Sea Green

Ephemera etc.

Sunday, April 30, 2006

keeping ourselves nice

My dearlings with sensitive delicate constitutions. Someone unburdened to me recently the heady risks that plumbing depths of blogs (including this one!) pose - the unexpected reveations, the 'too much information' that sometimes slips its little self into otherwise quite congenial texts. I take on board the concerns, indeed was aghast to have contributed to a state of overinformation. After all a little honesty can go a long way these days. I suggest as a precautionary measure that all potential readers of this blog (and others)subscribe to the following safety measures:
- read through partly clenched eyes (like how one might approach a scary bit in the movie that one nonetheless does not wish to miss)
- read only every second or third word. Any rude bits or overly personal divulgences will be rendered into surrealist poetry. This could in itself cause offence to some readers, but at least is culturally high brow.
- keep a magazine about frocks and celebrity relationships handy as antidote to any overdoses in information that one might inadvertently indluge in. Open to page 4 and read quickly and deeply about Ange/Katie/Oprah/ourNic/ourNaomi's baby/birthplan/husband/weight/exhusband problems, noting their footwear and hair style and wondering idly whether uggboots are smart casual and then ...exhale..all information will be safely purged
- assume for the sake of proprietry that everything written here is gloriously and archly ironic, or failing that, highly metaphoric, or an exercise in post modern fiction written by a *character* who is *real* writing about writing about a character who is real, or at the very least assume that anything approximating actual truth is nonethless emboidered... in this way there will be no residue of anything which could offend, as all will be revealed as illusory; artiface.

Failing those very prudent precautions, I really have no advice for you dear readers. Just to agree that yes, the terrain is risky, and to apologise in advance should anyone slip through the thin ice of polite content and fall - arms flailing and beanie askance - into the icy dark depths of too much information.

Today I am terribly a fan of...

~lightweight woollen skivvies
~ maraschino cherries eaten with warm chocolate cake (minus the bit that set the smoke alarm off - hey at least I know it's working)
~ Autumn leaves - my whole street is on fire, my table has deep wine and yellow and russet leaves in a vase with a few ruffled pink camillias for good measure
~ my sllippers which rock as ironing attire
~ ironing and mending and colour coding my wardrobe - and I'm actually not joking! Must be some virgo in my chart..? very satisfying, very ready for all this cold weather, very surprised at how many jackets I have..
~ tights! Patterns a go go. Oh winter...
~ chirpy ironing music. Finding the Cramps strangely well suited. Anything you can sing to works. And always good to be reminded not to eat stuff of the sidewalks..
~ the sky. the sky when the clouds are grey and moody but a shaft of light hits one lone tree top and it looks studio lit. Surreal, beautiful.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Books and bed all wrapped up with string - these are two of my fave faviest things

I think we should rename public hols 'public sleep catch up days' coz that's what they end up being for me. SO deligtful to sleep a lot, enough, all in one hit. It was so good I even had a nap too. 'Aaaaaah' [followed by a wistful well rested peaceful smile and look out window].

A few people at work were going back in today to finish stuff off, but not me! I had a date with my fluffy slippers and the teapot. I did stay there till a silly hour last night just to get something over the hump, at a handinable stage, so it wasn't lurking around. Bad to stay late and have no weeknight life, but good when you get in the zone and stay there. Also good when you realise that the 'oh, oh well, I'll just get in really early Wednesday morning and finish it off before the meeting' line that you sometimes use is COMPLETE FICTION. Nice to not have an unfinished excel spreadsheet haunting me over my public sleep in day. Yah.

Speaking of the zone (you know, when you really get into what you're working on, and suddenly it is transformed into the most interesting thing you can ever remember doing, the minutes are suspended, and you make real progress - rather than avoiding it with sidelong looks while you procrastinate ane send emails and feel grumpy), I was invited out for coffee recently (note that short coffee breaks out, in an actual cafe, outside of lunch break time is culturally acceptable in my office, which I love)by a colleague and had to say 'sorry, no, I'm in the zone - it takes me ages to get here but when I'm in it I just want to stay' to which he replied that he slips in and out of the zone, that he thinks his zone is quite shallow and just when he thinks he's in it he finds he's out, and vice versa. Ahem. So I just smiled but inwardly thought 'Boys! No surprise there!'...

