"-and it will be alright," he said.

The blank page doesn't frighten me, has not done so for some time. It still doesn't. A blank pages is an invitation to make a mistake, a mess, a miracle. The blank page that breathless pause before the Big Bang and the universe begins.

What gives me pause it what comes after, when there are already words on the page and you have found something that may possibly be a flow, or a ghost, but it is enough of something for you to follow, and your thoughts have brought you this far, to a point at which you realise there is no point and you do not know what you are trying to say.

Blogging used to be such an effective weapon against myself, or the world, or myself. The act of structuring a post in my mind imposed a structure upon a struggle that in its very nature is without definition. An artificial and arbitary imprisonment, but one that gave me some measure of peace regardless. The composition of that post was a natural extension, requiring a further narrowing of focus and definition. The precision of a word was like the puncture of a pin through the hull of a moth, the 'preeeee-' that first prick and pressure before the point breaks the surface and the 'cish' the spearing and parting of organs and secrets as the shaft slides down, and finally the 'on' of the point thrust down into the board. That moth will not fly again.

You can only find such precision when you know your own voice. Second person to speak of the first. I. I do not entirely know this I. I, you, she, this entity, stopped blogging, stopped writing. She begin finding stories in photography, although even these she did not share with abandon. I spoke more, out loud I mean. More for me. People who encountered me still found me recalcitrant, but I knew the difference. Maybe I had nothing to say. Perhaps I didn't want to say anything. What I consider my true voice was left unused. It starved, warped, and eventually became nothing.

There have been, are still, so many hurtles between myself and the act of writing. The physical ones are lesser than they were, although this is due to a change of life circumstances and employment, not any radical healing on my part. I must still be careful with the time I spend both typing and writing by hand. This will be lifelong I imagine. It is not a bad thing. The flat tends to get cleaned when I need to stop. Everyone wins?

On only my second day in town I joined the Glasgow Science Fiction Writers Group. It has been good not just to surround myself with writers once again, but to engage actively in writerly activities. I've dipped my toes into the water of freelance editing, but writing up a report differs vastly from engaging in a face to face discussion on the strength, weaknesses and possible progressions of a story. There are so many ways in which a tale can be read, and it is wonderful and refreshing to be reminded of that. The shared excitement. The giddiness that comes from being with people who care about narrative mechanics as much as you do. These are fine things.

And then there is gentle insistance of loved ones who recognise that this small thing is such an important thing, and although I am not afraid they will hold my hand without asking and believe in me when I am indifferent.

Writing is no longer something to be shied away from, neither the thought of it nor the action. Be proud of me? Tessa, these shifts may be slight but they take such time and exertion, like the push of continental plates. There will always be destruction with change. You cannot see the time lost and strings severed without acknowledging the shift. One does not happen without the other.

Start small and long. A flash fiction competition with months in which to contemplate your inability to produce neat short ideas. Which is actually really fucking frustrating.

I've been gnawing tentatively at the idea of doing another 7wishes type project, which would additionally force me to write some joy into Glasgow. The city and I have had a rocky start, not helped by the fact that I think we just have conflicting personalities. I don't know Glasgow as well as Melbourne, not nearly. Nor do I know myself as well as I did.

I was thinking about that, and this voice, and what has changed. For example; my lover. My normal policy regarding blogging about other people is not to make them identifiable or overly specific in interaction unless that other person had an online presence of their own, somewhere they could return fire, so to speak. He does not. I also want to respect the privacy of others. What ever I share here I am okay with sharing, but I would not make that assumption for anyone else.

These are incidental however, solved by merely talking with him, and I do love talking with him. No, what gives me pause is the line between personal and precious. I cannot blog about my life and excise him from it. To do so would be to lie by omission and deny the incredible and integral part of my life he plays. I am no longer an identity in isolation, not to myself. Yet, because he is so precious I do not wish to share him. These times and glances and moments are treasures immeasurable. Perhaps you have been in love and been loved. Perhaps you do understand. But then, you must understand the greediness and selfishness that comes with delight.

These are lines I have not yet encountered in the sand, lines I suspect I will have to learn to walk as I learn what this different voice has to say.

