Brooklyn (the film) - adventure is something, and nothing.

I haven’t written about a film, or a play, or a book in ages cos YA BOO it’s all been about me. Aaaaagh boys, or aaaaah work is going too well, or WOAH I got a tattoo (did anyone else ever get a tattoo?)

Obviously priority blogs in the wings are still ‘that thing he said on tinder’ or ‘god I need to delete tinder’ but for now, here’s a little culture ponder.

Brooklyn had a really shit poster so I didn't go see it when it came out. I was wrong not to - it’s a beautiful piece of storytelling. Following Ellis Lacey (the irrefutable Saoirse Ronan) moving to New York from a tiny town in South East Ireland. Now (2010’s) the town has a population of 10,000, then, less. So it’s small. The whole place is painted as a petri dish of gossip and power play – like the day after the office party every day of the year.

The magic of this film is its subtlety and warmth. Ellis has been sponsored to move to New York as her sister recognizes she's set for bigger things and applies for her sponsorship. There is never any shoehorned narrative where she is shown as ‘being clever’ – it’s just a fact. So often when female characters are placed at the centre of a narrative, any intelligence, wit, awareness are blasted at the viewer – not here. She can just be.

To see a female character presented like this means two things to me. One, we can watch women boss it and own screen time apropos of nothing. And two, the lack of aggression in the film towards her failing means we’re now allowed to watch multifaceted women on screen and nominate them for Oscars. By lack of aggression, I refer to her stern manager at her department store in Brooklyn allowing her to take a break when her homesickness is rendering her incapable to work; her sponsor (YAY JIM BROADBENT) signing her up for book keeping classes without a hint of drama at the fact she will be the only woman in the class.

The dilemma and reality of having two homes – one’s heart in two places is explored. She is a natural happy fit for Brooklyn – but the town she was born in now feels available to her as she can see it for what it is. It does help that she spends a fair bit of time with Domhnall Gleeson, hubba hubba, when she’s back at home. We all would. KIDDING. Not kidding.

I have always said home is where I am. I'm a home whore. I could go back to Bristol now and I still get tingles when I walk past places that my wee self spent time in. I could go to Birkenhead (it’s been a while) and I’m sure I’ll get a rush of nostalgia, and things will feel familiar, I could go back to Kent and roll my eyes at the skinny side-eye and awful hair but I know I would be in good company. I could go to Adelaide and walk in the front door of the Porter St Mansion and know I’m home. The thing is, we choose where we want to be, who we want to be with. To watch a girl in the 50s owning that – suffer the loneliness, fear and then look forward is inspiring to me. Watching her endure the earth shattering physical pain of being separated from the people she loves, makes me feel like we should all be a little less scared of what adventure means – and all without getting on a massive boat for weeks and weeks cos we prefer burning dem fossil fuels up high in the sky.

My first tattoo and the house of mirrors...

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This week I got my first tattoo. Infact my wrist is a little sore as I type; she’s about 24 hours old now.

Here’s the thing. It’s difficult daily to own your own body and compete. Being a woman and getting it right is more complicated than a genius Sudoku. Tick this box, don’t touch that box, look this way, oooooh you doin’ that guuurrrl?

The new dating lexicon we’re speaking – you can swipe and destroy or dance round someone you quite like for fear of making the wrong call in front of your peers. We judge constantly. It’s tough. It’s like being stuck in a house of mirrors – how are we ever supposed to know what’s real? It’s bloody exhausting.

I met my tattooist for a drink and we talked about what I wanted. He doesn’t do many first timers – but we hit it off. I also, had this feeling, which I struggle with in new interactions, of not having to be a yes person. When he suggested something I didn’t like – I went for an alternative, when I had an idea he didn’t like – same. We collaborated.

He slotted me in for the following morning – and as I sat talking about 90s indie music surrounded by drawings, patterns and ideas for other people’s tattoos it felt right. I had less anxiety than when I last had to choose between sandwich and salad.

We struggle constantly with how to be in the world. From an ignored text, or a missed date, or the insanity of getting assaulted in the street by a stranger. Exhausted by our family’s ideas for us, tired by the constant darkness in the news, worried about how we change things. We only own one thing – our bodies.

