The Perfect Diorama

Dear hearts,

Miss Mich is enamoured of the natural world. It is true. Give me nature over artifice any day. Over the built, the contrived, the imposed.

I am a girl of simple things. Well, sort of. As long as they are beautiful, then I am in. Simple and ugly does not an aesthete make. I’m not being mean, just well, selective. Or asesthetic. Or maybe just Libran. Actually, I sound like a first class wanker. Albeit a discerning wanker.

Alright. Enough of the tosser. Let’s get down to what I am trying to share.

The Natural World.

Charles Darwin had it. Joseph Banks had it. The Victorians had it. Dr Tim Flannery has it. Gomez Adams has it in spades…

The groove of the Natural World. I am going to keep giving it capital letters. You know it deserves it.

There is nothing better (except maybe you know what), than being out in the natural world. I mean IN IT. Not innit..yeh…or innuit…although I do love snow sports.

The Libertine and I spend most weekends “Beachcombing”. He doesn’t like me giving it a title. Given his current circumstance, he is not into titles at all. And I can understand. We take that beautiful mauve puppy to a special stretch of beach that shall remain a secret and walk and search for treasure. Such treasure! Seashells in the pinkest of seashell pink. Driftwood that is twisted and turned smooth by the wind and the tides. Stones that are tumbled and yet somehow homes to happy crustaceans. Carapaces of crabs and lobsters and all manner of examples of the exoskeleton. Coral that is surrendered by the reef and left to be discovered by me…

I collect these things. I cannot help it. I am compelled to. I search and I sift and I cull and end up with trinkets of the sea and shore. The Cottage is becoming somewhat overrun by the detritus given up. I assemble these bits into arrangements that amuse me. I carefully put together bits of things that once were real and yet are now still vivid despite the fact that in some cases they are mere fragments of their former selves.

A bit like the Victorian diorama. One of my favourite things ever. A folly in a box. A world in a box.

According to John Kean, Dioramas are enigmatic artefacts hovering enticingly between reality and illusion. The surreal stillness of the recreated natural environment paradoxically shrouds the very chaos of nature that the diorama purported to represent, and which today renders them rather archaic interpretive strategies. The 'frozen moment' is now seen to be a profoundly limited take on nature.

Whilst that may be so on the one hand, I like to think of the diorama as a keyhole view into what may have been. In a perfect world. The dollhouse view if you like. All of us as children played games where we made our own reality. Made our characters behave in a certain way to achieve a certain outcome. The diorama is no different really.

My bedroom and The Libertine are the perfect diorama. The world that exists there is a perfect world. One of completeness. One of perfection. Step outside and sadly it’s a bit like a snow dome. It starts to shake and the snow obscures the view. And the truth.

But enough of that.

I was walking that beautiful mauve puppy along the beach at Trinity just this morning and the natural world was at its heartbreakingly best. The sky was colouring pink and orange and red. A portent of rain. The light was making the surface of the water liquid and then the fish started jumping. Summertime…..and the living is easy…I couldn’t help myself. I promise you, the fish were jumping for joy. It was extraordinary. I have seen dolphins, and even a beached dugong, God love it. But these simple little fish were so sweet and so full of joie de vivre that to be honest, they eclipsed the flashier creatures by their simple joy. The puppy and I stood and watched as they flipped and skipped across the surface of the sea. Maybe they were being chased by something bigger, something more sinister that lurked beneath the surface. But maybe it was a Diorama moment and in that perfect world they were just having a really good time.

I prefer to ignore the sinister undercurrent. Even though I am pursued by my own. I will not capitulate to coercion. And I will continue to live in my own diorama. Call me Pollyanna. Call me foolish. I don’t care.

For every morning I watch the natural world wake and wake with it, it is worth the risk.

Enjoy am.

With love
Miss Mich

Dazed and Confused...

Dear hearts,

It seems this little blog has ruffled a few feathers.

Hmmm…what to do. What to do?

Miss Mich is quite careful about naming names. Miss Mich is not even sure who is real and who is a just a lovely fiction. Who is but a dream within a dream, a fancy to while away the monsoon hours here in the far far north. It’s all about possibilities Dear hearts. About potential. About what could be.

Miss Mich loves to entertain you, engage you and sometimes arouse you. I should think I never offend you, because as we all know…it’s all about the love.

Well mostly. Sometimes there is a dark side that needs to air its dark heart. But only to educate and elucidate. How I love alliteration.

Sadly, this brings us to the thorns in Miss Mich’s side. Miss Mich is lucky to have only three unlike you know who; who suffered five. I would like to think we both have God on our side, but as we know there are times when one is compelled to say…why have you forsaken me? Alright, I’m coming over all Catholic and melodramatic and in fact, probably offending a whole bunch of people by alluding to me and you know who in the same par.