Bread the Third

The overly-talented Neil Williamson has been trying his hand at making bread. Without the aid of a break maker. Proper mixing and kneading with his hands, the mere thought of which makes my knuckles and wrists wail. He was kind enough to allow us to act as guinea pigs for his third attempt. I admit, when I took possession of the foil-wrapped bread it was the perfect size, shape and heft, my first instinct was to drop kick it. Some bread is just right for a good punt, you know? Anyway, I didn't do that. It smelt glorious, as only freshly baked bread can. We decided to get some proper butter for the eating, and some brie, and some good soup. Barely waited to get in the door before rending its attire asunder.

Look at this bread! Look at it!

Fluffy and soft and moist and oooooh smells soooooo goooooooood-

Yeah, to be honest? It didn't last long enough for soup. Props to Neil. If you're giving consideration upon who to include in your party of survivors when the world ends, Neil's post-apocalyptic survival skills in baking are not to be overlooked. All you'll need to do is domesticate some wild yeast and you will be set for baked goods for the duration of your horrible ghastly gruelling survival period, however long that will be.

Without Melody

Sometimes the need to sing rises so strong it is no wonder I did not know it was coming; it is the rise of continents, or the movement of stars.

The Hallmark, overly romantacised philosophies that wend through our daily lives as over-processed stock photos with heartfelt yet simplistic captions to do with life love happiness would chastise me for suppressing this urge.

This is not a Hallmark card, and no idealised quote will protect you from the world. Joy, be it carefully constructed or the beast the blindsides you, is precious, yes, and fragile. Indulge it where you will, but be aware that some environs nurture and others will wither it.

An Irish pub on a Monday night, the footy broadcast by Sky on three screens, low lights and glottal Glaswegian accents to my right. I'll keep the song in my ribs, not even let it near my throat. Hold it gentle but firm, like a bird, and, like a bird, it will calm, quiet, and stay with you.

Circles or Spirals

The last time I was unemployed I had moved back to Melbourne from Canberra after breaking up with my fiancée of five years, I had just finished an arts degree, was living with my parents and had only retail work experience to my name.  It took a year and half of applying for jobs and smiling at interviews before I finally landed a full-time position.

Being unemployed when you don't want to be is awful. Quite a number of the blog posts in the archives are dedicated to the subject of just how awful it is. Very awful. Extremely awful. Awful to the point of staying in that full-time job despite it also being awful because I never wanted to go through that again.

There's been oceans of water under the bridge since then. I've exercised pure financial independence, collected some mean skills to toss on my resumé and climbed the organisational ladder (mostly to find a less crap job). It's one thing to know you're a fantastic worker; quite another to have the track record to prove it.

We've been in Glasgow a month and a half with not so much as a sniff of possibility. I had assumed, not unreasonably I think, that this time around the job hunt would not be as demoralising or as hard. Look! This piece of paper shows how awesome I am! I have references and everything!

Not a bite. Nowhere. On nothing. I've widened my net and started applying for jobs well below my ability and still nothing. No response when applying for a data entry position? I don't even warrant that?

Demoralising. Internal erosion. Cracking security. Despair.

It is different this time though. We've paid several months of rent up front on this place, and have savings to keeps us going those months as well as take us to Iceland. I do have a platform of proven amazingness from which to launch myself from. There are two of us. He's picked up shifts at a pub and I'm doing freelance editing. My worry and despair keeps his optimism grounded, and his optimism keeps my despair in check.

I sleep around 12 hours out of 24, and I feel good. Whole and rested. Even when I have full control over how many hours I spend working on the computer my body gets cranky much swifter than I plan for. It aches and I fight on in frustration, pushing myself into a stupid cycle of forced down time.

These things make me look at my future and wonder how I am ever to fund the dreams I wish to pursue. If I do require that much sleep to be sane, how am I to work a full time job and do any sort of writing or have a social life at the same time? If computers are the devil to my arms, what work can I do? Not housekeeping, that was just as damaging, if not worse. Customer service positions would result in mental stress, and to be honest I'd prefer the physical pain and psychological strain of a desk job than the mental stress of a face-to-face job.

I'm awesome. Really. I'm the most disgustingly great employee ever. And I am a completely spent monkey.

But.
It's different now.
I do not know what dreams I have, let alone which I wish to pursue.
Perhaps here and now is enough.

You open the front door and find an empty syringe wrapper not a foot down the tenement hallway.

