Weeping Willow - Poetry

Weeping Willow

Weeping Willow

Beneath the weeping willows veil,

Where the wind blew and the swans set sail, 

I stood close and felt your breath,

Like something sweet that threatened death.

The day was warm, the air was slow,

The lake whispered soft below,

And every branch that swayed above, 

Seemed tangled in my thoughts and needed a shove.

Your eyes held mine without a word,

The loudest silence I have ever heard,

While fingertips brushed fleetingly,

A spark, a dare, at least for me. 

Wanting to pull you near,

To taste the things that we could not hear,

To let the willow hide our sin,

While my darting eyes explored your skin.

The silver leaves danced overhead, 

As wild thoughts circled in my head, 

So if there's ever such a place, 

Where longing can finally leave a trace,

Where the the leaves weep for something true,

Back to that willow, with you.

It bent as though it understood,

The hunger hidden beneath the good, 

A keeper of unfinished things,

Of stolen breaths and tangled wings.

The willow wept like it once knew,

What aching hearts are destined to do. 

 

Time

 

Time

Time: The continuous, irreversible progression of existence, moving from past, through present, to future.

Duration: The measured period during which an action or condition exists.

Dimension: A fourth dimension, combined with spatial dimensions, in the space-time continuum.

Measurement: A system for organising events in sequence.

Psychological: The subjective experience of time passing, which can speed up or slow down based on cognitive perception. 

Many years ago I wrote a piece entitled "Time Credit: Spending time in an interest bearing account".

I simplified the concept of time into categories of different types of 'spenders' and what it meant about their individual psychology and priorities. Although theoretically practical, summarising time into such a basic concept was a disservice to the ultimacy and importance of time, the most valuable asset that we have. 

Philosophical speaker Alan Watts once argued that time is a social illusion, emphasising that only the present moment exists, and continued to famously state that we live in a culture "hypnotised by the illusion of time, missing reality by focusing entirely on memory or expectation." Watts pushed a narrative that urged living in the "eternal present" rather than wasting energy on the future. 

This concept is eutopic but flawed. On the one hand Watts preaches and perpetuates that a real, creative life only really happens when you stop rushing and worrying and move with the eternal present, but on the other hand Watts states that we are never actually experiencing anything other than the present and that time is a social institution used for measurement, not a physical reality. 

I have always been fascinated with time - it's speed, its finality, it's biological prowess and most of all, its functional mystery. There is nothing more powerful than the concept and enigma of time (illusion or not). People fear it, devour it, waste it but more often than not, never question it. Societal pressures, expectations and perceived milestones outweigh the value of time to a checklist of "expected achievements before we die," which leads me to my next reference from theologian William Penn 

"Time is what we want most but we use worst."

Seems obvious, doesn't it? Let's take a step back to societal pressures and expectations. 

• Birth
• Education
• Career
• Mortgage
• Marriage 
• Children
• Retirement
• Maybe grandchildren
• Death

In this case, time is deeply misconstrued as societal conformism. 

Reflecting on Penns quote, he refers to choices rather than time itself. The current global statistic of diagnosed recorded depression is sitting at an estimated  at 5.7% of adults. When including entire populations, one in 21 people experience high levels of emotional distress, with depression being especially prominent in 18-40 year olds. Studies from The University of Melbourne state that the impact of expectations and cultural societal pressure are largely to blame. So, I can safely assume that the "check list" and its requirements may be a contributing factor in how time is poorly used, at least for some people. 

"They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself" is a quote famously penned by artist Andy Warhol. 

It seems like a very elementary point of view, but, is it?

What if time was spent singularly living based off of instinct, want and need rather than adhering to a script based on the assumption that life is a one-size fits all pressure cooker of achievements. What if time was experiential rather than didactic? To quote my birthday twin JFK "conformity is the jailer or freedom and the enemy of growth."  and one of my favourite authors JRR Tolkien "not all who wander are lost".

Could it be that the answer to modern day sufferance and time 'wasting' is simply to welcome a free society that cherishes nonconformity as opposed to uniformity? Encouraging people to live on their own terms, in the present that could be pleasurable and meaningful, as opposed to under sufferance for perceived reward? Remove the benchmarks and everything changes. 

Time: the past, present and future. A tool to learn, live and evolve - to change. A ticking clock that could run out of battery at any moment. But, how do we make that clock kinetic - how do we stop time?

No, we're not going to fall into a black hole. 

Between luck, fate and biology, we can only manipulate time to a certain degree, but, we can still manipulate it to work on our terms. 

The advantage of having a past, reflecting on memories and referencing different periods of our world is that we give ourselves the ability to fully embody the present in peelable layers in order to anticipate a future that is a direct result of the way that we choose to spend our "now."

A good reference point is in Buddhism, time is not an absolute, linear or external reality, but a relative mental construct dependent on causes, conditions and perception.  Meaning that past, present and future are all combined to create an active, present moment as opposed to linguistic differences of before and after. 

In simple terms, the past is now, the present is now, and the future is now. Slightly differing from the Watts mentality that time is wasted focusing on the past or future - in this case, all elements are equally as valuable; and whilst placing equal value on all of these moments, we are effectively deconstructing the illusion of time by not defining what qualifies as "right now."

Therefore time doesn't move forward or backwards - it stands still. And if you really think about it, this theory is the most malleable to life as we know it. As humans, we are nostalgic for the past, we take the present for granted and we are either excited or fearful of the future. What if we changed that though? What if we looked at all three as though they were today: 

• So we can feel the joy and pain of yesterday.
• So that we can be present today and not dreaming of tomorrow.
• So that we can see ahead whilst simultaneously living in the now.

