the waning moon
discharges jasmine-rays over
cosmic amniotic dice
perhaps we will find
her one day, gazing toward
an endless sea
endless stars
endless questions
for eternal unshaven answers
i think i see you now perhaps, it is too late
Tag: writing
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I spit the last of my teeth into my palms
and pry them from crimson gums,
trembling hands cup them in d e s p e r a t i o n
offering payment to the muse.
my mind trudges as slowly as a frozen screen— but i
tap and tap and tap
and tap and tap
and tap and tap
and scream through clenched teeth.
i hear about meteorite showers and howling winds,
aurora australis and
fairy wrens in the garden,
dolphins in the bay and
my father brings me home shells
but i never see
or see
or see
my muse. She wounds me, flirts with me.
the paranoia of not writing quick enough
grows beneath my finger nails and nail-prints
embed themselves into my palms
I can feel something inside me changing
and I’m terrified it will disappear.
she dangles fleeting thoughts but I would
sooner swallow the sun than beg
for a star. This fire inside me burns like hell
and to hell with waiting, what if she never takes over?
what if she does? -
There is something about the afternoon hour which drowns
me in feeling–it is cadmium yellow and saccharine, it clings to my teeth
nectar-thick and
this shit will rot me to my core, i think
right.down.to.the.root.
nostalgia hits me like a blow–dandelion tuffs trail bubbles
like will-o-wisps–but i welcome the memory with
masochistic palms, split open and bleeding
it grieves me and
weeps out of me and i burn with the high of golden hour
my hair is strawberry blonde because i absorb
all of the light. it consumes my very being and gods do i relish
the tenderness of a sunburn
i offer myself to this inferno. spike my innocence to a stake. just
as long as i can feel the sun
let me re-create scenarios and I’ll live in them forever
this shit will rot me to my core, i think
nothing tastes as sweet as sentimentality. -
~Just my silly internal monologue whilst reading Virginia Woolf’s essay, “A Room of One’s Own” (1929). Here, have some thoughts, do with them what you will. I hate everything xx
I sit here and ponder alongside Virginia Woolf, and I wonder about the women of the Shakespearean century. I think of how discouraged those women must have been. What her life might’ve looked like, indeed. If she were creative. I think about the madness that would have manifested as a result of her confinement. I think about the room I reside in right now. My bed, which I sit upon. The golden light of the afternoon sun warms my rapid fingers as I type and type and backspace. I think about the privileges I have been given. The rights I have lost. I think about how unfair it seems, that now we are allowed to dream, we are still punished for it.
When once, the art of dreaming. The art of thinking, questioning and curiosity were celebrated– held in the highest esteem. How the highest order of education is a doctorate in philosophy. Philosophy. Glorified overthinkers. I think about how unfair it is, that the moment we could write, if even “semi-freely,” it was no longer regarded as brilliance or intelligence. I think of how we are now reprimanded for doing the work of scholars so long ago. I think of how angry they were, when they realized perhaps we could do it better. I think of how angry they still are. How it has burned through centuries. How we have burned because of it. And perhaps this fear, if a better substitute for anger in this instance, led them to commit such atrocities. They took our names (they took more than our names). They called us hysterical, emotional, incongruous.
Maybe it is our fault that we let them (why do we take false accountability all the time?). It is no wonder women are so good at writing romance and fiction. It is their disposition to be such things. Emotional and without logic or reason, it is surely an unfair advantage they have, and not at all a reflection of [their/men/you can’t group all men like that, Maddie] own inferiority. Masterful magick a looking glass can be. I consider who we laminate as some of the “greats.” I consider that we still continue to regard these men (who some, were mediocre at best) with these labels, and with such certainty. I think about how this will likely never change. And I myself, are angry. Very. fucking angry.
That my confessionals are regarded as nothing more than childish. But Rousseau is regarded with such awe. As though my ‘big thoughts’ can never possibly be as loud as any mans. As though I will forever be an inarticulate wench, incapable of thinking anything worth the slightest test of pause. Of consideration. As if, nothing I can ever say will inspire such a change in thinking. And I am angry, too. I am angry that I am now granted a room. And yet, I have no use for it. I am granted a room. And I am confined to it. I am now granted a room, but the language is dead.
How Woolf would shake with violence at my naivety. How she would tear apart my mediocrity and tell me I have disgraced her name. But I would deserve it. For I have taken for granted the room she has given me. But does she realize that without the pressing need for a room, there is no pressing need for my voice? One will always create a room should she need one. And currently, I do not. At least, not in a way that is as life-altering as others. Everybody needs a room. But not everybody knows how to occupy the space. Not everyone is aware of how to continue to fill the room, without glimpsing somebody else’s, and seeing that theirs is better. Perhaps more stylish. Modern.
