Book #8: The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver.

To sum this book up in a word, bittersweet. That would hit the metaphorical nail on the head exactly. Lionel Shriver, award-winning author best known for her weird masterpiece that is We Need To Talk About Kevin, has this time, written something totally different, so far removed from her other works that you actually stop and question whether these two novels were dreamt up from the same mind. Poles apart, and yet her striking writing style is evident throughout both. 

The Post-Birthday world focuses on protagonist Irina, and her struggle to decide on a concrete path in which to develop her life. The narrative splits almost immediately after the introduction, into two parallel plot lines, in which Irina proceeds to make decisions that will shape, not only her future, but those individuals closest to her. A crusade of morals, life choices and loyalties, The Post-Birthday World tugged at my heart strings and made me question the very foundations between right and wrong. Skewed ideals are at the forefront of this novel, and while at first, my emotions were drained by the protagonist, the ride through the pages is nothing if not tumultuous. 

A brilliantly-written novel, one I've taken my time to read, like savouring a fabulous meal, if only to feel too full afterwards. Shriver writes with such conviction that once or twice, I even shed a tear for the most pompous or infuriating characters. My sympathies were all over the place, constantly switching between head and heart like Irina does. Her dual-journey is full of emotion, heartache and excitement, and not one I took lightly. I struggled to read certain parts of this book, out of sheer denial at what I was reading. Just when you think you've cracked Shriver's secret, you're spun in an entirely different direction, left with nothing but an expression of disbelief.

You'd do well to read this book. 

Bound and gagged.

Okay, okay. Calm down. It's not that kind of blog post. What kind of shit do you think I write? *blushes* Yeah, okay, I laughed at myself. Apparently that's a sign of madness. May as well be one I applaud and self-confess. So, what's with the title, you may be wondering... Well, it's how I feel right now. I've attempted this blog post four times now. Every time, I was unhappy with the words on the screen. I deleted them with enforced frustration. My words weren't conveying the tone I wanted. It was, it seemed, useless. 

So that's how I felt, bound and gagged. Stuck. As if I couldn't find the appropriate words to explain how I was feeling. I still don't think I can, not really. My head is whirlwinding, sort of. Ups and downs. Good news and bad news. Positives and negatives. My mind is torn between tears and grins, and the poles are further apart than ever. I have my lovely other half to thank for the constant grin sprawled so effortlessly on my face. Lukas, thank you. For being just so amazing. Being with him is like my happy place, as Phoebe says, and he is my person, to quote Cristina in Grey's. The reason for my insane happiness. Now for the other side of the spectrum. Someone I don't physically know, and yet, have come to know, may be going through more than I can ever imagine. She's incredible, and is strong enough to get through whatever life throws at her, I just know it. Gracie, you can do this shit, okay? Whatever you need, there are people around to throw it in your direction with amazing force. Eloquence seems to have left me amidst my subsequent confusion, but it will hopefully be sitting comfortably in my lap soon. Today ends with prayers, happy thoughts and the confidence that things get worse before they get better. 

You can do it, Duffy Moon. #2

My mam's voice trails off as my eyes adjust to what's on my phone screen. It's Gracie's blog, and her latest post is of a different tone. It's important, it's heartfelt and it must have taken a shitload of courage to write. I bite back tears reading it, for many, many reasons. The subject matter is unexpected. The writing itself is fucking beautiful. It's sincere. It's incredibly moving. It's thought-provoking. 

My grandma always says to me, when I'm in trouble, under pressure, suffering mind-numbing anxiety or totally breaking down, a little saying that brings a tear to the corner of my eye, and one I always remember when things get tough. It's this: "you can do it, Duffy Moon." 

It's more than a homely, affectionate pet-name for one of her many grandchildren. It's inspired. It's just knowing someone somewhere is sending you all the happy thoughts they could ever conjure up. So I'm passing the gesture, or the torch as it were. Today, someone else needs this happy thought. Someone I've never met and yet, feels like such an important person in my life for hundreds of reasons. 

A lovely individual, a very beautiful girl with an amazing passion for writing. We have so much in common, and I have a lot to thank her for. Especially, this blog she has encouraged me to write. In bad times, sometimes all you need is a happy word. Or a smile. Or a laugh, or a hug. Because of the distance between us, some of these things aren't possible. But this, Gracie baby, is for you. This may seem tough. It may all seem really dark at the moment. The walls may appear to be caving in around your beautiful head, but that's not true. You're amazing, and you can do anything. 

YOU CAN DO IT, DUFFY MOON. This thing, you can bloody well do it. I know it, Gracie. 

Making Ties.

making ties and breaking ties.

It's 10:04, it's Friday, it's 30th May (YES, WHAT? Where did May go?) and I'm screwed in every kinda sense. As I lie on my bed, seemingly the only neutral safe-house in my colossally-messy room. It's like a bomb hit twenty years ago, and the inhabitants just didn't clean up, ever. Holiday clothes are thrown around my four walls with reckless abandon, as if in a desperate attempt of artistic license, rather than the reality; that I'm being a slob.

