escape

Self-indulgent rant alert... you have been warned...

Wanting to write again but not knowing how to begin without succumbing to maudlin depressiveness + self-indulgence. I’m going to wheel out the Drama Queen one more time. It’s been the policy so far + I see no real need to change that. I am – on the whole – feeling maudlin + depressed + self-indulgent.

The last few months have been crap. Revoltingly, mundanely shit. I’ve continued to battle multiple nemeses – depression, disempowerment, feeling stuck. STUCK is the serious one I think. I despise feeling as though I have limited choices or that it’s not within my power to make things better. Largely because my rational mind knows that I have myriad choices + expansive power, even as my emotive mind works desperately to undermine that.

The underlying causes of STUCK are unworthy of detailed exploration. Ongoing difficulties in letting go of the past; friends hurting other friends; people I love experiencing suffering which is outside of my control; things turning utterly shit at work; dissonance brought about by living in a town that I love + loathe at the same time; not enough space or energy for creativity. Boring boring boring. Boredom. That’s a bloody big factor in itself. Once STUCK sets in it’s a long, slow, boring death, and I’ve already spent too much of my young(ish) life dead. Dead to joy, dead to experience, dead to love, dead to myself. I refuse to play dead any longer.

A few weeks ago I had one of those wonderful expansive dreams that takes me away from myself + into new possibilities. It wasn’t big on detail, + I can’t remember much now anyway, but the crux was that I packed up + left, abandoned my reality for a solo trip around Australia. I woke feeling unbelievably liberated + free. That, to me, is a clear case of the subconscious wanting to be heard, expressing a strong desire to come UNSTUCK. And I’ve been daydreaming about it ever since.

big love to little holley

small things

Those little things continue to make the difference. Poetry, music, friendship, good conversation. I’m gradually feeling more at home in my own life again.

Music has gotta be a portent of good. I love it when I’m walking to work and the shuffle spits up something fabulous. This morning it was Daft Punk (always!), A Tribe Called Quest and OutKast. They shifted me straight out of morose tendencies and into a new place entirely. Everything felt suddenly energised and light. I went into one of my fun daydreams about being a super-athlete and traversing the path to work parkour-style, complete with flips and jumps and cartwheels. I’ll never do it but I love dreaming about it.

I felt good. The sun was shining. The tunes were fine. And I reminded myself that I must always shake it like a polaroid picture.

where nothing at all needs saying... but something still does

Sometimes loneliness tugs at the proverbial strings for the strangest of reasons.

I ordered a new book from my favourite poet + it arrived today. I was reading at lunchtime + suddenly thought that it would be lovely to have someone to read aloud to. Queue loneliness. There's no one occupying the read-aloud-to spot in my life. Sigh.

Maybe I'll give the girls an impromptu reading round at Toni's tonight. You gotta create your own romance, after all. If you don't so few other people will.

It is Born
Here I came to the very edge
where nothing at all needs saying,
everything is absorbed through weather + the sea,
+ the moon swam back,
its rays all silvered,
+ time + again the darkness would be broken
by the crash of a wave,
+ every day on the balcony of the sea,
wings open, fire is born,
+ everything is blue again like morning.
Pablo Neruda

playing

travelling

Ethan sent this on to me today +I had to put it up. It has its toes fairly firmly in cheesey-but-true territory + it somehow sums up the current vibe. (It's the vibe man, believe me.) A friend sent it to him + credited it as a toilet door discovery, Port Douglas, 1998...

The travelling woman

Come the dawn, after a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul.
And you learn that loving sometimes means leaving, and company doesn’t mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts, and presents aren’t promises.
And you begin to learn to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes open, with the grace of a woman not the grief of a child.
And you learn to build all your roads on today, because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain – for plans and futures have a way of falling in mid flight.
And after a while you learn that even sunshine burns, if you get too much.

So plant your own garden, and decorate your own soul – instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure, and you really are strong, and you really do have worth.

And you learn, and you learn. With each goodbye you learn.