They all feed off of each other; blurring lines of differentiation. This is how we live a full human experience without feeling time, embracing change.

Now the boring part: 

Time goes hand in hand with biology, as much as we try to run from it - we do age, it's unescapable. But how do we slow down the wrath that time takes on our bodies? This is probably the easiest to execute and will work directly in correlation with the mental health required to reassess life and time as a whole.

We bounce back to nonconformism. It is possible to metaphorically age backwards. It means embracing a lifestyle that may not be the  most common or understood. 

• Stop poisoning our bodies. It sounds dramatic, but alcohol is poison, cigarettes are poison, vapes are poison, drugs (legal or not) are also poison. The kindest thing we can do is support our engines, because once it starts having problems it's very hard to move backwards. Living in a world where poor lifestyle habits are normalised isn't only putting a timer on our biological clocks, but also stopping us from experiencing life in a real, fully immersive way. 
• Exercise. In a day and age that encourages being sedentary, be it at a seated office job, or the distractions of never ending screen time entertainment -  we need to be the exceptions. Move - nothing revives youth more than movement. Walk, run, weight train, dance, stretch, swim. Idle bodies are times workshop, nothing makes a human feel and succumb to the loss of time more than seeing it on themselves.
• Food. We wouldn't put dirty fuel in a premium car, would we? If we did, we would be knowingly shortening the life cycle of the car, so why would we do that to our bodies? 
• Sleep. this one seems counter productive. But, time spent tired, or sleep deprived everyday isn't time worth having at all. There is a difference between quality over quantity. Our bodies need to recharge. 
• Laughter. Laugher is a powerful anti aging mechanism that is proven to lower stress and inflammation, improve heart health, boost the immune system, act as a natural pain reliever, and engage cognitive function. A 15 year study has found that individuals with a strong sense of humour had a lower risk of death and disability (in a study of 14,000 older adults). It is also a great way to deal with the challenges that come with life. 

"Our bodies are our gardens, our wills are our gardeners" - William Shakespeare.

In closing, time is what we make it. It is our most precious, non-renewable resource, urging us to cherish life and live intentionally on our own terms and nobody else's rules. Time is the only currency we spend without ever knowing how much balance we have left, we must use it wisely. 

Live fully and cultivate leading with our hearts, minds and bodies, that way we will never be lost in the labyrinth milky-way of time - it may even stand still at just the right moment; even if it's just for a little while. 

   

A Key to the Chaos of Contemporary Communication

 A Key to the Chaos of Contemporary Communication.

Distractions. 

We live in the age of distraction and attention span deficit.

The consumer market of online entertainment has been fine tuned to quick, concise and over in mili-seconds "content" . Arguably, adult generations have devolved in our ability to focus on one quality interaction to a gateway of meaningless relationship hindering distractions. Instead of chapters of books, we shifted to meme's of quotes or info-vids summarising thousands of words in under a minute. Instead of hours of films we have endless streams of videos, tik toks, snap chats, reels - all short, sweet, and sometimes lacking any real quality and depth - just space fillers, floating through the ether. 

Instead of long, uninterrupted meaningful time and conversations with each other; we have mastered the undesirable art of being together whilst needing time-outs with our phones, televisions and computers in order to fulfil our need for quantity over quality. These were all once characteristics of young children - characteristics that more often than not, people grew out of -  things have changed; and quickly. We have lost the art of meaningful focus and communication.

We have lost the art of courtship and spontaneous interaction in favour of swiping left and right. We have lost the ability to engage deeply, to touch intentionally, to have a rally of conversation, maintain eye contact and be void of superficial distractions. 

There is a a distinct irony in me typing about this on a 14 year old blog, on the internet, I know. I justify this with my deliberate disconnection from social media otherwise, in an attempt to regain control of focus and substance that can be found in a solitary blog with no readers, functioning as somewhere between a journal entry and a philosophical study. 

My focus going forward with these blog entries, is what it has always been - to make you think (if you're reading). Ask questions, find yourself, decide who you want to be, why you want to be that way and ask yourself if today's societal shifts are really something that you need to or want to be part of.

The only natural way to shift from what has become expected into something entirely tailored to you on a human level is to first understand how all of these acts are a hindrance to your over all quality of life. We only live once, and right now as it stands, as a humanity we are wasting away behind screen, behind metaphorical masks of trend and expectation rather than seizing moments and reaching for meaningful adventure and connection. Our lives are not about cross-comparison or sharing every moment - they are supposed to be experiential. Be present, be the exception, you won't regret it. 

Rebel. Rebel against what is expected of you. A rebellion doesn't need to be announced, loud or witnessed. It is felt, it is felt when you talk to a stranger in a cafe or on the street. It is felt when you travel without advertising it to your followers on instagram or facebook, when you watch a concert with your eyes instead of through the camera lens of your phone, when you engage in long, meaningful conversations with your loved ones, friends or family without referencing social media or reaching for your phone. Read a book because you want to get lost in your imagination for as long as it takes to finish, build the chapters in your own mind, or perhaps because you want to learn from words rather than an algorithm. When you hold eye contact that little bit longer than you should, when you climb a mountain for yourself and not for the glorification. When you tell people how you feel without reminding yourself about what society expects of you. 

The quality of your communication and relationships serve as a domino effect to living life in a way that isn't centred around exhibitionism, comparison, or competition, but rather, a real desire to love living, to continue learn, and to experience moments that all become catalysts to conversation, attraction and experiential knowledge that make you a whole being capable of focus and chemistry. 

Rebel. 

