crazed girl

THAT crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,

Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.

No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, ‘O sea-starved, hungry sea”
W.B. Yeats, The Collected Poems

tender is the night

“You will walk differently alone, dear, through a thicker atmosphere, forcing your way through the shadows of chairs, through the dripping smoke of the funnels. You will feel your own reflection sliding along the eyes of those who look at you. You are no longer insulated; but I suppose you must touch life in order to spring from it.” 
―    F. Scott Fitzgerald,    Tender Is the Night

here, take it and smash it.

First I thought this is pretty funny, being broken up with on the day the world was meant to end (dec 21) but then I was all like no, nope, this sucks and I sprained my jaw from vomiting rather violently. I then tried to think it wasn’t all bad. After all, haven’t I done this to people before? Ripped their heart directly from its socket and played hacky sack with it? Surely this is all just a cruel bit of irony after this exact guy left his girlfriend of three years for me, I mean isn’t that how it works, they run you over with their karma? And hey, it’s not all bad, I mean it’s only a few days before Christmas, surely all that food’s going to help plus people, alcohol, presents! Apart from an inability to keep food down, the whisky and 80% moonshine-esque alcohol provided by my uncles, definitely helped numb something, so it wasn’t all bad, except that it was bad, all bad with the Christmas and the babies and the happiness and I just wanted to stab it all and can someone please explain how and why uncle Fred and aunty Magdalina are still together even though they hate each other with a venemous, unrivalled hatred that has withstood the test of time?

But then! Alas! Right before New Year’s Eve, he decides it was all just a big mistake, let’s forget it ever happened, here are some male tears (can’t say no to them!) and let’s just move on together shall we and forget this ever happened? Onwards and upwards, together we’ll fly into the sun and we’ll go back to normal and move to Germany and hey ‘wouldn’t it be cool to get married? What? Why are you looking at me like that? Oh because I tried to break up with you two weeks ago, that’s true, sorry’. And I had no say in the matter. I wish I had said no. I wish I had said ‘fuck off’, maybe I did, but did it matter? There is no willpower in this field of dreams, and so I cried and was happy and here we are now, two months later, on Valentine’s Day and I am consoling him on the fact that he is breaking up with me for the second time because he’s confused, even though he loves me and misses me and can’t live without me quote unquote. It’s very tough for him you see, to be the arsehole the second time running. There there. Everything will be okay. In hell.

So here I am, feeling very much like my stomach has been used as a punching bag. I don’t know why I’m writing this, maybe to feel something that isn’t sheer and agonising grief but you know what, it’s not working, not even a little bit, not even at all.

Happy Valentine.

the short history of my twitter handle

Twitter. How I love and loathe thee.

It all began in 2009, sitting on the floor of my friend’s Spanish share house in Salamanca. ‘Blah blah Twitter’

Me: ‘What’s a Twitter?’

Friend: ‘It’s this thing where you post updates in 140 characters, that are just status updates’

Me: ‘But Facebook has that’

Friend: ‘Yeah I guess’.

End scene.


Two years later, it’s the end of 2010 and I’m no closer to conquering or even understanding how Twitter works. At the time I was too busy trying to come up with an idea for my ‘Introduction to Novel Writing’ assignment. I had spent the 3 months prior to starting the course, trying to come up with an idea while I was living in Barcelona, but at this stage, I could barely communicate in anything that wasn’t Spanglish.

And then on the plane home, I had a dream about a girl named Fly and this morphed into my intro to novel writing assignment, and this assignment morphed into a personal (battle) project that I am yet to complete because it is too hard, so sue me.

So when I came to type in my Twitter handle, out came the words ‘Flyfromadream’. Because that’s where Fly came from.

I’ve had that ridiculously hard to explain name for two years now but I don’t have the time to dedicate to finishing the novel, so I’ve decided to change it. I feel that this change signifies that perhaps Fly is going to stay in my dreams. For now. And probably the next ten years.

I am now tinyfleu, whatever that is*.

The end.

(it’s actually tinyfleur which is Franglais for ‘tiny flower’…it doesn’t mean much but people call me tiny, this blog has tiny in it somewhere and perhaps my Instagram name is the same).


Here’s something only a handful of people know about me: I am an aficionado of the mafia gangster film genre. It all began when I was 16 and studying the ‘revenge’ theme for my English Extension class. We had to find suitable texts, so my girl gang and I made a day of it with a Godfather marathon.

By the time we were done with the trilogy, the penny had finally dropped. It all made sense. Every horse head in bed pop culture reference! That terrible throaty voice commercial for lozenges! How Al Pacino was once a young fresh faced innocent Italian and not just a machine gun yielding, poorly-accented Cuban with a scar for a face! It was a revelation of sorts.

Thus began the obsession. I suppose being a tiny feminist schooled in Italian at a feminist school, led me to dream about creating my own version of the Godfather called La Madrina (The Godmother). Oh you can LOL now, but this is still one of my lifelong dreams, only I won’t let it be the end of me and end up creating a 5-hour epic saga like a certain Italian someone (I’m looking at you Sergio Leone).

(Little aside, but if anyone is tight with Ennio Morricone, could you tell him I’ll need his scoring powers in about, say, 20 years? Thanks. Oh and can you also drop a line to Sofia Coppola? She’ll probably direct the film, keep it in the family).


Crazy dreams aside, I threw a little mafia themed rooftop pool party recently, minus the rooftop pool (the rain cursed us but it also cursed the people who chose to attend the Laneway festival instead of this party, so you know, revenge is a double edged sword). I believe one of the best parts came when Theme Me dedicated a special birthday theme for me. Hot damn!

Here are some memorable quotes from the evening:

‘She just did this spin and then rolled over on the couch in one fluid motion’ (on my dancing skills in a tight red polka dot dress – mafia wives can dance too you know)

‘We won’t stop until everyone at this party is in the photo’ (one person would take the photo and then join the photo, someone else would take the next one, then join, and so on and so forth – Theme Me‘s idea of course.

‘I tap danced so hard just then, my shins are bleeding’

‘EVERYONE GETS A MAFIA  NAME! Choose your name wisely, Johnny Two Times’.

‘Why are you flinging sausages across the room at your own party? You’re trashing your own house!!’ – (we made hot dogs for everyone)

‘You know I haven’t even seen The Godfather’ – ‘Get out of my house…WE WILL WATCH IT RIGHT NOW’ (after midnight)

(Upon being handed a box of homemade cookies) ‘NO…IS IT…DON’T TELL ME….CANNOLI?!’ (it wasn’t)

‘Take a picture of me kissing The Godfather’

‘Take a picture of me pouring Sangria into The Godfather’s mouth!’

‘Should we take The Godfather poster with us?’ ‘He is always with us’

‘See this?’ *holds up a lemonade bottle made of glass* ‘It’s not lemonade. It’s gin. But shh. Prohibition’.

‘WHO SERVED THIS MAN WHISKEY IN A PLASTIC CUP?!?!’ ‘It was Fat Moe’ ‘FAT MOE, GIVE THIS MAN A GLASS. I WILL NOT BE SHAMED IN MY OWN HOME IN FRONT OF MY GUESTS’. (not long after this, the glass was broken, and it was slurringly said: ‘I don’t care! It was worth every flying shard of glass!’)

My mafia name was Frankie, naturally. Keep the change, sweet cheeks.