Now, on the topic of sleepy days, I must point out that PH's are also very nice reading in bed / reading on the couch days, and to whit (sp??), would be a good day for someone to update the Booklub website !! (yes thats book lub - nicely articulated Guitar Boy). Please will someone else post - it's boring and stale in there at the moment. Magazines - comics - short stories - back of cereal packets - all good, post away. If you want to post but aren't on there as a 'team member' (gooooo team book lub!) just email me /post a comment with your details and I will send you the requisite invite email. Oh, and on the topic of posting - Guitar Boy!! You big blogtease!! Set us up thinking we'll get regular snippets of life down under through the lens of your fabulous wry SOH, have us sitting on the edge of our fave blog reading spots, have us clicking your link - to no avail!! Honestly if I hadn't just worn your stripey /monkey pj's and slept on your deluxe blow up bed I would think you'd run away with a circus or something (and would be very miffed that you hadn't taken me with you...). Please come back. Don't make me be like one of those fans who just wont leave the 'encore' shout alone at the end of the gig...because *that's* what I'm turning into here!! :)

Oh ok I think that's it from me. Slippers are a good look until it hits 5pm and then it's definitely time to dress for dinner. Popping up to the main street to see what zany acshon is happpening, and catch up with mountainy friend...which will be nice. Note - leaving the prospect of a hot bath and very interesting pile of 'to reads' and very cheesy fun 'Jazzamatazz' CD which I am loving today to go out and be sociable. Hermit? Moi?

Saturday, April 22, 2006

Oh you! You're so funny / handsome / clever / nice smelling

Have been feeling uncharacteristically flirty this last week. Not flirty in a giggle high pitchedly and bat eyes kind of way, nor a lean forward and heave cleavage kind of way, and not even a laugh at the jokes and tell people they're funny when they're not way. Which, for the record, is all I thought flirting could be once upon a time, which I thought was pretty much the most lame thing you could do, which is why I felt kind of proud that I never did it. But... now I get that this can just be feeling happy, feeling chatty, seeing someone (no man like really 'seeing'someone)and letting them know you think they're cool.

Seriously, it's that easy.

And when you're feeling happy and the moon is in the right place (you know what I mean grrls) its hard not to. Plus you end up feeling good, they feel good, everyone goes away happy, and its kind of funny.

I think I am making up for lost time and becoming a serial flirter. Last night chatted with the kind of cute taxi driver about his artistic talents and had him bragging about his culinary talents (beetroot dip) - I was genuinely impressed, after all its not every man who roasts his own beets (hmm, fortunately I didn't actually say that, that sounds somehow diry!).

After that it was the brothers in the 7-11 when I was buying coffee - they wanted to tell me how much better 'our coffee' (Lebanese coffee) was than the coffee I was buying (them 'better! cheaper too!' me 'it'd wanna be!'), they seemed so proud, and seemed to be wanting to woo me with visions of how lovely said coffee would be, so I laughed and said - well? where is it? and told them that they'd have to make me one next time I came in (which of course will be never).

Then the sales guy in the earring shop (mmm, what is it about Industrial Strength in newtown and their sales staff?? Or am I just particularly inclined towards lanky maladjusted types with good body jewellry - no don't answer that).

Then I think I flirted with someone on a train carriage just through lewd thoughts and a nice smile, it was quite amazing. Had lovely smiles and a 'goodbye' back. Never realised that flirting could be an end in itself - makes it much more fun than just a way to net a prospective partner.

My new revelation about all things flirtateous is that it needn't be a route to a root. And that I needn't clam up and be less friendly with people who I might be interested in or who might be interested in me! Yah. (NB this doesn't mean that I will chat with just anyone, my sleazometer is still in place). Maybe I should write a large type pink covered book on the subject quick smart and make my kersquillions. ??

-----
Erratum
Aherm, yes, MR you are right (bum - I would choose to do my thinking in a public forum where people can comment wouldn't I!??) add the guy with the funky glasses at the cafe (oh could I help myself, we were basically nerd twins)and also the waitress with her funky chicken hair and sassy low slacks (but she was so feisty and sporty, and laughed at my quips - could I help myself?)

