Sorry seems to be the hardest word...

There are moments when it sits on my lip, waiting for its number to be called so it can perform its duty; that of healing. Once the battle is done with myself, so much time has elapsed that to speak that word would lead to my own embarrassment. I hide behind my coarse locks and the word falls out, more by accident than by intention. So simply it is, yet it holds so much power to cure ills, to bring brothers and sisters together and rebuild burnt bridges.

I tend to be the girl that holds her head up high, turns and walks away because I feel justified in my opinion; in my conviction! I wasn't wrong. I said what I believed. However, believing you are right does not make one right. It does not mean that one should not say that word. I walk away with so much pride that my shoulders sag from the pressure and my feet become heavy with guilt. By this time the event has revolved around my head countless times like a broken record; dissected and put back together. It has been reinterpreted, shelved, taken down, re-reinterpreted to an extent that I cannot even remember how the true event played out. The result remains the same. I was a perpetrator.

I say to myself: " my knees are bruised from apology!!!"; and so they have been. From a young age, I remember saying it so many times that it became a part of me. Even when he hurt me, I said sorry. Even when I was right, I said sorry. Even when I was not the protagonist, I said sorry. SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY. My knees are bruised for senseless apology! The well in my eyes have dried up!
You have to understand why I am this way. It isn't simply because I don't care or I'm a mean bitch. It is more to do with my perception of where I will stand once those words are uttered. It is the fear that once I say it then that person gains control over me. It is almost as if I have had to cede the throne of my own self respect and dignity, relinquishing the throne to one who is not worthy of it. I feel like the beggar in rags pleading for his life before the king.

I need to learn. No, I need to believe that when wrong it is okay to say sorry. It takes nothing away from you but give you the gift of humility, to admit to yourself that to err is human. It is the hardest lesson to learn. It is the hardest word I've ever and will ever speak.

Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn!

A friend said to me once, we are all never truly innocent in a war. It's true. When the gloves are off, sides are taken. Things are said whether meant in all sincerity or pondered on with regret later. When I fight, I do it intensely, because my feelings burn, fusing and exploding like nova. I am a passionate person. This is why I hate conflict, I hate the battle that is waged between good people, more importantly between friends.

There always comes a time when my friends and I will disagree. I am always adamant about my convictions, believing that I did the best I could and my intention were good. However intentions have been misread in history. So much so that these misinterpretations, misconceptions or whatever misses would like to stick her nose in, turns the simplest and honest intention into acts of war! I have been in those trenches, wandering, what I am fighting for and questioning the convictions I stand by and whether it is worth the heartache that ensues.

There is the no-man's land that lies between us. Always. Whether it be friends, family, common goals and interest. It will be this that will help us put our weapons down and walk unarmed towards the white flag, leaving those convictions behind because they have no place where hearts and sisters meet. Sometimes I apologise, other times they do. Then there are the moment when neither of us offer any such words but laugh at the foolishness that got us to this remorseful moment. Then everything is back to normal. It is the way it has been, it is the way it is and I have always believed that this rights of passage will continue. Here lies the test of love.

That's why when she did it, I was stunned. We throw punches, we come out bruised but we laugh. We do not end thing, especially not after the first brawl, which is more like an initiation into the sisterhood. It was quite strange because that day. The day it all went wrong. I had been thinking of her, planning a surprise trip once I saved up. She'd be Thelma, I'd be Louise and I'd let her know that despite all her bad moments, we were making good ones right there. It never occurred to me that this would be just a pipe dream. As I see it now it's like a shredded photograph scattered around. Each piece representing a moment and it was like that day the final piece came together and instead of this premonition of good things to come, what I was given was a nightmare.

But I see her now, so very Scarlet O'hara in her demeanour. She chose her path. She chose to walk away from three years of trust, loyalty, understanding and connection. She chose to play the victim card, the grieving widow that she performed beyond expectation. I refused to role of the devil's advocate. It could have been such a laugh in hindsight I think.

As the curtains fall, I shed no tear and neither will I, because the door was closed not by me but by her. I rest assured that I was a good friend perhaps not an innocent protagonist. However If it is means nothing to her then... 'Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn!'

it is hard to say those three words. I'll admit, i'm almost never there. Moral superiority you say? not quite. I am just afraid that you won't say it too.

Sudha Chandran

Hidden beneath a hat of anonymity is the captain of this great five that play in Sudha Chandran. An electro reggae group that i was introduced to while adventuring in the Spanish capital, Madrid. It seems this city holds a good many talents, from its performers to its designers. However those whose names have not been spoken off, those undiscovered is where we will find the sound of Sudha Chandran.

The voice referred to as Johnny man is concealed under his notorious green hat, while the mic takes care of the rest. There is an air of mystery that surrounds him as his body bounces to the rhythm. One would not think that such a voice would belong to such a face; but there he stood that night at la buena dicha, enchanting the crowds who with any luck might catch a glimpse of man behind the voice.

