Shoes, Books & Cynicism
Kate Stone Matheson
The Wax That Melts Our Wings

I’d say it’s what separates us, not from the beasts, but the bestial. Creating the future, renewing a learned past - these are reasons to strive. Writing for and with love, taking and framing an image, stretching new melodic skins onto old skeletons of song… it’s how we manage to fly. It’s how we stay you and me, not us and them.

The Wax That Melts Our Wings
Shoes, Books & Cynicism
Kate Stone Matheson
The Lady Jellypants Guide to Grace and Poise

Unlike Osk, who seemed to establish his own tactical task force wherever we lived, scooping up neighbourhood feline troublemakers as sidekicks (including the memorable ginger behemoth Watson, with whom he used to scope the street from the safety of the shed roof), Jelly has the intelligence gathering skills of a sponge cake.

The Lady Jellypants Guide to Grace and Poise
Shoes, Books & Cynicism
Kate Stone Matheson
Love Me Tender

Anyway, somewhere in between my 'and then you should've done this' and 'why didn't you say x and y, rather than z', and 'for the love of monkeys and the general public's eyesight, you didn't honestly wear that heinous shirt did you', something he was saying about the dating extravaganza we were picking to pieces finally penetrated my cloud of self-congratulatory cumulo-waffle. 

"Most people don't talk about how dates are progressing as a tender process, do they?" he asked. 

"What?"

"She said I was 'part way through the tender process' and that she was judging me on my submission. I'd like to think there was irony involved, and I think at the time I may have given an admittedly weak "haha, yesssss, quite". Looking back, I'd have to conclude, computer says no on the presence of Fabulon or other aids to achieving crisply pressed linen."

Love Me Tender

Black And White, And Cred All Over

Black And White, And Cred All Over

The definition of a bully is 'a person who uses strength or influence to harm or intimidate those who are weaker'. Today, you have influenced the actions of the AFL.  You have used your strength to maintain a position you do not deserve. You have intimidated those of weak moral courage, and you have harmed your club, and women who play, follow, and love the game of Aussie Rules as a consequence. You have harmed young girls and boys - particularly boys - just starting in the game, who will see this kind of talk as acceptable - because if the Presidents of Collingwood and North Melbourne say these things, then it must be OK. 

Sensory Prevention Factor 30 Plus

Sensory Prevention Factor 30 Plus

Usually, summer - or at the very least spring - is running my psyche. But, occasionally, perhaps a little like Persephone descending into The Underworld for her allotted time with Hades, I can't help but let winter into my thoughts, and Cerberus, in his guise as the black dog of depression, manages to slip his leash. Thankfully, I am learning to get him under control, and make my way back to sunnier climes and blue skies of a happy soul.

But some people - well, for them, winter is a way of living, rather than just days on a calendar. Cold is ingrained in their personalities; it's almost as though they don't want to step into the sunlight for fear they may be burnt by happiness. Instead, they slap on Sensory Protection Factor 30 Plus, and allow the ice to become a part of their makeup, right down to the bone.

Clean To The Bone

Clean To The Bone

In the Regency era, women put wax pads inside their cheeks to make their faces fashionably plump. In the Edwardian, they constrained their rib cages and spines to the point of deformity with corsets. The 20s, thin was in. The 50s? Marilyn Monroe and curves were back with a vengeance, baby. 

Now? It's The Age of Kardashian, where cosmetic surgery is considered an acceptable sixteenth birthday gift. 'Happy Birthday, sweetie... you don't have enough turmoil going on with your hormones, so here's new teeth/breasts/a nose/lips/skin colour to confuse you even more about what you should look like to be a happy, whole human being'.

Charting The Way Home

Charting The Way Home

Both maps and hearts are not infallible. Together they are the wretched children of a million badly plotted navigational points of relationship memory, combined with our complete inability to leave that foreign country that is the past well alone.

World War Free

World War Free

One hundred years ago, both France and Belgium were battlefields. Names like Passchendaele, Mons, Neuve Chapelle, Armentières, Ypres, Vimy Ridge - they stopped being 'foreign', and were suddenly a part of everyday conversation.

Now - we have new names.

