Acting from the inside out

A while ago a friend came up and stayed, and over a beer or three confessed that he was considering (for the first time ever) *getting work done*. He admitted that he's laughed at friend's botox misadventures, but feels that now maybe with the harsh realities of gravity such as they are, and well the years creeping on, that maybe some *preventative* work might be in order. For some context, this is an attractive young man who in my experience has never had any trouble furnishing his attractively adorned bed with attractive adornments. Apart from wondering how much of this was schtick to get praise and reassurance, I felt quite sad that we would even be wasting our precious limited breath having the conversation. I told him about an interview I'd seen with 'Our Cate' and Andrew Denton where she put him in line mid-gush about how beautiful she was in a particular role, and how much she looked the part, by telling him that she 'acts from the inside out'. I told this to my friend to remind him that sexy is something that comes from an inner furnace fueled by good humour and lust for life and not from alien-tight cheekbones (admittedly I didn't say it quite like that, I wish I had).

I had been meaning to blog about this for a while, and perhaps write some long and drawn out pondering about the nature of beauty (tho kinda feel that's been done before) and our desire for perfection. To mention my delight, for example, at discovering that Patsy Cline (she of the superb up and down tempo lament) had a chipped front tooth. Check any of her albulm sleeves and you'll see what I mean. How stridently confident and self-assured that seems in todays pop star factory climate, to imagine a young woman with some fixable 'imperfection' not getting it fixed for the sake of bland, uniform smiling cover art. Anyway, that's what I meant to write but haven't till now,and only now think of it as an aside because it was something I told someone whilst crossing a road on the way to find somewhere open to have dinner, at Bondi Beach earlier this week.

Went to Bondi for a couple of days and was a bit abashed to realise just how long it had been. There were far less mega-tanned hordes than I had feared. The first time I went there was before I lived here, was back in the mid-late 90's, stayed with friends who had a share place where the bath upstairs had overflowed and run through the floor/ceiling, down the walls. It looked like an industrial complex before demolition, like some dark moldering hole - looked like a typical overprice trashy Sydney sharehouse actuallly, but little did I know that then. My stay this week was worlds apart - a friend housesitting a beachside cottage/adjacent apartments - think two little womble flats that together make a house. I was strangely delighted at the running inside and out factor - who would have thought that having a house in two parts could be so lovely. Was great to be away, to have more time than things to do, to have good company and a good book, to have not remembered to pack hairbrush or cleanser or perfume and not really care. We did some museum and gallery wandering and ate surprisingly good thai food in an old school (sorry, skool, isn't it?) suburban restaurant when most other things were closed for the night. And as much as I love the mountains, isn't there something just so soothing and cleansing about waves and salt and a sky that is the same colour as the water? In the very early mornings and in the evenings there was seaspray that blurred the edges of everything and gave it a moody grey wash. Clean. Not to mention that wonderful constant noise of waves - so much more beautiful than the traffic noise of Stanmore Rd, even if they are almost interchangeable on the cusp of sleep.

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Funny how we all get to know each other in layers, how we can meet people in one scenario and get a glimpse of one aspect of a character, how the interface between people is in flux, how circumstance and mood and habitual behaviours shroud or reveal other elements - glinting in the right light to reveal a fresh new colour, or intriguing depth. A work friend becomes a friend friend, a friend of a friend becomes a friend, a lover becomes a stranger, a partner becomes an old friend, becomes family. And everything in between. It's nice, this movement.

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Cicumspect. My Mountain friend with whom I share a love of textile arts and psychology ('lets yarn about jung!' she suggested tonight and I smiled and thought that perhaps this could be the name of some future cafe/woolshop venture ), said that perhaps I was overly circumspect. I like the word because it reminds me of circles. That aside I think she may be right.

Tonight I discovered that no cafes are open past 11.20 on a sat night in my town. Not even for coffee and a break from bad backpacker advances ('so how do you girls know each other?' seems to be the opening line of choice. Far far better than 'we were just having a discussion on the difference between why and how - can you help us figure it out?', an actual question that we received with loud pained looks at the second pub we visited).

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Today I went to a kids birthday party and arrived late with vegie sausages, funky buns and red wine. Let it be noted that birthday parties for 1 and 3 yo's are possibly the last place on the entire planet that one would ever pick up - everyone has partners and children - derrr, that's why they are there. Us strange old spinster (actually no, I don't spin, just felt, but I dig the idea of spinning) aunties are a dying breed, but a valued part of such events. We are useful for persuading the tired mother of the birthday children to drink more wine, good at standing around near the BBQ and smiling at people's kid stories, being patient with the elderly matriachs who have funny stories about the granddaughters and slightly baffling but well intentioned stories about family trees, and last but not least - helping to finish off the profiteroles. Profiter - ole!

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Extremophile?

From this week's stars as seen in the Weekend Australian thanks to Mystic Medusa: Pisceans really do embody extremophile chic. Not for you the mega-naff path of moderation. You're either on a wild salmon diet, exercising four hours a day and asleep at twilight OR chances are that it's you schlepping home at dawn from a night out pole-dancing. You're either v. Yin or totally Yang. Indifferent or infatuated.
Imagine reading this literallly not five minutes after you have been eating a large chunk of dark chocolate followed by organic porridge with raw sunflower seeds and filtered water for breakfast. After you have just been thinking that somehow contradictions don't feel like contradictions to you. Thinking of how amusing it would be to have a mainstreet dating crawl. Wondering how many months of recent nunnish, illuminated manuscript scribing, early to bed with a bad crime fiction type celibacy it takes to balance out a binge of unrestrained bawdy wenchdom. Not as penance, just for balance. Shagging the greengrocer purely as a zen act of balancing the universe?