Sunday, October 3, 2010
mustang sally!
I wish my dad didn't like golf so much. Ever since we got Foxtel back in 1998, he's been up every Saturday/Sunday morning watching the goddamned golf. Right now he's cheering for some English golfer dude in some championship with Europe vs. America as the main focus. Europe is currently kicking arse and taking names, just proves that Europeans are just simply...the best ;D hahahaha, coming from strong European ancestry, I can say that, no matter how much of a shithole it is at the moment! Some Irish golfer dude is meant to be coming out soon, but I actually know his name cause Dad thinks he's God: PADRAIG HARRINGTON. Yeah, he's like really good at golf and us Irish people don't produce a world-beating sportsman very often! Our rugby union team is really good, but our main player is slowly turning into a skeleton D: Which reminds me, the COMMONWEALTH GAMESSSSSSSSSSSSS I watched the opening ceremony for a bit last night, was actually on the lookout for hot Australian/Canadian/Scottish/Welsh guys, but I was a bit disappointed :L Even the Winter Olympics earlier this year were better with regards to hotness! STEP UP YOUR ACTS ahahahahaha! I think when I grow up, I'm gonna marry a Canadian guy or a Welsh guy :) Welsh accents are crazy hot.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Friday, October 1, 2010
if i had done english studies...
i'd have written this.
My father's parents? Nowhere. Dead, gone, with a calamity known within my family, and many other parts of the world and indeed Ireland, as the Troubles. My paternal grandfather, my Daideó, had grown up knowing that somewhere in County Cork, his own father was imprisoned for daring to say that the Irish had a right to a Free State. He took part in an uprising in 1916. Many of his compatriots were executed for doing the same thing. As such, my poor Daideó grew up dirt poor with four siblings in his tread. My great-grandmother...there is a photograph that exists of her, and everybody always says that she was simply beautiful, Aine(they called me by my Irish name, too insulted by the fact that my father had chosen 'Kimberley' instead of the 'Meghann' or 'Sinead' they were hoping for). Simply beautiful, awn-yah. Knowing that beautiful women in my father's family come perhaps once a generation, I believed it. She was said to have had grey eyes, like the storms that plague the Irish Sea for the trawlermen every season. Russet hair, and a fierce, protective love for everybody around her. My Irish name...was named for her. Greatgrandmama Aine, who was also said to adore flowers, and never knew how to read or write, one, perhaps two generations down from what the world knows as the Irish Famine. We call it An Gorta Mor. I remember seeing a banner at a soccer match in Scotland, about An Gorta Mor:
ONE MILLION DEAD. THREE MILLION DISPERSED. THE DESCENDANTS REMEMBER!
An Gorta Mor triggered the Irish diaspora; three million Irish people, mostly Catholic, desperately searched for a better life than the one that God had given them in Ireland. They took up post in America, in Canada, in Australia, in New Zealand, in South Africa, in Argentina, Uruguay and Bolivia...my family, perhaps too connected to their roots to leave, stuck it out. The first of the MacGowans, also known as the Smiths, did not arrive on Australian shores until 1963. 1963, a year of hard luck for the Irish; the Irish Catholic American President, John Fitzgerald Kennedy (known affectionately as 'JFK') had been assassinated in Dallas that year. It was also a year of perhaps good luck; Martin Luther King, Jr. had a dream and The Beatles exploded, creating wonderful music that my father's generation and my generation in turn would be fascinated with.
My maternal grandparents arrived in 1960.
My Oma was heavily pregnant at that time with my uncle. One year later, my mother would be born also. My poor Oma had no idea how to speak English; she only knew German, Hebrew(though she had tried many times over the years to forget that language), Yiddish(ditto) and Portuguese, thanks to her Sephardi parents who had finally fled Portugal after more anti-Semetic activity in the country. However, she loved Portugal; perhaps more than she loved Israel/Australia, and visited there many times. She had told me once, concealing her disappointment in my Catholic faith with a sweet smile, that she would take me to see the Shrine dedicated to Our Lady of Fatima, and that if she was not there by the time I felt I was ready to go there and worship, that she would somehow make sure that I got there. She was an amazing cook, cooking Kosher versions of Paella and different types of bacalhau. She was expressive in her introverted way; using her hands to talk, and her eyes and head to communicate. A lot of me....comes from her.
My grandfather was not as sweet.
