Just Some Art

Q produced this painting yesterday afternoon. Note the zucchini man aquadhered to its surface. Any preserving tips for yellow zucchini's out there?

And he got me good and proper when I carefully framed the question, 'So what is going on here?'.

And he said, 'Nothing, it's just some art.'

That rant I could go on, that one about watching children's loose casual creativity become tighter and tighter under the scholastic, peer, teacher, parent eye ball, I don't really need to go there. 'Nothing, its just some art' says it all I think.

(And it has to be clarified that I am as complicit in the tightening as much as as the next person. Unfortunate, but inevitably so.)

Cut it Out

Further to previous hair/dressing discussion, just overheard news story of a new anti-domestic violence project: based on a successful program in America, hairdressers are being used as information dispensers, giving out domestic violence support information to their clients who are identified as at risk. Training is provided to the hairdressers and, importantly, they are not expected to behave as professional counselors or social workers.

One of the older hairdressers made an interesting point that she thought the opening up of confidence, of revelations, secrets came about because the hair dresser is so occupied with the hair of the client. That this distracted air was like non-direct eye contact and enabled the clients to talk without self-consciousness, she described the head tilted forward, a curtain of hair over the face, the ridiculousness of foils etc.

I found this quite surprising because a) if I am divulging anything I need that eye to eye contact and a fortified wall of privacy around myself and my listener. I can't think of anywhere more exposed than a hair dressing salon to shut my mouth entirely. And b) the bloody mirrors! They are confronting at the best of times, imagine confessing your soul whilst making eye contact with it?

Out of Whack

. . . sounds like I am outing myself as an addict but am thinking 'whack' as in Dolly's.

I was so determined that my next 'post' was not going to be infiltrated by That maudlin tone of late, but fark, if it isn't a day where the gut is just going 'something ain't right in the world'. Focus and motivation are distinctly absent, my eyes are shifty, I can't remember my dreams, I feel edgy and even a walk, buried deep in music, has not put the whack back in place. It's dislodged and gone into the head and so at every tilt my brain emits a bleating, fading 'blaaaaaaah'. (Insert decrescendo sign)

And even this, this attempt to put it in front and away from me, is just making me realise that it is like some weird hay-fever, a brain-fever for which I need a strong anti-histamine that I cannot obtain. Or something, some more apt metaphor for which I don't have the patience to think up. I can't even tell if that is grammatically correct.

Prego prego

I had my first Italian lesson a few days ago.
Something I had signed up for last year and it caught up with me.
It was great.
And at the end I thanked my teacher and she said those words,
'prego prego'
and it was all I could do not to burst into tears.
I knew then that absolutely, sitting in that little room with
her was the right place to be, once a week, for the rest of the year.

The Fine Toothed Comb

An unexpected loneliness: nit-combing through one's own hair.

I thought it was a particularly bizarre moment of self-pity, and then I remembered the monkeys. Huddled up on ledges; one furtive and brisk with their tiny hands, attention flicking between the meta-environment of other monkey dynamics and the micro-environment of lice and hair and scalp, and the other, sprawled in a stupor of intimate practical touch and shut-eye.

And then I think of the confessional spaces of hairdressing salons and then I think of my mother brushing my hair and then I think, it is perhaps the most expected loneliness of all.

Meta/phor/morphosis

Meta- : a prefix meaning 'among', 'together with', 'after', 'behind', 'along with'

One of my approaches to depression is to run away from it:
Today I ran and it was amongst, together with, after, behind, along with
thousands of cicadas emerging, mating and dying before my very eyes.
It was like being hit over the head with a sledge hammer
and I liked it very much.

A Pans Labrynth

I heard a recording of a recital I participated in last year: I avoid listening to those things like the plague . . . but luckily the CD was chosen by the little buoy because little did I know that it was a listening experience where I sat up, got very confused, thought 'who the hell is that?', and then realised that it was myself. It was affirming and then, strangely enough, I had to get in my little car and drive into the country, through huge expanses of road works, down a little track into huddles of green valleys amongst incredibly straight-limbed forests to a burrowed in cabin that has the proportions of a dolls house. The house recently acquired a miniature grand piano which naturally required the entire house to roll over and make room and so, nudged in against its belly, the old piano trio got stuck into some Schubert. It was great. Even the patio filled with operatic canaries didn't deter, nor the outrageously loud and persistent chained up canine out the front. It is a great pity that our violinist has to return to Broome next week.

