True Blood
Ok, so you’ve seen True Blood right? If not you should…
From wikipedia (I’m too lazy to write today):
True Blood is based on The Southern Vampire Mysteries (informally known as The Sookie Stackhouse Novels / Chronicles and retronymed the True Blood Series) is a series of books written by The New York Times bestselling author Charlaine Harris.
Within the fictional universe vampires have “come out of the coffin” (a term coined as a play on “coming out of the closet”), when scientists in Japan invent a synthetic form of blood called “Tru Blood.” No longer relying on human blood to survive, vampires are able to integrate themselves into human society (or “mainstream”).
How cool is this opening sequence!!!
Also from wikipedia:
Conceptually, Digital Kitchen elected to construct the sequence around the idea of “the whore in the house of prayer”[15] by intermingling contradictory images of sex, violence and religion and displaying them from the point of view of “a supernatural, predatory creature observing human beings from the shadows …”[14]Digital Kitchen also wished to explore ideas of redemption and forgiveness, and thus arranged for the sequence to progress from morning to night and to culminate in a baptism.[15]
In editing the opening, Digital Kitchen wanted to express how “religious fanaticism” and “sexual energy” could corrupt humans and make them animalistic. Accordingly, several frames of some shots were cut to give movements a jittery feel, while other shots were simply played back very slowly. Individual frames were also splattered with drops of blood.[15] The sequence’s transitions were constructed differently, though; they were made with a Polaroid transfer technique. The last frame of one shot and the first frame of another were taken as a single Polaroid photo, which was then divided between emulsion and backing. The emulsion was then filmed being further separated by chemicals and those shots of this separation were placed back into the final edit.[14]
The best thing about it is the metaphors and parallels to things happening in our world today. More about that next time.
The first two series are out and the third is on it’s way. So… check it out!!!
A big thumbs down.
So the other day I’m in a bar and I run into a student from a Pilates class I used to teach. We have a nice catchup and he asks for my number. Without much thought I give it to him – not cause I want to see him again unless it’s at a pilates class – I guess I was just being polite. Exactly one week later I get a mysterious call from a private number. No-one says anything so after a few ‘hello?’ … ‘hellooo???’ s I hang up. The next morning my phone rings and it’s a private number again.
‘Hello?’ I ask
‘Hello’ says a young sounding Japanese voice. ‘Who is this?’
‘Ah, who is this??’ I reply.
‘It’s Mika.’
‘I think you have the wrong number,’ Not knowing a Mika. ‘Who are you looking for?’
‘Ah, Isabelle?’
‘Sorry, you have the wrong number.’ I say. And I hang up.
A few hours later the private number appears for third time.
‘Hello…’ I answer.
‘Hello. I called before.’
‘Yes…’
‘I’m actually wondering what your relationship is with Chris?’ she says, in a gentle yet slightly accusingly tone of voice.
‘Ah, Chris who?’ I ask.
‘Chris Keats.’
‘Sorry, I don’t know a Chris Keats.’ I say honestly.
‘You didn’t meet him on Thursday night?’
Trying to remember what happened on Thursday I say, ‘Ah, no, I don’t think so. What was Thursday night?’
‘I have messages from you on his phone.’
‘Chris Michaels?’ I ask, that’s the only Chris I know. Then it dawns on me. Last Thursday night I was at the bar in Manly.
‘Oh I know, I think you are talking about the Chris I teach Pilates to.’
‘Teach Pilates to?’
‘Well, I used to. Then I went overseas. I ran into Chris in Wharf Bar last Thursday.’ Suddenly I remember our texts.
Realising what was going on – why this chick was calling me, I continue, ‘He asked if I wanted to have dinner with him but I said no.’ Then softly, I ask, ‘Are you his girlfriend?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s shit! Guys are fucked.’ I really hit the fan. ‘I’m really sorry. Nothing happened on the night, we just talked. And I don’t want to see him or anything. But that’s really shit that he did that to you.’
‘It’s ok, I’m going to leave him anyway. I just wanted to know.’
‘Well I hope things work out for you.’ And with that I hang up.
Like the equator monument in Ecuador that was built a few hundred meters off the equator, men (and women) like this get a big thumbs down.
Note: this story came from my random writings from 2009 and names have been changed.
Step away from the book…
My sprained ankle had it’s benefits – LOTS of time sitting on my arse. And so, one week ago, I finished my first draft of my first novel.
A first draft is a big achievement I suppose. The only problem is that it’s far too long and, as I decided once I started editing it, it’s also far too shit. As I read I crossed half the paragraphs out. Boring boring boring. The whole 690 page manuscript sucks.
When I finally allowed one of my friends to have a read I noticed something: he was laughing. He was laughing a lot.
“See all these bits you’ve crossed out – they’re really funny…”
I suppose that’s a good sign.
“You just need to take a long break from the book – read it in a few months time with fresh eyes.”
Easier said than done.
I want to give the manuscript to a few people to read and give me some for feedback on how I might be able to cut it in half. I also need to give it to people who are in the book, so they can decide if they want their name changed or details omitted.
But before I do anything I just want to add this… and change that… and edit this… and to a bit more research for that part…
“Step away from the book. Step away from the book… GIVE IT TO ME NOW!!!” Another friend demanded.
She was right to do so. This book is driving me crazy. I’m even editing it in my dreams. I’m going round in circles. I need to step away. I need to shut it away, at least for one month. I reluctantly handed her my only printed copy. Then I took the photographic storyboard down from my wall.
Now what??? This book has been my life for the last few months – what else am I supposed to do with my time? What is normal life like? My mind is blank.
Oh yeah, work. Earn a little dosh and stop eating up my savings. And I could, like, have fun. Read other people’s books, check out the art galleries near my place, watch movies, learn the guitar that’s been eyeing me since two Christmases ago. Try to get my uni dissertation published. And as soon as my ankle is better – start teaching pilates again, get my scuba-diving licence, get a scooter licence and a scooter. All the things I’ve been putting off for far too long.
So today’s the first day of a new life chapter. One that doesn’t revolve around this book. And I will to try my best not to look at the book for an entire month. Let’s see if I have more success with this pledge than I did my with my February detox (FYI I never got back on that horse…)
Video clip matching the second last chapter of my book:
Chapter 33: Redemption – Rio De Janeio
If you haven’t already, do check out the boy’s New York City to Rio blog: www.nyc2rio.com – there’s some amazing writing, photos and stories on there.
Music credits:
The Beatles – Revolution
Bob Marley & The Wailers – Redemption Song
Note:
Missing video-chapters have not been posted to prevent eluding a spoiler – I’m hoping you’ll read my book first!
I shot a gun. And I liked it.
The first shot blows me away. I focus my eyes, level the gun and POW! My arms jolt up. The bullet hits the paper target.
The second shot. Ok. I’m getting used to this. No idea where the bullet landed.
The third shot. Bulls eye! Well almost. It went somewhere in the circle, or so some dude tells me.
The fourth shot. Woooo. Feeling a bit dizzy. My eyes. Blink. Blink.
The fifth shot. I rest my arms. Blink…. Blink. Why won’t my eyes focus?
The sixth, seventh, eighth. I imagine the target is a person. I can’t help it. “Are you ok?” The dude asks. I pause. I can do this.
The ninth shot. A little better.
The tenth. One round of ammunition. I’m done.
Ok, so I get the power thing. Shooting a gun was fun. But the reality of guns isn’t. I don’t think the pleasure of guns is worth the pain. Why can’t everyone in the world just decide to destroy all their guns, all at once? Individuals probably would. It’s the big boys earning MONEY from the gun trade that won’t. Corporations have the power. Far more power than the gun I shot. Forget “rogue states”… war wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for these money-hungry corporate rogues who, because of the rules of the game, can’t even be tried for crime.
