I wish it was less clichéd, but it really did start in the changing rooms at school.
One of my friends had the sort of figure I didn't realise actually existed outside of the silver screen. She was an early bloomer and had a real Marilyn "hourglass" shape, all curves at the chest and hips and thighs with the daintiest of waists. Her body was exquisite and almost unearthly; even when the rugby shirt and nylon shirts were worn for P.E. she was statuesque. I never thoroughly examined what it was I was actually feeling at the time - attraction, admiration, maybe even arousal - but one thing was certain; I could not tear my eyes away from this girl and her beautiful body.
Though I've not been in school changing rooms for years now (thank God), this kind of attraction to the female form has honestly only intensified. When an attractive girl walks by, I still struggle to tear my eyes away, forcefully resisting the urge to saunter up to her and blurt "I'm sorry, it's just that you are really bloody gorgeous" Women in magazines, women on Tumblr, women on the music scene; I regularly gawp at them all, usually whilst wondering how it could be humanely possible to look that beautiful.
Still, it's not exclusively along the lines of the superficial "pal, I've gotta say it - you are FIT FIT FIT" to the attractive strangers I encounter. Many of the girls I am fortunate enough to call my friends I feel similarly about; their strength, their wisdom, their talents and their magnificent peach of a bum. They just have fanciable qualities. To some extent, I am besotted with each of them; I don't feel that the fact I've only ever had boyfriends really does much to deny me accepting the plainly obvious facts.
But if this is how I feel, are boyfriends what I'm meant to have - or could it be that I'm gay?
Well, over time I've realised that's not the case - I identify as straight. Sure, sexuality is fluid and nothing is totally certain; for all I know, I'll meet a woman tomorrow who I'll want to run off to Vegas to elope with. But in the meantime, I can only see myself being in relationships with men - what can I say? I like a bit of stubble in my life.
Yet there's just something about women. I can appreciate the softer skin, the wider hips and more delicate wrists. They are just universally wonderful. But as time has gone on I've started to realise that it does go beyond the high school terminology of "fancying" them; it goes so much deeper. I think it's just sincere wonder and admiration for beautiful human beings, whether they are this way physically or on the inside.
And quite positively, whilst you are filling yourself with this admiration for womankind as opposed to envy or bitterness, it's easier to feel less resentment towards yourself. If you are able to see so much beauty elsewhere, sometimes it's easier to identify when it's a little closer to home; you might not know it sometimes, but you are allowed to give yourself credit for your own strength, wisdom, talents and magnificent peach of a bum.
In that sense, my changing room fascination blossomed into something meaningful and important which I carry with me every day in life; I truly believe that loving and appreciating other women was crucial in helping me to love and appreciate myself. And every thirteen year old girl checking out their friend in the changing room deserves to know that as soon as they possibly can.
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Tuesday, 28 October 2014
Monday, 9 July 2012
Can You Guess What I'm Reviewing?
By Jaguar Bingham (http://www.beautybehindapaneofglass.blogspot.com)
The day before yesterday I went to the most extraordinary event in my lifetime. I did have to travel to some distant field and queue for about three hours, but I can confirm that the discomfort and agitation stirred beforehand was totally worth it.
I had never heard of this event until the very night before. A rogue dressed in khaki bed sheets knocked on my door and offered me a pamphlet for the next day’s happenings. Well I say pamphlet, but it was actually a dried Horse Chestnut Leaf with faint words inked on (presumably this was done by organic means as later, the nomad tried to convert me to Veganism and I hadn’t the heart to point out that the leather jacket on my back and beef steak in the oven would forbid me to do so). I was rather intrigued, to say the least, and since this man seemed trustworthy - if you omitted the stench of horse manure and bare feet which were muddy like a Woodland’s floor and stumpy like a Hobbit’s - I gratefully thanked the rogue and delightfully decided to attend this fantastic affair the following day.
The map on the Leaf was rather peculiar; instead of showing roads and houses, it depicted footsteps, paddocks and cornfields. I know you may think that I am insane for accepting and attending such an obscure invitation to an event so unknown and so eccentric on my own, but I’ll have you know that the neighbour’s Springer Spaniel, Odysseus, barked at the chance to come with me (for this was a once in a lifetime opportunity). Whatever, we set off late that night or early the next morning, (depending on your own perception of Time) and bounded to the field in a state of dreamlike euphoria.
The invitation suggested that fancy dress was appreciated, for the theme was Mythical Beasts, and so I decided Woodland Sprite would be appropriate. I harnessed Odysseus into a dog-sized purple, scaly dragon bonnet, allowing his sun-tainted brown ears to flop around his elated face and I slotted an equally scaly tail over his own. It was dark when we set out, and so I used my luminous wand, crafted from the Stars, to guide the way and to allow my straining eyes to read the Leaf-invitation. I never lost sight of Odysseus, as his scales shone back the glow of magical exuberance from the wand.
