The Decade of the Selfie

This was originally a picture of a 38-year-old. Through some easy digital play it became a fictional picture of a fictional 14-year-old. Someone, whoever, who never was.

She never was. I was never her. She’s a hologram of obsessions, fixations, shallower than shallow expectations.

She’s a response to hundreds of daily media attacks on my body image, confidence and self worth. She’s a pill against anxiety and social comparison blues. She’s fake. She’s a lie. But she’s who I am supposed to want to be:

Sweet and fresh! Young, mute and smiling: agreeable! No thinking or talking please people because posing is obviously more important. Posing for you, and for my story.

Posing from close up, close like a lover.

In real life I would never allow strangers this close. But in the digital world, in the decade of the selfie, welcome! Welcome anyone. Welcome too close to someone who never was, to think of her what you will, to scroll on and on, the endless untrue selfies that fill your feed and mine.

xoxo, no

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Yesterday’s News

So much happens after nightfall that we never know of.

Every night, new babies cry, and new parents, they cry too.

Every night, horses lie down in their stalls and stand up again to ward off wolves, wolves that never come. Clouds move, winds pick up, rain pours over cities and fields and stretches of ocean.

Tonight, like every night, on a factory loading bay somewhere bleary-eyed immigrants hunch with cold fingers in their pockets, waiting for trucks. A mismatched couple screech insults at each other further down the long block. At last, they get into a car and it’s quiet again.

In a bakery nearby, bread is being made. It’s soft and hot and smells of morning. Tonight like every night, newspapers are being printed and children being made. Tomorrow’s essentials!

At dawn, shattered beer bottles lie on suburban streets. Birds peck at chips dumped on a curb. Forgotten laundry hangs outside a cosy country home, smelling of flowers. An elderly man in the kitchen tries to load the coffee maker without waking his wife. In a bend near his house, a car has shrunk to half its lenght against a tree.

Still, half of human kind lie and dream. Babies and family parties, shooters and killers, long forgotten friends. Deaths and births and reunions. Fears and embarrassments for a fleeting moment nearly come true.

When morning comes, for most people things find their places again. The sky is up and the ground is down, a pleasing frame for a young day. All that just happened – or didn’t really – will soon be just yesterday’s news.

The Cypriot Cure

‘Did you bring the bloodwork?’ mumbled the doctor, gazing at me over her glasses. ‘Oh no, I just had so much on my mind, I’m sorry.’ ‘Get me the bloodwork’, she huffed, visibly annoyed now. ‘You have to take care of yourself! If you don’t, how can you care for your kids?’

Looking at all the things I manage to worry about in my everyday life, worry over my kids tends to be a little bit on the consuming side. Most days I feel good about things, but there are some days in between when just fret, worry and brood and just can’t help myself. On Worry Days, I eat, I worry, I drive, I worry. I go to the doctor, for myself, and remember only upon leaving what it was that I actually phoned in for.

But no matter!

I can just drive back home and indulge in some good fretting over my kids again; over what I’m doing as a parent and whether it’s enough.

Yes I’m doing all I can, obviously, but maybe I should do more? More than I can?

Maybe I should change completely? All of my qualities, for their sake? Be less selfish in my love and give up my spot to somebody else, ffs? Someone confident who knows what the heck they’re doing and what it was they went to the doctor for, that sorta person? Someone on social media, perhaps? Swarms of confident and knowledgeable mothers over there, I’ve noticed!

When it comes to my work, feedback is usually quick. Ok, add a bit of descriptive text then resend. I add descriptive text and resend and everyone is happy. Payment ensues.

With our youngest generation, immediate feedback is often a bit ambivalent. And I guess the real results of our blood, sweat and tears won’t materialise until a decade or two from now. And then, my worried self figures, there will be no kid anymore, but a glaring adult who may choose their graduation or a similar public event to announce they never want kids themselves because their own childhood was so off-putting because of those people, those two over there! We’ll look around and others will look at us, with disapproval, and we’ll look at each other. And I’ll tell my husband I told you so.

