One of my fondest memories of childhood was of the Naked Vicar Show. I wasn't allowed to watch it. It was on too late, and was far too risque. It was an Australian comedy show of the 70s, which today would be terribly dated, but it will always hold a place in my heart. While it was on, I would lie in bed and listen to the TV, and to my mother laughing out loud. My mother had a laugh that was embarrassingly loud to me by the time I was a teenager, but this was when I was younger. It was also when my mother was dealing with learning my father was having yet another affair and soon after he had left us again, pretty much with nothing. So to lie in bed and hear her roaring with laughter, while I kept my hands over my mouth so she couldn't here me laughing along with her (and realise I was awake when I should have been asleep), was precious to me.

I am nothing like my mother in so many ways. I feel like she sometimes looks at me and wonders if there is anything of her in me. But the one thing I seem to have inherited is the laughter. The older I get, the louder it is getting. And I'm embracing it with all my heart.

A thought

I've been thinking about the frivolous grasshopper in the old proverb about the Ant and the Grasshopper. Do you think, after the industrious ants settled into their winter, and the grasshopper realised he had nothing left, that he just accepted his fate? Or did he go out kicking and screaming, hanging on to every last moment of life that he could grasp on to?

The difference a letter can make…

I typed in what I THOUGHT was sanity.com.au… an online record shop (yeah I’m that old that I still think in terms of records!), but actually typed vanity.com.au… and came face to face with a brazillian wax! Well no, not literally, but that is this beautician’s speciality it seems. Not quite what my headspace was prepared for, at the time.

Strumming in the Kitchen

How's this for a slightly bizaare situation.

I'm getting my ex husband to teach me the guitar! Well, that's the theory, anyway. Seeing as I'm pretty musically inept, and only learnt the piano for 2 years (which at my slow pace was pretty unimpressive), this will be a test at patience. But I have a couple of basic chords down, and I want to learn more. Without a regular income though, I can't really go to a "proper" teacher, so I've asked him.

He is a very good guitarist. A natural musician. In fact, so are his friends that he grew up with, as well. There's a group of them, four of them, that grew up together through some pretty rough stuff. And even though they don't see each other all that regularly now, when they do, they are still big kids again. More than that. My ex regards them his brothers more than he does his biological brothers. Anyway, whenever we'd go to a party, everyone in the room would pick up instruments and microphones and jam the night away. And then there would be me. Can't play. Can't sing. Shy and hate being looked at. I so very much wanted to be like them, but by this stage I knew I wasn't ever going to be. Noone ever said anything cruel, but when you're reserved, you can't expect people to go out of their way to get to know you.

It is the one thing I do miss from my marriage. Having music in the house. Live music. Impromptu music. Don't get me wrong, there were days when I wanted to do serious injury with that beautiful acoustic. And the music betrayed my ex when he fell in love with another woman. But for the most part, it was a magical thing. Us sitting in the kitchen, singing together over hot black coffees. And when I left, I asked for one of the guitars. It was the only thing from him I asked for. The only thing that meant something to me. And of course, he wouldn't deny me that.

So now I can strum a few chords, but nothing more than that, and I am frustrated with my inability to move beyond that. My ex ... should we call him Paul ... Paul (and that might change if I forget what I decided to call him today) Paul has asked me to find a song I would like to learn. One that I can sing. He is the only person I have ever sung in front of, and I found it incredibly difficult even with him. I've chosen one by Paul Weller called "Country". It is probably going to be too difficult, but it is so beautiful and I can listen to it looped for hours and not get bored hearing it. So it is my choice. And the words speak a little of the hope I have for my future. A belief that I will care for someone again, some day. Can I indulge myself ... well it's my blog I suppose, it's all self-indulgent.

Country

I know a place not far from here
Where life's sweet perfume fills the air
And if you want I'll take you there
If you want I'll take you there

Into the light out of the dark
Where only love can heal your heart
And if you want I'll make a start
If you want I'll make a start

This place I say, half hour away
Is that so far to go so near
And further on, we'll find the time
And lose the discontent we feel
That we feel

I feel the time we've yet to reach
Is not yet within our own belief
But I feel sure that time will come
If it goes on and on
(if it goes on and on)
(if it goes on and on)
(yeah if it goes on and on and on and on)

I know a place not far from here
Where fresh cut grass will fill your hair
And if you want, we'll lay a while there
If you want, we'll lay a while there
If you want, we'll lay a while there

The line "Is not yet within our own belief" struck such a chord... the idea of not yet being ready for things, but having faith that they will, nonetheless, come to you.

