Words.

16 06 2009

I want to write again. I want to be creative. I wish I had something to say, something worthy to put down and show off to the rest of the world.

We all have thoughts, millions of them and I’ve been able to contain them to myself but I’m searching now. For something more, to reach out to someone, even if it’s just an empty page.

I have nowhere to go and no guidance right now. I feel ready for change, and I have all the free time in the world to do that. So am I going to step up? Am I going to take the challenge? I want to …. experience. I don’t want to let my youth vanish down the drain.

I will live, but I have to give myself the chance to live.

Words, words everywhere. Are they meaningless? Can they ever be meaningless? I want to say something. Not just profound, but real. Tangible. I want you to relate to me, to cry with me, to hold me close even though we’ve never seen each other.

Can I do that? Can my words do that? Can I touch someone a thousand kilometres away just through letters that have been embedded on a virtual page?

I have an empty hole that is wide in my heart. It was full once, I think. And then I just distracted myself enough so I didn’t notice it again. Until now. Life is meaningless, such a statement no longer depresses me but I want these fleeting moments to have meaning.

Every day, I long to dance out in public, to twirl with the wind, to run, to hop, to jump and express myself.

Expression. An everlasting pursuit.

I will go there.





What is a woman?

3 11 2008

What is a woman? This is a question without a definite answer, and nor should there be one. Yet throughout the centuries, people have tried to present their interpretations of “woman” as the absolute truth. This, to me, is the crux of the issue in relation to Simone de Beavouir’s statement that “one is not born, but rather becomes, a woman”. Our personal identity is inextricably linked to gender. We are, as human beings, defined by it even if we don’t wish to be. When a woman speaks out, she is speaking from a female perspective. When she is asked to speak as a part of a panel discussion, it is usually to converse on women-related issues.

Much of a woman is defined by her looks. The standards that set up these looks differ over time, although one thing seems to be constant. The beauty ideal is whatever is most unattainable and unhealthy to achieve. Body modification has been played out over and over again throughout the centuries, but it has never been taken to such extremes as it is now. The premise of doing something to please yourself and to please others has been conflated, with the latter overtaking the former in so much as the only to please oneself is to please others. This type of thinking begins in childhood when pleasing your parents is seen as the ultimate meausure of a good daughter or son. It is more highly prized in boys, though, as it is seen in their nature to be disobedient. It is expected in girls, and is thus frowned upon deeply when such an expectation is not met.

Why is a woman not born then? It is because, in my experience at least, that the only thing that identifies a woman at birth as female is her chromosomes. From the moment she enters the world her condition begins, starting with how the midwives treat her differently from the way they would treat a male baby. Where does that leave women who feel trapped in a man’s body and vice versa? It is this type of treatment that exacerbates such issues, as many trans-gendered people feel that they cannot be accepted in such a body when they have such different attitudes than the ones prescribed to it. This is only half the issue, though, and the relevance of the physical aspect should not be overlooked. A female’s place in the world is defined by the place that is given to her. She is submissive in this instance – it is a role that is handed to her and not to be taken. If she attempts to cultivate her own identity then she is too radical to be taken seriously. As de Bevouir asserts, the path a woman chooses to make her own way through the world is by far from an easy one, and not always rewarding. The luxuries presented in submitting can make it an even harder choice to cultivate one’s own self worth when it appears to be an impossible task.

My own life is rich with examples of family and cultural pressures regarding gender. In many instances it is an attempt to be moulded into the socially acceptable standard of “womanhood”. As a child, the differences in treatment between my brother and myself exemplified the attempts to raise children according to their sex. As a girl, I was subjected to routines that would enable me to become a “proper” woman, such as learning how to cook , clean and serve guests with a smile. My brother’s behaviour, however, was constructed through free play and disobedience. His chores, if any, were stereotypical manual labour, such as bringing the garbage bins in. When questioning my parents on why I had to serve cake not only at my birthday but his as well, I was routinely informed that it was a task that “boys just didn’t do”. This kind of thinking imbedded in certain cultures finds an insidious way of staying alive through socially accepted norms of treating the different sexes.The aim of such child rearing, of course, was to ensure that I too would go on to do the same with my own child. However, this is where the method failed. While I was raised in a repressive household, the outside world offered much more fruitful opportunities for learning and experience. This contrast between the two only highlighted what I was being deprived off at home and what I could really be capable of. Thus, their attempts to make me a woman succeeded, I just didn’t turn into the type of woman that they wanted.

