Art classes

I thought further to my earlier post about up and coming art week that I have planned, and Georgie's commment, I'd share what I've researched about who runs weeknight / weekend/ week long summer or winter school art classes in Sydney, just in case anyone is keen. And feel free to add to this, it's by no means exhaustive, more of just a starting point.

Pine Street Creative Arts
http://www.cityofsydney.nsw.gov.au/pinestreet/Default.html

National Art School
http://www.nas.edu.au/

Sydney Community College
http://www.sydneycommunitycollege.com.au/cgi-bin/WebObjects/SCC.woa

College of Fine Arts
http://www.cofa.unsw.edu.au/home

Sydney University Continuing Education
http://www.cce.usyd.edu.au/

Volunteering for peace (or a piece of fruit bun at any rate)

Some days are just crying out for slowness. Like today, where I felt that Sunday morning melancholoy, that sense of ‘what is the best way to spend my day?’, ‘what should I be squeezing in right now?’, how can I magic my room changed and life different and wardrobe more sensible and and..’ and it as overwhelming. So I think instead I will recognize the Sunday slow vibe and just poetter- - just float through a few hours paying attention to little things. Washing and sorting and putting away as a meditation on space, and I will feel calm as a result, and some things will be returned to their homes and not be in a mess on the floor. And then I go will go out as planned and meet my appointment, my few hours of Sunday afternoon volunteering which is my gesture of helping, of committing to something even though I have so many doubts about whether this is the best way to be helping, or the best organisation to help, or the best thing to do to help them, just doing it anyway because I feel more comfortable with a picture of my ilfe with some helping in it than not. Despite all the doubts about charity, philanthropy, the motives behind helping, the effectiveness of aid, the value of volunteering, tokenism, missionary zeal, opportunity cost in helping one thing over another (what is most ‘important’? how could you even answer such a ridiculously rational question on such a complex and interrelated planet? Ho could you do anything without knowing that?) whether the world would be better off without people buzzing around trying to make change, or whether change is inevitable and you may as well be in there helping shape it into something you like – all these questions of creeping apathy and cynacism which undermines and corrodes any sense of spontaneous caring and makes them become tarnished with fear of bad intentions and bad outcomes. It almost makes you think that maybe only market forces are what should shape the world – conveniently for markets.

So after I tidy my bedroom I will toodle off and meet up with maybe 6 others in a worn out and falling down terrace building in the City, one of those terrace buildings that will be familiar to those of you who have volunteered with activist groups lucky enough to have accommodation - or any of the Conservation Councils in Australia - that tend to be defined by pokey and mistmatched kitchens, a very odd assortment of mugs and cups, old computers, dingy brown synthetic carpet, small windows looking out onto city walls and letting in tired light that's already done it's rounds of illumination and is waiting for the end of shift, strange impermanent feeling bathrooms, the office fighting a slow avalanche of reports and old brochures, posters on walls from significant campaigns from eras gone by, and people in these spaces for the most part cheerfully oblivious to any maligned feng shui, but fueled by their commitment to do something useful they just get on with it. Which, as an aside, makes me think that maybe they are missing out of the more visually sensitive souls who would otherwise volunteer in their offices, those like me who would just as much like to paint the walls a chirpier colour, find someone to recarpet their floor with some nice chunky carpet tiles in a wool/hemp fibre, in a deep stone colour maybe, and gets some decent pot plants dotted around to give the air some life, as for the colour of the pots, mmm, maybe a red glazed pot to throw an accent of confidence and warmth and cheer everyone up, maybe a purple, to get us all thinking deeply and be careful in what we say – but no beige plastic mind, nothing flimsy and sad or worn out and tired, this office has to be bursting with life, so we will be…oh, can you help me lift this desk so I can hang the new blinds, phew, now that’s done, what were we all saying?