Tonight, I have faith.

Boring Fart

Yep, that's me. Cannot think of anything particularly interesting to write about. Things are going on, but nothing that leaps out with any coherence at the moment. It is my birthday tomorrow. Yep, I'm turning old. hehe. Bring on the chocolate cake!!

I'll have something a little better soon (I blame the fantastic pasta, followed by beer and games of pool consumed tonight (can you consume games of pool??)... thank you Hooch's sister.)

Forgiveness

I have been thinking about forgiveness over the last few days. Or I should say, the concept of forgiveness seems to be finding its way to me when my mind is distracted doing something else. I would like to think I'm a forgiving person, live and let live, understand those that would wrong us... and on an intellectual level I am. But on a personal level I think I have a very long way to go. Some people I have forgiven for actions that could be perceived as 'wronging' me. Others I would like to forgive, but have found it much harder to let go of that internal argumentative dialogue that I would find myself in while waiting for the train in the morning.

The thing that got me thinking of forgiveness was a conversation. During the evening (yes, that evening) last week, my friend Amy was telling some workmates about another workmate that she is very good friends with. She was saying what a fantastic man he is, and how much she likes him (as a friend--she is very VERY happily married). The funny thing was, I was sitting there, knowing the history of their friendship like noone else at that table did, and if he had been my friend, and had treated me the way he had treated her, I would no longer speak to him. It's a long story, the essence being, he misrepresented his friendship with Amy, making out she had a huge crush on him, to impress his new girlfriend. The new girlfriend continued the ridicule when she and Amy finally met, and poor Amy was shocked, hurt and angry. She finally found out why she was being treated that way, and was furious. This would have been the point where I would have told him where he could shove his friendship. But she hadn't. She had forgiven him.

When I was sitting there, hearing her talking to these other people, at first I felt uncomfortable, as though I was being dragged into a lie. It dawned on me though, that it wasn't a lie if it wasn't a lie to her. The thing I love about her is this wonderful embracing approach she has to everything in life. She laughs loudly and often. She has a fantastic sense of the ridiculous. As I sat there, listening to her speak with absolute conviction about how she felt about her friend, I realised that what I initially thought was a weakness was, in fact, a great strength. I admired her so much in that moment.

As though in tune with where my thoughts had been over the last few days, I flicked on the TV last night. The story was, again, a story of forgiveness. Of such a magnitude I can only just begin to have a ghost of an understanding to fathom it. "Australian Story" is a weekly documentary series that looks at the stories of ordinary people who have had extraordinary experiences. Last night's story, From this day forth, was the story of Ann O'Neill, a seemingly ordinary woman with two young children, separated from her husband, until the night he broke into her home, shot their children in her bed, shot her in the leg and then calmly told her to call the police as he went into another room and killed himself.

I could imagine nothing more horrific to live through than what this woman had been through. The tragedy, compounded with the anger and guilt and accusations, would be enough, you would imagine, to leave the best person bitter in the truest sense. However, Ann O'Neill had found a way to forgive her husband. She isn't physically intact (her leg was amputated) or emotionally intact (she doubts she will ever trust enough again to remarry or have another family), but there was a sense of ... the word would could so easily sound twee... a sense of serenity about her that left me sitting in awe.

We live in a world that is so much about competitiveness, about winning, being better, not being beaten, not being taken advantage of, not being perceived as weak, as a loser. Yet these two women demonstrated to me far greater strength in their acceptance and forgiveness than any amount of physical revenge could have done. I'm determined now to try to find more forgiveness in my life too.

Blerky Headspace

Have not really been in a great place, headspace-wise, so I thought it best to lay off the 'blogging' for a while, till I balanced out a bit. Occassionally I get a bit down... well, a lot down I suppose, but I can usually factor it into my cycle so I know that it will pass. This one has lasted longer than usual, but I'm on the way out now. It isn't pleasant to be around, as was evidenced on Wednesday night. I had arranged to meet with a friend (the one I harbour secret desires for *hehe*) and had invited a group of other people from our former workplace along as well. Unfortunately, the blues struck, and I spent the majority of the day with my headphones on, listening to music in an attempt to lift my mood, and on the verge of tears for the whole day. This is something very difficult to explain to any sane person. "Why has happened?" Nothing. "Why are you crying?" Don't know. "Can I do something?" Yeah, don't talk to me. I already loathe myself, I don't need reminding of what a loser I am... or at least that's what is said on the inside of my head. Of course I'd be polite and say "no", I'm ok" but on the inside I feel like my soul is scratching its way through my skin, and nothing I do or say will make things better.