Nighttime is the exterior's private time, and makes the interior, with lights on, exposed and public.

Such a snappy peppery day and bodily expressed by throat constriction (had trouble talking all day) and deep frown lines.

But, I have beside me a stack of travel photos newly printed up and again I am amazed at how visuals snap you back in space and time: a kind of soothing EST. Which brings to mind the EST Dick Cheney required for his heart murmur - that quivery buzz that he'd never noticed before - more numb soul. ("more" was meant to be "poor" - I like that either way.)

Sky looking nice and brooding outside my window, wind occasional through the next door neighbour's pear tree.

I swam for the first time this season and the water just kept streaming out of me afterwards and I have been reading of fairy tales and wolves and these make me read my things through a new type of rose-coloured lens. A type that aids the fine stitching required to hold it all together. Critics may dismiss palatable as evasive, but I disagree; I can hold my bundle more tenderly and calmly (the nearest state to objectivity perhaps?) if I am not in fear that I shall drop it.

The feeling is also, and assuredly, that this here and now, as sweet as it is, is not permanent and I have absolutely no idea what that will require of me in the near or distant future except that lessons in another language will be necessary.

a list of things that are good for me

an evening yoga class in a park: salutes into an umbrella of oak tree.
a bike ride to and from the park: serenity on wheels.
evening bath with my child: we discuss body glue - lymphatic fluid.
when in doubt, write.
when in doubt, move.
when in doubt, be still.
share a pot of tea.
ignore the washing up.
but wash the cute white bra.
lounge beside the pool and read design magazines: child floats luxuriously about on his noodle.
read empathetic words that make your heart float a bit.
eat paternal poppy-seed cake.
listen to the rain watering your vegetable garden for you.
think about making the writing room into the smallest, loveliest bedroom in the entire world and find oneself an equally small lovely tenant
and when in doubt, write
and when in doubt, move - purposefully.

Bikes, Rose and Options

Every available vase in my house is stuffed with roses. I love that.
It is evening here and I have a migraine creeping around the back of my eyes. However, I was so restless that I have ended up here, in my new favourite room of the house.

I can sit here and watch things like the neighbour's kids sneaking into the garden to retrieve their soccer ball, the washing draped in the sunshine, roses on fluffed up against the fence, broadbeans sagging, etc etc.

Am wondering about what this writing here is all about, what it is for? Because here, in this virtual space, I am really conscious that I have lost my goalposts: or rather, that I cannot judge how far away, or how close, I am too them. Quite an odd feeling.

There is a lot of tangibly good stuff going on in my immediate sphere and I am trying to consciously practice 'joyousness' (just been flicking through the old I Ching) but still feel suspension. Which, if I dredge the old Science class memory, is a beaker of clear liquid with mud/grit/substance on the bottom.

I remember sitting in Firenze and feeling the same way. That something was going to shift into go go go gear any day now but it just wasn't quite ready.

Stir it up?
Get earthed in garden and home?
Be patient?
Be impatient?

Or get on my bike?

ah, that would be it.

That beautiful aqua Repco number with one brake and a basket on the back.

Jet - Kick

To tie up a loose thread: one that this space accidentally plotted.

Returned three mornings ago.

I sat on the planes that were taking us home (particularly the one from Milan - Dubai) and could not believe how wrong it felt. The strangest feeling. Mirrored again as we flew over the island. I was not ready to return but here we are and it is . . . motivated.

and my house, as D put it, feels like it has been on holiday as well, extremely distinct feeling. My dog is altered, calmer, low key. My street feels energetic, a house is being prepared for sale, a new baby is down the way, my neighbour returned my dog in the evening with a laugh, the kids down the road wandered in to say hello to Q because they hadn't seen him in ages. And I, I am ramped up on some bevy of emotion and hormones that sees me sleeping tiny bites, and re-arranging every room concurrently. Painting one of them, de-storing it in order to do so, filling up my car with huge bags of clothes and crrraapp, saying yes to The Greates Ute (I learnt to drive in a ute, always knew one day I would return), it is all over the shop.