You sit on the couch and the rattle and hum of the corner store's metal shutters shuddering down is your soundtrack in this moment.

You pull your blanket around you, kiss feathers and sit a bird on your head, and get back to work.

And then there were 3.

You wake and there is one dead bird.

You wake. Every day. Without fail. The mattress a thin briar of coils and your pillow never quit right for your neck. No alarm wakes you. There is no pressing need for your wakefulness. You wake, and sometimes you stay awake. Sometimes you even get right out of bed, shower, dress, prepare yourself for the day as though the day might contain anything to prepare yourself for. That is not the norm, for more often than not you wake and, finding nothing has miraculously changed in your environment, you force yourself back to sleep.

So much sleep and yet never enough. You could blame the weather - Glasgow is hardly known for its bright and sunny disposition - or you could blame the stress of finding yourself once again unemployed and, despite your excellent track record and qualifications, seemingly unemployable. You could blame the belligerence of a city soundscape on your too sensitive introvert ears. You could blame a change in medication, even though there has been no change except for branding, but maybe, possibly, who knows.

You could blame higher powers, even though you believe in no such thing. That incident and that incident and that incident and that incident; this long run of significantly bad and usually pointless bad luck. You whisper in quiet moments, barely heard over a washing machine that devours the power so fast you can watch the credit on the meter tick down, that you're not supposed to be here, that Glasgow doesn't want you.

You could even blame yourself.

You don't want to be that cliché story of a deluded young couple running off to the big city and that big city being cruel, hard and chewing them up to spit them out broken and grey, but perhaps you no longer require any chewing to be broken.

You go to sleep, eventually.

You wake, inevitably.

Every day. Without fail. Opportunities and chances to change the tuning of your heart strings. Get out of bed even if there is nothing requiring you to. You know you won't get them but apply for those jobs because you would love to be wrong, please, be wrong. Go exploring because you will find the charm in the city even if the city will not charm you. You wake and even though it cost you dear you fight your little war inside and out. Because this too will change.

You wake up and there is still one bird, chirping and relentless.

Scams, Scrams and Heavy Sighs

Having done my time as a house elf, and done it well, I have left the bonny Highlands and now find myself in Glasgow, and the contrast is shocking. The noise, the movement, the intensity of life...

So I begin the great hunt for that rare prey known as 'employment'. A more demoralising quarry there is not, although I have had a little luck with freelance editing, more on that later. Most of my days have been spent trolling various employment sites, including Gumtree, at which I responded to an ad for article writers.

I received the following a few minutes ago:

From: Jack Kenton
Subject: Writing Work Ad
Date: 17 August 2012 1:39:03 PM GMT+01:00
To: -

Hi,

Thanks for replying to my ad for writing work. We provide reviews of film and TV shows to various websites to build up the content available on their sites and we're currently looking for more reviewers to join our team. For this position you will require a broadband Internet connection to watch movies as you will need to stream most of the films you watch over the Internet.

The reviews you will be writing will appear on blogs and websites and you will be credited as author. You should have good written english skills but it doesn't matter whether you use Americanised or British spellings of words (either "color" or "colour" would be fine, "movie" and "film" are both acceptable, etc.).

You will be emailed a list of about 100 potential assignments each week, with each specifying the film and if it is a 250 or 100 word review. You then choose which ones you think you can manage for that week, let us know which you've chosen and then hand them in to the specified deadline. If you find you want to do more than you originally thought you can always request to do more. Pay is £7.50 for a hundred word review and £20 for a 250 word review. You don't have to be exactly dead on the word target but are expected to be under by at most 10 words. You can go over by as many words as you wish. You'll find that the reviews don't take long at all to write and more of your time is generally taken up with actually watching the films themselves.

We will also pay you an allowance for a lovefilm account each month so you do not have to pay for the films you watch. You'll be paid this allowance via bank transfer at the start of each month in advance of having to pay for your month's subscription and your review earnings will be paid the monday after the review is received, if it is received on or before the friday. If you already have a lovefilm account we will not be able to pay an allowance.