What is a woman? It is the question I asked myself upon first encountering this topic, and the only certain conclusion that I have arrived at is that it is usually others who are telling a woman what she is, not the woman herself. It is somewhat ironic then when in creating her personal identity, a truth is exposed that it is hardly personal at all. In many ways, we are a blank slate when we are born. It is upon entering the world that we are bombarded by the social constructs that create the society that we live in. It is these constructs that shape our perception of everything, including gender. It is hard to identify these examples when in doing so we make generalisations about the status of men and the plight of women everywhere. This is only an attempt to understand what a woman is through my own experiences and understandings of the world. They are far from universally true, but they still apply in many cases. It is too hard to sum up the cumulative effect that being a woman has in society today as it is constantly changing and yet, at least by theorising we are giving a language to ideas that had none. We are challenging what is perceived as normal in order to engage in a more fruitful discussion of womanhood, and that is what is most important.





1 09 2008

I feel like I’ve moved on and I’m okay with that and I hate that. I especially hate the term “moved on”. I wish there was another way to describe it, but I don’t think there is.

It’s not like I’ve forgotten or that I don’t think of her every single day or don’t get hit by sudden bouts of sadness or swallowed by the loneliness when I’m lying in the dark and I can’t hear her downstairs. It’s not like I don’t cry anymore or get irrationally emotional when the topic of mothers or cancer comes up. I still do, to all of those the things.

But the unbearable sadness that weighed on my shoulders, consuming my every moment no longer lingers. Nor the deadening numbness that enveloped me for the past year, that drained me of every desire and motivation for life.

Does that sound extreme? It shouldn’t, because that’s what I lived through for a year and a half. But it doesn’t anymore and a part of me misses that. Because in all that misery and sorrow there was a connection to her that I felt so keenly.

I can still remember her laugh, it was so Marge Simpsonesque, and annoyed me far too often. I still think about her made up songs that she’d clap along too while pottering around downstairs. I do that now and then stop halfway when I realise that. She had the worst taste in television shows; content she was with Everybody Loves Raymond and Catch Phrase. Seriously uncool mum shows.

I don’t know why I need to tell you this stuff. I need to remember so I’m telling you so if I forget then you can remind me. I don’t want to forget. I can’t. If I forget who’s to say she ever existed? We have to breathe life into her memory again.

She always wore long skirts or short pants. Whenever she sat down her pants would ride up well past her ankle but then again she did have such long legs for a short woman. We cleaned out her closet a few weeks ago. I couldn’t do it at first. Couldn’t bear the idea of letting go yet another piece of her past. Every single item seemed to have meaning and at the same time be so meaningless. It was nothing and it was everything. It was all that I had left of her.

I’m trying to remember the good times, you see. Because for too long I was haunted by bad memories and if I lock her out for much longer I’ll forget everything and all that’ll be left is a few photographs and me.

We have a home video of her 50th birthday. I gave an impromptu speech after she cut the cake and we both started crying halfway through it. We were filled with fearful hope back then. She’d had her surgery and her hair was growing back, no one thought it was going to end this way.

She was so strong when I was weak. She was so beautiful in every way. But you can’t see that. You’ll never know. And that’s the biggest loss. No one else will ever be touched by her, by her spirit. All she’ll be now is nostalgic stories and sound bites.

I’d give anything to hear her laugh again. But now all there is is silence. And I guess that’ll have to do.





Culture spawn.

15 08 2008

A (somewhat) irrational fear that I have is that marrying outside of my culture will lead to an erosion of my culture both for myself and any kidlings I may spawn. While I was been born and raised in Australia, I also consider myself Sri Lankan, even though I don’t speak any relevant languages and have never lived there. I have, however, travelled back there extensively and I feel like I “belong” (as much as someone who is stuck on a bridge between two worlds can) in Sri Lanka as I do here. Obviously, it plays less of a part in my life than it did for my parents who only immigrated to Australia in their late 20’s. And I can only imagine that they envisioned I would turn out to be a less Westernised version of my current self.

