It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like…
Santa on the Mantlepiece.
I’m no Scrooge McDuck. I love Christmas.
So in the spirit of Christmas, and sharing, I’m going to share mine with you.
I’m Not A Freaking Cricket Match…
First published at White Echo.
When I talk to people that know little, or seemingly care little, about social media, I always find myself having to defend the power of it – the sheer power of social media in its many forms.
But a recent example of the force of social media may have cleared that little issue up for many skeptics – and it had a lot to do with one person on Twitter, who goes by the username @theashes.
To continue reading, click here.
Transfixed By A Paragraph.
I’ve always strongly believed in the power of words. I decided to be a writer when I was six years old – I still have the notebook I wrote those words in. To me, there is a certain magic in words. A certain rhythm. I can be transfixed by a paragraph, by a passage, by an advertising slogan.
I love to write. It’s probably the only thing that really calms me. The only action that makes my mind stop swirling and allows me to free-pour out of my brain. It’s me, at my most natural.
I simply cannot live without words. Words, and the many varieties they come in, are the first thing I turn to whenever I am confused, happy, angry, muddled, pensive, upset, curious…they are like my breath, like my heartbeat; pretty impossible to live without.
And much like writing, reading, also in its many forms, is something that I find difficult to abstain from. Sarah Jessica Parker’s character in Sex and the City, Carrie Bradshaw, once said in an episode, “When I first moved to the city, I would sometimes buy Vogue instead of dinner – I just felt it fed me more.” I can relate to her sentiments.
Sometimes, when reading, you come across a paragraph so powerful that it actually has the ability to change you, even just a little. Words so powerful they capture you. You are forced to read the paragraph over and over again, as though it is a wish you want granted. It doesn’t happen with every book, and it doesn’t mean the same thing to every person. But, every now and again, you read something that not only connects with the very core of you, but also, in some small way, actually alters the way you think and feel.
Emily Dickinson once said, “I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes, I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.” Sometimes reading other people’s words can make you feel that way too. Here’s a few of my favourite paragraphs, my favourite words that, placed next to each other, are like magic.
Some excerpts of writing that speak to my very soul …
A paragraph written by Janelle McCulloch in her book La Vie Parisienne:
“We live for certain moments in life. They’re usually the moments when happiness falls unexpectedly around us and we realise that, for that brief second in time, we are extraordinarily content. These moments can be potent. They can make us believe that all moments can be like this, even though the reality is that they are as rare as that other ideal: The Perfect Life. They are so potent we will do anything to prolong them, hoping against all hope that they will lead us into a kind of permanent beatitude.”
A paragraph from Kathleen Tessaro’s Elegance:
“I can’t recall the last time I saw someone enjoying something so much, so openly. Perhaps it’s my age or just the people I hang out with, but almost everyone I know is an aspiring cynic. We stand at the edges of our experiences, smoking cigarettes and trying to convince each other that we’ve seen this, done that and it isn’t so hot anyway. It’s considered un-cool to be passionate, if not downright gauche. And on the odd occasions when one of us does become excited, it’s under duress, both embarrassing and brief. It’s considered unrealistic; a kind of madness that descends and has to be apologised for the next day. ‘Real life’ is, after all, a serious and rather dull business. And the more serious and dull, the more ‘real’ it is. I don’t know how we all collectively come to the conclusion that this is the way adults behave.”
An excerpt from Jack Kerouac’s On The Road:
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
Walt Whitman’s O Me! O Life! poem from Leaves of Grass:
“O me! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring-What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer:
That you are here-that life exists and identity.
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”
Yes, without any doubt, words are powerful.
Sometimes, they just get me. Right in the throat. And they make me want to do powerful, good things.
I Lost A Friend, Once.
First published in Trespass Magazine.
I lost a friend once.
Not through death. Not because he literally went missing.
I just lost him.
Somehow, between growing up and moving forward, we fell apart. It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t something I wanted.
It just happened.
