Hooch's Spot

here?

2008-01-17T17:09:00.000+11:00

Pfft

2008-01-17T17:05:00.000+11:00

Let's try to get that link to work... HERE

She's back

2008-01-17T17:00:00.000+11:00

And she's moving here.

2007-03-01T17:42:00.000+11:00

I suppose they do say that a week can be a long time – a lot can change in that time.

For me, a fortnight has seemed a lifetime. Before, he wasn’t there. Maybe in the future he won’t be either. But in this moment, he is there. The thought keeps running through my mind, "I’m used to being alone". Used to it. Prefer it if the choice is time spent with someone who makes me feel more alone. But what happens when it is with someone who makes you feel very much, comfortably, not alone?

A fortnight is such a long time. The person I am each time I meet him is subtly different when we part. Not changed… softened. I’m the same, perhaps even more me, because some of the defences that I use to keep hidden away are sliding away themselves. I try to think just of the moment. I try to not think of any more than how I am feeling right then. I try not to second guess myself. Or what is happening. What is happening?

It sounds like something with a momentum of its own. Something I may not have control over. I can influence aspects of this journey, but it is happening, done, started, and none of it can be undone.

He is nervous, by nature perhaps, but still enthusiastic. We are both realistic that there are no guarantees. And I think there are many things that we need to learn about each other. About ourselves. But that’s something I now concede. No matter how much we think we know another person, we can never know them completely. People aren’t static. What makes us a successful species is our ability to change and adapt. It is also what makes us unknowable, even to ourselves, at times.

I don’t know that I even want to feel that I completely know a person anymore. It feels like an unhealthy, unbalanced situation. Free will is unpredictable and therefore uncertain. But who wants something that isn’t given and experienced in free will?

Betrayal

2007-02-15T22:35:00.000+11:00

I didn't mean for it to come back.

But it came back, with a vengeance. My body has revolted, ignoring the agreement that it made with my mind to lock away my libido and let me get on with life calmly.

How pathetic am I that all it takes is a slight show of interest, from someone who hasn't even seen me yet, and it all unravels. I can't stop the thoughts; everywhere I look I see things that titilate me. Music, songs, voices, it all converts to caresses, so near-real that my skin craves the touch.

I don't want to be like this I tell myself, but myself calls me a liar.

The truth is I love every dirty grunty sweaty moment of it. Furtive glances at tanned bodies. Thrilled sensations of half-remembered touches. Featherlight or bruising and raw -- it all makes me feel that tell-tale deep ache that soon enough radiates into an undeniable throb.

Eyes ahead, my focus on my book is a lie. My attention is elsewhere, no matter how much willpower I use to call myself back to the words, sentence, paragraph.

An imagined sigh in my ear is all it takes. I'm pulled back into the skin-lust that has been denied for so long.

2007-01-21T16:30:00.000+11:00

Written yesterday

Roughly 30°C and a gorgeous day, and I finally make my way out into the owrld mid-afternoon. I’ve spoilt myself with a café brunch, and sat there over a coffee while working out a shopping list that roughly stays with within the budget I’m going to have to live within this week. Next week’s budget will be even tighter, but the I think of the riches I have at hand, and I really cannot complain (or feel no need to).

Without the distractions of consumption (and how I love consumption, guilty pleasure), I have many things to concentrate on: new songs to learn for singing; new (and old) songs on the guitar, a blues harmonica to begin to learn to play; a recording studio unit to play with (and figure out before next weekend when on eof my singing teacher’s other students may be coming over to record something); a smorgasbord of CDs to listen to (and organise into the new shelves I have for them); a stack of books waiting to be read; editing workbooks to be completed; books on self-esteem to be read, exercises done; cats to be patted; long baths to be had; bike rides to be taken; T-shirt designs to b e thought up; tatoo designs to be researched; ideas for new projects to be written down; posts for the blog to b e thought up; generations of family photos to be scanned; new photographs to be taken; interesting ad hoc song lyrics and guitar tabs to be googled; and a selection of TV programs to be watched.

And in there, I shall fit working on a new assignment for a design studio that I haven’t worked for before. New people, new location, a reasonably long assignment. It is a good time for me to break old habits. I’m looking forward to this week.

Wallowing Alert

2007-01-16T00:40:00.000+11:00

I’ve never claimed this to be anything other than a place for me to purge personal thoughts, to sift through them, slow them down, hoping I might find a nugget of sense amongst the slops… when really all there is, is dirty muddy water.

I had a strange weekend, one where I spent the most part of 60 hours straight asleep in an attempt to escape the migraine that overtook me on Thursday night. It wasn’t the worst, or anywhere near it. I didn’t wish to die. But it was exhausting.

Sunday afternoon saw me finally creep out of my bed feeling shaky and foggy and dizzy, but the pain had retreated, as had the nausea. It was about this time I got a phone call from Malcolm, the ex. He wanted to know what to do with some very old tax papers of mine he had found amongst his things while he was packing. Not long after that, I heard someone at my gate, and there he was, an unannounced visitor, with the papers under his arm (even though we’d agreed on him mailing them). It was so strange, and there was no time to talk, so we said a quick, awkward goodbye, and then he shook my hand. It was rather comical.

And then he was off, climbing into the cab that was taking him and his girlfriend off to the airport, to their new life in Melbourne, and I sat there, feeling sad. Even the friendship we’d managed to salvage has now come to an end.

It is all well timed. Our divorce was finalised today.

Last night I lay in bed, unable to sleep (not surprising, considering) as the time flicked over in its red squared numbers. 1.00 2.00 2.30 3.30 4.30

I lay there and the betraying tears squeezed out of my eyes, even though I tried to deny to even myself that they were there.

There’s noone left. Noone who knew me when I was married. Noone who knew me before then. Noone who knows any of my history. Noone who knew me as an angry and shy teenager, as a flirtatious twenty-something, as a person who was literally bowled over by a love she didn't know she was capable of. A person with a strength to walk away from a life that was damaging her. Noone who lived these things with me. Noone who might be able to look at me today and maybe still see a little of the potential that was there with youth.

The last friend from that time moved to Melbourne, herself, two months ago, with a promise to phone and email once she had settled in. I’ve not heard a word from her since. Which makes me ponder that friendship, too, really.

I lay there alone and thought "I am alone." With my cats for company, tolerated (just) by my immediate family.

How can someone end up 38 years old without a single friend?

Happy New Year

2006-12-31T22:45:00.000+11:00

And, without wanting to sound too Hallmarkish, I hope 2007 brings peace to us all, personally, and on the international stage. (Call me naive, but I can still hope for it.)

I'm looking forward to reading some inspirational words in the next year (and who knows, maybe even writing... well, something!), as well as finally getting some things in my life into order that have been chaotic for far too long. No, I won't bore you with New Year's resolutions. Let's just say that these changes are no longer optional.

So, I hope you all enjoy the change of the year in good fashion, just as you would wish it to be.

cheers,

Hooch.

2006-12-20T14:13:00.000+11:00

Work has been very quiet, and I've been trying to enjoy the free time, catching up on some much needed housework and just relaxing.

My mind wanders, sometimes, to thoughts that make me feel anxious. Mainly thoughts of money, and the lack of it, or my inability to not spend it, and the people that would very much like me to hand it over to them, if I actually had it [waves to the taxman]. But I try not to get too panicky about it (although even now I can feel the knot of anxiety swelling in my stomach). I take to my tapping exercise that my hypnotherapist gave me... accupuncture points I tap as I repeat self-affirming statements. "Even though I'm in a financial shit-hole, I am a valid person and worthy of love." You get the idea.

Christmas is also the time when I receive a card from my father and his wife. Since marrying wife #3 (who is a very nice woman, and my whole family wonders how long until she will see through his charm to the manipulative person behind it) the cards now come with either a present or cash. I feel uncomfortable. The gifts are very obviously instigated by W3, who comes from a close family where things like celebrating Christmas are very important. And I would be a liar if I didn't confess that the money helps over a time when work is very scarce. But it doesn't change the fact that he and I have reached an impasse in our relationship, and these gifts feel shallow and dishonest.

I've mentioned before that my father was someone I spent most of my life trying to appease, to make things easy so that he might spend time with me and my sister, and that there was always the underlying sense that if I didn't do this, things would fall in a heap. And that, when he had a breakdown and his second marriage came to a nasty end, I was the one he leaned on, talked to, saying very hurtful things about how much he regretted the mistakes he'd made before his second marriage, how everything before W2 was a mistake (ah, that would be me and my mother and my sister??). And I in turn would cry on my then-husband's shoulder, a hurt child wanting the love of her father still, and instead getting even more rejection from him.

During this time, something in me shifted. Hardened. Healed. I'm not sure, exactly, but whatever it was, it made me really step back from my relationship from my father and examine it. I realised that I let him treat me in a way that I would not have accepted from any other man in my life, and I decided that I wasn't going to tolerate it any more. So, once he married W3 (coincidentally at the same time that then-husband and I were going through our marriage breakdown) and then decided to move 1500km away, I felt it was time for me to let him go, to resign myself to the fact that I would never be able to rely on him or show any form of vulnerability. At about this time I asked him not to ring me any more.

It sounds harsh, maybe even cruel, but I was trying very hard to pull myself back together after my life had fallen into a heap [marriage break up, broken leg, redundancy, all within 12 months] and I simply didn't have the emotional energy to cope with these hours-long phone conversations in which he didn't even stop to ask how I was doing... simply used me as a sounding board for the things in his life he was still unhappy about [W2 being a bitch, in his words, and his kids from his second family not reacting favourably to his moving so far away while they're still in school, for example].

So, I asked him not to call anymore. He could email, I said, because that gave me time to reply, much easier for me to work with considering my erratic work hours, etc. But phoning simply was difficult because I was never sure when I would be home and I couldn't talk while I was at work anymore.

I've never received a single email. I get a card for my birthday and a card for Christmas, and I always write, thanking him and W3, and leave it open ended so he could reply, but he never does. It seems we are alike. He won't talk to me unless it is under his terms. And I cannot afford to talk to him unless I can feel it is going to be something more than him using the nearest convenient emotional crutch. I just don't have the resources to do that. I think I'm worth more consideration.

So, I look at the card, the flowery sentiments printed, the short message hand written, the postal order, and wonder whether, this year, I should simply tell him not to bother anymore. But I can't do that. That would feel too cruel. Maybe deep down I still hope that he might just get it one day, and I don't want to cut that last tenuous thread of connection. Plus, if I did, then I know he'd cut off my sister as well, and I can't do that to her. She still has hope, where I just have weary resignation.

On days like today, I don't know how I can be a good person and still maintain my integrity. I really don't know the best thing to do.

2006-12-15T01:39:00.000+11:00

I read an article recently [no, I can't remember actually when, or, for that matter, what publication it was in... trust me, it was sure to have been credible]... where was I? Oh, yeah, right. I read an article recently that said roughly 80% of people tilt their head to the right when they kiss, and about 20% to their left. [Did you all just do a sample tilt?]

I guess that would make me a goofy-lipped kisser?

2006-12-14T09:34:00.000+11:00

So, the question – what have I been up to?

Well, for a while, I worked. A lot. Until a week ago, when it all suddenly stopped. Not even a slow down, just a hard, sharp blow. It’s the nature of the beast, I tell myself. Freelancers don’t work over summer. The work dries up. Companies slow down, shut down, people stop thinking about printing documents and more about holidays on the coast. I think about how long I’m going to be stretching my dwindling savings. But it won’t stop me from enjoying all the great things about summer, and I’m determined to make the most of the quiet time to catch up on my guitar practice, my singing practice, and all the little projects I’d dreamt of during the time when I was so busy I could barely imagine having the time to even take a day off to just relax.

Right, so, I’m still learning the guitar. I mean, I will always be learning, But I’m still torturing my (possibly chemically induced) ever-tolerant guitar teacher. The Rolling Stones are currently receiving my twanging attention.

Singing. This has been a revelation. Originally I thought it was going to be about facing my fear. And it was, and it will be. But what I hadn’t expected was the pure joy that I feel from singing. I feel proud every time I sing in front of my teacher, because I know how far I have already come by being able to sing comfortably in front of my teacher. But the process of singing, the sensation of standing and allowing my voice out, of learning to trust it, to begin to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could be heading somewhere where I’ll be able to not just sing for myself, but be able to share it with others, in a choir, or… well, who knows. At this stage, it is just exhilarating hearing the new strength my voice has achieved from month to month. It will never be a pretty, sweet voice. But it is strong, it is deep, it is distinctive, and it is mine.

One of the people who has been the most supportive of me while I’ve begun learning these new skills has been my ex-husband. It isn’t surprising, as music is one of his great loves, and it was something we have always had in common. We’ve done our best to remain friends, which has become easier over the years as the sting of the separation faded. And we finally formalised our separation last month. We each took a day off work and went into the Family Court building in the city, filled in the paperwork, dotted the i's, crossed the t’s, laughed a lot (in a place where I don’t think there is much laughter). There was a tinge of sadness, which we both acknowledged, because even though we are much happier living our own lives now, we did go into our marriage with the best of intentions, with hopes, with love. It just wasn’t enough. The divorce should be finalised on the 15th of January.

Which is, coincidentally, the time he will be moving down to Melbourne with his girlfriend. He rang and told me on Monday. I think it’s a great move for him, and I think it is a good move for them as a couple. But still, he is my second friend in a matter of months to move to Melbourne, and I will miss our lunches and CD splurges. We’ve seen the absolute best and worst in each other. We can now be honest with each other in a way that I think few friends can be. I really wish him happiness.

And I wish it for myself. Which is why I began seeing a therapist who specialises in a form of hypnotherapy. I’ve finished the course, which is a recommended four sessions, and I am feeling calmer, although I can’t claim any dramatic changes in my behaviour or outlook. That’s ok. Different people respond differently, on different timelines. If it slowly allows me to feel more confident, and reduces my tendency to self-sabotage, I will be elated. The therapist also gave me some other techniques to help reduce anxiety and to help reduce critical, limiting self-talk. It’s now up to me to help myself.

Wow, could I make this post any longer?

Why, yes, yes I can.

But I won’t. See, I am a nice person after all, despite the rumours.

2006-12-13T23:41:00.000+11:00

When I was a kid, my sister and I would spend the school holidays with my grandparents. My mother worked, so it was the only alternative. And I now know how lucky I was. It was an opportunity to tramp through paddocks and play with ponies, which I thought of as the norm when I was young. I now know better.

After the long summer holidays, six weeks of horses, heat, flies, the distinct smell of burning eucalypt on the air, as many books as I could lay my hands on, and, admittedly, the slightly twisted logic of my grandmother, it always felt odd returning home. Usually it would only be a day or two before school started up again.

Returning to school, having not seen any of my friends for all that time, I’d be nervous. Would we still be friends? Would we be in the same classes? Would I still be a dag? Would any of the boys like me at all? Probably I should have been thinking about doing better in my classes, but, in honesty, I didn’t. I wish I could say I’ve changed. I haven’t.

So that’s what this feels a bit like. I’ve been away from this blog for such a long time, that every time I thought of finally returning, it felt different, strange, unfamiliar. Like I could only disappoint. I’d have an idea of writing something, but then it would slip, easier, it seemed, to remain unwritten.

Well, I’m back. School settled back into a routine after the first couple of weeks, and the holidays were quickly forgotten. I’m sure it will be the same here. (Of course, until it does, I’ll be wondering, "Are we still friends? Are we still reading the same blogs? Am I still a dag? [undoubtedly] Will any of the boys like me at all? [eh, not such a big concern anymore]"

2006-11-21T02:15:00.000+11:00

1. Seven Days of Hooch

Dentist - Divorce - Dentist again - Therapist for hypnotism - Doctor

Why spread over a year what you can do in one week?

2. They seek me out...

1 7.14% spiteful moon tattoo
1 7.14% hate me strumming pattern blue october
1 7.14% hate me, blue october strum pattern
1 7.14% foolish crush
1 7.14% what is phrase there but for the grace of god could....?
1 7.14% my first condom
1 7.14% greataupairs.com
1 7.14% lats cast
1 7.14% music jokes list muso type people
1 7.14% winking to attract someone attention
1 7.14% i want to cover up a wile coyote tattoo with another tattoo
1 7.14% reclusive and happy
1 7.14% positive sense of self for sitting down for lunch
1 7.14% broke my leg dominatrix

Certainly an interesting mix... I'm afraid they would have all been rather disappointed that my little blog did not hold the answers to what they were seeking.

Waiting...

2006-11-05T15:45:00.000+11:00

I'm sitting at work, waiting for clients to send through their amendments. I take the moment to peruse my much ignored blog. I'm reminded that I was keeping a list of reading and movies seen this year, and I'm disappointed with myself that I've allowed it to lapse. But then I wonder how many books I've actually managed to complete since my last update. I have a lot of briefly dipped into books, but I think my completion rate has been pretty dismal of late. [I've just managed to finish one, and at last have a reason to update! So Many Selves by Gabrielle Carey, co-author of Puberty Blues, which opened my eyes to a whole different world of teenage experience when I was but a young thing.]

My movie-going track record has been equally disappointing. I don't recall the last one I've managed to see... even though there have been plenty I mentally noted that I'd like to see, by the time I got to planning to see it, it had finished at the cinemas. I'm going to remedy this, though. Soon. Tomorrow, even!

I can hear a co-worker on the phone to the client. I shall have to cut this short.

2006-10-06T03:01:00.000+10:00

My world’s upside-down, and I like it that way.

Approaching midnight, and I’m sitting down to a main meal – it might be breakfast, although I’ve been awake for four hours now. And I had something resembling breakfast at ten this morning, although it was actually my last meal before I went to bed. Like I said, upside-down.

