I have no time to blog properly today. It's 9.28pm on the day before xmas eve, I've just finished my pressie shopping and need to start wrapping. I also need to get the ham out of the oven that I have just finished glazing and start getting everything ready for xmas day because between now and then it goes - sleep, gym, work, drink, dinner, drink, sleep, xmas!!- with no gaps in between for self indulgent babble.
But I did recently find this gem from my ancient MySpace page.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Monday: the day of rest. . . .
Current mood: contemplative
I have a love/hate relationships with Mondays. Late Sunday nights I lie in bed pondering what Mondays really mean to me.
Half of me sees Mondays as a relief. If it's Monday, it means I don't have to drink again until Friday, (or thursday or Wednesday, rarely tuesday, hardly ever Monday night.)
And not drinking until Friday, (fingers crossed) means that i probably wont injure myself, offend anyone, tell anyone what I really think of them or comment on anyones breasts.
It also means I won't be spending any time with my head resting on the toilet seat pondering why our landlord chose to paint the bathroom a sickening lilac.
But then again, Mondays mean i have to put clothes on, find all the things I lost over the weekend (shoes, my car, sunglasses, sanity, sense of reason) and get myself to TAFE. I have to think, (or at least appear to be doing so) I have to remember all the things i did't do the week before and neatly write them in my diary in a "to do List," next to all the things I didn't do the week before that. Monday means I have to feel guilt and a sense of responsibility.
I just don't know what to think about Mondays.
Still don't.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Because I like writing lists, ok?!!
So it’s that time of the year when we all look back on the past twelve months and go, “where the hell did that go and why don’t I have more to show for it?”
Not quite so much for me this year – I did get hitched – and pull off the best wedding ever. I also started a blog, started renovating our backyard, spent a few weeks away in Malaysia and Bali, lost my job, got a new one, finally taught the dog how to sit (most of the time) and reached my quarter of a century. Footballers, actors and crazy overachieving freaks aside – I think I’m doing quite well for 25. Go me.
This time of the year still does make me look at my life and look at the years ahead and ponder what I want to do, and write a list about it.
Things I plan to do eventually. In the future. No specific time limits or deadlines set – just ‘someday’
Write an erotic novel.
Go skydiving
Go paragliding
Have something published
Have a nude photo shoot
Make a soufflé (a good one)
Be a non-blonde again
Spend a day at a nudey beach - completely
Learn to dive
Swim with whale sharks
Compete in a triathlon
Go to Bhutan and see the effects of ‘gross national happiness’
Snorkel/dive Ningaloo reef
Go ‘proper’ camping
Put plants in the back garden
Give birth
Levitate
Live in France – if only for a few months
Become fluent in French
Be pikies and drive around Aus in a campervan
Go hiking
Me < 60kg
See snow – not the crap stuff on the ground but see it actually fall from the sky
Somehow get backstage at a concert (may already be too old/married for this one)
Write poetry as an adult
Learn to surf
Learn to snowboard
Learn to spend a whole night in heels (and remain vertical)
Learn to salsa
Invent something
Be an extra on TV or in a movie
Be in another play
Get a tattoo
Cross an international land border
Learn to sail
Have a job title I’m proud of
Be asked to present a speech for something
Get rid of the green tinge from my hair
Be able to run 10km
I hope to start ticking things off my list ASAP – next week sounds good.
Not quite so much for me this year – I did get hitched – and pull off the best wedding ever. I also started a blog, started renovating our backyard, spent a few weeks away in Malaysia and Bali, lost my job, got a new one, finally taught the dog how to sit (most of the time) and reached my quarter of a century. Footballers, actors and crazy overachieving freaks aside – I think I’m doing quite well for 25. Go me.
This time of the year still does make me look at my life and look at the years ahead and ponder what I want to do, and write a list about it.
Things I plan to do eventually. In the future. No specific time limits or deadlines set – just ‘someday’
Write an erotic novel.
Go skydiving
Go paragliding
Have something published
Have a nude photo shoot
Make a soufflé (a good one)
Be a non-blonde again
Spend a day at a nudey beach - completely
Learn to dive
Swim with whale sharks
Compete in a triathlon
Go to Bhutan and see the effects of ‘gross national happiness’
Snorkel/dive Ningaloo reef
Go ‘proper’ camping
Put plants in the back garden
Give birth
Levitate
Live in France – if only for a few months
Become fluent in French
Be pikies and drive around Aus in a campervan
Go hiking
Me < 60kg
See snow – not the crap stuff on the ground but see it actually fall from the sky
Somehow get backstage at a concert (may already be too old/married for this one)
Write poetry as an adult
Learn to surf
Learn to snowboard
Learn to spend a whole night in heels (and remain vertical)
Learn to salsa
Invent something
Be an extra on TV or in a movie
Be in another play
Get a tattoo
Cross an international land border
Learn to sail
Have a job title I’m proud of
Be asked to present a speech for something
Get rid of the green tinge from my hair
Be able to run 10km
I hope to start ticking things off my list ASAP – next week sounds good.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Red Whine
I’m absolutely positive I was hit by a car on Friday night. When I woke up I could feel the tire tracks across my scull and all of the tiny little fractures in my eye sockets. I could even feel the pressure in my eyes from the enormous weight of the car running over my head.
My back was bruised and my legs were bruised and one of my feet felt like the wheel of the car had run right over it. I don’t know when this hit and run happened though. I remember leaving and getting a taxi home – and I was feeling fine at this point. I remember paying the taxi driver, getting my keys out of my bag and walking through my front door and going to bed. I’m assuming I must have recently started sleepwalking, managed to get out of bed, walk outside into the path of a car (or maybe it was a truck?) be pummelled under its wheels and then get myself up, walk back to bed and go back to sleep.
I’m absolutely positive this happened because there is no other way to reasonably explain the pain I was feeling on Saturday morning. I mean, there was a decent amount of wine consumed but I didn’t fall over at all so how did I get the bruises? How could a couple of bottles of red cause my scull to fracture in a million places and my brain to swell – just a tiny bit – just enough so that I could feel it was swollen, I could feel it pushing against the side of my temples and the backs of my eyes. I was also suffering from some sort of post traumatic stress that was resulting in extreme tiredness and unending nausea.
The most horrible part of this experience is that no one believed me. I still had to get up early and spend the whole day at work. I tried to explain my agony but my complaints fell on deaf ears. Didn’t they see that I was clearly the victim here? There is no way I could have caused myself this much pain, I like myself, I wouldn’t do that to me.
Perhaps I should start a support group – ‘drunken sleepwalking victims of crime group’ It would be for all the people who get bashed while drunkenly sleepwalking and wake up with random cuts and bruises, or those people who were positive they had their mobile phone in the taxi and are so sure they had it when they walked through the door too but it is never in their bag when they wake up. Clearly they were mugged while they were sleepwalking. Perhaps this might also explain some of those drunken phone calls or text messages we are absolutely sure we never made? Or those stories that your friends tell about you that you have no recollection of ever happening. Sleepwalking. It explains everything.
My back was bruised and my legs were bruised and one of my feet felt like the wheel of the car had run right over it. I don’t know when this hit and run happened though. I remember leaving and getting a taxi home – and I was feeling fine at this point. I remember paying the taxi driver, getting my keys out of my bag and walking through my front door and going to bed. I’m assuming I must have recently started sleepwalking, managed to get out of bed, walk outside into the path of a car (or maybe it was a truck?) be pummelled under its wheels and then get myself up, walk back to bed and go back to sleep.
I’m absolutely positive this happened because there is no other way to reasonably explain the pain I was feeling on Saturday morning. I mean, there was a decent amount of wine consumed but I didn’t fall over at all so how did I get the bruises? How could a couple of bottles of red cause my scull to fracture in a million places and my brain to swell – just a tiny bit – just enough so that I could feel it was swollen, I could feel it pushing against the side of my temples and the backs of my eyes. I was also suffering from some sort of post traumatic stress that was resulting in extreme tiredness and unending nausea.
The most horrible part of this experience is that no one believed me. I still had to get up early and spend the whole day at work. I tried to explain my agony but my complaints fell on deaf ears. Didn’t they see that I was clearly the victim here? There is no way I could have caused myself this much pain, I like myself, I wouldn’t do that to me.
