I really don’t have much to say.

I’ve spent my weekend trying to keep my head down and not spend any cash (well tried, anyway). I read some new blogs (added to my sidebar) and am yet again amazed at the talent that is out there for the reading. It’s both inspirational and perhaps a little intimidating. How do they find a way to make their day-to-day lives simply leap off the page. I’d be afraid if I told you all about my day-to-day stuff, I’d be liable for all the bad backs incurred from sliding off your chairs in a boredom-induced coma. I chatted online to some friends. I watched some tennis. (hooley dooley, wasn’t that Safin/Hewitt game a goodie! Now what do I have to do to get a Safin Clone in time for my birthday?) My mother came over and tamed the rampant garden a little. I tinkled on the keys just enough to realise that I might never get beyond a 6yo level. but I’ll still enjoy it *grins* And then I read some more online writing. Would kill for a coffee right now, but as it’s 11.30, that would mean I’d be lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, praying for sleep, knowing that I had only 5 hours, 4:45 hours, 4:30 hours, 4:15 hours, 4:00 hours, 3:45 hours, till I had to wake up. So I’ll avoid the coffee.

I will be working back at the comfy undie place again for the next week or so… perhaps you’d like to hear a little about that? And I have some more stories of the past (it feels like that is where my life is at the moment) so I’ll pull my finger out and get them written.

Hope you’ve all had a great weekend (I’ll be reading about them!).

It's Genetic

Blame this story on Wendyas her comment reminded me of this little story.

When I was growing up, my father rode motorbikes. Very occassionally I would be taken on the back of one. I think this is where my love of speed may have come from. It is probably genetic as well.

Anyway, one day, when I was about 9, my father was riding home from work, and having stopped off at the shops, was leaving the car park (probably at a furious rate of knots, knowing him) when a car reversed out of its spot and knocked him off the bike. Or should I say, knocked the bike onto him. Basically, he lowsided, but the bike landed on him, pinning his ankle under the foot peg, and he skidded a great distance on his butt. He was only wearing jeans, so they wore out pretty quickly. He was taken off to hospital, and experienced the humiliation of having to spend his time face down as the new nurse stopped everyone that passed by to show them her handy work at cleaning up his shredded buttocks.

He was able to come home on crutches, as his ankle, although gouged and bloodied, was not broken.

At this point I should probably explain that my father is not a small man. In those days he seemed colossal (especially to me and my sister). He was 6'3" and a solid build. He was a policeman, so he knew how to use his size in a way that could intimidate. And he was also not a patient man. Being limited to the uncoordinated hop-step-hop-step of the crutches infuriated him.

The house we were living in at the time was a pretty conventional post war brick home, 2 bedrooms and a long corridor that ran up the centre to the bathroom. Leading from the tiled bathroom to the carpeted hallway was a small lip... you can see where this is going.

My father had been to the bathroom, and as he left, both crutches caught on this lip, and he slowly, ever so slowly, began falling forwards. There was nothing for him to grab onto on either side of the hallway, and the only word that could encapsulate the moment was "TIIIIIIMBER".

I doubt very much whether my sister or I would have been brave enough to laugh, but my mother (a nurse, no less, the compassionate profession *cough*) was in tears, howling with laughter.

Suffice to say, my father did not see the humour in it.

I might have inherited his ungainliness, but thank god I got her sense of humour!

Have I mentioned what a clumsy klutz I am?

I just fell down my front steps. Don't worry, there aren't many of them, but enough to bruise and take off a layer of skin. I was walking out in the dark (about midnight) to get some towels from the dryer to make up a bed for my unwell cat, and I turned as I walked out to make sure no kittens were sneaking out behind me. Over I went, like a sack of the proverbial. And I just lay there, not sure if I was going to laugh or cry. I opted for the former. It would have looked hilarious from the perspective of the houses opposite me! They would have seen me walking, walking, walking, GONE. hehehehe

Ah well, just add them to the tally of bruises that I always carry around with absolutely no clue as to how I got them.