Saturday Rambles

Saw the lovely Ladeez in Newtown this morning. Nice to do the eat drink coffee walk chat window shop eat again routine - in that ambling, no fixed agenda kind of way that mornings in Newtown seem to have about them.

Meri Risa continuing to look a picture of health in the late stage of her pregnancy. Lovely skin, shiny hair, looking all relaxed at mention of time away from work, and generally content and full. Big round beautiful belly which even did tricks before my very eyes as bub kicked and wiggled. Nice one girl.

C-Chan passed on some Rufus W CD's which I didn't have - very lovely. Singing along to one as we speak, it's like I imagine being a caberet singer everytime I listen to Rufous, Billy, Mozza and Bessie. [I'm thinking my current report card would read something like 'Miss j has a well developed imagination but could benefit from more consistent application to her work...']

Picked up pics from Adelaide visit today, had the quick at the photo counter look and there are some cute ones of y'all. Stay tuned for pics in the post Adelaide types.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Sleep and waffle

Oh this morning I woke up feeling so happy, so deeply rested. You know that feeling after a really great shag where you then snooze reallly reallly deeply, even just for a few minutes and then wake up smiling? Well it wasn't that, but was like that. I think it was just that I had 8 hours sleep! Yah! What a great change. (See earlier posts for the commute details and hence my crappy 6 hour sleep regime). Sleep is so great - what a cheap way to feel fantastic!

On feeling fantastic, just wanted to share a recent realisation. You know when people say 'God bless you'? Like those old ladies who hand pat at the station after telling you about their past, their foolish husband, or their old fears and predicaments, and feel so grateful for an ear that they give you a watery eyed 'God bless you'; or the older Russian coffee shop owner who thinks you're a 'good girl' and gives you a special parting God Bless You wink, like you're all in on some rosy cheeked Russian reality which is different to this grubby central city reality, like you are both somehow attached to a boundless farmland where angels are more present? And you know how when you're feeling shitty you think 'Oh stuff your stupid outmoded religosity, oh as if I beleive in a big God in the sky, oh you old people and your tatty worn out religion'...but when you feel happpy you think 'Thankyou. Thankyou for wishing me well, and telling me that you care about me.' Well in recent years I have embraced the latter. Now when people say 'Jesus loves you' to me at bus stops (public transport nodes apparently hot spots for spiritual love. Does God love public transport extra much?) I just spontaneously say 'does he? oh good' and mean it. I just say thankyou to the GBY and sometimes 'and you!' (where I mean 'and may you also be happy! May you also know that I care about you and wish you well!). I don't get so het up about the words anymore, I just try to respond to the feelings that they span. Even feel ok about singing the screamingly religious words of the gospel tunes at choir (oops, when I remember to go). I sing about Jesus and trains and wells and going to the water, and I think of the words as just metaphore - one style of metaphore for the pain and joy of existence, and a sense of belonging and being of the same stuff as the universe itself. Gospel uses God words, the Sufis refer to the Beloved, Zen presents the universe itself (and us as part of that)as the mystery, other people have hosts of deities to embody the outrageous extremes of human character and potential, and I love them all. All like a kaleidescope, each one a view through the lens of a particular pattern of chrystal seen through the light - give the tube a twist and there is a new pattern. No one pattern 'is' the kaleidescope, but each one is beautiful in its own right.

(And yeah, take it as given that I *know* that people do crap things in the name of religion. I know, know, know that. But as I see it, people do crap things in the name of whatever they can get their hands on - if people are fuelled by hate, or fear, or ego, or envy or scarcity thinking, or whatever, there is usually some handy theory, banner, philosophy or world view that you can drape over your shoulders to justify how you want to be. So if God (aka their version of what God is/approves of) doesn't give them permission to behave how they want to behave, there will always be nation building, Science, the Market, Psychology, Tradition, Convention etc to use as justification. And conversely, if someone tries to be kind and full of compassion and need to attach this to a theoretical construct they could use humanism, utilitarian ethics, good manners, enlightened self interest, religion...whatever. I think my point, if I actually have one here, is just that I don't now immmediately make conclusions about the intent of the expression from the form of expression ... if that makes sense.)