Perhaps I should start a support group – ‘drunken sleepwalking victims of crime group’ It would be for all the people who get bashed while drunkenly sleepwalking and wake up with random cuts and bruises, or those people who were positive they had their mobile phone in the taxi and are so sure they had it when they walked through the door too but it is never in their bag when they wake up. Clearly they were mugged while they were sleepwalking. Perhaps this might also explain some of those drunken phone calls or text messages we are absolutely sure we never made? Or those stories that your friends tell about you that you have no recollection of ever happening. Sleepwalking. It explains everything.
Friday, December 18, 2009
I Love the bus and Vampire Weekend and everything.
The car was out of action the last couple of days. I was driving, then it got all hot under the bonnet, then I wasn’t driving and liquid was bubbling and spurting out of the beast’s left nostril. This means I’ve been relying on public transport to get me places which hasn’t been all that unpleasant. Strangely enough I have actually enjoyed it.
Firstly I’ve been able to listen to more music. I usually only ever listen to the radio when I’m driving and only listen to my iPod when I’m running or at the gym. This means a lot of stuff on my iPod gets very little air time because it isn’t suitable for running or rowing or cycling or stretching or ‘pumping iron’
I can’t download too much music at home because of download limits and I’m too tight to buy CD’s so my iPod has been synced with someone else’s iTunes. What this means is there is a lot of music on there that I have never even listened to, so my bus trips today have been a journey of discovery.
Today on the bus I fell in love with a band. I now have this one album on repeat, listening to it right now. Beer in hand, hot outside, happy summer music, had an awesome day. Bliss.
My day was particularly awesome and not just because of my new found (and I’m sure short lived) love of public transport. I started the day with an invigorating swim, then a big breakfast with mushrooms, then a trip down memory lane with an old friend. We visited our old hangouts with her SLR in tow and followed the footsteps our 16yo selves used to take everyday. She lives in M-town and is in P-town for Xmas so has no transport either so we caught the bus – which of course added to the nostalgia. We went for iced coffee at our old iced coffee spot and were unsurprised to see the same people from 9 years ago still there doing the same things – they used to talk so big but seemed like ants today.
We then wandered, aimlessly, but ended up walking the same routes we used to take. Most things hadn’t changed at all, but pretty much everything looked a little bit different. At one stage all our dreams and memories were so entwined in the places we went to that it was easy to think the place itself had some magic. Today, seeing these places together as adults whose dreams are starting to become realities it was even clearer that there was no magic there at all. This was partly empowering – reinforcing that those great times were entirely of our creation so we can create them again and again, but partly sad to see our old haunts without the rose coloured glasses, cherry docs and fake pigtails.
One day, back in those days, we toured the town with camera in tow and took photos of ourselves and our favourite spots. We re-enacted this today – older, wiser and with a better camera. We also talked a lot. There’s nothing better than catching up with a great friend to reinforce your identity. I’m not someone who puts on too much of an act for people but it’s still wonderfully relaxing to spend a day with someone who knows everything about you and knows what you are going to say before you say it – and still loves you anyway.
Awesomeness. Bring on more summer!
Firstly I’ve been able to listen to more music. I usually only ever listen to the radio when I’m driving and only listen to my iPod when I’m running or at the gym. This means a lot of stuff on my iPod gets very little air time because it isn’t suitable for running or rowing or cycling or stretching or ‘pumping iron’
I can’t download too much music at home because of download limits and I’m too tight to buy CD’s so my iPod has been synced with someone else’s iTunes. What this means is there is a lot of music on there that I have never even listened to, so my bus trips today have been a journey of discovery.
Today on the bus I fell in love with a band. I now have this one album on repeat, listening to it right now. Beer in hand, hot outside, happy summer music, had an awesome day. Bliss.
My day was particularly awesome and not just because of my new found (and I’m sure short lived) love of public transport. I started the day with an invigorating swim, then a big breakfast with mushrooms, then a trip down memory lane with an old friend. We visited our old hangouts with her SLR in tow and followed the footsteps our 16yo selves used to take everyday. She lives in M-town and is in P-town for Xmas so has no transport either so we caught the bus – which of course added to the nostalgia. We went for iced coffee at our old iced coffee spot and were unsurprised to see the same people from 9 years ago still there doing the same things – they used to talk so big but seemed like ants today.
We then wandered, aimlessly, but ended up walking the same routes we used to take. Most things hadn’t changed at all, but pretty much everything looked a little bit different. At one stage all our dreams and memories were so entwined in the places we went to that it was easy to think the place itself had some magic. Today, seeing these places together as adults whose dreams are starting to become realities it was even clearer that there was no magic there at all. This was partly empowering – reinforcing that those great times were entirely of our creation so we can create them again and again, but partly sad to see our old haunts without the rose coloured glasses, cherry docs and fake pigtails.
One day, back in those days, we toured the town with camera in tow and took photos of ourselves and our favourite spots. We re-enacted this today – older, wiser and with a better camera. We also talked a lot. There’s nothing better than catching up with a great friend to reinforce your identity. I’m not someone who puts on too much of an act for people but it’s still wonderfully relaxing to spend a day with someone who knows everything about you and knows what you are going to say before you say it – and still loves you anyway.
Awesomeness. Bring on more summer!
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Treasure-Map Nicoise
I’m currently in the process of changing my name to my new married name. So far I’ve completed it with one of my banks, my drivers license, my scooter registration, eBay, face book, PayPal and I’ve set up an email address in my new name.
I’m slowly phasing out the old email address and am going through the old emails to see if there is anything I want or need to keep. Tonight I came across an email that I absolutely had to keep – it was our Treasure-Map Nicoise.
Hubby (then fiancé) and I spent 5 weeks in Europe last year, we spent most of our time in the UK but we also went to Barcelona and had a week in Nice. When I booked our apartment in Nice the owner sent me an email with a treasure map of how to get the key to the apartment – it seemed a fun but fairly straightforward way to get access. The actual night was quite different.
Our flight from Barcelona arrived in Nice at 10.35pm. We got a taxi fairly easily from the airport and gave the Taxi driver the address we needed to go to. The taxi driver groaned when he saw the address, immediately added 10 Euros on the bill and said that street was impossible to go down and he would take us as close as possible. He dropped us at the edge of a beautiful large square that we soon came to know as Place de la Prefecture and pointed gruffly towards the opposite side of the square.
We lugged our suitcases out of the cab and started across the square in the direction he had pointed towards a huge group of people making enormous amounts of noise. As we got closer we could see that it seemed to be a collection of bars that were full on the inside and full on the outside and the streets were full and the sidewalk was full and the other side of the road there was a car park that was full of scooters and people sitting among the scooters and leaning on the scooters and leaning on the walls and drinking and laughing and it was all a little bit crazy.
Each time a car tried to pass through this section of the road they would drive very slowly and beep their horns and very slowly the hoard would disperse just enough to let the car through and then mill back onto the road – filling it as if it had never been there. Our instructions were to look for the scooter parked across from Wayne’s bar. Under the seat of the scooter there would be an unmarked key and this would open the door to the apartment block on a nearby street. Step one seemed easy enough. We decided I would stay with the suitcases while he would try to find the right scooter among the hoards of drunks. He left me outside Wayne’s bar and fought through the crowd with the map in his hand trying to find the scooter with the right rego number.
During his absence I was privileged enough to see a Capoeira street group come running through the crowd, build themselves an arena in the crowd using only the beat of their drums and put on the most spectacular show of physical strength and agility I had ever seen. The crowd whooped and cheered as they kicked and flipped and threw their bodies around to the beat of the drums. They moved on as quickly as they came, luckily we saw them many more times in our trip. In fact the carnival atmosphere of our first night that we thought must have been a once off for a special occasion was your usual night outside Wayne’s bar. We slept with our window closed.
He arrived back from Scooterquest looking exhausted but triumphant with a key in his hand and it was on to Step 2 – find the right street.
We looked around us and tried to find the landmarks that had been pointed out for us on the map, we couldn’t see the Real Estate agent that apparently had our spare key, we couldn’t see the Pouletterie that was apparently below the apartment and we definitely couldn’t see the brown door that we were meant to open with our newly acquired key.
It was my job with my basic knowledge of French to ask for help. I managed to make myself understood but we definitely asked the wrong people. No one knew where this street was, no one knew where the real estate agent was or the Pouletterie. So we started wandering, pulling our suitcases through the crowd looking at every door we could see and comparing it to the picture of the door we were meant to enter. After about 30 minutes of wandering we found the right street sign and the relief we felt on finding it was soon overtaken with dread when we opened the heavy door. In front of us we saw a pitch black, very narrow, very steep set of 16th century steps. 6th floor sounded appealing when I booked the place. Not so much anymore.