My room is littered with scraps of frivolous anger. No real action. Perhaps they are right, and I am nothing but emotional, hysterical, incongruous. Perhaps I am nothing at all.
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There is something so familiar about the smell of pollen in summer. The gentle tickling of the wind on my skin. The way the golden afternoon hour makes time slow down. My heart longing for more. The grass and the trees and the vibrancy of the world stirs something inside me. Coaxes it gently. Softly sets it free. Unshackled. Unbound. I move through the world, and the world moves through me. My lungs are full of air. Fresh, aching breath. And I don’t know how to describe this feeling but
I Am Alive.
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~A short [unedited and unfinished] manifesto detailing my writing process, written one cold Winter Solstice afternoon with friends.
Why do they want me to write a manifesto?
do they not know I am incapable of producing anything with merit? I used to write creatively all the time- to escape, to express. perhaps for the same reasons I would draw (to some degree anyhow). I think I just wanted to be like my dad. and impress. but the truth is that I don’t have the language in my arsenal to articulate how I feel. What I mean to say is… I’m blank.
There is nothing inside me.
To be frank, I’m scared. of not being good enough. original. of not having the words. im terrified of getting it wrong. You know what motivates me to write? the deadline. but even that is untrue. I wait until the very last moment to self-sabotage. if its bad, then I know why. if I fail, I know it’s because 100% of my efforts were not there.
Sometimes I think I feel the world too deeply.
and at times like this where I wish I could feel anything at all, there is nothing. n u m b. I stare at the mirror and it is e m p t y. I can’t tickle my soul. I can’t get inside my psyche. Am I protecting myself? Why can’t I be vulnerable, and with the company of others? I look at their work and I am not jealous. I don’t NOT write because I’m worried I can’t write as good as them. That is just fact. And one which I am simply okay with. Their beauty inspires me. Their writing moves me. And I would much rather be affected by somebody else’s words than my own. Perhaps there is too much self-deprecation. I know I’m not awful… I must have some kind of talent? Perhaps. I used to think hand-writing was easier. Could help chaotically get the ideas out. Scribbling-scrawls-scritch-scratch-getting anything-and-everything out-on-the-page attack that stupid [insert word] white space. write and then re-write. Start a new page; a new document. Because it is too chaotic. Because I cannot think, cannot [insert word here, Maddie] focus. The page cannot contain my thoughts in its entirety. I cannot make sense of the polished and unpolished occupying the same space.
I watch the wooden panels on the wall, the Pinterest-cosy-Instagram experience unfolding around me. The House of Wind. But is it my reality? I am sad and numb and angry and grateful and I feel gross and inadequate and alive and pins pricking needles. Path of pins or path of needles? I need to explore that liminal space- I need to write that ‘play’ into existence. That fantastical, magical, marvelous space. Healing that inner child who wanted to escape, escape, and escape. I wish my mind was made of honey-suckle or razor thorns, but it is muddy water. Have a taste and choke back salt and bile or gurgled gargled sea-water ocean expelling from the nose.
Drowning is never peaceful.
I want to live my life like a Studio Ghibli movie. I want to write like how When Marnie Was There feels. Familiar. Nostalgic. Other. But instead it’s like Dork Diaries or Mortified. Simple. Boring. Clichéd. It’s not whimsical like I’ll Give You The Sun, or entrancing like ACOTAR. It’s probably like Twisted Love. Just actual trash. Idk. Again, the self-deprecation. I want to write about everything but I just can’t. There is a literal block. I’m just stuck and stuck and stuck and bound and claustrophobic.
There is much anguish in my soul.
I remember early in high school what I used to write. I would be so descriptive and metaphorical. Allegorical and symbolic. Like they aren’t the same thing anyway… and then one day I just stopped. All the words fell out of my head. I’m not sure if this blank, simplistic voice is mine. I don’t think I’ve found my voice yet. My style. I don’t think I’ll ever have one, Barthes says I don’t, so it must be true. One day I decided that I didn’t need all the superfluous words to express myself anymore, I just wanted to get to the point. But now I don’t know how to go back. I have never felt so at home with writing and so lost within myself, I thought I had done some major soul searching already. I’m not ready to do it again. I don’t want to dip my toes in or jump [head- fingers-tips] first. I want to stare at the wall and pretend I’ve done all these things. I want to look at old photos and be transported back— I
I want to be alive in everything. Why can’t I write fast enough? It hurts. I can’t describe how much it physically aches. I can’t type fast enough either. It’s like a slow-motion fever dream. A flashback. I am suspended outside my body. Third-person. Focalisation. I bite my cheek. My hand cramps from the grip of my pen. Yet still it is not quick enough. It never will be. So I stop before it starts.