What i didn't expect from this all Spanish cast was to hear a cocktail mix of English and Spanish, well written and delivered to express their message. "Teach! Don't Preach" (from their most popular track "Todo esta perdido - All is Lost") is echoed by the true followers of Sudha. I can see why this band has grown in popularity, touring around Madrid. For me it's not just reggae i hear but also that blend of jazz and funk that is intertwined between the chorus and the verse. It's the dash of the trombone like chocolate syrup on your sundae ice cream. They do not abuse the blues when they blend it into their reggae tempo but show tribute that would earn them a chuckle from the legends themselves.

In a time when the Spanish music scene has created a homogeneity and not much variety. This electro reggae funk band stands out and gets noticed; well once you know they are there. They have clearly experimented with blues riffs, grunge recordings and synthesizers to get them where they are now. They don't just imitate, they create. This eclectic sound has clearly gripped their audiences and got them "jumping to the rhythm".

Lady

I lost my groove and I need to get it back! That said - where to start? Uninspired and disappointed by the cache of unimpressive role models out there and I mean those who are living of course. We can only look backwards to a time where women were ‘getting their groove reinstated’ and showing that being a lady doesn’t mean being weak, pining for a man or camping out in the kitchen. It was more, it was substance and it was in your face. Ladies were worshiped and men were warned because they knew they were dealing with fire.


We have behind us our Monroe, Onassis, Hepburn, Loren and Diana and before us stand Lohan, Beckham, Campbell, Simpson, and Aniston – did I mention I was uninspired? It just seems that in place of style, substance, intelligence, captivating beauty and selflessness I find myself bombarded constantly by “women” (and I use this word lightly because we wouldn’t want to be placed in the same group as these females) who don’t realise that tantrums should stop at the age of five, a woman who resembles a jarrold’s mannequin doll than a human being and women doing desperate things to hold on to their men and I ask myself where did we go wrong?


I fear that there is no alternative because even when we fool ourselves into believing there are inspiring women, the Hollywood and ‘rock and roll’ lifestyle whisk them away for a quick remodelling and we are left with half a woman. Thus those who previously hailed the flag of ‘down-to-earthism’ quickly squeeze it back into their Louis Vuitton handbag. The Media continues to perpetuate these images of shiny size zeros blondes and brunettes with their self-loving, tantrum throwing, live fast die young Girl Scout motto that throws dignity out the window, exiles selflessness and bring in a new era of mannequin ignorant dolls that are trapped in a nightmare between Barbie and the stepford wives. Ah the god ol’ days.


We have films that promote the idea that we are nothing without our ‘man’ as the movie ‘He’s just not that into you’ tactlessly portrayed. I was sort of pleased to see that ‘the Women’ didn’t really go down that line of reasoning. Yer ok, she was a mess for the first half of the film and simply wanted to chop off his grand jewels as would any woman who just found out that her man had been dabbling in other merchandisers. But she resisted. She took the path that most women fail to grab in both hands, reinvented herself, got her own business and most importantly she got her groove back! You go girl. Now if only others would so kindly follow suit.


After all this bad news I decided to go on a hunt for some real ladies, women with more than just a cell between their ears, those making waves and breaking them. If she wasn’t the first to come to mind, well she should have been. There is a reason Michelle Obama’s secret service code name is ‘Renaissance’, may she bring the cultural revolution that we’ve all been waiting for. Here is a woman, who no doubt raises eyebrows and bring outs every woman little green friend. She is an incredible talented lawyer, first lady, mother and currently a style icon according to Vogue (because we know what they say is gold...). I mean seriously how many women can pull off bright pink flawlessly? I rest my case. She carries herself with dignity and oozes self confidence with every stride (that her shoes are just glad to be part of actions). When you see a woman who you just want to be, hands down, you know she’s doing something right. She’s ticked all my boxes, watch out Jackie O, looks like the crown is up for grabs.


My second nominee for awesomeness would have to be Ellen Page. She’s not your average type of lady I’d admit and she even calls herself a tom boy but this muse of mine thankfully has not yet been tarnished by the Lohans and Hiltons of the world as she had chosen to be tucked away safely in Halifax. Our pro-choice feminist enjoy a tad bit of basketball, snowboarding and I hear she’s more Aladdin than Sleeping beauty; High Five sister! She has never really followed the conventional rules of what a woman should be and you can see that from the roles she picks when acting. I have always been impressed by her choices which are usually never the same – from super mutant heroine to psychological thrillers to tortured teen in a basement (yes, I rose an eyebrow too). You can’t help but watch her. She has shown her dislike for such ‘stereotypical roles for teenage girls’ calling them ‘too sexist’. Someone pinch me I think I’m in love. Can she do no wrong? what’s that you say? Her middle name’s Philpotts? Well we’ll be having none of that!


