In train

A man with tattooed hands and blocks of solid blue ink down his arms walks past on the train. Thumping his own chest, thumping hard.

A woman in tight jeans talks to her friends on the train. She had a country and western singer face – or that’s where it was going if another few years of hard talking and living were to continue the drapes and shadows in the places they had begun. She said “she should have spent more money on her nose job and less on her tits”. She said “I could kiss a woman all night but no way am I going near her bush”.

Exhibit

Red dots. The universal language of ‘sold’. Who knows where these red dots are springing from, from this crowd, this room of people mostly more dark-clothed and covered up than a city exhibition opening, many with hats and only a few with a glass of red wine. They don’t look like the buying type – not flashy, ostentatious, not many business suits here, no pearls, no chrystal blondes bobs and gash red mouths, no perfect budding white cleavage strung with beads.

But the red dots are coming from somewhere, coming in a steady stream, under the coloured wash drawings of cityscapes, under the occasional curved naked body, under a pile of books. It is very crowded, which is a relief – no one wants to be at a too-small party, with the pressure to perform, to stay, to enjoy yourself.

It is also a relief because the bodies packed together bring warmth. The glass-rimmed building shines out warmth in the night.

A woman turns around quickly just as another is stepping forward, wine in one hand, juice in the other. There is a collision. Juice spills on the floor. There is a pause as they both look to themselves for damage, for anything on clothes or handbags, there is none. They exchange apology and absolution, neither is overly warm, there is something of two cats about them, two cats negotiating a potential adversary. The Gallery Manager comes with paper towel and covers the puddle; the problem disappears, being sucked up by wicking effect into the dry spaces held between particles of wood fibre.

People who have done workshops and courses together find each other and reminisce. ‘I leave just feeling so relaxed..’ ‘oh the cake and coffee, I miss that’ ‘we only ever got biscuits?’ ‘No not the community college course, the Tuesday mosaic class – did you ever go?’ ‘Oh yes! That cake. That was good.’

The artist looks content and flushed (wine? a response to so many tongues wagging about him around this large room?). He is not puffed up and boastful, he looks grounded and engaged with people. He knows almost everybody here.

There is chat and murmur, the crowd grumbles and buzzes. There is no music, music might have helped fill the gaps between conversations, between having seen all of the drawings on the wall and leaving. It is ok though, the exhibition doesn’t summon up many demons, no-one leaves with more existential angst than they arrive with, although more than a few are reminded of their inability to purchase such works; and also their inability to produce them.

More than a few renew their vows to themselves about drawing classes taken and studios spring cleaned, about time made for painting. It is a mixed joy then this sharing of art, and it magnifies unfinished business.

At least though there are no sculptural pigs heads in boxes, or damning grotesque images of family life, or anything too political to prick them all and make them feel guilty for the way they live their lives or make them think about values. This is a shining warm and nicely lit world, earthy with beanies; and beneath the glass made whimsical in sketchy ink is the traffic and poverty and mental illness of our town wrapped up in the warm arms of the artist’s visage, decorating sketchy streetscapes. It is comfortable, it is joyful, it is casual. And so are we.

Sounds like...

Went to the pub last night with a friend from work and met some of his friends there. Alway nice to do that, despite that brief fleeting moment where you go 'oh but what if they are all far too cool for school and think I'm boring and I don't have anything to say to them and I feel like a dickhead?'. They weren't, they didn't, I did, I didn't - so, glad I went. Got quite drunk and silly though, I forget that cloistered life in the mountains makes one ill equipped for keeping up with the Eastern suburb pub-goers. But anyway. One very funny story that I had to share* with you went as follows:

[friend of friend]:
"So last week I was in this bar, singing, and as part of the deal you get free drinks right? So there I was in between sets, drinking down the free piss, and everytime I went to the bar I was checking out this really hot bar man."
"Now, he was really gorgeous, and as the night went on, and I got drunker I started flirting with him more and more. Finally, later in the evening I said:
'What's your name?'
He said 'Rico'
I said 'nice name'"
[and here in telling the story she acts out the way she said it, with a bit of a smouldering smile, just the right amount of droopy lidded shoulder raising and sideways look to make her intentions clear]
"So HE said 'what's your name?'
And I said 'Virginia'
And he said 'nice name' [With very similar weighty significance behind his words and a nice smouldering smile]
And then I said... [she laughs]. No wait for it, I said: 'Sounds like 'vagina''."
[To which of course we all snort and moan in horror]
"Yes, there was a light in his eyes that died when I said that - completely went out. That was it, all over".