My mind is the tortured soul of a terrible poet. Why is that clock all of a sudden so loud with its rhythmic tick tick tick. The crocodile in peter pan. The crocodile school report. No comment.
My toes are cold. I hate that.
How do I write? With the idea that every word is impossible and I must shred apart my soul to get anything down. My writing is not a kind process for me. Not sure it’s even intuitive. It’s not always like breathing. I write down words that I think are beautiful, so that I don’t forget them, and maybe one day somebody will keep my own, too.
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I smile with the grace of butterfly wings
a gentle flutter
and though the wind offers me a soft caress,
I cannot help but shiver in its cool embrace
baby hairs tickle my nose and forehead
but I do not move them away.
I watch the world spin through the clouds
and so I swing higher and higher
I am awake, yet also asleep.
And even though I normally enjoy the sun’s
sweet buttery kiss
I almost wish it would go away
so the gnawing sickness in my stomach
would feel at home amongst the
overcast sky and
the world would be slow and still
and I would be able to die.
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Image produced by yours truly. Location: Halls Gap, Victoria. I found an Overland article some time ago called ‘The Wildness of Girlhood’ (2019) by Bonnie Mary Liston. This article was able to capture experiences I could only dream of describing. She writes;
“There is a period in many little girls’ lives, around the age of ten, where they go completely wild. Not in the sense of Girls Gone Wild, which depressingly clogs up the search results, but in the most natural sense of the word – feral and free.
Not every little girl experiences this at the same time. Not every little girl experiences this at all, and some little girls don’t get to be girls when they are little – womankind is not a monolith – but enough, I think, would recognise this phenomenon. I’m talking about the girls who become obsessed with horses, or wolves, or witches, and who knew themselves to be wild creatures like those. They vanish outdoors, hiding in trees, sticking their hands in the dirt, making potions from mud and sticks. They escape into complex worlds of their own imagining, shared between other little girls or solitary kingdoms.”
Liston B M (2019) The wildness of girlhood, Overland <https://overland.org.au/2019/07/the-wildness-of-girlhood/>There is something raw about this idea of girlhood. A connectedness, a phenomenon as she calls it, which speaks to some kind of universal truth. Ideas surrounding gender, girlhood and sexuality are under constant construction, and will remain so indefinitely. But why do we skim over this period of girlhood?
“she stands on the threshold of red wellies
Memoli (2023)
left outside the back door…”
Memoli M (2023) Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing: Reframing Girlhood and Sexuality within Contemporary Revisions of Little Red Riding HoodA snippet from Chapter Two’s (of my thesis) introductory poem. We wear our wellies to splash in puddles and play outside. We stomp through the water with our gumboots- berries and rocks and flowers stashed in coat pockets too big for our baby bird bodies. It is a particular kind of nostalgia- the transformative aspect of growing up, from young girl, to young woman. The colour of the wellies, red; a visceral and phallic kind of symbolism, alluding to ones first menstrual bleeding, marking the beginning of womanhood (or does it?). The wellies have been left outside the back door, never to be worn again. One day we stopped going outside to play. why?
I ponder how we can describe childhood innocence without triggering the terms’ previous assumptions and connotations. By this I mean, when we think of ‘innocence,’ particularly in the context of ‘children,’ we are likely to think of them alongside terms and phrases such as; naïve, ignorant, ‘sexual innocence.’ ingenuous, trusting, purity, unspoiled, curiosity, wonder, adventurous, a lack of ‘corruption’ or ‘experience.’ In some ways we think of this negatively, particularly growing older, where we are ‘too innocent’ or ‘too naïve for the real world.’ We must have this ingenuous nature beaten out of us before we are eaten alive. We will not survive in the real world. You do not get anywhere by being kind, and believing the best of people. You should not smile. Give us a smile, love.
But I think perhaps we overlook this liberating wildness; this savage, unapologetic and raw curiosity. The spark for living. I believe it is a strength we bury through metamorphosis. The cocoon of puberty and societal expectations. Perhaps some rediscover this power later in life, when we are too old to care or be bound by invisible strings and negative self-beliefs. The world often feels like the wrong-sized shoe in our young adult years but perhaps we were always meant to run barefoot?
