Hats Off!

All done. . .and, as if to make up for all the last minute horrors of formatting stresses and printing chaos' that I endured (because I was slack - no doubt about it) throughout undergrad, today was surreal and easy and indeed, almost fucking nonchalant. Wonders will never cease.

It was so odd holding these bound up little things and thinking, is that what all that was about? What was it about again? oh yeah, some book. an old one.

So now. . .where is that list I constructed all those months ago as to what I was allowed to do post-essay?

See you all soon eh? Gin and tonic on the patio and all that. I might even be able to arrange a view.

Head Peace

A nice off shoot of this current writing thing is that I can now categorise how I like to write. Ie the props that I need to sustain the flow/focus etc

For instance, I have just realised how dependent I am on:

The head covering. I suspect I may look a bit comic actually but I am completely addicted to either the hoody hunched over the keyboard or, as at present, the new sun hat, pulled low over my eyes. Thinking cap. Keeps my vision low and focused. Something.

And the music is just crucial at low times for energising: Alison Krause, Gillian Welch and Kimya Dawson.

And when it stalls and all locks up indefinately I go weild the hoe and smash it up a bit.

Lucida Grande

Lucida grande is the name of this font.

I wish I was feeling lucidly grand, instead feeling a bit limbo-ed: just want to finish the damn thing but intertia cripples.

Today I left the front door open to let in the hot gusts of air because it felt so good! I picked up my dog from her morning run to Woolworths Kingsmeadows (which was full of people who looked the same, and I don't mean that in a negative way, just in a, they-all-looked-the-bloody-same way), I drank ginntonic outta can at my parents place (classy), I tiled the floor with A4 sheets of paper that constitute drafts and mourned some trees, spoke to my good friend and we each ranted about stuff.

Actually, there is a lot to be said about visiting 'new' supermarkets and checking out the demographics. . .and analysing the stock range.

word cleaning slow

Cocktails on Full Moons should be outlawed

but I'm feeling much better now thank you

have cleaned my bedroom, bathroom, kitchen (again), and vacuumed house

wrote 100 more words of thesis

deleted about 1000

all good!

Brain-bergs

News radio is strangely addictive: a chunk of Antartica, a state sized chunk, broke off from the continent and became an ice berg and floated off around the seas. A storm, 37, 000 kilometres distant, was found to have caused it to be ground down and chipped up. And a butterfly sneezed.

I've just cleaned the kitchen down to grouting level. Never mind that I don't have any tiles in the kitchen.

My writing is due in about twenty days. It is a major struggle today. I am hating my topic, my protagonist, my own inertia when faced with all those blah blah words.

Also, I am childless mother for a week, the longest we have been apart. I have been so focused that I have hardly noticed. But that is a product and a privilege of knowing that he is at the beach with his dad and having the most excellent time catching up.

The obsession is post-thesis life.

Mee grain

The migraine is creeping around the aura of my body, which sounds wanky but that is where it is at. And I can feel its energy source. The locked in tension in my neck and back.

Weird poem below though. . .I just liked that it ended on the word tonic. Some people will read in some other stuff as well but. . .it's from a great word space. I have a theory of textual addiction. Whether it is a daily horoscope or a daily poem, some of us seek out text to hang our coats on. Rely on the hints/quelle coincidence/ideas that will, or will not, resonate or gesture us towards where we are at present.

More Tonic

Wine Water

I shared a bed. Some man came and said

he hadn't slept all his life. I gave him some of my night

hours without

even thinking. Wish someone would have warned me.

Now I dream a man's blue-

shaven visions. I can't tell if I'm a woman

or a man in the dreams, but it doesn't matter.

What happens when they mix:

soil, Sister. That's all we've

become. Man plus Woman equals

Ditch Dirt. And this is supposed to be beautiful,

the strongest tonic.

Stephanie N. Johnson

/Beloit Poetry Journal/

Volume 57, Number 1

Fall 2006

Bikes Are Tonic

Have just been sitting on my front step again. This time with my dog and a glass of G&T and in the dusk. . bliss. It's been an interesting day: a mammoth, bouyant rally and all the people bouncing off each other with that rare familiarity that can be bred at such things. But I feel a little guilty; the writing I was meant to do today didn't occur much. Is it self-indulgent to need an afternoon to absorb the synchronisities, the conversations, people glances, that the universe throws at you: the stars throw at you?

Q got a bike for his birthday which is hardly original but damn it is loved. And it was via this bike that I learnt, again, how becoming a parent has made me uberfrenetic. And, it was via this parental gift that I was reminded as to the art of lolling about in the sun in a park. It takes patience! After ten minutes I am bored, I could contentedly leave; after twenty, I'm finding a more comfy body position; after thirty, when I next look at my watch we've been in the park for over an hour and Q is proudly noting how sweaty his hair is.

Isn't tonic a lovely word?