Step 3 was to go up to the fifth floor, open the cupboard that was up there, use the code given to us with the treasure map to open the safe within that would have a second set of keys that opened the apartment door. By this time it was well after midnight, the past few days in Barcelona had been far from relaxing (crazy party town – go there!) and we were absolutely exhausted. We couldn’t find a light switch so we dragged our suitcases up the 12 flights of steep uneven narrow stairs in pitch darkness. At this stage both of us were regretting going on the stupid holiday and were dreading our time in this stupid apartment in this stupid city with all these stupid drunk people outside.
We reached the top, we found the cupboard, we opened the safe, we got the keys and we entered the apartment. Opening the door the place was trashed, there were dirty dishes in the sink, a pile of dirty sheets on the floor of the bedroom and hubby just about turned round and walked straight back out. If we had anywhere else to go he probably would have. After coaxing him into a better mood by showing him the flat screen TV mounted in front of the bed that had English sport channels I managed to find some clean sheets in a box under the bed and things started to look up. The apartment itself was absolutely beautiful and when we opened the windows to the little balcony you could see the commotion below and smell the insanely good smells from the late night café that was on the ground floor of our building.
We got changed, showered the plane off us, had a quick smoke out the window and decided we were ready to meet Nice. This first night was an adventure but our time in Nice was our favourite bit of the whole trip. I fell in love with the colours of Nice, apparently the light is different in the south of France and it makes even mundane normal colours seem to glow but Nice is nothing but normal or mundane. Everything is bright and showy, the old architecture blends beautifully with the new, the outdoor spaces move seamlessly through the city so you can walk from the beach to the centre of town without your feet leaving grass. Everything in Nice is magical and I would happily go back and spend months there. Especially in a sixth floor apartment in the centre of crazy old town.
I’m slowly phasing out the old email address and am going through the old emails to see if there is anything I want or need to keep. Tonight I came across an email that I absolutely had to keep – it was our Treasure-Map Nicoise.
Hubby (then fiancé) and I spent 5 weeks in Europe last year, we spent most of our time in the UK but we also went to Barcelona and had a week in Nice. When I booked our apartment in Nice the owner sent me an email with a treasure map of how to get the key to the apartment – it seemed a fun but fairly straightforward way to get access. The actual night was quite different.
Our flight from Barcelona arrived in Nice at 10.35pm. We got a taxi fairly easily from the airport and gave the Taxi driver the address we needed to go to. The taxi driver groaned when he saw the address, immediately added 10 Euros on the bill and said that street was impossible to go down and he would take us as close as possible. He dropped us at the edge of a beautiful large square that we soon came to know as Place de la Prefecture and pointed gruffly towards the opposite side of the square.
We lugged our suitcases out of the cab and started across the square in the direction he had pointed towards a huge group of people making enormous amounts of noise. As we got closer we could see that it seemed to be a collection of bars that were full on the inside and full on the outside and the streets were full and the sidewalk was full and the other side of the road there was a car park that was full of scooters and people sitting among the scooters and leaning on the scooters and leaning on the walls and drinking and laughing and it was all a little bit crazy.
Each time a car tried to pass through this section of the road they would drive very slowly and beep their horns and very slowly the hoard would disperse just enough to let the car through and then mill back onto the road – filling it as if it had never been there. Our instructions were to look for the scooter parked across from Wayne’s bar. Under the seat of the scooter there would be an unmarked key and this would open the door to the apartment block on a nearby street. Step one seemed easy enough. We decided I would stay with the suitcases while he would try to find the right scooter among the hoards of drunks. He left me outside Wayne’s bar and fought through the crowd with the map in his hand trying to find the scooter with the right rego number.
During his absence I was privileged enough to see a Capoeira street group come running through the crowd, build themselves an arena in the crowd using only the beat of their drums and put on the most spectacular show of physical strength and agility I had ever seen. The crowd whooped and cheered as they kicked and flipped and threw their bodies around to the beat of the drums. They moved on as quickly as they came, luckily we saw them many more times in our trip. In fact the carnival atmosphere of our first night that we thought must have been a once off for a special occasion was your usual night outside Wayne’s bar. We slept with our window closed.
He arrived back from Scooterquest looking exhausted but triumphant with a key in his hand and it was on to Step 2 – find the right street.
We looked around us and tried to find the landmarks that had been pointed out for us on the map, we couldn’t see the Real Estate agent that apparently had our spare key, we couldn’t see the Pouletterie that was apparently below the apartment and we definitely couldn’t see the brown door that we were meant to open with our newly acquired key.
It was my job with my basic knowledge of French to ask for help. I managed to make myself understood but we definitely asked the wrong people. No one knew where this street was, no one knew where the real estate agent was or the Pouletterie. So we started wandering, pulling our suitcases through the crowd looking at every door we could see and comparing it to the picture of the door we were meant to enter. After about 30 minutes of wandering we found the right street sign and the relief we felt on finding it was soon overtaken with dread when we opened the heavy door. In front of us we saw a pitch black, very narrow, very steep set of 16th century steps. 6th floor sounded appealing when I booked the place. Not so much anymore.
Step 3 was to go up to the fifth floor, open the cupboard that was up there, use the code given to us with the treasure map to open the safe within that would have a second set of keys that opened the apartment door. By this time it was well after midnight, the past few days in Barcelona had been far from relaxing (crazy party town – go there!) and we were absolutely exhausted. We couldn’t find a light switch so we dragged our suitcases up the 12 flights of steep uneven narrow stairs in pitch darkness. At this stage both of us were regretting going on the stupid holiday and were dreading our time in this stupid apartment in this stupid city with all these stupid drunk people outside.
We reached the top, we found the cupboard, we opened the safe, we got the keys and we entered the apartment. Opening the door the place was trashed, there were dirty dishes in the sink, a pile of dirty sheets on the floor of the bedroom and hubby just about turned round and walked straight back out. If we had anywhere else to go he probably would have. After coaxing him into a better mood by showing him the flat screen TV mounted in front of the bed that had English sport channels I managed to find some clean sheets in a box under the bed and things started to look up. The apartment itself was absolutely beautiful and when we opened the windows to the little balcony you could see the commotion below and smell the insanely good smells from the late night café that was on the ground floor of our building.
We got changed, showered the plane off us, had a quick smoke out the window and decided we were ready to meet Nice. This first night was an adventure but our time in Nice was our favourite bit of the whole trip. I fell in love with the colours of Nice, apparently the light is different in the south of France and it makes even mundane normal colours seem to glow but Nice is nothing but normal or mundane. Everything is bright and showy, the old architecture blends beautifully with the new, the outdoor spaces move seamlessly through the city so you can walk from the beach to the centre of town without your feet leaving grass. Everything in Nice is magical and I would happily go back and spend months there. Especially in a sixth floor apartment in the centre of crazy old town.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
A story about you.
I remember one morning after a friend and I had had a particularly big night and had slept over at the party house we decided to go to the beach. We had barely slept, we were still wearing our clothes from the night before, it was very very early and it was probably not a good idea. But we were young and invincible and had oversized dark glasses to protect us from the world so we went anyway.
We arrived at the beach and plonked our stuff down in a spot – it was about 6am on a Sunday and there were very few people at the beach. We threw off our docs and hitched up our dresses and spent a good half an hour splashing and wading in the shallows while debriefing the night before and giggling about boys. As time wore on, we started to sober up and our enthusiasm faded. The beach started filling with people in jogging gear and kids doing surf living saving classes. We retired to our little spot and just sat there for a while in silence watching the people do their morning things. As we were watching people do their wholesome early morning beach things it occurred to us that we didn’t look so wholesome, that our eyeliner was far from fresh and people probably weren’t judging us too favourably at that time.
This then led to a closer examination of the other people at the beach and we decided to guess at what their stories were, who they were with, why they were at the beach and how they had spent last night. There was a women by herself who was painfully skinny and painfully brown and on the side of 40 that to us at the time was an indication that life had pretty much ended. We decided she must have been a model when she was younger and had spent her teen years in Europe sleeping with photographers and snorting cocaine and that she had never adjusted to growing older and losing her beauty.