We came across a multitude of Mythical Beasts all lined up in an urbane manner, which did not befit their costumes. I could see the licks of Flame of a bright Fire at the very front of the queue, the distant Smoke billowing and curling like the stems of the Wheat heads at my feet. Enriched by the magnificent spectres ahead and those which were still to come, I eagerly took my place in the queue and waited.
I got chatting to a few witches and they told me that they came every year to what they referred to as ‘The Illumination’ and that it was absolutely spectacular. One let out an exhausted sigh as she’d been forced into making small talk with vexing relatives whom one only hopes to see at Christmas parties where the occurrence is somewhat bearable as one tends to be intoxicated off Christmas ‘Spirits’. Sadly, just as she was going into explicit detail about how her Great Aunty Johanna has the niggling habit of exclaiming ‘Esmeralda you’ve grown so much since we last saw one another’, (albeit Esmeralda is in fact thirty-three and has had the same height, width and weight since she was fifteen), an anomalous bugle-like noise jangled through the air, vibrating in and out of our shivering skin.
It had begun. The crowd started heading towards the heavenly light of Flames and swirling grey Air ahead. Although this Smoke was engulfing my blue lungs, I felt as if I had inhaled an air of magic; I marched on with the crowd.
***
When I entered the field with Odysseus, I saw it. There it was: the texture so exquisite, so enchanting, so impeccable that I could hardly believe that I was laying my transfixed eyes on it!
The green tufts were twisting and spiralling upwards like a new-born child’s soft fuzz of hair; the green rinds, so bright, so crystalline, so breath-taking seemed to glint at me coaxingly; it was sublime, surreal. The deep hue of the thick strands was mesmerising, elegant; yet it looked as sharp as a knife, mercilessly slicing the frigid air as it climbed into the Skies.
The warm Loam beneath effortlessly pulsed the opulent curls out from its depths, sighing with each collective movement, as if the Earth was smiling as it tensed and relaxed, the light tufts unwinding as they are nurtured by kisses from the velvet Air…
This event was not a manifestation of humanity’s ‘Creativity’, nor was it a vulgar display of Man’s skill in technology or cinematics; it was an illumination of Nature’s simplistic beauty, which charms those who take the time to value its magnificence. There was I, watching Grass bloom from Nature’s loving bosom: the mane of the Earth.
- Jaguar Rose
The day before yesterday I went to the most extraordinary event in my lifetime. I did have to travel to some distant field and queue for about three hours, but I can confirm that the discomfort and agitation stirred beforehand was totally worth it.
I had never heard of this event until the very night before. A rogue dressed in khaki bed sheets knocked on my door and offered me a pamphlet for the next day’s happenings. Well I say pamphlet, but it was actually a dried Horse Chestnut Leaf with faint words inked on (presumably this was done by organic means as later, the nomad tried to convert me to Veganism and I hadn’t the heart to point out that the leather jacket on my back and beef steak in the oven would forbid me to do so). I was rather intrigued, to say the least, and since this man seemed trustworthy - if you omitted the stench of horse manure and bare feet which were muddy like a Woodland’s floor and stumpy like a Hobbit’s - I gratefully thanked the rogue and delightfully decided to attend this fantastic affair the following day.
The map on the Leaf was rather peculiar; instead of showing roads and houses, it depicted footsteps, paddocks and cornfields. I know you may think that I am insane for accepting and attending such an obscure invitation to an event so unknown and so eccentric on my own, but I’ll have you know that the neighbour’s Springer Spaniel, Odysseus, barked at the chance to come with me (for this was a once in a lifetime opportunity). Whatever, we set off late that night or early the next morning, (depending on your own perception of Time) and bounded to the field in a state of dreamlike euphoria.
The invitation suggested that fancy dress was appreciated, for the theme was Mythical Beasts, and so I decided Woodland Sprite would be appropriate. I harnessed Odysseus into a dog-sized purple, scaly dragon bonnet, allowing his sun-tainted brown ears to flop around his elated face and I slotted an equally scaly tail over his own. It was dark when we set out, and so I used my luminous wand, crafted from the Stars, to guide the way and to allow my straining eyes to read the Leaf-invitation. I never lost sight of Odysseus, as his scales shone back the glow of magical exuberance from the wand.
We came across a multitude of Mythical Beasts all lined up in an urbane manner, which did not befit their costumes. I could see the licks of Flame of a bright Fire at the very front of the queue, the distant Smoke billowing and curling like the stems of the Wheat heads at my feet. Enriched by the magnificent spectres ahead and those which were still to come, I eagerly took my place in the queue and waited.
I got chatting to a few witches and they told me that they came every year to what they referred to as ‘The Illumination’ and that it was absolutely spectacular. One let out an exhausted sigh as she’d been forced into making small talk with vexing relatives whom one only hopes to see at Christmas parties where the occurrence is somewhat bearable as one tends to be intoxicated off Christmas ‘Spirits’. Sadly, just as she was going into explicit detail about how her Great Aunty Johanna has the niggling habit of exclaiming ‘Esmeralda you’ve grown so much since we last saw one another’, (albeit Esmeralda is in fact thirty-three and has had the same height, width and weight since she was fifteen), an anomalous bugle-like noise jangled through the air, vibrating in and out of our shivering skin.