Now I know they are other women out there such as our dear own Kate Winslet, Meryl Streep and least we forget new comer Duffy. So a toast to the Winslets, Obamas and Ellens, I raise my hat to you for giving us hope that there are still avant garde females defining what it means to be a true lady.

Fear not.

When I first met fear, it was under the hands of my father, the voice of my uncle, and the loss of a friend. She needed no introduction because right then, there was a mutual understanding of who was in control. I let her stay.

She - the shadow of self doubt and deprecation - walked with me, nagging, nagging, nagging like an old lady weathered by time and made bitter by life; my very own Debbie downer with all the trimmings. The sad stories of betrayal retold like a broken record and premises that seem to make sense but lacked logic when spoken aloud. Every day she spoke them and each time I gave in despite rationality. It’s like what they say, you spend enough time with a crazy person and their insane rambling turn to rational thoughts.

I discovered in time that all she did was try to suffocate me when no one was looking. She knew they were right, she knew they would show me. Once she was done, I was left to surface again, breathing deeply and thankful that I had survived that sickly feeling. I came out of her bunker of ‘protection’ glad that she had helped me passed the storm which I have never seen; not once. It weighed on me that I could not get rid of this ‘friend of mine’ whose visit was more frequent and certainly unwanted. It got to a point where I started to believe that I needed her, that her intentions were good. After all you’ve got to be cruel to be kind right? There were my days and she – my companion.

She packed her bags one day and made it clear she was unhappy with my decision. “You’ll fail” she said, “You never were any good at it. I’ve been the one holding your hands”. She walked away trimmings and all and I packed mine for Spain. She comes back now and again – we talk over coffee, she plays the same tune and I listen but logic is never defeated because I know her now. More and more I feel the fear and when I walk on, she throws a tantrum - things get broken – I keep walking. I guess that’s when courage moved in.

As courage unpacked she smiled saying "Fear not. We’re going to have fun you and I".

Top of The Pops

So, I decided to return to the scene of the crime, where Aretha Franklin's Respect was disrespected on the dance floor of a particular Spanish club. The floor this time was thankfully empty, instead the bodies were crushed against the counter taking advantage of the not so "happy hour".

Yes, that's right, if you had been there earlier you would have been able to indulge in two pint size plastic cups of calimucho (otherwise known as bad wine and coca cola); for a generous sum of five euros. Also available as misappropriately named "minis", were two pint size cups of beer for a similar price. This misnomer was by no means a bad thing, if getting yourself perpetually 'hammered' was your goal. However this particular night, that goal was made even more difficult when they ran out of those so called 'mini' cups that would have properly secured my happy hour for hours...

As the clock struck twelve and the fairytale of cheap drinks came to an end, i prayed that the dj would not take advantage of my sober state and severly depress me as he had so effortless done before. I stood there. Flashed back to my first time in Top of the Pops. I remember being disappointed by the choice of tracks and also the Dj. It was a bipolar mix of indie music; an attempt to be bohemian but failing miserably. Highs and Lows where they didn't belong like singers who should never try acting.

After all this you can imagine that i was not jumping at the chance to return but i did so anyway. Everyone deserves a second chance right? After all it was a friend's birthday, couldn't say no now could i?
Empty it might have been but it did not remain so for long. The people streamed in, the music got good and i found my lips moving along to the kaiser chief, old school classic and dear i say material girl by our dear madonna. Ok, so he wasn't perfect, he tripped up a little bit when he decided playing a slow trotting beetle songs (which would put any warm blooded creature to sleep) would bring him stardom. He quickly redeemed himself with Jet's "Are you gonna be my girl". Keeping playing like that Dj and i just might ;)

You Got me...

My blessing, that allowed me to see the best there was in you and to know that i would give all that I could to your cause, has now become my curse. A quality so sought out in the heart of man, that of generosity, of kindness, unconditional love, understanding, empathy and the likes is to be disliked by the one who gives it so willingly. You will find as I have that to hold these traits when once it used to be a blessing is nothing but a burden. In these arms, people find a way to be selfish and steal affection where they can and leave those arms empty of appreciation. These arms still hang, waiting for you to take me in and hold me. They wait to be taken and to hear the words that i am your friend and you got me...

Instead i find that altruism is not a gift to the individual who possesses it but to those who choose to take what in most cases is offered out of love; but each time to return less and less. My generation it seems, believe the whole world should revolve around them, that includes looking out for number one. The mentality remains that if you were dumb enough to give that part of yourself, and then, to suffer the rejection that you should not complain.

What i ask is this my friend, my girl...What am i to you? A rock or your pillow?
If i were to fall to my knees, would you stand and look down at me kneeling here in your shadow or would your knees bleed like mine because you are beside me? I ask you, if you've got me or if you'd let me fall?