Which brings me to the point of this rather unnecessary and somewhat rudderless tete et tete. Referencing two players in the one par. It seems the Sperm Donor is concerned that you Dear hearts are so simple that you may confuse said Donor with that of the Last Charm….

I know. But what can you do? Some people are never going to get it. It hurts me that he underestimates you. And merely confirms my opinion of him.

It is interesting though. I honestly thought that the last Charm was different to the aforementioned Sperm Donor. He was fun, liked to play and made Miss Mich feel 16 again. And then it all went down hill. As we know.

Whilst the Sperm Donor did not assault me or slash my clothes like the last Charm, he did threaten to take me to court (just today in fact) and was as threatening over text message, facebook and email. All of which my very good Solicitor has logged copies of. Just in case.

So it is interesting and has been an exceedingly pointed lesson for Miss Mich to have to learn.

Not to repeat the mistakes of the past.

I implore you Dear hearts, to be on the lookout for the wolf in sheep’s clothing.

I suspect the Sperm Donor is going to be up in arms again over the mixing of Charm and Donor in this little entry.

What can you do? Dissapointment is as Dissapointment does. I’m channelling the dear Forrest Gump obvi.

Call me Robin Wright Penn ( I love her so please do call me Robin Wright Penn), there was a time when threats, bullying and coercion would have had me shaking in my boots. Would have made me want to run, Forrest, run.

But not anymore.

To the Sperm Donor I say this. You are not the Last Charm.

OK?

Miss Mich

The First Amendment.

Dear hearts,

Censorship. According to the Concise Oxford it is the suppression of whole or parts of books, plays, films, letters, news etc on the grounds of obscenity, seditiousness etc.

Hmmm…. If that which I write about here in this little tete et tete with you Dear hearts gets you thinking and talking, then my work is done. Whether you deem the content obscene or seditious, it really is a matter of your opinion. And you are most welcome to it.

The Internet is a wonderful open forum that allows freedom of speech without censorship. You can say what you like. Fact, fiction, it’s all here and it’s all ok.

We are big boys and girls and have the freedom to pick and choose from the vast volume of material that which we need, or like, or just simply wish to view.

Or not.

So much to see, so little download time.

Take this little blog. I have 12 followers and I thank each and every one of you. To those who have not pledged their allegiance on line and yet still dip in and out from time to time, I thank you as well.

Miss Mich is a girl after everyone’s heart. There is a little Miss Mich in us all. Even the boys. She has always described herself as a gay man trapped in a woman’s body. Just ask Sha ron Morrie…

She is a chameleon and so very proud of it. She can be whatever you want her to be. Sometimes you would be surprised. Really..

What she will never be Dear hearts, is censored. She will continue to tell you the stories that come to mind to entertain you, educate you, inspire and delight you.

All with love. Obvi.

Enjoy the first amendment.

With a twinkle in her eye
Miss Mich

Addendum - post Barbie.

Dear hearts,

Miss Christine has made the point, quite rightly, that I have missed out on a few Barbies. She feels that I have been a bit Goody too-Shoes about the whole thing. She wants to see a little balance. A little Yang to counter what she perceives as too much Yin.

So here, just for you Miss Christine, is my selection of Dark Barbies. And maybe a few Dark Kens. Just for fun.

Bitch Barbie comes top of mind. Bitch Barbie is your friend to your face and your enemy as soon as you leave the room. She wears the smile painted on her mouth while the gaze from her eyes is enough to cut through steel. It goes without saying you can’t trust a word she says.

Butch Barbie. I want to see lesbian Barbies on the shelf. She can be in the box next to Equal Opportunity Barbie.

Lipstick Lesbian Barbie. See above.

My own personal favourite – Latex Barbie. Now she can be a Dominatrix or she can be passive. Or she can just be a very naughty girl. Personally, I like to think of her as all three. We all know that she will come with a whip and paddle as her accessories. Nice. Very nice.

And now to some of the Darker Kens.

First of all, these Kens are all anatomically correct. They have penises.

Latex Ken. Obvi. The perfect match for our Latex Barbie. Both dressed by Westward Bound (see the website and you will know what I mean). Looking nice, naughty and shiny.

Stalker Ken. Dear hearts I include this Ken as a warning to you all. Having had my very own Stalker Ken I think it only fair to have him as one of our Dark Kens, if only to use Lawyer Barbie and Lara Croft Barbie against him. It will make for good action play. Lawyer Barbie will crucify him in court whilst Lara Croft Barbie will crucify him in the 10 mins she is given whilst the Seargent is turning a blind eye in the Watchhouse.