So, where's my destination? The White Isle, of course. Cue the horrendous attempts to sing along to Vengaboys with alcoholic beverages in our clutches. Ibiza. Take two. It's funny. Last year was my first 'proper' girls holiday, and it's really weird to look back and realise the changes that have occurred. I've never really noticed, but, as I look back, a mere maybe 10 months, the changes appear crystal. My wide-eyed look comes to notice that said changes have crawled sneakily out of the woodwork of my life, and nestled themselves comfortably beside me.

This time last year, I probably could count my ties on one hand. As I was planning a holiday, everything went chaotic, and the strain was too much for some friendships to handle. While some ties were severed, others were made and celebrated. In that sense, I mean, the people I was really close to. The special people in my life. The ones I'd hold onto, not with entwined fingers, but clutched fists. The people I'd walk over broken glass for, run into a burning building to save, ultimately, the ones I was unprepared, and unwilling, to live without. Ten-(ish) months later, my ties are cemented in a truly different pattern. My friends are a different group of people. My close group of friends has expanded, and been truly tested through some bad times, as well as good. My ties seem to be barb-wired, rather than haphazardly flung together with frayed pieces of string.

I also have a really special tie. If it were a real, physical tie, in a suit-and-jacket-kinda-garment, it would be the brightest ever. The jazzy, jokey one. With some crazy pattern all over it, but not verging on garish. It would be the one you'd want to wear all the time, but it was expensive, so you sometimes think it should be kept in a fancy box in which it came. It's silk. It's gorgeous. It's the best fucking tie you've ever owned, and as you run the material through your fingers, the texture excites you in a way that nothing ever has before. It withstands all weathers, it doesn't fray or break. It's a constant. A feature you always want to show off. A tie everyone likes. And moreover, you love it. You love this tie more than anything. You trust this tie. With your life. Your family. Your hopes and dreams. Your tie knows more about you than you know about yourself. Your tie is wrapped in gold and you wear it around your neck with pride. With absolutely everything. Even if it doesn't go with that dress, obviously. It's sewn together with passion you can't even comprehend. But y'know the best thing about this tie? It's all yours.

Visionary.

       Peaceful, haunting, visionary.

We go home every day with memories filling up our pockets and photos hidden in our irises and no one ever seems to notice. The days pass and the nostalgia lies behind your eyelids and the important things lurch in the safety of your carefully entwined rib cage. The things we don't say are forcefully choked back; the things that were once on the tip of your tongue become uncomfortably lodged in your throat. The only truths we dare to whisper are in darkened rooms and through intoxicated pupils. You'd think it was more than that, visionary. 

forever the party animal, never the absentee.

                

I don't want to miss a single second of it. A breath, a smile, a grin or grimace. A tear resentfully shed. A punch-up, a drunken night, a brawl, a conversation, an inside joke. I have the ultimate bad habit. I have the Fear Of Missing Out. Symptoms of which include; not being able to say the word "no" forcefully or meaningfully, declining any social arrangements that will cost you money you simply don't have, or turning down an invitation just because you can't bare to miss out on the excitement. 

I hate it. I HATE staying in when all my friends are at the pub drinking vodka. I HATE having to decline invitations to things I really want to go to. I HATE the feeling of regret when everyone you know goes out/makes plans/does something without you, and spends a considerable, somewhat obscene, and not to mention, insensitive amounts of time talking and reminiscing about it. 

This is why I have no self control. I would rather I didn't get invited somewhere than knowing I'd have to decline the invite altogether. I need to work on that. I keep choosing tequila over essays and sambuca over studying. Uh-oh. 

Mortal.

A term that may mean different things to many of you. Up north, here in that somewhat forgotten land, where it rains almost on a loop and if there's three consecutive days that you don't have to wear a jacket, it's considered a heatwave. Well, up here, it means this. The following:

"To be extremely intoxicated, under the influence of alcohol."

Drunk, pissed, smashed, tipsy, wasted, ruined, wrecked, buckled, fucked, inebriated, tanked-up, sloshed, plastered, shit-faced, trashed, hammered, bladdered, blottoed, rat-arsed, trollied. Plain old drunk.

Whatever. We call it mortal. Getting so comfortably spaced out on a nice amount of alcohol that the edges of everything go fuzzy and fluffy and your speech slurs and your eyelids begin to weigh a tonne. You sit down and suddenly become all too aware of your legs feeling like jelly. Your movements seem to lag behind. Your mouth isn't functioning the way it should be. Words become harder to form, reactions slow and judgements are skewed. Tequila seems like a good idea. Singing at the top of your lungs really, REALLY badly seems like an even better idea. You suddenly latch on to strangers and loudly proclaim your immediate attachment to them. Awkward. Sometimes, it's horrific, it ends badly with lost property, lots of retching, no money and a stinking post-alcohol hangover. While other times, it's amazing. The photos and video document the constant hilarity of the nigt before. An empty purse and a sore head are a small price to pay for the blurred happy memories of 12 hours earlier. Your feet hurt from dancing too much and your throat is sore from singing to Mr Brightside at two am. 

Everyone experiences both kinds of drunk. Both kinds of mortal. But I'm varying towards the latter lately. Uni is done with. It's time to let my hair down, watch the sambuca get poured and get totally and utterly, and completely celebratorily MORTAL.