“We age out of wildness and straight in puberty, where our anger is on ourselves, and our bodies, and our mothers, and I don’t know what else. We’re part of the world again, and sometimes we forget being wild altogether, and sometimes we remember it fondly like Cathy in Wuthering Heights, as something we cannot recapture: an innocence killed by the stressful minutiae of adulthood.”
Liston B M (2019) The wildness of girlhood, Overland <https://overland.org.au/2019/07/the-wildness-of-girlhood/>Oh how I wish I could embrace my inner wild child once more. Instead I cling to the anger of being forced to let her go. Raging against the rules that broke down my spirit piece by piece. That forced me into wearing dresses and brushing my hair. That taught me I could not embrace my femininity as a power, a strength. Maybe I needed the new Barbie movie when I was younger- to guide my restless, aching heart. I longed for the freedom of the outdoors, the wind on my skin, flying and tumbling and scraping knees. Before broken bones taught us to be cautious. I want to embrace the world like I have never been hurt before. With a recklessness that could level mountains. A passion to rival the seas. A fiery self-belief that is louder than the roaring wind. Perhaps I crave a return to nature, but what is nature? What is our nature?
“I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free. Why am I so changed? I’m sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills.”
Bronte E (1847) Wuthering Heights, Transatlantic Press, 138I wonder if we will ever be able to reclaim such things, so freely? To reclaim a kind of autonomy which contributes to all freedoms? Not just sexual ‘wildness’ and ‘freedom,’ but to acknowledge the power of one’s wayward fairy-tale. To be a wolf in the woods. To wander and wonder.
“Her mother told her
Gill N (2018) Fierce Fairy Tales & Other Stories to Stir Your Soul, Trapeze, London, 29.
she could grow up to be
anything she wanted to be,
so she grew up to become
the strongest of the strong,
the strangest of the strange,
the wildest of the wild,
the wolf leading the wolves.”To all the wild girls out there, do not just stray from the path, obliterate it.
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We’re All Scared of Something, Aren’t We?
I’d be lying if I said that I remember the very FIRST instance when I realised I had a phobia. I do however, recall some of the incidents that contribute(d) to my fear. When I was younger (yeah, I was a pick-me, and I cringe every time I think about it), I was adamant about being the person who scoffed at arachnophobia (fear of spiders), acrophobia (fear of heights), claustrophobia (fear of enclosed spaces) and even coulrophobia (fear of clowns). Though I understood these fears had some merit as an instinctual survival response, I thought there was weakness and vulnerability in those fears, so I desensitized myself. That was until I realised I had developed the wackiest, most illogical phobia myself…
- The Viewing of the Body
I was at the Melbourne museum with my mum and dad, or was it with school? I honestly could not tell you. It seemed like we went every damn weekend. But as a child, my conception of time was not that reliable, so of course, we did not. Going through exhibits, I was particularly interested in Pompeii and the Dinosaurs (oh god, the dinosaurs! But that’s a story for another day). We (whoever ‘we’ were) had come across the marine-life section, and that’s when I saw the spine-shivering, vomit-inducing, nightmare-worthy colossal freaking squid, waiting for me to creep close enough so it could break free from its icy glass chamber and devour me alive. I can’t remember if I screamed the first time I saw it there, or if I was so stuck in my ‘freeze’ survival response that I remained nothing more than a useless, gaping statue. I DO remember screaming what I believe was the second time- when I went with my high school in Year 7. I decided to face up to it, thinking that it wouldn’t be as bad as I remembered, that lil’ 8-year-old me was just overdramatic. But I was so fucking wrong. Screaming. Crying. Throwing up.
accurate representation of yours truly - The Dream
Well now, THIS is the one that I will never shake because it is one of the most vivid memories I have. Just a bit of FYI first, I am notorious for having the most stupid and oddly detailed dreams, and this is one of the milder (milder for the audience, this dream messed me up) ones. Over the years, details have slipped, but there are things I am still certain of.
FACT #1: My dad, brother and I were exploring a large cave. This cave was covered head-to-toe in amethyst and quartz. Completely illuminated. To our left was the entrance of the cave which was covered in ice and icicles because for some reason we were in the artic. To our right was a large body of water inside the cave.
FACT #2: While examining the crystals, we must have triggered a signal, because a Kraken had appeared from the water. I remember the tip of its head reaching the top of the cave (which was extremely tall).