Putting aside the negative aspects of Sri Lankan culture that have played a great part in my upbringing, I’ve always considered it an important feature of my identity and something that I look upon in a generally positive light. But there is no doubt that I am less immersed in that culture than my parents before me. How could I not be? While my immediate environment is a mix of both Eastern and Western influences, my external environment is anything but Sri Lankan. I don’t think of this as a bad thing, but rather that it has allowed me to access two separate places in ways other people never can. What I am trying to say in a very roundabout way is that culture is important to me. And if I ever get around to breeding, I would like for my culture to have a somewhat integral role in their lives too.

I want them to appreciate the traditions and values of their history and still feel a part of the Sri Lankan community, albeit in Australia. That’s not to say that they can’t do any of this even if I don’t marry someone of mine own race, but just as I know less about that world than my parents do, so too will they and so then will their own children.

One of the bigger regrets I have in my life is that I never learnt Sinhalese or Tamil. Since my parents almost always spoke English at home I never had the opportunity. I don’t want my children to think of Sri Lanka as a foreign country but rather, their second home as I do.

As the world increasingly turns a darker shade of white, I’m sure there are many other families that struggle with this same problem. After spending a childhood rejecting my “brownness” and then finally accepting and embracing that part of me, I would hate for it to all get eroded away. Ultimately, all I can hope for is that my children – whatever colour they turn out to be – will eventually show the same interest and curiosity about their heritage as I did and appreciate its relevance in their lives.





And on a more personal note…

31 07 2008

A positive thing that I have taken from the fashion industry, whether it was their intention or not, is that plain people can look good. It seems to me that these women would not be noticable if it wasn’t for the clothes that adorn their bodies. And yet still, they look fantastic, or at the very least striking. The message I get, then, is, “Hey, are you a plain girl? You too can garner attention when walking down the street! All you have to do is wear funky clothes.” I’m going to be honest – I don’t feel like anything when I’m dressed in casual clothes. I don’t feel pretty, or special, or interesting. I just feel plain. So if wearing something a little bit different helps me feel better about myself, is that such a bad thing?

My experience, however, is by no means universal. Maybe I suffer less because my own body type mimics that of a model (and I don’t mean that in a positive way). For many, the industry only serves as a reminder that they can never be that skinny, and they can never be that tall. It’s these kind of thoughts that can eat away at the strongest woman’s self-esteem. There is no doubt that the burden placed on men to live up to an unrealistic ideal is equally as malicious. However, there is only so long I can ramble for. But I digress. The pendulum has been swinging back the other way in more recent times. While the women (or usually girls) that are plastered across advertising billboards are just as thin and airbrushed as ever, there’s a growing backlash. Many are on a pursuit to define the “real” woman. And the real woman just so happens to be the very opposite of the fashion industry’s ideal. There is just one problem with this: there is no real woman. There is no one definition. There are just women. And whether they’re fat, or skinny, or curvy, or flat, they don’t deserve to feel like less of a woman because of something they seemingly lack. Dove’s Real Beauty campaign is commendable for its attempt to portray a more realistic array of body types. At the end of the day, though, they are trying to sell a product. A product that many wouldn’t use if they didn’t feel that they had to improve themselves.

Am I a woman? Am I worthy of such a title? I don’t have curves, and I don’t have much in the way of breasts. And it seems like every day I am reminded that these are the markers of womanhood. So what am I then? Just a girl? I’m the ideal body type for modelling because I have the body of a 14-year-old girl. And so when the majority of women desire to look like a 14-year-old girl, there is something fundamentally fucked up about our society. And I don’t know how the hell to change it.





A blog you can’t sing along to.

22 07 2008

I’m not Joss Whedon. Nor in my wildest dreams could I hope to write as well as he does, create such fleshed out characters or plot out some fantastical stories. But I am an avid viewer of his work. And having just finished watching his latest piece Dr.Horrible’s Sing-Along-Blog it has gotten me thinking about, well, stuff.