They also have an equally odd and mismatched group of volunteers coming together to, in this case, tackle the organisations strategic planning including maybe designing a slightly, ever so slightly, more formal structure so that people know with more confidence who is doing what, but we respect the intrinsic commitment to a non-heirarchical, inclusive loosely structured structure. It sounds like I’m taking the piss, but I’m not, all that stuff is really important. There’ll be lots of discussion and misunderstanding and thinly veiled frustrations, and drawing on butchers paper and going round and round the winding path to consensus. The main challenge I have is to be patient and wait – we’ll get there in the end and there’s no point pushing faster that we can collectively go. Just hang on to that 1980’s teachers mug with the chips and sip that tea and smile. Peace, man… I sometimes think that peace is a learnt attribute that we haven’t been role modeled very well, so it’s very hard to do, and we do it wonkily, like a baby taking first steps, and often land on our bums with a thump and a wail, despite our best efforts. Our collaborative inclusive respectful meeting ethic gets stretched to its limits when Brian wont shut up about the effing market stall issue, and reallly has he even grasped what the agenda fo this meeting is anyway, and what is with that stupid hat he is wearing, oh, oh and conny, does she have to talk in that bitchy voice all the time, that little duck bum mouth of hers is really starting to shit me... ooh, breathe, breathe... Wobble up from the floor, take another step.

If anyone is into textiles, speaking of carpets as I was, there is an exhibition opening soon at the Botanic Gardens of Sydney –in the Palm House – where the tutor from last week’s felt course is showing some of her work along with weavers, beaders, basket weavers, knitters and leatherworkers. I can’t guarantee that there will not be some hokey, folksy pieces in amongst it, but hey, that can be interesting too. Opens Jun 2nd and runs to the 13th open 10-4 daily.

singular - part 1

I walk down the street and see all these little faces peering back, some have the satisfied, non eye catching look of the happily partnered, others look intensely, walking jerkily serial killer style, and then there are the 'other' category - the engaging look which could be interest, but is not clearly and unambiguously interested, could just be a stare for the sake of it. Does no one wear their heart on their sleeve anymore? Except when drunk. Except when slightly kooky and stalkerish?
I want to broadly canvas interest, take applications, review them using a panel and then and only then decide once and for all whether to stay single or maybe take a partner. I would set up a stall (maybe a website - hey maybe it's this website) and say 'hey, I have relatively good genes. Do you want children who can do moderately well at school sportsdays, have good strong bones and all the requisitve organs, are hirstute, lively, funny, clever, capable handed? I am those things - I am a repository of those things for your progeny. What's that? Not a breeder? No worries, I can offer companionship into the twilight years, a snuggly body in bed in cold winter months, someone to sit next to at the movies. I think. I'm not exactly sure whether I could handle someone to talk to every single morning and every single night, I might run away on silence retreats occasionally, might leave you, might take on lovers, might change my mind about monogomy and the notion of romantic love. Might - might not. Interested?'
And if I canvass and only the random folk I walk past every night apply, I might say 'sorry, we didn't end up recruiting after all - no one met the full set of criteria. Resumes will be kept on file for future.'

One for the diary

Has it been a while since you had the red-wine-in-plastic-cup-and-funky-art-to-peer-at combo which is an exhibition opening? If so why not pop by this newly created comunity gallery space for their next exhibition opening next week and support local artists. Invite your friends with money :)

"Following the huge success of the gallery’s opening season, At The Vanishing Point – Contemporary Art kicks off its winter exhibition program with three new shows that explore notions of femininity, emotion, materiality and the media through the use of installation, object making, collage and video production in a colourful and playful yet often profoundly serious display.

Marrickville artist and filmmaker, Peter McGuiness brings us ‘The Floating World Just Got Media-Saturated’; large scale collaged paintings exploring contemporary cultural, environmental and spiritual concerns. These paintings – or lan(guage)scapes - employ ripped-out headlines from the Sydney Morning Herald and other community newspapers. The artworks subvert the original context and meaning of the headlines to bring new de-contextualised symbolism, requiring a reinterpretation through the juxtaposition of the headlines and other imagery that evoke politically charged re-relationships. McGuiness’s work is an amalgamation of the genres of appropriation art and abstract landscape painting. He is influenced by such artists as Imants Tillers and Rosalie Gascoigne, two of Australia’s prominent artists of the late 20th Century.