 

Be more you

Muchness

Looking back on 2025 now fast approaching mid 2026, it was a year less about self reflection and adjustment and more about rediscovery. There are so many existing stereotypes in life that work to convince us, women more rigidly, that we must "change" with time. Though I certainly don't argue that change of the positive and transformative kind is part of healthy human growth, I have drawn a very firm and deep line in the sand on where that stops and losing the characteristics that make a person uniquely who they are begins. 

Muchness. As the Lewis Caroll tale of Alice in Wonderland once engraved in time "You're not the same as you were before. You were much more..muchier.. You've lost your muchness" . I understand that some might not think basing my life  on a quote from a children's novel (though I have always believed that it is more than that) is the most intelligent, intellectual or even practical choice - but,  I believe there is a lot of merit to the underlying message which can and will ultimately pivot a person from being unhappy or simply satisfied, to existing in their experiential and happiest potential. 

In my own experience, having turned 38 years old last May - I realise that much of the last decade has been dictated by outside circumstances; whether it be 'societal norms" or people who are trapped in an echo chamber of their own making. What I mean by this is that slowly and surely, depending on your location, age, gender and career path - your personality can completely shift from who and what you are at base level to something completely unrecognisable that blends into it's surroundings. 

I would be lying if I didn't own up to my own Peter Pan Syndrome. But, that leads to the question- why is that a negative thing? Why is the desire to remain externally excited about life in the way you are during your youth something to be frowned upon? What is wrong with being excited by the same things you were as a child or young adult? Aging is a physical act, and shouldn't be automatically transmitted to personality, passion and soul.

So, the question is - how do we revisit who we really are and let go of the person our surroundings has manufactured? Is it possible? Watch this space.. 

The Romantic - Continuous Prose Poetry

 

The Romantic

She is a romantic. 

A romantic not just in love but in every essence of her being, every moment and minute of her life- the air she breathes scented with renaissance lavender fields and secret garden magnolia blooms. 

She decorates her world with freshly picked wild flowers in a vibrant spectrum of technicolor and loses herself in an imagination bred from a lifetime of reading books, the love stories, the tragedies, the great adventures. 

She disconnects from modern day humanity to immerse herself into ancient philosophy, the deepest of thoughts catalysed from professors, artists, scientists and inspired rebels locked in a time warp known as yesteryear.

Her heart is trapped in the intellect of history and the imagined future of tranquility, captioned by the music burring from record players collecting dust in hidden corners, and songbirds from dense canopies of trees. 

She glides through life like a movie, a fairytale, floating in white linen gowns with sunbeams bouncing off of her skin. She dances to the silent songs and re-enactments in her subconscious as though they were mirages between the lengths of her fingers and souls of her feet. 

And her animals magnetise toward her like a princess from a fairytale, a menagerie of creatures great and small, under her spell of whimsy tumbling into a wonderland existence of multi species conversation and respectful adoration, without question or doubt. 

When she loves she loves in secret. She plays out the abundant masterpiece that is the novel of her mind. She paints the colour through the stages of infatuation; lustre and to ultimate love. She excites herself with monochrome snap shots in the gallery floating behind her eyelids, imagines the scenes from her most passionate film and composes moments and actions during slumber of her most intimate, daydreaming thoughts in exotic foreign lands, mountain top cabins, drift wood beach shacks, warehouse conversions, ivy covered cottages, grand old libraries, tiny bookstores and brick laid lofts.

When she kisses, she kisses slowly. She hears the flutter and flap of butterfly wings, she feels the wind against the tallest pampas grass in misty meadowy felids and the vibrations of a roaring steam train whooshing down her spine until the melody of serene musical elysian starts flooding her eardrums. 

Because she is a romantic. 

Remember

Memories are the illustration of a life lived, regardless of how eventful or uneventful that life may have been. Both of which are subjective to each individual in their own set of circumstances. 

Some of those memories are so fearcely locked in the depth of our subconscious that they cease to exist as an image, a thought or even a sound, smell or feeling. They exist only in a darkened corner of the mind made up of space, time and enigma. 

We are taught to cherish so much of our existence, to have gratitude, to move forward, to live in the moment, to keep learning and to enjoy the journey; all the while being repetitively versed to "let go of the past." There is a lot of logic and reasoning to that sentiment - the most obvious being that if an individual becomes fixated on their own past, they will never progress, never overcome and never reconsolidate their life in a proactive, productive and meaningful way. The predisposed relationship between depression and individuals fixated with unchangeable past events is one that has been studied and proven thousands of times over. 

There is much to be said about learning from the past. As a society and as an individual. Past progression is the default setting for humanity, history and the evolution of the planet as a whole - an on going experiment of trial and error; in search of perceived perfection; which is continuously interchangeable.

The common denominator irrespective of the source of the past, is that ultimately - it is negative. We either need to move on from it, or learn from it - or in some cases simply just "accept it"; all of which have connotations that are far from positive. 

So, we forget.

We forget moments, we forget people, we forget lessons, we forget mistakes, we forget the cumulative experiences that may or may not have brought us extreme joy or the deepest darkest sadness. We forget regret and we forget hope from years gone by. We forget the idealistic, illustrious, exciting naivety and spontaneity of our youth.

In the process, or the quest, for a spotless mind - we undo and unravel the thread count that makes us who we are, who we were and the person we could continue to become. Instead, we start fresh and we remould our claywork to fit this moment. Not the past - perhaps the future, but most importantly; right here and right now; and we do it over and over again. But what is to be said about that deafeningly quiet but screeching loud dark, dusty corner of our minds that wrap our past up tight, safely, hidden from the outside world but flowing through the serotonin that silently fuels our minds, our hearts our existence everyday?