I'm going to say goodbye to the blog for a little while, or at least until writing feels right again. There's a little too much sad + serious stuff going on between my ears + I need to treat that differently, give it more breathing space. I may post some images + other stuff in the meantime. I may post nothing. Who knows... I may be back in five minutes time. Right now I'm travelling, + sometimes you just gotta go with that til the next destination reveals itself.

the small things: crock full o goodness

One of the joys of my new home has been the return to sharing meals with people I love. I don’t think this can be underrated in the great scheme of things – particularly connecting with + enjoying life. The days of egg-on-toast-for-one are over… for the time being at least. And what a blessing to live with two people who value the same things. I’ve had to fight to even find a place in the kitchen over the last few weeks. More often than not tea is planned before we part company in the morning + we’re haggling over who’s going to wear the chef’s hat. Could have something to do with the household make-up – one long-term foodie, one nutritionist + one big-eating routine-lover. All interested in what we put in, how good it tastes + the impacts it has. It’s possible that I’ve never eaten better!

The other benefit of a shared approach is that we learn from each other. Ethan mentioned that he was keen to get a crock pot + I recoiled. My strongest association with crock pots is the stuff that got served up in stale vol-au-vent cases at family functions. Sloppy grey muck, passing itself off as chicken + mushroom, after having had the bejesus cooked out of it. No flavour, no texture, no fun. It’s important to allow yourself to reverse positions though, + I’m doing just that. Over the last week we’ve soaked up soupy goodness from the pot-o-love. Chicken + vegie + pea + ham. This morning I’m making use of the said-same slow-cooking equipment to stew up a big pot of beans. Smells of tomato, thyme, pepper + garlic are seeping into the house + making me feel glad to be alive. Cooking is serious therapy for my soul + I need to remember that.

Tonight we’ll sit around the table + review our weekends, laugh a lot, listen to good music. I might serve the beans with warm tortillas + salad. Hopefully Sal will drop round from next door – it’s her crock pot + she deserves a share. Tomorrow night Carolyn + Jen will be here + we’ll do it all again. And it will feel like home + family, just like good friendships do.

fridge poetry thursday

gone to see a girl about a dog

I’ve been battling the black dog over the last few weeks. It’s a fight that I return to from time to time + it can be triggered by the very small (sometimes imperceptible) or the very large. The very small can be harder to attack head-on, because it’s so generic + yawn-inducing. Feeling like I lack direction, some stress at work, a certain anniversary, too many grey days… + suddenly… bam! I’m face to face with the dog again. The most debilitating part of depression – for me – is the tedious familiar can’t-be-bothered-ness of it all. It’s like taking a sudden unexpected step into thick, grey quicksand. Whooshka! Where am I now? Oh shit, it’s this place again.

I understand the “snap out of it” sentiment of people who’ve never experienced depression, because I will that on myself. Just snap the fuck out of it! But my genuine motivation to snap to has been usurped by a generalised urge to crawl under the bed until the world goes away. I could talk to someone but I can’t be bothered. I could pick myself up + go for a walk but I can’t be bothered. I could write about it but I can’t be bothered. I can’t even be bothered with the fun stuff, + where’s the fun in that?

In this situation I have to push myself back towards what I know. Tackle the small malaise with the small things that have already proven themselves. Good food, good exercise, good sleep (as far as the insomnia allows) + good company. If I focus on how beautiful those things really are, + discipline myself to discard the unnecessary extras for a while, then this too will pass. If I get sucked down by the fatigue + irritability + lack of joy then I’ll be entering a mighty big hole that takes a mighty big effort to dig myself out of. Like Jose says, don’t let the darkness eat you up.

patience grasshopper

Lots of random thoughts. I’ve decided to tackle them like I would an Ikea flatpack… laying the pieces out + taking to them with the mental equivalent of an allen key in the hope that they miraculously assemble into something useful + meaningful. The instruction sheet is in engrish + the toolkit is limited to say the least. Wish me luck!

After a period of complete + utter boy-drought + relative singleness-acceptance, the issue seems to be back on the radar like a burning beacon of malcontent. Sometimes it happily fades to the background + then sometimes all conversations revolve around it + it starts to feel like my defining feature. And please know that I recognise the unifying element of “all conversations” as me. Everyone knows how capable I am of banging on about it. Oh look, here I go again.