‘Have we eaten today?’ he now asks, stroking my hair.

Not at the imaginary graduation (because in all of my imaginings, the last word is mine: ‘so’ from ‘I told you so’) but now here, on our sofa at 22:35.

In Cypriot folklore, whoever goes off the railings with fret is probably a bit peckish. When fed, they will regain their composure and their confidence instantly. Not to mention their belief in God and the unwavering certainty that everything will turn out fabulous at the end, actually. You eat, your worry goes elsewhere, to someone peckish!

But he’s got a point! When a worried person eats, it’s seldom with much mindfulness.

I don’t know it yet but I will eat mindfully tomorrow. I will be sat in my pyjama trousers at the dining table, in front of a hearty bowl of pasta and between us two, a flickering tealight and a bottle of white will sit firmly and decisively on the table.

The wine is to be finished. Music is to be listened to.

Later, snooker will be watched and I can rest my head on someone who knew me years before I became anyone’s mum, and has eaten, and knows the kids the way only we two know. And he is of the opinion that things are going to turn out just fine.

The next day, an alternative graduation scenario shyly comes to mind. A small grin, not vengeful but just relieved and triumphant and young. Rows and rows of parents swept up by a communal silent cry of pride. A tall boy on stage will look for us in the crowd and he’ll smile a bit and we’ll try to wave. And my husband will say I told you so.

The Cypriot cure.

Now testing against pessimism, melancholy, worry and self-pity in overwhelmed working mothers!

Blue and White

I had an aunt who wasn’t related to me at all. She lived a couple of floors below us when I was a baby. Her son slept over at ours sometimes, drew cartoons and built houses in the woods with my brother.

After they left town, this aunt never slipped out of touch for long. Not with my parents. And not with me, either.

Come to think of it, she was the only person outside my own family who knew me my whole life.

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I grew up, moved cities. Felt restless, toured the continent. She was interested in where I was and how I was. I calmed down, got married, babtised my kids; she booked plane tickets and brought presents.

This talented and spirited woman, this wonderful Finnish aunt as a young restless one herself had toured Cyprus, singing in tavernas. She was really pleased with my choice of a husband. So she painted us a picture of two Greek lovers and carefully wrote wedding verse in Greek. Blue and white. White and blue.

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In my childish entitlement, it never crossed my mind that she might one day die.

That day arrived last week.

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I now have a new brother. A brother from another mother! Not related but dear in any case.

I so wish his sadness lets light in one day.

White and blue.

Blue and light.

These are for him, from his childhood and ours:

 

 

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Sitting and Knitting

Once upon a time, on a cold and clear Christmas night way up north, two sisters were sitting and knitting. It rhymes and that is a wonderful thing.

These two sisters had grown up in this house, then left it and braved embarrassments and breakups and other painful things, but now all was well and they were smiling and guffawing. For it was Christmas night and they had been drinking a bit, and to top it all off, there were two hunky men lounging by their side. One, the artist, was drawing and the other one, in elf slippers with jingle bells at the toes, was eating and tweeting.

Now, the sisters were confiding in each other about painful things that adult life had brought their way, things too raw to share with anyone else, and this is what they said:

‘I felt a pick-pocket’s hand in my backpack’, recounted the younger one. ‘Turned around and said in Spanish, ‘They call me the police!” She hung her head over her craft and continued, in a barely audible whisper: ‘He froze because my Spanish was so bad.’

The shared hurt of saying a ridiculous thing in a foreign language gripped the elder sister’s heart, for she too had blurted out outrageous stupidities in foreign tongues. (The hunky men at this point admitted nothing.)

The elder sister contemplated the gravity of what she was about to confess to, then began: ‘I was going to a procedure and was given a hospital gown to wear. I didn’t know if I should remove my underwear or not, why don’t they tell you? I didn’t remember the French word for bra. Instead I boomed through the curtain: Qu’est-ce que je fais avec la brasserie? What do I do with the restaurant?’