Do you know anyone in the arms trade? Maybe we can shame them into stopping it??? No money is worth the amount of lives guns take.
BTW the picture above was my 18th Austin Powers birthday party – no party will ever top that one.
No walking, no blogging.
I walk, ideas come, I write.
I don’t walk, my mind slows, and good blog entries become few and far between.
Just over a week ago I twisted my ankle and ignored it. I think I inherited my Opa’s high pain tolerance. But now it hurts. Not physically, it’s more a mental pain. The ankle is as swollen as ever, and although it’s a frustrating pain, I have to rest.
Walking is my meditation, information-processing, keeping-me-sane time. It is after a long walk I sit down and feel like I write my best. It is on long walks that the best ideas pop into my head. It is on my walks that I make sense of my world, of the conversations, the people, the books, my thoughts. Walking keeps me sane. And fit.
And now it is February. I made it through my last week of “holidays-zone” and now it is time to get serious:
Detox.
Write lots.
Teach Pilates.
Get into shape.
The most annoying thing is that the getting my ankle better doesn’t really fit so well with the writing lots, the teaching pilates or the getting into shape.
Patience, patience, patience. Baby steps. Stay off the ankle now and the rest will fall into place.
I did manage to start the detox. No alcohol, coffee, chocolate or greasy foods. None. At least for the month of February, and I’m hoping to get into good habits that last longer. The last couple of months, or maybe even the last couple of years, have been progressively more destructive in terms of such habits, varying with life’s ups and downs, challenges and celebrations. Now that I’ve signed a one year apartment lease – the longest commitment I’ve made to anything in a while – it’s time for a change. And I’m considering committing to a 3 year PhD so I had better get some good habits under my belt or else I can throw my body goodbye.
Which brings me to the detox…
Today was the third day. I believe the third day is the worst, right??? It was tougher than the first and second combined.
So, if you please, keep your fingers crossed for my ankle and the detox… the quality, or lack of it, of entries on this blog depends on it.
Over it… almost.
It has been a VERY long weekend.
From blind dates to lost dogs, movies with sisters, drinks with friends, pub crawls, drunken falls, sprained ankles, frustrating lockouts, more drinks, a Girltalk concert, Oxford St clubs, waterskiing on the harbour, Australia Day bbqs, more beer, and a creamy pavlova – all since my last post.
We found our dog after hours of search and worry. My real estate let me into my apartment after hours of impatient waiting. My ankle is sore and swollen but feeling better no thanks to my abusive dancing the next night and waterskiing the day after that. It was a long weekend but it was an awesome one.
On reflection, it has actually been a very long holiday.
Ever since I moved to the city I have justified almost every invitation as “making up for the last two years of my twenties spent living like I was in my eighties” and anyway, “I’m on holidays” right?
But when are my holidays going to end? Seeing as I don’t plan to officially be at uni till mid-year, it is really up to me…
It’s been fun. I’ve had enough alcohol, sugar and fatty foods to last the rest of the year. I’ve had a great summer. I love my new life in the city. But I have now landed at that point where enough is enough.
I’m ready go back to work. I’m ready to find some pilates classes to teach. I’m ready to get started on uni readings and work long and hard on my other projects. I am looking forward to getting my body back in top form – and I’m hoping a bikini catalogue in March will provide the motivation to make it happen.
As ready as I am and as much as I want to start it all right away, I can’t.
I have friends to come over for a housewarming/pub crawl this Friday – so I can’t give up alcohol quite yet. I have a sprained ankle so I can’t get fit or start teaching pilates quite yet. And I’m a bit tired from the weekend’s ordeal so I’m not sure how productive my mind is going to be. And there’s still too much chocolate in my house.
February. I’ll start in February. Just a few days to go… may as well live out the holiday mode till then.
Alcoholic flowers
How would it feel to have consciousness without a brain?
Check out these flowers! My cousins gave them to me sometime between Christmas and New Year when they popped by to check out my new home. I didn’t have a large vase so we hunted around for something and settled on the empty cachaca bottle awaiting me to put it in recycling. I’m not the best with changing water on flowers, or watering plants for that matter, and look what I discovered!
Flowers like alcohol!
It makes them all genki and happy and stuff.
The flowers in the water diluted ever so little with a remaining drop of cachaca (the best spirit in the world – that comes from Brazil) look like they’re going to last forever, while the ones in the glass are whithering away. And the water with alcohol stays clean too – I’ve only changed the water in the Cachaca bottle once, while the small vase that had the left-over flowers in it has constantly gone mildewy and needed changing many-a-times.
What does this mean?
Do flowers have a consciousness and are they high on this water??!
Should I be feeding my plants a drop of spirits too?
Can alcohol have similar life-extending benefits for me too?
Or is it just making the dying process a more enjoyable one?
Either way… another bottle of cachaca please!!!
Walking through Rainforest
Sometimes I walk with music playing in my ears, sometimes I walk reading a book or editing parts of my own writings, and sometimes I walk with no phone, no music, no book – nothing. The later is my favourite – that’s where I get my most inspiring thoughts.
Sometimes when I walk with nothing, I pay conscious attention to sounds, to the music of the streets. To the cars that drive passed, to the birds in the sky, to the machinery and hammering – to the fact that at times you can walk for hours through fairly busy streets and hear almost zero human voices. Yesterday the only voice I heard was my own – when I complimented someone’s teddy-bear-faced dog. Another day it was just a woman siting in a car talking on her phone.
I hear plenty of music – from other people’s ipods – and I do tend to wonder how such a volume will affect their hearing. I even notice that couples walking together don’t say much – at least not as they pass another person. Sometimes you see lips moving from afar, but as you approach they close them tight – I’m not quite sure why. Some people walk with a smile, some people walk with a frown, some people seem happy, some angry, some sad. I throw a smile when it feels appropriate, or some positive energy their way when it doesn’t. Sometimes I get it wrong and I smile and get a frown in return – as if they have never seen a person smile before. And sometimes after the first initial shock, they smile back.
And again this morning, with nothing in my hands and nothing in my ears I walked to a nearby park – one I hadn’t heard of till my friend recommended it yesterday.
A park? Hmmm… a tropical rainforest seems more appropriate. Somehow as you walk through Cooper Park, your eyes able to look at nothing but tall trees, large caves, a small prehistoric creek, green moss and sunshine filtering through in between. It makes you wonder how it can be possible that this is, in fact, in the middle of a busy buzzing city. It’s like a half-a-square-kilometre of the Daintree has miraculously been uprooted and replanted, capturing the history and the energy with it. It will definitely be one of my regulars – and there seem to be many different little paths you can choose – today I took the Rosewood Walk, and maybe tomorrow I can do the Peppermint Walk. There’s even the cutest little bridge called Moon Bridge that goes over Cooper Creek, a trickle of water that is said to follow ‘the line of a volcanic dyke of Jurassic age.’ Sounds pretty cool, even if I’m not quite sure what a volcanic “dyke” is.
Someone told me that the park used to be a secret sanctuary for women – no men allowed. I like this idea – men have it with their Free Masons and secret mens clubs – so power to the women I say. Whoever came up with the secret female facebook status the other day was pretty brilliant – did you notice it? It took the boys I know a while to catch on to the meaning. (We all put a colour as our status. It was for breast cancer awareness, so take a guess what those colours meant.) A few boys had colours as their status too – I wonder if they figured it out yet…
Anyway I did some research about Cooper Park, and I can’t find anything about secret women’s clubs. I did learn on the Woollahra Council website that the original owners were two Aboriginal clans, the Cadigal and the Birrabirralah, who during 1789 half the populations was killed by disease brought by European settlers. The website also talked about an Aboriginal rock engraving of a fish and one of ship and men, so I’ll have to hunt them out next time I’m there.