Newtown emerging artists Mitra and Simona Jovanovic join Louise Brissenden in a collaborative installation titled ‘Springtime of Salad Days’. The trio explore issues of femininity, isolation and rebellion through the potentiality of fabric and children’s art and craft materials. Employing playfulness and the use of vivid colour in their object making, assemblages and childlike portraits, the use of such mechanisms highlight the complex relationships and paradoxes as the artists tackle searching issues to do with contemporary being, femineity and youth in the technological age.

Blue Mountains artist Naomi Oliver’s exhibition ‘Ghosttrain’ is a video work that addresses the artist’s interest in public displays of emotion, especially when expressed out of context. Ghosttrain is part of Oliver’s on-going exploration of the social taboos surrounding not only the expression of certain emotions, but particularly the public demonstration of them, where there is a blurring of the zones of comfort and discomfort for both the performer and the audience. Come and see this fascinating work as Oliver re-lives the Luna Park Ghost Train ride that she encountered so distressingly in her childhood.

As part of the exhibition the gallery will be holding a children’s Collage and Self Portrait Workshop, where participants will make self portraits using cut-outs from magazines, newspapers, reverse garbage, paint, pastel and pencil. Cost $10 each child, materials supplied. Suitable for ages 5-12 years. Saturday 16th June 1pm-3pm. Bookings essential (02) 9519 2340.

Also on Saturday 16th June there will be a free Guided Tour and Artist Floor Talks from 3pm-4pm.

Gallery hours Wed-Fri 10am-6pm, Sat-Sun 10am-4pm (or by appointment). Entry is free. All are welcome."

At the Vanishing Point >www.atthevanishingpoint.com.au<
565 King Street
Newtown NSW 2042

The path to simplicity is paved with wardrobes...

Every week there are more random pieces of furniture on the footpath, I am starting to wonder whether my neighbours will soon have empty houses. Are they gradually moving closer to their minimalist vision of empty zen homes? This week it is an old wardrobe, with angel stickers on it, last week coffee table, the week before cane chairs and a suitcase. I once lived with someone who was rather fond of the 'low furniture' look and given half a chance would chop legs off things. I think he thought it was spiritual. Are monks very short? Is zen intrinsically linked to stumpy furniture legs?

yes it is regrettable isn't it?

that I will not be coming in to work on time today. Instead I will continue to sit here in the sun and watch people walk small dogs through my neighbourhood whilst I wrap myself around a milky coffee. The other series of events which have led to this particular regrettable circumstance began as early as yesterday. Yes, attending the workshop to watch an interesting deliberative democracy technique in action while discussing with fellow citizens pressing issues such as 'what needs to happen to strengthen our political system to better represent the will of the people' was a noble pursuit on a tuesday evening, I think, but it was aptly rewarded with the free red wine that was generously poured by brass buttoned wait folk. Yes, my ever so discretely topped up glass may have been ever so discretely topped up unccountable times. The retiring to the pub afterwards seemed like such a good idea, and having conversations about the opposition leaders' alleged possible moral conservatism versus whether he is 'too shiny and plastic', and why the one person at the table who admitted to having voted for the current government felt strongly about GST at age 19 when he cast that vote and about referenda and about reconcilliation, also seemed like good ideas. As did the glass of red I drank after that nightcap. So that is a mitigating factor in all of this. Then this morning there was the walk to the 7 day supermarket to buy kitty litter for my little furry friend in his twighlight years who prefers a day on the sunlit bed than out in the garden getting cold as night rolls in and folk still aren't home from work. Then there was the cleaning of the litter tray, maximising rinse cycles while minimising water wasteage. then there was the quick hello phone call to my mum to make up for missing our virtual art class last night. Then staring dolefully at my new shirt which is suitably chipper to compensate for the mild hangover but was ever so slightly spattered with what must have been toothpaste (how does that happen?) and the half hearted rubbing off of toothpastey spots. So you see, it was almost inevitable that the morning would start slowly and ease into itself and that I would get to work not much shy of lunchtime. I think coming at all is a pretty generous gesture after two whole solid blocks of being there of a Monday and Tuesday, but I'm sot sure if everyone is as clear on that point as I am.