It had begun. The crowd started heading towards the heavenly light of Flames and swirling grey Air ahead. Although this Smoke was engulfing my blue lungs, I felt as if I had inhaled an air of magic; I marched on with the crowd.
***
When I entered the field with Odysseus, I saw it. There it was: the texture so exquisite, so enchanting, so impeccable that I could hardly believe that I was laying my transfixed eyes on it!
The green tufts were twisting and spiralling upwards like a new-born child’s soft fuzz of hair; the green rinds, so bright, so crystalline, so breath-taking seemed to glint at me coaxingly; it was sublime, surreal. The deep hue of the thick strands was mesmerising, elegant; yet it looked as sharp as a knife, mercilessly slicing the frigid air as it climbed into the Skies.
The warm Loam beneath effortlessly pulsed the opulent curls out from its depths, sighing with each collective movement, as if the Earth was smiling as it tensed and relaxed, the light tufts unwinding as they are nurtured by kisses from the velvet Air…
This event was not a manifestation of humanity’s ‘Creativity’, nor was it a vulgar display of Man’s skill in technology or cinematics; it was an illumination of Nature’s simplistic beauty, which charms those who take the time to value its magnificence. There was I, watching Grass bloom from Nature’s loving bosom: the mane of the Earth.
- Jaguar Rose
Sunday, 8 July 2012
Catch The Cliche & Floraidh's Personal Side
I can be self-absorbed, self-centred, self-indulgent and self-critical. But like most, I have my faults, too...(!)
This first year of college in Blighty has vaguely became a year of self-discovery. When I emerged out of Germany, bushy-tailed and bright-eyed, I had no idea what I was in for. But to recycle an old phrase, I was the proverbial Wendy making good in the big world away from Neverland. So I like to think I've done things in this year that do not make me a fundamentally shit person, and I have learned not to embody a fundamentally shit person.
In a few years time, I will perhaps regard these two years as the time when my niave former self found her true "self", got over her "self" and perhaps had a "self" esteem rise. So am I any closer to "finding myself" right now(and trying not to wince at how pretentious it sounds)? Well, you are shaped by what surrounds you. And as Aristotle said, you are what you repeatedly do. To answer that, I can confirm leaving my cacoon had been one of the best and worst experiences in my short 17 years, and I'm not all that sure what it's done for me.
Though the aptitude of my personal hygiene remains questionable (the weeks my sheets can go without a wash, the receipts lying accusingly on my floor, the mould I found under my bed recently), my domestic skills have improved infinitely. If I'm absolutely desperate and there's no suitable substitute, I will iron a top. If I'm not up for eating regurgitated meat, I will make my own dinner. I will shower without my mum instructing me to do so. I have made friends I've already assigned seats to for my somewhat distant nupitals. I've stopped caring about presenting myself in a way that wouldn't fit somebody else's definition of acceptable. The cold light of dawn enlightened me on who my real friends at home were, who could be bothered coming to see me, who was a friend or foe - and I learned to not get upset about the verdict, either. Managing my own finances, & saving money for a holiday too? All in a day's work.
The less rosy parts have included mood swings induced by a homesickness not even a phone call could stave off, and the silent resentment for my housemates if for one second I suspected they weren't feeling it like I was. I have made some terrible mistakes in the past year. I have said and done things that are so, so bad. I dismissed it as teenage steam-release at the time ("doesn't everyone go through this at some point?") before I realised not even being a teenager can excuse being...well, a bit of an actual dickhead. I also forgot about having a tolerable attitude to others, because I felt others weren't exactly tolerable of me - here's lookin' at you, 2/4 of my AS classes.
I considered going home on numerous occasions. Packing my bags, deeming it an "experience", but "it just wasn't working for me". Returning to my old life, back to Neverland, with people I knew and had known for a fair while - a safe familiarity, but not even a subtle step out of my comfort zone. But the thought of giving up on something I'd wanted so much seemed so feeble; coursework rage, homesickness, bitchy class mates. I couldn't face returning home and citing those - upon reflection - really rather poor excuses. "Coursework rage"? You want qualifications? You suffer a little. "Homesickness?" It's not like you've moved away forever. "Bitchy classmates"? They're treating you like dirt without getting to know you, and you're the one getting upset? Realise who has the issues here.
The going got tougher, so I did too. It has worked for me - it still does.
Like most artistic types, I'm quietly spanning out my life as a movie, in which I feature as the protagonist. I like to think my movie is an Arts Council-funded Brit flick, with a kooky soundtrack and tastefully dressed characters. It will be critically acclaimed without being commercially successful. I'll shrug off the baddies, have a struggle before overcoming the odds, and live happily ever after. I'm playing the part of the quick-witted sassy gal, who can let grumpiness get the better of her, but generally an alright egg.
Whether I'm doing the part justice remains to be seen - ask me again next year.
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