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Thing's I'll never say...

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Sep. 20th, 2006 | 10:02 pm
mood: apatheticBeh?
music: Busted -- Thunderbirds are go!

It's just not done, in society as a whole, to talk about certain things. There's a gathering gloom over a conversation that begins sneaking it's way across to subjects under this quiet curse; a curse that, on the whole, might not be too awful. 
I was always taught by my mother that a conversation turning to Money, Politics, or Religion was an invitation to a fight. These three subjects all seem to raise the hackles of the average person, to breed discomfort and discontent as much as they bring passionate discourse. People can wax lyrical about this or that area of the subject and still be no closer to a solid conclusion. 

But it's impossible to say "No, I shall have none of that." 
To entirely dismiss thought of Politics is to deny onesself the right to life. Politics govern everything, be it the Government themselves, or our daily life. It's a small matter to us, whether we choose to get the bus or drive a car to work (Those that have the option, that is, and for those that don't this is still relevant). To get the bus is to risk being late, or drastically early, thus affecting the balance of our entire day. The careful weighing of our choices and their consequences is a form of politics. 
Religion is easier. Forgo religion, and forgo the right to the useage of such common terms as "Oh, God!" And "Christ!", at the very least. In England, in Sunderland, this is so common it's not even noted as blasphemous anymore. I refrain from mentioning other religions due to my own ignorance; I have never taken the time nor courtesy to research religion beyond my school lessons some four or five years past. I know minimal information on Judaism, and pick up bits and pieces about Buddhism, Karma, Qabbala, etc from friends that follow said paths. Religion is so tightly woven into our lives that it's become something that we barely think about. 
Like Money, religion is just -there-. 

Like friends. Friends we take for granted until they do something, or until something clicks within our brain that makes us go "ooh". 

When I was little I moved around a lot. Dad was in the Army, so I was born in Hannover. I assume I had friends there, and I know I had them in Osnabruk, which is the next place I remember living in Germany. At Wellington School I remember playing kiss-chase at Fiona's insistence. I don't remember what she looked like, nor what she sounded like or her surname. I only know "Fiona", a pair of light brown plaits, and a feeling of warmth.
In Borden it was Daniel (whom I was sure I would marry, he having been there in my life forever.) and his sister Nicola. More acquaintances than friends, having been forced upon each other by our mothers. 
Hohne brought me Amy Dalzell. The one girl I shall never forget. There are childhood best friends that leave imprints, and those that leave gaping holes. The hole left by Amy when I was taken from Hohne to Sunderland has never fully healed. She was this Angel of a child with whom I would fight constantly. 

We met on Amy's first day at our school. It was breaktime, and as far as it has been relayed to me (By Amy herself, for I can't remember the day myself - something that I find horrifying, because it brought the most beautiful soul into my life) Amy was sitting on the edge of the small "forest" we had at the edge of the schoolyard. It wasn't a terribly dense wood, but we liked to disappear there during breaks and lunches to a small clearing where there was a circle of rocks we had made.
So here is Amy sitting on the raised kerb between tarmac playground and mossy grass (stained by the blood of war-tortured Jews) all on her own, and we have been let out for break. I, being the appointed leader of a small group of girls, make my way across to my usual hideaway and find this girl blocking the path. My introduction, I hear, was something like "My name's Catherine. Who're you?"

We were pretty solid friends from that moment. Mrs Page, our teacher, told us that we should record our arguments for their comedic value. 
They were that sort of heated, passionate thing that ends in a sulk forgotten by the next lesson subject. I remember that Amy and I sat with a boy named Carl (who I seem to remember had Dyslexia, or maybe he was just especially large. I forget. I do know that he had lovely brown eyes, and hers were grey-green), and we would do our maths with him between us, copying from each other and generally enjoying each others' company. 

I remember, too, that when my Mama was doing Ancilliary work at the school in Red class (Don't ask why it was a colour. It's the army, it doesn't need to make sense) I went down to show her my pride and joy, a self-illustrated story I had written about a Brownie that lived on a Island. My mam and the teacher read through the story, and I remember some mention being made of the word "Hysterical" with reference to me. Of course I broke into tears immediately, and panic and confusion broke out. Why is the eight year old crying, please?
Well, because her teacher called her Hysterical, and hysterical means that she's hilariously funny, but the story was meant to be a serious adventure. 

I can't remember what they told me then, but I know that they lied blatantly about what "Hysterical" was. I was eight, but I wasn't stupid. 

The point of all of this, is that I love my friends. I haven't had proper friends since Amy Dalzell in Hohne in Germany, and now I do and I want to thank them all. It's nice, to have that full, happy feeling when you speak to a person, to know that they don't mind how odd you are, or how crazy or quiet or loud. In fact, they quite enjoy your company (which is something I've found hard to believe since leaving Amy).

So thank you, to all of my friends. You know who you are, and if you don't then you're quite probably an idiot. I mean that affectionately of course. It would be crass to list all of the people that I crowd under this umbrella, but I shall say a special thank you to Ebony and Kelly, for their lovely comments and big-hearted wishes on my last LJ. Cause seriously, my girls rock.
And also thank you to Marc, for being a saint and clearing up my dire confusion. Boys no longer smell, and do not necessarily deserve to be stoned to death (:

(: x

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Comments {4}


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from: snickerschick
date: Sep. 20th, 2006 11:12 pm (UTC)

Heee, here's a special you're welcome to your special thank you. <3

love & miss.

PS:I'm glad you're not confused anymore, and your childhood memories are cuter than cute.

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