It is is all of the yesterdays that have given us our today. In a modern world that thrives off of nostalgia for a time that no longer exists; our recollections are both our demons and saviours. We need to allow those vivid, cathartic memories devour us; and help us remember what it is that brightens up our eyes, widens our smile, sends shivers down our spine whilst simultaneously staying safe, in the locked vault that is our past. You have the combination; know when to use it. Our moments in time exist; it is ok to revisit them. 

The Chapters - The Magic of Mystery. A very true, very short story.

The Chapters - The Magic of Mystery

The first instant movie romance. A very true, very short story.

Nepal, January 2012, 24.5 years old.  

 

Eighteen, three months off nineteen years old, dreaming of being a hard hitting travelling print and photographic journalist and then potentially author of a best selling book, illustrated by me, of course. First semester of university and literally drinking life through the straw of a bottomless glass. I was unstoppable, enraged with enthusiasm and pounding with confidence – that was until I had to do a quick passport visa run to New Zealand and back.

 

I had arrived in Australia two months earlier, after having lived in New York; my student visa still processing and my first true year at University about to start, I entered with my passport on a visitor visa, only to realise I needed to leave and enter the country again once my student visa was finalised.

 

Treating the expedition as casually as I did a run to the grocery store; I packed my vintage brown leather book bag from New York – with just my passport, tickets, wallet, 3 text books, a note pad, a novel, my half broken moto flip phone, my enormous only sometimes functional ipod and my camera. My intention to land in Auckland, sit in the airport for a few hours, and come back (because normal people do that, right?)

 

It was 2006, Facebook was brand new and comparatively, only a handful of people were on it (all university students). Myspace had been around for a few years but was slowly coming to it’s demise; there were only so many high angle digital camera shots sporting a straightened side fringe and heavy black eye liner that the world could take. Smart phones didn’t exist and Motorola Razor phones were all the rage; laptops were big and if you had the monster that was the original MacBook Pro, you had made it in life; that was about as portable as technology was ( I had one, it was heavy. )

 

I had probably been drinking the night before, amongst this obnoxious confidence that I had in myself artistically, I was actually, personally, innately shy – but, excitable.

On went the black eyeliner (2006) and nothing else on my face, I had a deep tan from the pool infront of my student accommodation and at the time, I had taken to dying my long hair chocolate brown, because light eyes and dark hair were the thing (again, 2006). I threw on a hemp, light green, hippy dress with a vintage blue denim jacket – and I was out.

 

Upon landing in Auckland, I breezed through immigration, turned left, and went to check in for my flight back – almost immediately – to the befuddlement of ground staff who had just seen me land literally less than 30 minutes ago. 

With a smile on my face, I handed over my passport  to the kiwi airline manager, he arched his eyebrow and said, quizzically “no luggage?”.

To which I responded, in a smart ass tone “I travel light.”

He rolled his eyes “ and not for long, I take it. Your flight back is delayed, we can’t check you in, you’ll have to wait in the departures area.”

Deflated I asked “ how long for?”

To which he smirked “Could be about 8 hours, there’s a technical issue with the plane, maybe you should have brought some luggage with you and actually stayed in the country for a night.”

I gave him a sarcastic nod and strained smile – walking away toward the outer food court, I set up a home station and started reading some text books and making notes. Important to note, I had chosen to travel with basically $30 cash in my wallet and not much else. 

 

I had been reading intently for about 45 minutes with stereophonics plugged into my ears when I noticed a persons gaze from the table directly in front of me – I lifted my head, our eyes locked for a second and then I shrunk into myself, suddenly painfully shy, looking down, smiling. Still not shy enough that I didn’t look up to see this person again, a he, still looking at me, now, also smiling.

 

Being the painfully awkward person that I can sometimes be, I proceeded to lift my text book over my face, then drop it, to then shuffle through some photographs I had developed in the dark room at uni, to only then drop them and watch them scatter in slow motion on the floor as well. 

Before I even had the chance to pick up the contents of my life whilst tangled in my ipod wires that I had dropped on the floor, he was standing above me – tall. 

“Hi” he said. He was English.

I unplugged my headphones… “Hi” I unimaginatively half whispered back.

He bent down and helped me pick up my mess, he smelled wonderful.

 

Once we had collected everything, he pulled up the chair across from me at my table and sat, intently with his head rested on his hand, supported by his elbows on the table.

“ I’m Theo. I want to know everything about you.”

Hardly listening to the words coming out of this mouth, I took him in – sandy brown hair, swept over his forehead (again, it was 2006), with the slightest beach wave flicking at the ends next to his ears. He had blue eyes with a green ring, the opposite of mine. His skin was the lightest tan, he had lips that were pouty, without being big, his eyebrows were set intensely angled with his eyes – making him appear as though he was looking straight into my soul. He was tall, over six foot, his shoulders broad and body narrow, he was wearing a long sleeve hemp, sage green shirt, round neck, no buttons – relaxed jeans, rolled up at the hem, he was not of that time, in my eyes, he was a dream from a National Geographic adventure crew of 1999. He had by his side, a Northface backpackers pack, what seemed to be a few copies of the lonely planet, a Kerouac novel and a camera bag.

After what seemed like an eternity of staring  I answered back. “Hi Theo, I’m Nadia, my mum actually calls me Teddy.”

“Two Teddys” he grinned. 

I lifted from my neck a necklace that my mum had given me before I left for New York the year prior, the pendant was a teddy bear, and dangled it infront of him.

“Three Teddys, actually.” 

 

For a moment, the scenario ran through my head that he might be a psychopath trying to abduct, rape and murder me – but after a little bit of naïve self assurance, and a reminder that I was in an airport – not a full moon party in Thailand, I was fine.