Everywhere I go, the ugly side of singleness is leering in my face, invading my personal space with overgrown nostril hair + sock-breath. There are so many bad bits + sometimes they hit en masse…

• Being asked why there’s no man on the scene + what my “plan of attack” is. Like I am some rampant man-chewer.
• More articles in the paper about plummeting fertility rates + the need to get on and have babies while you still can.
• Babies everywhere.
• Cute dads everywhere. With babies.
• Friends. Having babies. At a rate of knots.
• Dry-spell desperation.
• Reaching a point where I seriously consider responding to last-year’s-shag-buddy’s emails.
• Ogling at the little baby students on campus, like some kind of pervy old trench-coat wearer.
• Knowing that to them I am the equivalent of some kind of pervy old trench-coat wearer in my attractiveness.
• Being struck down by a monster coldsore + mega-eczema at the same time + feeling even less attractive than some kind of pervy old trench-coat wearer.
• Seeing photos of he-who-shall-not-be-named on farcebook, new girlfriend in tow.
• Finding reassurance in the fact that a bunch of workmen checked me out during this morning’s tea break. (Unobserved by me but duly noted by Carolyn and Jen.)

I could keep going but I won't. The moral of the story is that sometimes it sucks to be single. And I know I'm not the only one who thinks so.

I recently had dinner with a gorgeous girlfriend, one of the gentlest, most genuine people I know. She was feeling blue for a number of reasons, with perhaps the icing on the cake being treated with disrespect by a dirty dog. This is someone who quietly + bravely braces herself when the storms pass through + deals with sand-up-the-nose swell she doesn’t deserve. She wanted someone to listen to her when she expressed the pain that these experiences can bring. Something we all need. To have the IT’S NOT FAIR moment + share that. She said to me (+ this is my usual sloppy, inaccurate paraphrasing) that she longs for the chance to experience an ongoing relationship with a decent fella + to potentially build some kind of shared future. To not be out there on her own struggling with it. All the bloody time. I could hear the pain in her voice + I could feel it too. There was nothing that I could say to shift the experience or make things better. But by listening I could at least help her to feel acknowledged + understood… I hope. Because yes, being single sometimes sucks + we deserve a little understanding around that.

The temptation – as with all of the circumstances that life hands us – is to think that being single makes life suck. I firmly believe that this is not the case, but it’s an easy rut to fall into when I'm feeling sad or have been treated less-than-well. It’s important for me to step back from that + recognise that there is no single (‘scuse the pun) factor that has the power to make my life good or bad. (Okay, so perhaps excluding premature death.) One thing that I do have a real tendency to blame on my singleness is the lack of momentum that I sometimes feel. I often have this sense that my life is not moving in a meaningful direction. And that maybe if I had a partner that would change. I could get on with the serious business of living my life rather than hanging around in limbo. Of course the reality is that there is nothing limbo-like about my life. It’s life – up, down, good, bad, fun, a drudge, whatever it happens to be in any given moment. But in its entirety, golden. I love it. And the irony is that I love it more now than I was ever able to with a partner.

An old friend wrote to me from London a while back + talked about the lack of momentum that she feels at times. For her it has nothing to do with being single - she has a lovely, supportive partner - but with a whole host of other factors which feel outside of her control. Maybe that's the common denominator... a lack of control. And the invevitable clash that occurs when our sense of a god-given right to control + order + choice comes head-to-head with the unavoidable fact that life is largely outside of our control. How do we make sense of this? How do we move past the feeling that life is frequently unfair? How do we enjoy it regardless? I don't know. If I did I'd be writing a best-seller rather than ranting away to myself here. But I think an important element of the answer is PATIENCE. And that, my friends, is where this flat-pack + allen key has lead me.

reasons why i love holley

1. She is a bonafide sweetheart.

2. I forgot my washing + left it in the machine for 24 hours. When I went back to the scene of the crime the washing was gone. It was dried + folded + put away.

3. I wrote myself a cammomile tea reminder + stuck it on the fridge. When I got home there was a big box of the golden stuff sitting right there on the counter.

4. She is a champion.

what a drama

My baby sister Bell turned 11 yesterday. We ran through her inventory of presents over the phone, between dinner + cake. I teased her about buying me lunch with her birthday takings. She surprised me by raving about my crafty card, which wouldn’t have made a blip on the radar last year. I got into trouble for mentioning her boyfriend… My boyfriend didn’t buy me a present Claire, cos we broke up. I’m a widow now.

