Pure Morning.

Imagine, if you will, the sound of a song recorded to cassette from a crackly radio station, then played through speakers covered with stickers from TV Hits magazine. Imagine Brian Molko’s genderfucking lyrics being purred at a volume nearly high enough to compensate for the bad recording technique, the sound bouncing off the purple walls. No posters. Not after Mum discovered the centrefolds from Horse and Pony were taped up four thick, one over the other over the other, a poor découpage of mares, stallions and fluffy foals in green fields. I am at my desk, on a cramped chair, my ears as close to the speakers as is comfortable, mouthing along to lyrics that make my angst-wrapped teen soul believe someone out there knows me.

On the desk is a plain blue biro, a brown notebook, a cream-shaded table lamp, a metal pencil sharpener and the broken clip from a black fineliner I stole from my mother. Molko blares, the speakers crackle and I dig the slanted edge of the sharpener blade into the softest part of my thigh. The song peters out and I lean over to press the rewind button. I have rewinding down to a direct science, I know exactly how far to go on this tape to only listen to a few words of the DJ announcing the song before it starts.

Outside it is night but not dark. I am close enough to the city that on overcast nights the sky is lit with a dirty yellow-grey glow, making the clouds seem closer, heavier and full of menace. A white night where my mouth tastes like salt and metal, my head buzzes no matter how loud the music is and my restless feet tap out a frantic, discordant tattoo on the wheel covers of the desk chair. This room is not a sanctuary, this room is a cage.

There are voices in the hallway – my Mother will come in nine seconds to tell me to turn down the music, to go to bed. I slide all evidence of my crimes into the desk drawer where it rests among old homework assignments, quarter-written stories and the detritus of a fourteen year old with well-established hoarding tendencies. I needn’t bother – she speaks through the door. When I click the stop button, it jumps up with a click and the tape stops whirring. The stop button doesn’t say stop, it displays a tiny unicorn sticker meant for a toothbrush. The play button features a cat. I am suddenly disgusted at the things around me; china ornaments of horses and unicorns, the shaggy yellow dog with the glow-in-the-dark chest on my bed, the white melamine furniture, all overflowing with stuff, the purple paint sponged onto the walls. There is no space in here, there is no air to breathe.

From the bed, in the dark, I can’t see the glowing sky. There are stars on the ceiling and I trace imaginary constellations as I scratch, flaking the dry blood, getting into the wound underneath. The house is quickly quiet, even Lucy, the retriever, is asleep. The slate floors are cold in this house, so after everyone has gone to bed, you can hear her stand and click-click-click across the floor before she not-so-sneakily heaves herself onto the sofa bed.

Eleven pm. Midnight. One. Two.

I don’t have headphones, so the volume is low. Click, listen, rewind, repeat. I am staring at nothing; the blinds are closed and it’s dark and I can still feel the night pressing on me, weighting my lungs, pulling me down. I am not strong enough to bear this sky. The blade has slipped in between two sheets of maths equations.

Skin has layers – epidermis, dermis and hypodermis. I press the blade slowly through the dermis, listening for the pop of collagen and fibre, watching the skin retract, then well with blood. I am consumed with the inside of me, with escaping from the purple room, the white night; going deep into my blood and my bones. White fat makes me recoil – the hypodermis bleeds more freely, as the blood vessels aren’t constricted by tightly bound skin cells. With the blade out, the weight of my upper leg is enough to hold the wound closed. There are a few drops of blood, suspended by water tension in perfectly round balls on the carpet. I lie on the floor, half under the bed and gently pierce the top of each with a tissue corner – as if by magic, the blood climbs upward until not a trace is left behind.

We are all just chemistry.

drowning ruth

Drowning Ruth

drowning ruth

This book came really highly recommended. It was a NY Times bestseller, an Oprah’s bookclub choice and a few people on my twitter feed had said it lived up to the hype. I read a few chapters one day and was a little disappointed – the suspense seemed heavy handed and the story was stunted by the fact that you’re never quite sure what time you are in.

Nevertheless, the next day I picked it up again and was delighted to discover that after a few awkward chapters at the beginning, the book blossoms into a sweet, melancholic story where the twist is rather inconsequential compared to your affection for the characters.