With this, the hunky artist ran out for an e-ciggie and the hunky tweeter ran for a long gin drink.

Upon the artist’s return, he surprised everyone with his own sad story. ‘I was out partying in Leeds’ he recounted gloomily, ‘and asked a guy, ‘Can I bum you for a cigarette?’

At this moment the hunk in the jingle bells elf slippers strode back into the room, which was good because all needed cheering up. En route from the kitchen he had heard this poor chap confess his spectacular cock-up and in a sudden surge of solidarity, he went for it, too:

‘I was hosting some Ukranian officials and some Cypriot ones, and thought I knew how to say cheers in Ukranian’, he wailed, ‘So I lead everyone to say that all evening – only to learn it means let’s f**k.’

At this, the sisters fainted and the artist ran for the bus station. The elf slippered hunk went back to tweeting, and the night was again peaceful and bright.

Sweet silence reigned over all lands where during daytime, so many people screw up so badly, and still live to tell the tale. And that, my dearly beloved, is also quite the Christmas miracle, innit?

Something Borrowed

His name is Bruno and he was home alone today.

So we could borrow him!

The park was a lush green paradise of birdsong and sunshine filtered through a million leaves.

Bruno enjoyed the smell aspects of it.

And some womanising. Oh dear!

Cyprus is so gorgeous!

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And apparently, smells fabulous too.

Writing for a Living

I write for money! Yes I do.

Nope, not for the Cyprus Mail. It’s there for breakfast and lunch companionship only!

I receive blueprints and pour over them like a woman possessed. Then begin frantic area research and note taking. In challenging cases, enlist a music streaming service.

What’s near the development?

What will the views be like?

How does one get anyplace?

Notes.

Start typing: architecture, design. Landscaping, layouts.

And all the practical stuff, try to be a bit more brief for goodness’ sake, it isn’t a bleeding novel!

Selling points? Hmm.

Introduction. (This is everything.)

Title options. Usually too long, grimace.

Chop! Mourn.

Okay? Off it goes.

Burst through school gates. Panting, so late, so disheveled and not bearing snacks it seems actually.

Usher people to Greek tutoring.

Sit in the car a bit cold. Fantasize of writing for fun maybe tonight.

Like lock my door, turn up the music?

Then, for goodness’ sake, write like there’s no tomorrow?

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Yes! Yes!!

Maybe tomorrow?

The Last World

After the café and the swings you said, ”Mummy, is this the last world? After this one, will there ever be another one?”

Your innocent wondering may have been Super Mario inspired, but it stopped me cold in my tracks. All my guilty plane tickets, all my kilometres driven and all the plastic items I ever bought came over me right there, like a huge dirty tidal wave.

Of regret.

I am sorry I haven’t done more to save your last world, love. I don’t know how, or I do I guess, but it seems next to impossible as a choice. You don’t have to but I hope you can forgive me one day. I haven’t tried hard enough.

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There’s no other world for you honey, this is it. This is what I’m leaving you. It looks beautiful and peaceful today, but it’s going to become harder to live in.

I hope you’ll be strong enough, I hope you can stay kind and caring if things get difficult. I hope after it gets worse, it gets better. A lot better, better than we could ever design or plan for, or indeed make happen.

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We are not a great generation that saves you and your world. We are the bad guys: the selfish, the stubbornly ignorant and the lazy. The image-anxious. The corrupt and the power hungry.

I see you get to know the world around us, I can see how exciting and beautiful it is for you. I see you study the stars and I want to see them through your eyes. I want to see them through your kids’ eyes, and their kids’. I want them to study and stand on the rooftop and look at stars, because everything down here is fine, and they can – why couldn’t they?

‘There’s no other planet where people can live, dear’, I say gently, squeezing your little hand a bit tighter. But of course, your busy little mind has already moved on.

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