Doh, a deer...

A birthday was survived, a weekend was enjoyed. Movies a-plenty. I whole-heartedly recommend both Ten Canoes and Pirates of the Carribean II. It was a nice family-oriented weekend (where my mother managed to push my buttons only a little by the end of Sunday). My guitar was guitar-ed (Violet Femmes on Mogadon), my hair was cut (exploded bob), a watch was bought (bling bling), plus some new clothes (boring but necessary).

Work is quiet, so I have set myself a project for when I am sitting twiddling my thumbs; I've bought some music theory workbooks and am working my way through. Just finished 1st grade, only five more to go (and won't they be doozies... I managed to scratch through on what I already knew, but from now on it's all going to be new stuff. Exciting, but the brain is a bit squelchy these days -- this will hopefully tone up the brain-flab a little).

What I'm about to say, I'd like to say in a hushed tone. Quietly. Quickly. So noone actually has a chance to hear it.

I'm going to have a singing lesson.

Yikes!! Talk about facing some really, REALLY scary stuff.

I am terrified of singing. I don't even try to sing when I'm alone. I mean, I am ALWAYS humming something, and making up silly songs to the cats, and always have a song running through my head, but what I mean is, I'll bung on a silly voice when I'm doing those things. I'll make a parody of myself. I never actually TRY to sing.

This could well be because I have a crap voice.

I've always been told I don't have a good voice. I know it. The rest of the world knows it. But what I am learning is, just because it is bad, doesn't mean I can't make it a bit better. Who cares if it will never be brilliant? I'd just like to have it be the best it can be. I'll accept my limitations, but to be so fearful of it, as I am now, that seems ludicrous to me.

So, I booked in for a singing lesson.

Ahem. I might cry. Actually, I usually DO cry when I try to sing. I think I have some weird ENT short circuit (ears nose throat). Which might explain why my nose often runs when I think of eating as well. Charming, huh!

So I shall be turning up, terrified, not able to let a peep out of my mouth, and crying. The POOR teacher!

I think this could be one of the hardest things I have ever done.

38's Alright, All right

As noticed by TinyHands, it is, indeed, my birthday. I am now officially closer to 40 than 35. That hurts a little. But then I remember that I'm actually just a big spoilt kid who seems to never grow up into an 'adult' and I feel a little better. And a tad more wrinkly.

I had a lovely lunch with some friends, and am about to scoff into pastries brought in by co-workers. Did I mention being spoilt?

Birthdays tend to be a time for reflection. A time to take stock of your life, compare your progress with the last year, the last decade. A time to consider your place in the world and where you want to be going by the next birthday.

Bugger that. I'm intent on ignoring all those big issues completely and just enjoy the superficial pleasures of food and drink and sweets. Eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow we... get a day older. Meh.

I tend to be a bit loose with my birthday treats to myself. I actually started giving myself treats a week ago.

Last Friday I was given an early mark from school work and decided to take a relaxing walk around Darling Harbour before heading home. I sat down on the opposite side of the harbour, on a bench, and watched the tourists go by. I even got to see a minor celebrity from a music geek show that I love, but he looked grumpy, so I respected his right to walk unaccosted.

While I was sitting there, contemplating what I actually wanted to do with my afternoon, I was approached by a very frail looking old man, pale, with protruding dentures that didn't look like they quite fitted him.

"Excuse me", he asked, in a heavy accent, "but are you German?" His watery blue eyes looked hopeful. "I saw you sitting here and was sure you must be, so I walked back to say hello."

I really wished in that moment I could have been able to make him happy. I think he was just lonely and wanted to talk with someone familiar. Unfortunately, I couldn't help. "No," I said, "I'm not German."

"Oh. I really thought you were. Oh well," he said, and he walked off.

I've always been mistaken for coming from somewhere else. Either another country; my best 'street' friend while growing up was Finnish, and everyone assumed he and I were twins. Or else from Sweden or Germany. My family is actually originally from Ireland, so I would say there was a great amount of Viking influence in my genetic makeup.

Even when people know I'm Australian, though, they always assume I've grown up in another suburb or another city. Somewhere richer. Posher. Which was rather funny considering I was brought up by a single parent in a suburb that, although now well regarded, was a little too close to the western suburbs when I was growing up. An address that had that "westie" taint to it. Which never bothered me at all. But still, it was funny seeing others that grew up there making all sorts of assumptions about me based on the way I spoke and my reasonable vocabulary (that has sadly diminished).

So, normally, people assume I am "other". Other to them, or other to those they assume are local. But this old man assumed I was "familiar". It was strange.

That is what I love about Sydney, though. It doesn't have a "face". It is not until people speak that you have a better indication of whether they have grown up in this city or not.

After my chat with the old German man, I decided that I was going to treat myself and headed off to the big music shop in town. I wanted to check out their printed music section. I could spend hours in there. I ended up buying some music theory books, and a book on vocal exercises to help actors and presenters, and a book on some of Jimi Hendrix's songs. I was feeling very happy about my little horde, and I headed off to a cafe for a late lunch. I found myself a spot where I could watch the people pass and settled into flicking through my books and enjoying people-watching.

