In every challenge, there is a moment when the challenger takes on too much and comes crashing down on her karmic arse.
If I get run over now I’ll probably be reincarnated as a lonely witchetty-grub in a camp-ful of hungry indigenous people who’ve signed up for a traditional cuisine challenge with Bear Grylls.
So – last week I promised myself I’d go a whole week without saying anything nasty. For the non-Buddhists among you, Right Speech is the third tenet of Buddha’s Noble Eightfold Path. As the Buddha saith:
Whatever words we utter should be chosen with care for people will hear them and be influenced by them for good or ill.
Trailertrash Deluxe, of whom I’ve spoken before, isn’t a fan of Right Speech, and I kinda get where he’s coming from (I think). I’m not that into BEING nasty but I really love being free to TALK nasty (just a little, sometimes) – plus that kind of talk’s a lot less boring than the nice kind (again, just a little, sometimes?).
Anyway, I tried. The results were..just nasty.
On Saturday night I took my best friend to see Carmen, the opera.
Since I’m still learning how to be a femme fatale, I thought it’d be educational for me, and titillating for him. So we’re sitting there, and the stage empties, and I think, right, intermission! So I say to him, kinda loudly, ‘That Carmen, she just isn’t sexy. And she’s dressed all wrong! And as for that sexy dancing on tables number, I could dance better than that ANY DAY!’. Then I realise it’s not the intermission, nobody else is saying anything, and the orchestra is trying to play a little mid-scene tune – over my complaints. Shut the f up, Rose!
But it gets worse. Yesterday I was going through my email and there’s a nice comment from The Hook commending me on my work, as he sometimes does. So without looking at the work he’s commending me on, apparently, I scribble something self-deprecating back to the effect that it’s just me having writer’s diarroeah – and click send. A little later, I notice another comment, this time from my friend Iamnotshe. I thought you LIKED my poem, says Mel. Er, what? Oh shit – a re-blog! So instead of saying MY stuff is shit, I’ve said HER stuff is shit! When it’s not shit, it’s wonderful, and clever, and best of all it’s about ME. Dig yourself out of that one, Rose.
Did I make up for all this by wearing the Pink Tee Shirt of Doom? Well, yeah, sure, I wore it for two days, got a few incredulous grins – and then stopped wearing it because it got too cold. Totally wimpy. Anyway instead of saying Free Hugs on it, it should say Free Nervous Grimaces. That’s the introvert’s version – it’ll be available in the shops real soon.
To top it all off I’ve called at least two fellow bloggers who revel in their sumptuous femininity, ‘he’. Sorry?
This is the Week of Karma Disaster. Minus HOW many points, Captain Savage?
My question for next week is – SHALL I go to the ball?? By which I mean, the Sydney Writer’s Festival. I’ve never been to a Writer’s Festival. I don’t know anyone. It’s a long drive. In my Hugs Tee Shirt? Fairy Godmother! Where ARE you!!!