Everything’s so dramatic when you’re 11, + then even more so into your teens. What’s the peak age for drama? It’s gotta be teens I guess, but drama is pretty acceptable into your twenties. Everything is bright + shiny + new. Pain is sharper; love is more acute; passion is all consuming; life is largely undiscovered + confusing in so many ways. There are a thousand unanswered questions to contend with + a thousand pathways to consider traipsing down (+ then maybe back up, + then down again).

31 is not an age for drama. 31 is an age for acceptance + maturity. You’re supposed to have it sorted, in a rational sensible adult kinda way. There’s no expectation that you’ll freeze a friend out cos they pashed your boy, or die if you don’t have the right pair of jeans to wear on the weekend. There’s a distinct lack of drama. There’s little sense of adventure. And oh how boring that can be.

A boring song, currently on high rotation on the J’s, spells out this said same boring topic in a boring but catchy way: And now that she’s older, as the embers of romance fade to mortgages + leccy bills… nobody told her that she'd ever reach the stage where her husband bored her or she lied about her age. (Ahhh... pop wisdom.)

I don’t mean to sound old + jaded... too late, I know... but I am aware of the routineness that can creep into life during an off week. Those days when work is a drag + the thought of plugging away at it foreverafter sends me into mild conniptions. Those days when I could drop dead from the mind-numbing boredom of it all. Boredom + routine I reject you! I say OUT! I don't want to be bored or to see less + less value in things as time goes by. I don't want to surrender my naivety + openness. And I don't want to see it as my lot to do so just cos I'm not young anymore.

I say YES to the newness + mystery that permeated things when I was a kid. I say YES to a genuine passion for my own life that’s not slowly sucked away by the grind of work + chores + day-to-day. I say YES to die-hard romanticism + drama.

But don't worry... I won't dump you for lookin at me funny, or not wearing the right shoes, or not letting me be your farcespace friend.

this week i ave mostly been...

I’ve been running on an extreme adrenalin buzz for the last month plus, + willing myself to slow down + take a break, to no avail. Wouldn’t you know it, I’m now sick again. Third bloody cold in as many months! If I don’t listen to the body temple she will ground me. Point taken.

So this weekend has been a very low key one involving consistent napping. The refreshing aspect is that I’ve been surrounded by Ethan + Holley goodness. Frequent cups of tea + pieces of vegemite toast, runs to the shop, taking my washing off the line, cooking chicken soup, changing my car battery. (Okay so that last one is above + beyond flatmate duty of care, but how lucky am I to live with a practical + generous bloke!?) It has been a relief not to endure another bout of illness in the isolation cell, drifting into morbid daydreams about who will discover my rotting corpse + how long it will take them. Probably a relief for everyone who usually puts up with it too!

Holley has been staying all week. It was supposed to be a flying visit before her next prac placement in Dubbo but she had an eleventh hour cancellation. So guess what? We have a temporary dream flatmate scenario on our hands. Yep, it’s official, I’m living with two of my favourite peops for the next six weeks. Ethan + I will continue looking for the right permanent person while Hol acts as the best kind of back up. Go the dream team! It’s been great to share a home with two people who I love, respect + get on with! On the flipside, ‘owning’ a dishwasher has not been the dream experience I’d anticipated. You were right (again) Weeze, it hasn’t revolutionised my life. It has left little bits of food all over everything, which isn’t quite what I’d been hoping for. But hey, no squabbles about who does bad washing up as the machine does it for us.

I had an entertaining girls-own-adventure on Thursday night. I’d sworn off the uni’s Winter Garden Party after last year’s, which involved far too much public vomiting + urinating for an old lady like me. But the promise of good company + a boogie to Blue King Brown was too much to resist. The sad news is that we managed to miss BKB… don’t even ask… we’re still living the mishap down. The glad news is that we had a blast anyway. Pulled out some seriously crazy moves to Midnight Juggernauts, unleashed our inner dance divas + acted like serious teenagers. I’m astounded at how little it takes for me to revert to a hormonal 15 year old. Okay, so actually we all know that this is the more constant dimension of my personality, I’ll stop pretending otherwise.