I’ve been out tonight!

The (oo-Fey, ighters-Fey, in an attempt to avoid all those google searches) played their last acoustic show in Sydney tonight, and I managed (long story) to get a ticket. I also managed to oversleep this evening, so I was 15 minutes late, but the night, the show, was inspiring.

I’m not a demonstrative person. I don’t wave my hands in the air (like Ms Point-at-herself who sat in front of me… what is that about?). I’m not inclined to jump up and dance in front of everyone. I like to lose myself in the show, the lights, the music. I try to imagine the show with just me in the audience. Of course, it’s nice to see the crowds appreciating what I’m appreciating, and I know the bands enjoy the hooting and banter with the crowd; it’s just not in me to be so outspoken. I’d rather watch the playing, the strum patterns, the chords, the exuberant enjoyment they all seem to get from playing on stage.

And where I might once have fantasised about sleeping with the lead singer (*gag* I know, but I can’t deny it), now I fantasise about jamming with him.

Travelling the world, playing music… I’m sure there are many downsides to the lifestyle, but I can understand why so many make it their dream.

Dreams. I dreamt this afternoon (upside-down world) that I was buying love-birds, and I wanted the nicest, biggest, most well appointed cage for them, but no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, I could not help but see that it was still a cage, and it made me feel uncomfortable, like I shouldn’t have the birds, because they wouldn’t be safe from my cats without the cage, but they couldn’t truly be happy within it…

It’s going to be a strange night; I’ll be staying awake but don’t have anywhere to be. I’m not working until Friday night, but to sleep too soon will upset my sleep patterns yet again.

I like the idea of the city after everyone has gone to sleep. It changes character. Many people find it intimidating, fearful. I am told to be careful, that I might be mugged, or worse, because it is late. So why is it that I feel just as safe, if not moreso, in the quiet of the night? The thing to fear at night is the mob-mentality, loosened by alcohol, but they are the same people walking around during the day, and in greater numbers then, so is that why crowds unnerve me far more than empty streets?

I could be nocturnal, except for the need to be quiet. I respect my neighbours’ need for sleep. If only I lived far from people… a sound-proof house would be fantastic!

Thoughts about the show tonight:

1. It is DG’s band. Or, at least, he is the overwhelming spokesperson. Others may sing some songs, but he captains the ship.
2. He’s a funny bastard. (That’s a quote (roughly) from the SMH, but I reiterate it because it’s true!)
3. Is it time to confront your addiction if you can’t go two hours without a smoke/drink/text message/loo break? I pay $150 for a ticket, my arse is planted for the entire show!
4. DG is cool! Alright, that puts me in the same basket as all ceiling-pointing bogans (what can I say, I can’t deny my roots :P ) but, again, it’s true. He’s funny and he’s cool.
5. Is there something about me that means every time (oh so rarely) that I go to a show, I end up behind the only woman in the seated theatre who thinks standing, dancing, pointing to herself as though she’s the subject of every song (ooooh yeaaaaah, it’s allll about me, baby!!) is a reasonable thing to do? Or the two woman who stood in the aisle next to me and talked loudly throughout the last two songs – I don’t care if you have backstage passes… just fuck off outside to talk about how badly your boyfriend is treating you!!
So, what's the time limit that you can let these people behave inconsiderately before you lean forward and give them an electric jolt that renders them unconscious for the remainder of the show? Anyone know where I can get me one of those zappy jolting machines?? Or lessons on the Vulcan pinch that Mr Spock used so effectively???
6. Ahem
7. Just to prove how contrary I can be… how cool is it to be in the Opera House and hear the Concert Hall shaking with the stamping feet of bellowing fans beseeching an encore?
8. I confess I bought a FF songbook a few weeks ago – I can’t wait to get out the guitar and start murdering one of their songs.
9. What would it feel like to be backstage and hear the Concert Hall shaking with stamping feet, knowing that they wanted YOU!!

It sounds exciting, and I’m sure it is, but I think it would require an incredibly strong sense of self, a grounded-ness, to see it within the narrow confines of a show. The chipping away at privacy, the need to be pulled out of your private self/thoughts, and into the public self with every approach of a stranger who calls themselves a fan. You touch their lives in ways you can’t fathom, these people you don’t know, haven’t met, might not like, but to them there is a connection they have with you, and you need to recognise it, be grateful for it, because they are part of the stamping crowd.

The tug of war between selves would damage me. To rely on the consideration of others to respect your privacy. 98 per cent of people might do the right thing, but it only takes that two per cent to make y our life miserable.

I live in the world and touch noone. They are forced to live a more private, discrete, sheltered life, and yet they touch so many…

It’s one am. The coffee is strong. I won’t work tonight, and after this coffee, I’ll make my way home – perhaps to type this formless blathering up, resisting the urge to make senst of it, just to let it keep its rambling form. [Ed: successful!]

One am, in the dark of the night, in a 24-hour restaurant of dubious quality and excessive prices, surrounded by the straggling fans, the newly-dating couples putting off going home and facing the inevitable question… will I be having sex with you tonight, the over-dressed teenagers clinging to their adulthood before they return to their beds still made by their mothers. And lone people like me, sitting in a booth in the corner, scribbling like crazy, hoping the too-strong coffee will take the edge off the beers drunk over dinner/breakfast.

The night people wipe down the tables, tie up the ferries, sweep up the streets. They pick up the pieces of the almost grown up teenagers who don’t quite make it home tonight; a corner taken too fast, a gum tree too close. They clean the offices of the suits, those of the mob-mentality, all out celebrating their successful, profitable days. Bonuses, bourbon and the taste of victory, a mindset that doesn’t take no for an answer.

The night people; who drive us home, feed us, care for us when we’re vulnerable, clean up after us. Their world is upside-down, invisible. It’s a world I’ve barely touched, but it makes me feel at home.

Navel-gazing

2006-10-02T12:33:00.000+10:00

A head full of good music, a full tummy of yummy risotto, and a couple of beers in the sun, watching the world go by… life is pretty good!

If I’m honest (and I try to be that, if nothing else), I check out the people as they pass by my street-side table. The women, the men, the couples.

I figure they have something I’m lacking, and I’m curious about what that is. I look at the couples and wonder what it is about them that attracted one to the other, and vice versa. I look at the men that attract me, and wonder what that initial thing is about them that makes me want to take a second glance. And I wonder what kind of man might find me attractive, and there I falter…

Unless you count the creepy cab driver I had on Thursday night, or the security guard at the local cd shop, whom I suspect has suffered a brain injury in his lifetime, both of whom are well into their 60s, well, noone else has shown the remotest interest in knowing anything more of me than dealing immediately, and decidedly, in whatever matter it was that caused us to cross paths.

I can’t say that I’m surprised, and I don’t blame people for not wanting to do a ‘double-take’ when they meet me. I am many things that would not count favourably in the attraction stakes.

The first thing noticeable when meeting me is that I’m fat. Not a little chubby. Not a slight tummy over my jeans causing ‘jelly belly’. I am heavily overweight. It sits over a muscular and relatively tall frame, so I’m not even a ‘cute’ fat. I am physically intimidating. It would take an All Black front-rower to not fear me in full flight.

Of course, it’s not just the weight. It would be unfair to put the blame on the world for not seeing some inner-beauty in me because of my thunderous thighs (although I sometimes wonder whether I hang on to the kilos because it makes me ‘safer’).

That leads into the second seemingly noticeable impression people have of me. I’m self-reliant. That sounds like a good thing, but if it gets to the stage where you simply don’t let anyone near you because you don’t want to take the risk of disappointment, well, that’s becoming an issue too. Compounded with a lard-arse, the odds are quickly stacking against me.

It’s not that I actively push people away; I simply don’t expect them to be interested. And maybe that explains the people I’ve chosen in my past as both friends and lovers. They’ve been people very comfortable in centre stage, very comfortable as the subject of interest, and it has allowed me to happily [?] sit in the position of audience, not having to worry about too much attention being paid to me. If any attention came my way, I could deftly redirect it back to my friend or lover.

I was accused, during the last gasps of my marriage, born witness to by a counsellor years too late, I was accused of being emotionally withdrawn. I laughed at the time because any time I’d tried to share my fears with him, to be vulnerable with him, he’d turned it into an accusation that I wasn’t trying hard enough and that I’d upset him to have to hear these things from me. So even from my husband I learnt to keep myself hidden away where I wouldn’t embarrass, wouldn’t inflict myself on the outside world.

If someone where to try to ask me about myself now, it would take a lifetime of effort to stop myself from running away. I know I still do it, but now there’s another consideration: I don’t want to be the audience any more. I find those friendships becoming more and more dissatisfying and as I’ve tried to shift the balance, I’ve seen those friendships wither.

So, to recap: I’m fat. I’m shy. I’m withdrawn. I’m no longer willing to be a starry-eyed reflection for someone else’s ego.

It would take so much effort for someone to break through my defences, and I’ve laid so many brilliant boobytraps, that I doubt anyone will make it, even if they were to try.

And what sort of person would want to be around someone like me?

They’d have to be even more fucked up than I am, and do I really need that? *wink*

Prodigal Hooch

2006-09-19T16:54:00.000+10:00

The thing with taking a break from writing a journal, either by choice or circumstance, is that there never seems to be a clear pause in my life in which to begin a new chapter of the story. When I think I see one, I prepare for the moment, and it's suddenly gone!

I'm really just typing this so everyone knows I'm alive, kicking (biting, scratching), and busier than the infamous blue-arsed fly. (And yes, Butterfly, I did snaffle that name -- I feel some changes coming on.)

I'm finding it really difficult at the moment to find the time, or the privacy, to be able to ponder things to write about. I'm surrounded at work, and working ridiculously long hours. I think it is going to quieten down soon, at least to a point where I can do more than work, fall into a cab, sleep, fall into a cab, work, repeat x6 per week.

So... patience? I shall return soon.

2006-08-06T16:38:00.000+10:00

My days are filled with music.

I don't just mean that I'm listening to a lot, although, of course I am, but as well I'm now studying music theory during quiet times at work, and transposing tab music to notation (slowly), and listening to new songs I'm learning, and when I'm home I'm doing my vocal exercises, and then usually warm up on the nylon string guitar with some easier classical pieces I've learnt, before (if there's any time left) practicing the songs on the steel string that I'm learning for my next guitar lesson. The Strat remains under-played, but I'm working to the theory that the steel string acoustic is the hardest of my guitars to play, so I'm better off concentrating on it, as when I then play the same songs on the Strat, it is so easy!

And the singing lessons? Well, I booked another straight after my first, so I guess that says something. Most of that first lesson was spent talking, which was great. It gave me time to relax and get to feel more comfortable with my teacher, to see if we would 'click', see if she would appreciate the type of music, and the type of voice I like and aspire to. We discussed my concerns about my voice (I'd written out a list: can't carry a tune; can't hold a note; weedy and quavery; no reliable power or volume; no personality, too vanilla; no 'growl'; no breath control; no knowledge of how to use the different 'voices'; and, finally, the fact that I have some weird short circuit in my head that causes my eyes to sometimes water terribly when I sing, so it looks like I'm crying!).

Crunch time came and she had me sing with her up and down scales to see how my pitch was. I closed my eyes and just did it. No time to be prissy. I was there. And I did it!! She said I had absolutely no problem with pitch (great news!). That was the first time I can remember ever singing along with someone like that. Her studio had already become a safe place for me.

She then had me sing along to a song I had brought with me. I already knew it was a little too low for me (and is sung by a man so that wasn't a surprise) but despite that, she said with songs in the right key for me, I should be fine.

So, for me to learn to sing, we'd be approaching it from two directions. She can teach me techniques to strengthen and improve my voice. The other direction is that she'd help me overcome my performance anxieties, which she thinks is what causes most of my problems when I sing.

We are talking about strinpping away a well layered, highly developed sense of fear. A fear that is not limited to singing, but any activity that suddenly puts me at the centre of someone else's attention. Even walking down the street, if I feel I am being watched, suddenly becomes fraught with danger as my self consciousness brings on a clumsiness of impressive proportions. She says it's going to be a massive task, and that she's had students similar to me who have had to take breaks as the reasons behind such a fear can come back to the surface and become overwhelming. I'll take it a day at a time. At the moment I'm feeling positive. Although, when she says the hardest thing is to learn to say "I am a singer", she's not kidding!

The fact that I'm even willing to approach this shows that I have already made a huge leap. I put it solely down to learning guitar (with a patient and fantastic teacher) and those few nights of playing with friends. Even though my playing is woeful, I still discovered a level fo enjoyment playing with, and for, others that I never expected.

I look back sometimes at what I have written here at the same time in previous years, and it makes me realise just how much I've changed. I would have always said I was a reasonably happy person with the occassional blue day, but then I read certain things, and I realise I can't remember when I last felt lonely like that, or sad like that, or as isolated. The world around me hasn't changed much at all, so it must be me.

I think I'm slowly learning to forgive myself, and to like myself again. Maybe in the first time since I was a little kid. It feels good.

Doh, a deer...

2006-07-26T15:40:00.000+10:00

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

2006-07-19T15:11:00.000+10:00

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!

2006-07-11T23:21:00.000+10:00

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.

2006-07-07T09:10:00.000+10:00

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.

2006-07-04T10:53:00.000+10:00

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.

2006-07-02T00:51:00.000+10:00

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?

2006-06-21T08:52:00.000+10:00

His own laugh seems to take him by surprise. It is light and open and playful, and suddenly his eyes are bluer, his face smoother, and this sudden attractiveness catches me off guard. I am unbalanced by the intensity of the moment, by my response to his laughter. It is as if I am only just seeing him for the first time, as if during the year of regular work meetings I only saw the shadow of who he was.

Like a flare at sea, the brightness of the sudden light hurts my eyes, and when I close them I still see his silhouette, black against red. The light flickers, as is the flare's nature, and dies, and trails off into the dark, leaving wisps of memory smoking into the sky.

5pm, Wynyard Station

2006-05-26T10:07:00.000+10:00

A constant stream of faces milling about. Give me a chance. The words are furrowed into their frowns, mouths turned down, disappointment their normality.

Give me a chance.

If only's hang off their coats. The most dangerous words, words that lead directly to unhappiness. What if... and If only... -- how much happier we'd be if those words didn't sneak into our subconscious, unbidden.

Time wished away. I have to be here. I have to be there. How long until the train, the bus, comes. Moments filled planning how to fill other moments.

What would happen if everyone froze, in their tracks, no voices, no movement, and all they could do was acknowledge where they were and how they felt in that exact moment?

Would people's perceptions of themselves change if they suddenly didn't have the image of a future self to satisfy? If the need to prepare for the next moment was gone? Would we like ourselves exactly where we were in that glimpse of time? Would the moment make any sense of all if we suddenly took the qualifying future away from it?

A constant stream of faces milling about.

Scary Insight into Hooch's Brain #113

2006-05-22T15:07:00.000+10:00

Conversation with o/s friend:

Me: blah blah blah

Him: blah blah blah

Me: blah blah

Him: The site I mentioned: www.greataupairs.com. They even have hot foreign guys if you want one of them.

Me: Even though it may be the only way I'd get one these days, the idea of blackmailing the poor chap to have sex with me or leave the country does quite do it for me.

Him: Just tell him you need him to look after your inner child.

Me: oops, that was supposed to be DOESN'T ... how's that for a freudian!!

Me: oh god, I would love someone to do all the 'grown up' stuff around the house.

Me: and now I have Howzat*/**/***/**** in my head. HELP!

Make it stop. Oh please, make it stop.

*Which I hated as a child
**And yet I it leaps into my head unbidden
***And for those that grew up blessed to have not been exposed, welcome to my hell
****And if you are a complete masochist, try this.

Spoilt (definition): see Hooch

2006-05-22T14:39:00.000+10:00

I sometimes wonder if I deserve the generosity of the people around me.

The weekend was going to be rather routine. I had to work on Saturday morning, but I left early for my guitar lesson. I have a rule. I do not cancel my lessons for work. I will work before them, or after them, but I won’t cancel. It might seem inflexible, but seeing as I make myself available 24/7 every other day, I think excluding a two hour window for myself is not unreasonable.

So, I left for my lesson, arrived on time, had an ok one (trying to get the strum rhythm right on a pretty little song that’s received a lot of airplay), and then I went downstairs to wait for the Ex. We’d arranged for him to bring down some effects ‘stuff’ for me to play with, seeing as I bought myself the Strat. (I BOUGHT MYSELF THE STRAT!! YEEEEHAAAA).

I was waiting downstairs, wondering if he’d forgotten me, and sending a text to make sure he was still coming, when the owner of the shop asked if I’d seen the new studio they’d set up upstairs. Go and have a look, he encouraged me, check it out. Ah well, I thought, I’ll have a sticky beak. Of course, when I opened the door, there was the Ex, playing a guitar, cool as a cucumber. (That is probably the least cool phrase in the English language, ironically.)

The effects unit was set up and he handed over the guitar so I could have a play. I’ve never used anything like this before, and with things to press and levers to, umm, lever for volume and strength of effects, and ‘stuff’, lots and lots of ‘stuff’, there was enough hear to keep me locked in doors for the rest of the decade. Cool!

After I’d played around for a while, I told the Ex thanks for bringing it down, and it was then that he made a confession. This wasn’t his unit. This was MY unit.

Shit.

I mean, wow, fantastic, but still, Shit. It is a big gift to accept from anyone, but from your ex husband, well, I just wasn’t sure. I worried that it might be too much. Which I told him. And I also asked him if it would cause him trouble at home with his girlfriend. But as he explained it, he’d wanted to do this, to get me this gift for a very long time, and with his new job he had the money to do it, and to just shut up. I compromised. It’s a permanent loan, but should he ever need it back for whatever reason, it is his to take.

