a rant

Quite often I get to hear I'm impatient. That I rush things and make decisions too hasty. I've heard it for years - I dare say I'll get to hear it for years to come too.

The last couple of years I've really thought about this. Always thought a thing through that extra once to make sure I make the right decision, always waited for people around me to feel grounded in what I'm about to do. Still, I get o hear I'm impatient.

Quite frankly it is starting to annoy me. Because I find people really slow. I quite often think twice as fast as people around me. However it would never occur to me to say "you're so slow". No, that would be considered rude, wouldn't it?!  So why is it ok to tell me the opposite?

I always think twice. Always. Sometimes I even think three or four times before opening my mouth or making that decision. I analyze the chain reactions my decisions will come to have. I try and predict how people will react if I say or do something. Is that impatient behaviour? If so, what more can I do? And honestly - what gives people the right to expect me to change to fit their personalities better? Why should I? Wouldn't that be the same as saying their personality and their behaviour is better than mine? It bugs me. It really does.

fuckwits

What makes people mean? Quite frankly I don't understand it.

Children say and do mean things, sure. It's part of growing up, part of testing bounadries and lessons not yet learnt. But adults? Adults who have no excuses of not knowing better just can't get away with any sort of shit - bad childhood or not. I'm sorry but I don't buy it.

We got talking about this at work the other day. A member of staff told me she'd never worked in a workplace before where everyone were so nice. As flattering as it is to hear such things, I was gobsmacked to hear about adult bullying in staffrooms and on wards. And then, that same evening as I was getting ready to go home, another (male) member of staff came up to me, patted me on my stomach and said

- you've put on some weight, haven't you?!

I was caught off guard and so I just laughed a little surprised and said yes. He continued to say:

- I don't mind big bellys on women. But you need to buy a bigger coat I think!

Still in chock I said nothing and walked home. And got really angry. How dared he?! The cheek! And as angry as I was at his unnessecary comment I was even more pissed off at myself not snapping back at him.

It was then it hit me why nastiness takes place. Because normal, nice people don't hit back due to chock. And due to good manners and sanity. And so the fuckwits that enjoy making others a misery can carry on.

Of course some poeple are just plain and simple thick. Don't have the intelligence to say and do the right things. They are excused for being involontary nasty. But the rest of the fuckwits are not excused. Not one little bit. There just isn't any excuse in the world for being rude, behave insane due to jealousy or bitterness, have bad manners or being bitchy.

And I hope what goes around comes around for those people. I really do.

worth keeping

time

My friend Brian wrote this poem which I really loved when reading it. (You'll find more poems of his on his blog http://andradepoems.blogspot.com/)


A word to all the non-believers

A word to all the non-believers,
leave your troubles, your worries tonight.
If horror still haunts you
without God to guide you,
receive this one word insight.

Time.

Time can make all things possible.
Time can wait for need to arise.
And create things unimaginable,
unbelievable. Tried, revised,
its power is constant, its motion complete.
without the gumption to end, or repeat.

Time is everywhere.
Time is everything.
Time boggles.
Time contrasts.
Time is a moment, a millennia,
a mountain, a mouse.

Time is Time, time and time again.

If you have anything to fear, anything to love,
be it time, believe it or not.

things we do but don't mention

Last week I've read two articles about men not liking women to spend time on themselves. They claim they like "natural women".

Well, humbug, I say!

What those men mean, I'm pretty sure, is that they don't like women to wear too much make up. Make up that shows, that is. Because every time my male friends are discussing good looking vs. not-so-good-looking women, the NATURAL women loose the battle of the good looking title alright.

You see, we women tend to do an awful lot that men say are vanity. Therefor, we women don't tell everything we spend time on doing. If we did, men would say we were vain rather than "natural". And well, we like them to keep thinking we are naturally hairless, smooth and and so forth, don't we?

Because women remove hair. Either by shaving, waxing, epilating or plucking.
Or all of the above. Women have facial hair. Nasal hair. Hair on their nipples or on their toes. Now, show me men who think that kind of "natural" is attractive?

Women do not have smooth skin thanks to God. No, skin tend to be exfoliated, scrubbed, filed, moistured, buttered, lotioned for that smooth, "natural" feeling.

Women aren't blessed from blemishes/dark circles/broken veins/grey hangover skin either. But we know how to use concealer and foundation to give our face an even skintone.

I just needed to point this out. Because it's the way it is.

the wolves inside

An elderly Cherokee Native American was teaching his grandchildren about life…

He said to them, “A fight is going on inside me, it is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One wolf is evil—he is fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, competition, superiority, and ego.

The other is good—he is joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.

This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other person, too.”

They thought about it for a minute, and then one child asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win, Grandfather?”