The best thing about this park is that dogs are allowed (they are forbidden from the bush walk I used to do in Frenchs Forest)… and they are even allowed of the leash in certain areas. Now all I need is a dog.
Oh, and there are some tennis courts inside this little haven too. Anyone up for a hit?
Note – there are disadvantages when it comes to choosing not to take a phone on a long walk… no phone = no phone calls and no photos. So the picture above is one a took two years ago in Queenstown, New Zealand.
Loving the city but missing the burbs…
One minute I’m out, the next I’m at home. No more driving hours to see my friends. Now I just walk. No more “designated driver” (hence water above) – no doubt I love living in the city.
But… since the “moving in” hype along with Christmas and New Year celebrations has finished, I have to say I miss a lot about my suburban life. I don’t want to go back there or anything, but I do miss it. A lot. I miss the quiet streets and the comfort I had walking around in more-or-less my pyjamas – which I don’t quite feel comfortable walking down Oxford Street in. I miss saying good morning to my mum and sisters as I pick up Bella, my sister’s schipperke, in the morning so that she can sit on my lap for the rest of the day. And more than anything I miss my Opa.
I miss his sense of humour. I miss his bright eyes. I miss looking after him, buying his groceries, cooking him dinner. Most of all I miss his company. I miss watching the news with him – I don’t think I’ve watched a single piece of news since he passed. I miss having him in the room, reading his paper as I do my writing and read my books. I miss drinking cups of tea, making his coffee with endless amounts of sugar and cream. I miss his insights into life – it’s shortness, it’s joys, it’s true meaning. I shed a tear for him every day. Today it’s been many. As time goes on it seems to be getting worse, not better. Maybe because “normality” is setting in. I’m going back to writing the book I wanted to finish writing while I was at his house. But now I’m not there. And neither is he.
I’m still receiving my Carer’s Pension, for the 14-weeks that follow his death. I’m trying to see this as his gift to me – as if there weren’t a enough already. But I’m trying to see this as the justification for me to not work for what must be another eight or so weeks. But it’s not easy. Not when I’m used to juggling hundreds of responsibilities and deadlines. How do you do that? How do you focus just on ONE thing???
But I will try. For him I will try. And for him I know I will succeed. I want to share this video of him, but I’m struggling to get the VOB file converted to youtube files… This may show some of the video, but not sure…
My favourite part was when my uncle asked, “If the whole world could see you now, what message would you have for them?”
And my Opa replied: “My message would be, first try to make peace everywhere. Instead of bashing each other up. With all these terrorists, there is no more love in the world. The world will go to pieces, I tell you that.”
You’d never guess I’m his granddaughter hey…
My second favourite was when my uncle asked him to “smile for five seconds” to which after about three seconds of showing big grin he laughed and said: “My dentures will fall out now.”
Anyway now after watching him on the video, and writing this, I feel a bit better. I am happy to be where I am, in my new home, and I know I’ll carry my Opa with me where-ever I go.
SHANTARAM
I’m revisiting one of my favourite books, that I actually never got to finish (it is 933 pages long), and typing up some of my favourite quotes (I do that with my favourite books) and I thought I’d share some with you as I type them. Next time you have a spare chunk of time on your hands, I encourage you to read this incredible true story of Gregory David Roberts, a man who escaped an Australian prison and lived in a slum in Bombay, works for the underground and gains incredible insights into humanity, and our place in the universe.
“No happiness exists without its woe, no wealth without its cost, and no life without its full measure, sooner or later, of sorrowing and death.” (Roberts 2007:129)
“Friendship is also a kind of medicine, and the markets for it, too, are sometimes black.” (Roberts 2007:215)
“Justice is a judgement that is both fair and forgiving. Justice is not done until everyone is satisfied, even those who offend us and must be punished by us… justice is not only the way we punish those who do wrong. It is also the way we try to save them.“ (Roberts 2007:229)
It’s forgiveness that makes us what we are. Without forgiveness, our species would have annihilated itself in endless retributions. Without forgiveness, there would be no history. Without that hope, there would be no art, for every work of art is in some way an act of forgiveness. Without that dream, there would be no love, for every act of love is in some way a promise to forgive. We live on because we can love, and we love because we can forgive. (Roberts 2007:370)
Guilt is the hilt of the knife that we use on ourselves, and love is often the blade; but it’s worry that keeps the knife sharp, and worry that gets most of us, in the end. (Roberts 2007:426)
Greed without control, or control without greed won’t give you a black market. Men can be greedy for the profit made from, let’s say pastries, but if there isn’t strict control on the baking of pastries, there won’t be a black market for apple strudel. And the government has very strict controls on the disposal of sewage, but without greed for profit from sewage, there won’t be a black market for shit. When greed meets control, you get a black market. (Roberts 2007:446)
There’s a little arrogance at the heart of every better self… and there’s an innocence, essential and unblinking, in the heart of every determination to serve. (Roberts 2007: 451)
Sooner or later, fate puts us together with all the people, one by one, who show us what we could, and shouldn’t, let ourselves become. Sooner or later we meet the drunkard, the waster, the betrayer, the ruthless mind, and the hate-filled heart. But fate loads the dice, of course, because we usually find ourselves loving or pitying almost all of those people. And it’s impossible to despise someone you honestly pity, and to shun someone you truly love. (Roberts 2007:471)
“So that’s it,” he concluded. “The world is run by one million evil men, ten million stupid men, and a hundred million cowards. The rest of us, all six billion of us, do pretty much what we are told!” … This set of number is the cause of empire and rebellion. This is the formula that has generated our civilisations for the last ten thousand years. This built the pyramids. This launched your Crusades. This put the world at war, and this formula has the power to impose the peace.(Roberts 2007:350)
I wonder – is it possible to change this to:
One million peaceful man, ten million smart men, one million confident men, and six billion people who do what’s right rather than what they are told.
So it all comes down to changing: evil to peace, stupid to smart, coward to confident, and ignorant to aware. It almost makes a turn for peace sound simple…
If you haven’t read this book, I recommend you do:
Roberts, Gregory David, Shantaram : A Novel (Sydney: Picador, 2007). And more of his philosophies at: www.shantaram.com
The Christmas Pudge… and a Love of Beer
So I borrowed my mum’s scales to check the Christmas damage. 64 kilos. What the f??? I don’t step on scales so often, judging by measurement more than kilos. But, well, “in the day” I weighed 55kgs. And on average I think I’m around 58-60kgs. I’ve seen myself at 62kgs, and I know I’ve complained about feeling fat on this website before. But 64???
Ok, time to get back into routine: a walk in the morning before breakfast to reconnect my mind and body; a yoga or pilates session a few times a week, teaching it if possible so I can get paid for it rather than pay; and no more beer. At least for a little while. The poggy beer belly has to go. Or chocolate. And no more cheese. Well that’s was my resolution this morning.
I got home today from working a good three and a half hours at the office (being a casual has it’s pluses, and its minuses – depending on how you look at it) and had the choice: beer or pilates. I surprised myself and put on some ultra relaxing yoga music, pulled out the beautiful yoga mat I got for Christmas and did, well, at least I did thirty minutes of it. The stretching felt insanely incredible, as it always does but particularly when it’s been a while. The repetitions of butt exercises killed more than usual, again as it does when it’s been a while.
And then, the gorgeous funky little bar stool I bought today (when there wasn’t enough work to justify my being there) was calling my bottom, singing out: “come on, sit, try me out, do some writing, check your email, write something for your blog…” So here I am, drinking a beer and writing this entry. Hey, my friend left me coronas after NY, along with far too much chocolate and cheese, what am I supposed to do?