So remember that next time you make some horror unthinking statement at work or Fruedian slip on a date - and ask yourself "Is it really worse than 'Sounds like vagina?'"

*NB I don't smuggle the stories of friends from RL into blogland without permission, as a general rule, so immediately said to the girl 'That's hilarious, I'd love to put that on my blog - do you mind?' To which she said 'Oh no, that's fine, just change my name.' One beat later she realises what she's said and laughs and says, 'no that's fine, go ahead.'

Inter state

(From last week)

I’m interstate briefly. A work trip. A get up early and get on the train well before sun rises kind of trip. Word of advice. Don’t rethink your outfit at 4 in the morning. You will end up wearing something odd. Something pyjama like. Anyway, trip went well, all prepared, good meeting. Tonight found groovy noodle place, hidden away. This city is more covert, hidden than Sydney. Sydney is glass fronted bars, people queuing, wanting to be seen, seen to be seen. This city is alleyways which are dark and full of bins and the promise of a dark, hidden door which might be the entrance to a sultry club or hopping bar. It’s a city of brunettes rather than blondes. Knitwear.

If only I was here a little longer to soak up the ambience, browse for shoes and handbags, get to the art gallery, go visit the permaculture gardens. See friends. Go to the vegebar on Brunswick Street. Good news is there’s a repeat visit booked in a few weeks, and that time I should be able to stick around for a weekend.

Oh another thing about early starts. Guess who packed 6 tops, 3 pairs of shoes, 3 pairs of underwear and ONLY ONE PAIR OF PANTS??? Yes, that would be me. For the next 3 days here and back in Syd before I go on holidays. Derr. And I think I lost my hat sometime today. Did I also loose the Capri pants I thought I had packed? Bad packing. Also, 3 pairs of shoes for 3 days = too many shoes. My suitcase for my holiday is packed and stored under my desk at work. Hope I did a better job with that one!

I am still slightly delirious from lack of sleep. Can you tell? I was fine in the middle of the day but now fading fast. I watched some of the Steve Irwin funeral and got all teary at the sight of school kids getting teary in their classrooms watching it. Wish I could splice another day in between today and tomorrow. A day in which I would I would sleep, get a facial, a massage, drink juice, go lie in a park, buy a copy of the new Neal Stevens book. But oh well.

By the way, I think I had a significant moment with a cute taxi driver in the mountains last night. A sit and keep chatting after the fare is paid moment. A turn and face each other for the chat moment. We chat each time I get in the cab – this strange ongoing conversation broken into little erratic chunks based on when I happen to catch his taxi. We are bonding over poetry, we talk books. He’s slightly reticent, looks a bit like someone else I liked once, has nice smile lines. Ridiculously tidy, probably a bit shy, a bit uptight, but in a sexy way (see again with the delirious). Probably a bad idea to invite him out right? If I was less paranoid about my reputation in a small town I might.

Must be hormones. I found someone in the meeting today strikingly attractive – I even checked for ring. He was informed, opinionated and clever. Cute teeth – kind of nubby little teeth. Big open mouth laugh – like a muppet. Receeding hair. Glasses. Shiny shiny eyes. Nice voice. Ooooh – people with well-thought out ideas on sustainability, people with good, respectful yet effective meeting and interpersonal skills – how enticing. Probably never a good time in a meeting though to say ‘so then, are you available? Up for it?’. Not all that practical in any case. Not all that likely that we would even be compatible – him all reasonable and well thought out, me all impetuous and interrupty with my one pair of pants and trillion shoes and lace tops. Him knowing actual content on sensible big picture tangible actual things, and me just flying by the seat of my (if I had any) pants.

north of the border up hula hoop way

Well after a hectic week last week of jaunty work related travels (more on that later - will post post humously) embarked on some non work travel, up to lovely Byron Bay which although the main street is a little like Glenelg Beach of my home town, the surrounds are beautiful, and there are enough down to earth looking locals to ground the whole affair. Spent some lovely time with family of the extended and blended type. Little brother is fun, 2 1/2 now. Watching him fly his first kite alone was worth the trip. Right now am with Mermaidgrrl and Little Mister. A home away from home being here, welcomed with giant hugs, the house always airy and light, colourful, nice smelling, with candles and pets and stories and fun. Over the years have been coaxed out of my shell by mermaidgrrrl, encouraged, listened to, taken shopping with, had hair blow dried by, made up silly words with, shared books with, been nurtured and cared for. This visit I have had the pleasure of sharing in the early days of her pregnancy - a treat when friends are far away and you sometimes miss out on experiencing these milestones up close and personal. AND.. I have been reintroduced to the joys of hula hooping. So. Bloody. Good. Seriously, why did I ever stop? I remember my first hoop - chocolate scented brown with a racing stripe in white, a ball inside that whooshed around, and hooping around my middle, arms, neck, badly around one leg...I was 7? 9? 10?. Now, 30, I have been hooping in the sun room, eperimenting with different optimal music. Justin Timberlake was suggested to me as strangely good - and it's true - Justin has freaky powers of keeping the hoop going*. James Brown also strangely effective. Go figure. Am thinking that I ould get one (make one, I am being advised that home made is the only way to go for adult hoops - you just can't gewt them right at toy stores - too light, not thick enough tubing), stash it under the desk at work, pop out to the pocket park at lunch on sunny days and get in some good practice. Maybe with a little MP3 player streaming secret Justin. Woo hoo - bring on summer.