My poor Opa could not forget. I do not blame him. What Oma could cover up with her sweet, shy personality that I inherited....my Opa could not. He was the strong, silent type. I've seen photographs of him from the 1950's/1960's, and I was proud when I exclaimed in a rather Josie Alibrandi-like fashion: "Who's the handsome man. Oma?!" and my Oma giggled and said that was her husband, my Opa. Opa was just the right amount of cool Russian suave and fiery Jewish wisdom, though he looked more Russian than Jewish. I inherited my stony stare from him. He was very tall, 6'5 by the time he was 21, compared to my Oma's petite height of 5'1 by that age. He had blue eyes, strikingly blue, and in one of his first photographs in Australia he is wearing a leather jacket, white t-shirt, and those jeans which folded up in the ankles. Ray-Bans complete the look, and his hair is casually slicked back. My Oma stands next to him, wearing her first pair of Roman sandals and pushing her hands shyly into her Capri pants. Add a sleeveless blouse, and voila! My grandparents were the epitome of style. It is amusing to see my mother plopped down by their new car with a book, and my uncle about to pinch her ear. Their youngest children, my cousin Moises and I, have the same relationship--I was born three days before him. Moises, if you read this, this is just a friendly reminder that you are a faggot of gargantuan proportions. :)
Back to Opa....what he went through in Auschwitz, I will never know. His parents, my deda and baba, knew what was going to happen after they stepped off of the train. Their own parents had been slain in the Russian pogroms of the Tsar, which my deda and baba had escaped. They went to the furnaces humming old Hebrew folk songs under their breaths, hoping that their children would perhaps return to Israel, the Promised Land, for them.
Only one survived.
Opa and Oma, I'm so fucking sorry that you went to the depths of Hell and back. But you also made it out, and you escaped East Germany later, and I am so fucking proud of you both.
Somehow, my Opa survived Auschwitz and my Oma survived Bergen-Belsen. One day in 1959, Oma had chosen to take a light stroll around Berlin; perhaps she would stop in at one of the new trendy vegetarian cafe's for a light lunch with a couple of her school friends. She certainly didn't want to think about that rascal Joachim Bedermann, who had held her hand for a whole day and then didn't want anything to do with her.
It was that day that Tzipora Betancourt and Joachim Bedermann fell in love. The Berlin Wall would tear them apart, but somehow, they arrived in Australia in 1960. My opa dyed his hair blonde for the occasion, and it actually really suited him from what I can see in the photographs.
More to come later.
My father's parents? Nowhere. Dead, gone, with a calamity known within my family, and many other parts of the world and indeed Ireland, as the Troubles. My paternal grandfather, my Daideó, had grown up knowing that somewhere in County Cork, his own father was imprisoned for daring to say that the Irish had a right to a Free State. He took part in an uprising in 1916. Many of his compatriots were executed for doing the same thing. As such, my poor Daideó grew up dirt poor with four siblings in his tread. My great-grandmother...there is a photograph that exists of her, and everybody always says that she was simply beautiful, Aine(they called me by my Irish name, too insulted by the fact that my father had chosen 'Kimberley' instead of the 'Meghann' or 'Sinead' they were hoping for). Simply beautiful, awn-yah. Knowing that beautiful women in my father's family come perhaps once a generation, I believed it. She was said to have had grey eyes, like the storms that plague the Irish Sea for the trawlermen every season. Russet hair, and a fierce, protective love for everybody around her. My Irish name...was named for her. Greatgrandmama Aine, who was also said to adore flowers, and never knew how to read or write, one, perhaps two generations down from what the world knows as the Irish Famine. We call it An Gorta Mor. I remember seeing a banner at a soccer match in Scotland, about An Gorta Mor:
ONE MILLION DEAD. THREE MILLION DISPERSED. THE DESCENDANTS REMEMBER!
An Gorta Mor triggered the Irish diaspora; three million Irish people, mostly Catholic, desperately searched for a better life than the one that God had given them in Ireland. They took up post in America, in Canada, in Australia, in New Zealand, in South Africa, in Argentina, Uruguay and Bolivia...my family, perhaps too connected to their roots to leave, stuck it out. The first of the MacGowans, also known as the Smiths, did not arrive on Australian shores until 1963. 1963, a year of hard luck for the Irish; the Irish Catholic American President, John Fitzgerald Kennedy (known affectionately as 'JFK') had been assassinated in Dallas that year. It was also a year of perhaps good luck; Martin Luther King, Jr. had a dream and The Beatles exploded, creating wonderful music that my father's generation and my generation in turn would be fascinated with.
My maternal grandparents arrived in 1960.