The Elder simply replied, “The one you feed.”

love

More than a nice melody

More than the sweetest of words

This is the love I have found

And with this love I am found

I found this poem ages ago on the internet somewhere. Can't even remember where or what I was looking for. But somehow it stuck in my mind. I think it is lovely. And true.

just remember this

further to my opinions on SD

I found this on the internet. I think it sums up what the racist party SD stands for.

(the flower is their logo. The sentence is spelled wrong, just as fucktards do.)

disgusted

So the people of Sweden have spoken. And a racist party has been elected into the Swedish guvernment. I'm disgusted. Completely disgusted.

Words cannot describe how gutted I am.

Shame on all of you who've voted for Sverigedemokraterna. I bet you all have foreign blood down your family bloodline. So shame on you. For thinking you're better than certain others. Shame on you.

be courageous!

the man

Whilst working in a hospital in Australia I got to know an old man who was on a ward which the nurses used to call The Last Stop Saloon. It was one of those wards where people came in but never left. Not alive anyway.

The man had diabetes. His one leg was amputated, he had pneumonia and god knows what else. The doctors' had given him a couple of months to live.

My job was to check his vitals and blood sugar several times a day. Of course this was something I had to do on several patients throughout the day, but funnily enough I can't remember any of the other patients. But I do remember him. He was from London originally. A real character. Charming and stubborn, outspoken and sometimes a pain in the bum quite frankly.

I used to wheel him outside so he could have a cigarette, or just sit with him whenever I had a chance. Listen to his stories of his life whilst making sure the head nurse wouldn't catch him eating sweets and grapes - something that really buggered his blood sugars up. I knew it wasn't good for him. Of course I did, after all I was the one checking his bloods after his binges on sweet grapes, chocolates and bon bons.

Yet I couldn't see the point of not letting him eat all that sugar. He was dying after all. A sweet or two wasn't exactly going to change that fact.

One day he said the thing he missed the most was a beer. And so the following day I brought him a stubby, wheeled him out at the back of the hospital where noone could see us and gave him the beer and a fag. And how he loved it!

I remember thinking that's how it should be. Even in hospitals. Even when people are sick or dying. And quite frankly I think it was the best day's work I've ever done.

say it like it is!

by the fridge

I find myself watching people. All the time I watch people, try and read their body language, try and eavesdrop. Listen to their stories, even if they're silent or talking to someone else but me.

I love seeing people. I love the uncertainty of who the unknown person in front of me is. Sometimes I seek eye contact. Smile at them. Sometimes I get a smile back. Other times they avoid my gaze or pretend they haven't seen me at all.

The other day I saw someone take this "seeing people" to a whole new level:

I stood in a shop trying to decide wether or not I should get an orange juice, a diet coke or simply a bottle of water. I really couldn't make my mind up, and so I stood there and opened and closed the fridge door over and over again. (Yes, this I do every now and again when shopping. Some might call me indecisive). Suddenly I got aware of someone behind me, someone who wanted to get something in the fridge and wanted me to get out of the way.

I turned around. An old, rather scruffy looking man stood behind me. It was obvious, judging from his appearance, that this man was very ill (mentally) and I apologized for standing in his way, stepped aside and let him reach for his milk. I smiled at the man, who looked away, then sternly into the floor and then nearly ran away from me.

And so I ended up behind him in the queue to the till. The shop assistant smiled at him. She asked him the usual "anything else?" and then chitchatted about the weather. The old man's posture changed. He relaxed, smiled and said "why, I'll have a hotdog as well I think". She asked him to sit down at a table, quickly took my money and then served him his hotdog. And sat down next to him. Introduced herself. Shook his hand and started telling him about her trip to Rome over the weekend. And he smiled.

I loved it. I loved the way the shop assistant took time to acknowledge the old man, and how he responded to it all. And as I walked out of the shop a woman, who had been behind me in the queue, whispered to me "isn't that the most wonderful thing you've ever seen?!" Well, perhaps not, but god damn close.

Oh yes, and I ended up buying a orange squash. In case anyone wondered.

the drunken man

Despite the stubborn cold that I can't seem to shake off I ventured out today. Had lunch with a friend and then headed into town for some shoe shopping.

At the subway, after saying goodbye to my lunch date, I saw a homeless man selling the magazine "Situation Stockholm". He approached me and asked me to buy a magazine. I checked my wallet. I had 38.-, and the magazine cost 40.-. The homeless man, who was obviously drunk (which they are not allowed to be whilst selling the paper, but hey, who am I to judge as long as they are nice to people), said it was ok.

I thanked him and gave him the 38.-. He told me to read the article about a Swedish musician on page 14. I said I would. He told me his father, despite belonging to the conservative party, really liked the musician. His father was 90 years old and still hard as nails. "He gave me hell" he continued, with a genuine look of distress in his eyes. "his wife, on the other hand" he told me "is a pillar of strengh. She is 83 years old and has put up with me, my alcoholism and my strict conservative father for all these years".