Although I know he won’t.

And what was the first effect I tried for… of course, the cheesy 1970s chicketa chicketa chicketa porn sound. I am nothing, if not all class.

And when we went down stairs and R., the owner, looked like a little kid, all excited because he’d been in on the scheme. It was really nice that these people had gone to the trouble to give me a nice surprise. He also said that the Ex and I were the best examples of divorce he’d ever seen, and if only everyone could be like us. As I’ve told him before, we get on really well as long as we aren’t a couple; no expectations, no disappointments. Makes it easy to be friends that way.

So, yes, I am spoilt rotten.

2006-05-17T11:11:00.000+10:00

Out of bed, I look at my face in the bathroom mirror. When did that happen? When did my face collapse?

I peer more closely, to see if there is any promised improvement due to the cream I have started using.

Is that the sound of hooves galloping off into the distance?

2006-05-15T13:28:00.000+10:00

I did something very out of character last week.

I approached a strange man in a café.

Alright, I probably should qualify this a little. The man in question is a bit of a local fixture in the area, as he has a rather noticable dog and attracts a lot of attention because of that. I see him in the local cafés on a fairly regular basis.

And I had also found out that someone I know, knew him. The little dog came up in conversation one day and that was when I discovered they had known each other for years.

So, he wasn’t exactly a stranger to me. Although, to him, I was.

I arrived after my lesson for a coffee at my preferred café, as I do each week, and it was particularly crowded. The only seat available was very close to this man and his little dog. So I took the initiative and introduced myself, saying we had a common acquaintance. I asked a few questions about his unusual dog, and it went from there. Surprising for both of us, two hours later we were still talking, and it was just the darkening sky and the café staff packing up the tables around us that really prompted the end of the conversation. It had been raucous and funny and quite that lovely mix of getting to know someone and feeling like you were old friends all at once.

It felt like there was a real potential for friendship.

Then he asked how he could see me again, and I panicked a little. I didn’t want it to seem like I had been trying to ‘pick him up’. It wasn’t at all like that. So, I told him that I was nearly always there at around 2 on Saturdays. He laughed and asked if he was expected to wait around in case I turned up. I just said it’s where I’d be, where I always was.

There’s a danger in these things. You get your hopes up.

I turned up, as per usual, this week, to discover the usual café was being renovated and wouldn’t be opening until the following day. So I sat across the road in another, much less enjoyable one. But one where I could see the comings and goings and would notice if a man and his little dog turned up.

In a Hollywood world, just as I was packing my things away, readying to leave, after waiting for an hour or so, a little dog would snuffle at my ankles and my new friend would be sitting, laughing, telling me about the comedy of errors that had made up his day.

Nothing has been lost. My day was just as it always was for a Saturday. I bought some cd’s, I wrote a little, I watched people coming and going, and I enjoyed it. But that little glimmer of hope for company had a flip side of disappointment that I can’t deny.

Chuckle

2006-05-03T12:55:00.000+10:00

Search Term:

1. would do you knew my name if a saw you in geaven

2. hooch furry bags

I can't decide which amuses me more

(and I have no idea how number 1 found its way to Hooch's Spot).

2006-04-30T17:25:00.000+10:00

For the love of all things precious, people, please write something!

I am stuck at work, waiting for a job to come it. I've been waiting for three hours. On my own. I am reaching my limit of self-entertainment!!

I think I have read every blog on my list at least three times, and have trawled through other people's recommendations in a hope to stave off the boredom. But, it's not enough. Write, please, please write!!

Or, I guess, I could write something instead. Hmmmm... go from passive receiver of entertainment to generator of ideas? That sounds a bit like hard work!

I'm going to start a little project soon (yes, another promise to write, add it to the list of empty promises I seem to be accruing here). But this one could be a stayer.

Ages ago, I bought a cute little book, The Writer's Block. It really is the cutest little book, about 10cmx10cmx10cm, so yes, literally, a block. And it is full of spark words and assignments and prompts for writing ideas. So, I'm going to pull my finger out and start writing based purely on where I open the page. It might be fiction, it might be typical 'bloggy' stuff, it might be anything. I'm making it up as I go, so no rules.

Anyway, as a starter, a few days ago I opened up on to the word:

VIAGRA

My response to the word was immediate and intense. I felt angry. Not a cerebral, logical anger (I'm sure you can have that kind of anger), but a gut clenching visceral anger.

Now, this seems silly. After all, it's just a word. But just reading it was enough to take me back to a time when I was unhappy and really repressed my feelings. It was a time when the-husband-that-was and I had started to lose whatever connection we'd had, and the dark times were looming.

The word. The word sparks a time when I thought t-h-t-w was having emotional troubles dealing with a tragic event in his life, troubles that needed professional help, and were manifesting themselves physically.

He'd told me he had suffered from impotency in the past, but since we'd been together, over three years, it hadn't been an issue. Until the event, and then it became a constant in our lives. To the point where I withdrew because it made me sad that my desires were making him feel so badly about himself. And so it went on, for years. A fumbled attempt, a rush of blood, a grab at the opportunity, maybe once every six months. Of course, in hindsight, it was a flashing neon sign of other things that were slowly dissolving between us. He withdrew further into his own projects, in his pursuit for fame and fortune. I told myself that my love for him was enough that I could live without physical satisfaction.

The truth, of course, was I resented him for not seeing that penetration wasn't the only way he could be physically affectionate with me. He withdraw himself completely. A kiss, a hug, a back rub, an appreciative glance of the back of his hand on my thigh as we sat side by side... these things counted as well. We loved each other, but it was becoming far more like a love of siblings, platonic, still intensely intimate, in that noone else knew us the way we knew each other, but I really missed him appreciating me.

So the day he walked in, without any discussion, and produced a packet of blue pills, announcing that his troubles were over, left me hurt, and the anger began. He thought one pill and our troubles would be over? One quick grope in the dark, a quick root, and everything would be better? It made me furious. One erection from him and I'd be there, waiting, legs spread. This was all sex was to him now.

And when he finally did touch me, I tried to enjoy it, but inside, my heart was cold and non-responsive.

No little blue pill was going to fix what was going wrong between us.

Well, that was a chirpy little piece of writing, wasn't it! hehehe

But at least it is writ. Hmmmm... it seems my next spark word is DEADLINE. Apt.

Highsides / Lowsides

2006-04-28T14:56:00.000+10:00

How to finally cure yourself of a foolish crush

Person A is someone you’ve had varying levels of crush on for a long time.
Person B is someone who you were friends with once, but due to circumstances, are no longer in contact with.

Person A, Person B and you used to go out together occasionally and Person A and Person B seemed good friends.

Person B was in a long term relationship. However, you discovered from Person C that Person B was having an affair. Neither you nor Person C knew who the Mystery Lover is. Person C suggested it might be Person A, but you dismissed this, even though you had a niggling suspicion yourself.

A year passes, events unfurl, you no longer are in contact with Persons B or C, but you still see Person A occasionally. Like a few nights ago. Conversations with Person A these days seem to have de-evolved to discussing Person A’s love/sex life. You discover that Person A was having relationships with several people last year that were married. You discuss these affairs over a few beers, without naming names of course, and both go your own ways.

But that niggling has become a full tugging. And so, you decide, after a year of wondering, to ask the question. Alright, asking by SMS might have been wrong (yeah, I know, tacky) but it was a huge spur of the moment action.

So you ask.

And you know, regardless of the answer, you won’t be able to see Person A anymore.

And you're relieved because you're sick of feeling foolish.

Observations at a crossing

2006-04-22T00:07:00.000+10:00

Sitting yesterday, having a late brunch at a regular café, people watching as they crossed the busy paedestrian crossing.

A mother crossing, pushing a stroller, holding a toddler by his hand. As they reach the middle of the road, the toddler pulls back, twisting himself, hanging of her hand, forcing himself to face backwards, so he can give a big wave to the policeman in his marked stationwagon that has pulled up at the crossing.

The smile that the policeman gives the boy in reply was simply beautiful, and I watch him continue to smile to himself as he drives off out of my sight.

A lone old woman, fragile and gaunt, unbalanced, is waiting on the kerb. Her bags of shopping are by her feet as she tries to wave down a taxi. One approaches, his light on signalling his availability, and she waves, a disjointed wave that is interrupted by her need to regain her balance. The driver, who obviously sees her, accelerates past, and there is a look of hurt, confusion and resignation on her face, before she looks back into the traffic, trying to spot the next taxi.

(The next one does stop for her, although he doesn't help her with her groceries, before she slowly, deliberately, positions herself and folds, crumples, into the back seat.)

My book rests in front of me, unread. I can't keep my eyes off all the people.

Major Grossness Factor

2006-04-20T13:07:00.000+10:00

You were warned.

Ok, two things, both sex-related (explains the title).

1. The thought

I caught a glimpse of an ad, I think it was for a current affairs program, or something similar. It was about sex addicts, and a woman was speaking, saying she thought about sex all the time, every day.

*Hooch's thoughts* Well... so do I. A lot, anyway. Does that make me a sex addict? Can you be a sex addict without having sex? I guess you can be an alcoholic without drinking... so does that make me like a dry alcoholic? A dry sex addict? hehehehe Dry, indeed.

2. The dream
I don't have many sex dreams, really. Not graphic ones, anyway. They tend to trail off before it gets to the meaty stuff. Or perhaps I don't recall it. Bummer. But I remembered this dream I had a few nights ago. It woke me from my sleep. It really does warrant the above warning though.

I am in intimate position with a bloke I went to school with. We were never even remotely involved then, or since, although we have been in contant on and off online in the last few years. But still, nothing to provoke this dream. (apologies to him if he was to read this) So, we are naked and he is on top of me, kissing, and he is finally going to enter me when, bam, nothing. He's already come, too early. He's embarressed, but I, never one to let such things get in my way, just recommend next time we use a condom (do not ask me why we weren't, I am adamant about such things... it's a dream!) and so we're at it again, with the snogging and it's all good, and he's inside me and it's still all good, and then he comes again. But this time it's like an immense rythmic pulsation inside me, except that, at the same time, it feels like he is coming in my mouth, and I am gagging and can't control the choking and reflex against the amount that's hitting the back of my throat, and I just want it to be over. And then I can't control it any more and I vomit down his back. And yes, there were small pieces of diced carrot.

Who the fuck has dreams like this??

…after a fashion

2006-04-12T09:44:00.000+10:00

I’m going to be brutally honest.

I haven’t posted for such a long time because I just couldn’t shout the words loud enough to be heard from the big black hole I’m in.

The last four to six weeks or so, it’s all overwhelmed me. I’m anxious and lonely and feeling hopeless and tired. Bone achingly tired. A tiredness that comes from the spirit and leaks out into the body, not from honest hard physical labour.

I found myself standing on the station, bags heavy, day long, at the end of the platform, watching the trains emerge with a gusty blast from the underground tunnel. I considered the mechanics of suicide. I do that often. It isn’t that I am suicidal – just that I’m morbidly curious. How fast does a train need to be going to kill you as opposed to just hacking off your limbs? How far ahead do you leap? For how long does it hurt? Personally, I think that is an awful choice of death, if only because of all the innocent people that will be traumatised. There are less selfish ways of going.

But, like I said, I ponder these things. And as I stood there, watching the train emerge, too slowly to be effective as a means of a quick death, I had a moment of clarity. I think I suddenly realised what suicidal people want. Peace. The peace of just stopping. Of being so tired and being able to stop.

I’ve always believed there is something better just around the corner (so I careen madly around corners, blind but hopeful). But in that instance it made sense. Stop. And I found myself crying, quietly, unnoticed at that late hour on a busy city station.

I’m tired. I’m lonely. I’m finding it impossible to make friends anymore. I just want to feel like someone, somewhere, enjoys my company enough to seek it out. And for me to feel the same way about them. I want to laugh. I miss laughing.

I need all my energy just to get out of the bed and have a shower, to turn up to work and put on the façade of being reliable and competent and agreeable enough that I don’t inadvertently insult anyone while I’m there. Smile, work, smile, work, but it doesn’t scratch the surface.

So, I’m in a big hole, wondering if it’s worth the effort to keep yelling. I focus on all the positive things about my life, but it’s getting harder and harder.

This isn’t normal. This isn’t entertaining. It certainly isn’t worth writing about. So I keep quiet.

She lives

2006-04-02T23:02:00.000+10:00

but it all seems far too tediuos to write about.

"Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat!"

"Again? That trick never works."

Yeah. But I keep on trying.

Someone slap me out of it

2006-03-15T11:10:00.000+11:00

So much for my efforts to write every day. I haven't even opened my notebook since last week.

Current situation: $40 in wallet, nothing in bank account, waiting (still) for pay to come through, rent due on Monday, owe my mother money (still), the cat's need (expensive) flea drops (scratch, scratch) and I feel like the biggest failure.

Wants: Pay up all my bills, pay mother (I mean, what adult needs to borrow from her mother, for Christ's sake!?), get Nina to the vet for her booster shots and de-flea the little critters, put a deposit on a guitar (I did head this 'wants', not 'needs'), get a hair cut, eyelash tint and leg wax. Exciting, non?

Mind you, I'm a bit nervous of the hair cut. At present, my style is known as 'growus outus' with a dash of 'hacked fringe to maintain sight' thrown in. Despite this, it actually doesn't look too horrendous. The style I'm looking at might look ok, or it might make me look like Michelin Man with a soccer ball head... Wilson!!

Before I realised just how long I was going to wait for my next lot of cash, I splurged and bought myself some very nice perfume, in an attempt to make me feel a little less unattractive. It worked. I can sniff my wrist and know that at least my watch smells good.

I guess this is all just a symptom of feeling out of control; whatever fragile construct of self esteem I have shatters and melts, like frosted ice on the windscreen.

And which is sadder: actually signing up on an internet dating site (gotta be in it to win it); or signing up and having only one contact in a fortnight, from someone with whom I seemingly have absolutely nothing (except perhaps girth size) in common.

I don't think I'm really equipped for the big wide world.

And how much for the spoilt brat serving?

2006-03-08T18:36:00.000+11:00

In an effort to break out of the brain freeze that seems to have taken over any attempt at writing, I thought I’d go all Sex in the City (read: wanky) and drag the laptop out to a local café and see if I could get any ideas going in a different environment. What I did get is to witness a spoilt brat of a child actually stamp her foot at her mother!!! who was asking what icecream she wanted. I know the flavour of icecream she’d have got from me. And her feet wouldn’t have touched the ground as she got "get into the car NOW" topping with it.

I’ve just been to see Capote. It might seem odd to be spending money when I’m not earning it, but going to the gym or going to the movies is a way that stops me becoming depressed about the lack of work. Either that, or it’s avoidance.

I was fascinated by Philip Seymour Hoffman’s performance. It must have been a real challenge to walk that fine line between realistically acting out the affectations and quirks of the man, and not slipping into a caricature. The little ticks and pursing of the lips, I thought he did a very good job. But I REALLY liked the Harper Lee character. Probably because the character was someone that I would like if I were to meet them in real life. I’m enjoying getting back into movie-going. Whether for escapism or for a connection to other people’s creativity, it is helping make me feel that I am linking back into the world around me again.

There have been a couple of posts from my favourite blogs recently that have made me sit back on my heels and think (well, if I could sit on my heels, anyway. The curse of short achilles tendons).

The first was a question and answer post on RWYWHM. She has a question and answer Friday, where anyone can ask her a question, and she will answer it. It is not unusual for these to end up amusing and potentially eye-opening queries about sex and the fine line between adventurism and perversion.

The question that caught my eye was someone writing in about a person she’d had a crush on for over a year, and should she act on it or not. The response was, after a year, is it still a crush, or something else? And I got to thinking about what else it might be. Is a crush for longer than a year heading into obsessional behaviour? Is it stalkerish? Is it love? Is it some form of self-sacrifice? Self-flagellation? Complete denial? A defence against the rest of the world?

I’ve had feelings for someone for over two years now. Admittedly they grow stronger with proximity, but still, they never completely die away, no matter how much I think I’ve got them beat. It saddens me, because I would really like to be able to be friends with him, and I try very hard to, but then I catch myself looking at his lips as he is talking and wondering how they might feel to be kissed… and I become flustered and embarrassed for being such a grotty old letch.

But let’s look at these feelings. I’ve written before that I am pretty confident that if he were, hypothetically, to turn around tomorrow and say I’m the love of his life, that it wouldn’t work because we are just such different people, wanting and needing different things. I’ve written before that I know he is not even remotely attracted to me, and nor could he be, because he (like most men, and many women) needs a strong physical attraction to his partner, and that is not something he feels for me.

So… let’s be honest about what this friendship is about. It is me that keeps it going, such as it is. I am the one that initiates contact, and although he seems happy enough to spend a few hours in my company here and there, I also know that I am not the one that pops into his head when he thinks he would like to spend some time with someone. Fair enough. I seem to prompt this kind of reaction with a lot of my friends. Maybe it is because I am good at keeping people at a distance. Maybe it is that I’m just a boring old so and so. Maybe I just have some serious interpersonal relationship issues! Whatever.

So, what am I? Crusher, stalker, infatuater, user, pretender. Maybe all of the above. Sad sack? Quite possibly.

Or maybe I just need a little taste of something, even if it is completely of my own fabrication, to remind myself that I, too, am capable of these feelings. That I have not completely withered away inside. (Rat’s post leads me to that thought.) Just letting the window down a tiny crack so I can slobber all over it in an attempt to stick my nose out and get a whiff of the excitement outside before it all whisks away at a hundred kilometres an hour.