As a new friend, hours earlier a perfect stranger marked my skin permanently with black ink, and listened to me chatting away without judgment, I knew this was one step for me to own my own body. Cos it’s with this body I’m going to make changes for others and achieve everything I feel I need to – so I choose what goes into it, what goes on it – even if I can’t control what other people think of it. 

reads like a four.... #freshink #firstink #tattoo #newtattoo #shizzle #tatts #firsttime #adelaide #australia #happybunny

A photo posted by Miriam (@strawberryplantlive) on Mar 4, 2016 at 6:44pm PST

Sometimes the water isn’t that deep and we smash our face off and all our teeth fall out and our nose is broken.

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Several times this year I have heard how our experience of time changes as you get older. It’s not a figment of our imagination. Once in comparison to my nephew (the little star) and how as he has only a few months behind him the learning and experiences stretch each day out to an exhausting endlessness (not for him, he bloody loves it.) For us… our experience of life slows as the ‘new’ is just less often. I’m pretty sure I don’t fit into this category. I’m like a bloody four year old.

One thing I’ve learned, through physical accidents, from falling off waterfalls, crashing my bike, tripping up stairs (as I’m too excited to be up said stairs) to massive wins; successfully navigating a ten foot fence in five inch heels again and again, not falling off my bike most of the time, is that I like to move at a certain pace. That pace needs to include lots of new scary things to distract me from the reality of being alive. KIDDING. I’m just wired that way. GO GO GO.

Take accidents in love. Things are more invigorating when you take a risk and jump in face first. Sometimes the water isn’t that deep and we smash our face off and all our teeth fall out and our nose is broken. But sometimes it’s a freeking beautiful natural pool and you have a lovely splash and a swim and feel all alive.

In 2016 I turn 30. All old and that. I’m very excited about being 30. When I was about 25 a very brilliant theatre producer told me to just lie about my age when people weren’t taking me seriously – so I have on and off for the last five years. Now I feel like I can own my age. I wanted to be an adult since I was about eight years old, and here I am with the sage and sass of a seven year old in a dance competition. Winning on my terms. Cutting terrible shapes.

I have no plans to change now… as I storm into the next decade Imma just own it, imagine I got the minnie mouse leotard I always wanted (imagine it fits) smear some lipstick on my teeth and grab those moves with both hands. Let’s dance.

DECK THE HALLS! Drunk or not drunk, no woman is any kind of ‘game’

The Christmas do. A yearly occurrence for most of the employed of the UK – and seemingly a grim time of year for women. YAY!

Pub. Friday. We were not on a Christmas night out. A large group of drunk office workers started to make themselves known. Standing on stools to sing along to the jukebox, falling over each other, dominating the space. Men in suits, women dressed up for a night out. A man at the bar half stood on me, half leant on me. When I asked him not to stand on me, he looked surprised there was a person there at all, and did step off me. He was so drunk he had literally not seen me.

We all got on with our respective nights out. Later, we were all distracted when a woman, in tears, was rooted to her spot by a colleague leaning one arm over her shoulder onto the wall. It was so uncomfortable to watch, he was drunk, sweaty and leery and there was something so wrong about it. Why did he need to take such a domineering stance? One of my friends went over under the guise of going to the toilet, stepped between them and asked if she was ok. She was and thanked my mate; he was annoyed she was ‘interfering’. Back at our seats, two men had now descended on the girl, and she wouldn’t have been able to move without pushing them out her way. We kept her within sight and made it clear if she wasn’t ok she was to let us know. No one else from the same night out noticed.

Eventually, she did try to move, she wanted to get her bag from across the pub. The men restrained her, not with much force, but enough. My turn. I got up and explained I would feel more confortable if this lady was allowed to get her bag. Once she had her bag, I said I would be happy to leave them to their night.

Small things I know. Anyway – it escalated. Several of the men used their unspent testosterone (boke) asking me why I interfered, and trying to start a fight with the guys in our group. We left the pub a short while later feeling like vigilantes having seen the girl in the centre of the prey party go home with a female colleague. The story of the scuffle had already become legend in the men's toilet.

I am not apologising for what happened. Nor will anyone else I was in the pub with. I do consider people might ask ‘why get involved’ – but I know exactly why we did. We were watching what could have been a mate, sister, hells - a work colleague being coerced when vulnerable, and I hope to buggary if the same thing ever happens to me, someone else will be there to give me the opportunity to escape it. 