I was determined to enjoy Hol + Sal’s company + leave all thoughts of boys behind, with additional acceptance of the fact that I would probably be the oldest person there. I was dressed accordingly: daggy jeans + t-shirt, hair pulled back, no jewellery, not even lip gloss. But as is so often the case with such extensive disclaimers, it turned out that I was on fire. Two requests for phone numbers within the space of an hour! Maybe I’ve still got it! Yes, they were both misguided drunk 20 year olds, but I'll take what I can get in the flattery stakes. By the end of the night all three of us had picked out boys we liked + as the ugly lights came up Sal sent us on a mission to pursue the leads. “Right, meet you at the bottom of the steps - with boys - in ten! Go!” It was insane. But heaps of fun.

It makes me laugh to contrast this to Tuesday night when the crafty ladies were over. At least as much fun to hang out with Shady, Smokey + Tones, getting creative + philosophising about life, love + relationships. It’s always a major highlight of my month. We got into an interesting d+m about honesty + genuineness. This included one of my wise old lady rants about the importance (for me) of being true to myself but also recognising that I can be a slightly different version of myself in different situations. Hmmm… the 31 year old versus the 15 year old! Doing battle? Or perhaps simply agreeing to share in all the fun to be had!

revhead

Another culture confession. I’ve gone + got myself addicted to Top Gear. No telly for years now + then I go to pieces over a car show with the eco-footprint of an industrial yeti and the political correctness of John Howard. I can’t help it. It’s sooooooo funny. 7.30pm, Mondays, SBS. Watch it.

personal monday

I admit it, okay. I’ve been reading crappy gossipy newspaper articles targeted at singles again. Normally this makes me feel…

1) angry about the state of the world + fierce in my belief that women’s lib needs to take place all over again. This happens with the really trashy articles about winning your man’s heart via some variety of consumerism/super-waxing/vaginoplasty. And yes, I am talking about the Herald here folks, not Cleo.
2) pathetic, when I read the above articles, buy into their BS + expend energy on getting angry about them. It’s as productive + educational as watching Today Tonight.
3) sad, when I read about speculative contemporary plagues such as extreme man-drought, commitment-phobia, single households or 30-something barrenness.

Obviously this reading habit is something that I need to jettison. But I have managed to unearth one gem amongst the mind-wasting manure of the genre… the London Review of Books + their online personals. I discovered this via la Heraldo a couple of months back.

Where other sites encourage contributors to "keep it positive" and "be polite", the LRB runs ads like: "Shy, ugly man, fond of extended periods of self-pity, middle aged, flatulent and overweight, seeks the impossible."

Or: "If dreams were eagles, I would fly, but they ain't, and that's the reason why. Spend New Year's Eve singing into your hairbrush with me, bitter publishing marketing exec. (F, 33), too drunk at the office party to keep all my slobber behind my teeth."

Launched a decade ago, the LRB personals were intended to provide a way for the journal's cultured and literate readers to get together; a kind of "84 Charing Cross Road endeavour," writes David Rose in They Call Me Naughty Lola, a compilation of the best LRB personals, "with readers providing their own versions of Anthony Hopkins and Anne Bancroft finding love among the bookshelves". The first ad they received was from a man "on the look-out for a contortionist who plays the trumpet".

The column quickly achieved cult status, a kind of broken carousel where the poisonously droll and flamboyantly dysfunctional paraded their neuroses, skin conditions and overweening desire for self-destructive sex. Uninhibited by anything as trite as positive thinking, advertisers are free to tell it like it is, with oddly charming results: "I'd like to dedicate this advert to my mother (difficult cow, 65) who is responsible for me still being single at 36. Man. 36. Single. Held at home by years of subtle emotional abuse and at least 19 fake heart attacks."

I love it. I would seriously attempt to set up the Gong equivalent if I thought there were more than a dozen people here who could read, let alone go nuts with a little sardonic literary wit.

moments of madness

I've been re-reading my ancient last post + mentally surveying the chaos of the past twenty days as some preparation for what to say next. It's hard to even know where to start with the catch up! Change + I have indeed become close friends... or at least more frequent sparring partners. I think it's obvious from the manic gleam in my glasses that it's been crazy crazy times.

The move is over, with a mountain of unpacking + renesting still to come; the old place is scrubbed up + left behind; I've survived dramas at work; + created a big new piece within the tightest ever timeframe. The new work was due the Monday after the move + I was exhausted to the point of incoherancy by then. How good to get through it though! It's the first instance I can remember of almost seamless creativity... from a loose image in my head to a realised piece with no angst at all. It just flowed out + was there in front of me. It's really only in the last year or so that I've made work that I like + feel satisfied with, + what a bloody great relief to finally reach that point!