Lovefilm give a free trial for your first 30 days so we will only pay your allowance from the 2nd month. You can choose either one of the following subscription options: "Instant" (£4.99 after the trial period ends) or "Have It All" (£9.99 a month after the trial period). We also need to track your signup so you will need to signup through the following tracking link: http://tinyurl.com/-------

We've had quite a few responses and we have quite limited positions so if you'd like to give it a go then please write a 100 word trial review of a film of your choice from the top ten in the "lovefilm favourites" category within your account. You should be able to access this within seconds of creating a trial account. You should save the review in a file and attach it to an email replying to this one. Please note that you won't be paid for this tester review. To simulate a real-life deadline you should email this through to me by 5pm on Sunday. If you can get it to me earlier than that then the earlier the better. Also, include a phone number I will be able to get hold of you on in your email and I will give you a call after Sunday to go through everything with you and to answer any questions you have.

I've attached some example reviews to this email so you can see the type of thing that other people have done and what we're looking for.

Thanks,

Jack

--------------------------------------------------------------------

This e-mail was sent by JC Communications, located at 780 - 790 Finchley Road, London, England NW11 7TJ (United Kingdom). To receive no further e-mails, please click here.

1. Googled "JC Communications" and there are far too many companies using this name.
2. Googled 780-790 Finchley Road, London and there are a surprising number of businesses listed against this address, none of them linked to "JC Communications" or Jack Kenton.
3. Jangomail is a free webmail service.
4. No information on specific sites where these reviews will be posted is given.
5. Tinyurl used for the tracker.
6. The 'samples' provided were...well...Fuck's sake, seriously.

Batman Forever

Wow. Just wow. And I thought Batman Begins was excellent. This... this piece of art... its PHENOMENAL!! From the scale, to the acting, the atmosphere, the music, the action, it's all art. I have not experienced this level of greatness in the cinema for a long time. This film is the darkest Batman, as well as one of the darkest, violent and gripping films, ever made.

In short, it's a masterpiece. One that will knock you out of your seat. It is the best Batman film ever, the best superhero film ever and the best film of 2008. Do yourselves a favour and see this piece of art. Repeated viewings highly recommended.


Frailty

Frailty is the story of a closely knit single-parent family that becomes divided when Dad wakes up his sons to tell them he's had a vision. In it, an angel has explained to him that he is a Demon-slayer; and given him a list of names with which to begin God's Work.

The youngest child is immediately overawed by his dad's new special purpose, and toddles off to help him out; the elder of the children is at first unsure, and then scared when he sees just how literally Dad is taking his vision; and then horrified when he finds himself expected to help.

The main problem for him is what - if anything - can he do about it? Thus begins the desperate test of a young boy in alerting the authorities to Dad's behaviour in the face of the ironic question regarding who might believe his story, over the respected word of his once community-friendly father.

Frailty is an excellent film that boasts an interestingly twisted plot, building up from an average film into a disturbing and interesting film, to one which catches you by completely by surprise at least twice right towards the end.

The acting is also good, notably so from the two boys playing the sons. I was very pleasantly surprised by this film and would recommend it.

Nobody pays for shit like that. Nobody. Especially not £7.50 for 100 words, that's fucking ridiculous. A dream, sure, and not how the world works. Also, those are shit. I mean, I know as a writerly type person I have unforgiving standards when it comes to any sort of written word, but there is no denying the shit and weak bollocks those 'reviews' are.

Initially I thought it was a scam to get people to sign up to lovefilm, but instead of being insidious marketing it's just some lamprey stealing bank account details. He advertises this writing job and bar work as well, confirmed by third party sources here;



-here;



- and here;



So hey, hopers, dreamers and hunters in the UK, don't give Jack Kenton your bank account details, okay?

5 June 2012

1989 - The massacre at Tiananmen Square, in Beijing, China.

1981 - The first reported cases of AIDS.

1973 onward - World Environment Day.

And lo! 2012 marks 31 years of Tessa On Earth. My Dad describes my arrival thusly:

7:40 am on this day you came to us all wrinkly and bossy and having said your piece you nodded off.

This is a pattern that hasn't been deviated from overly. For better or worse. Heh.

Due to inattention I didn't plan anything to mark this occasion, and so last minute ceremonials involved seeking wishes from other people to make on their behalf. These wishes were folded in paper, and two hours of my life spent constructing a pyramid of drift wood, quartz and seashells, along with some pilfered matches, saw these wishes turned to breath and then the wind horses took them and they have disappeared.