I didn't really know what to say, so I simply said  "we're all lucky to have those important people in our lives" or something like that. And as soon as I'd said my blahdiblah-nothingness big tears started to fall from his eyes. Lots of tears.

"I don't know what to do when she dies!" he cried. "She's the only one in the world who is on my side. The only one I have in my life who tries to help me."

I stood there, perplexed, and didn't know what to say or do. I also wondered why these situations with strangers always seem to happen to me? The drunken guy cried quietly and all I could think of was to give him a hug. So there I was, hugging this homeless man, getting horrified looks from bypassers. And then I thought - a little more sympathy, warmth and cuddling wouldn't go amiss in society. Would it?

she knew I knew

You know those times something sticks with you - lingers in your head long after it's happened? Something stuck with me today and I can't seem to shake it off:

I was walking around Coop today, buying some groceries. It was really empty in the shop which made me kind of aware of the other people in the shop. You know - noone in a hurry, everybody making eye contact with one another and smiling a little. Very nice indeed.

And then a couple came walking. He first, pushing a pram. She a little behind, carrying the baby in her arms. He made eye contact but didn't smile. On the contrary his eyes were ice cold as to say "don't you dare look at me. Mind your own buissness.". She avoided my eyes. Looked down into the floor. Looked petrified, as a matter of fact. She clinged on to that baby in her arms like she was scared someone would steal it.

Her one eye was swollen. Bruised black and blue. And I knew. I knew. And she knew I knew. But I didn't do anything as I had no idea of what on earth I could've said to make it better. So instead I walked on. Turned around once to see if she would do the same. But she just walked behind the man with her head facing the floor.

a simple act...

I just love this sign. It was placed on a very old tree in a garden in China:

A simple act of carelessness

leads to the eternal loss of beauty.

It goes for everything in life, doesn't it?

silence

My great uncle once did research on "silence". I remember sitting next to him at church at a relative's wedding, when he asked me to observe if there was ever any silence during our church visit. I never heard any silence... Not that you can hear silence as it is, well, silent...

I don't know whatever happened to my uncles research, and quite frankly I'm not that interested either. However, I sometimes remember his question and listen. Is there ever a time when I hear nothing?

Tonight as I was walking home from work I was amazed on how quiet it was. No busses or cars on the roads (probably due to the horrible snow chaos we've had the last few days). I met noone on my walk and the silence was wonderful. The only thing I heard was the sound from my boots crunching the snow from the weight of my body. So there was no silence after all, but it sure was a beautiful sound.

Dana redeems

When you do something wrong, do it again and do it right!
At work, I live by this. When I try and do something I will continue to seek different ways until I get it right. Giving up is never an option, and I believe trial and error is the best way of learning – in my work life as well as in my private life.

Lately I’ve been quite sentimental. This stems from going through old photo albums, kept letters and other keepsakes. And by doing so I’ve come across a few memories where I’ve acted wrong or taken a shortcut which has left things unsaid.

So I’ve gone back in time and tried to get it right. I’ve contacted a few people and said the things I should’ve said a long time ago. And even if it’s odd and makes no difference in the big picture of things it feels good to have done it.

fluttering memories

I have had a week where I’ve been more sentimental than usual. This is all to do with me deciding to visit Jersey in May. It gets me sooo excited. I can’t wait to get there.

That feeling of getting off the airplane and smelling the smell of Jersey is indescribable.

Some people say tattoos are addictive. Like nicotine and drugs. But Jersey is my drug for sure. My high. This time I might get a hire car so that I can get around the place as much as I want to, drive around like I used to.

I went through a phase of not sleeping very well. I had gotten my driver’s license a year earlier, and was a proud owner of a little Mini Mayfair. I covered the car in colourful flowers to hide the rust, and inside the car I had my wetsuit, a towel, my boogie board and a battery driven tape recorder as the car had no stereo.

The ashtray in the car was always over full, and the passenger seat full of empty cigarette packets, mixed tapes and empty diet coke cans. I always carried a bag of gym stuff in the back, as well as a change of clothes. I also kept a little bag with pens, colours and paper which I used for writing and drawing whenever I got the urge to do so. Which was very often.

The car was all I needed, and during those nights I couldn’t sleep I jumped in my little Mini (wearing nothing but my pyjamas, my slippers and a woolly jumper if it was chilly) and drove around the island. I used to drive around for a while, and stop off at Les Land where I’d sit on my favourite cliff half way down the steep rocks. There I’d have a fag and write a poem or draw some arty farty painting which were to symbolize my tortured teenage soul. Then I’d drive home again and fall asleep for a couple of hours before it was time to get up again.

It isn’t any wonder that Jersey has made such an impact on me. It’s were I grew up. It’s were I found out the meaning of freedom.

And I’m soon heading over to visit again. Ooohh, my heart flutters with excitement!