The opening on Thursday night was an enormous affirmation, sorely needed after the insanity of the last couple of weeks! I was surrounded by friends, especially my amazing work crew who turned up in rent-a-crowd style droves. My work had a prime position + looked amazing up on the wall + properly lit (as opposed to stretched over a tiny loungeroom floor as had been the case up until then). I was overwhelmed by the response from people + the quality of the show in its entirity. It was an incredibly positive thing.

I've got a mountain more that I want to say, but am going to stick with sharing the new work for now. I need a little mental + physical recovery time before I can get back to my regular rambling on. But stay tuned + stay in touch! Love youse fellas.

I am connected to you (what a thread can do)

Mixed media on denim

2007

moments of momentum

Ooooh funny old week. Crammed with disappointments + small salvations. I didn't get the internal promotion that I was interviewed for on Monday + my application for the Wollongong City Gallery residency was also knocked back. There was more painful wrangling with he-who-shall-not-be-named, which I've pledged not to pester people with here. (But oops, looks like I officially have no capacity for discretion.)

Overall there was a lingering failure flavour to much of the week + it was a struggle to remain bubbly + buoyant. By Friday night one of my tension headaches had hit + I was forced to miss duel engagements for Nancy's 75th + Ben's 22nd birthdays, instead lying on the couch, supping aspirin + feeling sorry for meself.

Of course there's always a bright side to look to. I've been accepted into a local group show, with enormous thanks to my mate Gin, + now have a very definite (+ close) deadline for creating some new work. I finished Smokey's birthday scarf + was stoked with the results. Plain knitting in peacock blue + smokey brown (appropriately), which I embellished with appliqued felt circles + some of my favourite button treasures. She's promised modelling photos from her adventure into WA + SA this month, so stay tuned for images of striking scarf on beautiful lady against red earth. There was a girl's dinner on Tuesday night which I loved, in spite of the fact that we all seemed somewhat overtaken by the midwinter blues + sniffles.

But the Really Big News is that Ethan + I have finally found a place after a month + a half of looking. Woo hoo! Yippee yi ya! The finer details are currently enmeshed in the blur that is house-hunting. Everyone knows that feeling, I'm sure. Is there a bath? I can't rightly remember. Do you enter straight into the living room or is there a hallway? Not sure. Where in heaven's name am I going to fit all my stuff, alongside two other people + their stuff? Bloody good question. But that will all work itself out I'm sure. The flat is in a great location - a block + a half from North Beach - in a pretty complex. There's a balcony for my cacti collection + a dishwasher... oh my coveted object of extreme luxury. I've already had an email from a cool-sounding chick who's interested in joining our gang. So the omens are good.

I need to focus on the good omens + not the anxiety that comes to me with change. I have two weeks to pack up my little flat + say my goodbyes. It's been my sanctuary for nearly two years now. My first, + potentially only, solo pad. Also a space that I shared with gorgeous Dennise for several months, + a veritable parade of friends, lovers + crafty ladies. I've enjoyed so much of living here + I think other people have enjoyed it too. There certainly seems to be a regular + consistent refrain that it's a warm, comfortable place to hang out, + it will be hard to leave that behind. But I look forward to the new chapter that's ahead of me + the companionship that will bring. Change can be my friend, if I let him!

fridge poetry thursday

dark + rainy mornings

Yay for me! I was up at sparrow's fart this morning. A return to the gym after three weeks of complete + utter slackness. I still have a strange desire to incinerate every cross-trainer on the face of the planet, but aside from that I feel positive.

(Don't know why there's any need to announce this to the world. Perhaps as a form of self-motivation. It's too early to be self-aggrandisement, but be assured that I will brag if I get back to a full routine. Nag me if you see me. Or just choose to ignore me.)

more moaning

Yep, she's still whingeing. Avert your eyes if you're bored already!

Today’s been pretty shithouse for a Sunday. Spent the morning preparing for a job interview, which requires an oral dissertation on how I would “manage key leadership functions” inherent to the internal promotion. WTF?

After that I braved the Figgers Westfield maxi-mall in search of winter clothes. After a major intervention by Weeze I've finally acknowledged that I can’t survive the colder months clad only in an assortment of t-shirts + three-quarter cardigans. On a hot tip from Holley I headed for K-mart with my wardrobe wishes held high, like a flag of hope fluttering in a gentle breeze of consumer confidence. Well that flag was in blood-splattered tatters within minutes my friends.