Shit. Waffling. Gawdblessya!

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Down town home town

Yo yo y'all. Sitting in the world's murkiest internet cafe wondering if I can go blind from half an hour typing in the dinge. Possibly the only one here with my mix of chromosomes. Possibly the only one not online gaming. But wiggling r n b blaring. Bless.

So here I be, back in my home town, came in yesterday via the gleaming, white, glass, open plan new airport. So big and spacious it feels like something off Startrek. So white and naturally lit it gleams like ice and makes me think I will see a cosmopolitan polar bear lounging and sipping a latte.

Had dinner with relatives who I used to live with once upon a time, and Guitar Boy and Ivy. Families! I have so far been updated on family gossip from at least 3 angles, yet to hear the older rellos angle, but likely will when I visit them tomorrow. It's funny because I don't ask, butthey all offer updates on events and their take on who is behaving ok and who not and why. I feel like a mediator / arbitrator / school counsellor ('Jimmy said that he only liked Margie and didn't like the way I spoke to Robbie..'). Not sure whether I've always lacked an opinion on these matters, whether I'm just too lazy and wishy washy to form my own opinions and hence just agree with whoever's talking at the time or whether I am just blessed with a type of gently disinterest borne out by distance.

It does feel nice to see people who you've known for a long time, and who you've shared history with. LIttle tackers grown up, and you grown up with people who knew you when you were a litle tacker.

Sunday, April 09, 2006

The hardest things

Here we go - blog as earnest confessional. I had a hard phone call tonight that leaves me feeling crap, like a bad person. It was a hard phone call because it involved me making and articulating a decision - one that someone else would have preferred I didn't make, one that flies in the face of convention and reason, and one with the potential to hurt the feelings of the person involved. Yes, it actually involved being assertive - gasp, eek - and asserting my wishes even though they didn't coincide with the other person's. You may be thinking 'what?? the erudite writer of this shiny pretty blog finding it hard to rustle up words in favour of her own convictions- surely not?' (or you may be thinking 'yeah whatever, get on with it'). Well, in any case, yes, I do find it hard to do, very hard, potentially the hardest. I am good at piping up with opinions on things, or arguing theoretical cases beligerantly, but particularly crap at respecting my own wishes and asking for them to be considered (oh, all except the petty ones like 'hey love could you put the kettle on' 'don't forget to put your plate on the sink' or 'er um would you feed my cat while I'm away'...).

I have been known to go on dates with people because I have valued their desire to do it more than my desire not to. In year 12 I went to someone's formal who just because they wanted me too and I thought it was the kind thing to do. I have kissed people just because I didn't know how not to. I have been talked out of dumping people and resumed relationships as a result, only to later wonder 'what happened there? I still want this to be over!' This is dangerous territory. This is not something to be proud of, this is some kind of arrested development in the 2 year old 'saying no' stage. I realise this.

Just last week this came up in conversation with a psychology post-grad friend of mine and Aunty B. I mentioned to them that my workplace (specifically my supervisor's supervisor) had mentioned that they were very happy with my work to date, delighted to have me on board and very open to me working a 4 day week, with one of those days at home, as per what I had asked for when I accepted the role. 'Yippee' you would think. 'Yahoo! Give me the paperwork to sign, pass me the spunky work laptop, dust off the house slippers, let me write the FYI email to my co-workers..!!'? But no. As I explained to my friend over a cup of tea, I was a bit worried about what my co-workers might think, about the fact that I could seem like one of those flaky, hard to contact, never in the office types. And so I was still thinking about whether to do it, how to do it, if I will do it. My cafe pals, rather understandably I realise, looked at me as if I'd just suggested that I might plant a permaculture garden on my head and declare myself a nation state. wacky. Wacky to turn down a great offer, one that would make my life significantly more enjoyable, that would increase my ability to do all the things in life I value most by giving me more time, just because of what I project that a handful of people may on occasion think of me for a fleeting second while they wait at the photocopier. How much of my own inconvenience will I accept to save someone else from inconvenience? The exchange rate is looking pretty shite at the moment; I have clearly devalued my own currency.*

So, with that as context and overall theme to tonights' confessional, back to said phone call...

