fink.

a question for the stars

My mind is in constant disagreement about whether our fleeting time together was predetermined fate, or an accidental miracle.

a floral life

soapy suds.

I guess it all began with my father's arrival home from work each night: his key clicking in the front door lock, chiming six o'clock. Bored – or most likely in trouble by our mother – our father's arrival home was the trophy of nightfall. Diving for the front door we'd call, "Daddydaddydaddydaddy" as our little hands stretched towards his shoulders, eagerly wanting to be the first he picked up. Despite our determination for affection, without fail he would firstly go to the guest sink and wash his hands. In his royal blue overalls, he would lean over the basin and thoroughly soap his hands, foaming large suds that squished in and out of his fingers. Slowly the creamy suds would turn a dirty brown – evidence of a long, hard days work. He would then dry his clean, yet never quite clean enough hands on the faded yellow hand towel, hung conveniently to the left of the faucet (a towel my mother purposefully, and cleverly, selected). 

As a young girl, to me this was a symbolic image of the ideal man – a man I would someday marry.  Despite my maturing age, romantically I've always pondered this image: a man returning from work to wash his soiled hands – no suits or no briefcases invaded my juvenile daydreams. While it's not been a priority, nor even a conscious criteria, I'd be lying if I didn't admit to stencilling an outline of this image onto men I've been in love with – this stencil being the trifling tick of youthful perfection. 

Perhaps merely my own personal version of the primitive sexual division of labour: The Hunter / Gatherer; but are we not all capable of evolution, even if only minuet?

I guess we are all just here: colliding and sharing, meeting and learning, living and loving, neither belonging or owning; eventually passing one another to their next co-ordinate. Perhaps this is the biggest life lesson: accepting that there is no one person you are to own, or whom you will belong to. Rather we are autonomous souls, intersecting at outrageously varied rates. There is a buoyant, weightlessness about it – a bunch of directionless atoms moving through time, unaware of course or distance. When we do happen to intersect with another – a rare occurrence – it is down to the mystery of time and space. How long we pause at theses co-ordinates often isn't a decision made by both graphs, but with a general understanding of the wider picture, it is deducible that such is life. We are not entitled to occupy beyond our designated allocation – we cannot hang on, or hold back. 

a graceful grumpy girl

Brooding gracefully – possible? A tough call indeed. I can't say i recall learning this skill in school, but as I creep (slowly) towards my 30s, the notion of being tempestuously surly loses its justification. Despite the enjoyment a grumpy girl may expel by dragging her moody arse around a room, society, for better or for worse, deems it "inappropriate".

Does this mean you can't be grumpy over the age of 25? Technically (logically, obviously, genetically) no, but it would seem that a certain amount of decorum be maintained.

So again I ask: can one brood gracefully? – outwardly no, you cannot stomp your feet, call someone a wheelbarrow, open the fridge door in someone's face, or use a utensil as weapon AND still be regarded as graceful. Fact. Besides, most likely you'll just end-up the psycho who used a spoon to serrate someone's wrist off. 

There's a water bottle tucked under my feet, and the candle by my bed has dripped onto the floor. The hour's still early, but the sun has long gone. The day has rung my body out; there's a twinge in my back. Today's outfit mimics an invisible corpse on the floor, whilst a plate with crumbs waits to be returned to the kitchen. My cat tiptoes over my calves - she's cautious to not disturb me, yet equally wants me to play. I'm conscious of the thoughts in my head, but posses no energy to process them. So they float, and sail and pass. I wave. I let them go. Needing nothing else, I let the day close. 

Even on the edge,

fink's been rambling now for 2 years – happy 2nd birthday to us.  I guess what I would like to say that I love this space: the late night thoughts, which evidently turn into late night moments with my keyboard. There hasn't been much of an agenda, (except to "conquer the world") but I hope to have sparked a little contemplation in you at some stage.

I really like your face. 

I would like to see it every day.

Could we arrange this some time? 

Not in a weird way, I just think you're wonderful. 

There's this way you look at me, I'm not sure you know, but your pupils have a chatter with mine. They whisper silly little truths I replay when I'm alone. 

I'm long passed trying to define it. 

A demanding wonder woman. 

There comes a point in the evening, you've already missed the first move of opening my door – my apologies, you were probably competing with my inner wonder woman – but dinner is now winding up, the bill approaches. I admit, it's a tough job you now have: there are no longer "rules" of conduct, no formula, no procedure. There's you, and me, and a cheque swooping our table. The 21st century plunges my hand for my bag, whilst maintaining conversation I pluck the zip and fumble for my purse, eyes still fixated on you. You better want to pay, oh yes I'm going to implore I pay, and I'll be damned if you pay for me. BUT YOU BETTER PAY, oh but don't think you own me, I'm an independent woman, I don't need your charity, who do you think you are? I can pay for myself thank-you very much! 

The end of this scene really doesn't matter – he pays, we pay – it determines very little...or does it?

This isn't a question of money – goodness if I wanted cheap meal I'd cook at home – no, this is about chivalry. Whilst women, myself included, have fought and continually strive for equality (slash world domination), there's something utterly remarkable about a man pulling out your seat, offering the flame of a lighter, opening the car door, and yes, paying the bill. When it comes naturally, despite being entirely able-bodied, chivalry is a beautiful thing. We feel attended to, looked after, and yes in certain duos, adored.

But can we really have/want/demand it all? How can we declare equality – by that I mean the historically imposed delineation between men and women  – if we still define a man's role by his ability to promptly open a door? Should it not be down to who is at the door first? In which case, it seems logical a woman would in fact have occasions where she would open the door for a man.