FACT #3: This all occurred at night. I don’t know why this is an important detail, perhaps the darkness and the fear of the unknown and being trapped all merged together?
FACT #4: This thing was hideous. A sickly grey/purple colour with tentacles that had begun flaking from being in slumber for so long. I think part of the Kraken’s curse involved the crystals prolonging its life, which is why touching the crystal was a bad idea.
FACT #5: I don’t remember how, but we left the cave and attempted to escape on a small row boat. But with the flick of a tentacle, my baby brother had been pulled to the depths of the ocean. My dad jumped in to save him, but the Kraken had some strange mythical powers, because it had turned both my brother and dad into large yellow fish with piranha-like mouths. I was trapped, alone with a monster, and had lost my family.
FACT #6: This is how the dream ends. I can’t even begin to describe the way I felt after that dream, but it’s been burned into my memory for the longest time.
- The Instagram Newsfeed Conspiracy
This is quite funny actually, ironic even. I’m sure as we know by now, my phobia is chapodiphobia (fear of octopuses, and to be honest I almost went into cardiac arrest at the images that popped up when I had to search for my phobia’s actual name). The Instagram Newsfeed conspiracy is just that. I had a week, as in SEVEN CONSECUTIVE DAYS of octopus-related content on my Instagram feed, unprompted! There is no way that my feed would automatically show them, because I actively avoid anything octopus-related, of course. So there’s no ‘since you liked this, you may like this’ situation. The conspiracy is this; they are *always* listening, and whoever was, decided it would be hilarious to scare the crap out of me every time I scrolled on my feed. There is one particular incident that stood out to me the most. I had tapped on those 3D videos where the animal interacts with the page, marvelling at the whales swimming toward me when great pink tentacles thrash toward the screen and next thing I know, I’ve lost my grip and the phone has fallen flush on my face. I began crying, not just because it freaking hurt, but because I was also terrified. I ended up calling my boyfriend hysterical- questioning why I had such a strong reaction to it. Looking back now I also think I overreacted, but this is the thing with phobias, you can’t control your reaction. It’s reflexive, because your brain/body are certain you’re in danger. So while it’s easy for me to scoff at my former self, I know that if I were showed an octopus right now, I would react in very much the same way.
Yes, yes, why haven’t I done anything about this fear yet if its so serious? I’ll explain below…
Growing up I was never in an environment where this fear significantly impacted my everyday life. As I’ve grown older, the likelihood of interacting with an octopus or squid has significantly increased. For one, I now adore the water, and one of my favourite past times is swimming at the beach in summer. My partner is also studying to be a Marine Scientist, and I have already been scared too many times just by walking in on Zoom lectures. Soooo yes, something is going to have to change for me soon. I did once talk to a therapist about this phobia… she thought my fear may have a symbolic association, rather than the actual animal itself. But I’m not quite ready to delve into whatever THAT trauma is yet.
I’ve also tried some backyard exposure therapy (ET) with some friends–systematic desensitisation, where the phobia is repeatedly exposed to the client (ahem, me). It usually begins with small exposure steps, from drawings to more detailed pictures, and even videos. Eventually, your brain will begin to recondition your connection with that stimulus (fear), so that when you are exposed to it your body will not automatically kick into survival mode. In some cases, this results in complete desensitisation, where the person no longer fears the thing at all. But no matter how many times I’ve tried this and active mindfulness, I haven’t been able to ‘fix’ myself. The next stage of ET is typically ‘flooding’, but seeing as that involves direct exposure and interaction, I don’t think I’m going to have a counsellor or anyone else give me an octopus any time soon (looking at you Marine Sciencer, don’t you dare).
Regardless, nobody really knows why we have phobias, particularly in my case where it makes no discernible sense! One does not always have to directly experience a traumatic event to develop the phobia (For example, your mum may have been mauled by a dog as a child, and growing up hearing the story, you now too have this intense fear even though you didn’t directly experience it). On this note however, I’d like to add that phobias have the ability to become “extinct.” That is, where one UNLEARNS a conditioned response (i.e. phobias; learning to no longer be scared of something). Hence, we DO possess the capacity to triumph over even the most extreme fears. Phobias do not need to be permanent, or detrimentally affect our lives. So perhaps there is hope for me yet…
(SIDE NOTE: I would also like to note that all of the Psychology-based information, was knowledge derived from my Bachelor’s University textbooks and learning materials. I do not wish to promote false information in any way)
This creative non-fiction was submitted for an assignment during my first-year creative writing class, and has been edited slightly for the purpose of this post.
That Girl Books 