Wednesday, November 18, 2009


God how you hate him.

You were naive in the extreme. They tell you there is a power discrepancy between men and women. They tell you men will abuse that power. Somehow you don't believe it.

Until something happens, and the consequences are so foreign, so incomprehensible, and at the same time, so horribly cliched.

And you finally realise: it is still true, what they say. He has taken from you something you never intended to give, and he keeps taking, every day. It affects you deeply.

And what you did not know: it affects every facet of your being. Your career, your relationships. Your naivete has caused this fissure in your life, it was his hand but your permission.

And what you did not know: no other man will ever understand, and a part of you will hate them too, for being unable to understand.

You are a ghost of the person you once were.

Monday, November 9, 2009


Growing up in Europe, November was always a rainy month. The corpses of autumn-coloured leaves littered the mossy earth, moisture hung softly in the air, it grew cold and breath hung suspended in miniature cloudbursts. It was too early for snow, usually, although occasionally, oh joy, the very first snowfall - fat flakes falling slowly - would occur in the week of my mid-November birthday.

In Australia, it is as though the gods celebrate for me by causing the landscape to erupt loudly, ostentatiously into bloom. Jacarandas burst with flowers that define the very essence of purple. Bougainvilleas sprout in glorious displays of red and pink, covering the white heritage walls of Sydney houses. Lavender releases its sweet scent, and the ubiquitous eucalypts and lemongrass lend a citrus undertone to the bouquet of spring.
How lucky am I, spoilt even before cake, before champagne.