*Yes, lots of 'keeping it up'jokes are in order with hula hooping...

Mmmm. You read? You have a nice smile? You don’t have a ring?

Madam. Please step away from the platform – there is an unattended bag. That is ticking. We have the ballistics and explosives response team on their way, we’re evacuating the area for people’s own safety.

Er, um. That bag. Ahem. That particular bag. Is not actually unattended. This is a little embarrassing. It’s actually mine. You see, it’s not so much unattended as partially attended. It’s my emotional baggage. I stand with it sometimes, but sometimes I sneak off and hope it willl go away. You know, like a basket of kittens left out on the street with ‘free, please take me’. Oh god, not that I would, I mean I like cats, sorry, that’s a bad example. Anyway, yeah it’s actually mine. I’m so sorry. And it’s not a bomb, it’s so not a bomb. I can garauntee that.

(Looks dubious). Well we have it on good authority that the bag is emitting a ticking sound, consistent with an incendiary device, an analogue, Bruce Willis style, red and black wired, big alarm clock faced, jelly stick, jar of liquid, gaffa taped on kind of bomb.

Oh God, this is now really embarrassing. Um you see, that’s actually just, oh I can’t believe this situation this is all so surreal – no you see, that’s actually my biological clock. Yes it is loud isn’t it? Sometimes I can’t hear it at all, and then ‘voomp’ it’s like I have Big Ben in there. Tickety Tock, like the playschool clock, just the loudest noise in the world. You should see what happens when I’m in the movies and it goes off – huh, and you think people get shittty about mobile phones in the cinema, boy oh boy. And last time I was at the dentist, halfway through a procedure, hands deep in my mouth my poor dentist nearly jumped out of her skin. So, you know, I’m really sorry about the disturbance, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. You must get this kind of thing all the time. Did you go to bomb training school to learn all this stuff? I like those boots, they’re kind of cool aren’t they. And the buzz cut, it’s kind of sleek and monk-like – zen. How

thankyou anony mice commenter (and what I did Sunday)

That was a lovely lovely comment, and I will never whinge or weedle or whine about lack of comments again.
(Of course I may whinge and weedle and whine about all manner of other things - but not that!). Like this morning on the train when I was meant to be working and instead wrote this:

'Important
I don’t like the way that work is mean to pull rank over other things. Buy your time, buy your priorities. I am meant to care about certain things that, really, I find it hard to care about. In 5 years time this database will be buried, useless, it’s useless now really, and it hasn’t even finished gestating. I don’t get to decide day by day the best way to spend my time to best serve humanity, I am locked in to these little boxes of task and outcome, locked in even after the landscape changes and makes the tasks futile. What if being with somebody, being a friend or a daughter is a bigger priority today? What if my health suddenly pulls rank – and I need to buy fruit, exercise, lie in the sun watching leaves rustle in branches above me? What if I have a lovely idea that I could write up and share if only I wasn’t committed to filling in tiny squares on a screen with arbitrary numbers? What if I get excited by a community project and want to make something where there was nothing previously? How can an hour of me at my desk be worth more than an hour of conversation? Why will people pay me to do things that aren’t the best I can offer, but not to do what make my heart sing? Or maybe that’s not really their fault at all, after all my singing heart is my responsibility to protect and nurture and care for. Why do I except situations where I will do work that bores me just because I am being paid for it? Why don’t I find a way to do things I love?'

But now of course I think 'oh fuck it' - I do find time for things I love, I just don't love absolutely everything about my actual paying job, and hey maybe that's just reality. Maybe it's my zen challenge to see the good in the database, not wig out, find some kernal of usefulness, be grateful that I have things I can do for a crust...

