm-clouds and the rain made it almost twilight.
"What a crash!" said Pyotr Sergeyitch, coming up to me after a very loud rolling peal of thunder when it seemed as though the sky were split in two. "What do you say to that?"
He stood beside me in the doorway and, still breathless from his rapid ride, looked at me. I could see that he was admiring me.
"Natalya Vladimirovna," he said, "I would give anything only to stay here a little longer and look at you. You are lovely to-day."
His eyes looked at me with delight and supplication, his face was pale. On his beard and mustache were glittering raindrops, and they, too, seemed to be looking at me with love.
"I love you," he said. "I love you, and I am happy at seeing you. I know you cannot be my wife, but I want nothing, I ask nothing; only know that I love you. Be silent, do not answer me, take no notice of it, but only know that you are dear to me and let me look at you."
His rapture affected me too; I looked at his enthusiastic face, listened to his voice which mingled with the patter of the rain, and stood as though spellbound, unable to stir.
I longed to go on endlessly looking at his shining eyes and listening.
"You say nothing, and that is splendid," said Pyotr Sergeyitch. "Go on being silent."
I felt happy. I laughed with delight and ran through the drenching rain to the house; he laughed too, and, leaping as he went, ran after me.
Both drenched, panting, noisily clattering up the stairs like children, we dashed into the room. My father and brother, who were not used to seeing me laughing and light-hearted, looked at me in surprise and began laughing too.
The storm-clouds had passed over and the thunder had ceased, but the raindrops still glittered on Pyotr Sergeyitch's beard. The whole evening till supper-time he was singing, whistling, playing noisily with the dog and racing about the room after it, so that he nearly upset the servant with the samovar. And at supper he ate a great deal, talked nonsense, and maintained that when one eats fresh cucumbers in winter there is the fragrance of spring in one's mouth.
When I went to bed I lighted a candle and threw my window wide open, and an undefined feeling took possession of my soul. I remembered that I was free and healthy, that I had rank and wealth, that I was beloved; above all, that I had rank and wealth, rank and wealth, my God! how nice that was! ...Then, huddling up in bed at a touch of cold which reached me from the garden with the dew, I tried to discover whether I loved Pyotr Sergeyitch or not, ...and fell asleep unable to reach any conclusion.
And when in the morning I saw quivering patches of sunlight and the shadows of the lime trees on my bed, what had happened yesterday rose vividly in my memory. Life seemed to me rich, varied, full of charm. Humming, I dressed quickly and went out into the garden...
And what happened afterwards? Why -- nothing. In the winter when we lived in town Pyotr Sergeyitch came to see us from time to time. Country acquaintances are charming only in the country and in summer; in the town and in winter they lose their charm. When you pour out tea for them in the town it seems as though they are wearing other people's coats, and as though they stirred their tea too long. In the town, too, Pyotr Sergeyitch spoke sometimes of love, but the effect was not at all the same as in the country. In the town we were more vividly conscious of the wall that stood between us. I had rank and wealth, while he was poor, and he was not even a nobleman, but only the son of a deacon and a deputy public prosecutor; we both of us -- I through my youth and he for some unknown reason -- thought of that wall as very high and thick, and when he was with us in the town he would criticize aristocratic society with a forced smile, and maintain a sullen silence when there was anyone else in the drawing-room. There is no wall that cannot be broken through, but the heroes of the modern romance, so far as I know them, are too timid, spiritless, lazy, and oversensitive, and are too ready to resign themselves to the thought that they are doomed to failure, that personal life has disappointed them; instead of struggling they merely criticize, calling the world vulgar and forgetting that their criticism passes little by little into vulgarity.
I was loved, happiness was not far away, and seemed to be almost touching me; I went on living in careless ease without trying to understand myself, not knowing what I expected or what I wanted from life, and time went on and on.... People passed by me with their love, bright days and warm nights flashed by, the nightingales sang, the hay smelt fragrant, and all this, sweet and overwhelming in remembrance, passed with me as with everyone rapidly, leaving no trace, was not prized, and vanished like mist.... Where is it all?
My father is dead, I have grown older; everything that delighted me, caressed me, gave me hope -- the patter of the rain, the rolling of the thunder, thoughts of happiness, talk of love -- all that has become nothing but a memory, and I see before me a flat desert distance; on the plain not one living soul, and out there on the horizon it is dark and terrible....
A ring at the bell.... It is Pyotr Sergeyitch. When in the winter I see the trees and remember how green they were for me in the summer I whisper:
"Oh, my darlings!"
And when I see people with whom I spent my spring-time, I feel sorrowful and warm and whisper the same thing.
He has long ago by my father's good offices been transferred to town. He looks a little older, a little fallen away. He has long given up declaring his love, has left off talking nonsense, dislikes his official work, is ill in some way and disillusioned; he has given up trying to get anything out of life, and takes no interest in living. Now he has sat down by the hearth and looks in silence at the fire....
Not knowing what to say I ask him:
"Well, what have you to tell me?"
"Nothing," he answers.
