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waiting for the whoosh - badgergirl's journal

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  • Originally posted by Annieh View Post
    Those warm colours will make another lovely quilt, Badgergirl.

    I do think the bookcase is amazing, and if anyone can figure out how to turn it into a quilt, it's you.

    That Storm at Sea is pretty complex, I love that transition from white to blue.
    Hi Annie - thank you for the vote of confidence I often find that I like quilts, the complex ones - on a conceptual level, but what I want to live with are the comforting, muted, plain designs.
    I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

    Comment


    • Badger - you are so clever. I am desperately wanting to learn how to quilt, but no-one wants to learn me.................
      keep at it
      "never let the truth get in the way of a good story "

      ...small steps....

      Comment


      • Unravelling

        This is fast turning into a book club, isnt it?

        All reading is, if you subscribe in even the most light-hearted way to poststructualism, a way of reading self. As it happens, my sense of self my narrative of selfhood does not feel stable at the moment. Emigrating, motherhood, a thought-experiment affair destabilising, to say the least. I am, therefore, an unstable reader so the perspectives I bring to a text are shifting and perhaps provisional.

        In particular, my relationship with my mother is shifting. This change of interpretation began six years ago during my first lot of therapy, when the therapist (who was useful and free god love the NHS) described something I took as normal as profoundly controlling it was as if a trapdoor in the ceiling had opened up above me and the room flooded with light and fresh air. It continued to evolve when I experienced being a mother. It is currently a boggy landscape, full of unexpected water-filled pits ready to swallow the unwary.

        So it is that I am re-reading (for I read like I eat I binge) Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal. In it Winterson describes growing up adopted in a religious fundamentalist household, how that shaped her and she gives equal weight to adoption and the trauma that followed after and her struggles as an adult to form loving relationships. There are many, many parallels. Ive started underlining passages in green (to indicate agreement) with the red pen (to indicate disagreement) so far unused. Our stories are so different: hers very clearly good mother (with some reservations), bad mother (with some reservations); whereas, for me, birth mother (interestingly this is the term Winterson uses too) was/is bad mother (with one reservation) and adopted mother was/is good mother (with a few profound reservations). It strikes me now how dangerous it is to criticise ones adopted mother if youve been abandoned at the very beginning of life abandonment is always an option and love is never unquestioned or unquestioning. This, of course, might explain why I find it so hard to reach a firm conclusion about the mothering I have received.

        Adoption, or rather that first rejection, does tend to influence every relationship that follows. JW and I differ in how this plays out she attracts then rejects, whereas I tend to scare people away by giving too much its a ridiculous way of behaving and I can see myself doing it, but I can never hold back: look how intense I am! Look, Look! Im giving you my soul on a plate. Why arent you looking? Im naked! Love me. LOVE ME. Oh, youve gone. I knew you would. Everyone leaves me. Interestingly, the two people who have not been phased by this deep, instant openness are both refugees from religious extremism (as is Winterson) and as, I am slowly recognising, am I.

        I wonder if the book would be as absorbing to people who have not had similar experiences. Im very interested to hear what best friend makes of it (her parents forced her to leave home when she decided to leave their religion she was, I think, 17).
        I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

        Comment


        • Originally posted by NZ primal Gwamma View Post
          Badger - you are so clever. I am desperately wanting to learn how to quilt, but no-one wants to learn me.................
          keep at it
          I got a very basic book with some templates and just set to work. One of the little cat co-workers does all the fancy-pants rotary cutting and machine sewing - and that is beautiful - but I'm not interested in making patchwork like that. I like the manual labour of it, the spirit of grandmothers past. There's a romance for me there, clearly. Ah, also, I like making my own designs - it's an intellectual/artistic endeavour. When I make a quilt for someone it's a meditative experience - I hold them in my thoughts for every stitch. Like writing a letter or cooking a meal for someone, there's the careful selection of words/ingredients and then the assembly with the person in mind.
          Last edited by badgergirl; 04-09-2013, 08:33 PM.
          I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

          Comment


          • I agree with you 100% badger. The love, time and energy that goes into creating a gift is precious. I am the same with my knitted blankets, and I love giving. I get a wee buzz of excitment handing it over..................
            "never let the truth get in the way of a good story "

            ...small steps....

            Comment


            • A good summary of Why Be Happy in this piece.
              I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

              Comment


              • Originally posted by NZ primal Gwamma View Post
                I agree with you 100% badger. The love, time and energy that goes into creating a gift is precious. I am the same with my knitted blankets, and I love giving. I get a wee buzz of excitment handing it over..................
                Me too. The giving is the best bit - all that stored energy leaves and makes room for something else to grow.
                I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

                Comment


                • We were chatting in a lighthearted way about girls who like girls in another thread. And, hellas, I am one. I tick the bi box, no matter how often it gets me into trouble; but actually it was the boys I had to learn to love. Women, girls (when I was one), were easy to love. Not necessarily easy to be attracted to (men I tend to lust after, but be disinterested in), but very easy to love. And love, for me, equals getting naked and raw. Actually that's a dichotomy I explored (in words) with bacon man: men I appreciate groomed, women I like au natural. Who knows why*. My mother has theories about my XY phobic behaviour as a small child (all men terrified me) and I have others (that I hope aren't true). But then my mother has fruit-loop theories about same-sex attraction (involving past lives) and orgasms (the same whoever you have them with) so I have discounted her as an unreliable witness.