Basicallly I turned down an offer to live with soneone right in the heart of the city in a lovely little house, pay cheaper rent than where I am, walk to work, and have many more hours up my sleeve. It is a great idea. It looks great on paper. The place is cute and funky, the potential housemate warm and professional, with good politics. She is reasonable and obliging. We could have eaten meals together, could have swapped funky frocks and giggled about bad dates, could have walked up to galleries together on days off and read the newspaper conspiratorily over tea on a saturday morning. I told you it sounded good. But, (but, but, but) my heart said no. It said no to living in a part of the world where people don't smile at each other, where there are more vertical lines than horizontal, where I know no-one, it said no to having a miniature bedroom not big enough for my clothes let alone a writing desk, it said no to having a study which is actually a walkway and it even said no to sharing with someone - even someone funky and friendly and nice.

My heart stubbornly refused to accept 'easy' as the ultimate guiding value for my life. My heart reminded me that having space and time for reflection is a new found luxury which I am not ready to hand back, and that I became a cranky pants housemate from hell last time I was walled up in small spaces and full time work with no room to dream quietly in my own space. It reminded me that I am single for a reason, and that right now I don't want to be someone's full-time constant companion and domestic partner (of any variety). It reminded me that in Malaysia the one thing I missed more than anything (yes even more than environmental legislation which is effective, or due process in legal systems, or political debate, or pubs..) was having time alone (yes it seems I am officially outing myself as an introvert here - for those to whom it was not screamingly obvious anyway). Space was limited, but was not the main issue, it was just never having a space to be just in my own company. And to me this is analogous to freedom, and just as important as my physical and political freedom (yeah, I know, easy to say when I have those)- because this represents my freedom to wonder, to feel and to think. To be joyful in the midst of others who might not be (you can sing!), to be despairing when it is not social acceptable to be so (you can cry!), to think up ideas (you can write!), to feel peaceful in the midst of others complaining or stressing (you can snooze peacefully in the sun! you can have quiet!), and to be unpredictable, creative, messy. Which is not to say that one, or even I, can't be those things with other people, I am, I enjoy spending time with people, I like my friends, it's just that without periodic peaceful time alone I feel scattered and stretched between other people's needs of me and their imaginings of who I am and how I should be spending my time. So... 'computer says no' - I said no to the the inner city sharehouse and yes to staying here a bit longer, with my long stupid walk to the station, my long commute, and my view of tress and cockies out the window.

And it was really hard because she sounded let down, and rejected and couldn't understand why I would keep commuting 5 hours aday rather than live with her, and it felt like a break up, but one you have before you were ever really going out, and I almost backed down and agreed to move in because it did sound silly when I heard myself saying it, but I didn't back down and I said "NO" (thankyou).

* Yeah ok, so seem to be bad at saying yes, as well as bad at saying no. Sheesh.

NB If anyone is keen on a room in the inner city that is rather nice but little, let me know!

Saturday, April 08, 2006

Saturday (Part 2)

So anyway, there I was last night, just gone half past twelve, realising that the last train left at twenty past, and that the next train was due to leave at twenty to four. Uhuh, in the morning. Now it is one thing to kill time in the middle of a Friday night waiting for a train if you are drunk, with friends and in a little bar on oxford street - been there done that. This option involves finding a fellow commuter in your band of merry makers and embarking on the long walk to central in good company, getting falafel together on the way and then sleeping deeply in your little vinyl nest once on said train. You arrive in your town at sun up, feel like a naughty schoolkid and flop gratefully in your bed, curtain drawn, to sleep and dream and re-emerge whole again later in the day.

That option is very different to what I stood thinking about under the clock at central last night. What were my options? Sit on the benches for three long hours staring into middle distance with the other strandedtravelerss of either the life or geography variety? Find some seedy night open bar and try to whoop it up with strangers? Head down the stairs to the yeeros shop where my late nigh, missed the train buddies would laugh and tease and flirt, and stand mournfully by my table baring complimentary cafe latte in polystyrene cup, looking like my cat does when he realises that you have made a lap by sitting, but haven't invite him to share it. Mournful, hopeful, presumptuous. These men from south of Sydney with their stories, and their late night eyes, and their waiting for wives who never eventuate or recovering from marriages that did. I feel like a shared three hours would almost constitute a date, I don't like the protector overtones that such neediness on my part might inspire. Short of walking home (approx 1 days walk? A week? I wouldn't even know) or spending a weeks wages on a cab I'm stuck.