Pencil box a go go

I think I mentioned IKEA shopping for storage solutions? Check out the nifty pencil box arrangement. I hammer and nailed them myself (which was exceedingly easy and satisfying, once I got a hefty wooden chopping board as my work bench on the floor rather than trying to do it straight on the loungeroom carpet, on which everything bounced around rather a lot).

ah ha me maties

Last words before you make decisions about your night that see you walking jauntily to Kings Cross at 3 in the morning from the karaoke den you have been nestled in for the last many hours, acompanied by people in pirate gear returning strangers greetings of 'aaaargh' with 'aaaargh', then falll into taxi at 5ish to descend into a deep 9 hour sleep in the middle of the day missing your workshop?

'I'll be fiiiine'.

Yes B Sharp you are wiser woman than me! A great night though, with much revelry, singing and silliness had by all. A suitably raucous send off for Biz, whose imminent trip to Europe along with Miss B will be a sad loss for Sydney, but a great excuse to go for transatlantic holidays. Luckily Miss B lingers for a few more weeks, so we should all get to fare her well in style too.

Now after said great sleep, vegemite toast and a quick rallying together of my feltmaking gear I am off to learn the secrets of nuno felting after all. Big shout outs to forgiving friends who laugh at you ridiculously standing them up due to drunken jaunts rather than taking it personally. Keep an eye on craft blog for the fruits of my labours down the track (www.makinggroovythings.blogspot.com)...

More soon.

Oh my lovelies

What a funny old week, both in the cube farm and in life beyond work. As ever, so much, so much I could talk about, but just here and now, today I am amused by:
- Decoding and attempting to condense a 138 page document heavy with opaque Vinglish (ie translated from Vietnamese into English by a native Vietnamese speaker) which is baffling me, and a series of subheadings which is surely the work of a document lucifer – creating a picky-order-Queen’s version of hell (do you think knitters arrive to find giant tagly wool baskets that take eternity to unpick, and I will be presented with a squillion page document with no sense in the hierarchy of headings, stats that are baffling and such clumsy word selection as to keep me guessing – is this nuance or accident??). Ah, project work, don’t you love it?
- Trying to carve out space (a recurring theme for me in the last few years and raising it’s delicate space needing head again these last few weeks) to tackle said hellish document, but not wanting to head into one of the dingy meeting rooms, so write a post it and stuck to the back of my chair which says: ‘Friday pm – please do not disturb (unless urgent)’. It prompted my podmates to interrupt me on principal as a joke, and everyone else has walked up and half way through their request said ‘oh, sorry, I didn’t see that’- by which stage it is too late anyway, as I am by then well and truly interrupted. Aaaah, don’t you love working with other people.
- I have booked leave mid-year to attend a full week art course – 5 days of relief printmaking and etching. I am almost salivating at the thought of it. I really really can think of very few things more exhilarating than the prospect of uninterrupted art play for full days at a time.
- Having the cleaners in! Actual, not metaphorical cleaners, recommended by a girl at work, and trialed by the housemates and I this week. We were so excited about the cleanliness, we played ‘hunt the cleaned thing’ (goes like this: ‘ooh, ooh, the mantle piece! They dusted the mantle piece!’ ‘Hey, the kitchen shelf, they actually moved everything and cleaned this shelf!!’). We are very happy with the results. Boy housemate said ‘That Marjory – she is welcome anytime! She’s getting her own key!’ which summed up the feelings we all had really.
- Bought some winter wear, because I found a relatively empty shop with friendly staff (a combo I am a sucker for) and asked for frank advice about fit and clean lies (imagine me with knee length skirt, padding out in sock feet – stripy socks and being instructed to lift top to see waistband better etc. Wearing new skirt today. Girl Housemate has inspired me with her talk of ‘wardrobe basics’ and the need to get simple quality pieces. I don’t know that these meet her standards of quality, but they are least appropriate for the season, and fit, which is a step up from usual. I clothes shop a little bit like I am doing it underwater, as in I take a deep breath, and when I run out and start to feel like I am suffocating I have to leave, surface for fresh air. That is a long winded way of saying I do it with urgency with an end point in mind, and the goal of making it all finish (usually).