My waiter was a handsome young man, typical of this cafe, where I'm sure they employ unemployed actors purely on looks. However, when he saw my Hendrix book, all composure left him and he threw up his hands, exclaiming "I love Hendrix!" I smiled at his enthusiasm, and he asked why I had the book. I explained I had bought and electric guitar recently and that I'd like to learn some of the songs. Any vestige of formality completely left him as he grinned wildly. "That's fantastic. That's so cool. I bought myself keys and I'm teaching myself. It's great!"

We laughed and chatted about music, and every time he passed my table he'd chat to me in a very familiar way.

Initially, I was caught up in his enthusiasm, but after a little while I began to feel very self conscious that this rather gorgeous, very young, man was paying me so much attention. I didn't really understand it. And I began to withdraw as I became more shy. I'd forgotten myself for a moment, forgotten that I'm no longer 24 and attractive, and then the reality crashed around me. I don't know why I had to let it. I should have pushed back. But I began to feel more and more awkward. I blush now when I think of the conversation. I did find him very attractive. I do feel foolish.

Anyway, the following day I had my guitar lesson (which I'd missed as my teacher had been away for nearly a month), and it was great fun. Frustrating. Humbling. But fantastic fun, always. I am so glad I overcame my hesitations and gave myself this chance to learn guitar. And afterwards I took myself off to lunch and as a second treat to myself, bought a CD and a DVD. The DVD, coincidentally, was of PJ Harvey's live tour of Uh Huh Her. Coincidence that I dreamt about her only a week or two ago?

Can't wait for this weekend. I am going shopping for a few odds and ends for the house, plus getting a hair cut (the mop is a little feral) and drinks with friends, and lunch with another friend. Of course, it IS only Wednesday. Better get through this week first.

If this is 38, I'm enjoying it so far!

The time comes around again, and I think, nothing changes, it all stays the same. Numb.

But then I scrape back a bit of the callouse, and below I see the pink flesh of happiness, and things learnt,of people met, of laughter shared, but then I see the small scar running through it, of people lost, happily, as they moved on with lives and loves and new jobs and new cities and new countries, and the scar runs raw where I see friendships that have fractured and been lost to me through accident and tears and heartache.

And I remember that maybe it is easier to just think, nothing changes, it all stays the same. Numb.

Things you should try to avoid saying to your boss.

Mr Boss:
Morning Hooch, how are you?

Hooch:
I'm well, Mr Boss, except I have a mouth full of nuts and don't seem to be able to swallow.

Not much you can say after that.

I haven't written anything in my notebook for a month. The exact time I was working in a particular studio. I don't think that's a coincidence.

Anyway, I'm raiding a few bits that I jotted down before my brain was sucked out via the keyboard in the energy-suck job.

Message to the world

If you want to say something to me, say it straight.

Want an answer? Ask the question.

Want me gone? Let me know. Want me back? Ditto.

Don’t assume I will understand from hints and cryptic words. I won’t.

A hand on a thigh might mean many different things - expect me to assume the most innocent. A ranted message to the world won’t reach me; if you want to say something, find me, email me, text me, phone me, but don’t assume I know the message is fore me. I’ll simply be assuming that it isn’t.

If it isn’t worth the risk of saying it straight, it isn’t worth saying at all.


Answers

If you could figure out a way to have all the answers today, would you?

I once had a friend, a biologist, who was also a Christian. I once asked him (because these were the kinds of conversations we would have) if he thought we would ever know all the answers, and he said yes. I thought it was a sad response. He thought it was the only rational conclusion. I wondered how this scientific belief managed to fit in with his faith. If humans eventually know every thing, then what room is left for God? Isn’t the idea that you have a belief in something without tangible proof of its existence?

We eventually stopped talking. My questions began to unsettle his beliefs; my conclusions upset him. I don’t make people comfortable.

I don’t want all the answers. I don’t feel the need for most of the answers. I’m a relatively practical person - I like pulling things apart to see how they work. At the same time, though, just sitting back and watching the beauty of something, accepting that even if I was to know how it works, I’m still just a part of the things around it and no more important because of that knowledge. Even if that knowledge allows me to alter something, that isn’t the same as ultimate control.

We are temporal beings. We do not have anything ultimate about us. And I find that comforting.

I dreamt that I was PJ Harvey, hugely pregnant, standing in a bank queue.

Behind me was a nice, ordinary type of chap who was a stranger but he told me he liked my music.

While we were standing there, I had a strange, constant sensation, like the little person inside me was standing on my bladder. The bank staff rushed about, telling me I was in labour. I told them it didn't hurt, just felt... odd... but they bundled me into a back room (with the nice, ordinary man in tow). When we got there I laughed and said it would all be all right, and picked up this cool white gibson-style electric guitar and started playing like crazy.

Make any sense to anyone?