The story is about Amanda, who returns to the family home to convalesce after a series of unfortunate events at her nursing job. Mathilda, the adored younger sister, happily receives Amanda and the two raise Mathilda’s daughter Ruth on their island home while waiting for Mattie’s war-wounded husband Carl to return home. Then Mattie drowns under mysterious circumstances and Carl and Amanda are left to raise Ruth while dealing with the tragedy. The story flashes through to when Ruth is 11 and is ‘adopted’ by Imogene, a gregarious younger girl, and they soon become fast friends. Later, as teenagers, Ruth and Imogene are subjected to the affections of a vacationing Arthur Owen and Aunt Amanda seems determined that neither girl return his attentions.

The story builds and builds. It gets to where it doesn’t matter what happened to Mattie because it was so long ago, and yet the echoes of her life and death still touch the characters in unexpected ways. You begin to choose sides and then lament when you favourite characters inevitably make desperate decisions leading to tragic mistakes. I actually enjoyed the soft menace that seeps around the edges of the tale, making the idyllic landscape that makes up the setting of the story a little more bleak and dangerous than originally thought.

It’s not the kind of book I would normally pick up, but I’m glad I persevered – I finished it off in two sittings. Be sure to read the author’s note at the end of the book, it’s really enlightening to find out how Christina’s character’s lives took turns that where unexpected even to her.

better than before

Better than Before – Gretchen Rubin

better than before

This is the first book I’ve read by Gretchen Rubin and it came highly recommended by my friend Brianna of Extraordinary Days. I’ve heard of the Happiness Project and given most of this project is about changing my life by developing good habits (and ditching some bad ones), I thought it would be a perfect January read.

It took me over two weeks. I have NEVER been stuck on a book like that before.

It’s not that I didn’t appreciate the message, because I did – more about that in a second – but I just feel like me and Gretchen Rubin? We are not friends. She is not of my tribe. I don’t think I could spend time with her without becoming rubbed the wrong way.

But Shannon! It’s Gretchen! Everyone loves Gretchen! I hear people collectively exclaiming. Yes, and I can see why – she has a pragmatic approach to collating a good life that I think works really well, but oh goodness, she just comes across so rigid and overbearing in this book. Even when she’s questioning whether she’s being overbearing in the text, she puts it down to her personality type and continues on. It’s her way or the highway, buster! She believes in her research so much that alternate views or methods MUST be wrong. Her writing is banal and to a formula and it was a hard slog to get to the end of the book.

That said, her methods of approaching habits, both forming new ones and letting those that don’t serve fall away, is brilliant. She outlines the four main personality types that dictate how we form and follow habits (I’m a questioner, with a bit of rebel), but then goes even deeper, looking at how individual traits can help or hinder good habits. She forms a map for people to follow when looking at how habits work, an elegant and comprehensive framework that you can tailor to yourself.

Some of the traits that resonated with me are being a lark, an abstainer, a procrastinator and a sprinter. There is no point in me attempting to form a habit of getting up early and working on a project a little bit every day, while having only one caffeinated beverage – it’s simply setting myself up for a loss.  This is the joy of Rubin’s book – she doesn’t ever say that being one way is worse or better than another, it just is. And because it is and we are, shaping habits according to our traits and tendencies will work a lot better than just taking a one size fits all approach.

Please don’t let the fact that I can’t stand Rubin’s prose style put you off reading this book. It’s full of practical advice to help you succeed. I doubt I will read any others of her books, because I really don’t want to feel like reading is a chore, but undoubtedly she has developed a helpful approach that many, myself included, will resonate with.

youre never weird

You’re Never Weird on the Internet (almost) – Felicia Day

youre never weird

So, hands up who ever would have thought that Felicia Day has absolutely crippling social anxiety? No hands? I didn’t know either, but I’m actually kinda of glad.

No, no, hear me out – I’m not wishing any form of mental illness on anyone, or glorifying anxiety in an attempt to make myself feel better. I’m just saying that holy crap, Felicia Day is a fucking superstar, and so talented and if she can do everything she’s done with the levels of anxiety and depression she talks about in the book, then I can do ANYTHING.

Like, actually anything.

So the book chronicles her life, from growing up in the deep, then deeper south where she was homeschooled with her brother. She talks about how unconventional her education was, not just in a ‘I didn’t go to regular school’ kind of way, but also in a ‘my study was partially unsupervised and wholly unstructured’ kind of way. She learned a lot about what interested her (or what interested her family) and not so much about some other stuff (which it turns out is not important anyway). If she was 12 now, it would be called unschooling and she would be a TEDtalk superstar, but when she was growing up it was just kinda weird.

After four years at college as a violin prodigy (hands up who knew Felicia Day was REALLY good at violin? nope, me neither), Felicia heads over to LA and stars in things like Buffy, Dollhouse, House and this (hehehe, so adorable). Then she kinda becomes this massive youtube star with shows like The Guild and Dr Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog (I’ll admit to having heard of both of these, but have never seen the whole lot).

