Monthly Archives: July 2009

“How wrong it is for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself.”

Anais Nin.

Donkey.

I’m going to begin this by saying I am pro-equality. I believe that everyday women should make the decision whether abortion pills are right for her body, I believe that women are as competent as men in nearly all modern day professions and I truly believe, we aren’t as much hassle as we are made out too be. But all I really would like at the moment, more than any of these, is someone to come home too.

It’s not a very feminist thing to desire a man, and indeed it will probably be frowned upon but the craving for stability and genuine acceptance has overgrown its tiny cage. It’s bursting at its seams and is set to explode any second. This is not due to any forms of physical or sexual frustration, but more formed from the realisation that “all my friend are getting marrrrrriiiiiiiieddddd”. 

When I say married, I mean one is. But I have a lot of ‘couply’ friends embarking on journeys with their partners and I feel like I am missing out. I have Friend No. 1 with her regular jaunts to the Sunshine State to see her Lover of 1 (and a bit) years. She spends 10 days living in his pocket, they trawl around together, get really messy and she comes home with the glow of someone in love. I have Friend No. 2, a serial dater once she now finds herself in the throes of a relationship with a boy who is willing to drive twice a week from his home in Sydney’s North to Goulburn where she is studying. Twice a week. And he works shift work.

But like most Gen-Y’rs. I don’t want to wait. I would like my perfect relationship handed to me, I do not wish to date and to fuss around with awkward coffee meetings. I would like a simple telephone call just to let me know I am theirs. I would like a man who does what men traditionally do, and take the lead. The feminists brought too many problems along with their desire to have women court men the way they had been courted for hundreds of years. I would like to thank Germaine Greer for instilling in men the belief that now women would be in charge of the dating game (as well as washing, ironing, cooking and the myriad of other jobs she and others like her failed to have us relieved from).

 

Am I asking too much?

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Kylie.Poo.

Safest of Journeys, Kyle. RADelaide will never know what hit it.

Kyle Laing, RAAF Graduate 2009.

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It’s true we’ll make a better day, just You and Me.

Danny.

Twenty years on, we are still challenging the world order. Daniel and Charlotte.

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The world is big and bad, full of cruel taunts and jibs that have the ability to cut through the hardest of metals (and skin) to reach the soft, fleshy and vulnerable heart that may lie inside. There are many outcomes and reasons for the harsh reality, but some of the lesser known have filtered their way through what was shaping up to be a beautifully bright, mid-winter week. 

 

Losing A Baby. And Yourself.

The human body is a fragile thing, and is at it is seemingly at its most tender at twenty. I have one especially beautiful girlfriend who nine months ago was cheated on by the love of her life. With her cousin. This same friend, just over seven months ago was rushed to hospital. She had miscarried. A baby unknown, a horribly painful reminder of what she had spent the prior months forgetting. She rang me on a breezy afternoon, my run was turning into a jog as I went through a corridor of barren trees. I didn’t even get out a Hello. Her sobs broke through the silence of the air.

Her baby would have been born just this week. And she no longer knew herself. Her body had cheated her. Her emotions had assured her she was okay. And it was all a false facade.

 

The Three Day Rule.

It is obviously a taunt from the Dating Gods, a stab in the gut  to let you know how desperate you are for that foreign number to flash its way onto your mobile telephone. Self-respecting girls, girls who keep their number to a select edit of people (their Mum, their Dad, their Boss and their BFF) are preyed upon my these Dating Gods, they are presented with foreign accents and perfectly chiseled jaws topped with three day growth (a sign perhaps of the three day wait?).

They are pampered with polite conversation, gilded with gentlemanly advances. They don’t notice it when a piece of textured card is thrust in front of them, they sign their name and number in permanent ink on a card which may be seeing its last moments of daylight.  They are kissed charmingly on the cheek. A squeeze of the hand and a brief wink follow a statement of intent to call.

And then the wait. Nervous. Vulnerable. Did I write my number down correctly? Was it a ploy? Was it just a bit of harmless banter? No. It was the Dating Gods way of assuring women that men are still entirely in control of every possible fragment of society.

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High Rolla

Winter. All about the flannels, the muted pastels and the filtered sunlight.

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marilyn

 

Ah, July 15th. The day my world is set to change.

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I pull on my jeans. Tight. Black. They graze my navel, and hug my legs.

 

So, I hear I am seeing you today. It has been weeks, months. We were on a roll Dude. Do we have to do the catch up? Remember why we stopped? Remember the last time, it ended with you covered head to toe in rage. I was pool of tears.

 

I slip into my tee shirt. Sliced to fall to the highest heights of my jeans, arms torn to reveal shrinking body. Striped blue and grey, to match my mood.

 

We can go where we used too. Yes. Of course. Shall we nod our heads and laugh when they ask if we are back together? Should we bother to tell them you destroyed me as a person? Or are we just gonna stick to the status quo, that I expect too much of you? Okay, sticking to the status quo…

 

My hair is pulled back, tight. My pony tail is sleek, immobile as it hangs down my back. My fringe meets my eyelashes, preparation to hide.

No, you don’t need to pick me up. I’ll get the train. No, you won’t remember how to get to my house. No. Please don’t pick me up. I can get there by myself. Yes, I can. Oh, whatever. I’ll meet you out the front.

 

My body armour is finished. Dark glasses provide the last screen of protection against the outside world.

Thanks for coffee. And thanks for picking me up. I guess I’ll see you round? Yeah, yeah. We’ll make it more often, I just get so busy with uni. Yeah, I know we make great friends. I promise I’ll learn to make an effort.

 

 

My armour is once again laying around my ankles. What was once a carefully edited, particularly selected outfit. Made to prevent you penetrating your way into my life once again is now what it always was, piles of clothes on the floor.

bangle.

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