goodness gracious me

grace. 24. singer/songwriter. little old adelaide.

[goodness-gracious-me]

[goodness-gracious-me]

"You'll be alright, kid. Look after yourself! Drink less. Don't date boys. Go to the beach with your friends. Walk your dogs. Write music." - S.R

[goodness-gracious-me]

[goodness-gracious-me]

Bliss.

[rubyetc]

[goodness-gracious-me]

Wilfred, I've never missed anyone as much as I miss you.

[goodness-gracious-me]

I just want someone to have a crush on me.

[goodness-gracious-me]

“It’s not very useful to get stuck on things out of our control.” - S.G

[goodness-gracious-me]

[goodness-gracious-me]

Bullshit Lines.

“I just need some space.” “I thought I was ready, but I don’t think I am.” “I was a bit unsure.” // “I’m still a bit unsure.” “I’m not looking for anything serious at the moment.” “I’m just really enjoying being single.” “I think I just need some time.” “You’re a really lovely girl, but…” “I’m not ready.” “I just have some stuff that I need to figure out, first.” “I’m just a bit of a mess, at the moment.” “It hasn’t got anything to do with you. It could be any girl and I’d still feel like this.” “I just want to be honest with you.” “I’ve just come out of a long-term relationship, so I’m not really looking for anything serious.” “I’m sorry.” “I didn’t want/mean to hurt you.” “I promise that I won’t hurt you.”

[goodness-gracious-me]

Baby's first poster. Keep your eyes out for them around Adelaide. Image by the wonderfully talented @evitrron #graceemilyhotel #music #gig #gracegoodfellowmusic #evka #photography #adelaide

[goodness-gracious-me]

A Letter for my Dad

Dear Pappa Bear,

I was going to write this by hand, but I thought it would be better if I typed it – because then you’ll receive it straight away.

E and I had a big chat, and we both cried a lot. It’s unusual for her to be upset – to the point of crying, anyway. And I knew, as soon as she began to speak that something wasn’t quite right. I could sense her sadness. We talked a lot about her dad and about you; about our relationships, about loss, about being sick. I told her how much I miss Poppy. How very sad I am. How sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, crying because I know I’ll never get to speak to him again. I know that it’s all part of the process – that I am grieving. I know that those thoughts - those moments of shock – will be few and far in between, eventually.

Eventually.

It’s such an interesting concept, don’t you think? Eventually, I will be a University graduate. Eventually, I will record a 5 track EP. Eventually, I will have a piece published in Frankie Magazine.  Eventually, I will move out of Company Street. Eventually, I will get a haircut, get a job, get out of Adelaide. Eventually, I will lose my mum and my dad.

When I saw you in Hospital on Saturday morning, I thought that it might be the last. Your glazed-over eyes and slow breathing had me convinced that I was going to lose you. I tried to be brave. I even made a joke in the car on the way home with Shane. But the thought was there, and I was so angry and so scared and so sad. I wasn’t just angry at you – I was angry at myself. I know that our relationship has changed dramatically. And I know it must be confusing for you, sometimes. It is for me, as well. It wasn’t intentional, Dad. It just happened, you know? There was a shift.

And I’m not quite sure where the anger comes from. I just know that it exists. And I’m sorry for its existence, I really am. But I think it’s more about me, and what I want and need. We were both so stressed and tense when I was living in Nelson Street. I was so tired, Dad. I was so frustrated and so easily annoyed. And I didn’t want to be. I didn’t like who I was. And sometimes I miss being there; I miss my bed and I miss doing the dishes together. I miss the noises and I miss having cups of tea with you.  It was my home, for a really long time.

I don’t miss the yelling or the screaming or the slammed doors or the volatility, though. I always felt like you were disappointed in me, and maybe that’s unfair…but it’s true. I felt like, if I wasn’t working or studying, then I was letting you down. I was just trying to figure out what I wanted, though. I was so unsure – of everything. And I didn’t feel understood and that’s probably where some of the anger and frustration came from. For a long time, I felt like I was constantly tripping over. Stumbling. And it was really upsetting – because everyone said things like, “You have so much potential,” etcetera. And I do. I know I do. But I couldn’t quite get there. I needed time. And now I’m at Uni and I’m doing really well and it’s all starting to fall in to place. I know that I could have finished the Early Childhood degree, but I wouldn’t have been happy. Life is too short to be miserable. I don’t ever want to do something just because I’m “supposed to,” even if that (according to others makes me selfish. I just don’t see the point in doing a 3 year degree, only to feel resentment and disappointment and regret. It doesn’t matter now, anyway. Because I love the Psych degree and I know that if I continue on in the same way as in Semester 1, then I’ll land a place in the Honours program and I’ll be able to achieve that particular goal. I can do it, Dad. But more than that, I want to.