There was then a very wholesome looking young couple, he with one those of those almost military hairstyles, she with a full piece bathing suit and shorts over the top. It took them ten minutes to get all of their beach stuff set up, towels perfectly perpendicular, shoes neatly beside each towel, all items neatly stowed in bags, sun cream applied vigorously and then bags placed neatly at then top of each towel to stop them blowing away. They then both went for a swim, a proper, deepwater exercise swim, not the fun jolly splashing that most people do. We decided they were very Christian, very unmarried and very sexually frustrated.
I remember this day as being so much fun making up stories about other people and wondering whether or not we were right or not. Looking at body language to guess relationships and mannerisms to try to guess if people are happy or not. I still love doing this – turning people on the street into fictional characters and writing their stories. I’ve probably done it to you.
We arrived at the beach and plonked our stuff down in a spot – it was about 6am on a Sunday and there were very few people at the beach. We threw off our docs and hitched up our dresses and spent a good half an hour splashing and wading in the shallows while debriefing the night before and giggling about boys. As time wore on, we started to sober up and our enthusiasm faded. The beach started filling with people in jogging gear and kids doing surf living saving classes. We retired to our little spot and just sat there for a while in silence watching the people do their morning things. As we were watching people do their wholesome early morning beach things it occurred to us that we didn’t look so wholesome, that our eyeliner was far from fresh and people probably weren’t judging us too favourably at that time.
This then led to a closer examination of the other people at the beach and we decided to guess at what their stories were, who they were with, why they were at the beach and how they had spent last night. There was a women by herself who was painfully skinny and painfully brown and on the side of 40 that to us at the time was an indication that life had pretty much ended. We decided she must have been a model when she was younger and had spent her teen years in Europe sleeping with photographers and snorting cocaine and that she had never adjusted to growing older and losing her beauty.
There was then a very wholesome looking young couple, he with one those of those almost military hairstyles, she with a full piece bathing suit and shorts over the top. It took them ten minutes to get all of their beach stuff set up, towels perfectly perpendicular, shoes neatly beside each towel, all items neatly stowed in bags, sun cream applied vigorously and then bags placed neatly at then top of each towel to stop them blowing away. They then both went for a swim, a proper, deepwater exercise swim, not the fun jolly splashing that most people do. We decided they were very Christian, very unmarried and very sexually frustrated.
I remember this day as being so much fun making up stories about other people and wondering whether or not we were right or not. Looking at body language to guess relationships and mannerisms to try to guess if people are happy or not. I still love doing this – turning people on the street into fictional characters and writing their stories. I’ve probably done it to you.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Take the long way
I was thinking the other day about how Melbourne is in the future and New Zealand is in the future but everything after that is in the past. And how it would be confusing to live near the international date line – like if your Mum lived on the next island and she said – come over for dinner on Tuesday, you would say ‘sure Mum’ and hang up the phone but then have to call her right back to check if she meant her Tuesday or yours. That would be confusing.
And then I thought about all the f’ed up things governments do for the good of the people and I thought – what if they thought this confusion was all too much, not good for the people and they decided to close the International Date Line? With impenetrable lasers – not the killing kind but the barrier kind – you know? Imagine that, your Mum would call and say, come over Tuesday and you work out she means her Tuesday so on Wednesday you and your family get in your boat and head over to the next island where Mum lives. Half way there your see a giant impenetrable laser wall with little notices posted every ten metres – “Due to the continuing confusion causing residents, the government of the world has decided to close the International Date Line. If you wish the visit the next island, please take the long way.” Of course they would have put out heaps of media releases but since you don’t have a TV and only ever skim past the news in the paper and concentrate mainly on the quizzes, recipes and cartoons you hadn’t heard anything about this.
So you turn the boat around and you take the long way – can’t be that much longer surely?
Someone remind me to finish that story one day……
Fact: The Island nation of Kiribati moved the International Date Line in 1995 because it had split the nation in two and caused much confusion. No one else seemed to care about this change.
And then I thought about all the f’ed up things governments do for the good of the people and I thought – what if they thought this confusion was all too much, not good for the people and they decided to close the International Date Line? With impenetrable lasers – not the killing kind but the barrier kind – you know? Imagine that, your Mum would call and say, come over Tuesday and you work out she means her Tuesday so on Wednesday you and your family get in your boat and head over to the next island where Mum lives. Half way there your see a giant impenetrable laser wall with little notices posted every ten metres – “Due to the continuing confusion causing residents, the government of the world has decided to close the International Date Line. If you wish the visit the next island, please take the long way.” Of course they would have put out heaps of media releases but since you don’t have a TV and only ever skim past the news in the paper and concentrate mainly on the quizzes, recipes and cartoons you hadn’t heard anything about this.
So you turn the boat around and you take the long way – can’t be that much longer surely?
Someone remind me to finish that story one day……
Fact: The Island nation of Kiribati moved the International Date Line in 1995 because it had split the nation in two and caused much confusion. No one else seemed to care about this change.
The Joys of Chicken Feet Bone Spitting
Another 'Things I Love' list to start a beautiful bright sunny day.
Things I Love...
My new sexy shoes
I bought a stunning pair the other day that I am certain are going to result in serious injury. I am very clumsy and on several occasions have fallen flat on my face in flats. But these were just calling me! They spent a week seducing me with their platinum platform heels, Mary Jane style double straps and beautiful black silk fabric. So I bought them.
I wore them out last night and am still glowing from all the attention. Whole rooms turned to gawp at my incredibly sexy shoes, people yelled and cheered as I walked past them in the street and hubby was so gobsmacked he could barely string a sentence together all night and just kept grinning at me.
Perth
Went down to the foreshore the other morning intending to do the 10km walk around the river and ended up just sitting on the grass on the side of the running path starring at the skyline and the trees and the people running, listening to music and appreciating what a frikking beautiful city I live in.
Oranges
Peeling them and ripping them apart and then biting into them so the juice gets all over your hands and your face. Oranges always remind me of my very brief time at Ag school when I was 15. We would go down to the orchard after school and sit amongst the trees eating oranges and getting all covered in the juice. It was bliss.
Polished glassware – ‘cos it means there’s a party about to start
Fruitsicles
In summer I always buy too much fruit at the shops and about halfway through the week cut it all up and freeze it into those icy-pole sipper sucker containers. I call them fruitsicles and banana and kiwifruit are my favourite. There are never any leftover mangoes.
Christmas
I’m a sucker for cheesy holidays – decorating the tree, novelty mistletoe earrings, listening to cheesy Christmas music, putting lights in the windows, inflatable Santa’s in the front garden. I always go completely overboard. Tacky=Good
That point when you are running when you get into a rhythm and it gets easier for some reason. The first ten minutes I’m always puffing and my legs never feel quite right (like one is longer than the other or something) and little things like shoelaces and bra straps are so annoying you almost can’t continue, then about ten minutes in suddenly something clicks into place and running is as easy as walking.
Yum Cha
I love having to line up to get a table and then the excitement of all the trolleys – What’s in that one? Will the lady with the deep fried tentacles come back? I especially love going with my Mum because of the look on her face when I eat chickens feet and spit the little bones out on the plate in front of me (and she can’t complain because it is the ‘proper’ way to eat them).
Rediscovering old habits – like writing ‘things I love’ lists.
Things I Love...
My new sexy shoes
I bought a stunning pair the other day that I am certain are going to result in serious injury. I am very clumsy and on several occasions have fallen flat on my face in flats. But these were just calling me! They spent a week seducing me with their platinum platform heels, Mary Jane style double straps and beautiful black silk fabric. So I bought them.
I wore them out last night and am still glowing from all the attention. Whole rooms turned to gawp at my incredibly sexy shoes, people yelled and cheered as I walked past them in the street and hubby was so gobsmacked he could barely string a sentence together all night and just kept grinning at me.
Perth
Went down to the foreshore the other morning intending to do the 10km walk around the river and ended up just sitting on the grass on the side of the running path starring at the skyline and the trees and the people running, listening to music and appreciating what a frikking beautiful city I live in.
Oranges
Peeling them and ripping them apart and then biting into them so the juice gets all over your hands and your face. Oranges always remind me of my very brief time at Ag school when I was 15. We would go down to the orchard after school and sit amongst the trees eating oranges and getting all covered in the juice. It was bliss.
Polished glassware – ‘cos it means there’s a party about to start
Fruitsicles
In summer I always buy too much fruit at the shops and about halfway through the week cut it all up and freeze it into those icy-pole sipper sucker containers. I call them fruitsicles and banana and kiwifruit are my favourite. There are never any leftover mangoes.