A MidAfternoon Dream

I am sitting in a train carriage. The trains in Sydney have a vestibule area where the doors open, with seats positioned along the walls of the carriage, and stairs that go to upper and lower areas where there are rows and rows of seats. I was sitting near the opening door, looking out the window on other side of the carriage. The train is travelling along, and a man comes in from the stairs. He has a shaved head, although the dark hair is casting a shadow as it grows through, and he is wearing saffron robes, like a Tibetan monk. In his hands is a writhing, aggressive snake. He holds it behind its head with his right hand, and holds the body with his left. It can still turn its head slightly, and it is twisting around trying to escape him, trying to bite him, lunging at anyone that gets near it.

I stand and quietly go to the door that connects the train carriages. It is an older style train that actually has a door handle and hinged door rather than the newer "ke-cherrrrr" types that open automatically. I don’t say anything, but open the door and hold it open, stepping back to allow a clear view of the door. The saffron-robed man walks there and gently throws the snake from the train [ok, even in my dreams I don’t condone harm to animals].

When the man turns back, I realise that I know him. I knew him when he was a boy. We were very close friends when we were children. [No, I don’t actually know him, but I did in the dream, if that makes sense.] I am so excited to see him that I rush over to him. I am astounded that he has become a man of religion as he was such a trouble-maker as a child, but he exudes calmness. I hug him tightly to me, crying, and running my hands over his face, trying to still see to small boy in him. Initially he holds me innocently, but I realise the hug is turning more to an embrace. I can smell the skin of his neck and my hands on his face are becoming slower and gentler. I feel his erection pressing against my belly and I am surprised, but not unpleased. Our faces are so close, and he is beginning to press against me more rhythmically. I turn my face to him and try to kiss him, but he constantly pulls just far enough away to keep away from my lips, without actually breaking the embrace. His movements are becoming more and more frantic and I’m beginning to get very frustrated that he won’t kiss me. Then he finishes. He steps back and gives me a look of such disdain, such contempt, that in that moment I hate him. I take my bottle of lemonade that is suddenly in my hand and I empty the contents over his head and then step off the train.

What does this mean? Other than I shouldn’t have naps on hot afternoons after eating chocolate.

Resolutions for the non-resolute

I am not the sort of person who makes New Years’ Resolutions. I don’t see the point in making a lot of rash commitments that I just know I’ll be lucky to see through to January. If I want to do something, well I will do it, eventually. I don’t need 1 January to be the starting date.

Having said that, I was stuck staring at a computer screen with nothing to do today for a good couple of hours, so I started just jotting down some ideas of things that I have in the back of my mind that I’d like to do in the near future. (I suppose that’s the next five years, in my mind.)

Get my bike and my full licence (finally)
I’ve had this one on the back burner for a while now. I have gone as far as getting my Ls for the bike, but just need to get the old cashflow together enough to buy the bike. That is happening this year. I’m not sure if I will go with a basic little 250cc, or a larger 500cc that qualifies under the LAM scheme, like an E5… it might be more comfortable for someone one my height and *cough* frame.

Photography
I want to start to do more creative things again, and the first step I can do towards this is get back into photography again. I have everything for a home dark room and I just need to do the grunt work of tidying up my laundry, something I could finish in a couple of weekends. I have a reasonable digital camera as well (it’s just a point and shoot but it’s handy) and Photoshop is something I haven’t played with for far too long.

Life Drawing
There was a time when I would go to classes all the time. I am not a talent, but I enjoy the act of feeling the charcoal on paper. There is something very tactile about that medium.

Editing Course
I had wanted to do a writing course this year, but wasn’t able to pull the cash together for it. However, there is a course in Editing that I could do offsite. It would be good to get some formal recognition of my skills.

Rowing
It’s a long story, that I will have to tell one day, but I cannot do any impact exercise these days due to breaking my leg badly coming off a horse a couple of years ago. Even though I have ridden since, because I cannot get income insurance as a freelancer, I’ve decided to not get back into riding again seriously until I have permanent work (and sick pay!). So, what to do for exercise that is interesting but doesn’t involve running? And that I am not likely to break any bones doing? Then I thought of rowing. I used to drive past the rowing clubs on the way to work in the mornings and see them silently skim along the harbour inlets and think that it looked wonderful. There is no way I could do it at the moment. I am so unfit I would seriously do myself an injury. But having that as a goal could be just what I need to get motivated and into the gym down the road. I need something with a little competition involved. It is why I loved playing basketball and netball for so many years. And how can you knock a sport that insists you "Scull Scull Scull"?