Last night I stayed in and watched dvd's annd made a felt bag for my mum's special birthday (this coming weekend). It was effing fabulous, even if I do say so myself. Pink and greens with flowers (sounds crap, but somehow is groovy, trust me). Might take happy snap and post on making groovy things (see sidebar). So yes, felt making and watching Joss Wheedon's move Serenity (finally), and being a lap for my disgruntled cat, and eating vegetarian lasagne that I'd made, and generally being quite happy. I even had a drop by visit from a potential (ie wannnabe) suitor. Not sure how I feel about the drop by visit - think it kind of puts you at the disadvantage, when its someone you don't know that well. Everytime one happens I find myself thinking 'phew, lucky I was wearing clothes' or 'phew, lucky I wasn't doing anything really strange' when in fact I always wear clothes and have no idea what strange things I could have been doing - so really it's a funny kind of response I guess. Anyway, the drop by. I was polite and friendlyish, but not overly encouraging. I didn't even offer a beverage and you KNOW how hard that is for a nicely brought up girl from the less affluent end of a small town - man offering beverages is like the cardinal rule of hosptality - to not offer a beverage, several times over, is tantamount to shitting in the middle of someone's persian rug in terms of rudeness, but reallly I silenced the inner Grandma /Aunty and tried my best not to encourage the stay in any way shape or form. After all I was in my slipers and procrastinating about my database - I really didn't need disturbing. feel kind of pleased everytime I exert my actual wishes over politeness. Politeness is a particularly bad reason to start a relationship - even I know that.

Toothpaste for dinner - I am now officially in love with this comic

Yes I am now trawling through the archives because I can't wait for the next day's comic. That's got to be a bad sign right? Here are a couple to make you laugh on a Monday morning.

‘Just coz you feel it doesn’t mean it’s there’

…sings Thom Yorke, my newest rock god. And to be honest, I’m inclined to agree. It fits so many situations, is a nice cautionary tale, a lovely piece of microfiction.

Ever heard of microfiction? It’s this whole thing of writing very tiny pieces, and I don’t mean as in using a magnifying glass and transcribing on rice grains – no I mean little as in very few words. Short and to the point. Micro. Also flash and nano, teensy tiny.

I had a moment of hope when I came across the idea. I thought ‘yihah! Maybe it doesn’t matter that when I go to write fiction I write a page and a half at most, that my essays tend to be one paragraph, that my poems are often just one sentence. And no, of course it doesn’t matter – the quality may still be a sticking point, but apparently size no longer matters in the world of fiction. At least in online world, where there is a community for everyone.

Speaking of online communities - what kind of people read this blog I wonder? Are you all RL (I think that’s funky web speak for real life, I pinched it off Mermaidgrrrl, she’s always more tech savvy than me on such things) friends and friends of friends? Any people out in internet land who came across this through some love of something that we have in common – living in mountain towns? commuting maybe? Waffling on about not much? Microfiction? Latin proverbs, feng shui goldfish, ridiculous crushes and loungeroom dancing? I know it is a terribly uncool, mirror gazing thing to even ask, but I am curious. Maybe other people with awful spelling read my blog for a feeling of solidarity, or perhaps people who commute from lower down the mountains, to remind themselves that things could be worse. Maybe it’s all the IT staff at my work who have clocked that I am occasionally [note: very, very occasionally dear IT staff] naughtily posting from my desk and are checking for any inflammatory content.

And, on the topic dear blog readers, I was talking to Aunty B a while back and asked her why she thought no one comments much on my blog and she said that it was because I did my monologuey thing and no one likes to interrupt. Now, till then, I didn’t know I was monologuing – I thought I was having a conversation…admittedly a rather one sided and erratically punctuated conversation. So just for the record, anyone is welcome to drop by for a visit to seagreen land, to comment away, to join in witty banter. Maybe I need to have the cyber equivilent of a little singles party (not that I am suggesting that we are all singles I am speaking metaphorically) where you can meet people you didn’t know already, and we can all wear coloured socks with Scotty dogs on them, and chat awkwardly at first then realise we have a lot in common and get drunk on bad red wine and end up telling stories we wish we hadn’t later. Hmm, on second thoughts, let’s not. But you know, an amnesty period for new shy visitors to comment. Or something. So, anyway, I think my actual point is, if you drop in to this corner of blogland, feel very welcome to say hello. Don’t be shy. Coz you know, every time you don’t comment a tooth fairy dies...or something. (This is sounding a little desperate in my rallying now isn’t it? Apologies.). Similarly, if you want me to link to your website*/ blog and or email** me (jade yjel lybean at hotm ail dot com minus the spaces) that is all good too. Coz, you know, we’re all a little online community ‘n’ all.