And silence again. The red glow of the fire plays about his melancholy face.
I thought of the past, and all at once my shoulders began quivering, my head dropped, and I began weeping bitterly. I felt unbearably sorry for myself and for this man, and passionately longed for what had passed away and what life refused us now. And now I did not think about rank and wealth.
I broke into loud sobs, pressing my temples, and muttered:
"My God! My God! My life is wasted!"
And he sat and was silent, and did not say to me: "Don't weep." He understood that I must weep, and that the time for this had come.
I saw from his eyes that he was sorry for me; and I was sorry for him, too, and vexed with this timid, unsuccessful man who could not make a life for me, nor for himself.
When I saw him to the door, he was, I fancied, purposely a long while putting on his coat. Twice he kissed my hand without a word, and looked a long while into my tear-stained face. I believe at that moment he recalled the storm, the streaks of rain, our laughter, my face that day; he longed to say something to me, and he would have been glad to say it; but he said nothing, he merely shook his head and pressed my hand. God help him!
After seeing him out, I went back to my study and again sat on the carpet before the fireplace; the red embers were covered with ash and began to grow dim. The frost tapped still more angrily at the windows, and the wind droned in the chimney.
The maid came in and, thinking I was asleep, called my name.
You're Climbing Up The Walls
So much in your mind When you kill more than time. You're sinking so low, thinking you will be high. Biting your lip while you're losing your mind. Alone, God knows.
I'm not sure what came over me, but I finally mustered up the courage and told my mother everything.
I told her how, since that October, colour faded from my world, anedonia; how I took full responsibility.
I told her how, since that October, it bled to see other mothers with their babies.
I told her about this aching emptiness, tenderness; how I finally understood.
I told her everything.
Everything.
While it wasn't exactly cathartic, coming clean felt good.
I can only imagine how she must feel to know of my weeping, gaping wound, her wound.
Children never really know how much power they hold over parents' hearts.
Dhammavadaka
Remember always that you are just a visitor here, a traveler passing through. Your stay is but short and the moment of your departure unknown.
None can live without toil and a craft that provides your needs is a blessing indeed. But if you toil without rest, fatigue and wearness will overtake you, and you will denied the joy that comes from labour's end.
Speak quietly and kindly and be not forward with either opinions or advice. If you talk much, this will make you deaf to what others say, and you should know that there are few so wise that they cannot learn from others.
Be near when help is needed, but far when praise and thanks are being offered.
Take small account of might, wealth and fame, for they soon pass and are forgotten. Instead, nurture love within you and and strive to be a friend to all. Truly, compassion is a balm for many wounds.
Treasure silence when you find it, and while being mindful of your duties, set time aside, to be alone with yourself.
Cast off pretense and self-deception and see yourself as you really are.
Despite all appearances, no one is really evil. They are led astray by ignorance. If you ponder this truth always you will offer more light, rather then blame and condemnation.
You, no less than all beings have Buddha Nature within. Your essential Mind is pure. Therefore, when defilements cause you to stumble and fall, let not remose nor dark foreboding cast you down. Be of good cheer and with this understanding, summon strength and walk on.
Faith is like a lamp and wisdom makes the flame burn bright. Carry this lamp always and in good time the darkness will yield and you will abide in the Light.
Bottoms Up
My vanity has never been measured quite so much as That Day I Walked Around Sydney Domestic Airport With The Skirt Of My Dress Tucked In My Underwear.
But, let me explain:
It was some ridiculous hour when yours truly had to board her flight. Leaving the taxi feeling more than a wee bit fatigued; towing my suitcase and unfashionably punctual, toured the Qantas wing, perusing shops, when I noticed everyone seemed to be looking at me.
I passed French Connection, Witchery, Bijoux, and all those adjacent, all those perpendicular lounges. Heads turned, eyes followed. As it was Qantas and not Virgin, or Jetstar, most of their clients were suits. Given my delusional mentality, of course, I thought they were all staring because I was hot shit.
I flicked my hair like a diva, went about beaming, positively glowing, feeling so damn good about myself.
Then I felt an urge to -- get this -- check myself out, because I was seriously that far up my own behind.
I head off into The Ladies', and see a full length mirror.
"Well hello there, sexy sexy..." I purred.
I pouted.
I posed.
I turned.
I stopped.
My jaw dropped.
The entire back part of the skirt on my dress was tucked into my tights, and to make things worse, they weren't fully opaque tights, and my bright pink knickers were hollering a loud hello.
Let's just say my face turned a deliciously ripe shade of cooked lobster.
At that point, someone's porcelain throne went off. I promptly yanked the fabric from my rear, and regained composure. Out of embarrassment and/or paranoia, I exited these restrooms: head held a little less high, gait a little less haughty; found my gate lounge, donned my sunglasses, and planted my face in a book.
Cause I Know How It Feels To Be Alone
I'm gonna take you out tonight, I'm gonna make you feel alright
Lifetime
To the world, you may be just one person, but to one person, you may be a huge pain in the ass.
