Post Xmas Flailing

So we're in that post-Christmas haze, where you sort of marvel at life. We build up to this time every single time, and now we're in this sort of embarrassed moment where we realise how much money we spent, and how we have to go back to work soon and start the whole damn year over again.

Or is that just me?
Perhaps...

If I'm honest, this year's Christmas has been hard for me. Coming back from our big trip overseas, I knew I would experience a bit of a let down. We built up to the holiday for so long, that I knew I'd be disappointed it was over. But I sort of relied on my Christmas-enthusiasm to get me through. And it nearly did.

But I miss my family. I blame my parents for giving me too many amazing Christmas memories, really - damn them!

I know, I know - poor Amanda with her husband and cat and money to spend and functional family upbringing who just came back from an epic overseas trip. Woe is me.

I guess it is more than that though... this year has been amazing in so many respects.

I had my first art show.
I made some amazing friends.
I solidified some friendships that I want to maintain for my whole life.
I enjoyed my job.

I unlocked a valve in myself and painted and wrote so many things that I'm proud of.

And still I feel like there are things that I haven't said. Well - haven't said to the people I want to say it to. Sometimes my writing couldn't be plainer in its emotion, but couldn't be vaguer in its subject.

Can that be a goal for 2015? To just let go and tell people how I feel regardless of the social pressure not to rock the boat? (Or the internal pressure not to risk people thinking poorly of me?)

Maybe.

In the meantime, I'll write poetry and paint pictures when the words fail.

Speaking of poetry - here are three that occurred to me over the past few days:


Your Name

Your name beats inside my mouth
like a tiny heart threatening to break
through the bars of my teeth.
I swallow it down but I know
the reverberations of your name
your name your name your name
stutter in my eyes,
now I’m looking at you.


What did they call you?

What did they call you, Matilda?
When the sirens lifted like mists,
what did they scream out through the storm?
And where can I find the meaning
of your name, in this book – this dog-eared,
much abused body of yours? Will it fall open
to the right page, or is it bound on both edges?
What can I tell you, Matilda –
that I’ve been looking here all along? That the mirrors
all looked like windows to me? That the curtains
were stained with wine and I was in a stupor
on the floor, worrying at the lines on the floorboards
there?
Huddle in close now, please just let our arms touch
and I’ll shield this candle from our eyes, and their eyes,
even if it burns.



Touch Technology

"Thank fuck for photographs
and for touch technology -
You, digitally frozen there,
letting me see the specks in your eyes
without you seeing me;
and I’m able to bring you closer
with the outward swipe of my fingers
and linger 
on your cheek
in a way I’d never dare
when we’re together.
I want to pull you closer
with the touch of my fingers,
and meet your gaze, unafraid.
But I won’t. I can’t.
So thank fuck for technology."