A Little Jackson Mississippi

Today, I feel a little colored. I feel a little Jackson Mississippi 1965. So let me play this character just a little while.

I done had me one a the hardest days since…yesterday. The bank wont cash my cheque because my Mama done changed my name when I was a girl and now the papers don’t match. So I figure the light bill gone have to wait.

Down at the Centerlink they tell me I’s gotta look for ten jobs a week. I feel like tugging on her pony tail and tell her they aint even ten jobs a week to look for. Good for her though, in her Maree Kaye powder and her so-ciety smile. She gone eat dinner tonight. Good fo her.

I done got me $10 in my pocket book, no food in my fridge and a hefty train ticket I gotta pay for tomorrow to get to a interview for a job ill never have. And I figure, I’m on buy me a nice dinner.

At the Red Lea I ask for the smallest half a breast she got, even then I ask her to cut a bit off a’cause I aint paying more than $2.50. In the Coles I pick me up them cheap poe-tatoes with the eyes growing to baby Jesus and above. They cheap, and I figure, I don’t mind cutting them eyes out. I even pick me up one a them little tubs a the frozen yogurt, I done figure I deserve it. They $1.50 for a tiny tub which aint great value, but ill be grateful for the sweet later after the sour day I had.

Phone ring and I figure its my Mama, calling again to tell me things I a’ready know. But it aint, its that hoy-maloy from the job I done interviewed for on the Friday been. He want to ask more questions and I gone do my best.

Your Truth, My Truth

I read so many blogs centred around worshiping a god I don't feel. A divine being who apparently loves us all and works in our lives. Some man in the sky if you will, with puppeteer strings and a handle on things. And this is all well and good. But it's not my truth.

I am not one to insult or disrespect but I feel like I need to say, what makes your truth better then mine? In the mind of a religious person, there is no doubt that a god exists, hell, even in the minds of many non-religious people. It is an absolute fact to these people, that their friend is there. And I respect that and I accept that that is your truth. But I do feel, that my truth is disrespected.
My truth, my life, has no god. There is no doubt in my mind that evolution and the theory of natural selection hold the key to existence. And I believe it just as much as you believe in your god. So what makes your truth better than mine?

Why does your truth influence laws on my life? I don't follow your god, I shouldn't have to follow your rules. I agree that we all need morals, right and wrong, steal the candy? Don't steel the candy? And all of that. But why can't I choose to end my life because your god said so? Why can I not have the freedom to decide if I am fed up with being an old cripple, if that ever happens.
And why can't my friends get married because your god said so? Your god is not their truth. Their love doesn't hurt a fly. But your truth does. Your intension are swell, but its not our truth.

There are many people I know who say to me "But marriage is a Christian thing, why would you want to get married if you're not religious." But of course, non religious people marry all the time. So what's the difference? If you don't like it, if you don't agree with it, don't do it. Everyone deserves a choice.

I don't want to seem like an angry lost teenager, because I am not. I am confused. It seems so wrong to me. That I can accept and respect your truth, but you cant afford mine the same curtesy.

Tiny things you'll never remember.

Nobody ever talks about the little things. The dress that sits just so, the way you puff your cigarette. Not how you like your tea, smaller than that. What you think of your tea, that is small enough.

Here are some small things from my life;

I have a friendly lounge. Jolly and fat, like a too happy baker. The way a fat lady's bottom sags over a chair is the way it sits, sagging off itself. I think of telling it to lose a few pounds but I wouldn't want to sadden my jolly lounge. He is blue enough. Literally. And I dislike the colour blue, cerulean it is. Like an Oscar De La Renta gown from 2002. I like it more now, thinking of that, of Oscar.

Only I, and Adrian I suppose, know how to tend to this lounge. You see, he lets himself go every now and then. His cushions slide out from under our hides, his arms sag under the weight and his tum gets a little flat. We push him in, we plump him up and he smiles again. A too happy baker.

  ...

I try to brush my teeth the way the dentist says. In circles. But can anyone really do that? It just doesn't seem practical. And it takes to long. Three minuets they say, is how long you should brush your teeth. Maybe that's how they go in circles, maybe they do it slowly. Have you ever tried to keep your hand still and move your head instead? That doesn't work either.

One time, I was very drunk and tried to brush my teeth. For some reason it seemed an important thing to do. I mostly brushed my face and boy did it hurt. No wonder that paste gets rid of...whatever it is we're all fighting, its nearing on toxic. That storey makes me smile.

  ...

These are small things in my life. Small things.

Shall I Talk About Myself?

Ok, I shall.

I live, a lonely life. I live alone in what feels to me, a cold hell. Concrete walls and tiled floors throughout. I imagine a sign on my door "El Unit De Mexican", for the colour scheme is something out of a badly themed restaurant. Yellow walls, not just yellow, canary, through my living room and kitchen, my bedroom, blue, crayola crayon blue.

The bathroom, with its pink tiles, pink sink (falling off the wall mind you), pink bath and pink pot, is nothing to the tiles. The tiles. Those tiles. I can imagine whoever picked them out was on the forefront of design at the time. The tiles. Orange. Terracotta. In the lounge room, in the kitchen and yes, in the bedroom. They remind me of the estates out west. Every rendered house a slightly different shade or orange. Tangerine, Amber, Gamboge, Princeton Orange and Tangelo. But all claiming to be this elusive terracotta. I don't even understand what is attractive about an orange house. Call it what you like, it's orange.
I once read an article about the humour of the names of colours. When I was in school we were taught white, not Eggshell, not Magnolia or Seashell or Polar White, and certainly not "Vintage lace". Such an unspecific name for a shade. What if, that vintage lace had been dyed black for a funeral gown, what them? Vintage lace is not a colour. 'Tis a noun closely proceeded by an adjective.
  ...
I am, short. 5f 3. But apparently all short woman say that. It's like a universal code that all short woman are five foot three inches. Which would make 5f 3" a synonym for "short" rather than a measurement. I am the same height that I was in grade 6. Once one of the tall girls, put in the back with the boys for school pictures.
I dye my hair black, always. I was blonde as a child, like a lot of women (probably all the 5f 3" ones) I couldn't tell you what my natural hair colour is now.
Piercings, I have me a few. Four in each lobe, a conch piercing, an industrial, angles and both my nipples pierced. This equates to 15 holes as an industrial has two. And although I look like I've gone happy with an Office Works hole punch, I still feel so regular. So...factory settings.
Weight, I have a bit of that too. Nothing I'd call a problem. But in all honesty. I am glad for it. If I hadn't been overweight my whole life, I would have went to bed with my first boyfriend when I was 12. I bless every extra kilo for getting me through high school without falling pregnant, taking risks with boys or turning into a bitter, mean girl.

Keep reading for further instalments of The Things I Think To Say.