Journey to Otherness

My journey to otherness began at a young age. I was seven when my parents decided the state-run village school I attended wasn’t good enough for me. It didn’t matter that I was happy there, or that I would miss my two best friends – Victoria, a graceful, pretty, blonde girl I thought could have been a princess, and little Alex, a funny, feisty tom-boy. I have fond memories of the three of us performing ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” to anyone who cared to pay attention in the playground at break times. 

With apathy masquerading as best intentions I was shipped off to a Catholic school in the nearby town. I doubt I put up too much of a fight. My father, a stern disciplinarian, would have had none of it. He thought the strict environment of a religious institution was just what was needed to help me grow into the best possible version of myself. It is ironic that, to this day, he remains a staunch atheist. 

It started as soon as I arrived. I’m not sure why one particular classmate took an instant dislike to me but she did. I was introduced to the class as “Fiona Catrina Maclaren” and by the time I was seated at her table, just seconds later, she had labelled me with a cruel nickname. Derived from the Scottish roots of my name, it haunted me for the four years I spent at that school. 

I was ostracised before I’d been given a chance and I quickly became used to my own company. To be honest it was a good lesson to learn, together with developing a heightened sense of danger. I became very good at spotting potential situations that would be better for me to avoid. I would have made a good candidate for ninja school. 

It wasn’t until a couple of years later when another new girl started that I made a friend. Angela didn’t need a nickname as she came with her own. Her surname was Burke. “A Burke” and I found comfort in our little bubble of exclusion. We bonded over a love of Adam Ant and swapped tales of authoritarian fathers. She even had me singing in the playground again, though this time around it was “Prince Charming” and “Kids in America”, with ABBA consigned to the bin. 

I don’t think about those days often, though I have to say they left their mark. Like a little tattoo somewhere so discreet that only a few would ever get a glimpse. 

Through the power of modern technology I am in touch with “A Burke”. I’ve since moved hundreds of miles away whilst she still lives within a stone’s throw of our old stomping ground. Until recently the last I’d heard of my tormentor was that she was at university studying law. I imagined a glorious career as a hard-nosed defence lawyer. The kind that gets the guilty off scot-free. 

A recent conversation changed that. An opportunity presented itself for me to nonchalantly enquire about the lawyer during a “Whatever happened to ...” discussion. 

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Came the response. “She died of breast cancer in her late twenties.”

It’s hard to know what to feel about news such as this. Fifteen-year old news about someone who shaped my life in the way she did. 

But I’ll work it out. I always do.

 

Black Sheep

Black sheep, don’t cry

Your rainbow will shine

In a gentle heart’s presence

 

Black sheep, don’t ask why

Walk your path with purpose

You weren’t meant to follow the flock

 

Black sheep, fly high

Break the chains of judgement

Soar above the clouds with your dream

 

Thank you for reading,

Fiona

 

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Pop Music

New York, London, Paris, Munich everybody talk about mmmm, that’s right pop pickers this weeks theme is all about pop, pop, pop music.

With the invention of the teenager in the 1950’s came the creation of the parent saying “What’s this rubbish?”. Though a little know made up fact is, at the very same time Bill Haley rocked us around the analog time piece, another form of being was on the rise. And as the charts became more and more about the popular vote and the majority of young people having a good time, this new social group fell in rank and file to express their views with smug expression.

That’s right, with the explosion of the pop music scene came the meteoric rise of the pretentious twat. A social class that, like pop culture, is still around to this very day.

Before pop, pretentious twats were just pretentious. They huddled together writing poetry and classic literatur, living the life a drunk with money with only the occasional witty riposte to make a social comment or patronise others for using a tautology.

With pop music the pretentious evolved, becoming more and more twatish as the years rolled on. Their refusal to listen to anything ‘popular’ moved them further and further away from the people they so wished to condescend until, they themselves became the joke.

The self imposed exile has stopped them being exposed to great moments in writing, one of the very things they hold dear. Such great poetic works like ABBAs sinister “The day before you came” or the subversive version of “Tainted Love” by Soft Cell.

Throughout the history of pop you can find some outstand examples of poetic writings, “Neon on my naked skin, passing silhouettes of strange illuminated mannequins” - ‘Big in Japan’ Alphaville; “Beauty I’d always missed, with these eyes before. Just what the truth is, I can't say anymore” - ‘Nights in White Satin’ Moody Blues and of course, “You ain’t nothing but a Hound Dog, Cryin’ all the time” - ‘Hound Dog’ Elvis Presley.

Behind every single one of these records is a fantastic wordsmith and musician. Sometimes the performer is that creative genius, and sometimes it’s not however, the performer is usually of equal talent, though I must admit this is not always the case. And I do understand not all pop music displays flashes for pure art, some of it is quite puerile but, if like the pretentious twats, you close yourself off to it, you’ll never seen the diamond in the shit.

All art is art, and you are allowed to like things that sometimes you shouldn’t. These are our guilty pleasures. I think it’s ok to be pretentious because what’s the point of opening yourself up to all the beauty in the world if you can’t lord it over someone who thinks Dan Brown is a great writer from time to time. It’s the twat bit that holds people back. Open your mind to things without having a preconceived idea because someones else has already labeled it for you.

So turnaround bright eyes, it a mad world out there and ask yourself, are you ready for this jelly?

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