But it’s ok, I’m back on the upward spiral. I did half an hour of pilates and literally looking in the mirror I can see the difference: in my fresher-looking skin, brighter-looking eyes, and straightened up poster. “Half-an-hour did that?!” Yep – that’s what proper breathing does – it pumps oxygen through your system. That’s what mind-body connection and good posture does – encourages a central nervous system that works efficiently. My mind felt relaxed, centred, alert. That’s right – now I remember why I like pilates.
I’m not in a huge hurry to loose my Christmas pudge; I might even enjoy it for a (hopefully brief) moment. In good time I’ll be teaching pilates again and seeing as out the window the blue sky seems to have pushed away the clouds, I guess my “it’s raining” excuse is pushed out of existence too. These two little tricks seem to speed the metabolism enough to carry me through my little vices… so metabolic rate you had better bucker up – cause I’m not ready to stop enjoying the beer, or the chocie or the cheese – at least not while they’re lurking in my fridge.
Green porn
I can’t remember who or when someone told me to look this up but today on this rainy summer’s day besides enjoying calm pitter patter,working on my book, and sending a few happy new year messages, I have been looking up green porn. Soooo funny! Get on you tube and you can find many more of these short little clips by Sundance Channel.
Glad I don’t have to eat a male’s head… well, ok, I’m not going to go say anything more about that. The praying mantis:
Sadistic snails:
De ja vu? Hair
“What do you think?” She asked me.
“Ah… It’s ok.” I said
id, frowning at my reflection. “I’m not quite sure how you got that,” I looked to the mirror, “from this” observing the photo in my hands. The cut is not so bad. Nor is the colour. But it does NOT in the slightest look like the picture I had diligently printed out in hope of clearly communicating the colour and cut I was after.
I’ll survive. I’ve definitely had worse. After giving me green hair (from a henna mask) a hairdresser (in Japan) turned it purple (very strong toner).
If it doesn’t kill you it makes you stronger. Hair grows fast enough and in a few weeks it will be the length I was after. Maybe I’ll pull out some Sun-In left over from high-school days, and take matters into my own hands – desperate times call for desperate measures. Or maybe I should simply accept that these things happen for a reason and hope this haircut brings with it its own.
Yet the question still persists: why don’t hairdressers listen? This is not the first time it has happened to me, and I don’t think I’m alone in this question. How, when given a picture of a haircut and colour (that is totally compatible with the hair on your head) do a colourist and stylist create their own interpretation and leave you to sport something completely different???
Don’t get me wrong. I love my hairdresser and will surely go back there, probably with the same picture and probably expecting to leave with something completely different again. Why will I go back? Because every hairdresser seems to be the same: you NEVER get what you want. And it’s always a heck lot better than I can do with my own scissors or homemade dyes – been there done that – which always looks better in one’s mind than its manifestation in reality. Urgh. HAIR. Now I remember why I shaved it off.
Sex and the city
Sydney is my New York. And I am Carrie Bradshaw, sitting at my computer with an apple (or cachaca & pineapple as it is), pondering and writing about life, love and the city that is my new home.
I’ve been here just one week and already “getting to know” some people in my building and neighbourhood. It’s not quite sex in the city – I don’t move that fast – but coffees, dinners, muscley men helping move furniture and maybe just a little besos.
This week I also managed to host a couple of chrissy celebrations – with girls from school, with my South America travel buddies and other friends from here and there. With New Years Eve generally a non-event for me in Sydney I have been considering cramming my studio with a “traffic light” party – where you where red if your taken, orange if your not sure and green if you are ready to go! I’ve never been to one but it sounds like a fun way to combine housewarming with NYE and help singles meet other singles. Even if cupid doesn’t make any matches at least it would involve bright colours, Brazilian drinks, and the celebration of 2010 with a bang – fireworks at Bondi that is… 
Dilemmas of the Mercury Retrograde
“Since Mercury rules communication, it’s said that everything goes haywire in that area — emails get deleted or bounced back, mail is returned, calls go out into the ethers, etc.” (www.astrology.about.com)
So put it into your diary: December 26th to January 15th, 2010. In 2010 it’s April 17 – May 11; August 20 – September 12; and December 10 – December 29. So try to get your technology organised long before it begins. Allow extra time for getting to places and have a book handy to read when people arrive late, plans get mixed up, have backup plans for the no shows etc etc. Don’t move house. Learn from my experience these last few days.
Mercury Retrograde hit me early. Today I managed to get a tape stuck in my car’s cassette player (yes my car is from the stone age, or the 90s) and continue to suffer the consequences of rash decisions involving ordering electricals over the net. My recommendation – don’t do it. Go to a shop instead. Nothing replaced face-to-face communication.
Not only did I have to wait more than a week and make a number of calls just to discover my new iPhone and modem were sitting at the post office, but now the only way I can talk about the stupid snail-pace modem is to call and sit on hold for hours. Did I mention I hate technology?
Last night (I admit, after a couple of beers,) I managed to drop my old phone in the toilet of Four N’Hand (my new local!) I hadn’t even flushed! I know what you’re wondering… Yes. I did do it.
Flushing first (praying the phone wouldn’t disappear down the rabbit hole) I put my hand into the basin and fished out the screaming Nokia. He was not a happy chappy. I took him apart and dried him out but alas, this morning he took his last breath.
No more phone. But of course, it’s meant to be, right? I have an iphone sitting on my desk patiently awaiting its awakening. So first thing this morning I walked up to the local Virgin store.
“First you need your account number from Vodafone.” Vodafone was a few shops down so that was easy enough.
“How much will it cost to terminate my plan early?” I asked, praying for a small figure, a small figure, please a small figure.
“Around $30.” Phew!
“Just one more question,” I said to the Vodafone sales clerk. “My bills have dramatically increased in the last few months, I’ve cut down this month but can you please just tell me where my latest bill is at?”
… “$280”
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO
I have a $49 cap that I thought I never exceeded until two weeks ago I received a bill for $160. That was bad enough. Now $280??? What the? What the? I didn’t think I’d been making more calls than usual.
Another hour was spent on their phones to their head office, discussing what the heck was going on. They managed to halve my bill, from which I was more than grateful for although the sceptic had not quite shut up. $280 is more than outrageous.
Returning to the Virgin counter with my account number I made another wonderful discovery – the iphone’s sim card holder was gone.
“It’s probably on the floor of my apartment,” I told her. But it wasn’t. I engaged in yet another horrifically disgusting experience, going through the garbage I had thrown out that morning. An image of a little square piece of plastic sitting inside a banana peel or some kind of rotting vegetable scrap entered my mind. No luck there either. I moped around in frustration. Surely it would be here somewhere, I thought as I comforted myself with a large bag of gingerbread cookies (thank you Lisa)…
Eventually I gave up. With no energy to walk back to the junction I jumped in my car. Traffic. Parking. F**king HELL. Next time I will walk.
“You might have to go to the Apple Store on George St to get another one,” they told me when I finally made it to the Virgin shop. “But try the accessory shop first.” Eighty bucks later (twenty on the tiny square of plastic, and sixty on other “essential” screen covers and protectors) and finally I could leave the manic mall. Once I could locate my car, that is. If you know Bondi’s Westfield Carpark, you know that knowing your car is on “P3” is not enough to locate it. Try other entrance. And another one. Eventually I found it.
So here I am. Back in my little paradise that really does feel like home. Still of course with Internet that doesn’t work (currently using my mother’s prepaid 3 modem which happens to work fine) and getting out my anger writing this blog is even more therapeutic than the ginger cookies. And even better, Leigh, my techno-savvy saviour, helped save the day – now I have a phone that works (even if it’s a different number for a short while) and I’m keeping my fingers crossed that Mercury Retrograde leaves me alone for a little while. I’m optimistic. But I’m prepared. Are you?