During my Skype date with E,  I told her about R and I said, “My heart is breaking for him.” And it is. I’m sure that when I was 16, 17, 18 . . . people told me that it wouldn’t always be like this. I’m sure they did. And I’m sure that all I felt when they told me was disbelief. But it does get better. And the fact that I no longer think about dying – except only in the way that you’re supposed to – is testament to that. I don’t think about drowning anymore. I still have days when I’m desperately sad. But I don’t wish that I was dead, instead of just sad. I want to have a family and grow old and a million other things in between. I want to be able to look back on my long life and to be proud of all that I’ve achieved. I am proud of myself now and I’m only 23. It’s a relatively new feeling but it’s definitely one to hold on to.

I am proud of how far I’ve come in regards to my music, and my eating. I am proud of the fact that I’m no longer 40-something kilos. I am recovering from an Eating Disorder and for that, I am proud of myself. I am proud of the close friendships I have; long-standing relationships with people like S, J and D. I am proud of the relationship I have with E. I am proud of how well I am doing at Uni. I am proud of the fact that I have never had a cigarette. I am proud of my slowly-changing body shape, because it means that I am healthy. I am proud of how easily I make new friends. I am proud of the fact that I am getting better at letting things go – toxic relationships, old regrets . . . I am proud of the fact that I can stand up for myself. I am proud of who I am, and who I am becoming. I am learning, still. And I will continue to learn and grow and evolve. I will make mistakes and I won’t always get it right the first time around. But I’m not giving up, Dad.

And don’t ever think that I’ve given up on you, either. I know that we don’t really hang out anymore, but you’re in the back of my mind and whenever something happens – good or bad, I always want to tell you. I want to share things with you, like my music and my successes with Uni. I just can’t be present all the time. I know that you would probably like to see me more often and I’m sorry that it hasn’t been the case. But when I’m not at uni, I’m with my friends or at home – just having Grace time. I am learning more and more to be okay with just being by myself. I’m sure you can understand that. And after the two weeks in Grafton, I realised that I should be making more of an effort with you, because you won’t be around forever. Your stint in the QEH definitely reiterated that. And it scared me. It fucking terrified me. So, this is me – saying to you – that I will make more of an effort, perhaps dinner at your place once a week (I just can’t guarantee what night it will be, because things come up, etc) but I want to do that and I want to make sure that our relationship remains positive, and that you know how loved you are.

And on that note, I might leave it there. Don’t feel like you have to reply, I just wanted to get these words out and for you to have time to sit down and really take them in.

I love you, Dad. Always. Gracie xxx

[goodness-gracious-me]

When I was in high school, my dad asked me to write a list. He said, “You should write down qualities that you’d like in a partner; things you want.” He told me that he did it, too, and that it worked.

Over the years, that list has been edited a number of times. There are core values that remain, though. Things like, “They have to get along with at least one of their parents,” and “Having a car is preferable.” I don’t care so much now about their taste in music or whether they know who Angus and Julia Stone are. I care about morals and goals and how quick they are to anger; their use of language, their favourite books.

I have been single - properly single - for close to two years. This has mostly been by choice. I loved someone, more than I could possibly ever explain. But he was manipulative and cruel and he did not love me back. I wrote a handful of songs about him though, and I thought that maybe we would end up together.

I have floated through the past year and a half. I have kissed plenty of guys, had one night stands, fallen in to routines of hanging out with - and then sleeping with - a handful of dudes. I have entertained the idea of a future with one or two of these guys, and I have had my ego bruised. Not necessarily heart break, but some version of it.

The same patterns repeat themselves. I can usually sense when something is about to fall apart. I know when the “I’m not looking for anything serious,” conversation is about to happen. I know when I not wanted. The cracks are easily visible, and yet . . . I continue on in the same way.

Something has shifted, though. The Universe has offered up a new chance in the shape of a 28 year old carpenter with sparkly eyes and a warmth that I feel in my bones.

It is early days for us, but I feel that it could be the start of something, you know? I wasn’t ready a few months ago. If I had been introduced to M even a couple of weeks ago, I probably would have shrugged my shoulders and said, “I can’t do this.”

I want to let him in, though.

He makes me want to grow up.

