Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Recently I re watched one of my all time favorite films, Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I think it’s the combination of Audrey Hepburn’s elegance and how much of myself I see in the character of Holly Golightly. Something about the desire for freedom to the point of self sabotage is so familiar that watching the film is sometimes quite difficult for me. The way in which she runs from any sense of commitment is one of my biggest flaws. I’ve moved around a lot in my life and therefore any issue I face my immediate reaction is to run away. I don’t seem to have the sense of grounding that my friends seem to and it’s bizarre to me to feel attached to any kind of house to me, it’s four walls and a bed there is no sentiment and no sense of ownership. Holly Golightly’s character refuses to name her cat as she doesn’t believe it belongs to her or that she belongs to it. There is such a simplistic childlike state of mind in that sentiment that makes so much sense to me how ever eccentric it may seem. Even my attitude in relationships mirror hers, I find myself meeting new people getting so close to being in a functional relationship then just as things begin to settle I self sabotage to protect myself from letting anyone too close to me. Nothing scares me more than letting anyone close enough to hurt me or figuring out how vulnerable I am. Her entire attitude of floating by effecting peoples lives yet being terrified of any kind of cage emotional or even a metaphorical one feels so close to home. I just have this habit of hurting anyone who gets close to me in a desperate attempt to retain the state of “freedom” that often turns out to just be isolation. I guess I should just name the bloody cat.



When I was a kid we used to walk everywhere. The going was never the problem as my mind was far too caught up in the getting there. It was the coming back that was a nightmare. I’d be tired and angry so my dad used to scoop me up and place me carefully on top of the concrete wall beside him and have me walk just above him balancing and pretending to wave my tail about. Whilst my lofty amble commenced we’d sing. Anything that you could imagine we’d sing at the top of our lungs until I was so wrapped up in the singing that I forgot all about my grumpiness and became quite frustrated when we returned home upon the realisation that I had been tricked into having a good time. I miss those days. When I was a child happiness was a state of being so was absolute rage but, I think that’s something quite remarkable. As children we are able to see beyond small problems and have unblemished joy. I was never caught up in thinking “this is happiness” because I was so bloody busy feeling it. I guess I wish I could relive those effervescent days the ones that just radiated light where a smile didn’t feel like a task or something demanded by strangers in the street. Smiling was as easy as breathing and I was humbled by the world around me instead of feeling inconvenienced by it or unwelcome in it. These days it feels like a fight to even walk outside never mind walking back. I find myself hiding avoiding interactions for fear of judgement and scrutiny. I miss the simplicity. Call me juvenile but there is something to be said for the inexhaustible ability to find happiness in anything of children that I envy. I guess I lost mine somewhere. 

The Food Of Love.

Music has always been a staple in my household. Never a dinner without an argument about who would shift through the endless CD’s to find the perfect accompaniment to our home cooked meal. It sounds wholesome but I’m pretty sure I bled once. I craved music as a child, every time a new band was introduced it was as if a whole new set of emotions that I’d felt but had never been able to express were cultivated and somehow beautiful. I remember first hearing ‘Vienna’ by Billy Joel and seeing my entire 8 years of life stretched out across piano keys. I can’t quite put into words what haunts me so much about Billy Joel’s work but, his words capture and move me in a very unique way. Most of the advice my father gives me are Bob Dylan lyrics. Music was cornerstone of my upbringing a safe haven in the eye of the storm I can shake off my juvenile concerns and allow myself to sink into lyrics, rhythm and occasionally a pretty remarkable sax solo. I’ve adapted and changed but throughout the years I always find myself returning to the classics that shaped my ideals and understanding of human emotion so much for safety reassurance and sometimes a pretty good dance. Whenever I share music it’s because I’m desperately trying to impart the same knowledge I’ve taken from it to another. People rarely understand my fixation with sitting in complete silence just listening to someone else sing. You’ll never see me without my earphones in, usually with a fixated stare into the distance focused yet constantly moving, observing. Music is the only thing that seems to always make sense to me. I run to it always, in joy, sadness, reflection, even anger. It’s a sanctuary and I wouldn’t trade my sanctuary of someone else’s words for anything. The safety I find within the memories they hold folded gently within each note is home to me. I have found a home within someone else’s words where there is always tea in the pot and a different story to be unraveled.

Now what?

I’ve been thinking a lot about what to write. In fact, Last night I was kept awake not only by the cacophony of the storm that had left me drenched and thoroughly relieved to find that yes, puddle jumping is still a worthy pursuit. I did however find myself at home after my unexpectedly soggy cycle ride home making breakfast at midnight and then later I was kept awake by various ideas and thoughts for this blog. It’s a completely new concept for me publicizing my thoughts and ideals. It feels very vulnerable but at the same time very safe. I spend so much time censoring my thoughts for my friends, family and even sometimes for myself. Using less exotic vocabulary so not to intimidate and holding back my opinions as usually they are met by scrutiny and mistrust mostly my own if I’m honest. I guess the difference here is that you cannot see my face. You cannot judge my appearance or my age you only have my words. Perhaps my anonymity graces me with a kind of strength, a forum free of any preconceptions. So, What words do I have for you today? What ideals and what knowledge can I pass? It feels very intimidating looking down at this keyboard. Even now I’m censoring myself deleting and rewriting endless sentences attempting to provide something worth reading. Isn’t it an inherently human trait to seek approval? From adolescence we are taught to crave achievement and accolades. Our success is based on rigorous tests that don’t come close to echoing the dances we perform in our minds. How can you test a plethora of different dancers with movement that only exhibits a particular style, ethnicity, gender and basic structure? Survival of the fittest has become twisted and distorted into a competition of wit, intellect, good fortune and attractive physical traits. Wealth and power in this world is only given to those deemed worthy when stood trial against those archetypes. Finding your place in a world that doesn’t deem you worthy of success is fairly impossible. You either stand upon a soap box and shout into the faceless abyss or you push the boundaries, From the confines of your allocated position by teaching your children that puddle jumping is still a worthy pursuit.

‘Into The Wild’

I’ve been missing Vancouver a lot recently. The smell mostly. Apparently it’s pretty smokey over there at the moment but I’ve been dreaming of mountains well, mountains and having babies(that was a strange one) I miss how clean the air feels. I remember being able to run up and down the beach barefoot. I wish I hadn’t been in such a rush to grow up. I wish I could speak to my younger self and tell her to forget the hair dye and allow the Midas touch of the sun to do it’s work. Sometimes I wonder if the child I used to be would be proud of who I am now. Would they look up to me? I think that’s a better judge than any could you stand face to face with your younger self and be proud of the life you’ve lead? I want to paint myself in a light that is strong and noble but I stumble so frequently I think that would be a lie. Does stumbling make you inherently weak? Do I loose my power in admitting that? I don’t think that bothers my childhood self. I think it’s more fixed on chasing the butterfly and finding out what’s at the top of the tree than the balance of power and isn’t that a more worthy pursuit?

I’m not quite sure what I have to say. I have no idea what kind of place my words could hold in this world. Other than scribbled on bathroom stalls and whispered in the ears of any stranger willing to lend compassion, to the distressed rantings of a young woman who has no sense of control within her glass box of carefully cultivated chaos. Here I sit, attempting to impress you with my vocabulary, eloquence and wit. So, Here we go I guess.