Everything is beautiful

Today I took my camera and took happy snaps of my bedroom using my fabulous new camera. It started when I looked up from where I was sitting having coffee, to see a kitchen sponge on the table looking so moody, so dignified and so peaceful that I was inspired to catch it on film (well memory card). After that I went looking for other beautiful things that seemed worth documenting and sharing. I thought I’d post pictures you see, rather than words, and in doing so share some intimate reflections on life in another way, and maybe share a feeling of Sunday afternoon fascination with life, and enjoyment of colours. It was a little project on noting the minutae that we normally consider insignificant, but that through the right lens can be everything as significant, engaging, and beautiful as anything else.

As I took photos I thought ‘aaah, mess’, because I have a brief twinge of guilt that accompanies the joy I feel at my happy clutter, but you’ll be pleased to know that I didn’t tidy up first, I left it there as is, in all its messy glory. My beautiful, messy, cluttered room.

I also thought ‘ooh, maybe that’s too intimate, strangers shouldn’t see your bedroom, it’s like seeing you, and blogs are meant to be a wee bit anonymous’. But I reckon that honesty is in such short supply that it should be allowed to come out in whatever brief and erratic bursts it feels like coming in. And really, what’s the harm?

Why?
I think all this ‘celebrating ordinary beauty’ has been inspired in part by the 2 talks I saw by Satish Kumar [who? see below] just recently, a sustainability and peace speaker / writer / activist. Also, my mum is teaching a few of her friends an introduction to design course, and (how sweet is she?) she typed up lesson plans and notes so that I could join in too via phone, interstate. One of the exercises is to keep a ‘beauty diary’ and reflect every day about what beauty is. Of course I’m a crap student and have missed lots of days, but what I have done so far has been interesting. the whole notion of beauty is so fraught, I reckon, and so commodified, and hackneyed, that it is interesting to dig a little into what makes up ‘beauty’ or what the range of feelings are that we give this word to, or the range of things that get given this word.


More about Satish
He started off as a Jaain monk, then went around the world on foot for peace during the cold war - without any money or possessions; a peace pilgrimage, to visit the leaders of the nuclear superpowers and talk about peace. Since then he has written books, heads up Schumacher College and edits a progressive sustainability / spirituality magazine called ‘resurgence’. He talks a lot about the importance of having joy in your life and of embracing beauty – of nature, of things made by hand, and of making time to nurture yourself, care for your self, so you can also care for your family, neighbours, community and the planet. He is an unashamed critic of industrial capitalism as a system, because he sees it as having money at the centre of its value system, rather than a respect for and a desire to ensure the wellbeing of all humans and other living creatures. (Which to mind seems pretty true). Yes he comes across as an idealist and a little naïve* but in the nicest of ways. Because really, where is the vision in mainstream dialogue about the future? What is the ‘vision’ about our society which is up for discussion in the pre-federal election talk both here and in the US at present? In Australia it’s all about pushing money around from one vote winning exercise to another. There is some discussion about exactly how much more money should be given to childcare and how, how much money should be given to education and how, how many tax cuts should be given and to whom. Sure there is some power struggling between small business and employers (as if these are such homogenous groups without overlap) to see whose rights should be most protected by law when it comes to pay and hiring and firing; and there is a lot of hyperbole about water and greenhouse, with either party using the drought and global warming to justify their preferred governance reforms and industry intervention / support regimes, but really, really really really – what’s different? The implicit assumption is that how we live now is fine, that’s what we want to ‘protect’, and what we all want to aim for in the future is more money, more stuff, more prestige, and a very very easy life. In this context, it is refreshing to hear some healthy self-reflection and wondering about alternatives – more peaceful, equitable, joyous, less fearful and less damaging lifestyles. And sure it might be utopian, but shouldn’t we worry about a society in which being a peaceful dreamer is derided?

*(in fact I told my housemates that he reminded me a little bit of Yoda from Starwars, and then cheekily impersonated him for their entertainment in the kitchen last night, but lets not dwell on that)

Heart and conscience

Love this quote, another one purloined from Mystic Medusa's lovely website (see sidebar, astro stuff), this time from a courtesan of regency London: "Seriously, I have but a very confused idea of what virtue really is, or what it would be at. All the virtue I ever practised or desired to learn, was such as my heart and conscience dictated..."