Burbs to buzz
Arrrhhhh moving house ain’t easy. I am writing now from a chair that’s too high for my desk surrounded by piles of clothes, computer gear, papers, and empty boxes; frustrated that the internet connection I was waiting to be delivered was (after many-a phone calls) sitting at the post office; and even more frustrated so by the fact that the connection it is giving me is as slow as dial-up. I’m frustrated by trying to turn on the gas and every gas company telling me they don’t have service my apartment block and sending me on a wild goose chase. Then there are the mirrors and photographs falling off the wall due to stick-on hooks that claim to hold 1.5kg yet won’t hold 500g to save its life. Damn it.
All this being said I must say that I am so ridiculously happy it’s ridiculous. This morning I walked five minutes down the road and I was at Rushcutters Bay. The other night not far off midnight I walked five minutes in another direction to arrive at Double Bay Woolworths to get some detergent. Can’t to that in The Burbs. The block I’m in contains small studio flats which appear full of young good looking single men Or maybe it’s just compared to the view I’m used to in the burbs. I didn’t realise how much I missed the city buzz.
Yesterday I returned to Frenchs Forest to pick up a few more boxes of books and what not. I walked along my daily route to my mum’s house and was surprised how alien it felt. Big empty roads. Big houses. Families. Elderly. It’s been less than a week but I feel at home in my new home already. People, music, shops, bars – life.
There’s even a pub on my corner that has Kirin on tap, my favourite Japanese beer, that brings back memories of sculling competitions against rugby boys (that more often than not I won!). Actually setting up house in this small studio brings back many memories of Japan, the only other place I signed a lease. My flat is about the same size as my Tokyo one, although the kitchen and bathroom are a bit bigger, and this time I have a small balcony. Unfortunately this one is missing tatami floors and the massive floor to ceiling storage space the Japanese design so well. Also this time the whole apartment is just for me: my photos on walls, my mess on the floor, my shampoos in the shower, my boxes of stuff to unpack (thanks to my Dad’s tetris packing skills) and my red click clack sofa bed (thanks to my Mum’s brilliant e-bay skills). It’s a new fresh start for me. I wonder what adventures 2010 will bring.
In the meantime Christmas is just a week away and in all amongst the craziness of the last few months and the move gift shopping has been the last thing on my mind. Thank goodness for late late late night shopping…
Indecisive Spontaneity and Noncommittal Commitment
“Ok Andressa, how much to fly to Brazil for carnaval? Via New York? How about via Mexico? Ok, how about I just go to Mexico and make my own way there? … How about Africa? Tasmania? Uluru?”
In the span of one week I have gone from planning a four-month vacation in Central America, Columbia & Brazil; to volunteering at a school in Rwanda; to a six-month trip around Australia discovering Indigenous world-views in Aboriginal communities. I’m not usually indecisive. Typical me would be to already be on a plane to Central America with a ticket booked to return me a day before I go back to uni. Farewell me lovelies.
But I’m still tired. I tell myself to chill out, take time making these decisions. My Opa’s death has been tough. I have six weeks or so until his house (that I live in) will go on the market so there’s no hurry. I need to be patient with myself. But anyone who knows me knows patience just ain’t my thing.
On Friday I applied for a 12-month lease on a studio apartment in Paddington. Ok, I know that once I do this, once I move into the city, set up house, finalize PhD enrolment (my proposal was accepted to start mid-2010!!!) and find a Pilates studios in my new neighbourhood, I will be locked in. Committed. At least for a while…. I ask myself: can I do that???? Can I commit?
What is it about commitment? Why is so damn hard? Why is it that we have so many options? And why does selecting one option always seem to involve turning down another? If I buy this top I forgo that dress. If I go to Africa, I can’t travel Australia. If I set up home in Paddington then I can’t go to Brazil. I can’t do everything.
I believe that “we can have our cake and eat it too” – just not at the same time. You can have it and look at it and adore it, but you may as well eat the frick’in thing before it goes stale.
I can go to Brazil in January, travel Australia in April, and move into the city in July. But that sounds exhausting. So what if I want to go to Rwanda and I want to go to Brazil and I want to travel Australia and I want to move to the city – all at the same time?
In the world of quantum physics you can do all and you can do them all at the same time. All possible scenarios exist in alternate dimensions.
“Phew! That’s a relief!” I say to myself. It does take the pressure off a little. We CAN do all the things we want to do, without forgoing the other. It’s only the restrictive components of our brains that restrict our awareness to a single dimension. My simple conscious will only experience one of these scenarios, but my greater conscious experiences them all…. at least on quantum levels anyway.
So I question which scenario I wish to experience in my present conscious. If my lease application is accepted I am thinking I’ll give the “staying still, settling down” thing a go. I’ll try out the “normal” life: working, studying, paying rent, paying bills, having a social life… re-opening up a whole new can of challenges and stresses, and a whole new world of possibilities.
That being said, who knows, maybe tomorrow I’ll be writing you from Africa.
The memoirs of Willem Van Leeuwen… and the magic of life.
Yesterday at 5pm my Opa (that’s dutch for grandfather), passed away at the ripe old age of 93. Born 20th February 1916 in Amsterdam, The Netherlands, Willem Frederik Van Leeuwen lived a long and inspiring life. He was a wonderful, caring father and grand-father. Me and my Opa were “house-mates” (as he used to say), and he was my very good friend.
My Opa changed my life. My Masters degree is his Masters degree. My book to soon be published is his book as much as mine. I couldn’t have done either if it were not for him. The peace I shall share with the world I shall share because of my Opa. Living with him was a pivotal chapter of my life. He have opened my mind to new perspectives; he have opened my life to new opportunities. I left Vienna after I dreamt of my Opa – of me spending time at his home as he taught me to paint. Six months later I moved in, and he did just that: I learned to paint a new reality. Opa gave me a new perspective of space and time. He taught me to look beyond society’s facades, to see things for what they are. Through Opa I have come to truly appreciate the temporality of life. Life is short. Very short. We must take hold of it. Live it. Make the most of every moment. And not look back.
One hundred years is not a long time. Go back twenty of such lifetimes it was the year zero, the time where Jesus lived and died. Jesus spoke up against the Jewish dogma and Roman oppression of his time. Almost seventy years ago my Opa too protested against status quo, issuing fake identities to save lives of Jews. This took courage. This makes me proud.
When I was in my teens two thousand years seemed an ancient and irrelevant past, but from my Opa’s eyes, two thousand years is like the blink of an eye. Only fifty of his lifetimes have past since the Egyptian pyramids were built. In the big scheme of things our temporal state in the shells we currently embody, mean nothing.
My Opa used to look out at the stars, in awe of God’s universe, and appreciating the miracle of life. He wondered what other fantastical creatures exist beyond our vision but he didn’t think about it too hard. He didn’t worry about that which we cannot know. “Why think about it?” he said to me, shrugging his shoulders. Opa felt no need to define life’s magic, to humanise it, or to tell himself he knew everything about it. He didn’t question it, he didn’t judge others; he just felt it, embraced it, and played out his role in it. Opa was a man of simple faith.
Opa took pleasure in the little things: a homemade cup of coffee, a black tea, a small glass of port; a smile and a kiss on the cheek; a soccer game, a newspaper or an interesting session of Lateline. I now realise how little we need in order to live. Opa lived through wars eating rosebuds to fill his stomach. Opa left his country in order to create the best life he could for our family in Australia.