 

He pulled my books and photographs toward him on the table, sifted through them – read a few lines that I had written in my poetry book.

 

“What’s your story, why are you here? Where are you going? I’ve been watching you for the better part of an hour – not in a creepy way, well, maybe it’s a bit creepy. It’s not often you see a girl who looks like you buried in books, seemingly enjoying it. Are these your photographs?” Theo held up some of my prints with his eyebrows raised – one, of a flock of pigeons floating in the sky above Saint Marcos Square in Venice. 

 

I took immediate, unnecessary defence, “a girl who looks like me? yes, they are my photos. I’m in transit.”

 

He looked down, shuffling through my papers and images, “Beautiful. Effortlessly, uniquely  beautiful, maybe you don’t know it? And I’ve been to a lot of beautiful places where they claim that they are the most beautiful women on earth..but, somehow, the one that I find the most beautiful, is sitting in the food court in Auckland airport, of all places.”

 

I was taken a back. I wasn’t really used to that kind of cander. I was still very young, and despite having had a few boyfriends; not terribly used to the random nature of people meeting and saying exactly what they were thinking (whether it was a line that was used on many, I’ll never know.)

I didn’t know how to respond, so I looked down and covered my face with my hands. And just let out “smooth.”

 

“Are you studying to become a journalist?” he asked, looking straight into me whilst holding my war journalism text book.

 

“I am, I’ve only just started – I kind of wanted to be a fictional novelist; but, the idea of travelling, writing and taking photos for the rest of my life appeals to me..I like experiencing new and exciting things.” Why was I telling this random guy everything about me?

 

I looked straight back at him, he was smiling softly. In a much more gentle tone he leaned forward and asked

“ Where are you flying to?” I didn’t answer, instead “What about you Theo, what’s your story?”

 

Honestly, I didn’t have the guts to tell him that he was beautiful, to me, to look at, at least.

 

He reached into the front pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pair of thin framed, delicate glasses and put them on. If there was a way for me to find him more physically attractive, he had just done it.

 

“ Well, I’m on my way to Santiago, Chile.” He pointed at his camera bag “I’m 20 years old, I’m from Surrey and I’m travelling the world making movies and taking pictures.”

I pointed at his Northface bag “so you’re a bag-packer?”

He shook his head “ I have a bag back, I’m not a bag-packer, I’m not travelling around the world getting drunk, having sex and hanging out in tourist traps, I’m travelling the world documenting it – and I’m hoping to be able to do that for the rest of my life.”

 

He snapped out of his serious demeanour “so, Teddy with the green eyes, broken phone, loads of books, shitty camera but great photographs” he grabbed my hands “ please tell me you’re on your way to Santiago, Chile, to write amazing feature articles and take photos of me taking photos of the Andes.”

 

I kind of felt the breath fall out of me. 

“Well, Theo with the blue eyes. I’m sorry, but I’m not – being that I’m 18, I’m, boringly, just on my way back to Brisbane and have to be in uni on Monday.”

 

He gripped my hands tighter 

“Do you absolutely have to though?”

 

Now, 17 years later, if somebody asked me that question I could quite confidently say no, no I definitely didn’t have to. Though university was a great experience, it in no way impacted my path in life… but, that’s now… this was then.

 

“Theo, you seem really interesting, I’m probably way too interested in you given that we’ve known each other for all of 15 minutes.”

 

He interrupted me, winking. 

 

“Technically, I have known you for over an hour.”

 

Trying to maintain my cool, “What would you even do if I said, you know what, I’ll come with you, seeing as I’m your dream girl.” I laughed “what would you even do?!”

 

He looked at me dead in the eyes, the smile on his face disappeared. “ I would pick you up, spin you around and tell the whole world that we were about to have the most tremendous adventure.”

 

I didn't know whether to laugh, cry or jump into his arms. 

 

“Now quickly tell me your life story”, he said, rushed. “I want to know you. Everything. Where were you born, where are you from. What are your dreams, where have you been, where do you want to go, do you have siblings, what are your favourite things, what do you hate? Do you have a boyfriend, and am I your type.”

 

I giggled, I giggled in a pathetic girly way. He has a posh English boy accent, every word enunciated perfectly, obviously educated, probably rebelling against everything his banker father would have wanted for him. His face was intelligent, spontaneous, youthful, rugged, but classically handsome.

 

“ I don’t know where to start. I was born somewhere you’ve probably never heard of.. from so many different places. I have so many dreams, too many, I don’t hate anything other than boredom and ignorance. I have one older brother. I don’t have a boyfriend, and I think you might be the definition of my type.”

 

He stood up and held his hand out “ Ok, in which case, lets go on a date, would you like to go on a date with me, perhaps you can tell me every detail of this over complicated life of yours over something to eat?” 

 

I laughed, stood up and nodded “so, where are you taking me? I know a good little Chinese place in the area” I pointed at the Chinese food outlet in the food court, the only outlet that was open.

 

“Excellent” he took me by the hand and ushered me over to the counter and exclaimed “ my beautiful wife and I would absolutely love some lunch, dinner. Whatever time it is. But it must be quick, we have a plane to catch to go on our next expedition.” The staff looked unimpressed, I was melting. He ordered practically everything they had. “This should be enough food to keep us eating during your life story.”

 

I saw the price on the till and my smile dropped, I turned towards him and said “ this is really embarrassing but I only travelled with $30 and that was just for a cab home.”

He looked at me, gently “don’t worry Teddy, I’m paying,” and rested his chin on the top of my head.