He was one of my very best friends – a true companion I met at 16, and was lucky enough to have until 23 or so. We had an incredible relationship – full of amazing adventures, laughs, and so many long conversations. We never stopped talking.
He was the first person I would ring when I’d see something funny, or when I’d have a new life update. When I had a problem. When I wanted a chat.
We shopped, a lot. We wined and dined, a lot. I spent money I never had doing things I probably wouldn’t have done. He pushed the boundary (and my buttons) when it came to things I thought I could never do, and he made me realise that I always actually could.
He moved interstate when I was about 20, but that made no difference to our relationship. In fact, it probably made it better. Sure, the pop-ins and quick coffees were out, but what came in were entire days and weekends together – whole days in a diary blocked out just for each other. Our phone bills went through the roof. We chatted all the time, any time. I would see books I knew he’d enjoy reading and send them to him. He’d surprise me with random arrivals and expensive cocktails.
And then we got busy. And things started to change. My career started to take off. So did his. His saw him join some incredible intellectual circles. Mine saw me running in circles, jumping from various assignments weekly. But we still called, only less often. And we still caught up, only less and less.
But it seemed like that was ok.
Because friends don’t need to live out of each other pockets. And sometimes people float in and out of each other lives, drifting through. I’ve grown apart from friends before – it’s only natural that you do. It’s not a conscious thing; it’s just something that happens. Some friends are markers throughout your life. Others are a constant part of it.
I suppose I always thought that him and me were more of the constant variety. Turns out, we weren’t.
When I think back to friends I’ve grown apart from, I am filled with fond memories and warm fuzzy feelings. In actuality, I care not that I don’t see some old pals anymore. That’s just the way life goes.
But him? And me? When I think back to us, growing apart, I become terribly sad. I never even saw it coming. He stopped calling. I didn’t put enough effort into catching up. He, of all people because he was always so incredibly supportive, seemed irritated that my life, my job, something I’d worked so hard for, was working out, and truly flourishing. I used ‘busy’ as an excuse. He pushed my buttons, but not in a good way. And I pushed his. It seemed that, in the end, everything that had always held us together was the exact thing that pushed us apart.
The problem is, unlike other old pals, I do care that I don’t see him anymore. I miss him. Not all the time, but some times. Like when I go to a restaurant and I look at the décor, or the menu, and instantly think of him because I know he’d love it. Or when a certain movie makes me smile in just the right way, and I turn to face him but he’s not there. Certain clothing labels remind me of him – they remind me of the hours we spent trawling shops in different cities, looking for the perfect shoe, jacket or suit. And I miss our car rides – we were always going somewhere, but we’d never care if we got there in the end – what mattered was the chats that caused us to miss turn offs, and street signs. It’s no lie that sometimes we’d just drive until we’d literally hit the end of a road. And then? We’d turn back around and drive some more.
It’s not that I don’t have these moments with anyone else – in fact, I’m tremendously lucky in that I get to share these moments with other amazing friends in my life. It’s just that I don’t have him. And what we used to do was different because it was ours.
I realised far too late that it had been a while since we’d spoken. Two months. That became three. That became four.
And there we have it.
People say that in life, you move on. But I haven’t. Or that you grow apart. But we didn’t. Or that you fall out. But we never.
I just lost him.
The real truth, something that people don’t say enough in life, is that some things are worth fighting for. Or waiting for. Or finding again. Moving on, giving up – that’s easy.
Finding something that you’ve lost is much harder.
Remind Yourself…
When the afternoon sun shines through my kitchen windows, two of my favourite quotes light up.
And I couldn’t think of any better daily reminders.
Summer.
Can Money Really Buy Happiness?
First published in Trespass Magazine.
It has been said that money can’t buy happiness. I tend to agree. It has also been said that whomever believes money can’t buy happiness simply doesn’t know where to shop. I tend to agree with that, too. I’m stuck, somewhere in the middle, in the case of money vs. happiness. And I’m not sure there is going to be a clear winner anytime soon.
