So about this...
More from Giorge Thomas
I’ve neglected you.
Other words, at the time,
were true. Too true
to ignore, too bray
to close book with
paper pen where
where mind summersaults,
You, my true friend,
have been patient,
waiting in darkened
softly, hoping I’d
hear the tune.
The words I may
have suppressed, but
the melody strikes,
deep in my chest.
Mr Thomas and I have tentatively started looking at houses. Basically, we’re bursting at the seams here in our tiny little house so the option is either one of us moves out, or we start looking for somewhere else together.
The thought of it is scaring the shit out of me to no end. I don’t want to move from the area we live in. My suburb has a large Italian community, so I feel right at home. Besides, I’ve been here ten years. It’s the first house I’ve had that has actually felt like a home. My two cats have grown old in this house. I said goodbye to my beloved dog in this house. This is where I was living when I met Mr Thomas. PLUS, we’ve got the best. Neighbour. Ever. Seriously, don’t even compete with our neighbour. She’s awesome. I’ll miss her more than I’ll miss the house.
Anyway, not sure if we’ll be able to afford a house in the area we currently live, but that’s the dream. We’ve been hitting realestate.com to see what places are selling for and what we’re likely to get for our money.
In the process, we’ve discovered a phenomenon.
So I told you I live in an Italian area. An Italian area means Italian houses. Big, monstrous palaces with two kitchens (the second more often than not in the garage), pillars (even when they are not providing any structural support) and tons of fruit trees.
And some of them have what we’ve decided to call… the Nonna room.
They’re probably just a spare room. An extra single bed for that rouge guest that turns up unannounced. Yet given these rooms are in Italian houses, places large enough for two extra guest rooms, we’ve decided they couldn’t possibly be the guest room.
So we’ve imagined this is the room Nonna sleeps in. Inconvenient and uncomfortable because Nonna is too much of a martyr to stay in the proper guest room. A small single bed because Nonnas are always, well, small. Downstairs and by the kitchen, not because Nonna’s legs can no longer make it upstairs, but because she’ll be spending twenty hours a day cooking in the kitchen anyway, so she might as well be close by.
Here’s a few pics I’ve managed to find so far. Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll come across more during our house search…
While my main focus is going to have to be finding the perfect home for Mr Thomas and I, I’ll be keeping an eye out for Nonna rooms from now on. Hopefully I’ll have more photos to share. Although, come to think of it, the only people who’ll find this entertaining are those from Italian backgrounds. Which I think accounts for like five of my subscribers. Well, hope you five at least got a giggle out of these pics!
For more hilariously hideous real estate photos, take a gander at http://terriblerealestateagentphotos.com
Pitted in barren lands
strips at sleeping souls,
leaving it to decay,
Hope that exceeds lust,
loyalty enveloped in dust
I might, I might.
You may bleed
at the sight of me
Your eyes may
haze in anger
but whose truth
are you willing
to spear with your
In the beginning
I was fourteen years old. My best friend Tina and I were hanging out in a Loket tree. In my memory we were actually in the tree. Maybe we were. Maybe we were a little too old to be hanging out in trees. But then, I really, really like Lokets, so it’s understandable if I was in the tree, trying to reach at the biggest, juiciest Loket.
So anyway, we’re hanging out, eating Lokets, and either I said, or Tina said (who can remember; it was so long ago) said, ‘Did you see that video?’
We knew, instinctively, that we were walking music videos. These were the days before YouTube and Vines and, well, the internet. Besides; we were teenagers. Music videos were our life.
So then either me or Tina replies, ‘You mean, that one with that band, Take That? That Could it Be Magic song?’
‘Oh my god, yeah.’
Thus ensued a half hour conversation about how cute they all were and which one we loved the best. And so the obsession began.
Fast forward a year and I had every poster, every single, every album — everything. Take That was my obsession.
I guess I was a Belieber
I was just like Justin Bieber fans today. Take That were my life. That band got me through those tumultuous teenage years, because I had something else on the outside of my reality to reflect upon when times got tough.
And to think that I’ve made fun of ‘Beliebers’ (or whatever it is they’re called). How can I make fun of them when I was just like them?
Bye by Take That
My Take That obsession came to an end in 1996. It was the Brit Awards, which I’d taped because Take That were performing Back For Good. They sung the hideous song (even then I knew it was hideous) sitting on high stools like a bunch of eejits. And I thought, this is shit. Utter shit.
Not to matter. That year, Blur and Oasis went toe-to-toe in every category. It was the first I’d heard of them. I immediately loved them both. Britpop was born in me and I didn’t give Take That a second glance.
The band split up soon after.
Take That are back
Fast forward I don’t know how many years, but Take That reformed, minus Robbie Williams of course. Take That were one of the first 90s bands to reformed, before it became a ‘thing,’ before there was a reality show dedicated to it. I read about it online out of interest, yet by my late twenties I had definitely outgrown boybands.
But then my sister, who was never as ‘in’ to them as me, suddenly became a fan. She loved Take That 2.0, and joined the hoards of women who were re-living their youth through their favourite teenage boyband crushes.
My sister leant me their CDs, and, admittedly, I found a number of songs that I liked. But those songs were just another addition to my iPod playlist. For whatever reason, my sister seemed to form the kind of obsession for Take That as I had in my teenage years. She follows them on social media, has a major crush on Gary Barlow and has even joined some Take That Australian fans Facebook page.
Reminded of my passion
So last night, I headed off to the cinema with my sister and her friend to watch Take That in concert. What a weird experience. Watching a concert on a movie screen. But do you know what? I really enjoyed it. Seeing them perform those songs reminded me of the absolute passion I had for these guys at one of the most important times in my life.