Just coz I don’t feel it doesn’t mean it’s not there?

* Unless your website is for a white supremiscist pro vivasection homophobic capital punishment lobby group underwritten with investments in Amazonian beef cattle and sweat shops… in which case maybe I wouldn’t.
* * Or you want to email me to tell me that I have WON THE LOTTO and all I need to do to COLLECT AMAZING WINNINGS is to send my bank details to the very unfortunate daughter of the now late PRESIDENT MUMBISHKO OF RAWBOTSISTAN and then I will have oodles of cashola to invest in FAILSAFE PENIS ENLARGEMENT TECHNOLOGY and also save the all the women and caged bears being TORTURED by signing a petition which is 8 years old; then you can pretty much save your time, thanks anyway, because I already have oodles of info on those great options.

Bad poetry? Oh noetry!

That is not my fabulous rhyme - no I've pilfered it from 'Toothpaste for Dinner', my new all time favourite webcomic (See sidebar for link). Maybe it speaks of my state of mind - single cell comic organisms are all I can handle at present. But it makes me laugh.

Speaking of laughing, I had one of those awful but can't stop it anyway moments at work this arvo where a colleague and I were retelling a television show to a 3rd person. She and I had watched it, found it hilarious and excruciating, and were cringing and giggling and crying with laughter through the retell (which took about 10 minutes - the whole show is only 30 minutes long..). Poor storytelling victim was remarkably patient but perhaps could have laughed a bit less at and a little more with us.. Anyway. Extras. Wednesday night. Quite funny.

Hey guess what I did tonight? The clothes shop. A mild version - 3 garments, one of them on sale (oh so that makes it all better). Nice pants. That actually fit well and I don't have to bunch up with a stupid belt thing - unlike the ones I am currently wearing which I do. So hey. I think it was the notion of possible interstate work trips to steering committees and the overbaggy clown pants which always seem to ride lower than either my knickers or the fishnet tights I'm wearing under the pants - such a very very bad look that one. Which of course I could have topped off with a bit of button popping crinkled white shirt action. No doubt with an innapropriately coloured bra underneath. Hmmm. What would Trinny and Suzanna say -I shudder to think*.

And not only did I survive the whole experience I cam out chipper and humming (mostly to hideous pop songs that have stolen bass tracks from old fave songs that I actually liked, but whatevs). I even almost bought a very fetching LBD, that had a low scoop squarish neck and nice structured feel with a cocktail thin belt up high and fitted pencil skirt. And ever so slight puffa cap sleeves. But figured that seeing as I can't even remember the last time I went out for cocktails, and my work clothes are crap, and I need new summer frocks that I would let go of yet another black dress. (And anyway I can always go back next week). Of course if someone asks me out for cocktails anytime soon I will almost certainly *have* to go back and get it :) Anyone??

So. Here is some bad poetry (oh noetry) to mark the occasion:

Oh work pant
Lovely stripes that I want more (of)
You are worth my rant,
I like you stacks,
And I can't
Figure out what I did before
You appeared
And the shop girl peered
In and remarked
At my nice dacks



* 'Your insistance on putting novelty over style and wearing poorly fitting clothes that you previously abandoned on your bedroom floor makes you look a little like a baglady stripper clown with ADHD. I like your bangles though.' might be ballpark...

Life in the cube

Oops, it’s been a while since I blogged. Busy week you see. Busy, oh my, how can I be that tired when it’s only Tuesday kind of week. I have these days when I find myself at the desk at 6.30/7, knowing I still have heaps more to do, knowing that the longer I stay the later I will get home, which means less sleep time – everything seems squeezed. Work, play, sleep, all squeezed into smaller bite sizes than I would like them to be, all nudging each other, elbowing sharp jabs to make room for themselves. And it’s self reinforcing. The problem with doing project work is that turning up to work and making it through your shift doesn’t cut it. You have to actually produce what you said you would by when you said you would. So if you are feeling tired and crap and don’t get much done, there is just more to do the next day. It kind of slides towards the end of the week like a landslide. And if the work you have in front of you to do takes longer than planned, or is icky and complex thinking and needs some concerted skirting and procrastination, forget it – you’re screwed. So you work later. So you sleep less. So you’re tired and work less effectively. So you work later. So you sleep less. Well that’s how it seems to me this Wednesday.


