these maybe days bubble up, out
of the mouths of bluefish
swimming in and out of cradles;
rust-rimmed shopping trolleys.
these maybe days puddle within
the uneven footpaths
and soak my socks with sweet rain;
i'll leave them on the line
until it pours
(again).
and in the mist of ticking
dawn, my maybe days wake -
called away from the quiet rush
of a river that's brimming
with shopping trolleys
and a sterile hush.
Those close to me, and anyone who's interacted with me in the last 3 weeks, will know that I started this blog because Dame Maggie Smith died.
What does Dame Maggie Smith have to do with it? Let me explain.
First of all, that's a fucking catchy hook, and I am nothing if not dramatic in my storytelling.
Secondly, it's true. At approximately 12:30am on the 28th of September I was deep in an Instagram scroll, when I found out that Dame Maggie Smith had died. Was my disbelief compounded by the medicinal weed I had smoked a few hours earlier? Yes. Did this lead to a spiral of oh-my-god-life-is-so-short-and-she-was-so-young-when-she-started-acting-what-am-i-doing-i-need-to-start-my-career-right-now-at-this-very-moment-and-bring-back-blogs? Also yes.
But I promise I've been wanting to do this for a while now, I've just always found reasons not to.
The second question my friends and acquaintances have asked me after "What does Dame Maggie Smith have to do with it?" is "Why maybe daze?". And honestly, the reason came after the name. I've been tip-toeing my way into admitting I want to pursue a creative career, and this started with the words 'maybe daze' wriggling their way into my consciousness one hazy night a few months ago. Of course, I had to tell my dad about it (he's my biggest supporter). And, as I moulded the idea, pulling and twisting it until my fingers stained, my maybe days came to be.
About a year-or-maybe-two ago, I referenced Sylvia Plath's fig tree metaphor (look it up) when told my dad that I wasn't excited about my future. The reasons for this remain muddled in a mix of un-medicated mental illness (if you hadn't picked up on that from the Sylvia Plath reference) and a self-imposed belief that I had to live my life in a very specific, 9-to-5-ish way. With a slight sadness, here's what he said to that:
"This is the exciting part. You shouldn't be afraid of which fig to pick because you can try them all."
I'm not saying that it immediately clicked when he said that to me. In fact, he had spent the previous 10 years as well as the following one-or-two re-iterating many variations of that phrase.
All of it has ended (and begun) with this.
This is maybe daze and these are my maybe days. These are my days to simply say, "Maybe I'll try another fig."
I am excited. I'm excited to go overseas, to write, to produce a TV show, to try directing, stop-motion, short films, novels, songwriting, art, clay, graffiti, anything I can possible get my hands on. I'm excited to fall in love with and get my heart broken by this famously trying industry over and over again.
I am, finally, excited.
So, maybe daze is for me to express myself and for you to read, but it's also to thank my dad, who always believed I could make something of myself, because this is the best way I know how to.
Oh yeah, and Dame Maggie Smith.
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