[goodness-gracious-me]

Evi is such a wonderful photographer to work with // and a wonderful human. Today was the best.

[goodness-gracious-me]

I didn’t want to like you. I didn’t want to be drawn in by you. But I am. Maybe it’s because we both dated the same person; because I’d heard so much about you. When J and I were together, you were far away. There was no need for me to feel threatened, because you were in London. I wasn’t going to lose him - not because of you, anyway.

I remember when you came back. I asked J how he felt; if he was glad that you were home. I think he said something about how you were just friends . . . that he didn’t love you anymore. It’s hard to tell if he was lying, or not. I think there was probably some truth in what he was saying, but then again . . .

I see you all the time. We move in similar circles. We go to the same bars, we have mutual friends. And you’re always so lovely to me. It’s really nice. I thought that you would ignore me. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I’m projecting. I know how frustrated J would be if he knew any of this. He wouldn’t understand. But I want to be your friend. It sounds so silly. I’m 24 years old, and I’m saying that. I do, though. Want to be your friend, I mean. I want to sit down and talk and laugh and share and tell secrets. You are radiant. I wonder if any of that would rub off on me?

[goodness-gracious-me]

Sometimes I really want to have babies and sometimes I really don’t. I’m scared. What if no one ever wants to have a family with me? I know I’m “only” 23. But I worry about this stuff. I want a little family and I want someone to want that, with me.

It’ll be me and him and our little girl and maybe a dog or a goldfish and there’ll be books and music and brightly-painted walls and excellent snacks and instruments and cuddles and (hopefully) a big bath and routines and traditions and unconditional love and theme-nights and picnics and kissing and singing.

He’ll understand my dark days and I will understand when he can’t. I will always say yes to a cuddle. I’ll teach our little one to skip and to tie her shoelaces and to say “please” and “thank you” and “you’re welcome.”

I’ll read to her every night; sing to her every morning. We’ll swim and splash and dance and twirl and giggle.

It won’t be perfect, but it will be our version of it. We will all have a sense of belonging. We will know that we are loved and respected; admired and adored.

One day.

[lora-mathis]

I’m meeting boys who like Charles Bukowski and they all want to do brutal things to my body. They tell me they buy a bottle of whiskey whenever they get one of his books and don’t stop reading till they’ve gone through a pack of cigarettes. They blow smoke in my face and say, “He was the outcast king of L.A. Did you know that, huh?” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I say,“He’s great.” A new boy gives me a worn copy of On the Road and thinks he’s being original. “We should explore the road together. Would you like that, baby?” I take a sip of my water and look away. Yes, I’d like that, I think. But he’s drunk and imagining himself sixty years earlier, in the back of a bar, sweating to the sound of live bop. Still, I prefer him to the hungry boy that devoured my shirt and said, “You have a tattoo? What’s it say?” ‘mad to live?’ What, are you angry about living? Aw, I’m just kidding, come here, let me take off that bra.” The next boy I kiss doesn’t read. I ask him to come to a bookstore with me and he stays outside, sighing. He has no interest in words. He has no interest in me. I am thankful for him. For a few weeks, I am able to shed my habit of thinking obsessively and become a duller, rougher version of myself. I dump him when my fingers start turning imaginary pages in my sleep. I go on a date with a boy who knows I like to write. He calls himself a fan of mine and swears he’s read every word I’ve put down. “You’ve got this voice that’s very modern, but also so classic.” I choke on my water as he says, “I read you to fall asleep.” At night, I listen to him pant metaphors and compare my mouth to the sea. One day, he stumbles across my journal and finds nothing about himself in it. “You don’t really love me, do you?” I shake my head. There is no use pretending anymore. He has read my poems about the boys I want to drown in me. His goodbye leaves my hands covers in ink. He wanted me so badly to be the sea, when all I am is a girl who writes poetry. I try my best to become poetry. I take a bath and stain the water with black ink. I cut my hair in a motel sink. I cry for people I have never met. I start smoking cigarettes. I use words like “presumptuously” and talk about “post-modernist new wave.” I walk the streets at 4 a.m. and smile at people coming home from a rave. I wear sunglasses indoors. I carry a 500 page volume of poems wherever I go. I drink coffee instead of water. I talk about the “advantages of using film and listening to records.” But no matter how hard I try, I am not the sea. I am a sunken ship that has drowned in everyone who touched me.

I Am Not The Sea, Lora Mathis (via katelouisepowell)

Wow.

(via eloquentfawn)