The other post that got me thinking, or rather, affirmed some thoughts that were already swirling around in my head was from MomLady. A post about fathers and daughters. About hurts and history and expectations and the distortion of truth depending on perspective and motive. I have notebooks full of faltered approaches to my relationship with my father, and Wendy’s post just helped me clarify a few of my own feelings.

I have trouble approaching my relationship with my parents without a sense of guilt. Although to speak of them as ‘my parents’, as though they are a unit, would be completely misleading. I, like many others, grew up in a household where my mother put her life into ensuring that I, and my sister, had what we needed, and what she felt would make us good people, and my father… well, my father has never, to my knowledge, considered putting the wants or needs of his children ahead of his own desires. I doubt he would agree with that, but I doubt he would even think of it. He would just lash out at the accusation. In that, both my parents are similar. To question history is to make a personal attack. It makes it difficult to understand who you are, and how to understand yourself, when you walk on eggshells to find answers.

I don’t speak to my father any more, other than times like Christmas when I simply cannot avoid it. I requested that he not phone me, partly because I am home such odd hours that it was difficult for me to return his calls, partly because I really didn’t want to speak to him, and partly because whenever we did speak, it wasn’t a conversation, it was just a monologue while I acted as the audience.

I suggested that he email me instead. My mother says he used to write lovely letters when he was young, so I know he has the ability. But obviously not the inclination. The only emails I receive are group emails with cute furry animals doing wacky things, and chain emails that are supposed to make us all feel good about ourselves. I know these are initiated from his wife. All these emails do is confirm how little there is to be said between us. Like seemingly every other relationship in my life, the only way it will be sustained is if I do everything the way that the other person wants it.

I am having trouble lately getting invented conversations with my father out of my head. It’s nagging at me, and I know from past experience that this is the perfect cue for me to be writing about him. The story is pressing to be released, except I cannot see where the story is heading, and that frightens me. Just write it, I hear the world say. But it isn’t a story; it isn’t formed into a linear narrative. It is just a series of little snapshots; accusations juxtaposed against fond moments. Where do you even begin to write about something so mammoth and elusive?

I know how boring it is hearing our complaints about our parents, our upbrings, and to sound like a petulant child is certainly something I want to avoid. But at the same time, this writing, this blog, is really just supposed to be somewhere for me to think through ideas and thoughts in a safe, relatively blameless environment.

So what holds me back? Who can it hurt if noone who knows, or cares, reads? Why am I responsible for other people’s happiness at, possibly, the expense of my own?

I’ve thought that I should write a letter to my father. A personal, hand written letter, to try and explain why I feel the way I do. To try and give him the chance to understand the hurt his actions and lack of actions still have on the family he walked away from 26 years ago. Isn’t it ridiculous… the ripples never completely fade away. But what would I say? And how would I feel if it hurt him? And I know that it wouldn’t achieve anything. His attitude is that he is willing to say he was a bad father, but it’s all in the past and we should just get on with it. True, except that it isn’t really in the past. I’ve been chasing after his attention since I was three, the first time he left, and if it were up to him, I’d still be doing it. And how can it be left in the past if it has an affect on how I view all my other relationships, and how I feel I should be treated, and it underlines, and undermines, who I believe, truly believe, I am, and what I deserve in life?

Big enough and ugly enough to look after myself.

Isn’t there something just a little perverse in a relationship where the father doesn’t think twice about using his daughter as an emotional crutch to help him through his marriage break down, saying hurtful things about his current family, and the family he first left, ringing and ringing and ringing, at work, at home, regardless of time or place, not wanting help but just someone to agree with him, and turning sullen and angry when his words and actions are questioned. And when the daughter’s marriage breaks down, she cannot even imagine phoning her father for support. He is not someone she can rely on. He is not someone who would understand.

How do I write to him? How do I reconcile this? I can let go; I have let go. I expect nothing from him, but then he rings and upsets my sister, quizzing her as to why I won’t speak to him. The ripples never stop.

I’m going to have to put the stories here, because I don’t know where else they can go. I’m sorry. If I don’t, if it keeps going on around and around and around in my head, well, I don’t want to be responsible for it all any more. I am not responsible for his happiness. I am not responsible for making our relationship work. I am not going to chase after him forever, believing I am only worth the scraps of attention that others have for me. It’s a terrifying concept… am I better off with nothing than with the little amount that reminds me of how little I am worth? How do I learn to believe I am worth more?

2006-03-07T11:03:00.000+11:00

Seems I am not working today, so I'm going to pull my finger out of my bum and get to the gym (have you noticed that bum seems to be getting lost from our venacular? I actually initially wrote butt, and then wondered when that word replaced bum). I need to work some stuff out in my head, and maybe the monotony of the treadmill will help.

I'm drifting away, a buoy caught in the current, and I'm not sure if I'm still secured to anything.

It's time for me to start thinking again.

Update

2006-03-02T00:01:00.000+11:00

Ok, very, very brief update.

Ummmm came home from interview convinced I'd totally screwed it up. Yep, you're with me on that one.

Shortly after writing that post I got a phone call... they liked me and could I come in and freelance with them for a week and see how we 'fit'. Yep, sure!

So I go in that afternoon and meet people who are all friendly and really nice, and I remember their names!!, and am thrown into work. I work like a blue arsed fly that's worked all the blue off. Everyone seems happy, I'm happy (if knackered), and at the end of the week I get a "we won't need you next week but we'll talk to your recruiter about possibilities". Ummm ok. No idea what that means, but figure they have others to trial and so be it. That was confirmed by my recruiter, that they had one other person they were also interested in, but that they were keen on me, if not as a permanent, then as a preferred freelancer. To which I pretty much said, thanks but no thanks. I want permanent full time work if I am to work for them. I need a fulltime income, not sporadic overflow work. I'll freelance for them, sure, but it won't work for me to be giving them preference over longer term work elsewhere.

Annnnyway, I get a call from the person who had interviewed me on the Monday and they want me to come in and do some freelance work the following day and to have a chat. I say no can do as I would be waiting for a tradesman to fix a hole in my roof that had led to my hallway doing a very good impersonation of Niagra Falls over the weekend (another story) but if he wanted a chat I was happy to do it over the phone. To which he says that they've employed someone else who will also act as a manager for the department, to free interviewing bloke up on a day-to-day basis.

No probs. I understand these things. Once upon a time I would have taken it really personally and beaten myself up about it and been angry as hell. These days, I just shrug. I'll be in and out of there doing freelance work until something permanent turns up somewhere.

The most disappointing thing is that someone who I absolutely adore working with will be starting there in a month and I would have LOVED to have worked with her. But them's the breaks.

So, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and I'm no worse off than I was before. Plus I got to meet some nice new people.

Now if I could just get these roofing types to fix my roof before it rains hard again!

Hopeless.

2006-02-20T11:50:00.000+11:00

Well, I went, I was interviewed, I am now curling up into the foetal position and not coming out of it for a week.

I really hate interviews that much.

I mean, even the person interviewing me commented on the fact that I was shaking. And the more you're made aware of it, like blushing, the more out of control it gets. (Yes, I blush too.)

All compounded by the fact I was late (late cab and getting lost in the building... really, someone just shoot me).

And the pooey thing is that I now really want the job.

Crap.

2006-02-17T00:27:00.000+11:00

I saw Brokeback Mountain yesterday afternoon.

It was so beautiful, I was completely lost in the story, and at the end I had to sit waiting for the end of the credits while I tried to compose myself, listening to the ushers joke loudly as they waited for me to move so they could do a quick clean before the next session.

Even afterwards I felt tears running down my cheeks and I couldn't do anything about it.

I enjoyed it that much. (Yes, it would seem that I love to cry.)

And if anyone wants to say anything stupid and ignorant about gay cowboys, they can just shut the fuck up and stay away from me. For a good long while. I might get violent. Or at least snippy.

I might even see it again next week.

Oh, and it seems I'm going for an interview for a job, which I didn't apply for, and didn't even know I wanted! Guess that will mean I won't be concerned when I don't get it.

2006-02-13T00:48:00.000+11:00

G'day.

Thought I should poke my nose in, even if it is late and I don't have anything particularly insightful or poignant to say.

So... what have I been up to? Great wads of not much.

I went to the movies, as mentioned before, and enjoyed Walk the Line very much. I've found myself humming burning rings of fire at all sorts of odd moments. If I was remotely concerned about the world seeing me as odd, that concern would have increased fourfold, I reckon. Oh god... it's catching. I have developed Countryitus, that strain of the muscle just behind the adnoids.

Had a few beers afterwards, on an empty stomach. Not such a good plan; makes me a bit silly and makes my head ache to following day. The company was very nice. I think I'm getting a little hooked on the nice feeling that banter and laughter with an attractive [read: totally out of my field] man can give me. Ah well. Wouldn't be dead for quids.

I had a quiet weekend. Guitar lesson on Saturday (was ok) and gardening all day today with my irrepressible mother. How she can manage to say three undermining things between the front door and the living room is beyond me, but she manages it. But then she works her butt off all day helping me out with the jungle out back... so I guess there's the trade off.

Only other notable thing was bumping into the ex on Saturday. I had stopped off on my way home from guitar for some lunch and after that went to get some groceries before heading home. I was standing in the very, very long queue in the fast aisle (cough) and realised standing about five people ahead of me in the queue were the Ex (insert doom doom doom doooooooom music) and a woman. And they were standing together in that comfortable, intimate way of two people who were very used to being in each other's body space. Not touching, just the way they stood. So, what to do?

I stood there for a while. The queue wasn't moving at all and I was willing the ex to turn around so he'd know I was there. But that wasn't happening. So I ended up parking my guitar and basket in the queue and walked ahead. I tapped him on the shoulder and said "Ummm not sure of the etiquette here, but I though I should say hi, seeing as I'm standing about five people back". He grinned and I turned to his friend and said, "Hi, I'm Hooch" and the ex piped up that this was Magenta, I said hi, and then we all stood there and mastered the art of awkwardness with foolish grins on our faces until I said I'd better get back to my shopping. Then there was light hearted banter tossed over the heads of the people standing between us, and finally they were gone and I stood there, wanting to turn to the other shoppers and say, "That was my ex husband!".

It's rather a relief, because I've known that at some point this day would happen. We live in neighbouring suburbs and still frequent some common spots. And apart from the awkwardness of not knowing quite what the proper thing is to say, it was fine. She seemed rather nice!

So... other than that, all's quiet. Including work. Nothing lined up for this week, and waiting for a cheque to arrive, so I guess I shall be going to the gym and trying not to do anything that requires money for the next week or so. Hmmmmm, I guess I could write [gasp] and actually post [shock!] some of the ideas floating in my notebook (not the nice one, the common garden variety one).

Guess it's time to hit the hay.

[gotta do something about this condition... where's my Nine Inch Nails?]

2006-02-09T16:09:00.000+11:00

Off to the movies tonight to see Wallk the Line. In my 'just mates' capacity, of course.

If there's enough humiliation involved, I might even feel compelled to write about it!

Stagnant

2006-02-01T18:45:00.000+11:00

I bought myself a notebook the other day. It is beautiful; leather covered, slightly longer than an A5, described as a Reporter’s Notebook. It flips over the top (although not fully) and has a handy elastic to keep it secure when it is closed. It wasn’t cheap. But I was buying it for a purpose. It is to be the research notebook for my fiction writing. That is the plan. I imagine it filling with all sorts of useful quotes and references, ideas, beside me in the library, newspaper clippings glued in, it will become the source of inspiration and guidance while I travel my way through the story.

Except I am now too afraid to open it. To mark it. To begin something, only to lose interest or momentum or hope in the first few days. And then my beautiful notebook will become nothing more than another reminder of my uselessness. It’s a familiar line: if you don’t try, you can’t fail.

It isn’t even as though I have any ideas for stories to write. I am a completely dry well. I don’t want this writing to be yet another story of a small chapter of my life. I have many more of those that I can, should, and will write. But this notebook is intended for something imagined. I am so frightened to let myself go into the fantasy world that is somewhere in my mind. Is it normal to be afraid that you’ll lose yourself and won’t be able to find your way back? Or that if you allow yourself to see a life so magical and beautiful and intense, then the mind-numbing mundaneness that is the life I am leading will seem unbearable? By staying numb, will I fend off the disappointment that seems to underlie my days?

I have many notebooks with just a page or two written in them. I seemed to always be beginning a journal until I realised I couldn’t think of anything to say. It seems I need to feel that I am writing to an audience, to a reader. And there was no-one I would have wanted to have read my journals. Yet now, knowing complete strangers read this, seems natural. No-one will be hurt this way. Maybe I should be letting a few things be said to a few people in my life. Is it right to keep it to myself forever?

So how do I overcome this hesitation – it’s more than that, it’s a freezing, petrified seems too strong, more, that all my strength is sapped and I just am rooted to the spot.

Down the road from where I live, maybe four or five houses, there is a house that I assume is a halfway house, or an assisted living house. For the most part, there is nothing about this house that makes it stand out from all the others in the street, but sometimes, when I ma standing, waiting for my taxi, a woman paces backwards and forwards on the verandah, calling out, but not words. It’s a cry. Something about her moans seem frustrated, sometimes angry, and maybe I hear a longing in her voice? Or maybe I’m just making assumptions again. Some days it can be unsettling, in the same way that I feel agitated when I hear a crying baby. – not anger, but frustration that I cannot relieve the child its suffering – so I feel a sadness that I cannot do anything to console the woman who wails out at the world.

A regular sight when I am sitting, working at my desk, or collecting mail, or walking to or from my house for whatever reason, is a young man who I believe also lives in the same house down the street. He seems to be in his early 20s; sharp shoulderblades, pointed elbows, baggy jeans, a face with pronounced cheekbones and dark eyes under a slight frown. He is a figure of angles. He shuffles forward, his eyes fixed on the ground ahead of him, never making eye contact or acknowledging anyone passing by. Regular as clockwork he is out, walking past at mid-morning and again in the afternoon. I don’t know if he is walking to a destination or if he simply does a loop around the block.

His focus is so intense simply on where his next step will fill the place where his eyes stare. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle… and then he stalls. It is jarring to watch. It is like he is a wound up toy that has suddenly wound down. His eyes do not shift from that point ahead of him. His stooped posture doesn’t straighten. He makes no movement that suggests he is aware of anything around him at all.

Sometimes these frozen moments last for minutes. Long, long minutes where the tension builds and I wonder if I should go out and see if I can help him, although a part of me fears that my disturbing him might in fact snap him away from wherever he has gone, and will frighten him. But before I finally feel compelled to approach him, he suddenly seems to recover from this stasis and lurches back into his shuffle, again without any recognisable acknowledgement that he has been anywhere or that anything at all unusual has occurred.

I wonder about this young man, who I have never seen smile or laugh. I saw him only yesterday, with a friendly looking woman, social worker written all over her, her ID tag swinging around her neck as she walked beside him, chatting, while he gave no reply, no indication he knew she was even there.

I wonder what the world is like through his eyes, and where he goes when he leaves the vessel of his body behind. I hope it is a place of laughter, wherever it is.

2006-01-26T09:56:00.000+11:00

Big Day Out, here I come!

2006-01-24T01:33:00.000+11:00

I feel like I'm mourning the loss of something, yet I can't even name what is missing.

Pride cometh...

2006-01-17T00:35:00.000+11:00

Last week I had a catch up drink with someone I used to work with. The same someone I used to have the crush on.

I don’t know, really, why we bother. He, out of some sense of obligation, perhaps, to someone who obviously struggles to be social, and me, well, I enjoy his company, even if I do feel a little dissatisfied at the end of our very occasional catch ups.

At least now I don’t feel the intensity of the crush I once did. And I will be honest that it was never anything other than a play thing to toy with in my mind; the thought of actually going out with him is something I know would not have ever worked for me! Excuse the cliché, but a crush on him was like admiring an Italian sports car, knowing you don’t have to deal with its temperamental nature, its always being at the mechanics, not being able to take it out in the rain for fear of damaging the paint work, never mind the constant worry that it is being stolen out of the garage while you’re sleeping, and the insurace! Oh, the insurance! So, a crush was a nice (safe) way to feel the warm and fuzzies (and the green eyes) without ever worrying that it was "real".

Having said that, I can’t deny that whenever he would momentarily rest his hand on my knee as he made a point in the conversation, I would feel a little flustered. I’m only human.

So anyway, we met after work and had a few beers and talked. We talked about work. We talked about love. About God. Or the lack of God. About sex. About attraction. About nesting pigeons and Thailand sex tours. About sport. About books. About patting tigers and about fitting washing machines into tiny laundries. We sat in the evening air, which turned to a drizzle, which turned to a downpour. And finally, as the bar staff packed away the seats around us, we stood to leave.

He offered to walk me to my train, but I brushed aside the notion. It wasn’t late, and he lived in the opposite direction. So he gave me hug goodnight and we both turned and walked in our opposite directions, with the rain pouring down on our sodden heads.

I managed about a dozen steps down Martin Place before I slipped on the slick paving, smashing my right knee into the concrete. Talk about coming down with a thump, literally.

The knee is still a vile green bloom of bruises (isn’t it amazing the colours that nature can create),.

The following day I had an email from another (male) friend. I had invited him and his girlfriend along to the catch up drink as the two lads knew each other, and I thought they got on quite well.
The email went something like:
Friend: So, how was last night?
Me: It was fun.
Friend: I just wanted you to know that I won’t accept an invite to have a drink with him.
Me: Oh? How come?
Friend: We have difference of opinions.
Me: So I shouldn’t tell you that he said to say hi?
Friend: Oh, it’s all civil if we are in the same room. Just I won’t go for drinks.
Me: Umm ok. Can I ask what the difference of opinions was about?
Friend: I’d rather not say.