Rejection bites

(In the spirit of ‘oh fuck it we’ll all be dead one day anyway, let’s not stand on ceremony’ I offer you the following far too much information and undiluted teen diary style confessions.) Well I heard back from the writing thing, and I didn’t get a fellowship. I suppose I’m not all that surprised, really, but you know, I am also a bit sad. Sure it might have been unrealistic to think the very first thing I sent in anywhere would be received with fanfare and offers of publishing. Sure, I submitted about a zillion (actually 67 but who’s counting) probably very crap poems and some fragments that were hardly stories. Sure I have absolutely no history as a writer and so the bio I wrote was very lame. But nonetheless, it kind of bites. I think maybe I thought somehow it would end up (with a few steps in between) with me settled in to a stucco house in Mexico, quietly licking my pencil and scrawling away during hot mornings, sipping coffee, watching shafts of sun move across the high ceilinged room, light coming through big calico curtains and illuminating dark red walls, looking forward to my walk to the dusty markets at lunchtime, an afternoon spent squeezing colours out of tubes and getting them on to canvas, and then an evening getting a cooking lesson with local friends, laughing at my bad tortilla making, eating mole and maybe heading out to the zoccalo for some music and dancing with tall* strangers in the cool dark. Licking lime juice and salt off skin, smelling ocean, tasting spice in hot chocolate. So no wonder I’m bloody disappointed! It wasn’t just a measly 3 week writing retreat I missed out on, it was my entire imaginary life funded through and linked to writing.

*Huh! In Mexico?? Told you I was a dreamer.

“There’s no use trying” said Alice. “One can’t believe impossible things.”
“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen.
“When I was your age I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
(Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass, 1872)

Website of the week

Morrissey Dance - strangely compelling, almost zen: like watching a nodding dog on the back windscreen of someone's car.

Shouting out some more

Giant congratulations to C-CHan, who recently finished his law degree while working full time and supporting MeriRisa through the end of her pregnancy and then through birth. Truly commendable acheivement which is testimony to generally being a clever-clogs, spending many late nights pouring over books, and having far better time management than I seem to be capable of! 'Proper' congratulations are in order over a few bevvies down the local I do beleive (and I of course would be more than happy to partake in such revelries!).
(Also keen to accompany the gals on a 'kick your heels up' night out of the inner west variety as suggested by MeriRisa.)

Grab Your Fork -Good foody website

This one sent to me last week. Tres colourful. Tres handy recipes. Tres handy reviews.

Song I like

I have to smile every time I listen to Astrud Gilbertos ‘I haven’t got anything better to do’ – it’s a gentle, soaring, earnest kind of music, the words are very off hand, and you can kind of imagine a rock cover by Magic Dirt or maybe with Billie Holiday’s raw swing. At first the music tells you that it must be a gentle yearning love song, then the lyrics tell you that it’s a bitchy, ironic, cool hearted and completely offhand ‘breakup? Yeah whatever’ song, then the lyrics confess that it is maybe a song about a broken heart after all. I like it both as a ‘you know what, I really don’t care that much’ break up song, and also as a ‘whoops, maybe I do, but I want to pretend like I don’t’ song – as can relate to having felt both of these over the years.

To illustrate:
‘I think about him on alternate Thursdays when I haven’t got anything better to do’
‘Wasn’t I awfully smart not to fall and break my heart?’
‘And when he kissed me, he never moved me – nothing fantastic, thrilling or new
So if I’m crying, I’m only crying because I haven’t got anything better to do’

To commute or not commute – that is like so the question

Meaning of life, is milk bad for you, should you rent or buy, will you go to hell if you don’t floss twice daily? Forget all of those, the only question for me at the moment is ‘should I stay or should I go?’ By what I mean, should I stay living in the mountains or should I move to the city and be closer to work.

My commuting life involves a ridiculous amount of travel – from what is basically a country town, to the heart of the city daily. It involves much getting home late, getting to work late, working on the train, eating dinner or breakfast on the train, having to dash for last train if I head out late in the city, often missing things because I’m not home early enough in the mountains – yadda, yadda, I’m sure you can imagine.

On the plus side, I live in a lovely place, and even the view from the train is lovely, really lovely. There are birds and sky, and at night it is silent in a peaceful way. The people are laid back and lack some of that city-angst, city-buzz, city-competitive vibe that you can really smell after the clean air of up here. People are a little on the vegetarian, wool wearing, bearded, yoga doing, part time job having, chicken owning, dog walking, permaculture garden doing side. Which I love. I have good friends who feel like family, who are kind and nurturing and make me feel like part of their families. People I watch tellie with and drink wine with and tease and bearhug hello and goodbye. Speaking of smells, on my walk home it is cold, even now that it’s Spring, and my nose is slightly icy and I can smell the bakery on the main street, and then wood fires, and whatever is in bloom in gardens that I pass. It is silent and I can hear the echoes of any other footfalls on the street I walk down from blocks away. I can see the stars, brightly. When home I can walk around my little house in my knickers aimlessly making coffee, putting on music, nesting. I can be messy and drop newspapers in piles, leave clothes on the bathroom floor, let the dishes pile up until I feel a burst of housework coming on, and all if this suits me fine.