 

We sat down and we talked for two hours. Two magnificent hours. By the end of it, we knew everything about each other, out pasts, our present, our imagined future. We shared my ipod and listened to music together, stood up and had a slow dance; much to the confusion and entertainment of the few other people in the food court.

He whispered, whilst twirling me, “why couldn’t I have met you yesterday?”

I stopped in my steps mid twirl, suddenly solemn “ do you get paid to do what you do?”

He casually responded, “ I do, I sell my images and footage to magazines, some of the footage makes up b-roll for documentaries. It’s unpredictable but it’s rewarding.”

Inspired, I shared a goal of mine “I really want to trek the Himalayas, take photographs and write about it – is that something you would ever want to do?”

He sighed “It’s something I dream of doing, we’ll do it together, maybe.”

 

The loud speaker blared “Air New Zealand, flight 435 to Santiago, Check in is now open,”

With a sudden sense of urgency, his eyes widened, he grabbed both of my shoulders “Come with me.” I rested my hands on his chest “You know that I can’t, and even if I could, I can’t buy a ticket.” Without hesitation, he snapped back “ I’ll buy your ticket, I’ll buy your ticket right now.” 

A bit excited, but then deflated, “Don’t be silly Theo, trust me, you’ll forget about me the moment you land in South America.” He rolled his eyes at me and said “ no, I won’t, trust me. And it’s central America, and no, really, what if I bought you a ticket right now? If you hate me you can leave immediately and I’ll pay for your ticket back.”

Before I even had the chance to respond he intensely stared at me “ I have never felt so connected to someone I barely know, I’m embarrassed to say I could probably even love you, which is absolutely ridiculous – and no I have never done this before, and I don’t think I’ll ever do it again." 

I was lost for words, mostly because I felt almost exactly the same, I was just too shy and too cowardly to say it.

 

He asked me to walk with him to the check – in desk, and that once he was checked in, we would go to the ticketing desk; and I could then make the decision as to whether I was coming with him or not. 

 

We walked, in silence, his arm wrapped around me, warm, did I mention he smelled amazing? Once we arrived at the check in line, with 9/11 having been not that long ago – security was tight, I was not allowed to enter the line with him. We agreed that I would just wait for him to check in, and he would come back out again. He said softly, “see you in a minute Ted.” I watched him progress in the line, I leaned on a pillar and pulled out a book to pass the time. I decided in my mind that maybe I could do it, maybe I could go on that adventure, that spontaneous, exhilarating, inspiring adventure – maybe I would. I was ready, once we walked to the ticket desk – I’ll would say yes, and I’ll go with nothing but the bag on my shoulder…and Theo. I played out the scenario in my head, I was scared, excited, worried ad happy. I put my book back in my bag and looked up with a smile on my face.

 

What I saw was Theo frantically waving his arms at an airline ground staff member, visibly upset and frustrated. I could hear the exchange. He had checked in, and staff were not allowing him to return back to departures – he had to progress into the airport and through security. I could hear him yelling “No, but, my wife, my wife is out there, I have to get to her, she’s coming with me, or I need to say good bye.” The staff were obnoxious and kept repeating the security protocol. We locked eyes. His mouth slightly dropped open, his eyes sad – his whole body lost it’s energy and slumped. He just looked at me, from a distance, saying nothing with his mouth and everything with his eyes. Before I knew it, the staff had eased him through the door to the boarding areas and I couldn’t see him anymore.

 

I was in a daze, what had happened that day. What on earth was going on?

It then dawned on me. I didn’t even know his full name, I didn’t have a phone number, an address, I had nothing. I collected myself, because I felt that warm influx you feel right before a tear, which- was insane, how could I be that upset? Then I had my light bulb moment, if I checked in for my flight to back to Australia now, then I could at least get through to the boarding lounges, and then, even if we can’t have our adventure right now; we will have each others names, contact details – something, anything.

I ran to my check in desk. The same attendant was there.

“Check in still isn’t open” he said, blandly.

“When does it open?!” I asked breathlessly, with a sense of urgency.

“hour and a half, 3 hours before departure” he said again, not even looking at me, signaling the people behind me to step forward.

 

I waited.

When I eventually checked in, I sprinted through security, looked up at the flight status screens and saw the gate number for Santiago alongside the status “last call”. The gate was directly in front of me – it was barricaded, not a soul in sight; and when I looked out of the huge windows I could see the plane beginning it’s taxi. I peered up at the screen one more time, the status was now “flight closed”.

 

He was gone, I was too late – and just like that, my Hollywood romance came to a screeching halt.

 

 

Six years later, I trekked the Himalayas alone, I took photographs and I wrote about it.

Without even thinking, I looked for Theo in every person with a Northface backpack and camera bag that I saw in Nepal and Tibet, I read the lonesome traveller by Jack Kerouac when I hit Everest Basecamp. I knew we would never see each other again, but also I knew at some point, we were both there, and how magical the mystery of not knowing anything more really is; and how lost that feeling has become in an age of no mystery.  

**To all the cynics: I wasn't being sex trafficked ;)

 

Introducing: Chapters

 One thing is certain, if we are privileged enough to do so, we all grow older - whether we want to or not. 

The interesting thing about having a public "diary" and accessible thought memorabilia, is the ability to look back on exactly who you were, what you thought and how you reacted at the time of journaling, drafting or sharing poetics.

For some people, it can serve as a pleasant reminder of the youth they wish to keep alive under layers of skin. For others, it can be a solemn reminder of painful life experiences that taught them to leave that youth behind. Either way, it's a portal to help us understand each other, ourselves and perhaps keep an equilibrium between past, present and future.