And the month is October and the evenings hum with that peculiarly beautiful October vibe (poor tragic overused word).

latitude longitude attitude

there is a touch of rain considering the kitchen window
some herbs simmering on the gas
exhaustion and a little bit of the ache of flu in my neck and shoulders
it will be an early night this one

we fly out next wednesday
the days ahead are full of the last chance chores

i alternate between atmospheres of long term farewells (yet never expressed as such), and those that feel temporary and unconditional.

and the catalogue of 'things i can leave behind awhile' grows ever longer.

so tired

Faux pas: History on Repeat

I can be a very social mother when I choose to be so, also, I am directly on the school route.

I've had a couple of children over after school for extended play recently and have been reminded of what an interesting old thing that scoping out of the peer's homes is. I make a cup of tea or coffee for the accompanying mother and we sit at the table and have exhausting conversations. Exhausting for me because I can't abide the small talk and the big talk just ain't happening.

So far, I have been a bit too opinionated about the pulp mill and the mother suddenly felt extremely awkward and left soon after. And this week I did a cursory post-visit objective look at my kitchen table to see what exactly I had revealed. Ah yes. My recent photocopying effort of early 80's poetry/art including an image of the word "SEX" as bait on a set mouse trap. A poster for my brother in law's play "Zhombie Theatre presents THE BODY SNATCHERS". Tame stuff to me, perhaps even tame to these mothers, but the feeling is distinctly . . . odd.

It brings to mind numerous experiences from my childhood. The time a mum came to pick up her daughter from my birthday party (c. primary school). She took one look at my parent's living room, was visibly distressed by the print over the fireplace, became speechless and couldn't leave fast enough. And the print? It is called The Last Cigarette and features a landscape littered with severed heads.

I always get a naive shock with this stuff because I, and my parents, have never been driven by a desire to be confrontational, or 'out there'. And to most people we are not, don't even come close, but occasionally, these situations arise and the minutiae of your life suddenly feels exposed and weirdly, can have freak show impact.

ho hum

I Never Thought I'd Say This . . .

I've always been a bit doggedly loyal to this island of ours, always argued that the criticisms about Tasmania were all the more reason that people like us (amorphous, thinking, creative, active bunch) should stick around.

But recently, I have found myself thinking, and I shock myself with how serious I am, that if a pulp mill is built in the Tamar River Valley, I will be gone. I won't stay. I physically could not bear the disappointment of watching a community having to get on with their lives after being so fucked over by the big fish in town. It's suddenly not (just) about air and water and good looking trees, it's about democracy and how we don't live in one in this state.

May they leap from the frying pan and into the fire. amen to that.

Twiggery and other jaunts

went for a little jaunt today
down a ferny gully with my parents
lots of stag-trees and a forest that looks a bit bashed about and in the distance the gossiping of black cockatoos. They heard us and the flock came over to blatantly have a good look and heckle. It was so overwhelming that I didn't even take a photo. But it didn't feel aggressive, it felt comic and even a bit, as mum said, auspicious.

It has been a weekend to wash doona's,
to finish one side of the neck of the bloody vest
and to collect kindling with a friend, both of us competing to see who can create the neatest green bag of twiggery. (He always wins. He can't help it. He's a Virgo.)

And last night I dreamt of finally understanding a key bit of grammar logic when speaking Italian and was chanting verb conjugations. Very much a 'wish fulfillment' dream.

Fomentation

random stuff includes:

We went to have tea at a friends place but she was running very late, wasn't home yet and so we postponed. We bought takeaway curry and DVD's instead, sat up and watched Charlie and The Chocolate Factory (which is being watched for the second time behind me) for Johnny's teeth.

I taught my first cello lesson in a school scenario and a private one at that. Very interesting little bubble of privilege that one. Everyone extremely uncomplicated and lovely. My cynicism scours the situation a bit but shall enjoy the novelty until departure.