Opa has taught me to be grateful for all I have; to live for today; to live in the moment; to accept my limitations, acknowledge my weaknesses, to not let my mind or body cause me too much pain. I have learned from him that luxury is over-rated and unnecessary. He taught me to need little, and want less. Observing Opa I have come to understand that no person or thing can make us happy: happiness comes from within. Happiness begins with being content with what we have. Opa was happy with the life he lived. He was happy with the love he received. He did not want more than he was given. He accepted the jobs that came his way, he didn’t strive to have more or care about how he compared to others. He loved his children, and his grandchildren, and his wife; and he were grateful for all the love he received from us in return.
And now as he has left the physical body I knew him to be, I am reminded that there is more to life than that our individual consciousness of today. I have seen through my Opa’s death that the breathe behind life never dies; it just morphs, transforms, like caterpillars into butterflies.
Our lives are but temporal expressions of divinity. I believe, as many religions do, that our souls leave their human homes to be ”reunited with God”, to be reunited with everyone they have ever loved or known, reunited through the re-absorbing of our soul into the collective soul of the universe – as we return to the oneness from which we came. No more ups and downs; no more fear, no more greed, no more suffering – a heavenly state of harmonic bliss. We are no longer separate, we become one with God; we are one with the past, present and future; we are one with the magical wonder behind our universe, the magic that is our universe and the magic beyond the universe from which we exist within.
Now I type, I can feel my Opa’s energy surrounding me. I can see my Opa’s energy in the trees, I can feel him in the wind, I can hear his heart beat in mine. I know he is with me. He will always be with me.
Opa, I want to say to you: THANK YOU.
Thank you for your part in bringing me into the world. Thank you for taking me into your home. Thank you for making me laugh. Thank you for enjoying my food. Thank you for making me interested in politics. Thank you for putting up with my mess. Thank you for sharing your views on life. Thank you for changing my life. I will cherish my memories of our time together. I will love you forever.
I will miss your bright blue eyes and your wide happy smile.
May you rest in peace, may you live for eternity.
A few years back he wrote his memoirs which some two years ago now we typed up together. I wish to share his words and his story with you today:
…
Reading about all the new findings in the digital world arriving in the market in the near future. So I thought it a good idea to put on paper how life was when I was born half way through the First World War in 1916.
Since that time, so many things have been invented which changed the way of life in many ways and I think you would be interested to know about that.
To start with my birth. As far ass I know that happened at home going into the hospital was an exception in those days and as far as my mother was concerned I must have caused her quite a bit of trouble because I have always heard her say “That was once but never again”. So that was it. I was confined to be an ‘only child.’
To start with my growing up. This happens to be in Amsterdam. I still remember the address: 20 Wetering Dwars Street in the CBD, close to the National Museum.
This is a narrow street, with 3 story home units, like terraces, on both sides. Those units were rented as owning your own place was an exception.
Actually, there were four living quarters because there was a basement half way the bottom part. To enter the more sophisticated part of the building you encountered the so called ‘stoep’ this is a concrete stag of steps to reach the front door for the three units above. To make your arrival known you had to pull the bell cord. One time for the first floor, two times for the second and so on. Then a climb up a steep timber staircase with an ‘overloop’, sort of a landing between floors
The inside of the unit consisted of a kitchen, a ‘back’ or living room, and a front room with windows. In between the two rooms was an ‘alcoof’ – a simple bedroom with inbuilt double bed on one side and my bed on the other side. There were no windows so the ventilation must have been very restricted. The front room was the so called ‘mooie kamer’ and was only used for special occasions. Further there was a ‘waranda’ balcony with an ‘ice box’. In those years there was no gas, electricity, washing machines, dryers, radio, television. Bathrooms with shower recess came many years later.
The body washing procedure was once a week on Saturday in a tub in the kitchen. The heating of water etc occurred on kerosene heater and in winter time also on a big coal and peat theater in the living room. The lighting of the unit was also by kerosene lamps. The washing of linen underwear etc was done by hand in a tub. Food was kept in the so called ice box on the balcony. Bars of ice were delivered once a week in the Summer months.
Although life was primitive in comparison with today’s, we were still satisfied.
I started my education in the elementary school close by, but as there was a small canal at the end of our street, my mother always took me to school as she was afraid I would fall in the ‘dirty’ water.
Schools in those days did not have play grounds so all my ‘playing’ was done in the street.
Most of my school years were very uneventful. Reading books etc. was my main way of life.
I remember my parents having card evenings with a Jewish family from across the street. They had a daughter of my age and we were confined to the alcoof. This was quite fun. The family disappeared out of my life and I never found out what happened.
There were also friends who had a tobacco shop and a private library. I spent many hours reading over there.
I must have been about 8 years old when we moved to a better environment.
Again a unit on the third floor with a ‘view’! Over looking a canal with a lot of ship movements. Barges pulled by tugs and at the other side on industrial area of mainly timber yards. The school was close by but again no playgrounds so life was mainly spent at home and occasional staying with my grandparents in Haarlem.
This brings me to tell about my parents.
My father was born in Amsterdam as far as I can remember, in 1894. He was a builder by trade. He must have been a pretty good one as I remember him building a large school complex later on he built houses on his own accord which had to be sold in time to be able to finance the next project. Often there were financial difficulties which affected the atmosphere at home.
He came from a fairly large family of several brothers and sisters with kids. There was however a little contact so I don’t remember much of it.
His father, I never met my grandmother, lived on his own in the Huidenkoper street in Amsterdam. He was retired from a function in the Royal Palace in Amsterdam.
His living quarters were filled with beautiful antiques, which would have been worth a fortune if they had stayed in the family. Still he was not very family friendly and I believe he preferred to see us going than coming. Consequently I did not see much of him.
It was a different matter with my mother’s parents. They lived in Haarlem in Amsterdam street near the Amsterdam Gate. The family name was ‘Van Vreeden’. My grandfather was a retired carriage painter with the Dutch railways. My mother had one brother ‘Oom (uncle) Cor’ who being a bank manager, was the family’s ‘financial pillar’.
In my younger years for some reason or another I often stayed with my grandparents and I remember making long walks with my Opa. I think because Oma got fed up with us and kicked us out.
My mother was, I think, a seamstress, because I saw her sitting behind a treadle sewing machine for long hours. When my grandmother past away, there was great emotion in the family of the question “What to do with Opa…?”
Fortunately my father was building two houses in Haarlem in the Kemp Straat, and he had difficulty in selling one of them (most probably because they were built next to a large cooperative bakery.) The solution of the above question was solved, with the financial influences of Oom Cor, that we moved to Haarlem and Opa was living with us. In comparison with the home units in Amsterdam, this was a considerable improvement. It was a two story house with plenty of rooms, a small back yard with a shed, and even a bathroom. I must have been about 12 years old because I went straight to High school. After leaving school in 1934, my first employment was with Hotel Royal in Haarlem as a receptionist and in the administration.
In 1936 I went for my number in the army with the horse driven field artillery in Utrecht.
After discharge in 1937, I worked with Travel Bureau Lissone Lindeman.
For August 1939 I was called up again for military service in Socstduinen near Utrechet.
This lasted till May 14 when Holland surrendered to the Germans. Luckily we did not fire one shot because we would not have stood a chance with material dated back from before the First World War. The whole exercise lasted a couple of days and ended promptly with the air raids of Rotterdam.
We were discharged and from July 1940 I worked with the Rationing Service in Haarlem. I started a chief in the National Registration Certificate Department. Because of the many Rassias it was important that next to your ‘Stamcard’ you could prove that your work was too important to be missed, preventing you from being sent to labour camps in Germany. So apart from the administration of the registry, we were also occupied with creating of fake Declaration of Requirements for the underground and Jews.