Just a snapshot dear hearts, I’m sure you can all think of loads more. For Miss Mich, I’m a little distracted by the Westward Bound site and really must add to cart….

Enjoy…

With love
Mistress Mich

I want to be just like Barbie.

Dear hearts,

It’s funny how the rules of relationships make it almost impossible to succeed in any long term arrangement.

I am supported by statistics here. One in every three marriages will fail. Fact.

And yet. We are taught from very early that Ken and Barbie get married. Once. On the shelves of the local toy store, I have never seen Divorce Barbie…there’s a marketing opportunity. Or Blended Family Barbie. That one’s a challenge. Ooh what about Bitter ex-wife Barbie? Hmmm…she would be the one that comes with all the assets – Barbie’s dream home, Mercedes Benz, the kids and the dog. As you can imagine, you pay through the nose for her.

Being an Ex, without the bitterness, what would I be Dear hearts?... I’m thinking Second Chance Barbie. Allow me to explain.

I didn’t choose to change my life. It was chosen for me. Having said that I decided from the get go, and I’m talking Day Three (Jules will attest). Sitting at Jules kitchen table, shaking, with my twentieth cup of tea, that my success would be my best revenge. I would not need to resort to any of the common methods of torture, manipulation and destruction.

He could leave with the English Rose and I could stay with my dignity. That’s not to say there were not days of depression (Doona Days), days of resentment (Exercise Days) and days of Extreme Uncertainty (Panic Days). Without my girlfriends I could not have survived. Those girls remain Miss Mich’s bestest ever and I will always be grateful for their care and concern.

Back to Second Chance Barbie. Once over the hump of the aforementioned early days it was onwards and upwards. There were the charms and their lovely distractions. The last charm and the move to the far far north. When that whole thing went seriously pear shaped, then came the realisation that only I could be responsible for myself. That only I could direct and create my future.

It has taken nearly eight years to get to the point, Dear hearts, where I have finally decided what I want to be when I grow up. More importantly, Who I want to be when I grow up. Yes Capital Letter.

Who.

Yes. Stand alone par.

I want to be a role model for my children. I want to show them Strength and Consistency. Dependability and Generosity. Watch out, Capital Letters are going to fly Dear hearts.

I want to Contribute. To the Common Good. From the grass roots to the glass ceiling, I want to make some kind of difference. Personally, professionally and environmentally.

I want to share the Love.

With all.

I want to be Accountable. For the past, the present and the future. I am happy to confess my sins, reconcile my differences and go beyond the penance of three Hail Mary’s. If you have an issue with me. Bring it on.

If I can achieve all of that, I won’t be afraid any more.

None of this comes easily. And to try and be successful at all of that and an arrangement with someone significant is optimistic to say the least. But we must try. We must try to look beyond the complexities and beyond our own fears. We must value the good in each endeavour and honour the integrity of the original intent.

If Barbie can do it, then so can I.

So what does Second Chance Barbie come accessorised with I hear you ask? I’m thinking a mid-life University degree, a bunch of Capital letter worthy attributes and most impressive of all – Peace of Mind.

Enjoy the opportunity.

With love
Miss Mich

Spite the Difference

Dear hearts,

Spite.

A nasty emotion. I certainly do not wish to accord it capital letter worthy status, it is merely a function of grammer that I defer to. The fact that I give it a stand alone par is only to educate and emphasise in the hope that you, Dear hearts, never go down that bitter and twisted path.

Spite. It sounds as it is. A thing of ugliness that is spat out and flung at the target with no thought. No care. No concern for the recipient. I won’t say victim, because I wont entertain that word . It is not in my vocabulary.

Sadly that does not make us exempt from the glare of its gaze. Trust me I know.

Without going into the sordid details, or maybe I will just to make the lesson count, the last charm employed said Spite to, at the least unsettle, and at the worst terrify Miss Mich after she made the decision to leave the Big House.

I was astounded at the intensity of the spite. I was astonished that someone who, at the same time as I was leaving said relationship (now you know why I abhor the word), spoke of true and undying love, and yet at the very same time could employ such tactics as physical abuse, harassment of oneself and one’s children, slashing of one’s clothes, theft, destruction of property, fraud, summons to court, and defamatory accusations to one’s employer.

I was speechless. I was without speech.

For a moment.

Then I picked myself up. Dusted myself off. Wiped the spit out of my eye and walked on.

He taught me a lot. Nine court appearances in twelve weeks. 4 kilos lost. One upset stomach. A physical reaction that lasts to this day when I may, on the rare occasion see him. And I know he reads this blog.

But let me tell you Dear hearts, no amount of spite or coercion, or bullying or stalking or downright intimidation and assault is going to do this little black duck in.