Christmas
I’m a sucker for cheesy holidays – decorating the tree, novelty mistletoe earrings, listening to cheesy Christmas music, putting lights in the windows, inflatable Santa’s in the front garden. I always go completely overboard. Tacky=Good
That point when you are running when you get into a rhythm and it gets easier for some reason. The first ten minutes I’m always puffing and my legs never feel quite right (like one is longer than the other or something) and little things like shoelaces and bra straps are so annoying you almost can’t continue, then about ten minutes in suddenly something clicks into place and running is as easy as walking.
Yum Cha
I love having to line up to get a table and then the excitement of all the trolleys – What’s in that one? Will the lady with the deep fried tentacles come back? I especially love going with my Mum because of the look on her face when I eat chickens feet and spit the little bones out on the plate in front of me (and she can’t complain because it is the ‘proper’ way to eat them).
Rediscovering old habits – like writing ‘things I love’ lists.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Lawyers, Testicles and Flesh Eating Stone
I’m particularly fond of words and languages. I studied a little bit of a linguistics degree once, I enjoyed a lot of the subject matter but the course as a whole was not for me. I couldn’t see how what I was learning was going to lead me anywhere so I dropped out. I can’t really see how what I’m doing now is going to lead me anywhere either but at least I’m earning money and not pissing it down the drain at some university. I’m not against studying – I just can’t do it without purpose and a clear goal at the end.
Anyway – words and languages. I’ve always liked patterns. I like looking at how things relate to other things and one of my most favourite topics at uni was etymology – the origins of languages. I like seeing how a word originated, what it originally meant and how different cultures have taken that particular word and made it their own with different nuances and occasionally entirely different meanings.
Like the word ‘bot’ which today in German apparently means message. In archaic German the word ‘bot’ was used to describe a peace offering a family clan would give to another to end a feud, this word ‘bot’ is where we get our current word boat – as the peace offerings were carried on boats and through time the vessel carrying messages became known as the messenger or ‘bote’ in German.
The English word Avocado and the Spanish word abogado – meaning lawyer - both stem from the Aztec word ‘ahuacatl’ meaning testicle.
The word sarcophagus comes from the Greek sarko, meaning “flesh” and phagos, meaning “to eat”. So sarcophagus means flesh eating. This stems from the discovery that limestone helps bodies to decompose faster so coffins were made out of limestone for this reason. To eat the flesh of the bodies quicker. Yum.
Now I come to a word I will not write down. A word that – when mentioned within 5km’s of my mother (hears like a bat I tells you) will result in the speaker being banned from her house for all eternity. Luckily this does not apply to her children or I would not be able to visit.
The ‘c’ bomb.
Now this word has been around for a very very very long time. A word with a similar phonetic base appears in Egyptian hieroglyphics and refers to, surprisingly, the vagina. Similar sounding words appear in early Aztec, indo and African languages. It then appears in Latin on the form of cunnus – meaning sheath. Most European languages today have a form of the word, all with the same meaning, some derogatory, some not. It is believed it was the early Germans who added the T – because they liked T’s at the end of words and this is the reason why the English form of word has the T and the Spanish, Italian and French do not.
Different forms of the word show up in literature – apparently Chaucer used a form of the word in Canterbury Tales, “Pryvely he caught hir by the queynte.” Guess how those ye olde English dudes pronounced the word ‘queynte’
By Shakespeare’s time the word was a lot more derogatory, so he had to use his clever way with words to sneak it in and get a giggle out of only the knowing members of the audience.
HAMLET
Lady, shall I lie in your lap?
OPHELIA
No, my lord.
HAMLET
I mean, my head upon your lap?
OPHELIA
Ay, my lord.
HAMLET
Do you think I meant country matters?
OPHELIA
I think nothing, my lord.
HAMLET
That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs.
OPHELIA
What is, my lord?
HAMLET
Nothing.
Hamlet you cheeky bastard. (not in the born of unwed parents way but in the more modern ‘asshat’ kind of way)
I also once heard a story which may have some truth and fits with the Latin word cunnus – meaning sheath. I heard that the c-bomb was once used to describe a spot on a saddle where one could store a sword. Fits doesn’t it?
BTW don’t quote anything I’ve written here as truth, my sources are varied, unconfirmed and untrustworthy.
And yes I know I’ve broken my self-exclusion period. But it’s Saturday somewhere.
like, in the future.
Anyway – words and languages. I’ve always liked patterns. I like looking at how things relate to other things and one of my most favourite topics at uni was etymology – the origins of languages. I like seeing how a word originated, what it originally meant and how different cultures have taken that particular word and made it their own with different nuances and occasionally entirely different meanings.
Like the word ‘bot’ which today in German apparently means message. In archaic German the word ‘bot’ was used to describe a peace offering a family clan would give to another to end a feud, this word ‘bot’ is where we get our current word boat – as the peace offerings were carried on boats and through time the vessel carrying messages became known as the messenger or ‘bote’ in German.
The English word Avocado and the Spanish word abogado – meaning lawyer - both stem from the Aztec word ‘ahuacatl’ meaning testicle.
The word sarcophagus comes from the Greek sarko, meaning “flesh” and phagos, meaning “to eat”. So sarcophagus means flesh eating. This stems from the discovery that limestone helps bodies to decompose faster so coffins were made out of limestone for this reason. To eat the flesh of the bodies quicker. Yum.
Now I come to a word I will not write down. A word that – when mentioned within 5km’s of my mother (hears like a bat I tells you) will result in the speaker being banned from her house for all eternity. Luckily this does not apply to her children or I would not be able to visit.
The ‘c’ bomb.
Now this word has been around for a very very very long time. A word with a similar phonetic base appears in Egyptian hieroglyphics and refers to, surprisingly, the vagina. Similar sounding words appear in early Aztec, indo and African languages. It then appears in Latin on the form of cunnus – meaning sheath. Most European languages today have a form of the word, all with the same meaning, some derogatory, some not. It is believed it was the early Germans who added the T – because they liked T’s at the end of words and this is the reason why the English form of word has the T and the Spanish, Italian and French do not.
Different forms of the word show up in literature – apparently Chaucer used a form of the word in Canterbury Tales, “Pryvely he caught hir by the queynte.” Guess how those ye olde English dudes pronounced the word ‘queynte’
By Shakespeare’s time the word was a lot more derogatory, so he had to use his clever way with words to sneak it in and get a giggle out of only the knowing members of the audience.
HAMLET
Lady, shall I lie in your lap?
OPHELIA
No, my lord.
HAMLET
I mean, my head upon your lap?
OPHELIA
Ay, my lord.
HAMLET
Do you think I meant country matters?
OPHELIA
I think nothing, my lord.
HAMLET
That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs.
OPHELIA
What is, my lord?
HAMLET
Nothing.
Hamlet you cheeky bastard. (not in the born of unwed parents way but in the more modern ‘asshat’ kind of way)
I also once heard a story which may have some truth and fits with the Latin word cunnus – meaning sheath. I heard that the c-bomb was once used to describe a spot on a saddle where one could store a sword. Fits doesn’t it?
BTW don’t quote anything I’ve written here as truth, my sources are varied, unconfirmed and untrustworthy.
And yes I know I’ve broken my self-exclusion period. But it’s Saturday somewhere.
like, in the future.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Bloggorrhea
After noticing the first stages of addiction and blog related obsessive behaviour I have decided to apply a self-exclusion period for the next few days. I will not blog again until Saturday at least (unless something really exciting happens - like I break a nail or need to go grocery shopping again)
Starting now.
Starting now.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
The Birth of Venus
I was at the gym last night for the first time in, like, a week and I was amazed at how unfit I was. Then I stopped myself, jumped off the treadmill, put it on pause, threw my hands in the air and screamed – “WHAT HAVE I BECOME??” Actually I just paused, had a sip of my water and my eyebrows moved into their slightly surprised position. I had become one of those horrible lycra wearing gym people, who use words like 'rep' and 'set' and 'rpm'
I’ve never been into fitness. At school I used every excuse possible to get out of sport. Forget my uniform, forget my shoes, forget one shoe, forget to put the laces in my shoes. Later on I milked the women’s issues thing – my sport teachers would be surprised that I still have a uterus considering the amount of problems that it apparently gave me.
I hated sport, I wasn’t good at sport, people giggled and snickered when I ran.