It may be of interest for you to give sort of a survey of life during the German occupation. The first two years we were living with coupons etc. Life did not change too much. We were able to organize Balls, Theatre performances, Youth Clubs etc.
However when the Germans started to persecute the Jews, things became ugly.
We had a group of about thirty boys and girls, with whom we managed to organise bicycle holidays or house evenings. However we had to become more and more careful. You always had to watch your back to prevent from being picked up from the street and sent to Germany.
Life with coupons became gradually more and more difficult as in many occasions the goods in the coupons were simply not available. Especially the last half year became very hard. We had a curfew from 8pm to 7am. The southern part of Holland beneath the big rivers was liberated but the part above the rivers was left to keep on its own. As there was practically no import of food and the Germans confiscated anything edible. Hunger started to lift its nasty head. People went to barter valuables for edibles. Walking with improvised carts to farmers in order to be able to live.
Many did not survive those journeys or got their valuable food confiscated when they returned to their house in the city. On many occasions we hat to resort to eat grounded tulip bulbs as so called cookies. All in all the last year was very nasty.
It was only after the Allies managed to defeat the Germans near Arnhem that life became gradually better. After 1946 I worked in different positions in the Ministry for Economic Control.
My last position was an inspector with an Economist fund for the small goods trade.
After the war the detail trade was practically at bottom level. Stocks had disappeared and ‘new starts’ had not occurred for at least three years.
The retail trade needed an urgent lift and the government was prepared to guarantee loans with the bank for people to finance a new business. For this purpose an organization was created to investigate the viability of the business concerned. I became and inspector with this organization and travelled all over Holland to report about the applicants’ capability and family – determining whether the business could be expected to be viable to pay off the loan within a certain time limit. This report went to a board within this organization and the decision of the application was granted or refused. As a side line I was a manager with an association called Infantex, of about 50 specialist shopkeepers of articles in baby goods. I organized about three market days in Krasnapolsky in Amsterdam and at the Royal Hotel in Urtrecht. There would be about thirty stalls in where the manufacturers would show their newest creations. All this lasted until May 1961 when we departed to Australia.
Coming back to my life in Haarlem. I met your mother on Saturday 29th July 1944, in a swimming pool called Stoop. As she had no ‘transport’, I took her home on the back of my bike and from there on we stayed together.
Her father Jacob Bas had his trade as a plumber and a shop in the Atjeh Street in Haarlem.
Her mother’s family name was Platenga and both came from farmer’s families in West Friesland. Your mothers family name was Agatha Jacoba Bas, born 19th January 1920. She could not get along very well with her father and her mother was always the protective part.
Anyway, we got engaged on 24th December 1944, and on 14th June 1945 we married in Haarlem as one of the first after the war.
The wedding day started very curious as there were no hire cars available. We had to hire horse drawn carriages. They also were very sparse. Anyway we managed to hire two. One would collect the parents from their homes, and one for us.
On the big day, however, only one turned up. The other had been in an accident. You can imagine the consternation to get us all to the Civic Centre. It was decided that the parents were collected first and we last. So we waited in the Atjeh street home. Because of the distances of the addresses, it took quite a while. Finally the carriage turned up. Very late, and to make up time we went in gallop to the City Centrum. The carriage swayed from left to right, and the public looked in amazement to the race. I must say it did not bother us in the least and we had great fun. We still made barely on time.
I had managed to rent a whole house in the Pegasus street in Haarlem, which in those days must have been the envy of many in the neighborhood. Later we moved to the Jan Gyzen-kade in Haarlem Noord, and from there we bought with the help of Opa Bas, a house in Velzen Wustelaan and after a few years we sold the house and bought a house in Ede Arthur Van Schendelaan. This was more central in Holland and more suitable for my work with the financial institution.
This was the last house in Holland till our departure to Australia.
Although I had a very interesting job, we decided that in view of the increases in population in Holland, being new about the size of Tasmania, with a population the same as Australia, the future for the children was better in Australia.
14 May 1961. We boarded the Orange, and 19 June 1961, we arrived in Sydney. We were sponsored by Fien an Piet Voorderhake. They had rented a house on Pittwater road in Collaroy, for 10 pound a week. At that time there was a sort-of economic depression.
Although I had studied English correspondence in Holland, it was not easy to understand Australian English.
Fortunately I met Jan Van Beest, who was chief clerk in Prince Alfred Hospital. He introduced me to the accountant and I was appointed as a clerk in the Administration.
In 1963, Jan Van Beest became an accountant in the new built Mona Vale Hospital. He asked me to come with him. I accepted and became chief clerk and accountant when Jan Van Beest departed to New Zealand.
In January 1974, I transferred to the budget department of Royal North Shore Hospital, where I stayed to my retirement in January 1982.
…
This is where they finish. It is crazy to imagine all of this happening before I was even born. My Opa had enjoyed twenty-seven years of retirement, twenty-seven years of a simple peaceful life in his modest home in Frenchs Forest.
With age comes wisdom. I learned a lot from my wise old Opa, I hope you have been able to learn something too. God bless.
Sisters and puppies
Just a cute little post to encourage a laugh and smile on a Friday afternoon.
The sleeping puppy above (small black mound of fur) is Bella, and that’s my youngest sister in 2004 – the only photo a sleeping dog I can find atm to header this post.
First, if you haven’t seen the “Sleepwalking Dog” then watch this first:
And now check out my crazy sister!!
That’s my Opa at the end of the clip – taken less than one month ago after he returned from hospital… he looks so healthy. Man what three weeks without food can do 
Happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts…
On uncovering the sleeping puppy photo I took a short trip down memory lane, uncovering another couple of photos I just had to share:
In the next one she looks like my Galapagos sea lion pups all covered with sand…
How cute are my sisters and little baby Bella!!!
And a closing quote (that doesn’t really have anything to do with sisters or puppies – although if you know Bella’s story you may beg to differ) - that I recently saw in a toilet cubicle of the fairtrade coffee shop in Glebe:
“Better to regret something you did, then to regret something you didn’t do.”
So as Aunty Jack might say “farewell my lovelies” – get out there and have an unregrettable weekend!!!
Depression
Sometimes life just sucks. For no reason in particular. And for every reason in particular. You know that feeling? Or am I the only one…
The funny thing is that nothing has really changed. I’m still living with my Opa, I’m still at uni, I’m still writing and reading and living life doing the things I love. But I feel shit.
Granted my Opa is wasting away before my eyes, he hardly eats anything any more and at 94 is on the brink of, well, of death.
The sunroom I study in used to be paradise, sun streaming inside and looking out to a wall of green trees and vines; but a new fence and conscientious gardeners tore it down.
It’s cold and raining, and feels as if it’s been grey skies forever (even if it’s only been a few days).
It takes a lot of energy and stubbornness to keep optimism in regards to the subjects I’m studying. Things really don’t look good for humanity’s future and reading one or two articles that reinforce humanity’s greed, my attitude easily shifts to a more pessimistic perspective.
Now I have to pull out another essay on poverty and sustainability, within the next 14 days, and prepare for a very tough exam. That will be the completion of my Masters, and I have to figure out what the heck comes next. I’ve been trying to find a supervisor for a PhD but it’s proving more difficult than I had thought (and has to be done in the next 4 days). I also have interview with a big corporate company I don’t want to work for, urgh!
On top of all this I have a slipped into a routine of two or more coffees a day, half a block of chocolate or more, and a chips & a beer or two at night – each one justified by my circumstances “I deserve it” don’t I?
All of the above is doing my head in. I feel tired. I feel shit. I feel fat. I feel tired. I don’t have a boyfriend. I lost my ipod. I think I’ll go and eat worms.