I believe money is inextricably linked with our happiness. That money, and the things it can buy you, affects our happiness greatly. Material items make us happy. That is not to say we would be unhappy without material items, because I’m sure we’d all cope rather fine, but having material goods – cars, shoes, mobile phones, computers, books and all sorts of products – brings a certain amount of happiness to ones life. For some, it’s guitars. For others, it’s handbags. The item is irrelevant, the point is clear: stuff, things and objects that you buy, can and do make us happy.
I know the pleasure centres of my brain light up when I see pretty things draped in shop windows. I know that, for the forty-nine minutes after I purchase a brand spanking new pair of high heeled shoes, I walk down the city streets with my purchase swinging in its oversized carry bag like I own that street. Putting those shoes on weeks later and walking into a party makes me swagger just as earnestly as when I first bought them; because I like shoes. I love them. They make me happy.
Would I cease to exist if I was not able to purchase gorgeous shoes? Of course not. Am I happier for being able to buy them? Yes and no. I like them, so they make me happy, but I’d rather lose them than many other things in my life. I’d rather eat, or see a movie, or spend time with a friend than be alone with a shoe.
It’s a documented fact that richer individuals tend to be happier than poorer ones. That richer individuals, when surveyed, were twice as likely to say they were happier than poorer folks. That could be because they are privy to a different lifestyle – an easier and healthier lifestyle, a lifestyle that involved more quality and luxury, or both.
Think about the last time you bought something you really loved. Something you really wanted. Were you happy? My guess is yes.
Think about the last time you bought a good fitting, good quality item of clothing. You may have spent a large amount on it. An exceptional amount in fact. Think about how it feels when you wear that item, how the fabric touches your skin, compared to other clothing items you may have that just don’t compare. Think about how you feel when you wear it.
A friend of mine once made a big purchase: a leather jacket from Giorgio Armani selling at half price. Half price meant the cost of the jacket was $3000, as opposed to $6000. I am not joking. It was the most stunning, beautiful tan leather jacket I had ever caressed. When he wore it people actually gasped. Did he love it? Oh yes, he did. So much so that on New Years Eve when a small splosh of red wine landed on his sleeve he panicked and immediately rushed it to a very expensive, very experienced dry cleaner. To cut to the chase; the drycleaners permanently stained the entire sleeve, and inset, of his jacket. It was no longer wearable. It looked like something you’d find in a dumper. He was devastated. I was too, for him and his pennies. What ensued was a battle between an angry man and a terrible dry cleaner. Court cases nearly erupted, and, without dragging out the story, my friend, after a very long time, finally and luckily received his money back – for the whole value of the jacket.
I use this story to highlight a point – money often has a lot to do with perception and value. What you perceive to be important, and what you value as being so. My friend spent years searching for the perfect leather jacket and he finally found one, one he thought was going to be an investment that lasted the rest of his life. The jacket for him was a mark of success, and a signifier of change. If he could only get the perfect jacket, he could secure the perfect life.
As you know, the beautiful jacket never made it as far as a lifetime. Depending on how you look at it, the whole exercise – searching for years for a jacket, finding one, spending an incredible, even ridiculous amount on one, then having it ruined and spending months and months trying to gain back the value of it – was an entirely pointless one. He is now back where he started, with no jacket and still searching for the perfect jacket to supplement the perfect life.
Conversely, what about this: for the few times he got to wear that utterly amazing jacket, his entire being transformed. His confidence soared. He looked simply incredible. He felt like he was on top of the world. He made men and women swoon. All because of one material item, one jacket. For the few times he wore that jacket he became a happier version of himself. He threw himself into situations that he normally wouldn’t have, situations that resulted in more happy moments. Can you put a price on that? Was his happiness a direct result of wearing a piece of designer clothing? Is that shallow? Would he have been just as confident and happy in a leather jacket from a generic chain store?