Such a delicate silken thread to find and follow, that one - the dictates of heart and conscience (anyone seen those ads for melbourne? Girl in dress whimsically following a giant ball of red string? I imagine it maybe like this, but very thin filmy white spider silk instead). I like the notion of our internal moral compass, hard to follow though sometimes under the pressures of conforming, isn't it? There are sometimes many 'rights', confusing our magnetic north. I do lots of things that don't align with my values (hmmm... are they still values if you don't enact them - or maybe just reduced to nice ideas?) and sometimes I think this is valuable 'flexibility' and other times think is hypochrisy, laziness and inability to stay true to that quiet inner voice in the midst of the external demands being shouted from so many sources.

Oh, and the whole courtesan thing always sounds so exotic, don't you think? I can't say for sure that I would have been a Good Wife back in the day, perhaps preferring a brief flame of being in society with an acidic pen and arched brow to quiet servitude. I wonder how many early women writers were 'coutesans' - such good material, such flexible working hours, people to talk to about ideas and be charmingly opinionated to. Maybe. Or maybe just syphillus and smelly inbred Lords with dank britches and wandering interests. Maybe it just seems exotic compared to my very staid day ahead of translating documents fron English into English (don't even ask) - a task which requires patience and hopefulness, and extreme vigilince against despair and slipping into a 'this is so pointless arghghhhhh' rage. But very little chance of contracting venereal disease so I guess that's a plus.

What lovely little draws you have there

And I don't mean of the frilly knicker variety! yes the housematies and I made the trek out west to the most giant swedish furniture emporio in the southern hemisphere. land of the flat pack and bright green and white cushions callled 'lard' or 'sven' or 'hurtle'. And I boughtflat pack teensy drawers, and assembled them using screws and nails. The hammering was so much fun!! I haven't hammered for years and years and golly I enjoyed it. THen I enjoyed putting teensy things in teensy drawers - also knows as orgainsing my art gear. think one drawer gfor coloured pencils, one for pastels, one for watercolour tubes.. you get the idea. Lucky for you I'm having trouble uploading images or you may get a squillionphotos of drawers open one at a time. Aaah storage solutions.

Nice to chat to Guitarboy Sunday night too, and hear from MMgrrl on Sat night, see Bsharp Friday for drunken dumplings, and see Merry Risa last week for imprompu lunch. Local silliness planned with Betty Sue this week too - Goddess it's a veritable 'Purple Rose of cairo' with people popping out of the Blog screen and into life all over the place. Also known as - yah, lovely to chat with yez all.

Just remember not to say it out loud and we'll all be fine

Sometimes the best you can hope for is that the next existential crisis does not come mid-way through a project, especially not when you are trying to consider one by one a trillion comments from the client’s various staff. If it does, you might find yourself staring at the screen thinking ‘really, Sharon, does it matter?’ or ‘well, yes, there are better measures, but the error involved with your measurement is so huge anyway’ or ‘but really, will you do anything with the numbers?’. It can be rather demotivating. The last thing you need is to be whooshed away into a view of the world through geological time, or feel tender pained affection for the client’s earnest engagement on one tiny issue compared to everything else that needs doing. It seems so quaint sometimes. Lucky they can only read what I write and not what I think but don’t write.

Even movie stars get it

Quote from Schwarzenegger: on political leaders that don't respond to climate change: "Your political base will melt away as surely as the polar ice caps," he said. "You will become a political penguin on a smaller and smaller ice floe that is drifting out to sea. Goodbye, my little friend. That's what's going to happen." -Reuters

Outrageously funny and suddenly sad, then full, like a stone

Tiredness is such a funny thing, does funny things.