Ultimately, we are taught to "stay young" whilst simultaneously tackling adult life, emotional maturity, health, responsibilities and reality as whole. If you are reading this in 2022; you'll quite easily relate to the challenge of reality for the last two years. 

When I was younger, and upon reflection - to this day; I have been touted as an old soul. Contrastingly, I have always seen myself as somewhat childish because of my need for romance and free spirited movement. One thing that I can agree with is that deep analytical thinking and the quest to understand, are both ageless. 

So, without any further preamble; this entry is dedicated to introducing you to the moments, not milestones, or memories - but the moments that presented themselves as a fork in the road; a decision - and an outcome. Moments that I'm sure at one point or another, we all thought were entirely exclusive to ourselves; and maybe they still are - but, if there are any curious readers or thinkers out there, here are my interpretations of reflective moments in my close to thirty-five years that both brightened and dampened a child-like spirit. These moments will be known as "Chapters" and will be entered independently to each other. 

 

Distance and Time

 Distance and Time

 

Distance was something that never really bothered me. Distance, was a part of my life from birth – by the simple virtue that travel, to a greater than average extent, was a fundamental part of my DNA.

 

For as far back as I can remember, packing my bags, saying goodbye (or rather, see you later), moving homes and exploring the world solo came naturally to me. So natural that I would treat a move across the Atlantic as casually as going grocery shopping. I made a point of always seeing my family several times a year, and as much as I loved them, I never felt a great sense of loss, guilt or even yearning to stop me from creating such distance between us. As far as I was concerned, it was the premise of our family to be cosmopolitan globe trotters who seamlessly remained close whilst being geographically apart. If anything, our handling of distance and the effort we made to meet with each other around the globe was our identity. Or, at least this is what I thought for most of my youth and young adult life – but, it seems, time changes everything.

 

I didn’t want to stay still, at my first opportunity at 18 years old, after having spent my entire childhood and teenage years travelling the world with my parents and brother, I paved the way to what I believed would be the life of an expeditionist, off to live in New York I went, then to live in Australia, then to live in London, then to live in Paris and back to Australia again – and countless exotic far flung countries and continents that I visited and explored in between. Anywhere but the house I grew up in. I genuinely believed that living in India for the first 4 years of my life gave me an inbuilt spiritual vegabond compass; and for many years- that seemed to be case. I didn’t know the meaning of the words “ home sick.”

 

Yet here I am, in transit, a place and action that has always been so familiar – feeling a great sense of loss after having seen my family for the first time in two years (covid). I look around the house I grew up in and have to hold back the tears as I feel the ghosts and memories of every room, the passing of time, time that I had previously taken so horribly for granted, in favour of distance and exploration -  now, I can see the 6 year old version of myself peddling her new bicycle through the hallway with my brother and cat Douglas as I stand on the same marble floor I did in 1990. Maybe this happens to all of us as we get older, or perhaps the pandemic has made sentimental homebodies of people who were once free spirits. I find myself nostalgic about past homes, and only now, realise what they meant to me – even though I was once so quick to pack up and leave them. They are the ghosts, the memories, the time that has passed and I cannot get back.

Am I alone in feeling this way? I’m not sure. I find myself bound in a tug of war between childhood and adulthood at almost 35 years old. The child in me still wants to hop around the world. The adult in me want to take any opportunity to see my mum and be in the home that holds so much of our combined family past.

 

Perhaps I am the epitome of “you don’t miss the water until it’s gone.” It was only when my childhood home and family were no longer available to me (covid), that I realised how much they actually meant to me . 

 

The pandemic, if nothing else, has offered perspective. 

She Writes

 

She Writes - Beat Poetry/Spoken Word - * to be performed/read aloud *

She writes, she still writes.

She writes when the silence is deafeningly loud, when she has no words, no strength, no smile to show any crowd.

She still writes.

She writes when the barriers are in place, when she is the alien, is the individual, is the thinker, and losing an invisible race.

She still writes.

She writes about years gone by, about lustful love, about life, about countries far and wide, about passion intwined and the memory so vivid, she doesn't know why. 

She still writes.

She writes about deep thought, about limitless advice, about contemplation,  philosophy, a morality in innocent and guilty device.

She still writes.

She still writes when the ink colour is dull, when the pages turn backwards, when the chapters don't change, she still writes in darkness, in a lull. 

She writes even though the memory of herself is fading, is attacked, is misconstrued, is conflicted - but it is a memory worth saving.

She still writes. She still writes to sting the surrender, she still writes to continue and endeavour, she still writes to win a battle, to be herself, her light, her rattle.

So, she still writes. 

No Art

 No Art

What a year that it is has been.

Two-thousand and twenty has left the world a little bit mean.

Not bright, not taking flight, no end in in sight, or anything in-between.

Brush strokes are exchanged for check out counters.

A ballerina's dance demeaned for zoom meeting banter. 

Strumming guitars and festival fantasy retired to a slow virtual canter. 

Shakespearian theatre now nothing more than a mad ranter. 

A life dulled without the arts, the natural enchanter. 

What use is the arts?

What purpose, what practical, what smarts?

What use, what essential.... but what about our hearts?

This is where..the arts...they stand apart. 

A rabbit hole of  colour, words, movement and song,

A whimsical escape of performance and presence, one that may be lost before long,

Art is unessential? I am afraid that you are wrong.

The undisputed catalyst for a thriving mind,

The imagination that equates to all movements great and kind,

We don't dare leave the seed of creative genius so far behind, 

A sadness that would leave the entirety of humanity newly blind.

The arts are our depth when the the earth is hollow, 

Our escape from the growing shallow, darkness and sorrow, 

A service that we cannot just simply borrow,

One that needs be here, yesterday, today and tomorrow. 