There is footage, but who knows when I will get time to tame it.

However, my fellow hospitality monkeys inflicted a wee cake upon me, with candles and fuego and everything!

And a Kinder Surprise! And a Ginger Joe and buuuuurggggeeeer. I am well spoilt by these people I have yet no right to expect such attention from. Dancing dancing dancing!

Looking back on what it was to be 30, I can summarise the year as being 'brilliant', apart from the hand stuff. So many amazing, fascinating and inspiring people have entered my life and chosen to stay in my life, even as I have taken off vagabonding about the other side of the world. If I have learned anything from this self-indulgent voyage, it is that home is not a location, it is scattered in little pieces around the world in the hearts of those I love, and who love me in return. There are a great many ribcages I call home, and all of them are wonderful and dazzling.

Looking at where I was this time last year, and what has changed since then, I can afford myself a pleased little shimmy. So many "one day" desires I have turned into "that was sublime" memories, many of which I was not in the process of actively pursuing. Scotland, it must be said, has been incredibly kind to me.

Hell, I wasn't even unhappy this time last year. Things were going very, very well.

I just learned that, well, even then, things can still get even better.

I'm almost afraid to ask anything more of myself for the coming year, as if I'm being greedy in all this conquering and questing and exploring and what-the-helling, but if I know me, and I'm afraid I do...

There is always more.

<3 you all

Don't make wishes; make memories.

Wylde Swan 7 Day Voyage Three-quarters of last month's pay, seven day working week, two days to prepare, I don't even know how it happened. The stars aligned. The planets aligned. The earthbones groaned and the flowers moaned and all the winds whispered in their sleeping ears and tilted their dreams 2 degrees toward my future, and oh, I don't believe in fate or the kindness of divine deities, but maybe chance and coincidence and the seasons and salted air have conspired a maelstrom of delight focusing here, in this coastal village, sails and snow and singing.

From on high

Some, when cresting a summit, will bellow their triumph to all laid out below them. I am not one of those people. To make noise is for me an act of disrespect, and no word in any human tongue can challenge the wind.

Ullapool, now Tessa Base Camp

If I walk to the end of the verandah, this is what I can see. In the foreground, beyond the frame of this glimpse, a flock of ducks scabbling lazily as they settle on the grass in the dying light.

The shore is stone. The loch is sea. Dried weeds amid the pebbles. On the steps to the footpath a shattering of mussel and scallop shells, derelict barnacles and crushed mother-of-pearl.

A raised voice echoing around a corner. Such fury and vehemence. Don't you dare. Get back here.

To my left, an empty carpark. Two horses in coats, clopping in tandem across that space between buildings. Whingeing whinny and snort.

For a moment, I believe the supermarket not to stock bananas. For a moment.

There is no wind down by the water. The air is cold, too cold busy itself. The silence surrounding me as I stand in the daffodils is dense with space.

I find my thoughts tripping over small occasions upon which people have found fault with me. Slights and rejections that I have perceived. Looking at photos, I remember an impatient sigh that that pricked my quilt. They walked ahead and never looked back. None of these are insults or intended to offend. None of them. I did not need to bruise. But I chose to, and have, and when I run fingertips across these memories, those bruises quiver in their sleep.

There are memories here too, to shore up these failing walls.

But it is cold. There is no conviction.

Attempting to Settle With Fibromyalgia

There is only one bus for Ullapool on Sundays. Tonight I will sleep in a bed that will be my bed for at least a couple of months to come. On Wednesday I will no longer be Master of My Own Fate, I will be employed, with a boss, with tasks and responsibilities and my time will no longer be my own.

This will probably be good for me, but I have to admit the notion leaves me somewhat disgruntled.

Coincidentally, I'm coming up on the last of my medication. I was given a slab of Pristiq before I left, enough to last me through the uncertainties of travel in various countries in the EU, also enough that would see me having been on a stable dosage for in excess of six months. It doesn't pay to tweak dosage and medication too much, and my psychologist was quite adamant that before attempting to lower my dosage I should sit pretty for at least six months.

Pristiq, or Desvenlafaxine, is not available in the UK.

The doctor I saw in the Bank Medi Centre did a fair amount of checking her references, and qave me a prescription for Effexor, or Venlafaxine. She was thorough in calculating comparative doses. The prescription given will be a slight reduction, but less than dropping from 150mq to 100mq of Pristiq.