But living in the city and being able to walk to work is an attractive proposition.

But then again, when did work get to be the deciding factor in my life?

But then again, surely its ok to make decisions based on convenience that suit for right now, they don’t have to be permanent forever type decisions.

You see? Not an instantly easy decision to make, has pros and cons, heart and head both have a say, and my poor tired body is mostly too bust trying to catch up on sleep to say anything much.

Upshot? I have tentatively told some friends in the inner west that I’ll move in when their housemate moves out – likely to be sometime in the next 2 months. Glebe. If it happens I’ll have a little upstairs room in a little terrace house, sharing with people I know and like, and close enough to walk to work. My cat will get company in the evenings even if I’m home late. My window would have a glimpse of city lights and water, and big leafy gum trees in the courtyard will wave at me through the window.

annd slightly comic too

Am addicted to the cards in this range, just bought the book recently. Very urban single woman, but nonetheless funny. Cecliy: http://www.cecily.co.nz/

Giant shout outs to my peeps, know what I'm saying, yo

Giant giantest congratulations in the world
To Mermaidgrrrl and Little Mister – great news about getting pregnant. I count down the days until I can paint that Mexican / monestary themed nursery mural!! Ooh exciting. I think maybe some paper maiche painted animal figurines to decorate could be cool too. I expect ultrasound pictures emailed at regular intervals and long conversations about exotic hippy baby names soon!

Hello again
online to Guitar Boy and eek, sorry, haven’t been in touch for like ever. I hope all is well in the City of Churches. I have been a telecommunications nightmare for the last few months, but aaah, have just had home phone line repaired and purchased new landline, so woohoo, back in the land of phone calls. Expect one soon. I want to know how netball is going so I can see whether I should take up Monday night basketball…

The ‘you rock’ award
Goes to Ms Sharp for being terribly brave and clever and ditching ‘working for the man’ to start ‘working from the lounge-room in slippers’ instead. Rock on small business self-employed consultant grrrl. Sailing the seas of self determination with aplomb and a sense of humour.

Whoops, sorry
Biz I don’t know where the link went to your blog but it’ll put it back on now – that’s Lowbagger World for those who haven’t visited that corner of cyberspace. Hope the time away flies by and useful work is some compensation for missing us all here in Sydney town.

You go girls!
Ongoing general murmurs of amazement and encouragement to MeriRisa and Mountain Spice doing so well as first time mums, and to C—Chan and Mr Mountain Spice for also doing well as first time dads.

Virtual champagne
Sent out to Pony Girl, who has bought a house in lovely Northern NSW. How grown up! How many opportunities for putting in picture hooks and making gardens and painting walls! How exciting!

Surviving in new climes award
to Sparkle Cowboy for making a go of it in big bad London. He takes the trophy from Mr Micool who's had it for a while now.

very comic yes?

I love a bit of comic action. When I was a kid I had a comics collection that I kept in a funky little red case. Was gutted as an adolescent to realise that Richie Rich, Lottie, Donald Duck and Heckle and Jeckle comics really did not carry their cool credentials past the end of primary school. (But I loved them so much!). Have dabbled in reading graphic novels and modern funky adult comics, and do love the wry or dark humoured, outsider perspective, scifiish, slacker, art and politics influenced in the genre, but I am generally thwarted in my efforts for the following reasons:
a) I am a bad collector of anything - erratic, haphazard, easily distracted and generally scattergunned. Might go out to with the intention to buy a graphic novel and come back with a 1950's tea cup, a ball of funky alpacca wool, a vegetarian samosa and a bunch of flowers instead.
b) I have a low to medium level aversion towards dingy cramped comic shops and the encyclopeadic knowledge that those boys (it always seems to be boys) have. It is not a warm and inviting shoppping experience for the novice. The comic shop character from the Simpsons is clearly a stereotype, but nonetheless one which resonates!
c) I can't be bothered to learn the who's who of anything - which artist originallly did cover art for which new writer who worked with.. blah blah and once helped develop the screen play for blahblah and based the comic on the ideas in the earlier piece (yawn, sorry are you talking to me) and was released in limited edition hand printed form on August the 8th 1967 as an underground blahdeblhdeblah and later in full colour in december of 1972 in Los Angeles (oh are we still talking about that? Sorry I thought you were done).
For these reasons I will never really be up to date with the world of graphic novels or comics but all of that aside (a very long winded indemnity clause really that one!) here are some web comics I have enjoyed recently:

Cat and Girl
I am I love with this comic and use it to amuse myself at boring moments at work

Her![Pig vs Girl]
Not bad. Brief and wry.