But, like I said, I know it will pass. Normally I hide away, minimise my contact with people, keep my headphones on so I just have music in my head, make excuses so I can have lunch alone, so at least I don't feel like there is a wake of destruction to tidy up once I come back to some level of equilibrium again. But I had arranged this evening, it would look odd if I didn't turn up. So I went along. As soon as I arrived, I was edgy, a little paranoid, not really able to settle into a conversation. Seemed that everyone had some deep one on one conversation happening, and I just couldn't break into one, so I sorta just watched out the window as people made their way through the rainy evening to wherever they had to be. Then my friend sat down opposite me, and it was just like he could see straight through me. I felt like everything I thought and felt was just laid out on the table for him to see. I couldn't bare the humiliation of it, so I clammed up. Every question he asked, I shut down with monosyllabic responses. I KNEW it was stupid and rude and ridiculous, but I just couldn't help it. I kept looking at my watch, waiting for an opportunity to escape. And I did, leaving the group, who went on to have a fantastic night, by all accounts.

I don't know where 'psycho-girl' comes from. She hates me with a passion, so you would think she'd leave me alone. But she doesn't. Is it really weird that I'm writing about myself in the third person?? Yep, thought so.

Anyway... both my friend, and my other friend (the nice one that went with me to see the jazz band... let's call her Amy) sent me messages later asking if I was ok. How do you explain to someone that you become possessed, and to just ignore it for a few days? And just to top it off... I'm pretty certain Amy has set my friend up with her friend, Donna. Donna is beautiful and has men tripping over their tongues whenever she walks into a room. She is talented. And for some reason, I find her incredibly boring. I acknowledge she is good looking, but I don't find her at all attractive, if that makes sense. She was one of the ones who commented on the jazz band not being black. The thought that my friend is interested in her disappoints me (and I will admit, unleashes the green-eyed demon... the fact that I DO in fact have green eyes just makes that seem funnier to me, ah well). Yep, I feel like I'm back in high school... silly crushes, popular girls, people passing notes saying 'my friend really likes you...'. God, I sucked at high school personality politics the first time around. I'm not going to play that game again. Even better still, I'm going out with Amy (and by default, Donna as well) in a few days, and then later this week there's a dinner on for a whole lot of us, including my friend. It's a tough call. I really really like Amy, but am quickly getting bored of us sitting around listening to Donna's romantic suitors. And Amy and Donna are best friends, so there's no one without the other.

Wow... this has been a long vitriolic blurt. And this is the new and improved Hooch. Lucky I didn't write a few days ago!!

Till next time.

Scraps of Dreams

Just some glimpses of dreams I've had recently... I rarely remember my dreams, especially so since I've been living alone again. But recently they have become more vivid.

Mirrors, large and small, round, square, sitting up on my desk. I'm picking them up individually and putting them away... into a bag of some sorts... like they were garbage.

A smooth, tanned, lightly freckled forehead... with hair cropped very short and slightly receding... I can feel the heat of his skin and the clean taste with the slightest tinge of salt as I kiss him gently on the forehead.

Feeling of panic, nausea, adrenalin, doubling me over with their intensity, as my mother has not enough money and I cannot help her.

Casually leaning back against my motorbike... feeling its solidity under me, seeing the black and yellow fairing, the dials and switches, the mirrors, knowing it, being so familiar with it... I'm just standing there chatting to my mother, explaining to her that I am happy, dressed in my leathers (also black with yellow inserts) holding my helmet (it was silver, black and yellow)... all of this is non existant but in my mind it was like my second skin.

Driving with my sister in her van (one of those squarish style courier vans)... along a road where the water of the ocean meets the edge of the road... we approach just as a freak wave crashes up, and too late, we are washed out, tumbled over and over, slowly it seems, we cannot escape as the van slowly bobs and sinks into the now still water.

Some are obvious to me... but others, like being washed away by the ocean are repetitive themes in my dreams which I don't quite understand.

Ok... story from last night.

I was driving home, at about six last night, and turned off the freeway onto Parramatta Road. I settled into the middle lane, behind a little sports car. Mazda something or other. The little rounded squat looking ones. This one had a soft top on, and there wasn't a back window, so I could see straight through the car. I will admit that it was a cute car, and I could see a man's hands on the steering wheel, but couldn't get a glimpse of his face in any of the mirrors (ok, I get bored driving home, and will admit to a perve).