This will be a direct chop and change. As soon as the Pristiq is done I will commence the Effexor. Much as this sounds dubious, I did the same when switching from Cymbalta to Pristiq, and on the recommendation and assurance of both my GP and psychologist, with no notable side-effects to speak of. Apart from space-cadetness. Vague I can deal with, however. Amplified depression, not so much.

I am still shit fucking scared.

The Fibromyalgia Support Group in Inverness has not responded to my email, and further searching has not indicated any particular doctors with an understanding of fibromyalgia in the area. In this case, I figure I'll save myself the travel and register at the medical clinic in Ullapool. There's only one. There are a few practicing doctors there, so even if none of them have any experience with fibromyalgia there must surely be at least one I feel comfortable talking to.

This lead to me attempting to research how one goes about joining the NHS. Should anyone else happen to follow in my footsteps, I have some very simple advice: don't.

The websites, which I am not goinq to link to because they are all confusing and lacking in anything that looks like administrative process, have nothing, naaaasink, on how to go about joining, or information for expats. A friend who had already navigated this told me to simply make an appointment and register with a doctor, and it will sort itself out there. Cool? Cool.






And while rummaging around online learning all this I read about my medications all over again, and about fibromyalgia all over again, and the words THERE IS NO CURE have lodged in my throat, all the descriptions of pain, fatigue, depression, aches, all the limits and restrictions, the unending unceasing reality of it, I remembered these things all over again.

I start work on Wednesday. There is a frightening amount of hope pinned upon this menial job.

Upside-Down

Upside-Down, a photo by sirtessa on Flickr.

I don't think anyone or anything looks dignified when having a good thorough scratch.

Oh, Internet.

I had to double check that kangaroos weren't poisonous (don't ask) and found the following;

The tiger lily faces me, and I it. Petals arched back, flush and luscious, stamen a demure puckered kiss on a ballgown of violent, furious, unapologetic red. Undefined cloud slides a hand across the sun's face, and the flower glows.

I am reading. I am concentrating. This is a focus so long unworn. Remembrances that are not memories stir somewhere deeper than the heart.

I want to make.

GLEEVOMIT! JOYGASM! YAYSNEEZE!

NO ONE TOLD ME THERE WAS A NEW COMIC SERIES OUT, OR THAT IT HAD BEEN OUT LONG ENOUGH FOR THE FIRST COLLECTED EDITION TO BE RELEASED.

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

It is a reboot of the original series, and I have to say, it is ace. The origins of the turtles and Splinter has knit together several antagonists from various, shall we call them, parallel universes that the many many licensed franchises the turtles have evolved in over the years. A good blend of both the original Mirage comic and the 80s cartoon, even featuring "General Krang". Curious to see if Krang remains a gooby brain (I never did like the story arc given to the gooby brain Krang/Shredder character in the new TMNT cartoon series). Art work by Dan Duncan is gorgeous, once again blending the multitude of styles in which the turtles have been depicted in the past. A good balance for the kids new to turtledom, and the kids grew up but never let it go.

NEED NEXT COLLECTION. NOW.

(Funnily enough, I was only this week missing my TMNT comics and DVDs. We all have our comfort stories. Thank you, universe. Don't think I don't appreciate it.)

Pigtails: +10 Cuteness

This is the longest my hair has been since I chopped it all off.
What the hell do you do with all this stuff? I just gets in the way all the time, and I actually need to use conditioner now. An extra product! That's not low maintenance!





(Actually, I'm just scared of going to an unknown hairdresser. Only used the one back home, she knew what to do. Me, I have no idea what she did, so don't know what to ask for.)

Ed, En, BRAAAAH of Rooftops

Just one of the many closes that form the ribs from the spine of the Royal Mile.

In New York it was water tanks. In the UK, it's chimneys. Seriously. WTF.


And Edinburgh is just such a bloody pretty town, yet so full of winds and trees and twists it is near impossible to photograph.


How is it possible to be both orderly and ramshackle at the same time?


The monument to Sir Walter Scott, for contributions to Scottish literature, a revival of Scottish culture and raising interest and passion in Scotch identity.
A monument to a writer.
A writer.