Pirate and Alien
I like the visual stye of this one, and let's face it, what's not funny about a pirate and an alien (together at last)? This one is funny for all us who succumb to blogging.

Married to the sea
Some truly wacky, juvenile historical absurdist jokes with computer game and God references. Strangeley compellling. I especially like this one and this one.



and finally, for today, this one:
Toothpaste for dinner
Which is nice and loosely formed, breezy, and has some funny work place references which make me laugh. See picture above for example.Check out this one all you job hunters, this one, this one, and very silly, this one.

‘I want a perfect body, I want a perfect soul’

Funny this thing of body and perfection. I think our idea of perfect anything is a little on the nose – we have shorn off the black from the white, the shade from the light, heaven from earth; and think that things must be entirely flawless to be beautiful. I just muse on this today as I admired a big solid bottom swathed in thick denim walk past the train window and it made me remember that I am attracted to things that wouldn’t be considered physical ideals, and love beautiful imperfection. I pick up rusty washers when I see them and collect special corroded flakes of metal in all their beautiful warm shades and put them in a bowl with seashells as an ornament. I have no problem with frayed and torn and irregular fabrics. And in people? I like lovely smile lines. I am fascinated by tiny mouths or large proud noses or solid practical veined hands. I like funny faces. I am attracted to distinctiveness, difference, the bundle of characteristics that makes someone up: someone louche and wry with teeth at interesting angles; someone brown and curved like a nut, relaxed with hands that care for things; someone full of energy and lean with stories and plans and thin lips and crinkly eyes; someone so pale that eyelashes look dusted with snow; someone’s flat belly with a trail of dark hair down it and shining dark eyes; someone solid and understated with a face like the Buddha; someone young with receeding hair and a sexy smile and a friendly way with waiters. All of these, more. I have been in love with freckled folk, slept with skinny souls, gone for people with glasses. Attraction for me is neither in spite of, not because of – but irrespective of the tick box rating on body beautiful. And isn’t this so for all of us? Which is not to deny that there is certainly something deeply physical about attraction. Even attraction based on the meeting of like minds is informed by physicality - where someone’s state of mind is embodied in the way they sit, lean forward, flush, do or don’t fidget, smile, how they eat, the sound of their voice, the way they smile, the way you feel when they stand next to you. There are silent conversations that happen between bodies whether our anxious censoring minds acknowledge them or not. And when you fall for someone you fall for all of them – the skinny ankles, crooked smile or podgy belly. You become fascinated with the orange monkey hair on their arms, their stumpy fingers and the way they stir a wooden spoon; love their moon tan, their solidness, their unruly curves, feel fond for their funny big ears, the amazing point of their nose or slight double chin. When you love someone all they are is amazing. We are all transformed by love.

So, what is my point? I tell you this story to remind you and more, to remind myself. To be kind to myself in the mirror and not ever think that love can be constructed with blocks of neat hair and flatter belly, that the physical is any more than an expression of what’s happening inside. Hold on to the idea that my ample bottom and abundant thighs are not necccessarily an impediment to love; that any stories I have that these things could be a barrier to a relationship are just stories, protective padding, my excuse.

And next time I wail inwardly at a bad hair day or wobbly curvy bits that wont hide neatly inside my clothes, I will ask ‘but am I pretty on the inside?’ and remind myself that the world might be a nicer place if we were helpfully reminded that the shine and radiance of our hearts illuminates us more than our exteriors can.

Confessions of a blogger

Ok so I thought of an analogy and just had to share it. Sometimes when I hop on my computer to do some sensible work type typing, I just can’t do it until I write a little something here instead. I just realised that the feeling is very similar to when you have a lover and you just want another half an hour in bed with them before you hop up and face the world. That indulgent time, that time of exploration or of expressing yourself most honestly, before you have to bundle feelings away and make yourself tidy for the world, make yourself more rational and hardy and brash and uniformed. That’s what it feels like, as if I can do that stuff, but just give me a little half an hour first to feel all warm and cozy under the comfy quilt, where words can be whispered or said in half sleep, where sentences can drift away on the breeze and be whimsical, unfounded and full of feeling. When you be partly formed, tender, generous and imperfect and feel safe and loved.