(no subject)
I crave the domestic life. The security of my own abode, the serenity and calm of my own four walls. My own cat brushing against my little toes as I curl up on my own sofa to type another epic saga based upon my own life. I crave the warmth and knowledge that comes with independence. I want to be a fully fledged part of this dysfunctional, digital and dissonant culture we all traverse. I suppose somewhere, a part of me still kicks out against the system of binaries and codes closing in around me, trying to contain me to a life where my bank balance dictates the way I live and think. But that sliver of my essence is fast adapting, mutating, to fit my domestic wish and purpose. Life isn’t about fitting in, and it certainly isn’t about standing out. Both are too hard, boundaries always shifting just two steps ahead of our every move. Life is about muddling though, about pattering stoically through life with light-hearted footsteps, looking optimistically, if a little naively, into the future.
Things never turn out the way you plan. That is one of the first lessons dealt to you by life as soon as we are old enough to understand and experience defeat. That is no excuse however for failure. Once upon a time, my understanding of defeat was imminent failure. Now I realise that defeat is just one small battle in the war that lasts a lifetime. My dreams of a domestic life may be slightly halted in their tracks by monetary and educational responsibilities, but nevertheless, I shall ‘muddle through’ to the best of my ability and reach some diluted or variegated version of my original objective. Opinions change, opportunities come and go, but resourcefulness is something that trails you through the years, although it may not be instantly realisable. It is just a case of utilising what you have and compensating for what you have not. As the old saying goes; it all works out in the end. That is not to say however that all old sayings hold grains of wisdom or truth. I’ve realised that no matter what anyone tells you, you rarely laugh about it later.
Domesticity, to perhaps coin a new phrase, manifests itself on even the most rebellious of spirits. Whether it be the desire to move into your own place, or just to do the housework, everyone derives a simple pleasure from their own domestic identity. My mother, for example, prides herself on a well-kept house, two (supposedly) beautiful children and the attainment of her dream job. In my (slightly biased) opinion, she is the epitome of the domestic goddess. She effortlessly juggles domestic living and a skilled career path; like a talented child with two hoops and one stick, she somehow rolls the two side by side, never allowing one to fall behind the other. It has always been my secret ambition to be like her, and as each year rolls by the passing comments about our similarities grow considerably in volume. She is my ally and my best friend, but also my domestic teacher. It is through her skill and determination that I have acquired my inexplicable drive for a life of domestic bliss and I am thankful for that small grain of destiny. It makes me feel a little more oriented in my otherwise unmapped life plan.
I suppose we learn as we grow, picking up attributes and traits from those we look up to. Whether it be fears, hopes or habits, we incorporate them into our ever shifting identity, creating a mis-matched aura about our own curious existence. And so I decide that this craving, this nagging fancy for my own domestic haven must be hereditary, a timeless want passed down through aeons of human life. I could try to fight it, to stay a rebellious teenager for the rest of my days, but to be honest, who can really argue with fate? Sitting here, almost 20, I realise that sometimes growing up is all you can really do. However, I sincerely doubt that doing so gracefully will ever be part of my slightly disorganised life plans...it'll all work out...eventually.
Things never turn out the way you plan. That is one of the first lessons dealt to you by life as soon as we are old enough to understand and experience defeat. That is no excuse however for failure. Once upon a time, my understanding of defeat was imminent failure. Now I realise that defeat is just one small battle in the war that lasts a lifetime. My dreams of a domestic life may be slightly halted in their tracks by monetary and educational responsibilities, but nevertheless, I shall ‘muddle through’ to the best of my ability and reach some diluted or variegated version of my original objective. Opinions change, opportunities come and go, but resourcefulness is something that trails you through the years, although it may not be instantly realisable. It is just a case of utilising what you have and compensating for what you have not. As the old saying goes; it all works out in the end. That is not to say however that all old sayings hold grains of wisdom or truth. I’ve realised that no matter what anyone tells you, you rarely laugh about it later.
Domesticity, to perhaps coin a new phrase, manifests itself on even the most rebellious of spirits. Whether it be the desire to move into your own place, or just to do the housework, everyone derives a simple pleasure from their own domestic identity. My mother, for example, prides herself on a well-kept house, two (supposedly) beautiful children and the attainment of her dream job. In my (slightly biased) opinion, she is the epitome of the domestic goddess. She effortlessly juggles domestic living and a skilled career path; like a talented child with two hoops and one stick, she somehow rolls the two side by side, never allowing one to fall behind the other. It has always been my secret ambition to be like her, and as each year rolls by the passing comments about our similarities grow considerably in volume. She is my ally and my best friend, but also my domestic teacher. It is through her skill and determination that I have acquired my inexplicable drive for a life of domestic bliss and I am thankful for that small grain of destiny. It makes me feel a little more oriented in my otherwise unmapped life plan.
I suppose we learn as we grow, picking up attributes and traits from those we look up to. Whether it be fears, hopes or habits, we incorporate them into our ever shifting identity, creating a mis-matched aura about our own curious existence. And so I decide that this craving, this nagging fancy for my own domestic haven must be hereditary, a timeless want passed down through aeons of human life. I could try to fight it, to stay a rebellious teenager for the rest of my days, but to be honest, who can really argue with fate? Sitting here, almost 20, I realise that sometimes growing up is all you can really do. However, I sincerely doubt that doing so gracefully will ever be part of my slightly disorganised life plans...it'll all work out...eventually.