I make polite comments about respecting his feelings, and I do understand, as there are people I rather not socialise with… but I just cannot fathom what would have upset him so much considering how friendly they once were. And now I feel a bit weird around both of them, as though I’ve stumbled into something I should not have.

I thought blokes were much more straight forward than this.

I really have to start posting more consistently...

2006-01-14T15:20:00.000+11:00

I know... I write it down but don't post it.

Anyway, this is where my brain has been pinging about... expect no sense, nor resolution. It's just brain flotsam.

Before New Year’s Eve
I can’t believe that yet another year is nearly over, and if I were to go for an immediate appraisal of the year, I’d say that nothing of note happened. But of course that isn’t true. Quite a few notable things have happened. Between a new client to work for, having to put down the beloved Kirby, finally taking up guitar lessons, and, sneaking in at the end of the year, joining (and actually going!) to the gym. I got rid of my reliance on a car. I had a close friend die, and another sacrifice our friendship for her own purposes. I’ve met new people with common interests. I’ve managed to keep up writing, if at a lessened rate. And I’ve joined the Writer’s Centre – I’m not sure where that will take me, but the possibilities of editing courses could open up a new stream of income for me. I’ve managed another year of keeping my head above water without resorting to fulltime work.

And what will my hopes be for this new year? Well, I have to be a little realistic. The first six months are going to be hard work, making up some money that the tax man will want by July. But still, I will keep up the gym and the guitar. They are a given now. Should I let my hopes go wild? OK, well, I’d like to be fit by my next birthday (July) and I’d like to be considerably smaller. I don’t need to be a supermodel type… I would just like to feel normal amongst my friends. And maybe be normal enough that I could feel comfortable if someone showed an interest in me. And be normal enough that someone might, indeed, show an interest in me. But that’s so much unplannable. I don’t mind being on my own, so I don’t feel a desperation to find ‘someone’, but may be I should cut down a few of the obstacles, if only so I can feel better about myself. That’s a bizarre doublesided coin, the way I feel about myself and how I see myself in others’ eyes.

What else? Well, obviously I would like very much to improve my guitar playing. And the aim is to buy an electric by the end of 2006. Something that will be able to give me that dirty grungy sound that I love so much.

And the final big thing, that realistically I might have to push to 2007, but maybe not if I get something small and cheap – my motorbike.

So just work through the first half of the year focussed on improved fitness and playing, reassess, and then go for the big aims.

I’m slowly becoming the person I want to be.

A week or so ago
I could just blame hormones that I cried to a Kelly Clarkson film clip today. Too sensitive. That’s me. Turn to your father and say ‘Enough". Self-preservation must come into it. At some point, I have to say what I have to say.

But it could be hormones as well.

And we laughed and posed in our silly glasses and mo’s, and we never forget that she’s gone, as we raised our glasses to our friend.

Make a plan. Stick to it. Morning, night, allowance for foibles. Stick to it. Give yourself a chance, demand more of yourself, have more faith in yourself, expect more from yourself. Noone knows your limits, not even you.

You know you want more. Maybe you’re afraid to think of how much more you really do want. But stop holding yourself back, face down the fears. That niggling feeling isn’t going away. You can do better than you do.

A day after that
Still feeling trapped, suffocating. How to get out of this rut. How to get away from this tremor, pending disaster, something lurking, waiting to pull away any sense of stability I’ve built up. This lifestyle doesn’t suit me. After two years I should know that I cannot relax, but then I also don’t want to feel the smothering certainty of the same day repeated for weeks, for years.

I used to be able to set myself creative little projects to keep my mind active – the apathy has settled so thoroughly that I cannot even seem to do that anymore. I have no faith in my ability to do anything.

And a day after that
Find me the words, I’ll find you the way.
There’s no greater truth in the words that you say.
Thrust me the truth and I’ll push it away.
There’s nothing to save, I’m a husk from decay.

If I felt like I had just one answer, just one grasp on something leading away from this, leading to something more. I turn and turn and turn, 360 degrees, and each degree a step, but what if that step is wrong, if I follow that tangent, I’ll end up miles from shore and lost from sight. If I keep turning in circles I’ll simply never move.

I’m overwhelmed by the fact that in two and a half years I will be forty. I don’t know why but 2.5, a quarter of ten, something about that number, its cleanness, its easy divisiveness. And why should forty be that significant, although for some reason it is. Maybe it is the invisible line that women cross… there’s my fertility, and there it isn’t, jump the line, jump back again, here, gone, here, gone.

I’ve never really imagined myself having children. I always though I’d be too weak, too selfish, a bad mother. Sitting in a doctor’s surgery during my early 20s, the fresh bandaid on my arm, the blood off for testing, the doctor wanted to discuss the options if the results were positive. For me there was no option. I could not have a child. I could not be a mother. Not because I did not want a child, not because of all the financial implications, not because there would be no father for the child. The answer was simple. I could not have a child because I was not good enough to be a mother. The doctor’s face seemed concerned at my distress, but not understanding. And it was not to be a decision I would need to make, for the results were negative. They have always been negative, and I have always been relieved.

Today... well, today I believe that I could be a good enough mother. I finally understand how strong my love can be. But I don’t expect it. There won’t be a right time, a right situation. There won’t be a father. Not in time.

I never really imagined having children. But I never really imagined being told I couldn’t have children, either, purely because of my age. The irony that is only with age that I’ve learnt I could, and with age I’ve learnt I most likely can’t.

And maybe that’s something I should be taking to heart; the finality of life. It is not limitless. There will not always be a tomorrow. There are things that most people would figure out early on… I feel like I’m just politely holding the door open but everyone’s ducking through ahead of me and I, ever courteous, cannot step away to begin my journey.

2006...

2005-12-31T21:12:00.000+11:00

I hope you bring us all peace, harmony and inspiration.

Thank you to everyone that left a little something in my life through their comments, understanding and humour.

I think 2006 is going to be a special year for us all.

.

Christmas_2am

2005-12-25T02:05:00.000+11:00

The moon was low and a beautiful yellow. Don't ask why I was standing in the yard photographing the moon at 2am on Christmas morning... doesn't everyone!

2005-12-23T14:18:00.000+11:00

Oh, so pretty, he stands above me. I look, until he turns my way, and my eyes dart away, until a glance shows it is safe to seek him out again with my eyes, my imagination.

So pretty, broad and lean, and that look in his eyes that he might have a mischievous nature, but really, does it matter? I can make him whatever I choose; Italian beauty, worship me, in my mind.

When you cut yourself off from intimacy so much that fantasy is your only outlet, then why limit yourself? Do I know how that makes me sound, the company I would keep, fantasisers all? So be it. What else is there for me?

Look at me with that hint of a smile in your eyes and I can etch out limitless imagined moments and touches.

And then I see the pigeons rutting on the roof above your head, and the bluntness of those thrusts tear away my webs of fantasy, and I land with a thud.

And sitting here watching the world go by, it suddenly dawns on me that, all this time, the world could well have been watching me. Except that, just like me, everyone in this square is caught up in their own story.

A story that seems so overly dramatic as to be laughable. But they wouldn’t laugh, these strutting boy-men. Their lives are very serious, don’t you know. Every step, every crease, carefully chosen, carefully trimmed, carefully shaven. Splash on the fragrance, work on the biceps, posture with the phone, hair gelled precisely.

And the testosterone seeps into the concrete, the pores of the paint… walk into this microcosm that screams sex in a pitch so high we just hear the hum. The perfect families lunching in the square are just extras in this drama, played out every day.

This is a serious business. It shouldn’t be laughable to the likes of me. Maybe they ‘get it’, whatever ‘it’ is, that thing that I don’t grasp. Because whatever the point is, I don’t see it.

How can I, when my eyes keep trying to slide back up for one more glimpse of someone who, I suspect, probably gets the point as well. But when you’re an Italian beauty, casually yet intensely beautiful in your skin in a way these boy-men will never be, maybe the point is clear.

However, a little like this post, the point still eludes me.

Winner of the Inaugural "Derr Fred" Award

2005-12-20T19:53:00.000+11:00

I'm hanging my head in shame.

I cannot believe it.

I thought noone loved me.

(In actual fact, I had you all locked up in a moderation cell, awaiting release. I didn't even know I HAD a moderation cell for naughtly little comments.)

Thank you to rat for pointing it out.

You are all free to mingle, drink, and generally carouse, but please, smoke out on the balcony, and don't flick your cigarettes onto the foot traffic below.

2005-12-18T00:24:00.000+11:00

Just in from a sweaty, bouncy, ear muffling night out.

On the spur of the moment during the week I got myself a ticket to see The Mess Hall. I'd missed out on seeing them a month or so ago when they supported Wolfmother and I was keen, and seeing as they were playing at The Annandale, which is a leisurely walk from my place... well I had no excuse, did I.

And boy, am I glad I went. I know at my age I should be over band crushes, but *swoon*, does Jed Kurzel (the vocalist) do it for me, or what. And I had a fantastic spot, up on a step, so I could see over the top of the crowd. It is one of the few times that it is good to be both tallish and solid as the proverbial outhouse... plus knowing how to stand my ground, even when the little whiney waiflike blondes are crawling all over their boyfriends and trying to push me across. Not going to happen, cupcake. So fuck off. *said with a smile* a smile of pure evil

Besides, once I get started with my vertical epilectic fit (my version of dancing), they seemed less inclined to want to get too close. Smart call girls.

Oh, and if you ever find yourself alone in a crowd, and feeling a bit intimidated physically, just remember: Australian men won't think twice about stepping back onto your feet, into your boobs, but if you're holding a beer! Well, that space around you suddenly becomes sacred.

So, the big thumbs up for the band, I had a ball, and I have that wonderful "cotton wool in the ears" effect that is a sign of a great night out. What? WHAT? Yeah... a great night.

Chill

2005-12-14T14:39:00.000+11:00

Life is rather pleasant at the moment. I'm not working for a couple of weeks and am taking the opportunity to relax and... well, relax!

Life is a gentle routine of sleep, reading blogs, going to the gym, playing (or a twanging sound that is my closest approximation as yet to playing) the guitar, and more sleep. Plus the occassional lunch or drinks. The lunch last week was beautiful, overlooking Darling Harbour, fantastic food and wine, and conversation that turned to nappy fetishists. You couldn't ask for more!

Tonight, in line with my 'Don't Say No' challenge, I have accepted an invite to drinks at the studio I where I occassionally still work. It should be pleasant, although my favourite people still working there are currently on holidays. And I'm sitting here, wondering if it is prudent to blonde my hair a few shades an hour before going out. I guess if it turns out dreadful I can pike on the drinks.

Is anyone else in a complete state of denial that it is less than a fortnight until Christmas?

Slack Hooch

2005-12-04T15:01:00.000+11:00

It's been one of those strange times where I've wanted to post, but everything I've felt I'd like to write seemed to need more effort and time than I had at hand, so it slid. And slid.

Things I've thought about?

I gave myself a mini challenge. I had to accept every invitation I received, unless work was a conflict. I've tried to follow up with that as best I could. Of course, I then went and made a tool of myself at a bbq by drinking more than I'd realised, too quickly, and was sick as a dog. Nice entertainment for the others, I'm sure (cringe factor 11/10).

I have been invited to a nice Christmas lunch this week with the people who I've been working with, so that will be nice, and then again another Christmas lunch in a few weeks. That one will be rather scary, as it has been arranged as a get together for a whole group of freelancers in a variety of fields who normally don't get included in Christmas 'do's. I will know three people there, but am not close to anyone in particular. Ah well, I did say I wanted to get out of my comfort zone a little and mix with people.

My other 'out of my comfort' thing that I've done... I joined a gym on Friday. I have a plan and I intend on sticking with it. There are so many things I want to do, but I have to be realistic and say that at my current fitness level, I won't achieve them. So I am going to get fit again. (See how I ignored all the conflicting body image hang ups that could easily swallow me up in a giant selfcombusting ball?)

Work is quiet now. Dead quiet. But I'm being positive and looking at it as perfect timing to start working out while the gym is quiet during the day. It lessens the intimidation factor a little when there are no other people there. Should I worry about lack of work. Maybe, but I have some cheques due in, so I'm not going to starve this week. And who knows what is around the corner.

Guitar is going well (although I discovered that alcohol does not alleviate my performance anxiety, it just causes me to forget what I was playing. (Cringe factor 4/10))

So... that's the condensed version I guess.

I shan't leave it so long next time.

2005-11-23T15:41:00.000+11:00

How long do you think I can keep staring at this screen, hitting refresh on my favourite blogs, hoping something, anything, can keep me from doing the work I should be doing?

2005-11-17T12:58:00.000+11:00

2005-11-17T12:57:00.000+11:00

2005-11-17T12:56:00.000+11:00

Surreptitious writings

2005-11-14T14:06:00.000+11:00

Surreptitious writings from the corner of the office.

A weekend of no real consequence. I had Friday off, which by now is a faint memory. I was asked what I did for the day, and I could not recall, initially. Hours of guitar practice, it finally dawned on me. And chatting online. And some laundry. And maybe I lay in the sun for a little while. That I cannot recall at all.

Saturday was the usual guitar lesson, although I somehow lost an hour in the morning (can time slip down the back of a sofa like house keys?) so I was running very late. I managed to make the lesson on time, but with little chance for a warm up, and it felt as though the effort I’d put in throughout the week in practicing made little difference. I’m sure it does, but I am frustrated with my limitations and seeming lack of progress. Put in context, five months ago I could barely strum a chord, today I can pick out pieces by sight (very roughly)… so I am making progress. And I continue to enjoy it very much. It is just the way I was raised. If we were to get 96% in an exam, the question would be, what went wrong with the other 4%. I try very hard to change my focus to that remarkable 96% of life, but sometimes the old 4% digs into my heels and tries to drag me down. It might explain a little about why I fear making mistakes so much though.

And Sunday. Well, if Sunday’s could be bought, I’d return mine as faulty. I had a day of the ‘screamies’.

The screamies is a phrase I coined when I was about 14. Specifically I would get the screamies in Mr Kisch’s geometry class. I don’t know what it was about that class, but I would sit there, staring at the page, not seeming able to understand anything he was saying, digging my nails into my palms, and screaming on the inside. Tears would well. It felt like I had a weight on my chest, like I could not breathe. And, teeth grinding, my head would wail. The screamies would always pass, and then I’d look back at whatever had wound me up into that state, and would easily solve it. It just seemed sometimes as though my frustration caused my whole system to want to shut down.

I don’t get the screamies anymore. Or, very rarely.

But yesterday was Screamy Sunday.

From the moment I woke up, I was agitated. I knew I should be working on a job that I had originally planned to do on Monday and Tuesday, but due to a change of some other work’s schedule, I was now facing spending the Sunday working on this job. And I didn’t want to. I wanted to go out with my sister to the local festival, I wanted to have some fun. But I knew I should stay at home and work. And between the two, my temper shortened, my concentration evaporated, my jaw ground and every muscle in my body was so tense it felt like they on the verge of cramping. The logical side of me told me this was a completely irrational response, that screaming and crying were pointless. The illogical side of me told that side of my brain to fuck off.

And then I realised something. This was a convergence of situation and hormones. Oh god. Run. Run! RUNNNN!!!!!

I’m feeling better today.

Different skins

2005-11-08T14:09:00.000+11:00

I spent yesterday listening to a single cd over and over and over again.

On Saturday I bought Bernard Fanning's Tea & Sympathy. He is the lead singer of a high profile Australian band, Powderfinger, but for some reason I've never really become immersed in their music. This CD, however, is a different matter. Something about it reminds me a lot of another CD I loved as a young person, Richard Pleasance's Galleon. I think it's the intimacy, something pared back and raw about it.

I don't know the story behind this CD, but if I was to have a guess, the story the lyrics tell me, is that he was in a relationship and he fell in love with someone else. Of course, I might be very wrong, but the words remind me so much of the conversations I had with the husband that was when we were trying to figure out what we were to do with our futures, after he had fallen in love with another.

Oh god, you all groan, not that again.

Don't panic. I'm just saying that I've developed a more... I suppose I'm just more empathetic to the pain of the person caught in that position, knowing someone with be hurt regardless of the outcome and they have to live with knowing it was at their hands. Of course, not everyone would feel that responsibility, but for those that do, I've seen a little of the conflict and pain. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. And I'm lucky that I know that I've gained more than I've lost. I am so much stronger and happier having lived through it.

Of course, if husband that was had made a bestseller CD out of our situation, you can bet your arse I'd be hitting him for half the royalties. *hehe*

And for another CD recommendation, Wolfmother. It ROCKS!

Notebook piecemeal

2005-10-31T01:49:00.000+11:00

I’m still feeling like the proverbial bitch in heat, so perhaps we should just skip over that to thoughts a little less base.

(I am rather disappointed that even my good mate Rex has now been sullied by one of those Hilton types. Blerk.)

There’s no order to this, no pattern, just bits taken verbatim from the notebooks I carry about.

Observation #1
Placing the familiar tip into her mouth, favouring the right side of her lips to control the angle of the projecting cigarette as she uses both hands to light it; one hand sparking the lighter with a thumb, the other protecting the flame from possible breezes. She leans a little into the flame and draws back, the smoke filling her now well-practiced lungs.

Tap, tap, tap, the spent ash is tipped off the end; something to do with her hands as her mind wanders. A satisfying sharp exhale and the cycle repeats, the cigarette shrinking, until just the stub is left, flattened on the tiled floor.

Unmentionables #1
The words aren’t going to stop. My head swells with them. My tongue remains still.

How I wish I could touch you, a hand on the arm would suffice, except it wouldn’t, and the motivation would be suspect.

How I wish I was the younger thinner me, but still, you’d be desirable. And I, I would be the untouchable.