So the other night I had 21/2 hours sleep. I stayed up till 4.30 – why? Unexpectedly, possibly unnecessarily, but it just happened, the hours slid away and before I knew it it was 4.30. (I had been working, only so late because I’d procrastinated all week – oh well been busy with more interesting things, and it was suddenly due, even though it was only meant to be a little parcel of work, something that someone more focused than me could have done in a focused couple of hours and tidy couple of pages, but for me stretched out to about 6 of both. And partly because I was happy to be interrupted and had some great big picture convos with LM when she got home late from hospital after having dinner and a lovely quiet evening with her other half and the little one-tenth, and needed to process and say ‘wow’ and such like. We had great chats, and I did good work stuff, and then the phone rang and it was MMG needing some back up help as bub discovered his lungs and changed his feeding pattern and thought it would be cool to just eat for hours on end and not sleep and then scream.
So after that it was 4.30 and I hopped into bed to be woken at 6.45 by my mum calling - as planned, the day before in a different universe and she would have needed to call pre early start at hospital, in a different universe where LM wasn’t already at the hospital, and I wasn’t so tired. Poor thing, she was being only accommodating, offering to drive half way across metro Brisbane with a toddler, just so we could see each other for an hour or two, but because I was tired I got teary, just sniffly, for no good reason other than I couldn’t quite follow any plan details. And then I felt very very cold and hungry and had to eat baked beans.

So I lined up the rest of my day, those last precious hours, and got to the hospital and had a lovely goodbye chat with MMG, and a last cuddle of bub and a quick holiday slideshow. I was so happy by now, just happy happy happy. It was sad to say good bye but I was feeling really good about having had the chance to go, and about how well they seem to be doing, even with a hard night behind them, and excited at all all the cool things yet to come. Then over to see mum, met near the airport for a quick lunch before my flight.

So there was my little brother, only 3 years old, a blondie, cheeky and taller than I remembered and grinning and obsessed with sticks, and dragging a particularly long one that he’d found in the garden, and mum having to explain firmly that no, he couldn’t take it into the café because it was dangerous, but that if he wanted to hide it in the garden bed he could get it on the way back. So a whirlwind lunch and then off to the airport together with me thinking ‘oh shit. I am now very likely to miss this plane’, as we counted back in minutes and banked on short queues and nice staff to let me still check in, and I felt like in fact, it didn’t really matter at all, I could miss the plane and I just didn’t care because it would mean more time with them and anyway, that’s what credit cards are for, and anyway, my next flight for work later in the day was scheduled with 3 hours buffer for catching up on work at the airport (or browsing in bookshops – whatever pans out) and so I could run a little late and still make it. Mum was maybe more concerned than me, but I felt fine, still just happy, not stressed, no extra energy for mustering up anxiety. Then we get there and the flight is cancelled! Moved to an hour later, so we get to have coffee and be silly and for bub to run around and bounce up and down a little, and stare at aeroplanes out the window. And I’m writing this now, from a peaceful and slightly more rested state so I can barely conjure up the feelings, but I was so tired it felt like I could cry or laugh at any prompt, just the slightest provocation. Mostly I laughed, so that was good, although verging on a little strange. For example, bro wandered around in a few metre radius of our table, just doing his thing, checking things out, circling to see different views, check out people and… help himself to wedges off the plate that someone had just left a table behind us. I saw him and instead of casually getting up and saying ‘oh sweetie, don’t eat other people’s food’ or whatever sensible responsible and appropriate thing you are meant to say (probably not – ‘yah rock on, you eat that up, it’ll only go to landfill and make methane otherwise’ probably isn’t socially acceptable) but instead I just laugh and gesture to mum and keep laughing, uncontrollably, crying and say ‘he’s like a seagull!!!’ as tears stream from my face. We get the giggles several more times before we have to say goodbye, I hop on the plane and sleep, asleep deeply before we even leave the ground, and awake only minutes before we dive for the ground.

It felt like somehow the act of sleeping pads out the emotional cells of your brain, each one is usualy buffered by reserves given in sleep, and without these, these buffers shrunk, one becomes more exposed, more susceptible to stimuli, and an emotional response is there, at the surface, ready to come out at the slightest provocation.

Now after sleep, I am peaceful and quiet. My mind is still. Like the eskimoes* with their words for snow* I am wondering now about a typology for peacefulness, for contented feelings. This one is stone like – when you feel contained, and rounded and smooth like a pebble, as unperturbed, as unhurried, as calmly dreamless as a pebble.

* I know this isn’t what these people are called, but the saying seems to need that word. And I know they don’t make ice cream pies.
**has anyone actually heard them? Is this an urban myth made up by early colonialists, or true, actually true like the snow itself?