Anyway, I'm following him, and he's driving rather conservatively. At first I thought he was waiting for an opportunity to change into the very busy left lane, but no, he didn't do that. I mean, he was just keeping a steady pace on the speed limit, but as everyone else was driving like bats out of hell, his consistency stood out.

I followed him from Concord to Leichhardt, and we both pulled over into a right hand lane to turn off towards Petersham, when suddenly, a blonde tossled head pops up!!! There is only one place that head could have been for the past six kilometres!!

Oh my god!! I laughed. Well, at first I followed for a little while to see if there was anyway I could have missed her earlier, but nope, not a chance. In the middle of slow moving peak hour traffic. No wonder he was driving like he had his bum clenched!!

We both travelled along the same road for a little longer, and I desperately hoped she would do something terribly choice, like wipe her mouth with the back of her hand or something, but no, or at least, not before I had to turn off towards home.

What a cack!

Came across this when I was looking for a notebook to write in... it is winter here at the moment. Clear blue skies, but only (well, only for Sydney, anyway 17 degrees C) during the day. I wrote this last year, but maybe it will warm up my evening a little.



I'm waiting for a tyre to be fitted. It is the first hot day of summer, although in fact it is still spring. 30 degrees C, and Sydney has a haze about it on a day like today... a haze that is compounded by my lack of sleep, and lack of natural adaptation to the heat. I am fair. Very fair. And my eyes water and sting in the harsh direct light of a Sydney summer. A day like today, and my choice of a sleeveless shirt will, no doubt, mean red-sore burnt arms by the end of the day, no matter how much I endeavour to keep in the shade.

The smell here at the tyre shop is bitter. A dirty rubber smell, aggravated by heat. It claws into the nostrils and clings, unwanted, but unwilling to let go. The bitterness rests at the back of my throat and no amount of water that I'm sipping from the small plastic cup will wash it away, until I leave this place.

A Saturday like today holds a promise. It is before the constant, inescapable heat of the months' long summer has worn us down; today is about expectation... positive, optimistic, a whole summer of something to look forward to. It is the first tentative moments of sun on skin that brings a sense of peace and well being, at least until the skin reddens, and burns, and in a week's time peels red raw.

Summer in Sudney has a sting in its tail. Yes, it is about hot salty days on the beach, sand gritting the sweaty folds of our oiled bodies. It is about barbeques in the lingering evening heat. It is about holidays, swimming pools, the hum of fans and airconditioners. As a child it was about sprinklers and the itchy skin from rolling about on our buffalo grass lawn. But as we enter into yet another summer of the longest drought in Australia's written history, sprinklers are no longer an option. And perhaps air conditioned rooms and the latest Nintendo games hold much more appeal for today's children than the water fights and yapping dogs and cricket in the street that we shared as our parents drank a beer on the neighbour's patio.

The Sting. Drought. Although not season dependent, it becomes glaringly obvious in the summer months. What water there was is scorched dry, water needing to be shipped in to both homes and stock, for those not on town water. And water restrictions for us townies, although somehow the inconvenience of unwashed cars and gardens watered in the dark seems petty when faced with the news bytes of starving sheep, cattle bogged and marooned in the deadly clay exposed by the receding banks of dams; the tears in the stoic farmer's eyes as he shoots his animals, his past, his future, his breeding programme in tatters, the Banks hovering for their loan repayments, the crows perched waiting for the weakened lambs... not even waiting for their deaths before plucking out their soft moist eyes.

Summer in Australia.

Snakes, spiders, sharks, box jellyfish, road toll rising over the Christmas holidays, and flies flies flies. Bushfire, each year skirting the cities once thought of as safe. Devouring suburbs. No long an avoidable problem confined to 'the country', it has struck the heart of Sydney's suburbs on a regular basis over the last 15 years.

In 1994 I was living at Freshwater beach. In the water for an evening swim after work, and the sky was yellow, ash floated in the foamy waves around me as the suburbs of Sydney realised that complacence will not be tolerated for long in the Australian landscape.

Yet, for all that, as I sit here, my face flushed with heat, my bare arms enjoying the respite of the slight cool breeze and the shade of the building... for all that, I look towards this summer with anticipation. And hope. And appreciation of all it promises.