mix this

The sun in my eyes, dust in my lungs, snow on my boots. A desert storm, a blizzard, hot sunshine. Despair, hope, fresh thoughts, love. Welcome, spring of 2008.

party mood(iness)

On my way to a friend's wedding. I hate weddings. I hate all parties.

I'm the kind of person who, in the middle of getting dressed and putting on make-up, curls up in a corner and cries until the mascara is all over her face. Who suddenly hates her new dress and wishes fervently for a pair of worn jeans. Who swears under her breath all the way to the party and is tempted to just sneak into a pub on the way and hide until it's all over.

Once I get to the party, I can usually enjoy it. Or if not, at least sneer at it.

a thought born out of a whimper

Someone wise pointed out to me that there are things that distract people from living the life they were intended for, things that drive them around the same circle constantly. Wasting their life and missing the meaning of life. Guilt is one of these, fear another.

And craving for acceptance/approval/love. Now that's my poison. The need that sometimes makes me - an adult, independent woman - curl up in a corner and whimper, paralyzed.

The power of love is tremendous. Unfortunately also in the negative - if it has been denied you, it can ruin your life.

longjohns and heartbreak

An old lady comes to the shop with a donation of clothes to the second-hand store in the basement. She hands me a plastic bag full of what is apparently an old man's underwear, mostly long woollen underpants. Worn, but carefully washed, ironed and folded. She anxiously explains the trouble she has taken to ensure they are proper and clean, because she is sure someone could get a lot of use out of them still. As most of her generation, she has probably had to spend her life trying to make every penny last and nothing go to waste.

Not so in my own generation. I open my mouth hesitantly to say that we don't really take in underwear, especially not so worn, as nobody really buys them second-hand anyway. She adds, hastily, with what looks like tears in her eyes:

"They belonged to my late husband, you see. He passed away last month. These are good underwear. Do you think somebody could use them still?"

I stop the intended words from leaving my mouth. Instead, I thank her gently and take the bag from her. I can always send them with the next charity lorry going to the poorer parts of Russia.

It's the only thing I can do for her. I think I'm going to cry.

through life with wet feet

Wet feet after a walk home in terrible weather. Is there anything more demoralizing that wet feet? Maybe the knowledge that people love you and you desperately need that love and you are unable to accept it?

And yet, there is always dry socks waiting for you when you get home. And there is always somebody who will look at you with kindness and suddenly there is a warmth spreading through your heart... and your feet.

my nose and my heart still work

A man in our shop asked me to kiss him. His smell was so rancid that I almost vomited at the mere idea. He has a very polite way of telling me he loves me but it doesn't really help.

Another man comes in now and then. My boss giggles and gives me a meaningful look every time. I guess my face lights up.