And nor should it ever happen to you, God forbid.

I have a friend. A friend who is experiencing the same amount of vitriol, of spite. To you my friend, I say learn from my experience. It has been the hardest thing I have had to bear. The sperm donor and his infidelity was no match for you, last and smallest charm.

But I thank you. You have made me dig deep. Made me find what I am truly made of. And that is steel. Without you I may never have reached my true potential.

To my dear friend who is sadly wearing shoes similar to mine two years ago, I send my love and urge you to look within yourself and find the determination to succeed.

When the Sperm donor left to be with the English Rose, I said then as I say now, my success will be my best revenge.

It is the same for all of us Dear hearts. We don’t have to be stalked and bullied to employ these pearls of wisdom.

Use the experience of adversity to encourage you, not defeat you. I don’t want to hear you whine. Ever. I don’t want to hear excuses that it’s all too hard. I’ll tell you what’s too hard. Don’t get me started.

Don’t be a baby. If you give in to the torment, you will never get out. We are all better than that.

Don’t whinge. Get up and make a cup of tea. Twinings Orange Pekoe makes everything feel better. A good run before and a cold shower after is the ticket.

Think of me as your coach. Your coach against the negative. The spiteful and the nasty.

There is no competition. Snuff it out like a flame. Give it no credence, no value and it will only have retreat as its only sorry sorry option.

I might sound tough, but you know me well enough by now to know that I am only determined.

Determined to share the love.

Enjoy strength Dear hearts.

With love
Miss Mich

Get Your Motor Running

Imagine Dear hearts,

Imagine if you could say you are truly satisfied…that everything was in place and the planets aligned…there’s not many of us that can say that, are there?

I don’t think we are trying hard enough. No, I don’t.

The Libertine and I went for two walks yesterday. The first along the most beautiful stretch of beach here in the far far north. I can’t tell you where it is because it’s a secret. Our little secret. The second walk was later under the most perfect crescent moon. We could have been in Morocco, we could have been in India. Turns out we were in Paradise. Which makes me think of that classic 70’s chestnut and in my top ten …”I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me…” I want to wear Halston and hang out at Studio 54. I want to wear “Le Smoking” and speak French with Serge Gainsbourg. All on the beach here in paradise. All with the Libertine.

I am digressing, it’s true, but there is a point to my meanderings.

It doesn’t take much to feel good. Really good and satisfied. The Libertine satisfies me. Also makes me hungry for more, but that is a hunger that will never be satisfied. And I’m ok with that.

But I don’t understand what it is that holds most people back. Or maybe I do. Most of us make everything so bloody complicated. We have too much. Too much choice, too much opportunity to dwell on what we think we are missing out on. Too much aspiration. Too much exposure to too much of little value.

Just too much.

And then there’s not enough. Not enough money. Not enough time. Not enough Super. Not enough wine…(maybe I’m channelling Serge…)

I am going off and I don’t care. We are all too avaricious. Myself included. Case in point. Here I am with 20 handbags strewn about the Cottage, and I’m contemplating the next handbag purchase. Am I nuts?

I have a sunglass wardrobe. Did you hear what I said??... I am nuts.

Back to the classic…”I’ve been to Paradise…” Maybe it’s because we are too busy being told what we should be doing, eating, wearing, driving, reading, and thinking that we don’t have the opportunity to strip away all of the extraneous, clear our head space, lie back and day dream and let it come to us. Let the joy of a crescent moon wash over us. Let the thrill of cold water run over our feet. Feel the thrill of skin against skin when fingertips touch.

Are we too busy taking the photograph to see the view? Are we too intent on the next big thing that we miss the achievement of what is here and now. Are we simply marking time until the next Iphone is released and the next gen Ipad is available.

I am so sick of stuff. And people who covet it.

But I do have a hankering for the 70’s. I had a dragster bike in the 70’s. My little brother and I both had one. We would ride our bikes together in the street behind our house. I would leave my mother a note with a great flourish to say we have “gone riding…”out on the open road (albeit a sleepy little street) wind in our hair and the feeling of freedom. We thought we were daredevils. And we were 12 and 7 years old. We didn’t wear helmets and I had hot pants and a halter neck top. My little brother had a Batman cape and an attitude to match. We were Kings of the Road.

I am not going to let myself contemplate that 21st handbag. No I am not. In fact, I am going to donate handbags. And more than one Dear hearts. I am going to practise a little giving instead of acquiring. A little less rather than more.

What I am going to acquire is more crescent moons. More walks. More stars and more hunger for good loving. And maybe a new pair of hotpants and halter neck top….

Enjoy giving.

With love
Miss Mich