Writing
Now that I have been (inconsistently) blogging for nearly a year, I think I am ready to start branching out a little and start working on some short stories. I might start a new page that is devoted purely to those story lines. I’ll keep you posted on that idea.

Geeeeetar
I was driving along Parramatta Road the other day, and saw a new music store had opened down in Annadale, near the Empire (and right next to the brothel… what, you didn’t know that was a brothel? Man, where have you been??). It’s called Music 101 if I recall correctly. The one thing I asked for when I left my husband (or when I finally accepted defeat, however you want to look at it) was one of his acoustic guitars. And although I drag it out and strum a few chords now and then, I am stuck on the F (yes, F for… ) chord. So it seems timely that a store that seems devoted to teaching beginners has opened so close to me. I shall investigate further.

Travel
One of the things that seems to tug at the metaphorical hem of my skirt a lot at the moment is the idea of travel. I haven’t been overseas. It seems odd, because all my friends are either currently living overseas, or have lived overseas for periods of years. Or are from other countries originally. I seem to attract, and be attracted to, well-travelled people. And yet I haven’t even made it off Australian shores yet. In part, I never felt that there was anyone I would want to travel with. I didn’t want to do it if it was a huge compromise, or worse, just reliving someone else’s adventures (as was my then-husband’s idea of dragging me around the UK and Europe to see all the places he had lived). I want to travel to places that seem ‘foreign’, like China and Vietnam and South America and Russia. Of course, I’d also like to stroll around Paris drinking coffee, and would love to ride a bike (of the motor variety) around Italy (except Rome where you would have to be suicidal). So I have decided that I am simply going to have to travel on my own. The language barrier frightened me, as I don’t have an ear for languages, but a friend told me she survived easily enough on the point and grunt method of communication. I can do that.
So my first step will be a short holiday on my own to New Zealand. Now most would argue that New Zealand isn’t overseas. However, for my first solo trip to a new country, I think it will be fine. I have driven long distances and stayed in other cities on my own in Australia, so I don’t see this being a problem. And once I’ve done it to New Zealand, I think the next step will be much easier.

I surprised myself at how many things I actually had stewing in the back of my brain. There were more, but this is a plenty long enough post.

And the year is already a week old...

I cannot tell you how incredibly boring I have been.

Well, I will try I suppose. But trust me, it is boring.

I've been working from home this week. I have been lucky enough to score a job with a large financial-type company doing powerpoint presentations for them. That isn't so lucky. I learnt to use that particular program due to my last 'proper' job, where I suppose I also learnt to push its boundaries as I was approaching it differently to how I may have if I had come from an admin background. I planned to never, ever, ever work with that program again once I walked away from the evil multinational, but dwindling work over December, and no work over Christmas has made swallow my pride. So I work on it, and tell myself to think of the money. Think of the money. Think of the money. And be grateful. And think of the money.

Working from home also reinforces that I need to have a job where I interact with people on some level during the day. For many people, working from home permanently would be an ideal, but for me, living alone, it is something I enjoy but I also see the danger that my already hermit-like behaviour could become beyond a joke. These are all good things to learn, to have reinforced, so when I finally get another 'proper' job (did you see how positive I was about that statement... I said 'when') I will know I want one where I work in a studio or office environment at least part of the time. If I could have my absolute dream, it would probably be a 50/50 mix of studio and home/other.

Next week I will be back in the comfy undie company (a reference my Australian friends will understand at least) so that's work for a fortnight. And then the big unknown again. But I'll worry about that later.

I wish there was more I could tell you. But I suppose if I'm honest, I feel a little numb at the moment. The television is overwhelmed with images of the tsunami. It is an overwhelming event to even consider. It took me two days before I could even bare to watch a news item on it, and when I did, I simply sat and cried and cried. But now, even though I want to know that people are recovering, that aid is getting through, that perhaps in 10 or 15 or 20 years there may be cities and villages where at the moment there is just destruction, I am finding that the continuous coverage is simply making me feel like a gawker at an accident. That there has been enough coverage of devastated people at their most vulnerable. Cover the event, cover the rebuilding, but let them grieve for their lost loved ones in private.

Sorry, this turned out much sadder than I had planned.

Happy New Year

I'm hoping that, for me, 2005 will be a year of personal achievements, and I wish that for all of you as well.

Enjoy your festivities.

Hooch.