Baquba. Lahore. Varanasi. Baghdad. Jalalabad. Domodedovo Airport. Alexandria. Kabul. Faisalabad. Al Hillah. Zvornik. Benghazi. Maiduguri. Mogadishu. Chad. Moscow. Anbar. Diyarbakır. Jerusalem. Palestine. Al-Shabaab. Suruç. Ankara. The Sinai. Jakarta.

Paris. Brussels.

Keep Karma And Carry On

Keep Karma And Carry On

In what can be viewed as both a positive and a negative of the Age of White Noise, social media has given us the opportunity to invent new selves - sometimes, it seems, a hundred of them, to be used for different people, situations, even moods. It has given us the chance to smile when we are crying on the inside, if we aren't feeling very brave, or if we feel like we need to put on one of those hundred different selves. It has allowed us to share our despair, our wonderful happiness, our big thinking, and our dreams. 

But what it has also done is laid us bare to criticism and a lack of care, both in our own actions and those of others. We cannot hide from hurtful situations. We cannot hide from what we say and do, and sometimes - achingly, angrily, and agonisingly - we cannot hide from what others say and do to and about us. 

John Lennon was a wise man by the time he died, and he knew what was what when he said the words 'instant karma's gonna get you'. The Buddha had his own time of mortification - imagine what it would have been like if it had been fed back to him on Instagram, and Facebook, and Twitter?

They Who Know The Storm

They Who Know The Storm

Today is my 44th birthday. As stated by the woman I dearly wish I could have had the opportunity to drink under the table at the Algonquin, Ms Dorothy Parker herself:

“Time doth flit; oh shit.” 

Sound a bit dismal and non-fizzy for a girl who loves shoes, champagne, rugby and books on her FORTY SECOND (remember this, people) birthday?

Perhaps. 

But it's my birthday, and I'll chastise myself if I want to. 

To anyone celebrating a birthday today, or anytime soon, I have some things to say to you, imbued with my heartfelt love, appreciation, gratitude, and infinite wonder at the people who continue to love me, not least of all the Man Who Vaguely Resembles David Tennant.

And On The Eighth Day, He Created Insomnia

And On The Eighth Day, He Created Insomnia

Call it a Heffalump or a hound from hell, insomnia is a beast of burden to those who carry it. It messes with mind, body and spirit, and I feel was dreamt up by whatever supernatural forces are out there - for the sake of argument let's say the Devil and God - along with menopause, hangovers, reality TV and Donald Trump as punishment for us being a bunch of absolute muppets. 

The Things We Leave Behind

The Things We Leave Behind

Because let's face it, kids. 2015 sucked. It sucked big, fat, hairy spiders. It was a year of hate, of sadness, of horror, and of general down and out big fat hairy spidery suckiness. If you had a reverse Olympics of sucky years, I reckon 2015 would be down in the anti-Gold medal position with 1888, when Frau Klara and Herr Alois decided to get on the Riesling one night in downtown Braunau am Inn, Austria, things got a bit zündend under the Federbett, and the result was the unspeakable horror that was Adolf Hitler. 

The Night Before Christmouse

The Night Before Christmouse

It is very obvious he does NOT LIKE OSKIES. So I am going to fool Satan Claws! Squishy was singing a stupid song about a raindear with a red nose so I am going to pretend to be one, and wait until Satan Claws arrives, and POUNCE on him because he thinks I am a raindear!

So... Where's My Hover Board?

So... Where's My Hover Board?

So - the great day has finally arrived. No, it's not my birthday, although thanks for thinking of me. It's not Christmas, or Hanukah, or even Festivus for the Restivus - not quite yet.

It's even more momentous than that.

Yes, you guessed right.

IT'S BACK TO THE THE FUTURE DAY. 

The Continuing Adventures Of Richie Benaud Redux

The Continuing Adventures Of Richie Benaud Redux

I wonder if Kennebec knew what he was getting on that day back in 1832, when an appealing and winsome little Katrina Laura Lambchop was cruelly wrenched from her mother's body - "thank God for that", was the cry from said mother, "she was reading under the covers already" - and thrust into his semi-waiting arms.