Today

Today I bought prosciutto and whilst I bought fruit and salad my dog ate it (the ham! Not the, ah whatever) in the car, I wrote at my new little desk that stares out my bedroom window, I wrote at my computer in complete silence, I wrote at my computer with the Beasties blaring, I weeded a small segment of the back vegetable bed and dreamed up zuchinni, beans and basil hedge, I walked my son in the sun up to creche, I made osso bucco and did the dishes twice, I declared to myself that I had to cut down my sugar intake, I built lego houses with my son and enjoyed it, I sat on the front step with my ex mother-in-law and smoked a rollie and just chatted. That's about all.

PS. I think this gal is worth reading: it took me a few reads to get her (a trawl through her archive) but she is great fun and clever clever.

PPS. Self congratulatory moment at first implant of link into blog!

Sharon Stone and I. . .

Did you know that Sharon Stone and I have the same taste in children's names? I know, who would have thought. . .

Both her children are named from 'my list'
as in within the top 2. . .bizarre.

Secret Tags

and I just remembered that I've been tagged by dear fuffenscheit. . .to tell a secret. . .but the funny thing is that I'm struggling. . .there's either the things that are way too secret or not secret enough. . .quite a dilemma. . . so I'll hang it in suspense, just like on Home & Away. I'll be back.

Ode to the Afternoon Nap

Ode to the afternoon nap: splendid treats if you can luxuriate the time enough to foetal beneath the doona. Afternoon noises of the street sway, the dog snores. Loyal dog.

Have just eaten curry treats and am enjoying a cordial glass of beer.

In the Indian restaurant I bumped into some friends; a couple who were washed out with some unnamed trial of the day. They've given up alchohol, they haven't time for the pub anymore, perhaps if she was single still. . .we drift back off into our respective lives. I think about such declarations, so hard and fast. . .

Still, I've been similiar of late. Knocked back into a world of study, illness, recovery, study. But I am so contented in my bubble; my house and the figures within. Child, dog, garden, treasured food, word games over tea. It sounds revoltingly idyllic and sometimes my independence scares me: how much longer until the control freakery is cemented?

I am currently loving Vika and Linda. Ventured into the spectacle of the casino with my friends and we sat up like contestants on some obscure game show, or the muppets, and watched these incredible musicians effortlessly gift us with the best live entertainment I've seen in . . .a damn long time.

My current inability to frame text is freaking me out. Lots of paragraphs left isolated in white space. . .I will not panic.

oz, g, Kg, pt, fl oz

Man, this flu is nasty. Really had to declare that, am vvv over it!

Am speechless/struggling, weighing up ideas. In my palms they all feel like weights, not quite ready to be tossed into the air with my attachments.

More later.

A week ago and never declared. . .

There is a lovely snippet of sunshine on a hill that I'm staring at from my desk. If I wasn't aware that it was the winter dip of August, I'd be thinking that it was early evening mid January. Despite being tagged by a decent hacking cough, weird upset digestive system and the encroaching thesis due date, there is that lovely shift in the air of seasonal change and future possibilities.

Bon Nuit

Sometimes
when it all feels too much
going to bed at 8.13pm makes all the difference

And sometimes
when it all feels too little
staying up with a bottle of red and late night radio
makes all the difference

Conflictions

A very random, pre-full moon day.

Latest personification of random: the random blog button. . .very interesting. . .I luv chance and all that. I left a very random comment on a very random dude's blog. . .something about home deliveries as long as you know the post-codes of Singaporean districts. . .

Provided some bored techno-whiz-chic with her 3.15pm entertainment for the day:

Q - are you on dot.net or dot.com?
A - I have no fucking idea. . .sorry

Q - why didn't you call us earlier?
A - I was in denial. . .sorry

anyway, she had a good time, or had me on speaker phone. . .she kept on muting her side so she could piss herself laughing in comfort I suspect, and who could blame her with my unique ability to over-apologise at such moments. Modumb?

Just fed my parents and a delightful new friend: ate way too much beef and the two dogs (also each others delightful new friend) wrestled on the tradishnal rug. . .Lily aims for collar removal, Freya aims for a good ole rest. . .two meals a day of late and very little exercise. . .

Never ever watch the film Lord of War if you can help it: Nicholas Cage attempting to be ironic and clever about arms trafficking and failing awfully. A good example of how irony ups the requirements of skill; (in this medium) acting, script etc. A good example of what occurs when these requirements aren't met; that which is meant to be critiqued is instead condoned. Actually, watch it by all means, but my take is that it is a movie that really needs scrutiny. Just watch the profoundly political become eerily apolitical.

Did anyone else notice the war-ness of Sunday, obviously more so than any other day for it to warrant comment (debateable!). It was the anniversary of Hiroshima. The ABC was obsessing about atoms, Einstein, the attempts to co-exist the two theories of Gravity and EM2 (apparently the tension between those two is to be seen to be believed), mushroom clouds in grainy shades, 6.30 pm news, 7.00pm news, 9.30om news all focused with deadly accuracy and throughout, a phone call from a friend serving in Iraq and then the above movie. All too much, but who are we to bury our heads in our quaint worlds?

Rants aside. Am listening to something thunderous and jumpy on Classic Fm and debating bed and my left elbow is beginning to itch 'acutely'.

