06 October 2008

все будет хорошо, я точно знаю

eh. Still haven't legally changed my name. Will keep it for writing purposes. My maiden name sounds Chechen - Karypova in its proper spelling (it's actually Ossetian). My great grandfather Karypov was a Cossack- the last proper one. His son, my deda was three when shit hit the fan and their nomadic, ancient lives were no more. Last night at a fundraiser my dad was talking about The Limitations of Reason when it comes to Faith. He described his grandfather (good at drawing) asking him to draw a goat when he was six. Never having seen one, my dad drew what he knew of goats- horns, four legs, ears and took a little artistic licence with the rest. His goat ended up feathered and his deda was furious that he'd never seen a goat.

.... can't believe i ever felt the way below. so busy now. glad i missed the deadline for RUSSH (more correctly, cocked up communication with editor) and never finished writing it.

Taking Young Wives

Murky half-light filters into the hotel room; Charlotte lifts her head from her pillow, frustrated and sleepless, and glances over at her soundly sleeping husband. Outside, Tokyo snores and rises, cars move determinedly, traffic lights are obeyed. She crosses her arms over her chest.

There is something alien and alienating about being a young wife today. Having been married for one month at the age of 24 I empathise with Charlotte, Scarlett Johansson's character in Lost in Translation. Charlotte cuts a melancholy figure; a vague girl in a foreign landscape, bored and playing second fiddle to her husband's career. We young wives inhabit a dusky world with few attractive role models, with no one to give us hints about behaviour and expectations. Just like Charlotte, I am occasionally lost.
All of a sudden I have time; fat, wide hours of it every day after work and sometimes it stretches inexplicably becoming elastic and taunting. There's more time to miss my husband who works late into the night. I am not spending a few blessed hours alone; I am reluctant to admit, I am almost, well, lonely.
Incoming phone calls and invitations have halved ('Leave the newly weds to enjoy their time together.') Male friends are awkward where they were once light hearted. When I meet with girlfriends they stare at me from their five year long relationships wondering how and why I did it all under a year. I shrug.

For a decade we've been shown the glamour and the freedom of the single girl. From her heels up, she's an image of self sufficiency and success, style and substance. We've stopped pitying the single girl- no longer a spinster but a hipster-we've started to celebrate her.

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