eres un tiquis miquis

My obsessive-compulsive nature befuddles even me most of the time. It’s funny to have a part of my personality that I can’t make much rational sense of. But what can I say? Sometimes… thankfully less + less as I come to know myself better… my need for order steps in as my major driving force. Suddenly she’s the biggest, ugliest passenger in the late-model, fuel-guzzling car that is my brain… + she’s leapt into the front seat to take control of the wheel!

Case in point – I’ve got a pretty busy day lined up. I have to fit in a couple of hours work in the Gong (boo) before heading up to Sydney to catch an old uni friend for a drink + then see Sufjan Stevens with Mewi (yay). I’ve had a mini sleep-in + enjoyed a slowish start to the day, whilst being conscious that there’s lots to do + not that much time in which to do it. In the midst of making my morning cuppa I was hit by the sudden compulsive ‘need’ to clean the dishwasher. I could put up with its crusty residue not one second longer, in spite of having endured it for six months so far. So all deadlines + constraints are thrown to one side while I take time out to scrub the dishwasher. What a dork!

The happy side of this story is that – believe it or not – there are lots of other people out there battling the dark side + I know I’m not alone. I also know I’m on the sane end of OCD + lucky enough not to be a hand-washer or oven-checker. Plenty of us contend with a minor anal-retentive streak in some dimension of our lives, + learn to live with that in a way that doesn’t impair our existences too badly. Other people are completely controlled by a bigger, scarier streak. I suspect it’s a pretty fine line between the two, but I’m happy to be on my side of the line.

It’s a bit rough to be subjecting y’all to stories about anal streaks this early in the morning – sorry! But it’s also funny to think about how the word ‘anal’ has entered into contemporary vernacular + all the meanings this word has taken on. I have fond memories of discussing retentive tendencies with a group of girlfriends, somewhere quite public, + one of them calling out “Anal? I love anal!” to much general hilarity. You gotta watch those words!

I had to laugh when Bec sent me her latest Spanish catchphrase yesterday, translated as you are anal. Yes I am! But hey, I’m learning to deal. Now! Back to the day’s schedule. Better just check that I locked the door behind me ;)

golden

i'm living my life like it's golden
living my life like it's golden
golden

i'm taking my freedom
pulling it off the shelf
puttin' it on my chain
wearing it 'round my neck
i'm taking my freedom
puttin' it in my car
wherever i choose to go
it will take me far

i'm taking my own freedom
puttin' it in my song
singing loud and strong
proving all day long
i'm takin' my freedom
puttin' it in my stroll
i'll be hop-steppin' y'all
lettin' the joy unfold

i'm holdin' on to my freedom
can't take it from me
i was born into it, it comes naturally
i'm strumming my own freedom
playing the god in me
representing his glory
hope he's proud of me...

i'm living my life like it's golden
living my life like it's golden
golden

‘golden’, Jill Scott

my friend said stick to your guns, but instead I just got stuck

Forgive me for coming at this post with a little sadness of tone, yet another morsel of moroseness after such a long break. While I’m at it I should probably also apologise for this annoying alliteration habit of mine. Sorries on all fronts. You have once again been warned.

I’m sitting at my kitchen table, enjoying the green formica on the most perfect of Saturday evenings, the sun only just starting to sink on a cloudless sky. Doing my usual end-of-year thang… thinking bout the twelve months that have passed + what the next twelve might bring. Surveying the mountain of thoughts, feelings, symbols that spring up with this simple change from one day to another. I’m not attempting to explain the personal significance that the new year holds for me – I had a go at that last year – more just noting that it’s upon me again.

I’m not feeling the energy I’d hoped to at this point in my brief summer break. In truth, I was hoping for some big bright beam to shine down + make everything new again. The hand of the universe, the choir of angels, all laaaaaaaaa + light. Surprise surprise, it hasn’t happened. Instead I’m feeling mildly exhausted, as I suspect many do at this point in the so-called season of good cheer. And a little blue tonight, although I admit that three rotations of Radiohead’s newy, In Rainbows, isn’t helping. Hey I’m a true believer in the occasional wallow, + man this album is made for it… sublime + sexy + sad. Add a glass of wine + I’m away.

My chrimbo was a pretty good one + it feels wrong to complain. Home-life continued to shine, friends reached out with greetings + affection, material benefits were bestowed through some lovely thoughtful presents, family time was spent. But none of it has given me the lift I wanted. Probably because that lift can only come from inside. (Der Clairey, do you have to relearn this lesson every time?! Apparently so.) I’m low on self-love right now. That’s the crux of it + that’s what the lift is going to take. At this point I have no means of tapping into it but I’m still hopeful… not only of it arriving, all beam-like, but in fact of it already being there + simply being buried under some shitty 2007 debris.

Without descending into a self-help-esque diatribe, I do know what the lift needs to look like. It needs a kick-in-the-arse jumpstart which at this point will probably involve my…

--getting drunk
--getting more sunburnt than I already am
--watching a couple of trashy movies + crying, a lot, perhaps even stretching to sobbing + exhausting a large pile of tissues. I watched Sixteen Candles + The Notebook last night… seriously, that’s what it’s gonna take
--finding someone to give me a good hug
--getting drunk again
--dancing all night or at the very least until my feet hurt
--cutting myself some slack + not expecting perfection
--making a positive return to work in spite of hating the place right now
--faking a decent attitude until it builds its own momentum
--working my small piece of grit, aka The Plan (stay tuned), until it’s transformed into some kinda pearl

These are simple starting points + more will come. The main jist is a therapeutic wallow with a strict 24 hour expiry date, followed by the banishing of all negativity. 2008 is my frickin year. It’s the year of shovelling myself out of the shite + getting well + truly unstuck. It’s the year when I rediscover my guns + remind myself that they’re big + they’re fully loaded.

PS: No credit given to my limited creative prowess re: the title of this post please – love you M. Ward, you’re sheer genius.

PPS: This is my one-hundredth post... wowsers... fancy that!

gobstopper

I learn something new most days. It’s the nature of life in general, but also of life under the same roof as Expert Ethan. Every conversation involves imparting the wonders of a scientific or mechanical process; exploring something gross with boyish curiosity; or sharing yet another of his amazing colloquialisms. The latter seem to be inexhaustible. Supply of fresh ideas tapers off from time to time + he falls back on the standards… I could eat the arse out of a low-flying duck, hard as a honeymooner’s proverbial et al. But just when I think they’re running dry as a dead dingo’s donger, a new one finds its way to the fore. Last night it was something along the lines of “That heap of crap won’t make 90 without revving its ring out”. Ah… Ethan… life would be so dry + colourless without you.

Something new was thrown at me from an unexpected direction this morning. I walked into the tearoom + caught a group of colleagues mid-conversation… “she was wearing a short skirt +, honest to goodness, you could see her breakfast!” There was an audible gasp from the assembled crowd. Someone may even have cried out “No?!”

I had to naively refer the expression to Jen, Resident Super-Librarian, + yes, breakfast signifies the obvious. Neither the Oxford English Dictionary nor the Urban Dictionary can confirm this particular permutation but I’m going with it. More personality than downstairs, less offensive than anything you’ll find in Roger’s Profanosaurus. Good stuff.

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