Observation #2
Mother and daughter side by side, seated on the grass in the crowded park. The young girl, about six, eats her sandwich and watches with interest the office workers walking about looking for a spot to eat their lunch. The mother, chubby, middleaged, stares at the lawn in front of her outstretched legs. Her face is a blank, her chews are slow and automatic. She has disappeared into her own place for a few peaceful moments, having conversations, experiences, that we can only guess at. Absentmindedly, she slowly waves away the congregating flies from her lunch, until her daughter speaks to her and she literally snaps back into the present, her face animated, her focus fully on her child.

But where had she been?

Unspoken Conversations #1
It’s going to get ugly, Father. There will be sadness. Perhaps. Certainly for me. And you might believe this is fuelled by anger, by malice, but trust me, there is nothing so hot running in my emotions, in my blood.

I am cold. I am hard. This you could well accuse of me, but it would just demonstrate, yet again, tragically again and again, how little you know me. If I appear cold and hard, well, they were just illusions I learnt to help protect me from your thoughtlessness. And that word could not be more accurate when it comes to you… the lack of thought you gave us. You say you have changed, that the past should be forgotten and we should move on.

The ‘me’ of a decade ago would have complied, would have quashed down even further any sense of anger; anything to ensure something, something from you. You made us scramble for any snippet of attention. If I could hate you, I would hate you for that. For the fact that the way you made us feel unlovable has made it near impossible to believe someone could ever see something worthwhile in us. You say to forget the past. I say I cannot when I am reminded every day of how hard I struggle against believing I am worthless.

I may have done my best to settle the demons that thinking about you stir, but I see the raw emotion that overwhelms my sister, my little sister, and that fury to protect her rises up again. She still hopes, where I have given up. She still wants something from you that I honestly don’t believe you are capable of comprehending, let alone feeling.

You might think you did your best, but I doubt, deep down, that you believe that. You walked the easy road, the road of least effort; a chameleon in life, you morph yourself into whatever you think the woman in your life wants you to be. What a shame you never bothered to walk bravely and be honest with the girls who would grow into women without you ever making an effort to know them.

If I was ever to ask anything of you, and I won’t because I know it is pointless, but how I wish you could have lived your life bravely, facing up to the consequences of your actions. Rather than leaving your daughters believing there was a chance of love from you, when there was no hope.

Post Conversation Thoughts #1
Had an interesting conversation online regarding changing one's self, or at least, one’s habits, to meet new people and make new friendships. But is that alone going to be enough? I find that, regardless how many people are around me, I withdraw. The only way I ever seem to become acquainted with people is through a work environment, and even then it has to be forced upon me and can take six months for me to even get to the point of an informal chat.

Most people aren’t going to wait around six months to see if I’m worth getting to know or not.

Was I always like this? Not really. Although never hugely outgoing (or not since starting school, I was a gregarious toddler, I’m told), I certainly had a circle of friends and a social life. I seem to have really started to withdraw after I married. It must have been difficult for him to deal with –- I would become more and more afraid to meet new people and do things, so I sent him out alone. The end result isn’t really hard to see coming.

In fact, I did the same thing with Anthony, my first (only other) serious boyfriend. What is it about me that seems to self-smother in that situation, that loses all sense of self worth in a relationship? How awful must it be for them to start off with someone they think of as special and to end up with a lump who can’t leave the house, let alone meet people, without a panic attack. What the hell causes this?

And is it going to happen all over again should I ever, miracle of miracles, start seeing someone again?

Unmentionables #2
I spent the week working at a studio where I once spent a lot of time. I worked at the desk of a young man who I don’t know particularly well, not beyond a hello, but who I am very attracted to, on a purely physical basis. He is beautiful, and has a lovely laid back self-confidence without the ego that you might expect from someone so visually striking.

So I spent the week at his desk, working on his computer, a week desperately resisting the urge to open that drawer, to open that file, to take a peek, to learn something secret, to steal a little piece of his privacy and bundle it away as my own. My own little piece of him. My hand would hover the cursor over his private folder… just a quick sequence of clicks away could be any manner of treasure. And in that drawer, who knows what might have been forgotten up at the back in his hurry to pack for his trip away.

But I resisted. My desire was countered by my respect for his privacy. It was a close call though.

Must be that time of month.

2005-10-25T00:52:00.000+10:00

I'm sure that if I was to look back over my writing I would find a cycle. Of course, I'm too lazy to actually do that, but never let that hold me back from running with a well honed assumption.

Again I am overwhelmed (overwhelmed, underwhelmed... what about just a whelm?) with what probably amounts to nothing more than a biological imperative that makes me want to have sex sex sex. It catches me while I'm standing in a queue, when I'm sitting doing my work, when I'm riding home on the train. Matter'a'fact, I could do with one right now...

And let's not beat about the bush (although that may be my only option). We are not talking about flowers in the hair, walking hand in hand, romantic dinner "making love". The images that fill me head are purely sweaty, pounding, dirty fucking. Nothing delicate about how I'm feeling today.

Guess all any of us can do is hang on until the ride is over.

2005-10-23T23:57:00.000+10:00

My first non-car-owning week, and it feels just the same as it did before really.

I had a very quiet week... only worked 2 days, which was nice. It gave me a few days to sort out things with the car and to just chill a bit. Between working and family stuff, I hadn't really had a day to myself for quite a few weeks, so I enjoyed just hanging. Another mess up with our cheques so we freelancers weren't paid, which put a crimp in a few plans, but no point stressing. I've just juggled things to happen later.

The weekend was equally quiet. I took my sister out to dinner on Friday night, to celebrate her good news, workwise. And afterwards we went and watched a variety of local artists perform in an Elliott Smith tribute, which I particularly enjoyed, as I love his music.

Saturday I did my usual walk to the guitar shop for my lesson. It takes me about half an hour... 25 minutes, but I walk pretty slowly. I'm sure once my fitness improves so will the time. It was warm and humid on Saturday so I was rather flushed and sweaty when I walked in... lucky I know I don't have a chance with Cute Music Shop Man (CMSM) otherwise I'd worry that I wasn't making a good impression. But as I don't have a chance, impressions don't really matter I guess. And before anyone out there argues that I'm putting myself down and hey I might have a shot -- I've seen the way his eyes light up when the pretty girls come in to put up their band posters in the shop windows. His eyes certainly don't do that when I walk in. But he is very nice and chatty, and it is nice to talk to someone who is happy to talk about things beyond the superficial. Of course, that just makes him more attractive in my eyes. Enough blathering about CMSM.

I didn't get a chance to chat with CMSM on Saturday anyway, as just as I was finishing my lesson, and thinking about stopping for a bit, he said "hey, your friend just walked in". My friend? My ex. Who had met me in the shop the week before so we could have lunch and a catch up. Bugger. I mean, nice to see him, but not the impression I want to give, that the ex is always hanging around. Because he isn't. He was there to show his mate a guitar he is keen on. He'd completely forgotten I'd be there at around the same time.

It was odd meeting this friend too. They've known each other for years. They met when they acted together. But this was the time the ex was having the affair, so all his friends from that particular time in his life, from that play, all would think of him and her as the couple. I made a point of never meeting those friends because I already felt humiliated about what had happened, let alone meeting all these people who envied M. because he'd managed to snag this beautiful woman, tall, fair, long dark hair, and eyes that hinted at her Chinese grandmother. She really was stunning. I know, I got to watch them act together on stage, knowing full well what was going on between them. Yep, sucker for punishment or what.

But annnnnnyway, that's all in the past, and M. and I can joke now about being the evil Ex's and whatnot, which might seem in bad taste to others but rather amuses us. And this friend seemed nice enough for the 20 minutes or so we walked about and chatted. And then I took myself off to lunch and spent the afternoon people-watching and listening to the new Tex Don and Charlie CD. Mmmmm Tex's voice really does do it for me.

And today I practiced guitar on the steel string until my fingers threatened rebellion and then my sister came over and we did our grocery shopping. Not too exciting. At one point during the afternoon, while I was waiting for the washing machine to finish its spin cycle, I lay down in the backyard and looked up at the sky, through the leaves of the big old gum that's in the corner of my yard. Birds were hopping about feeding and fluttering from branch to branch, working out pecking orders it seemed. And the breeze teased the leaves, the branches creaked, the sky was an intense blue almost creating a silhouette, the grass smelt clean under the blanket, and I couldn't think of single place I would rather have been in that very moment. And then the desire to roll over and casually rest my arm across the stomach of a smiling caring man was palpable.

But instead I got up and hung out my laundry.

2005-10-18T12:06:00.000+10:00

What huddles closer than a family deserted? What binds more closely than a common rejection?
Maybe not at first.
At first it was the ricocheting of atoms suddenly loosed of their ties; hot and dangerous we bounced off each other, turning on each other our hurt, our anger, lashing out, drawing emotional blood to dull the coarse tears that burned inwardly.
But in our adulthood we have found that our blood is common, our hurt is common, our laughter is common, and our anger is common. We are family. We are bonded. We are for each other what noone else is for us. We share far more than we might have ever believed, and our differences simply add colour to our views of the world.
And once a family rebonds after a trauma that has changed them so fundamentally… how can they open their hearts to embrace the very thing that tore away their childhood moorings in the first place?
Maybe some can. But I cannot.

deja vu?

2005-10-12T00:47:00.000+10:00

I could simply copy and paste the last post. Not quite so tired, but still so very busy that I'm not doing much else with myself than working (and spending... gone on a little shoe frenzy).

Car news... I shall shortly have no car.

I have made the decision. The car goes.

It was going to cost me a small fortune to get all the bits and pieces needed for rego... I thought about it, and once I added in fuel and insurance... well, over $100 a week just for the luxury of having a car parked out the front didn't make much sense.

I've been thinking of ways I can improve my fitness in my day to day life, and this seems like a sensible first step (excuse the pun). Walking. I'm in the middle of great public transport. I can borrow my sister's car, or hire one, if I need. So... the car goes. And it feels so liberating!

The car was bought when I was still married. My biological clock ticked for about a fortnight... just enough time to buy a replacement for the car the then-husband wrote off. So the car was bought with the idea of putting a family in it. Unfortunately the tick tick slowed, and stopped, but the car was to stay. That car lived through a lot. An accident (fortunately then-husband wasn't hurt). The monotony of driving him to and from work. Wonderful scenic driving holidays down the south coast. Silences as then-husband grudgingly picked me up from the station. Intimate whispers as he stole off with his girlfriend to perform who knows what in the back seat. Raised voices and sobbing tears as it drove us to Brisbane. A quiet assuredness as it drove me back home, alone.

But I rarely drive it these days... to my guitar lesson because I'm lazy, and to the shops, but neither trip warrants a car. It it time for us to part company.

I feel the potential of a whole new chapter before me.

2005-10-05T23:16:00.000+10:00

Fuck I'm tired.

Not long home from work, a day spent not moving from in front of the computer. Oh, one toilet break and two trips to make coffee. Lunch? Nup. Dinner? Nup. At least my headphones worked today. (Yesterday had the potential to be known as the Pyrmont-Massacre... I need my music for basic sanity.)

So I've staggered home, thrown something decidely unappetising down my gullet, painfully, as my right tonsil has decided to go beserk, creating a charmingly painful ear-ache over the last 2 days. Noice. Oh, and my right ankle (the one full of metal) has decided to protest its lack of movement during the day by puffing up to look like one of those disgusting 1960s elephant foot umbrella stands. Mmmmmm. Attractive.

Actually,. for all the whinging, I'm feeling pretty good. Tired, which is a nice change for me at this hour.

Car goes in for a major service and pink slip tomorrow. Fingers crossed it won't be horrendously expensive. (The fact that I have to cross my fingers means I'm going to pay through the nose.) But if it isn't too expensive, I shall be buying myself and my sister tickets to 2006's Big Day Out. I missed out on tickets this year. And it sounds like a great line up. The White Stripes, Iggi Pop, and my idea of aural sex, Kings of Leon. Woohoo. That dirty southern guitar sound goes straight to my hips... in the best of ways.

a dig in the ribs

2005-10-05T00:32:00.000+10:00

I was standing in a queue at the supermarket the other day. I quite enjoy supermarkets. Something about them tend to make me a little silly. It's like an overcompensation for the potential shittiness I could develop being in a place full of people who seemingly have no fucking idea WHAT they are there for... but I digress.

I was standing in the queue, with a small basket of things for the checkout. Ahead of me was a man, probably in his early 40s, trim, with quite a nice bottom. That was what I noticed first. A good bum in jeans. His hair was salt&pepper grey but his skin was tanned and smooth. He was perhaps a little too cleanly shaven for my tastes... not a hair out of place. But still, attractive. I glanced down at the shopping he was unpacking for the checkout-chap. Deoderant. Rollon. Cottonbuds. He was obviously very keen on personal hygiene. There were a few other odds and ends. I got the distinct impression he was planning a night out. He had a certain fragility about him that I can't name, but on seeing his groceries I would guarantee he was separated.

And then I saw the clincher. A large box of condoms. Of the "for her pleasure" ribbed ribbed and more ribbed variety.

My stomach clenched. It flipped. I felt the familiar sensation. A giggle. It was flipping about like a landed fish, threatening to break free. I bit my lip, hard, and looked at the magazine rack.

There was nothing funny to be laughing at, but something about the vulnerability of this man and the hope and anticipation all wrapped up in crimson packaging with a smooth plastic seal caught me off guard.

The repressed giggle threatened to push past my diaphram (yeah yeah inopportune choice of words) and into my windpipe. It was beginning to feel like more than a giggle. It threatened to be a guffaw.

Now, I am all in favour of people buying condoms. The more, the merrier. I recall with great fondness my first condom buying shopping trip post-marriage breakup. It was a rite of passage. (The fact that most are slowly decaying in a bottom drawer shall not be mentioned.)

I don't know what it was that made me revert to a teenager, but it was irrepressable. I bit my lip 'til I thought it would bleed, and still the corners of my mouth twitched, threatening to betray the immature *nudge nudge wink wink say no more*.

The moment he packed away his things and I could move down to pay for my items was a huge relief, although I probably frightened the checkout guy with the huge "Joker-esque" grin that finally had broken free on my face.

Of course, the joke's on me. He got laid. I just got the giggles.

2005-10-02T02:10:00.000+10:00

Technology is amazing. Until it doesn't work. And then it's shit. This week, it has been shit. Internet up and down like a groom's draws (I thought that was a reasonable equivalent to the bride's nightie). And an ISP who shrug their shoulders and say "Idunno". Thanks mate.

So... I might be posting soon... or I might not. At the very least I shall upgrade my modem to one the techheads approve of. They change a setting and I have to buy new hardware. Again, thanks mate.

But I'm not complaining. It's a long weekend. Any thing's possibile. Woohoo!

2005-09-27T01:20:00.000+10:00

Seems to be in a bit of a slump, writing-wise. Ideas flit about, whisper into my ear, but disappear before I can turn to hear what they are saying. Damned annoying.

I've been a bit up and down I guess, working a fair bit, enjoying the guitar, singing little baby operas at the cats... the usual. And keeping my eye on the news to make sure no friendly texans are swept off their feet.

This is just a quickie to say I'm still about... just a little low key.

Stewing.

Ideas.

Hopefully.

2005-09-18T18:20:00.000+10:00

He is on the telephone again, his voice slow and thick with his misery. It will be the same conversation -- how he’s lost his wife, how his children are turning away from him.

She looks around her office, hoping people won’t notice the emotion creeping into her voice. She props the phone against her shoulder, attempting to continue to work while he speaks.

He blames his wife. He doesn’t understand his wife’s anger. But she can. What he doesn’t know is that she is aware of his accusations against his wife. She knows what sparked his wife’s final ultimatum. He has never chosen to divulge to her that he raided his wife’s mail on a suspicion. His wife had told a friend she had a crush on a man. He had opened the letter and thrown this slip of the pen in her face. Considering his history of infidelities, the irony is anything but sweet.

She glances at the clock while he continues on. She can’t raise what she knows without betraying who told her. So she keeps it to herself.

She feels for the children. Two teenage boys and a younger girl caught between the pettiness of their parents. She entreats him to consider them, to leave his anger and focus on them. Their mother, his wife, has made an art of hostility. He should do whatever makes this awful situation easier for his children, to make sure they feel his support. But he isn’t listening. He is off on his monologue, the list of wrongs done him, by his own family.

She sighs, wondering why he calls. Of course, she knows. She is the only one left who will listen.

She reminds herself that he is not well. He is on stress leave from work. A policeman, his gun was taken from him after an incident in the work locker room. They fear he would self-harm, and arrange for him to seek help. He doesn’t like what he is told by the counsellor and doesn’t return. He is crumbling and she worries when, or if, he will find his way back to solid ground.

His tone has changed from anger to the more familiar self-pity. His once strong voice has developed a whine. She wants to console him, but the children’s faces flash in her mind. She fears their pain will be longer lasting than his, and it angers her that he doesn’t seem to be able to see beyond his own feelings to acknowledge his responsibility to theirs. He is over 50. When will he grow up?

She types out a few more words. He has been talking for nearly an hour and she feels exhausted, the weight of his emotional neediness saps her. She occasionally tries to offer a different perspective to how he is dealing with his marriage breakdown, but he doesn’t want to hear. This has become a familiar vent for him, with a rhythm he finds comfortable. He doesn’t want introspection if it might mean change.

His mood shifts again. He misses his wife. He loves her. He wants her back so much. And then he says something she has never heard before.

"Everything in my life before my wife was a mistake."

He continues on, but she doesn’t hear. Her heart has frozen.

She is back in her old house. She’s 10 years old, walking in the front door, her school-case in her hand. As has become habit, she makes her way to her parents’ bedroom. Each afternoon she peeks into the wardrobe to see if her father’s clothes are still there.