Mine was always a body that was built for lying horizontal being fanned and fed grapes by giant, good looking men wearing loin cloths, a little bit Botticelli, I was pretty happy with it, it never did me any wrong.
It was the whole wedding thing that made me decide to get fit and skinny. The dress, the photos, the fact that I was getting a new name and becoming a whole new person – may as well be a shit hot one.
I started mission:shithot by going to Jacob’s Ladder after work and on that very first day I didn’t tell anyone I was going. If it ended in failure I made sure it was going to be a private one.
That first morning I put my sports shoes in my car and some "workout clothes" I bought a few years back that had since turned into "hanging out on the couch clothes" To put this in perspective, the sports shoes I put in my car were the same ones my mum bought for me back at school ten years ago and they were still in "as new" condition.
So I got there after work, parked the car in the carpark, shoved my keys in my bra and got going. As I was walking up the hill to the stairs I saw a group of guys in front of me powering down to the bottom step and turning around without even hesitating and going right on back up - chatting the whole time. I mounted the first step and got into rhythm about 5 steps behind the group of guys - this isn't that hard.
Thirty seconds later there is sweat on my brow and im huffing and puffing, the rhythm was gone and the guys had probably already reached the top and were on their way back down.
I did make it to the top without stopping. I had a drink from the fountain and went right back down the stairs.
As I was heading towards the bottom step I had every intention of turning around and going back up but my body revolted and a trotted ungainly towards the car. As I reached the car I had a biggest loser moment and had a little throw up. I was so proud - imagining Jillian patting me on the back - "thats enough pig, thats enough."
I went back the next day. But not the day after that because I could no longer walk without making loud whinging noises and I was absolutely positive my ass was going to fall off – and not in the good way.
I did ‘the ladder’ for about four months before joining a gym, there were many ass falling off, biggest loser spew moments. By my wedding day (last week:)) I could run 5km without stopping and had lost 12 kilos and almost two dress sizes. Feels pretty good. Can’t believe I’m one of those gym people. Lycra and all. Pump it.
I’ve never been into fitness. At school I used every excuse possible to get out of sport. Forget my uniform, forget my shoes, forget one shoe, forget to put the laces in my shoes. Later on I milked the women’s issues thing – my sport teachers would be surprised that I still have a uterus considering the amount of problems that it apparently gave me.
I hated sport, I wasn’t good at sport, people giggled and snickered when I ran.
Mine was always a body that was built for lying horizontal being fanned and fed grapes by giant, good looking men wearing loin cloths, a little bit Botticelli, I was pretty happy with it, it never did me any wrong.
It was the whole wedding thing that made me decide to get fit and skinny. The dress, the photos, the fact that I was getting a new name and becoming a whole new person – may as well be a shit hot one.
I started mission:shithot by going to Jacob’s Ladder after work and on that very first day I didn’t tell anyone I was going. If it ended in failure I made sure it was going to be a private one.
That first morning I put my sports shoes in my car and some "workout clothes" I bought a few years back that had since turned into "hanging out on the couch clothes" To put this in perspective, the sports shoes I put in my car were the same ones my mum bought for me back at school ten years ago and they were still in "as new" condition.
So I got there after work, parked the car in the carpark, shoved my keys in my bra and got going. As I was walking up the hill to the stairs I saw a group of guys in front of me powering down to the bottom step and turning around without even hesitating and going right on back up - chatting the whole time. I mounted the first step and got into rhythm about 5 steps behind the group of guys - this isn't that hard.
Thirty seconds later there is sweat on my brow and im huffing and puffing, the rhythm was gone and the guys had probably already reached the top and were on their way back down.
I did make it to the top without stopping. I had a drink from the fountain and went right back down the stairs.
As I was heading towards the bottom step I had every intention of turning around and going back up but my body revolted and a trotted ungainly towards the car. As I reached the car I had a biggest loser moment and had a little throw up. I was so proud - imagining Jillian patting me on the back - "thats enough pig, thats enough."
I went back the next day. But not the day after that because I could no longer walk without making loud whinging noises and I was absolutely positive my ass was going to fall off – and not in the good way.
I did ‘the ladder’ for about four months before joining a gym, there were many ass falling off, biggest loser spew moments. By my wedding day (last week:)) I could run 5km without stopping and had lost 12 kilos and almost two dress sizes. Feels pretty good. Can’t believe I’m one of those gym people. Lycra and all. Pump it.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Just quietly...
After writing that muffin joke down it's been popping into my head all day and making me giggle. I'm so easily entertained :)
The First List
So I couldn’t sleep last night, and when I did it was crap and then I woke up really early and couldn’t get back to sleep. So now I’m in a bit of a mood. When we were a lot younger a friend and I started making lists of things we loved – at the time it was because the world was such a wonderful place filled with such magical things that it was great to write them all down so we didn’t miss anything. I remember reading those lists in later years and they always made me feel good. So here is todays list...
Things I love
When you first dive in and the cold water hits you and it makes all of your senses suddenly become really alert
Leftover curry for breakfast, especially when hung-over
Green food
Banana pancakes
Driving to the airport
Those first few warm days after winter when suddenly everything smells different and everyone seems just a little bit happier
Getting things in the mail that aren’t bills
Sunbaking
Remembering that you have something just when you really need it
Finishing things – tick!
When a stranger pays you a compliment
Building ikea furniture
Puzzles
Word games
Scrabble
Planning holidays
Planning things I’m never going to do, and then doing them
Unexpected big nights
McBreakfasts
When you hear a song that reminds you of a particular time, event or feeling and the memory just hits you in the face – in a good way
Late night phone calls that last for hours
When you start giggling and can’t stop – especially when you have someone giggling with you.
Stupid jokes that no one else finds funny
Two muffins are sitting in a tray in the oven
One muffin turns to the guy next to him and says – Wow it’s hot in here!
The second muffin looks at the first and says “AHHH A TALKING MUFFIN!”
When you hear a song that reminds you of a particular time, event or feeling and the memory just hits you in the face – in a bad way.
Singing in the car
Karaoke
Nightcaps
Cocktails
Tapas
Olives
Remembering to take sunglasses out with you in case the sun comes up while you are gone.
Having a flat pair of shoes in your handbag
And that’s it for today.
Things I love
When you first dive in and the cold water hits you and it makes all of your senses suddenly become really alert
Leftover curry for breakfast, especially when hung-over
Green food
Banana pancakes
Driving to the airport
Those first few warm days after winter when suddenly everything smells different and everyone seems just a little bit happier
Getting things in the mail that aren’t bills
Sunbaking
Remembering that you have something just when you really need it
Finishing things – tick!
When a stranger pays you a compliment
Building ikea furniture
Puzzles
Word games
Scrabble
Planning holidays
Planning things I’m never going to do, and then doing them
Unexpected big nights
McBreakfasts
When you hear a song that reminds you of a particular time, event or feeling and the memory just hits you in the face – in a good way
Late night phone calls that last for hours
When you start giggling and can’t stop – especially when you have someone giggling with you.
Stupid jokes that no one else finds funny
Two muffins are sitting in a tray in the oven
One muffin turns to the guy next to him and says – Wow it’s hot in here!
The second muffin looks at the first and says “AHHH A TALKING MUFFIN!”
When you hear a song that reminds you of a particular time, event or feeling and the memory just hits you in the face – in a bad way.
Singing in the car
Karaoke
Nightcaps
Cocktails
Tapas
Olives
Remembering to take sunglasses out with you in case the sun comes up while you are gone.
Having a flat pair of shoes in your handbag
And that’s it for today.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Capturing Fog? What's that all about anyway?
Back in the day when my Ma and Pa first installed the internet - I was about 15. I became obsessed - as I often do with new shiny things (note 6 blog posts in 3 days - give it a week and you'll never hear from me again) I spent hours online chatting and searching things and looking at porn and trying to teach myself HTMl so I could make my own website. An older and wiser friend at the time said the best way to learn was to steal so I'd spend hours looking at the sources of other peoples pages and copying bits and pieces to make my own little whatsit.
One of the sites I stole a few things from had lots of cool graphics and some stories on it. I have no idea what it was called or even what it was about now, I just remember reading one story that really stuck in my head for some reason. It was called Capturing Fog.
It was just a little story about how someone once told the author when they were young that clouds are filled with dreams, and when you get a random thought in your head, or a really good idea - it was likely that a little bit of cloud had drifted down and your epiphany was caused by the dream within that cloud. This was why cloudy days are the best times to create, and why it's often hard to concentrate on bright sunny days - because there are no dreams floating around to give you ideas.