So I flirt with the idea, strange and impulsive, to stay in a hostel. It feels strange wild and unfamiliar territory, almost impossibly crazy. I probably wouldn’t have even thought it if not for the it up building 'railway hostel' which I see in my line of sight in the space of night sky between train tops and hanging train wires and buildings. I walk there, not daring to believe I'll do it (a hostel! Unplanned! Across the road from work! And me with no pyjamas or clean knickers!). So I go, and I think 'yeah, but just to see, just to see how much, if, whether..' and as I approach I feel tentative like this is magical territory and I am an impostor.

At the train station my outfit made me normal, tied to respectability, a ma'am who the grey clad transit officers waved through with grimly tinged respect me, tidy, with click clack shoes, and them thinking me too homely (well fed) and clean skinned to be a junky. There I looked at ease, belonging, a victim of late night transit deficits, somehow an innocent strappy shoed victim of public transport funding and rural train service policy. At the hostel I feel overdressed, silly, and like someone who is just about to slide into living out of a car, if only they could find one to live out of. I feel compeled to tell them my story, let them know that I think it absurd also, and that I can hold the siuation lightly in my open palm, relishing its wry flavour, and letting them also enjoy and marvel at the delicate flavours I offer. I hesitate, when they check their screens and confirm that only a shared room of 4 available - can I face sharing my predicament with robust tanned girls from Sweden or the united states? I hover, I cringe and laugh. I go back to the counter and pay my $37.50. I take my sheets and swipe card and head to my room, falter, head to then bathroom and brush my teeth, run my hands through my hair and then go back to my, rather ironically train carriage-themed room.

I have doubts again as I enter the room - it smells of chemicals which have been arranged in spray bottles to mimic flowers and sprayed defensively against the possibility of body smells, it is lumbering with back packs and sneakers and girls hairbrushes. I have a handbag and a laptop bag. I make the bed, feeling grateful that they provide sheets and a doona, no need for a sleeping bag, perhaps I am not the only person to stay here who is not mid-way on some soul searching adventure to the inner realms (well, actually..). I try in the semi light to unfold this complexly folded linen in a way that minimises the crinkle and rustle but I am away of murmurs and turnings over in beds, of young girls in deep sleep who come up out closer to the surface, then settle back into their dreams. I work away at the sheets, it is a ridiculous thing, and it takes so long, proves to be so complex, that under other circumstances I would have laughed.

Then I take off my shoes, in a neat huddle near the foot of the bed, I take off my skirt and fold it over them. I put my handbag in the bed and prepare to cuddle it as bed companion. I worry about laptop bag - after all it is bulky and I can't easily hide it, nor accommodate it in my bed. Eventually I have a flash of genius, and unzip the bag, liberate the compact little laptop from its warm centre, slide it under the handbag on my inexpertly laid sheets, and leave the rest of the bag with its cords and work reading and various items of little value on the floor next to shoes and skirt. I am too lazy to take off bra at first, but after lying there think 'I will sleep better without it' so I unhook and slide out of straps and pull the whole beige contraption out through sleeves on my top, fold it too, and put it in my bag. I fantasise about taking off my day-tired underpants, sleeping bare bottomed on fresh white sheets, but then I think somehow it might not be hygienic or polite, or prudent (what if I jump up in the night to go to the bathroom and emerge with bits exposed and wiry bush sprouting forth into the chirpy traveller space of the hostel, offending some north American college boys on my travels? I keep the knickers on. AS I lay there I wonder if I will sleep, if I can sleep when my preferred option is to wake in 4 or 5 hours and scoot back up the hill on a train, when I am worried that I will oversleep, or be robbed, or wake up and forget where I am. These worries prove short lived, minutes, my anxieties always overpowered by my desire for sleep. I sleep.