It would seem that Holley visits a K-mart in an alternate dimension, where the sun shines, the neat racks are brimful of quality pure wool knits + the delightful staff are more than happy to help you find fashion gems in your size. I don't know where the bloody hell that shop is, cos mine is packed to the rafters with screaming children, screaming bogans + synthetic tracksuits in the full range of sizes 8 + 28 (note that I did not say 8 to 28, oh no no-no-no nooooo...).

I had a tension headache before I'd even pushed my way past the rainbow of ugg boot + Barbie bedhead displays at the front of the store. By the time I'd located the only two non-nylon items in the shop I was about ready to commit atrocities. I did try to push on, I swear. I braved the fruit + veg shop + was halfway through the supermarket gate when I realised that I just couldn't face it. My abrupt reverse pissed several people off but I figure it was only fair that I got some annoying behaviour in there somewhere.

I decided to cheer myself up + go crazy over a cinnamon donut but the donut shop was closed, so in a moment of desperation I did it... something so horrible that I can barely speak its name out loud. I stopped in at Gloria Jean's. I'm not going to pretend that I've never been in there before, but my only previous crime against coffee was probably four years ago now, + it was a case of extreme workplace duress.

I was doing some project work at UTS with a bunch of girls who were lovely (+ I do mean that) but about as different to me as gazelles on the savannah. When a GJ's opened up the street they were in raptures. There were endless office discussions about the beauty of decaf-mocha-frappe-crappe-chinos + the subtle deliciousness of the pot-pourri-pine-o-cleen coffee blends on offer at the store. Every day was a new opportunity to gush over GJ's + there was a limit to the effectiveness of my excuse that I would rather stick my own head in a blender + hit "frappe" than partake in that revolting excuse for coffee. So I got dragged along from time to time. Come to think of it, I may even have been given some sickly-sweet-faux-vanilla-infused gift-pack upon my departure.

So this was the first visit since then. I asked for a portuguese tart to take away + they handed me a giant paper bag. It wasn't til I got home + opened it that I realised that the bag contained 1 x very small tart, 1 x enormous heavy duty plastic plate, 1 x heavy duty plastic fork + 4 x serviettes. I mean, for goodness sakes! Who has ever eaten a portuguese tart with a fork? Or needed four serviettes to clean up after themselves? This is my number one problem with places like GJ's. If you choose to eat that kind of rubbish food, fine. (Although of course there are ethical + environmental ramifications to that choice as well.) But at least consider the intense amount of waste that seems to be unavoidable with any purchase. Many of those places don't even have reusable crockery + cutlery for use inside the store. And it drives me bananas. (In case you couldn't tell.)

Phew! I feel better now!

Actually several things are contributing to me feeling better already... Jason's on his way over for a cuppa + a chat. I'm going to cook up a big lentil bolognese + stew some rhubarb tonight, which will see me fully recovered from shoping-mall-madness. Mmmm... winter goodness.

The fact that my travels had a supersonic soundtrack also helped me to keep smiling. Ethan fitted the new car stereo yesterday, in a burst of manly activity that had my head awhir. There was all sorts of confusing electronic activity going on - wires everywhere, sound checks, isolating the different speakers, sockets + soldering. I did my bit by hovering around, saying "u-huh, sounds good to me" + shining a torch for a bit. And then it was done. So impressive. I picked out my crappiest, most scratched-up burnt cds + blasted them around town with nary so much as one skip.

And something helped me to seriously love my lot this morning. I called Adam - a nice fella that Sarah's been trying to set me up with - to take a raincheck on our coffee date. At about 10am he'd already spent several hours at work. He's an industrial abseiler + his mission for the morning had been abseilling into a "waste shunt" beneath the Town Hall food court in Sydney. This is - from what I can make out - a giant vat that every food outlet drains its waste into. I have no idea what he was doing down there (or why he agreed to go down there, in fact) but all I could think of was that scene from Kenny where our hero is lowered into a septic tank. Adam hadn't seen the movie but he knew exactly what I was talking about + could even quote the relevant line... there's a smell in there that will outlast religion.

I do love a bit of perspective for helping me pull my head out of my own bum!