Early in 2009, researchers at Stanford University in California gave a cross section of subjects the exact same wine, in different bottles, labelled with different price tags. Most of the subjects said they liked the expensive wine more than the cheaper one, which is somewhat impossible seeing as they were in actuality all the same. Here’s where the line is blurred however: researchers undertook MRI brain imaging scans whilst the subjects drank their wine and their brains were registered as experiencing more pleasure whilst drinking the more “expensive” wine. How can that be explained? I put it down to perception and value. The subjects believed the expensive wine carried more value, and that they as a result were more valuable as people. That others would perceive them as being more valuable for drinking expensive wine.
Personally, I choose wine by the pictures on their labels. Some are winners, some are binners, but I give them all a shot. I’ve dined at the most expensive restaurant in Melbourne where the waiter searched the underground cellar for some incredible wine for our table to enjoy. It was fantastic wine, but I’ve had $10 bottles just as good. I don’t ever want to be the kind of person that feels as though their value is a direct result of their drink, handbag label or postcode. I hope I never am. I’d rather be valued for my contribution, or intelligence, or creativity, or ingenuity.
Does that mean I cannot buy Giorgio Armani heels, of which I did that very day my friend bought his jacket, and not stride more confidently? Not be slightly happier for owning them? No, it does not. I couldn’t care less if, upon dying, I was remembered for my shoe collection just as much as my intellectual contribution. Both define me. Both are part of me. Why does there have to be one or another? Maybe, at the end of the day, money doesn’t actually verse happiness. Maybe it has nothing, or everything, to do with it. I don’t have all the answers but what I do know is that happiness can be bought. It can also be sold. It can also be created. I know that things and objects can inspire you just as much as people and art. That value does not have a limit. That perception is an individual thing. That maybe, through the mist of all the purchases, gold coins and coloured notes, happiness has always been there and will always be there. Maybe we, all of us, are the ones trying to mask it or define it or subject it rather than leaving it to just be.
Image credit: All Movie Photo
A Few Things I’ve Learned…
- Find something you love doing and do it, every day. No matter what.
- You can have it all. Whether you want it all is a separate issue. Have what you like.
- We are not all born equal. Use that to your advantage.
- Many people go through life expecting certain things to happen to them, simply because they feel it’s their right. Well, it’s not. If you want something, you’ve got to make it happen. Hey, you may even have to work for it.
- Inspiration is something you create. You don’t have to wait for a moment to strike. Stop stalling. Start creating.
- Don’t be afraid to stop. Breathe. Meander. Stroll. Cruise. Fiddle. What’s the rush?
- We all have our own way of doing things. No one person has the best method. Be patient. It’s the key.
- People will always talk and gossip. Even when you try to do everything to please them. So go out and give them something to really talk about. Be bold and outrageous. Get their tongues wagging.
- Some people aren’t worth it. You’ll know the ones. Create lasting bonds with people who are worth it and fleeting moments with people who aren’t. It’ll change your life.
- Helping yourself is by far the easiest and most efficient way to help others.
- Move on. Get over it. Build your bridge. Don’t forget. Hell, don’t even forgive. Just. Move. On.
- You actually don’t have to accept people for who they are. Some people aren’t wonderful or lovely or nice or friendly, so why accept them?
- Allow yourself to get swept up in things – no matter how silly or daggy or dorky they may seem. Don’t think you are too cool for anything. You’re not.
- If you constantly accept ridicule – from a workmate, a “friend”, anyone – then you most probably deserve it. If you constantly turn the other cheek then you deserve to be slapped. Grow some balls (whether you are a man or a woman) and stick up for yourself.
- If you aren’t always honest with others, it’s a shame. If you aren’t always honest with yourself, it’s a tragedy.
- Excuses are the tiny threads that keep many things going for much longer than they need to – careers, friendships, conversations, plans, goals – if it’s not happening, it’s never going to. Wake up. Put your effort into something else.
- Try and pinpoint exactly why it is that you want to impress people that don’t give two hoots about you. Impress the people that actually care about you. F#@k the strangers.
- Try and learn something new every day. It’s surprising how many people don’t.