 

 

No Colour

No Colour

I grew up not seeing or knowing colour. Not the colours of paintings, the sky or lipstick. The colour of people. I was lucky.

My father is brown and my mother is white. I am somewhere in between, to the naked eye, caucasian.

I was born into a culture of every ethnicity, every religion and every culture. My friends have always been a rainbow of Far East Asian decent, South East Asian decent, African decent, European decent, American decent, Middle Eastern decent, Caribbean decent and the Pacific Australias.

I never saw any difference, I saw skin colour as no different to hair or eye colour. It's the way you look but it means nothing, we are all the same. There was no black, brown, yellow, olive or white.

I was lucky. I was surrounded by every colour of person in the spectrum, and what a beautiful, happy harmonious life we led together.

I grew up in a mainly privileged "brown" society and integrated first in India, in an American Diplomat School and then in Bahrain in an international British School. My father worked for the airlines so my early life was spent in a couple of different countries in Asia and Europe before my adult schooling began. My friends were the children of diplomats, military and airline people. They came from far and wide and all intermittently settled in foreign "exotic" countries. I have old photographs from the late 1980s-early 1990s from tea parties that I have never looked twice at, despite every child in the photo being a completely different race.

I was lucky.

I knew of racism. I studied black civil rights history in school, I was both disgusted by what had happened and proud of those who stood up for themselves. I just looked around me and didn't see it. I couldn't understand how anybody could choose their friends based on the colour of their skin. Especially when I watched girls pour bottles of Coca Cola all over themselves every summer in order to obtain the deepest tan. (Yes, that was thing).

I liked everyone. Nobody taught me to like everyone. I just did. Much like my brother and as far as I could tell, my parents. My friends didn't look like me, and that didn't make any difference. I spoke to all adults with respect and wasn't "afraid" of anyone.

We traveled a lot. Through the UK, Europe, Asia and America. Australia. I didn't see it. I didn't see a problem...because I didn't see colour. In my eyes, everyone was fair game, and looking back now I can see why some people thought my over friendly behaviour was so endearing. This is up until I was 17, and had my first real boyfriend, he was South African.

My appearance of a blonde, green eyed teenager would fool most into believing I could be completely European. So that's exactly what my then boyfriend told his Africaans parents. That I was half Welsh, half Italian. Which would be true, if I was my mother. His parents eventually confronted me about my ethnic background whilst breaking the car in the middle of the highway. It didn't go down well.

And then I was 18, I was freshly an adult. I had always loved New York and couldn't wait to start the first chapter of my grown up life in the city that never sleeps. I had a childhood friend living there already - not that it ever mattered before, but she was of mixed Middle Eastern/Korean decent, though she had mostly Asian features and a more exotic skin tone. In my eyes- drop dead gorgeous.

I lived in midtown, which was a hotch-potch of races, sexual preferences and all in all a pretty exciting place to be. I started my New York journey going out a lot with my friend in places of her choosing - which was my second taste of subtle racism.

K-town, aka Korea Town. An Area of New York much like China Town, but for Koreans. My friend took me often. I didn't realise I was going to be the only non Korean there. I had never seen this kind of segregation before in my life. And then it dawned on me, "they don't want me here, everyone is staring at me."

I started noticing things more in New York. I started seeing colour. Black people only hung out with black people, Latinos with Latinos, South East Asians only hung out with South East Asians, East Asians only hung out with East Asians, Northern Europeans only hung out with Northern Europeans, Eastern Europeans only hung out with Eastern Europeans.

The whole thing perplexed me, but I noted, the more educated youth, university students and investment bankers alike - didn't seem to follow the same pattern. So what, are smart people are less racist?

Are smart people less racist?

Probably.

Without trying to sound arrogant or conceited - I am pretty smart, and over all, well educated with a well rounded scope of knowledge.  Most of the people I grew up surrounded by were similar. Brighter than your average. But, that was just normal for us.

So, how does that impact the ability to refrain from filtering people based on the colour of their skin? Is it the intrinsic scientific knowledge that we as humans are, literally, all the same and our skin colour and physical features are nothing more than an evolution based mutation created to survive in different environments and climates? Kind of like short-hair and long-hair dogs/cats.

Is it also my scientific understanding that a non-pedigree species are stronger than a pedigree species in order to produce a stronger, smarter offspring? I.e. Mixing races is good.

But that knowledge and scientific fact seems lost on so many. As the years have gone on I've noted racism to become more prevalent in certain places. In London for example, I hardly noticed it. Races and ethnicities all seemed to mix beautifully and harmoniously. In Australia, racism runs deep. I don't mean just about aboriginals, but with literally anyone who isn't Saxon white, and vice versa, everybody chooses not to mix with each other. This is an incredibly segregated country that is multi cultured into a pie chart of separation - creating poor class structures and a lack of progression, evolution and education- all of which is totally accepted as a part of the culture. The US has a violent racism based on white supremacy, black suppression and Middle Eastern hatred. When I was 28, I was offloaded from a flight from London to LA. Based on my Middle Eastern last name. Everybody was seated, and airport security came to my seat, removed me from my seat - with no explanation - walked me off the plane to do one more security screening before the plane took off. They looked "confused", when they saw my appearance. When I got back on the plane, they had given my seat to somebody else, so they had full intentions of removing me from the flight, based on the origin of my last name.

Everyday I wish I could turn back the clock to not seeing colour. Or, I wish the rest of the world had been as lucky as I have been to be exposed to so many different types of people from such an early age so that colour would be invisible to them too. But now I realise how lucky I have been, and I can only teach what I know to others who choose ignorance above knowledge, knowledge will trump all.

See no colour.