Whedon is a creative genius but he is by no means a god. And while I’ve always been in awe of him, I’ve found my faith…well, a little flagging of late. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy Dr.Horrible, I did. It was funny, cringe-worthy, campy and had all the right things one would imagine when you combine Joss and a musical. The ending, however, throws up a lot of confusing questions for me.

You may think the first one is: Why did Joss kill Penny? But no, it’s: Why did he need to?

All of Joss’s work that I’ve watched and read has always had a main character die. And always in tragic circumstances. This of course is to be expected because we are dealing with fantasy here. It wouldn’t make for much of an interesting story if Buffy’s grandma died of old age now would it? And before the death of Penny I’ve always understood WHY. There was always some purpose, be it in the story or a character arc that required such an event. It’s my feeling that Dr.Horrible did not.

Now you’re probably thinking why would I be shocked considering i’ve seen him do it over and over again? Well, for one thing the tone of this was completely different to any of his other work. It was much more light-hearted and death doesn’t seem to fall under the “light-hearted” category. Penny died and Dr.Horrible got everything he’d always wanted only to figure out that it meant nothing if he didn’t have what he needed. Great message, I approve, but did he have to resort to her death to accomplish this?

It seems like Joss relies on these “life-changing” moments to, well, change the lives of his characters. But the thing is, he doesn’t have to. Falling back on this method only leaves older viewers wondering if Joss can ever leave a story where the characters aren’t broken, and alienating newer viewers to his ‘verse.

It used to be said that Joss gave the viewer what they need not what they want. More and more it seems like he doesn’t know what we deserve.





When did you first realise your parents were human?

24 05 2008

(via Mefi, via Ze Frank)

The first time I realized my mother was human was when she looked up at me from the hospital bed, and handed me the necklace she had worn since she had existed to me. She was so fragile and wasted away, her eyes so large in her drawn face. Her hair had grown back a little by now, soft tufts that I stroked most nights to help her get to sleep. She was so small then. She had always been small but I only noticed how tiny she was when she was engulfed by the hospital gown, alone in a sea of starched white cloth. The chain was gold which she had had made to wear the brooch part of her thali. The thali is like the rings exchanged at weddings but much more elaborate and worn only around the neck of the wife. She couldn’t wear it anymore, it hung too heavy for her, the pressure irritating her while she tried to get some sleep. She had tried to read her prayer books earlier but she couldn’t see the words properly anymore, so I knew she was frustrated. The brooch of hers had two sides to it, on one was carved the physical representation of the Holy Spirit. On the other side, a Hindu god that I never knew the name of.  Still, I was shocked. She was parting with something so intimate. Her hands were so small in mine as she handed them over, and so cold. Almost as cold as they felt when I held them after she had passed away. There were also nine religious medallions, mainly with depictions of Mary or St Anthony. They had been sent to her by her mother. Her mother who now sat on the other side of the bed, quiet for once. Some had rusted through the passage of time, others just as shiny as they had been the first time they were presented to her. Her fingernails had stopped growing because of the chemotherapy and were tinted blue. She was resting on her side, knees drawn up for warmth. I wish I had knelt down then and hugged her and never let go. Let my tears spill with hers as her vitality began to slip away. I wanted her to stroke my hair, not the other way around. I wanted to be the baby again. I didn’t want to see her question the faith she had clung to so strongly her entire life. But instead, I watched in silence as my mother became a woman with dashed hopes and failing convictions. A woman who needed help just as much as the rest of us. I wear that chain around my neck now, my memory of her pressed close to my heart. There are only four medallions left, others lost due to carelessness and the wild sweep of the sea. I always wondered how she never lost any. But then, her faith has always been much stronger than mine.