I wasn’t going to write about this. But then I came across this in the guardian today and it chilled me to the core. The very idea that the men on Saturday night could not see clearly when we intervened that their behavior was unacceptable speaks volumes. Drunk or not drunk, no woman is any kind of ‘game’ and if I see you in public treating her like she is, every fucking time, I’m going to get involved.

I think there’s something stupid about moaning about the inevitability of getting older (I mean, but yes, things get scarier)

I got really annoyed this week at a feminist commentator asking people to stop referencing the fact she heading towards her 30th. She’s younger than me (and Gaga with whom I share a birthday week) and it was the first time someone moaning about turning 30 annoyed me. Cos, ok, each new decade is a right of passage. BUT one: you’re in the public eye people are going to know your age. And two: own it, and don’t say with one breath 'will people stop mentioning I’m 30 it’s not a big deal' and with the next say, 'actually turning 30 is a feminist issue as being 30 is so different for women than for men'. GAH.

I think there’s something stupid about moaning about the inevitability of getting older, boo fucking hoo. I mean yes things get scarier – will I have kids – will I meet someone who is sexually and intellectually fulfilling – will work be ok – why does everything I read in the news break my heart – will everyone realize I’m a fraud – will I get a dog – is it necessary for my periods to reach levels of world ending pain – am I ever going to stop pretending I may one day be a Blue Peter presenter? But hey there are questions all the time about everything. They only get more urgent if we allow them too. There’s a solution to every problem and sometimes it’s the solution we least expect.

And all this with a pinch of the LOL salt – as I’m still not very old at all. But things are changing… some are magic, some are a bag of balls. My cheekbones have appeared, they are now right there on my face not hidden beneath two inches of puppy fat – bones generally seem to be appearing, collarbones, knee bones, hand bones, shin bones. BONES. I am strong. I feel strong and aware of my body, I’m ‘devil may care on my bike’ as a boy told me last week. But I can balance on high things, and do that stand up from being on my toes dirty dance thing, and do a whole gym class without feeling dizzy. I feel like if I wanted to, I could try a cartwheel. (I won't, I'll damage myself. BUT I COULD)

I can recall songs in pub quiz rounds, this is a whole new skill – I have a huge encyclopedia of brain pop but have never been good at recalling it. I am now.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and feel like I’d like to wear a balaclava until the day I die. But more often than not I’m kinda cool with what I see. I joke ‘I only need to lose weight for the people that look at me’ and I mean it, as far as I’m concerned, what I got ain't bad. It does walking and talking and my hair is fucking cool.

Older men and younger men flirt with me. LOLZ. Silver foxes and gorgeous twenty year olds with loads of hair. Some men still find me terrifying; these men now make me laugh. Some women find me terrifying; and I want to be friends with them so I try, and don’t worry when I don’t succeed.

Look. Things can be rubbish, really rubbish, but getting annoyed with people for merely recognising AGE as a thing is plain silly. I’m NEARLY 30 and I'm saying ain’t nobody got time for that.

It must be so difficult when you're a sexy young man and your girl is just causing problems by being alive

What do you mean.

A phrase often employed to find out what, exactly, someone is referring to. But more recently a lyric, set to music, performed by a young Canadian laddy who has also taken to getting naked on balconies. Said Canadian has legions of followers on twitter, over 68 million, 73 million on facebook and his fansicles are called Beliebers. So I’m led to belieb.

What do you mean? Catchy huh?

Better make up your mind what do you mean.

The young man in question is struggling to work out what his girlfriend wants. Honestly, this is probably because he’s not making her feel at ease. If you feel comfortable with someone you’re more likely to just come out and say, ‘Oh yes, this is what I mean’. You wouldn't even start with indecision – you’d just be like, ‘oh I’m quite happy with dinner in tonight and Strictly: It Takes Two and then some Netflix. God Jay is good isn’t he’. (And he would recognise Jay is quite good as this is not an area where indecision is ever a factor.) Done.

It must be so difficult when you're a sexy young man and your girl is just causing problems by being alive.