I wake up and it is light out, although the room is blessedly quiet. A girl rouses and turns, and threatens to get up, and I lie still and hold my breath and pray that she goes back to sleep ( I can't bear the thought of polite conversation or explanations as I dress or as I gather gear and depart). Its fine, she snuffles back into her bedding and I emerge quickly, quietly and put on shoes, skirt, laptop in bag, bags on shoulder, and after a quick look at rumpled bedding and wondering if I may need to unmake the bed and haul linen to the front counter for return, think better of it in light of the extended rustling and sheet wrangling of the night before, and leave, strappy sandaled and wild haired into the light. I head straight to the bathroom, this is like the night before played out in reverse, and there brush teeth, wash face and am left wet skinned and dripping, wishing I'd hauled those sheets off and had them handy to dry my face (see how quickly you adapt to circumstance and propriety is replaced with pragmatism?). I use the toilet and there decide that the knickers are not feeling fresh, and can go I step out of them and fold them as neatly as I can be bothered, and stash them in the small zippered pocket of my handbag. I feel free and airy beneath my loose linen skirt - subversive. I feel jaunty, still a little out of place, but more confident. I just spent the night in a dark bunk room! I am off to the foyer to check out, in yesterdays work clothes!

I check the time and realise that I have almost a full hour until the next train, but it's early, so it's ok, I hand back my swipe card and I order coffee and enjoy the being up early, the looking at peaceful tall, dark haired men reclining in modern orange couches under large sun lit windows, reading guidebooks, musing, planning, planning in their pyjama bottoms and t shirt combos, their loose fitting track pants draped casually over the soft shameless curves of crotch. I drink my coffee and enjoy belonging there, in that open plan dining area, with a mother and daughter, with an older man, much older, who looks weathered and haggard and truly appreciative of his $4.90 breakfast. I watch a stocky eastern European man in a crisp shirt and sunny yellow tie come in - I wonder if he is management, but he looks like me, trying to blend in, he sits in a couch and muses and plans and wakes up silently with the rest of them; the rest of us. Maybe he has a job interview. I sit silently too, and let my hostel-bed-messed hair, and good coffee, and yesterdays work clothes and my gratitude for a safe place to rest and my satisfaction at my courage in an unplanned situation, and my subversive bare arse, and my relief, relief, relief come together as friends, integrate, settle and infuse me like the sunlight through the square windows past the couches.

good morning

hello dearlings
It's been a while since I blogged. Not quite awake yet so this will be sketchy, messy lined, some charcoal smear - no tidy paintnig of my days. In brief (no, I'm dressed..)I have been enjoying the company of Aunty B of BSharp fame, a house guest extrodinairre who has been greeting me with hot meals and chatty stories of days and afridge stocked with beer. I'm like a 1950's husband who gets in late and blahs about work until distracted by homemade lasagne into domestic bliss and more congenial topics of convo. Dinners aside, it has been lovely to have her back in oz, and to have a visitor to show bits of the town to.
It feels like it's been a busy couple of weeks.
Work has been hotting up (and here I do not refer to workplace amores bur rather the heat created by the friction of brain over new territory). Some interesting projects, some satisfying mini-milestones, some scary 'ohmygoddessidon'tknowthefirstthingabout... couldipossiblydo... willtheyfigureoutthatimjustadreamerandamfakingbeingaprofessional*???' moments, but good nonetheless. And yes, still have the 'am I meant to actually be in an office job or am I just pandering to social expectations and doing the regular income boring thing when really I want to do something more heart than head?' moments, and I think they are valid moments and that the question is still a good one to ask. Hmmm, I'm sure my employer would just lurve to read my degree of committment to the job!!?
Apart from all that, I have been entertaining an American visitor. No, not entertaining ala sailors and silk stockings, but wholesome showing around of our fair city(although arguably not so fair after the IR legislation hitting the streets this week..). he is only a bub - almost 19 - and here for various workshops from Northern NSW to the Mountains, who I met at one of those workshops, and who knows no-one in Sydney city or immediate surrounds. have enjoyed playing kindly aunty and taking hiom to cafes and showing off my favourite suburbs. He was actually lovely company - bright and cheery and contemplative. He reminds my of my little cousin who is only 13 and also reminds me that I don't get much contact with kids in my life in Sydney - easy to forget how refreshing that wide eyed wonder and youthful certainty can be!





*'High functioning flake' - to use MysticMedusa's term...