The Pornification of Youth

30 04 2008

MetaFilter tends to give me a lot of fodder for conversation, particularly of the ranting nature. Of late, one thread that piqued my interest was the waxing for 8 year old’s vulva post. I’m not going to pretend I’m shocked, because I’m not, there are few things regarding the uber-sexualisation of girls that shock me anymore. My last post on this topic was greeted with a mixed response. One person even accused me of being a prude, which I find kind of surprising to say the least. In any case, reading topics like this make me even less enthusiastic of raising a child – particularly a girl – in this kind of world. I understand that this is a subset of a subset, the elite white class of America, but that’s where it starts. It doesn’t take long for the effect to trickle down to us “lower beings”. Otherwise I wouldn’t be seeing five year old’s everywhere in fuck-me boots (I shudder to write that). The simple fact is, that my generation, raised in this instant gratification, over commercialised world won’t find anything wrong with that. And that’s what scary, they won’t blink an eye at buying our kids fake tans or giving them stripper poles for Christmas because it will be the norm. We’re so saturated by this kind of sexualisation in our culture that we’re going blind from it. It’s only the big things (like children getting pubic waxes) that even raise our eyebrows anymore. If being against turning children into wank bank fodder at the age of 12 makes me a prude, then so be it.

You can see it in the latest controversy of Miley Cyrus and her “artistic” nude shot. The fact that there’s any controversy at all is the most notable thing. There shouldn’t have been any controversy because it shouldn’t have happened in the first place. That there are people who are defending it because “you can’t even see anything” totally misses the point. It’s not the fact that you can’t see her breasts that makes it okay, it’s wrong because it places a child as the object of sexual desire. A girl covered in nothing but a single sheet, what else is it supposed to imply? What’s more worrying is that the girl in question didn’t see anything wrong with it herself. When we can’t see ourselves being exploited  then what hope do we have in stopping the perpetrators of such? Just because the photographer was female doesn’t make it okay and it doesn’t make it any less problematic. In fact, it makes it even more so. When women themselves are condoning this kind of thing, then we haven’t progressed anywhere but backwards.

It probably sounds like I’m in the “Oh, won’t someone think of the children” mode, and maybe I am, but it’s time we took responsibility for what society has caused. Feminism didn’t create this, feminism is just an easy scape goat for right-wingers that want to prove that women are supposed to stay in the kitchen so they don’t get “corrupted”. Feminism was – is – trying to teach us that your value does not come from your appearance. But getting your kit off garners so much attention and fame so easily that no one wants to listen. Is it too late? Are we already well on our way to a Transmetropolitan-like world, where no one bats an eyelid over the erosion of childhood? I’d like to hope not. And I’ll take outrage over blind acceptance any day, thanks. 





Loss and other stuff.

30 03 2008

You wake up and you feel like you’ve never been asleep. I lost someone recently, who, while we weren’t all that close, had quite a bit impact on a section in my life. Losing her, at an age so young, in a tragedy that bewilders even cynics, turned my numb heart even more cold. She was one of the most vivacious people I knew, ask anyone and they’ll tell you the same. Selfishly, though, some of my grief hasn’t been about her but the emotions her loss evoked. It has been over a year now since my mother passed away and while it is a given that some of that stinging loss has ebbed away, a numb complacency has taken over instead. With the exception of a few posts and some late night conversations with Nathan, I never spoke about her or what I went through. I’m feeling it now, though, it’s gripping my heart somewhat. Twisting it at uncertain times so I’m gripped by that wave of longing. I’m not really sure what is to be done about that. Talking about it doesn’t bring her back and life has well and truly moved on. There is anger at that. A lot of anger at the way people have continued with their daily lives, but from the outside it looks like I’ve done the same. I’m more scared and uncertain about the future, though. I’m turning twenty in a month and I feel like the guidance I used to have is fading.

Last week was the first time I ever attended a doctor’s appointment alone and I was about to burst into tears. For so long I have been dependant on others that now, even though I want that independence, it scares me beyond belief. I’m so afraid of fucking up that I can’t even put that first toe in the water. Accepting this new way of life means forgetting my childhood. It means that I have no excuse to be a coward anymore. I’m not religious in any form and yet these words have popped into my mind: Give me a purpose, Lord, and I will be your servant. I think I know what I want from life but I’m too afraid to go out and get it. It means facing my demons (in reality and in my mind) and it means taking a leap without a safety net. I’ve been waiting for the right time and now I realise that there is no right time, there’s only now. And if I just keep on passing on it, I’ll end up waiting the rest of my life for my life to begin. Why? Why can’t I do anything about it? Why can’t I just stay focused and work towards my goals? Because if I did that it’d mean shattering the image my family have of me. And I’m worried that the “real” me won’t be accepted. I don’t know where all this is coming from, it’s been swirling around in my head for weeks now and it has been tearing me in all different directions. My mother made the waiting worth it, but now that she’s not here I’m only waiting because I don’t know what else to do.