So having established all this, Felicia then gets into some super tough stuff. She talks about gaming addiction and social anxiety, about general depression, anxiety and suicide idealisation and about #gamergate, doxxing and the effect the movement had on her personally. I am not a gamer, so it was really interesting to hear an explanation of gamergate from someone who was a woman and a gamer*. What impressed me most about the story is that Felicia hasn’t actually conquered her perfectionism or her anxiety – she deals with it and gets help with it, but this isn’t a ‘how I beat depression and won the world’ tale. It’s actually a ‘I have bad depression and I’m winning the world anyway’ tale.

This is my biggest wish for people who read this: that you realise that despite any mental or physical health issues, despite lack of a conventional education or a trust fund or a perfect face**, despite where you right now, if you keep going and have the drive to get to where you want, anything is possible.

There are two things I didn’t like about the book. Firstly, it’s formulaic, with each chapter seemingly following the same template and everyone knows I hate that way of writing. Secondly, rather than feeling like a natural conversation (which I imagine was the point) the book reads like someone tried REALLY hard to make it seem like a natural conversation and you can sense the desperation to convey that voice. I’m too picky, I realise this.

On the whole, I enjoyed the book – it’s not easy reading at times, but it is still easy to read (ok, now I’ve just stopped making sense altogether) and I would totally recommend it to anyone who has enjoyed Felicia’s work or who is interested in behind the scenes stuff around acting or gaming. She’s funny and cute and exceptionally talented.

⋆⋆⋆/5

*If you never heard about the gamergate saga, I suggest you read the book before you google your little heart out. The vitriol you can read by typing “gamergate” into a search engine is actually horrifying.

**Personally, I think Felicia’s face is pretty damn close to perfect, but that’s definitely not the point here.

51ytbbt6g6l

How to Grow Up – Michelle Tea

51ytbbt6g6l

I haven’t been having a good month technology wise – my laptop is still broken, despite me paying an arm and a leg to microsoft for them to come and fix it, the charger for my e-reader had the pin snapped off it and my phone is now cracked in more places than it’s not cracked. As someone who mostly reads ebooks now (so convenient! so cheap!), not having a device is a pain in the ass.

Oh and I cut my library down by about 80% and promptly had a panic attack that left me sick for three days. Apparently I’m a lot more attached to my books that I was admitting.

Anyway, I finally got a charger for my e-reader and I wasn’t in the mood for Gloria Steinem, so I grabbed this sweet little memoir.

I quickly discovered it’s anything but sweet. Michelle Tea is a force of nature. This memoir (one of five) chronicles her adult life: she’s sober, she’s single, she’s got her shit (mostly) together. It talks about her issues finding a home (as opposed to a squat), dealing with money, getting back into dating and getting herself knocked up. Along the way she marries the utterly delicious Dashiell (the two popped out an equally delicious baby last year).

What I liked about this book is how much I can relate to it. I dressed goth in a small, shitty, coastal town and had soda cans thrown at my head. I wanted to be a librarian because I thought that was the only way to live around books. I turned into an angry lesbian in my twenties (I was mostly a peaceful lesbian before and after that). I lost myself in drug and booze fuelled binges which I pretended were a result of the system/contributing to my art/not my fault. I made my own god when the other ones seemed too harsh. I have a hard time dealing with money and the idea that it comes and goes. Every new chapter was a revelation- I am NOT the only one and if SHE got through it all, so can I.

The book is smart, sassy, hilarious and sad – even if you don’t relate, you’ll get a good laugh and some pearls of wisdom, I promise. If you do relate, it’s so nice to see how other people worked their shit out, overcame their demons and lived pretty much happily ever after (like I said, her baby is fucking adorable!). The book is easy to read, flows nicely and if you like reading books that kind of sound like a collection of magazine articles/blog posts, you will LOVE the format. Go enjoy!

chives

Haiku

I’m experimenting with form at the moment. I really believe haiku writing helps you be succinct, and widens your vocabulary.

chives

The correct question, with which we can win the world, is not why, just how.

I am overwhelmed with grief. Heartache, of a sort. It blooms within me.

I dreamed of whales and seagulls. The salt spray crusted on my cheeks and hair.

Up! Up! Burst through seed and soil to greet the sun. Come, tiny plants, and grow.

“Did you say something about sprinklers?” I say, in my sleep addled state.