I don’t know if you’re happy or complaining. RING THE ALARM! You can’t tell if she’s happy OR complaining? ARE YOU LOOKING AT HER? Oh god. Don't tell me this is a whatsapp relationship. COMMENCE MESSAGING: Girrrrrl  you are so hot. Girrrrrrl I wanna see you. Bae bae bae. (three hours pass.) OH. I was napping. Sorry. You’re so hot… and it rolls on. The Canadian is so one of those boys that messages nice things and then takes a nap without wrapping up the chat politely.

You want to make a point but keep preaching. Well, maybe if you were patient she would get to her point. You’re all distracted aren’t you? Avoiding eye contact, skirting around the issue, turning away, murmuring and fidgeting. Pulling a hoody over your stupid quiff. Don’t get me started on your clothes young man.

You wanna argue all day and make-a love all night. UH YES. BECAUSE THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING FUN TO DO WITH YOU, YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME ANYWAY. Plus you stop whining when we do it.

K babes, there's room for us to be more straightforward (sexy reverb whisper at 3.05) with our communications. But chicken. Sometimes it starts with you? What do you mean? This inability to be straightforward is not one-sided and frankly you can be a wee monkey, acting up and generally being bloody annoying.

I have taken the bieliberty of applying your phrase in some simple dating situations. Don't say I'm not about equality. Maybe it does have an application after all.... what do you...?

‘I’m sorry I didn't make it over to yours I was having a nap’
What do you mean?

‘I just don’t think we want the same things, but I don’t know what to do about it’
What do you mean?

‘You’re really hot, but I like her too and want to see if it works out with her, it might not and I’ll call you? Ok?’
What DO you mean?

‘SORRY I WAS NAPPING’.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

‘I actually really like you and this is exciting and I think you’re really beautiful and would like to see you again.’
Wait. What? Eh? What do you mean?

A date is basically a series of lubricated lies - so lolz to playing the feminist card.

 

I am fully paid up feminist – and I am a big fan of the term ‘equalitist’ too.

The thing I come back to all the time as a feminist, is seeing it as a means to support other women. I find the fight comes quite naturally to me – I want us all to have the same opportunities as men without having to push for them but the fight is often required to avoid blatant disadvantage. This is still the big split isn’t it? The ingrained advantages that men are just born with and can chose to live by without having to ask for anything different.

I have been writing about what dating is like as I go, navigating my generation's current identity stramash. And then I saw a comment is free, YES ACTUALLY, about dates with male feminists, UH HUH, and once I'd done being annoyed at how stupid it was and the death of journalism... well....

All in all I actually realised I’m a bit shit at dating. I am generally unimpressed by men, oh, and anyone that isn’t a mate. AND I can’t hide what I am thinking from my face. #winning

The thing with guys playing the feminist card on a date, is it’s the same as ANYTHING EVER anyone says when there’s sexual tension or an expectation of sex. It becomes game-play. It’s all about bravado, showing off, the display. Chatting feminism on a date has just become a new kind of peacocking. It doesn’t mean nada. And this is the thing, (staying outside the debate of whether men can actually be feminists) – any political movement we sign up to, can only be demonstrated by our actions and the way we treat the people around us and that we interact with day to day.

The funny things ‘feminist’ men have said to me on dates, on sofas, in bars, beds, shoe-less walks home, line up exactly with the stupid things men who have not declared an interest either way. And I’m sure the stupid things I’ve said to try and get laid match up the other way round. (I DON'T LIKE TO CYCLE ON GRASS... I SAID THAT ONCE. Me either.) I’m sure Swifty is working on a new single about this.

You can read the comment is free thing here. I keep a note of the stupidest things I say on dates, and the oddest things said to me. A date is basically a series of lubricated lies isn’t it? In the same way tinder is kinda msn messenger but you’re not even chatting to people you like.

I am a feminist – and I live by a code that I like to think is about equality, and I get angry every day about how things work verses how they could and should work. But there is one sacred place for lies and putting together sentences you would never dare say with a serious face to anyone you actually trust. And that place is date-land. Let’s not change that. How else am I going to gather stories to entertain all my friends?

Oh and guys, if I smile and flick my hair, I wouldn’t rate it. I’m just trying to get in your pants. See, you play the feminist card; I can play my feminine card. Natch.