Machinations Apologis

Apologies from techno-funk me. Just realised that I'd created some exclusive zone of "bloggers only" in the comments section. . . .ooops. And haven't worked out link-creation yet. . .but slowly slowly . . .

Recent Caperings

Meal of the Week: as prepared by 3ish year old aspiring chef: Diced chorizo with caper sauce, elegantly arranged on large white plate with fork. Fantastic.

Today I enquired about Prada perfume, bought muted red gloves in shock, and had terrifyingly close encounter with ex-boyfriend. Actually that reads wrong. . .it was close but not that close, in fact I ran and there was no eye contact. It still made me drive home in a panic and forget to do required errands as planned for post-glove/perfume consumption.

I also drove part way down the Midlands Highway through a lovely fog and with music on the radio that made me feel as if I was part of something choreographed (Glenn Gould playing Chopin). The sheep, all blended with damp and low sun, made me nostalgic for a smaller island than this one. I drove back up the part way of the Midlands Highway into the sun and shreds of burnt up fog; my dog sleeping in the back until I start overtaking, at which point she leaps up to feel the acceleration head on, tongue to my ear.

And now I am exhausted and yawning fog into my computer screen: don't get me bitching about my damn wood supply and how long it takes to get my fire started! You don't want to know.

Also, black dog, has just devoured second lot of stitches and will not be sleeping in my room tonight if her current wound licking session continues thus far. You really don't want to know.

The Cinnamon Addiction

I once bought a tiny little bottle of cinnamon oil for an astronomical price. I was trying to break away from the lavendar addiction; explore the scent possibilities. I was somewhat deterred by the incident in which I jumped into a car and a little way down the road, the driver said "mmm, who's bought along cinnamon scrolls?" Decided then that perhaps I didn't want to be associated with edible substances, particularly those so decidedly "Banjos".

Years ago, my mother prescribed for my 'depression', sage and turmeric which she would arrange delicately on a bed of ricotta cheese, itself spread on pumpernickel. She even pre-packaged tiny containers of it to carry with me whilst I travelled around South East Asia. (And fresh sage, when it is roasted upon potatos, manages a particular kind of crispyness.)

I will always remember my first experience of chai tea at a forest festival in Jackey's Marsh. And just today I have drawn the link between that comfort mug and my dad making hot milk with honey and cinnamon as an after-rainy-school-day treat.

Cinnamon is the happy comfort spice that they advocate for staving off mid-winter slumps and bumps and every morning I consider that as I powder my porridge with the soft brown spice.

How the Black Dog Got Gashed

So far, for the majority of my life, I have been a snotty wheezer. I never breathed through my nose and smelt through my mouth. At school I used to love running but only the short distances because by the time the asthma had set in, it was the end of the race. Quite convenient really. Not surprisingly, cross country was a disaster. So drugs have progressed and I had stopped running many many years ago. And then, by various means, the two combined and I discovered running again which is actually a whole other story. The point is (the one that impacted the fate of my black dog Freya) is that I went for a run yesterday morning. First time in ten days, squirm out of bed to discover a glorious morning and the running urge upon me. So, we did and Freya, all Kelpie/Collie mutt of her, loves it, adores it. Makes lots of squeaky noises when she sees me in my skanky, haven't-been-washed-since-last-time-but-what-the-hell running clothes (so really it should be, when she smells me) .

We went down to the track that runs alongside the Tamar. It's an interesting track to me. It used to belong to the weekend family walks of my childhood. Back in the Aerobic Eighties when every available walking track included treated pine lunging posts, steps and other obscure constructions for your health. Whatever they were, they were also perfect horse jumps for a girl and her invisible (but so real!) pony. It's a strange atmospheric path in parts, winding its way amongst Melaleucas and tidal detritus from the river. Through the trees you can glimpse the semi-industrial remnants on the Invermay side. Fantastic old marine relics rusting away happily and, on the river, rowers being yelled at by hunched figures in tinnies.

For my ~6km run, Freya does about 12km. She quickly disappears into the distance, roaming back via various sniff points, bark points, wee points, touches base with me and then is off again. Highlights of this run were the close encounter with a duck, a therapeutic mud bath (black dog turns into grey, dredded dog) and then a mysterious failure to touch base. I didn't think much of it; she eventually returned refreshed after a swim in the Tamar and I was grateful for the bomb's interior. So it was a bit of a shock to get home and suddenly realise that the floorboards were being drenched in blood as well as river water. The gash was deep and long and looked like her foot should have been dangling. Instead of inertia, she had the shock madness and careened around the house in a frenzy. A massive contrast to the dog now crashed out on the rug, stiched up leg twitching nervously as she dozes.

The vet couldn't believe that it was Freya with a legitimate reason to visit the surgery. She is famous in the area that I live in for her self-lead runs. If she doesn't get far, she invariably ends up at the vet clinic because she adores them down there. If she has the appropriate window of opportunity (ie, the louvre window in the laundry being left ajar) she ends up in Kings Meadows or Punchbowl (more ducks).

Time to go and disrobe the Q from his Robot pj's.