My Oma was heavily pregnant at that time with my uncle. One year later, my mother would be born also. My poor Oma had no idea how to speak English; she only knew German, Hebrew(though she had tried many times over the years to forget that language), Yiddish(ditto) and Portuguese, thanks to her Sephardi parents who had finally fled Portugal after more anti-Semetic activity in the country. However, she loved Portugal; perhaps more than she loved Israel/Australia, and visited there many times. She had told me once, concealing her disappointment in my Catholic faith with a sweet smile, that she would take me to see the Shrine dedicated to Our Lady of Fatima, and that if she was not there by the time I felt I was ready to go there and worship, that she would somehow make sure that I got there. She was an amazing cook, cooking Kosher versions of Paella and different types of bacalhau. She was expressive in her introverted way; using her hands to talk, and her eyes and head to communicate. A lot of me....comes from her.
My grandfather was not as sweet.
My poor Opa could not forget. I do not blame him. What Oma could cover up with her sweet, shy personality that I inherited....my Opa could not. He was the strong, silent type. I've seen photographs of him from the 1950's/1960's, and I was proud when I exclaimed in a rather Josie Alibrandi-like fashion: "Who's the handsome man. Oma?!" and my Oma giggled and said that was her husband, my Opa. Opa was just the right amount of cool Russian suave and fiery Jewish wisdom, though he looked more Russian than Jewish. I inherited my stony stare from him. He was very tall, 6'5 by the time he was 21, compared to my Oma's petite height of 5'1 by that age. He had blue eyes, strikingly blue, and in one of his first photographs in Australia he is wearing a leather jacket, white t-shirt, and those jeans which folded up in the ankles. Ray-Bans complete the look, and his hair is casually slicked back. My Oma stands next to him, wearing her first pair of Roman sandals and pushing her hands shyly into her Capri pants. Add a sleeveless blouse, and voila! My grandparents were the epitome of style. It is amusing to see my mother plopped down by their new car with a book, and my uncle about to pinch her ear. Their youngest children, my cousin Moises and I, have the same relationship--I was born three days before him. Moises, if you read this, this is just a friendly reminder that you are a faggot of gargantuan proportions. :)
Back to Opa....what he went through in Auschwitz, I will never know. His parents, my deda and baba, knew what was going to happen after they stepped off of the train. Their own parents had been slain in the Russian pogroms of the Tsar, which my deda and baba had escaped. They went to the furnaces humming old Hebrew folk songs under their breaths, hoping that their children would perhaps return to Israel, the Promised Land, for them.
Only one survived.
Opa and Oma, I'm so fucking sorry that you went to the depths of Hell and back. But you also made it out, and you escaped East Germany later, and I am so fucking proud of you both.
Somehow, my Opa survived Auschwitz and my Oma survived Bergen-Belsen. One day in 1959, Oma had chosen to take a light stroll around Berlin; perhaps she would stop in at one of the new trendy vegetarian cafe's for a light lunch with a couple of her school friends. She certainly didn't want to think about that rascal Joachim Bedermann, who had held her hand for a whole day and then didn't want anything to do with her.
It was that day that Tzipora Betancourt and Joachim Bedermann fell in love. The Berlin Wall would tear them apart, but somehow, they arrived in Australia in 1960. My opa dyed his hair blonde for the occasion, and it actually really suited him from what I can see in the photographs.
More to come later.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Maxime Medard
is the fucking man
Check out those mutton chops ahahahahahahahahaha! Francois is looking good too, and suddenly I've got RWC fever. What does RWC stand for? THE RUGBY WORLD CUP. Not until September next year, but still, having a dad who played U21 Union for Ireland--his family is obsessed with it--I still can't wait. Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, I can still remember the time I caught my sister looking at some random Dieux du Stade calendar and I think I was that young that I pissed myself laughing over the pictures, but she ended up hitting me over the head with it and pretty much told me to GTFO. I looked up 'Dieux du Stade' in Google Images a couple of weeks ago, and let me just say that I squeaked and blushed and I closed the fucking window and oh my god I think I UNFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF-ed on sight of those pictures and oh my god whatever has happened to censorship laws, you bloody French people, half of those were like....porn or something OMG.
ANYWAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.
Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaah, most if not all of the dirty words I know, I learnt from my eldest sister. Here she is on her wedding day in 2008:
ANYWAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.
Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaah, most if not all of the dirty words I know, I learnt from my eldest sister. Here she is on her wedding day in 2008:
this is so stupid
I just want to scream.
My mind won't let me do that.
(C'mon. You're the shy one. You're the OLSH prude, remember?)
I am. But I wonder what it would feel like to be like a loud, bubbly, carefree, happy girl.
....nah. I'll stick to being an introverted bookworm.
I want to feel what it is like to go out.
With a guy.
/dad will end up bringing someone over for me. my personality is my downfall.
God knows any guy would dislike me. I'm an ice bitch. The last guy....we thought we were going to end up marrying each other, in a small chapel, and have many children. He just wanted the names 'Lucas' and 'Claire' in there, while I was busy making up all these other names that acknowledged my cultural heritage and my beliefs and my heroines.