- The more you do, the more you’ll want to do. Choose to do things that have merit. Motivation is a powerful side-effect of the ‘more you do = more you want to do’ philosophy. Addiction is a hop, step and a jump away. Watch that line.
- Some people won’t ever understand you. Either because they can’t wrap their minds around you, or they aren’t willing to. Their loss.
- Choosing sides is never easy, but it’s much better than always sitting on the fence.
- You may not always be able to change your situation, but you can always change your attitude.
- Self-indulgence is the bed that many, many great things were consummated in. That doesn’t mean you get to act like a dick. Be self-indulgent. But don’t let it take over you.
- Sticks and stones may break your bones? So what, they’ll heal. Words can never hurt you? Rubbish. They do. And they hurt more than a rock to the head. Words are powerful. Use them wisely.
- Everything happens for a reason. We may not be sure why, but that’s the point.
- There will always be someone in the world wishing for terrible things to happen to you; an enemy, a friend, a jealous acquaintance. Refrain from acting like them. Kill them with your brilliance instead.
- Some people just don’t get ‘it’. Give up trying to make them.
- Disappointment and hurt is everywhere in life. Happiness and wonder is also everywhere in life. Choose what you decide to focus on.
I Fall. A Lot.
So, I fell last night. Bang on my left knee. In public.
I was walking to meet a friend and I just went whooshhh, the biggest slip of my life (and there have been many).
You could say I glided along the pavement. A graceful glide that ended in an unpleasant bump. You might even say that it was damp, and that’s what did it. Except it wasn’t.
The fact is, I just seem to fall. A lot.
Up stairs.
Down stairs.
Getting into my car.
Getting out of my car.
In high heels.
In flat shoes.
I bump into corners.
I always whack my hands on things, accidentally of course.
I send glasses flying at cafés with one intense hand gesture.
I trip.
I stumble.
My elbows are weapons of mass destruction, especially in department stores.
If there is a gust of wind, my skirt is always the first one to fly up. Always.
I even, and this is the worst part, spill food on my clothes. Sometimes even drinks.
I spill. I overturn. I splash. Down the front of my dress. On the crease of my skirt. On the sleeve of my shirt.
I am the woman who breaks the heel off her shoes, by getting stuck in a crack on the footpath, or a gap in between some decking. It has happened three times. How? Simply by walking. Simply by stepping.
I am fine with it. I mean, despite the embarrassment from time to time. Despite the public horror. And the occasional physical pain.
It’s funny, because these accidents always happen at times when I’m feeling really fab. Really swish. Really important.
Like when I’m walking down Collins Street, having just purchased something of the material and pretty kind, wearing a great outfit, thinking I am freakin’ cool and bang – the strap on my tan heel breaks and I end up arse over tit. My purchases and the bags that house them have acted as somewhat of a buffer between the concrete and me more times than I care to tally up.
Or, when I am eating at a posh restaurant with posh colleagues and I’ve just made a great addition to conversation, and I’m thinking ‘hmm, I’m clever’ and splosh – flounder and pommes frittes dribbles down my lovely dress. Oh well, at least it matches the Jacquesson Grand Cru I accidentally sprinkled down there before.
I fear that it/I won’t change. It doesn’t matter how hard I try, these things just happen. There’s no real drama in it, except of course having to always expect the unexpected. That’s why I find it so hard carrying small handbags; where do all the bandaids and spare pantyhose and wipes and tissues and pins and cotton and spare shoes go?
I wish I were like you regular folk. Such small, pretty clutches you get to parade. I will always be in envy of women carrying small handbags. To me, they are the symbol of having everything sorted. Of having everything in order. Women who never trip up. Fall down. Splish, splash or splosh.
So, if you ever need to find me in public it won’t be terribly hard; I will be the gal drying her skirt under a bathroom hand dryer, hobbling on one heel, having just caught my hair in my handbag buckle, with a scratch on my knee and a swollen elbow.
You won’t miss me.
SANDI SIEGER. 