I can’t take back anything that has happened. I can’t change what I did or didn’t do. I am what I am. But right now all that I feel is that I am nothing. Give me a purpose, Lord, and I will be your servant.





Joss Whedon’s ‘Dollhouse’

2 11 2007

Link to details about Joss’s new show

I must say, when I first heard the news yesterday afternoon, my heart skipped a beat or two. I screamed out loud – which isn’t unusual when it’s a matter relating to my fangirlishness loves – but that adrenaline has lasted early into this morning. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that this was totally out of the blue, I don’t think any of us were expecting a Joss-driven t.v series for a very long time. After all, he was already tied up with comics (Buffy, X-Men), directing one-off’s (The Office), had a movie in the works (Goners), not to mention a myriad of other ideas beginning to take shape (Angel S6 in comic form, short movie with Summer Glau, the Ripper spin-off on BBC and rumors floating around regarding Serenity 2). So, with all that to look forward to over the next few years, another t.v. show was the last thing on my mind. Just the previous day I had watched an interview with Joss where I chastised the interviewer for asking if he was coming back to television – wasn’t she up to date with anything Joss was up to? My bad. My BIG bad. And I’ve never been more happy to be wrong.

The reaction from the internets has been pretty explosive. I don’t know if it’s the circles I’m in (and I don’t think it’s just that) but there’s been somewhat of a frenzy over this news, in places I wouldn’t usually expect (MeFi, AICN). That can always leave you with the naïve belief that something is going to be more successful than it turns out to be (like anyone can forget Serenity’s viral marketing). I’m in love, though. Of course I am. I’ve never not loved anything by Joss, never not bonded with the characters in any of his shows, never not cried and laughed and been infuriated by the plot turns and twists. But still, already, a few doubts have begun to creep in. Namely two:

1. FOX
2. Aaron Sorkin

We’ll deal with FOX (I just like capitialising (and putting lots of things in brackets, it seems)), later. Why Aaron Sorkin, you ask? Well, he and Joss have some similarities. They’re both the brains behind some frakking awesome t.v. and they have a rabid fanbase to show for it. Sorkin’s latest show, though – Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, was somewhat of a failure. And I can’t really explain why. There was nothing particularly wrong with it, it had a strong ensemble cast, interesting premise, sturdy writing and still…it was missing something. Sorkin used Bradley Whitford (from The West Wing) as one of his leads in Studio 60 and Joss seems to be following the same thing, by bringing Eliza Dushku from BtVS into the spotlight. So, will it work? I have no idea. I don’t want to not trust Joss since he has never let me down, but then neither had Sorkin. I think it’s an interesting conundrum to ponder. Both men have a built-in fanbase yet that very same fanbase can have a hard time transitioning to a new storyline that is somewhat different to what they’re used to. And us Joss fans have had our hearts broken a few too many times before…

Which brings us to FOX. That had me scratching my chin initially, but the reasons behind it airing on FOX are clear. The concept behind the show itself was one drummed up by both Joss and Dushku, Dushku has a contract with FOX, so if Joss wanted to work with her…well, there really wasn’t any other option. That said, I can’t help feeling like it’s going back to a spouse who has done the dirty on you. Repeatedly. To both parties involved (see: Firefly, Tru Calling). But here’s hoping that FOX has learnt from their mistakes. Getting a seven episode guarantee over just a pilot is definitely a step in the right direction and I’m not jaded enough to write it all off. I have faith (pun unintended!) in Joss. It comes with the territory.

The premise of the show itself sounds interesting if not exactly scintillating. I have no idea where it will lead. But then, the premise for Buffy was hardly convincing either. It will definitely be one to keep your eye on, punters and non-punters alike. For now, though, I’ll eagerly feast on any new updates regarding the show and unashamedly pimp my Facebook group about it.

Happy Whedoning!