                  *I was in a Northampton, MA coffee shop and the barista was wearing a tank top. She didn't shave. Watching her go about her trade held the same erotic charge as so many men find in watching Sharon Stone cross and uncross her legs with basic instinct. That unmediated, careless reveal of an intimate body part...I took my coffee with half and half.
                  Last edited by badgergirl; 04-11-2013, 03:26 AM.
                  I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

                  Comment


                  • Why we are attracted sexually to one and/or other - I do not know.
                    But if that barista was wearing a loincloth filled with the jewels of the nile - Gwamma would be in !!!!!!!!!
                    ...........Badger we are here for such a short time - get into all the trouble you want......................and enjoy !!!!!!!!
                    "never let the truth get in the way of a good story "

                    ...small steps....

                    Comment


                    • watch it, gwamma, I *will* snog you with intent! (I have no boundaries: you-me = all the same). Seriously, I have to be hosed down sometimes. And where is baconman these days? He promised so much and delivered so little. It's been nearly two weeks since I last prostrated myself at his altar (and a month or more since he tasted my chalice) AND I MISS HIM. As Gwamma would say: DRAMA.
                      I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

                      Comment


                      • actually its Leah Hart who says that one. Google him - he is a really funny Kiwi guy..........................
                        remind me who bacon man is ?????????
                        "never let the truth get in the way of a good story "

                        ...small steps....

                        Comment


                        • Bacon man is mainly an imaginary friend these days. Once upon a time he was a real person who I met via MDA and hoped to have an affair with because life was bleak and I wanted a ray of sunshine, some DRAMA and excitement. He is good at disappearing and I think this time he's really gone for good - to the Northern Territory, indeed. He brought out all my craziness and I loved that, but he understandably thought I was crazier than a basket of addled adders. Husband is a long-suffering saint. Well, mostly, he's had his darknesses and failings too.
                          I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

                          Comment


                          • Oh Badger hugs !!!! - yay for phigments of our imagination...................
                            "never let the truth get in the way of a good story "

                            ...small steps....

                            Comment


                            • Potted history

                              My marriage is a good one. Truly. But it is hard. Husband and I both bring entire moving trucks full of baggage to the party and we often struggle with clinical depression and suicidal thoughts. My background has already been briefly outlined and no doubt will be examined again, husband grew up in an unstable and rigidly enforced police state with too many siblings, not enough money and GOD invoked in all things. There were frequent beatings.

                              We met. We fell in love. We moved in together very quickly. Husband is often a rock, my rock, in a storm. He's never been daunted, or if he has he's carried on despite it, by my need for total reassurance and impulse to push boundaries. He's supportive. He's generous. He's calm.

                              We don't share much in the way of interests and our creative endeavours leave each other cold. This is a huge sadness.

                              We'd been together about nine months when he lost his job and with it his visa to stay in the UK. We got married about five months later, when every other possible avenue had turned into a dead end. I was a visa bride. Husband fell off a cliff when he lost his job and, while he has climbed up sheer cliff faces a number of times in the ten years since, he's never found his way back to solid ground.

                              There have been years where he has retrained, twice now, and I have supported us both. I also pushed to get us the flat, husband hadn't wanted to buy, but I forced the issue. There have been short periods of working, long periods of working and short and long periods of not working. This is one of the longest. He's doing okay at the moment, but I worry. And, truthfully, I resent.

                              At his worst - about seven years ago - he was a zombie of himself. He used to shuffle. He stopped washing. He begged me to push him in front of a train. Eventually, I told him 'sign on for benefits and get antidepressants/help or I'm throwing you out and getting a divorce' even though that would have meant making him homeless. He got therapy. He got medication. He got better. I got worse. I took a knife to my arms and husband dragged me to casualty. I got therapy. And Prozac.

                              He got a great job. He won an Oscar and a Bafta. We were riding high. We paid off all the debts we had accrued during the hard times.

                              Life was wonderful. I came off Prozac. I fell pregnant. Had our baby in the best labour ever. Husband stopped his meds when we came home from hospital.

                              Life was still wonderful. Hard, but wonderful (months 3-8 were fantastic - once I'd got over mastitis and all that new baby terror).

                              Husband was working on a new project at the company that wasn't as happy as the Oscar-winning one had been. So, when the call came - do you want to move to Sydney and work for a different Oscar-winning place? Well, it seemed a no-brainer. Our thoughts were focused by the knife crime on our doorstep and the fact that we were two adults, a baby and a dog in a small one-bedroom flat with no garden (when we bought it four adults had been living there - the mind boggles).

                              It was the worst decision we have ever made. And I have never recovered.
                              I like badgers, books and booze, more or less in that order.

                              Comment


                              • not recovered because you do not like Australia??????? too far from the motherland ?????? to many changes too soon ??????
                                "never let the truth get in the way of a good story "

                                ...small steps....

                                Comment

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