My embarrassment at even being in the cinema, of having my sister singing along to every song and even standing up and dancing was soon dispelled once nostalgia set in. I kind of missed those days when you have your whole life ahead of you, when you can love a band so much you can convince yourself that one day you will meet your idols. You believe it because, as a teenage, anything is possible. You’re not weighed down by life, money, commitment, parenthood; you have the absolute freedom to hope.
There is no hope
I think that’s what I miss most about being pre-adult — you lose the ability to hope. The more you live life, the more you learn. You recognise the patterns of living. You’ve learnt enough to accept the reality that you live in. There’s no mystical ‘one day I might’ thought process — you know the score. You know dreams aren’t real (no matter how many memes to the contrary appear on your Facebook feed) and life will just continue in the same vein as it’s always done from the moment you became an adult.
Nostalgia is the key
Which is why nostalgia is so important. Wouldn’t we all give up now if we didn’t have those moments of hope to get us through? To remember the feeling of what it was like to be young and be utterly in love with something or someone you’ve never met or known? And maybe it’s sad and yes, embarrassing, that those joyful experiences of mine happened because of a boyband in the 90s, but I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
What about you?
Was it a band? A movie star? A writer? What gave you hope as a kid? What excited you? What got you through your teenage years?
Today at lunch one of my work colleagues was talking about a book she’s currently reading. She mentioned how there was a ‘really good twist’ in it, and that, in order to be satisfied by a book, there had to be a ‘twist.’
Which made me think, ooh…
So then one of my Facebook friends tagged me in a post about keyboard short cuts for novelists. Which is hilarious, by the way.
But then I saw the short cut key to add a plot twist.
Which made me think, ahhh…
You may have seen my previous post about finishing the first draft for my current tale. And even though I wrote it, I really like the story. I think it’s really sweet; just a simple tale about the coming together of two characters. Yet the events of today have me thinking: Is a plot twist really important?
I mean, would you be satisfied with a book knowing there’s no real twist in it? That no one dies or has some hideous event happen to them, that the goodie doesn’t turn out to be a badie but a goodie after all?
Because the thing is, the satisfaction I got out of writing this story was due to the fact that nothing really happens. I mean, like, nothing. I wasn’t putting my characters through turmoil, or keeping myself up at night trying to pull together all the different threads you need to sew for a super good plot twist.
A part of my thinks it will be fine, that the story will stand up on its own without a plot twist as long as the writing is really good.
Fuck. What if the writing is shit?
But then — what’s the use of a plot twist if it’s written badly?
I’ll be interested to know what you guys think — is a plot twist an absolute necessity in a good tale, or can you live without it?
There’s nothing as satisfying as finishing a piece of work. Story, poem, novel…
When it’s a story, a novel-length piece, the chances are you’ve been with this tale for a while. The plot and characters stay with you throughout every day, even if you don’t pick up the pen or keyboard to write anything. They’re the first thing you think of in the mornings, the last thing you think of at night.
When I’m in the middle of a piece, an hour is spent every night in bed thinking of my characters. They’re no longer these paper-beings formed on the page from my own imagination. They are real, they are tangible, they are an important and ever-present part of my life.
I never set out to create characters — I can’t explain it, really, but characters are like fairies to me. They pop into my head, fully-formed, and shake at me until I place them on paper, sometimes even after then. I don’t feel as though I have a say in who they are or what they do or how they behave. I don’t even feel that I create them. I guess something in my head does, but it’s not the conscious me.
And perhaps it’s because I don’t experience proper human connection in real life, but my characters become loveable companions that I never want to let go of — even when they turn out to be arseholes.
Yet when you finish a story, it’s time to say goodbye. And it makes you a little sad. You kind of have to grieve.
In the case of this tale, it seems even harder. Because I’ve not been with them for that long.
A month and a half ago I took a break from the piece I’ve been working on for all too long because I needed to get some perspective. See, that’s the problem with working on something for too long. You get jaded. Sometimes, you start to really hate the characters that you’ve created, or have been created against your will. When I had the desire for each and every one of my characters to die a violent, painful death, I knew it was time to walk away. So I started something new.
And now it’s done. So I’m a little sad. Not only because I have to let go of the lives of these two people I’ve been writing about for the last couple of months, but because I now have to type up the fecking thing,
Why, oh why, am I only able to write long-handed?
So now the real work begins…
Check out more on my new vine account. Yes, there is likely to be a lot of cat videos. Loving Vine!
And yes, I would like to say Happy Mother’s Day to all the mums out there. Especially my own mum and my sister, who is the mother to the two most important people in the world to me.
Yet I would also like to take the time to tell all of you without a mother today, to all of you without a child – I’m thinking of you. There is no day for the non-mothers, and today is probably hardest on those who have lost theirs.
I just wanted to say that you’re just as special, you’re just as important.
So Happy Sunday to you all.
They’re not all bastards, you know. They’re not all out to get us, lurking around every corner, ready to rape any woman that strays in their path.
They’re not stupid, or ignorant or mean. The are not a sub standard species to women.
At what point did equal rights become superior rights? Why are certain groups of women willing to reduce men to pond scum, willing to view their fathers, sons and brothers as a bunch of horrible arseholes?
I choose to believe that not one particular sex, race or nationality has the right to be judged because of the wrongs of a few. I choose to believe that men and women are born equal, that not one sex is worse than the other, and that we all have faults, equally, because we are human.
I don’t want a world where my nephew could be hated by a total stranger just because of his sex.
I hope that this hate campaign against men will cease. If certain groups preached love rather than hate, perhaps the world would be a better place.