I happen to really love bright sunny days, but whenever it's cloudy, or on those cold winter mornings when the mist hangs around thick and low - I always think of this story and smile and try to see what dreams I can catch.
One of the sites I stole a few things from had lots of cool graphics and some stories on it. I have no idea what it was called or even what it was about now, I just remember reading one story that really stuck in my head for some reason. It was called Capturing Fog.
It was just a little story about how someone once told the author when they were young that clouds are filled with dreams, and when you get a random thought in your head, or a really good idea - it was likely that a little bit of cloud had drifted down and your epiphany was caused by the dream within that cloud. This was why cloudy days are the best times to create, and why it's often hard to concentrate on bright sunny days - because there are no dreams floating around to give you ideas.
I happen to really love bright sunny days, but whenever it's cloudy, or on those cold winter mornings when the mist hangs around thick and low - I always think of this story and smile and try to see what dreams I can catch.
The Catalyst
So far my stat counter visitor tracker thingywhatsit says that only one person besides me has viewed my blog more than once, and I know who that is because I have not yet told anyone else about it :)
But! I’m a fairly positive forward thinking person, I have a decent amount of confidence in myself (shuttup you) and I believe that one day many people will flock to read my words of wisdom. So! I think it’s time I explained a few things….
It’s all been about reminiscing so far, about past me and events that happened almost ten years ago. You must be thinking – either this girl really is obsessed with the past and needs to get a life or she has spent the past eight years in a coma and has no other memories.
Not true. I’ve been quite reflective lately for a few reasons, the actual catalyst to this blog and it’s contents was the cleaning out of my Grandma’s garage. She is moving into an old fogies villa so we had to get all the crap out of her garage where it had been stored forever. Amongst a giant pile of naked headless barbie dolls I found some relics of my more recent past. One box contained my diary from 2001/2002 – just one of those calendar ones, no ‘dear diary’ spiels and an older journal from 95-97 that had lots of random writings and ideas from a time where I could think and do anything and it never occurred to me not to try. Other items in this box were frolicking dresses (usually long and bright, purchased from second hand stores and perfect for running, skipping and swimming in) and raver paraphernalia (including a pair of jeans that were skin tight in the ass and so wide at the ankles I don’t really get how I could walk in them and one of those wrist slap band bracelets that had a small fluffy toy attached to it that still smelt strongly of medic)
Where was I?
So I found all this stuff and it got me thinking about old times. The other reason I’m all nostalgic at the moment – and probably (definitely/definately) a fairly large one – Is that I got married the other day. I'm not usually one for deep thinking and contemplation, if I feel something I usually act on it or ignore it until it goes away, but this whole getting married thing has given me reason to pause and think a little.
I guess I'm looking at my past to compare young me to current me and give myself a better idea of who I am. It's not like I'm having a massive identity crisis or anything, just need to empty myself out on the table, look at all my parts, tell myself a few stories and then put them all back in the box again.
It's a good thing to do occasionally.
But! I’m a fairly positive forward thinking person, I have a decent amount of confidence in myself (shuttup you) and I believe that one day many people will flock to read my words of wisdom. So! I think it’s time I explained a few things….
It’s all been about reminiscing so far, about past me and events that happened almost ten years ago. You must be thinking – either this girl really is obsessed with the past and needs to get a life or she has spent the past eight years in a coma and has no other memories.
Not true. I’ve been quite reflective lately for a few reasons, the actual catalyst to this blog and it’s contents was the cleaning out of my Grandma’s garage. She is moving into an old fogies villa so we had to get all the crap out of her garage where it had been stored forever. Amongst a giant pile of naked headless barbie dolls I found some relics of my more recent past. One box contained my diary from 2001/2002 – just one of those calendar ones, no ‘dear diary’ spiels and an older journal from 95-97 that had lots of random writings and ideas from a time where I could think and do anything and it never occurred to me not to try. Other items in this box were frolicking dresses (usually long and bright, purchased from second hand stores and perfect for running, skipping and swimming in) and raver paraphernalia (including a pair of jeans that were skin tight in the ass and so wide at the ankles I don’t really get how I could walk in them and one of those wrist slap band bracelets that had a small fluffy toy attached to it that still smelt strongly of medic)
Where was I?
So I found all this stuff and it got me thinking about old times. The other reason I’m all nostalgic at the moment – and probably (definitely/definately) a fairly large one – Is that I got married the other day. I'm not usually one for deep thinking and contemplation, if I feel something I usually act on it or ignore it until it goes away, but this whole getting married thing has given me reason to pause and think a little.
I guess I'm looking at my past to compare young me to current me and give myself a better idea of who I am. It's not like I'm having a massive identity crisis or anything, just need to empty myself out on the table, look at all my parts, tell myself a few stories and then put them all back in the box again.
It's a good thing to do occasionally.
Friday, December 4, 2009
The first - part two!
Wow you really must be starved of entertainment - there's nothing good here - just a warning. Only more of the self indulgent babble you saw in part one, you must like that kinda stuff hey? Also like being slapped around a little don't you?
Alrighty - so I'm perusing the same journal that I found the brilliance written in part one and i flick past a page where I appear to be writing a script to the play thumbelina, and then writing lists about the things I'm excited about on camp (orienteering and rifle shooting are top of my list) My actual memories of said camp though involve a lot of wandering around the countryside covered in cow shit and a humerous skit where I played a slut named Skitty and had socks down my top as fake boobs. Won that competition - boo yah! I then for some reason use these tiny little pages to write the biography of Hans Christen Anderson - born in 1805 if you care (it's ok - I know you don't :) but I'm going to continue anyway!) His father was a shoemaker, he wrote 168 fairy tales - the first published in 1835, he never married but apparently 'the admiration of his fans eased his lonliness,' I don't know about you but my gaydar just started a whirring like crazy!
Enough about Hans, the journal then continues with a few pages of trying to improve my handwriting - the cat sat on the mat - the quick brown fox - blah blah blah, didn't work - my scribble is still illegible. I then try to teach myself morse code (failed) and the family code (success, still remember it to this day - nothing too sneaky, just auctioneers trying to not let bidders know the real value of stuff) After all this spy crap I then write down the lyrics to the whole of Peaches by the Presidents of the United States of America, briefly try to map my family history and then get all poetic again with this little ditty:
Untitled, Undated - guessing sometime in 1996
I have my food, the council takes care of that
I have my bench and my coat, and my pigeons who always come back
Some people come to see what the old man's like
They give me money, but I don't need it
I have my food and my bench, I have my coat and I have my pigeons who always come back
People stare, they fear me
Mother guard their children from me
People cross the road because of me
But i don't care
I have my food, my bench and my coat
and I have my pigeons who always come back
Poor old man they say, needs someone to care
But I don't
I have my food, my bench, my coat and my pigeons.
My pigeons who always come back
(now I'm guessing the dude that inspired this, I was a little bit fascinated by him, but pigeons? Seriously? seagulls yes, pigeons? no. Guess pigeons were just more romantic - more Poppins)
and on the next page - but with slightly more haphazard handwriting - guessing I'd hit highschool now - probably about 1997-8
Ode To A Coffee Cup
A ceramic mug washed up on the shores of my mothers kitchen
a brown stain is the evidence of past use
pastel colours and a faded birthday message
a chipped rim and lipstick marks
tell the life story of my caffeine basin
Once shiny and new this listless chunk of vacant crock
was displayed in prime position on one of the many hooks above the sink
Now the humble discard is the home of old matches, broken incense,
candle wax and the musty smell that often surrounds forgotten things
The smell is a memory of hot coffee, aromatic teas, cookie crumbs
and the much loved soggy timtam
A memory of life where all was warm and apetising
When the comforting arms of ones loved ones were wrapped around your rim
and when the gentle swaying to and from their lips rocks you into a trance
A memory of the quiet hum of contented drinkers
The sweet flavour of left over sugar crystals bathing in the last few drops of Luke warm coffee
A hot splash of scented wax awakes the dreamy coffee cup from it's slumber
An old match is thrown over the side, scattering black ash on the floor of my crud filled ceramic basin.
Only a coffee cup.
and that's it for tonight.