Had a remedial massage to remind my body how to release itself a bit, fill in the gaps. I have been ridiculously sedentary of late, the muscles becoming soft and compressed all at once. Yucko!

People quip 'make sure you come back' to every explanation of travel. Ask after my return ticket details.

And I have been on the rental market hunt again: for an organisation I am attached to: finding myself in wacky CBD locations with agents in bad suits. It's been great to see different vistas of this city from various levels and buildings that are a part of the 'taken for granted' every day fabric.

Aqua(marine)

As a child, my parents and I lived in a inconspicuous white house on a long road that led, naturally enough I thought later, to my primary school. But I wasn't at primary school at that point. I was in kindergarten.

The inconspicuous white house was a rental although it was never actually intended to be so. It was a solid brick number, an investment, that the owner had built next door to his own home, the intention being to sell up and still keep an eye on things, you know how it is. The story goes that the owner saw my dad's ad in the local newspaper's rental section. It said: 'Professional Couple Seek Rental House. Nothing Too Flash.' Intrigued, the owner made contact and we ended up living in this house with a round window in the front patio, a gum tree mural thing in the living room and wooden box cupboards either side of the fire place (where I once found hidden birthday treasures and felt sorely disappointed forever more.) In other words, pretty flash by some standards, but not, as it turned out, by the standards of myself at c. four.

You see, I had a real bad case of the grass in always greener. In fact, I had a house-crush. It was a house on the opposite side of the street, diagonally away from our own. And it was weatherboard. Aqua weatherboard. With white trim and loads of white pot plant holders and even (am I exaggerating? Unlikely.) white tyre swans. I was smitten. I can still even remember my parents rolling their eyes at my house crush. But I was reckless and didn't give a shit what they thought.

It was the colour that did it. Aqua. I have known the colour of aqua since then. It is now this weird type of eye candy for me and has morphed into the purpose of a bizarre hunt: for obscure colour references to this old legend of my childhood.

Sun Day

and sunny it was up at the farm.

I am on a photo-shoot binge: am off the show at present as I haven't had a camera in a bloody long time and when armed with a digital snappy thing?

as I said, off the show.

we did lots of glomping about in gumboots

and it was all eating and watching wedge-tailed eagles overhead, listening to clink clink birds, constructing elaborate yabbie nets, rolling rainwater tanks around like tyres and losing borrowed dogs.

Banking

at the bank today, the woman who served me noticed some of my travel documents and it was a little head turning because she was so interested and so wanted to engage . . . due to personal experience: it turns out that she was also setting off on a journey (same date and general destination).

Yet, what struck me the most was how excited she was, and how not-excited I was in comparison. Which isn't a negative, this observation not being about negatives or correctness, but it was obvious.

Because, altho I do feel little jets of excitement, more than anything, I feel resolute and peacefully so.

(But also, actually, I just can't fuckin wait)

Exit Stage Left

Amazing what situations can be tolerated when the exit is neon in a dark room: the room might be smokey, claustrophobic and crowded with shadowy features, there might be an undercurrent of panic or confusion, but focus on the neon Exit sign and leaving the stage is like hot knife-slicing through butter (where did I read that?).

NB. Recent observation of the globalised organic food market (is that an oxymoron or what?) is that the organic butter that I have been a little obsessed with of late, is a bloody product of Denmark WTF???

Exit plans are escapism hatches. It's a mental flight yet felt physically as a body released from the everyday reality, a form of gravity release. Gravity, in both senses of the word.

At least, that is how I am finding it. Have found it my whole life. Used to read gratuitous amounts of books as a child which lead to a certain kind of absence from the moment as well as parents being driven spare by their daughter who was so mentally locked in a book that she seemingly refused to cooperate with domesticity. (I still get the heebyjeebies when someone asks me where the scissors are . . . random . . .long story: no blood.)

I don't read much anymore. Which perturbs me, but actually, I don't really miss it although I like the idea of it, but I find it really difficult to settle for that long. Which might also explain the other absence from my life: cello playing.