Only today her mother is standing in the room, ironing. "Don’t bother looking. His clothes are gone." Her mother is stony-faced, staring down at the ironing board, at the shirt she is ironing. Her mother makes no mention of the white envelope sitting there, the only communication that her husband has finally abandoned the marriage.

It has struck her like a cold jolt in the guts. She looks up around the office again. It is mostly empty, people away from their desks for their lunch break. She is glad as she can feel the tears welling up. She is still the 10 year old girl trying to make everything ok, to make it as easy as possible for her father to want her, to be good so he will love her.

Until now.

With one sentence, one final disowning of her, of her beloved mother, of her sister, with those words "Everything in my life before was a mistake," she feels the 10 year old daughter finally let go, finally give up the battle.

She gives up hoping her father will ever be the man she hoped he was.
She realises she doesn’t love the man he is.

She hangs up the phone. Her father seems to sound more upbeat having unleashed his feelings. She can’t describe how she feels. It is so raw, so sad. She goes to the toilets and locks herself in a cubicle. And cries. In her heart, her father is dead.

Too...

2005-09-12T01:56:00.000+10:00

Fat? Tough

Loud? Tough

Quiet? Tough

Opinionated? Tough Tough Tough

Shy?

Messy?

A spendthrift?

Left wing?

Critical?

Accepting?

Ignorant?

Parochial?

If you can't look at me and see something exciting waiting to be discovered, guess what?

Tough

To and fro, back and forth

2005-09-11T00:00:00.000+10:00

How do we differentiate between what makes us comfortable and what actually makes us happy? They often aren't the same things. How do we learn to change the sense of what we deserve out of life? Some people seem to be able to just grab the trapeze and fly through life. I'm still testing the guy lines on the ladder that would take me up to the platform.

I know these are things I've raised over and over, and they don't seem to be any closer to revealing any secrets to me. Maybe there aren't any secrets. But there must be. There must be something that will help me to life a life with better relationships.

I know. It all comes back to self esteem. But even that confuses me.

I believe I am a decent person. I try to be thoughtful. I try to be reliable. I like the fact that I think about things, question things, have a curiosity about the world and what happnes in it. I like that I have such a soft heart for animals that even the sight of a happy dog can make me grin for an hour, and a dead pigeon on the road makes me sorry and somber. I like the fact that I
have my opinions, but would never deny others theirs, even if I don't agree with them. I like that I'm willing to learn and immerse myself in things that make me happy. I like that I'm transported by music and that I can lose myself in books.

I like my patience. I like my humour, that I'm not afraid to laugh out loud at the many ridiculous thoughts that pop into my head during very ordinary, banal moments. I like that I sing silly songs to the peanut butter in the supermarket. I like that I enjoy snuggling back into the warm covers of my bed to go dream chasing after I have woken up. I like that I have my principles and
don't let others bully me out of them. I lke that I quietly live my life with what I believe to be integrity, that I am honest with others, and try to be perhaps a little too much with myself.

I think I would like me, if I was ever to get to know me.

So, why, when there is a long list of things about myself that I like, do I assume that others will find me boring or just plain freaky?

I spend too much time in my head. That's an easy argument. I'm uncomfortable around new people. I automatically decline invitations (like I just did then for lunch) because why? Automatic response? Fear of the unknown? Not sure. I like the people here, as far as I can tell. Fear of me saying the wrong thing again and seeing that glazed over response as the 'other' realises there is nothing about me they find interesting? Which shouldn't mean too much to me. I probably wouldn't find them too interesting either.

Maybe that's where my shyness begins to stem from. Even though I like things about myself, I don't expect to fit in. Partly a values thing. And partly that I live too much in my head? I'm not a do-er. I don't go out and experience things, achieve things, that others find they can relate to perhaps?

I don't buy houses. I don't invest. I haven't travelled. I haven't studied. I am not fast tracked on some fabulous career. I don't have a partner or children. I am willing to admit that my life isn't AMAZING all of the time. I don't have a large circle of friends accrued through my years of study and travel. I am naturally reclusive and happy to spend time on my own. I don't need to cram my days with 'stuff' to do, just to feel that the day has been worthwhile. I am easily overwhelmed if I am around people too much. I like to be alone often.

Most times I feel self-contained. Sometimes I feel disconnected.

I am comfortable with the idea that I don't have to liek every person that I meet. That I can interact pleasantly with people but have no interest in them beyond that. There are some people I like. There are many that I feel not particularly strongly about in any sense. And there are the very few that I dislike. The people I like and who interest me, I try to know better. Those
that seem to want to make a connection, a friendship... well they are rare, and maybe I smother them. I don't seem surprised when the friendships sputter out.

All this sounds whiney and sad.

I'm sitting in the sun with a coffee watching people go about their day, all enjoying the sun, the beauty. I have Elliott Smith in my ears. How could I not like the life that is mine? How can I not feel a connection with every single person here, if only because we are all enjoying being here. I truly do love my life and am grateful I can live it the way I do.

Maybe it's just a skin thing. No, not exactly. I've tried the skin solution. It wasn't enough. OK, I just caught myself looking at the way a man's lats cast shadows, with the sun creating highlights on his shoulders, as he leans against a sandstone wall, oblivious as he talks on his phone. If he isn't talking to his lover, he should be.

So maybe it's a little bit a skin thing.

I think I'll go back to riding. And I think I'll make a concerted effort to crawl back into my skin this year.

I have a life full of happy moments strung together. I might struggle a little with a depressive, or sad, basic personality. Maybe. But fuck it. I am able to wring out more joy and humour in my day than many I've known, and that has to count for something. For a lot.

I don't need to change, to improve. I just need to let my guard down more, and not roll into my little echidna ball everytime I think someone MIGHT hurt me.

I've survived worse. None of this should frighten me.

Don't expect sense at 2am

2005-09-08T01:13:00.000+10:00

Well I'm back to about 90% and feeling SO much better. Now I'm just trying to avoid all the other people sneezing and blustering all over the place. Hankies, please, people!

I will be starting a 3 week busy period at work, which is good. Money is good... when your car is due for rego and you know it is going to need a new set of tyres and a major service to get it back in the good books.

I might be getting back into horseriding again. I can't actually afford it, and it is a little risky when I can't get income insurance, but the woman who owns the stables where I was riding contacted me to see if I could take up looking after their website again. I'd originally created it over 2 years ago now, and looking at it, it's a bit clunky and could really do with some streamlining (purely design/page flow wise... don't ask me anything technical about websites... I have no idea). We'll see how it goes.

I miss riding a lot, and I think it would do me the world of good to get back into it again. Apart from all the benefits of being with a beautiful animal, and the rightbrain effect riding lessons have on me, which is so peaceful, just to get back into something physical again is needed. I have been big for a while now, but it is getting silly. This isn't me. And it is beginning to interfere with my life.

Beginning? I wonder how long I've really been using it as an excuse to not risk things. I like to think I live bravely, and on some levels I do. But on some, many, I am so frightened I feel like I'm stuck in one of those dreams where you're running away from something ominous, and you hide in a corner, and you are trying to stop yourself breathing so the ominous thing can't hear you, but you're gasping for air, and as this thing comes closer, you try to hold so still but you're shaking from the effort of not moving, and any moment it'll catch you so don't breathe, don't breathe, don't breathe.

Has anyone out there read Kate Grenville's Lillian's Story? I read it when I was a teenager; young and athletic. Yet the main character still resonated with me. As a young girl she takes to eating, building up a wall of flesh, in an attempt to escape the beatings, and later sexual abuse, of her father. At the turn of the century, when the most she was expected to achieve was a good marriage, this wall of flesh disqualified her from the marriage game, freeing her to pursue an education she would otherwise have not had. Of course, her history, her experiences, her abdication from her social role, all catch up with her in the end. But what I was leading to was, even at 18 I understood the significance of that wall of flesh. And when they later made a movie of this story and ignored this facet of the story (an amazing but very slim actress was cast to play her character), I was more than disappointed. I felt like they'd completely missed the most important key to her trying to control her life.

So, have I built up my own wall of flesh in an attempt to disqualify myself from the love game? People who meet me for the first time might describe me as reasonably articulate, slightly eccentric, and enthusiastic on certain pet subjects, but attractive isn't a word that would sit comfortably, not in the traditional, boy-meets-girl way. It makes a perfect excuse for me to accept lack of interest in me (rather than facing some bigger flaws in my personality), and allows me a higher moral ground (if they REALLY liked me, my body shouldn't matter, they must be shallow -- although I really think, they must be normal), and if the worst was to happen and someone STILL was to try to express an interest in me, I could assume they must have some warped kind of fetish. Nice series of justifications I've built up there. Even the French judge would have to give me a 9.0 for that lot.

So, the big (HA!) question is... what am I hiding from?

I'b been sicb

2005-09-05T01:32:00.000+10:00

Snotty. Achey. Tonsilly. Headachey. Sweaty. Chilly. and now Coughy.

Aren't you glad I stayed away!

Lost a little bit of work, but I should be able to make it up over the next few weeks. The worst thing was not being able to play with my new toy, and having to cancel my lesson. Again, I'll make up for it this week. Began this weekend. I am reaching the point of frustration. Barre chords. Little fingers don't make full barre chords easily. Or mine don't. Stoopid fingers.

Ummmmm... I have to say that days and days in bed don't make for interesting reading. Or not the reason why I was in bed anyway. Oooooh for another reason. *sigh* But it does make for freaky paranoid dreams. I've had a week of dreams where I'm being attacked by strange beings trying to break into my car, and then lots of dreams of someone breaking into my home while I'm asleep, and other dreams of police with police dogs running around my house looking for criminals in my yard.

Which, oddly enough, kinda came true. About midnight last night there was a scuffle on the street outside my house, with someone yelling, and someone else yelping and whimpering, and suddenly a bunch of police cars turned up. A loud conversation outside (I don't think they appreciated having to run) became more muted, and then they all bundled up and drove off. I couldn't see anything, just heard it. Surreal.

So, anyway, I guess I should try to get some sleep tonight. Hopefully dreamless sleep.

2005-08-28T23:15:00.000+10:00

Meet the new addition to my family.

A sweet little classical guitar that joins my other...

The divorce settlement (a steel string amped acoustic)... the only thing I asked from the ex when we split up.

I got the husband-of-christmases-past to come along to test drive any suitable guitars, and I finally settled on this one. Now all I need to do is learn to play well enough to do it even the remotest bit of justice. I bought him lunch afterwards, and we nattered and talked music and just generally talked. And as I sat there with him, I realised how lucky we are that we still have this. That we have managed to salvage the little bit about each other that we've always liked, and not let all the ugly history spoil that. So we can have a friendship that is sporadic, no strings, no expectations, enjoy each other when we see each other, but have no desire to make it anything more than what it is. I am really grateful for that.

Of course, now I'm broke again, but hey. I'd rather be broke with a nice guitar, than have money in the bank and nothing to play.

2005-08-27T01:09:00.000+10:00

I'm not a gig-pig. Honest I'm not.

... But tonight we saw Regurgitator! and it was fun!! FUN!! I danced like an unco middle aged woman with bad ankles and too much energy, I bounced annoying people who encroached on my body cylinder back into their own space (ahhhh thank you basketball coaches of teams past), with a smile and an inferred promise that I was not moving an iota so they'd better find someone else to stand in front of.

The night was just what I needed after an exhausting and slightly soul sapping week at work.

My feet hurt, and my back might never forgive me, but damn I feel a bit more like Hooch again.

2005-08-20T11:07:00.000+10:00

It's a Saturday morning and I should be running around trying to clear up at least one layer of crap before my mother visits this afternoon, but I'm not. I'm reading blogs. Well, you can't say I'm not consistent when it comes to procrastination.

My week was a tad stressful. Keeping a written record like this is interesting because it really does bring to the fore the cycles that you repeat. Like going insanely broke waiting for cheques that do not arrive. I have my mailman's schedule memorised. He passes the house across the street from me between 1.45 and 2.00. I know this because I waited for him on Tuesday, with anticipation and hope, on Wednesday with hope and a slightly unsettled feeling in my tummy, on Thursday, with growing despair as I saw my looming eviction from my home and wondered how was I going to get internet access when I was living out of a trolley, and on Friday, when he was running an hour late, and the cheque finally turned up. YAY. Now I just have to wait for it to clear (Wednesday) and then I can pay all the people who have been patiently waiting for their bills to be paid. Double YAY.

And I can buy the nylon string guitar that my teacher thinks would be a good idea as I seem to be heading towards more classical pieces, and it will be much easier for me with one (and of course I hate the idea of another guitar... of course I don't!! Gadget girl, that is me).

Ummmm what else has been happening. Work has been sporadic. Lots of last minute cancellations. I think next week could turn into a hell week, as all those postponements are going to have to happen soon. Not much play, due to broke-ed-ness.

Oh, my sister and I are taking my mother out tonight for a surprise (which is why I SHOULD be cleaning, why she is visiting). We are taking her to see Nine Inch Nails. That is going to be fun!

Alright, enough putting off the inevitable. Must....clean...before...going...to...lesson. Muuuuuuust...cleeeeeeeeean.

Bleh.

More news soon.

2005-08-12T01:29:00.000+10:00

Is there something about death that makes you suddenly want to lecherously touch everyone around you? Seize the day? Seize the attractive man next to you. Is it wrong to be perving at a funeral?

I have all of a sudden been dreaming about kissing. What has sparked this? At least the dreams are realistic enough to not be romantic. The manchild kisses me as a dare, as a way to make me uncomfortable. But it is I who turns the tables when he is shocked and overwhelmed by my enthusiastic response. Should I be embarressed to dream about the manchild in such a way? He has done nothing to provoke it. To encourage it. We do not even speak. If I open my mouth, I say backhanded things. I can't help myself.

Female Friend: When are we going to come to another of your soccer games?
Manchild: Well, I'm not playing for two weeks. [red card tch tch]
Hooch: You assume you were the drawcard?
Manchild: Oh.

Yeah, good one Hooch. You dick.

I have this ability to say incredibly biting, rude, nasty comments whenever I am nervous around people. Especially if I'm attracted to them. Great, huh.

So life goes on. I went into a coffee shop yesterday and the last time I was in there I bumped into my friend, laughing and joking. It was one of those take a deep breath and smile at the memory moments. But at least I'm realistic enough to know that life doesn't change overly. My work is still sporadic. My bills are still unpaid. My house is still a mess. And I feel like at some point in the last 6 months, I've lost my laugh. I dream about running and snogging. Maybe I can dream about laughing again too. That'd be so nice.

Fitting Farewells

2005-08-03T23:38:00.000+10:00

Monday morning I woke up feeling strong, like I could brave anything. I spent the morning talking via email with a friend who was delivering a eulogy, helping him refine his speech. And then I prepared myself and met up with people I used to work with to go in to the crematorium together. Amy and I greeted each other with a kiss and squeeze of the hand, although we didn’t speak at all.

The service was beautiful; funny and slightly irreverent, just like my friend. We cried and laughed at the same time as stories were recounted. I didn’t try to be brave during the service. I just let the tears course my cheeks. Once the service was over, the chapel doors opened and we left to the distinctive tune of Sid Viscious singing "My Way"… a fitting tribute if ever there was one.

Afterwards, we all met at a lovely little pub and drank and remembered our friend and met her extended friends and family. I think I got home around 1am; our friend would have been proud.

I miss her, but I really feel like I was able to be a part of something that helped us all. Her family is taking her back to the UK, where they will give her ashes to the breeze atop the highest peak. She was always a free spirit.

Our friend was the lynchpin for our group of friends. Without her, I think we will drift apart, slowly. I know none of us will ever forget her, though.

2005-07-31T16:29:00.000+10:00

Even though I do mention it from time to time, I really don't hold that much stock in horoscopes,etc. However, this one, for the weekend, cut a little too close to the bone.

Cancer
The month really ends on a serious, sour and possibly difficult note and the death knell may ring. There is one friendship that ends suddenly and a criticism directed at you makes you think of the 'fight or flight' syndrome. A friend is harsh with you but look closely and you will see that it is they who are stuck and are contriving to pull you down with them. Dont let this happen.

I'm feeling very nervous about tomorrow. Yesterday was a nice day, and we all enjoyed the sun and watched a friend playing sport and just sat around mucking around and laughing. Tomorrow will be the real deal.

I do not like showing my emotions in front of people. I never have. I usually mask them well, but I know I won't be able to. I can already feel it. I really want to be able to just sit away in a corner on my own. This is compounded by the fact that Amy will be there, and due to a number of things said and done in the past, I just don't want to have to deal with her. She's poisonous. I don't want to be a part of her little drama. (You can think I'm being selfish and unkind. I probably am.) I just want to stay away from the work crowd and say goodbye to our friend in my own way.

It is going to be the hardest of days. My friend's family. Her friends. Her life. All that sorrow in one room. All the people touched by the person she was.

I'm afraid of all that emotion.

2005-07-29T00:38:00.000+10:00

What? You're whining you don't have anything to inspire you. That you don't feel enough.

Well HERE! Slam these feelings into your gut, so hard you're winded, trying to suck the air in but you can't seem to get your breath. Your mind runs in small circles, trying to grasp the sensations that are taking over. Pry open your mouth, force the jaw open, stuff those feelings in there, cotton wool, dry, making you want to wretch. Tears welling up? Can't have that! Push those feelings further down, push them into the back of your throat, into your windpipe, down your asophagus. Throat so dry you can't swallow the hard lump away? Stomach seeming to swell with the nausea behind it? Push it down further. Push it into your gut. And push the rest back into the small part of your mind. The dark part. Way way back. Breath shallowly, because if you take it deep breath, it might all regurgitate itself back up. The raw, truly gut wrenching, nauseating pain that you can only just contain.