Actually, rewriting those, I think one could say i may have been struggling to to adjust from childhood to adolescense. That the change in intimacy in relationships left me lonely. Shit - if only it had been that clear at the time :)
Alrighty - so I'm perusing the same journal that I found the brilliance written in part one and i flick past a page where I appear to be writing a script to the play thumbelina, and then writing lists about the things I'm excited about on camp (orienteering and rifle shooting are top of my list) My actual memories of said camp though involve a lot of wandering around the countryside covered in cow shit and a humerous skit where I played a slut named Skitty and had socks down my top as fake boobs. Won that competition - boo yah! I then for some reason use these tiny little pages to write the biography of Hans Christen Anderson - born in 1805 if you care (it's ok - I know you don't :) but I'm going to continue anyway!) His father was a shoemaker, he wrote 168 fairy tales - the first published in 1835, he never married but apparently 'the admiration of his fans eased his lonliness,' I don't know about you but my gaydar just started a whirring like crazy!
Enough about Hans, the journal then continues with a few pages of trying to improve my handwriting - the cat sat on the mat - the quick brown fox - blah blah blah, didn't work - my scribble is still illegible. I then try to teach myself morse code (failed) and the family code (success, still remember it to this day - nothing too sneaky, just auctioneers trying to not let bidders know the real value of stuff) After all this spy crap I then write down the lyrics to the whole of Peaches by the Presidents of the United States of America, briefly try to map my family history and then get all poetic again with this little ditty:
Untitled, Undated - guessing sometime in 1996
I have my food, the council takes care of that
I have my bench and my coat, and my pigeons who always come back
Some people come to see what the old man's like
They give me money, but I don't need it
I have my food and my bench, I have my coat and I have my pigeons who always come back
People stare, they fear me
Mother guard their children from me
People cross the road because of me
But i don't care
I have my food, my bench and my coat
and I have my pigeons who always come back
Poor old man they say, needs someone to care
But I don't
I have my food, my bench, my coat and my pigeons.
My pigeons who always come back
(now I'm guessing the dude that inspired this, I was a little bit fascinated by him, but pigeons? Seriously? seagulls yes, pigeons? no. Guess pigeons were just more romantic - more Poppins)
and on the next page - but with slightly more haphazard handwriting - guessing I'd hit highschool now - probably about 1997-8
Ode To A Coffee Cup
A ceramic mug washed up on the shores of my mothers kitchen
a brown stain is the evidence of past use
pastel colours and a faded birthday message
a chipped rim and lipstick marks
tell the life story of my caffeine basin
Once shiny and new this listless chunk of vacant crock
was displayed in prime position on one of the many hooks above the sink
Now the humble discard is the home of old matches, broken incense,
candle wax and the musty smell that often surrounds forgotten things
The smell is a memory of hot coffee, aromatic teas, cookie crumbs
and the much loved soggy timtam
A memory of life where all was warm and apetising
When the comforting arms of ones loved ones were wrapped around your rim
and when the gentle swaying to and from their lips rocks you into a trance
A memory of the quiet hum of contented drinkers
The sweet flavour of left over sugar crystals bathing in the last few drops of Luke warm coffee
A hot splash of scented wax awakes the dreamy coffee cup from it's slumber
An old match is thrown over the side, scattering black ash on the floor of my crud filled ceramic basin.
Only a coffee cup.
and that's it for tonight.
Actually, rewriting those, I think one could say i may have been struggling to to adjust from childhood to adolescense. That the change in intimacy in relationships left me lonely. Shit - if only it had been that clear at the time :)
The first - perhaps of many - perhaps the only
*insert drunken ramble here*
okies. So you clearly are reading this, no escaping that. Either you stumbled here by accident and will soon be on your merry way to wherever you meant to go or you were accidently invited here by other me. She does a lot of things I usually regret - but she is definitely fun.
Firsty, I have something to confess - I nearly always spell the word definitely wrong. Nothing major you say? Well.. it's a word I use ALL OF THE TIME and I'm not someone who should be spelling anything incorrectly, in fact I am one of those people who pride themselves on their grasp of the written word - so for me, having a word like that - that for some reason just won't stick in my head - it hurts.
So enough about pain. Why am I here? I dunno - ask my parents (yeah I'm not very funny either) But why the blog? Well. Everyone else seems to be doing it.
Baaaaa (that's a sheep noise)
Writing used to be something I did all of the time, something that came naturally, something that felt good and helped get my head all lined up neatly. I haven't done any writing since I left school - almost ten years- and recently a few people have tried to push me to start again and where else to bare you soul but to the whole world in a freakin blog.
This is probably just going to end up being an enormous pile of babble - but since there is a slight chance of genius I will continue. I recently went though a pile of crap from my Mums house and found a journal I kept in primary school. Since current me has nothing to write about - here are some snippets of past me.
The Birthday - written by little me 19-07-95 (from what I remember, there was a competiton at school relating to the words 'The Birthday' - it had to be a poem or a short story. I didn't win - the shit was rigged I'm sure. Also - VERY catholic school)
God was in heaven watching Adam and Eve
He looked at his watch, he pulled up his sleeve
They had kindness and joy, tenderness and care
But something was missing, something not there
He looked at his book, he pulled at his hair
He thought night and day, What wasn't there?
It was something important, something not small
Bit nothing was left, nothiung at all
then one stary night in the heavens above
God realised the answer, the answer was love
God couldn't help Adam and Eve
as he didn't have that trick up his sleeve
He couldn't grant it like a wish,
He couldn't serve it like a dish
He couldn't call some little elves
Adam and Eve had to get love by themselves
He could give them something to bring them together
Together to stay as man and wife forever
It had to be somethig small and sweet
Something to play with, somethign neat!
Something to be proud of in good times and bad
I'll make Eve a mother, and Adam a dad!
I'll make them able to create,
something to love, not to hate
It shall be a kitten maybe?
No! I've got it - It will be a baby
God called it mission number 1
Creating love for everyone
So Eve gave birth to a little baby
It was a boy, so they called him Davey
God remembered this day in a special way
He though of a name - it was the birthday
by sweet innocent, family loving me - age 11
okies. So you clearly are reading this, no escaping that. Either you stumbled here by accident and will soon be on your merry way to wherever you meant to go or you were accidently invited here by other me. She does a lot of things I usually regret - but she is definitely fun.
Firsty, I have something to confess - I nearly always spell the word definitely wrong. Nothing major you say? Well.. it's a word I use ALL OF THE TIME and I'm not someone who should be spelling anything incorrectly, in fact I am one of those people who pride themselves on their grasp of the written word - so for me, having a word like that - that for some reason just won't stick in my head - it hurts.
So enough about pain. Why am I here? I dunno - ask my parents (yeah I'm not very funny either) But why the blog? Well. Everyone else seems to be doing it.
Baaaaa (that's a sheep noise)
Writing used to be something I did all of the time, something that came naturally, something that felt good and helped get my head all lined up neatly. I haven't done any writing since I left school - almost ten years- and recently a few people have tried to push me to start again and where else to bare you soul but to the whole world in a freakin blog.
This is probably just going to end up being an enormous pile of babble - but since there is a slight chance of genius I will continue. I recently went though a pile of crap from my Mums house and found a journal I kept in primary school. Since current me has nothing to write about - here are some snippets of past me.
The Birthday - written by little me 19-07-95 (from what I remember, there was a competiton at school relating to the words 'The Birthday' - it had to be a poem or a short story. I didn't win - the shit was rigged I'm sure. Also - VERY catholic school)
God was in heaven watching Adam and Eve
He looked at his watch, he pulled up his sleeve
They had kindness and joy, tenderness and care
But something was missing, something not there
He looked at his book, he pulled at his hair
He thought night and day, What wasn't there?
It was something important, something not small
Bit nothing was left, nothiung at all
then one stary night in the heavens above
God realised the answer, the answer was love
God couldn't help Adam and Eve
as he didn't have that trick up his sleeve
He couldn't grant it like a wish,
He couldn't serve it like a dish
He couldn't call some little elves
Adam and Eve had to get love by themselves
He could give them something to bring them together
Together to stay as man and wife forever
It had to be somethig small and sweet
Something to play with, somethign neat!
Something to be proud of in good times and bad
I'll make Eve a mother, and Adam a dad!
I'll make them able to create,
something to love, not to hate
It shall be a kitten maybe?
No! I've got it - It will be a baby
God called it mission number 1
Creating love for everyone
So Eve gave birth to a little baby
It was a boy, so they called him Davey
God remembered this day in a special way
He though of a name - it was the birthday
by sweet innocent, family loving me - age 11
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