Yeah. I blocked him a week ago. It was his fault, I swear. It's not my fault that his 'best friend' is a fucking misogynistic wog prick. not to be racist, but seriously.
Dear ex-best friend:
If I see you in the street, I'll hold my head high, and clasp my hands--a bit like the portrait below--and I will fucking ignore you, because my mama brought me up to be an ice queen to any man that didn't know me.
Take that, prick.
All I want from life is a husband who loves me.
Children who love me even more.
Laughter, food, music in my home.
A nice job. Nothing special.
Is it so hard to achieve?
My mind won't let me do that.
(C'mon. You're the shy one. You're the OLSH prude, remember?)
I am. But I wonder what it would feel like to be like a loud, bubbly, carefree, happy girl.
....nah. I'll stick to being an introverted bookworm.
I want to feel what it is like to go out.
With a guy.
/dad will end up bringing someone over for me. my personality is my downfall.
God knows any guy would dislike me. I'm an ice bitch. The last guy....we thought we were going to end up marrying each other, in a small chapel, and have many children. He just wanted the names 'Lucas' and 'Claire' in there, while I was busy making up all these other names that acknowledged my cultural heritage and my beliefs and my heroines.
Yeah. I blocked him a week ago. It was his fault, I swear. It's not my fault that his 'best friend' is a fucking misogynistic wog prick. not to be racist, but seriously.
Dear ex-best friend:
If I see you in the street, I'll hold my head high, and clasp my hands--a bit like the portrait below--and I will fucking ignore you, because my mama brought me up to be an ice queen to any man that didn't know me.
Take that, prick.
 |
| "Anna! Anna Cleves!" |
Children who love me even more.
Laughter, food, music in my home.
A nice job. Nothing special.
Is it so hard to achieve?
fuck you.
I do not know.
I do not want to know.
I am here.
You are someone else.
Fuck you.
I personally couldn't give a shit about your bullshit.
Not in the mood for your bullshit immature games either. You both think that you're so fucking mature. NEWSFLASH. You don't know the fucking meaning of 'mature'. At least find a good looking guy to perve on ffs. Another newsflash: Billie Joe Armstrong = not sexy. Kthxbai.
FUCK
I do not want to know.
I am here.
You are someone else.
Fuck you.
I personally couldn't give a shit about your bullshit.
Not in the mood for your bullshit immature games either. You both think that you're so fucking mature. NEWSFLASH. You don't know the fucking meaning of 'mature'. At least find a good looking guy to perve on ffs. Another newsflash: Billie Joe Armstrong = not sexy. Kthxbai.
FUCK
familiarity
daughter of the Troubles.
grand daughter of the Holocaust
great grand daughter of the Russian pogroms (no wonder why most of the revolutionaries in 1918 were Jewish!)
God bless and keep Israel. God knows what would happen to the Jews if it didn't exist. Israel is our homeland. It always has, it always will be. Everyone has a right to a homeland. Shit, there's a million Muslim states, a million Christian states, why does the world get mad when the sole Jewish state dares to defend itself against the terrorist group that is Hamas? FUCK PALESTINE.
Death and destruction have, hand in hand, followed my ancestors around for centuries.
I hope that my children grow up to be children of peace. Of course, when it is time for them to know, they will know about the Troubles and what their ancestors gave up for them to ensure that they were allowed to practice their faith and have a nationality freely. They will know about the Holocaust, and the sacrifices their great-grandparents made so that that we could be free, and the journey to Hell and back that they made to do it. They will know about the pogroms, and they will know that nowadays Christianity and Judaism can exist peacefully without any problems.
herald of peace.
grand daughter of the Holocaust
great grand daughter of the Russian pogroms (no wonder why most of the revolutionaries in 1918 were Jewish!)
God bless and keep Israel. God knows what would happen to the Jews if it didn't exist. Israel is our homeland. It always has, it always will be. Everyone has a right to a homeland. Shit, there's a million Muslim states, a million Christian states, why does the world get mad when the sole Jewish state dares to defend itself against the terrorist group that is Hamas? FUCK PALESTINE.
Death and destruction have, hand in hand, followed my ancestors around for centuries.
I hope that my children grow up to be children of peace. Of course, when it is time for them to know, they will know about the Troubles and what their ancestors gave up for them to ensure that they were allowed to practice their faith and have a nationality freely. They will know about the Holocaust, and the sacrifices their great-grandparents made so that that we could be free, and the journey to Hell and back that they made to do it. They will know about the pogroms, and they will know that nowadays Christianity and Judaism can exist peacefully without any problems.
herald of peace.
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