Want those fucking feelings now?

My friend died this morning at 9.30.

I spent the day literally not moving from in front of my computer for fear that even movement might tip my precarious balance. Control. Breathe. Don't think.

I've always said that I don't believe in regret, but today I felt the regret of every hug that I didn't give her (she loved hugs), of the distance at which I held her because of the seeds of doubt sown by another. I got it so wrong. And she was such an amazing...truly amazing person. Open, warm, funny, loving, always laughing, up to no good (in the nicest possible way), and with the worst karaoke voice ever (Sid Viscious's "I did it my way" will always make me smile). I am grateful to have known her, and devastated to have lost her so soon.

2005-07-27T10:41:00.000+10:00

Slack.
Tart.
Boring.
Git.
Nuthin'
To Say.
Too Busy.
So Quiet.

2005-07-19T00:50:00.000+10:00

Happy birthday to me!

.

And because misery loves company

2005-07-16T16:07:00.000+10:00

I am loving my guitar lessons; I find them difficult and challenging, and sometimes my brain wants to shut down because it simply doesn’t ‘get’ it, or my fingers just can’t think where they should be going next, and I laugh and curse and stamp my feet in frustration – but still, there is enough of a moment where it is beginning to fit together, moments where I see the possibilities… and then it falls to pieces, but just for that moment…

There’s a chap who works at the shop where I go for my lessons, who last week commented that he thought I looked very tired. I was pretty hungover, so I probably did look rather shocking. This week I wasn’t hungover, but I had a few drinks last night, and could feel the tired sensation sagging around my eyes that alcohol tends to cause. When I went into the shop and waited for my teacher, this chap again said I looked tired. I laughed and said that he’d said so last week as well. He said yes, it was because my eyes looked… and he dropped his eyelids into a sleepy manner.
Ah. Here I was thinking it was my dark circles that looked bad. I have always been heavy lidded. Year after year of school photos show me looking sleepy and dopey and stupid. But that’s the way I was made. Not much I can do about it. I’ll just have to tell him next time that this is as good as it gets, and as awake as my eyes will ever look. Nicely. Because he is a nice man.

I finished Lighthousekeeping the night before last, and I had to read through my tears for the final pages. I cried for her loneliness. Her loss. She had learnt to love, perhaps, but the loneliness seemed to define her. I’m beginning to understand that.

I’m perverse. I feel lonely but then find myself so uncomfortable in the company of others. I worry that I might be sliding back into a dark place. I’m hanging on, desperately, to the things that I enjoy in my life, and I am trying so hard to not completely alienate every person in my life.

I have told people that I have resigned myself to being alone, and in part I believe that to be true. They ask how I cannot be lonely. I am. But I accept it. I don’t rail against the world because of it. What is the point? It isn’t the world’s fault. It is mine. I deserve it. I am not willing to do whatever it takes to make myself attractive to others. I have given up. And even if I were to attract them initially, they’d soon be so uncomfortable around me. I am awkward. I say the wrong things. I am too serious. I laugh inappropriately. I don’t accept things at their surface level. But I guess the truly telling thing is that I would not be able to trust… I would be simply waiting, keeping an eye on the door, watching to see their back as they walked out. And who could blame them. I’d probably walk out that door too, if I could simply figure out a way of leaving myself behind.

Things I realised tonight

2005-07-16T01:02:00.000+10:00

German beer halls suck.

German food in german beer halls is way too expensive and even the fish tastes like greasy pork.

German beer, although impressive in stature in its half litre and litre mugs, is not much chop as far as beer goes.

Oompah Loompah bands are way too loud and simply headache inspiring.

I don't regret going along tonight, because it was for the best of reasons. My friend is sick. She is very sick, and has to have surgery that is risky and scary. If we stopped and thought about it, I think we would all find ourselves frozen to the spot, simply unable to comprehend how awful this is. Instead, a big group of us went out and ate and drank and made merry, celebrating our friend this week, and not thinking about the reality of next week.

Considering her reality, any of my feelings about my life seem petty. But the reality is that good people go through awful things all the time. It isn't fair. It is sad. But it is.

So how petty am I when I admit that after a night out with friends, friends who are kind and generous, I left the pub where we ended up, and walked down the street, controlling the almost, but not quite, irresistable urge to burst into tears. Not for any concern for my friend, who had left earlier in the evening, but because the loneliness seemed so overwhelming. The loneliness feels like a heavy smooth cold stone in my stomach.

Pathetic.

2005-07-13T16:04:00.000+10:00

Have just started reading a book called Lighthouse Keeping by Jeanette Winterson. I like it. I'm being swept away. I know I will wish it was longer. Am not writing though. Drats.

Working working working. Am working a night shift tonight. Picked up my guitar after it having a service over the last few days. It sounds lovely. Shame about the player!

Better go. Brief, vapid, this is the Hooch.

2005-07-10T00:09:00.000+10:00

Hmmmmm. Perhaps there should be an invention that won't let you open any new files on your computer if you are over the limit... it would mean noone could be subjected to posts like that one from last night. Oops.

I should clarify that I spent the night having "one drink" with some former work mates / now friends, which was great fun. Of course, the more I drink, the more I let my guard down, the more I remember how much I used to like physical contact with members (ha!) of the opposite sex, and the more aware I became of very attractive new addition to group sitting next to me, and a young woman's (or a letcherous woman's) mind turned to flights of fancy. Luckily I have an inbuilt guard mechanism that precludes me from pouncing on attractive young men innocently sitting at a table. The rant was at myself, not at my friends :)

This morning I duly suffered for my exuberance last night, and had a pretty terrible guitar lesson, but my teacher was sympathetic and gentle on my trembling hands. And then I worked until the evening (money money money), so tonight has been quiet, watching a bit of telly. I'll have a hot bath and get some sleep before going back in to work again tomorrow. I need to earn dollars, and lots of them!

I have some thoughts bouncing around in the old melon... about families, about expectations, and about conversations I've been having with fellow bloggers (online journal-keepers?). I'll see f I can sort them into any form of sense, or even half sense.

2005-07-09T01:29:00.000+10:00

Drunk.
Very Drunk.
Very drunk and alone.
Very drunk and alone and spent the evening with beautiful people.
Very drunk and alone and spent the evening with beautiful people who would never be interested in old fat ugly Hoochs.

Sigh.

Gonna have a sore head in the morning.

All Class

2005-07-05T00:34:00.000+10:00

I had a meeting last week for some freelance work typesetting for a publishing company. It was just a quick informal meeting, during which time I was shown some samples of their work, including some copies of a trade mag that I will be working on tomorrow. It is for the dairy industry. My mind immediately went back to the work I did on some in-branch collateral for a particular bank that was for the rural sector, which also featured cattle.

So I innocently pipe up, "You know, it's funny, everywhere I go, I seem to work with cows."

There was a moment of absolute silence, except for the loud clanging sound of the penny dropping for me.

The two women sitting opposite me looked at me, wide-eyed, and then burst out laughing.

Thank goodness.

I've lost it

2005-07-02T16:40:00.000+10:00

I had it, and now I’ve lost it. I want it back. I miss it. I feel empty, and frustrated that I cant’ force it back to me. I had this little taste of how the words could flow, how the story could embrace me, but not it’s gone again. I sit in cafés and try to coax it back, sweet-talking it, turning my back to give it a chance to sneak back, like a small cat, curious, but wary. It just taunts me. I wouldn’t accuse it. I’d just embrace it.

If only it would come back to me.

Don't know why

2005-06-25T11:57:00.000+10:00

Stoopid blogger. Don't know why the type's gone spazzy... and no time to fix it at the moment. Hopefully it will have an attitude adjustment and fix itself by the time I return. Grrrr.

2005-06-25T11:52:00.000+10:00

A dry spell. 11 hours work in a week does not cover the bills. Sitting, waiting for the phone to ring, does not make me less anxious.

The house is slowly adjusting to the emptiness that has been left by the death of Kirby. Even with the other three here, it still seems... less. When I left the supermarket a few days ago, I caught myself hoping he had found a dry spot from the heavy rain until I got home... although mid thought it jolted me that he no longer needed to fear the rain. Those moments will become more scarce, I know.

I went into town at lunch time yesterday to meet some friends and watch the final NBA game, and drink beer. It was nice to be out of the house. Then everyone went back to their respective jobs, and I wandered, and wondered. I sat drinking a coffee and looking at people's shoes. Women wear such ridiculous shoes... tottering about on the unevenly paved steps that lead down to Martin Place. Shoes that would have been a fetishist's dream. Why would you wear them at your workplace?

I wandered, and found myself in Lincraft. I bought some clasps and beads and went home to repair a cheap bracelet that I am particularly fond of. Then I made up some earrings. For a first attempt, they aren't awful.

I have my guitar lesson this afternoon, am going out with my guitar-buying friend and my sister and one of her former flatmates to see a band tonight, and my mother is visiting tomorrow (although, with this constant rain, I wonder if we will survive the day, cooped up in each other's company).

I'm feeling about as flat as this reads.

Best Left

2005-06-20T18:24:00.000+10:00

I unwrapped the book from the plastic cover that he had thoughtfully returned it in, and upended it into my hand. The hard edges of it bruised my palm slightly as it slid out unexpectedly quickly.
It was a novel by one of my favourite authors, bought in hardcover because I never have the patience to wait for his books to be released in the cheaper paperback before buying them.

I particularly enjoyed the way the author had written this novel, like a jigsaw, or a quilt, seemingly separate stories from different characters, different times, slowly building up an overall picture, filing in the gaps of previous stories, creating more questions for the next one.

I had lent him this book, knowing he hadn’t been hugely impressed with this author’s work in the past. I hoped these stories, this story, might finally show him how this author touched me, how I could relate to his isolated, awkward characters, to the sense of stoicism in their gritty lives. I had recently learnt that the author was the child of a policeman. I wondered if that connection also reached out to me through his writing.

I had lent him this book hoping he might see a little more of me, might become curious to know a little more of me. It was a futile hope, and I was well aware of that… unrequited, and that was the only thing that made sense between us.

I was willing to take the scraps of friendship that were offered. They were enough. It would save us both from the humiliation of my exposing myself any more than I already probably had.

The book had a card in it, marking a page. I wondered if he’d been able to read any more than where the postcard paused the story. The card was a generic invitation to an exhibition of printmakers in North Sydney. Coincidences. I had once known a woman, an editor, who had left her career to focus permanently on her printmaking, and she had helped establish this group who were now exhibiting. Julia. I wondered if she would have work showing there still.

I became curious to see if he had left any more snippets of himself between the pages. My voyeuristic appetite smacked its lips at the possibilities.

I flicked through the heavy pages, and a sheet of folded paper fell from the back sleeve. Putting the betraying book down, I bent and picked up the white sheet from the floor. Unfolding it, there was a printout of an email that I had sent to him some time earlier. He had written, or more accurately, hurriedly scrawled some notes on it.

The email was about a dream I had. I had typed it straight out as I recalled it the following morning, and sent it out, verbatim, to friends to see what they thought it might have meant. It was something we did back then. Or something I did, anyway, and encouraged my friends to share. I was still tentative about writing things at that state, and sharing these dreams seemed a way of spreading the wings of possible story ideas.

I read the email I had sent out.

I had a dream...
and in my dream, my 'ideal me' was walking on holiday on an island. I know it was an island because I had a map, a bit like those old treasure maps, or the kind of maps you get in fantasy books.
On the map we were travelling from the north to the south... and we were at a weir or dam of some sort. On the ledge were big black dangerous 'funnel web' like spiders. They were just sitting there sunning themselves. Somehow I knew that this dam protected this side of the island from all the bad things on the other side. But the spiders suddenly got caught by an overflow of the dam and were washed into the river. This should have seemed a bad thing, but it wasn't.
My friend and I were walking along a path beside the river, past the weir, along the edge of the lakes, and it seemed like an old island, sunny but European in some way, cobbledstone squares and old buildings.
We walk up to a pub in one town down south, a harbour town, and people are seated at tables around the corner pub... it is a sharp angle and there are doors that walk straight from the footpath up 2 steps and then you're at the bar. There are locals sitting at the bar, but it is friendly and light. I walk in and the person behind the bar looks obviously Australian, he is blonde and tanned and a bit rugged and yeah ok a spunk in a nicely unselfconscious sort of way. I see they are using large, cone-like glasses, so I ask for a schooner... then laugh and say ok, whatever the local equivalent is, of the preferred house beer. He fills up a glass full of a very light, golden, sparkling liquid, and smiles at my Australian accent.
I then step outside to meet my travelling friend (male but very indistinct) and I am very happy.

Throughout it, he had circled where I had written ‘we’ and in the margins there were questions. Does we = you and me? Spiders = fears. Water = emotions. Is the travelling companion someone else or is it still me?

I was mortified. He had thought the dream was about him and me. About an ‘us’. Reading through the email now, weeks, maybe months after it had been dashed out and set off, I could see the light in which he had read it, and the notes he had taken, querying, made even more sense. I could not have imagined that interpretation when I sent it, though, and to think he had thought I was making some attempt at… at what? Seduction? Flirtation? The dream hadn’t been about him. There wasn’t anyone identifiable in my dream. It had been about me, and my potential to overcome my fears. The people in it were just props.

I had dreamt about him before, though. Just once. The dream had been just a glimpse. His warmth as I kissed his smooth freckled forehead. Waking and recalling that dream had made me blush. There was more intimacy in that kiss than if it had been a full sex dream, and even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew that it was him. I felt awkward and guilty for days for having that dream. And I would never have told him about it. It was far too personal.

To now see that he had misinterpreted this email, the whole reasoning behind my sending it, and knowing that after writing down the notes of what he thought it meant, that he had never mentioned it to me, never asked if he was wrong in his presumptions, it became yet another good reason for me to withdraw from that group of friends. The fact was that I was fonder of him than I wanted to be. The fact was that I knew he wasn’t even that interested in a friendship with me that extended beyond the occasional exchange of recommended books.

I looked down at the white paper, so neatly folded, and wondered if he had intended me to find it. I slowly tore it up and took my final step away from him. I doubt he even noticed.

Goodbye Kirby

2005-06-16T22:01:00.000+10:00

Said goodbye to my little mate Kirby tonight. He's here, and I'll bury him in the morning, in a corner that gets lots of sun, where he used to like to sleep (he LOVED sleeping). It was quick and painless and he won't ever have another gut ache again. He irritated the hell out of me sometimes, but I loved him.

So fair well, SmellyBum Kirbos, Grumpybum Cat, he of the wobbly guts. I'll miss you.

(yeah, I'm crying. Sorry about that.)

2005-06-14T00:28:00.000+10:00

A long weekend has passed and it's time to think of another day back at work. But the weekend was nice. I spent a lot of time sleeping, making some ungodly din with the guitar, spent an afternoon catching up with some friends in Newtown, and another afternoon with a blogger friend, and avoiding doing the housework I should have done. Bad me.

I have a question though. Do you think it is possible to change the habits, or self perceptions, of a life-time?

I think I might write about this a bit more, later, but I'd like to hear your opinions on whether a leopard can change its spots. Have you changed yours?

2005-06-09T01:23:00.000+10:00

Work, sleep. Work more, sleep less. Work even more, sleep even less, wake up on the lounge being smothered by cats. Fuck I'm being a boring sod at the moment.

2005-06-01T23:05:00.000+10:00

When I was writing the "Obsession" series, I had ideas pinging out of my head at all hours. I couldn't keep them in. It was fantastic. I was working in an environment that felt very private (even though it was open plan) because everyone seemed to respect each other's privacy, and I would find myself able to work with the story ticking over and refining itself in the back of my mind, ready to be written during my lunch break.

Now I'm working in an environment where the only way I can feel like I have any space to myself is to put my headphones on and play System of a Down (oh boy, do I like that new album), with just a minimal synchronised nod of my head betraying the intensity of the music building a barrier between me and all those around me. It isn't that I dislike the people I work with, quite the opposite. I like most of them quite a lot. But there is always someone walking by, talking, looking over your shoulder at your work, and so there is no chance to jot down a word or two to use later on in a story. And that's just assuming that a story has a chance to even breathe between the frenzy of deadlines I've been juggling the last few weeks. I love the adrenalin, but I'm hating the fact it is squeezing everything else out of my head.

On the up side (and there are quite a few), I did something on Saturday that I've been talking about for a long time. I finally bit the bullet and signed up for guitar lessons. So I trotted off at Saturday lunch time with my guitar in my hand (or in its case, in my hand) to a local shop that to specialises in teaching music. I had a ball. The people were very nice, and not at all intimidating, and my teacher, Jed, is an old rocker (well, he's probably 10 years older than me, with hair to his waist and an open quietness about him) who threw me straight into it and had me strumming along more confidently in that first half hour than I ever had. It was so much fun. My silly little hands are going to frustrate me, but they will learn to stretch (or I'll figure out a way to work chords around them), and I will eventually develop callouses so my poor fingertips will stop alternating between numb and ouchies.

Things are a fair bit brighter in the headspace of Hooch at the moment. I've had a few frustrations with people acting a little two-faced, but hell, that's their problem in the long run. I don't know who said it, but the gist that you can only control your own behaviour, and so live as honourably as you can, is something I take very much to heart.

So... that's where I'm at tonight.

Oh! I've just finished reading The PowerBook by Jeanette Winterson and My Life as a Fake by Peter Carey. I really do enjoy Peter Carey's writing. This isn't my favourite, perhaps, but it was so nice to surrender to his story's rythms and be carried along in his imagination for a while. I would really like to read something soon that takes my breath away though... it feels like it is time.

Any recommendations?