I have friends who do cheer me up. My mentor brought me a coffee this morning, talked me through my essay, and provided me encouragement and direction. Told me to put some of my worries, like about the state of humanity, on the sideline for now. To acknowledge that I am going to stay here while my Opa gets closer to leaving this world, it is going to be hard. I know that.
My friend Charlie told me yesterday that in order to have the positivist, optimism and idealistic attitude I generally have toward humanity and our planet, I have to experience these pessimistic, sceptical, depressive states; and that I should accept it. I do accept it. But it doesn’t make it any easier to get through it.
Another thing playing on my mind is something I realised as I watched Ten Canoes last night (a movie set in Australia prior to the arrival of the British). Even in nomadic hunter/gatherer cultures you see conflict and struggles, mostly over women.
Men by nature are powerful fighters, and what do they want? Women. As many women as possible. And to spread their seed, create the strongest tribe. Has man really evolved from this state? Are women still the most desired object for a man?
Are capitalist quests undertaken in the same vein as quests throughout history – quests to impress women and get the best woman or win sex with as many as they can? In Marilyn’s words, “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend” – if women want diamonds and nice “things”, are impressed by fancy cars, money, housing, holidays – security and easy life etc…. – then is that why men in our culture strive so hard for wealth?
Does this mean that if you change what women are attracted to, men will change to win the women? If women are attracted to men who really care about the world, attracted to creativity rather than capital, and if they are turned off by wealth (it is possible, I know because I am one of these women), – then maybe wealth accumulation will slip to the sideline, and we will get back to prioritising the things that are really important: relationships, love, achieving our potential, expressing our true selves.
Hey, is that a hint of optimism starting to come back?
I just wanna feel like I felt posing for the picture at the top of this page (taken by Wendell Teodoro in King St Wharf in 2008). I wanna feel invincible, like I can achieve anything, a ‘superwoman’ like in Alicia Keys song, do you know the one? She described so much of what I am feeling:
“Everywhere I’m turning nothing seems complete
I stand up and I’m searching for the better part of me
Hang my head from sorrows – state of humanity
Wearing on my shoulders, gotta find the strength in me”
“For all the mothers fighting, for better days to come
All my women sitting here trying to come home before the sun
All my sisters coming together saying yes I will yes I can
Why is that? Cause I am, Superwoman, Yes I am.”
Writing about it helps. Posting it, sharing it with the world – I don’t know if that’s a good thing to do but it does make me feel a little better. I guess in this strange digital network of individual identities, we communicate and at least our minds can connect and become more than what we are in our separateness. I guess if humanity is approaching apocalyptic catastrophe, at least we are all facing it together.
Live life for money
Live life for money
Accumulate many things
Get into debt
Rejoice what this brings:
…
More work, less time
Fear material loss
Forget impermanence
Decay of time is boss
…
What’s left is a story
A story of Capital
Of slavery to a system
Of exploitation, greed and battle
…
The poor are famished
So the “rich” can get fat
Anti-depressants prescribed
Are we blind as a bat?
…
Like vampires we suck
Our earth’s blood dry
Chop down our trees,
Destroy clean air supply
…
Our planet is straining
Millions to billions in 200 years
Our reckless neglect
Brings no one to tears
…
“A tax on emissions
will solve everything”
“But it’s not my fault!”
Libs continue to sing
…
No one is responsible
The bottom line rules
Here we are dictated to
By a whole bunch of fools
…
Copenhagen approaches
We need to think BIG
Look past the next election
Shift the system to peace
…
A communistic-capitalism?
Valuing lives over wealth
Stop consuming, stop exploitation
Start planning, love in action.
At the precipice…
“Only on the brink of disaster do people find the will to change.” “Our sun was dying, we had to evolve.” “Nothing ever truly dies. Everything simply transforms.”
(I found these quotes in my diary. I think they are from The Day the Earth Stood Still.)
What will it take for us to change? Our future comes at a price – to human lifestyles and choices.
There are few planets hospitable to life. We are ridiculously lucky to be here. AND to be self-aware is a miracle to say the least. Are we going to throw all this away just so we can drive our cars, fly our planes, motor our boats and eat our copious amounts of food???
I’m not sure exactly what any solutions are. But they do start with us…
Last night at midnight I handed in the most difficult essay I’ve every written (thank god for email and midnight deadlines!) It is for a subject called Politics of World Economy, and I titled the essay “Addressing a Structural Violence in the International Political Economy”. I better wait till its marked till i post it, so today instead I decided to just post the reflections that follow on from it which, of course, I had to start from the biggest picture possible…
A macro perspective of our place in space and time reveals three things:
1. An awe of existence;
2. An awe of our place in the evolving creation of an increasingly complex universe;
3. An awe that humans are actually aware of #1&2.
A similar perspective draws one’s attention to the potential calamities resulting from:
4. Over-population, vast inequalities, abusive power structures, over-consumption, and habitat-destruction – effectively placing humanity on a path heading toward extinction;
5. Conflicts rising from with identity, religious, cultural and ideological battles that largely result from #4;
6. A lack of the macro perspective of #1-5, which may lead to an even earlier extinction than forcasted.
Analysis of the international political economy shows that:
7. Global capitalism places with power not in the hands of governments, but in the hands of those with capital; while those in debt (through mortgages, credit cards, or even paying rent on your apartment/house) are in effect their slaves;
8. Capitalism is based on market expansion ie increasing consumption – one thing our planet can no longer handle. Stop consuming = system failure.
9. Social and environmental responsibility is diffused throughout the system so that no individuals feel responsible for anything outside of economic profits and losses.
So who is going to make a change?
10. Governments are representatives of the people’s priorities- the stability of our bank accounts and property markets. Governments are often too short-sighted (and focused on the next election) to work toward any real long-term solutions.
11. A change of economic structure to one that does not prioritise capital accumulation regardless of the social and environmental destructive consequences – requires a change in values – the values of the people at the top, and the people on the ground.
12. Appealing to “enlightened self-interest” – with a widespread realisation that continuing on our current trajectory will, without a doubt, end with devastating calamity – seems to be the only way a change is possible.
“At the precipice we change”… well guess what ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at the precipice… so we better frickin change!!! Two hundred years ago the world population was 900 million, now it is what like 6 billion!!! Capitalism and industrialisation has caused the humanity to increase by 600%. Insane! What are we? Some kind of virus rampantly spreading across earth’s surface, killing off everything in our path and murdering our host in the process? And kids are still popping out of mother’s bellies at continuing exponential proportions. If this is not the precipice I don’t know what is.
An opportunity stands before us, an opportunity to TRANSFORM. An opportunity to take our old ways of thinking and acting, and create new ones. To take a humanity trapped in a culture-ideology of consumerism ridden with identity battles over religion and politics, and to transform it into one that allows us to realise our intrinsic connection to all life and our planet, and allows us to pursue our individual and collective life purposes in the evolving creation of our increasingly complex universe.
Just like this little lady beetle we have arrived at the precipice and we have a choice: learn to fly, or die!!!
Death, life-commitments & a horse’s penis
Lake Titicaca
It all began on Friday morning when my Opa said to me “I’m not well. I’m feeling dizzy.” I held his hand. He was freezing. I called the Doctor, and then the ambulance. I put a blanket on him, the heater next to him and lay his chair flat. He was getting colder and more faint – as if the life force was slowly evaporating. He’s 94 and I’ve lived with him for two and a half years. “You’re ready for this” I told myself as I I held back the tears and then tried my best to hide them when I could hold them back no longer. In my mind this was it.
But it wasn’t. A quick ride in the ambulance and a long day in the Emergency Ward, the colour returned to his face, his life-force returning to circulate his blood and animate his bones. He is still in the hospital recovering from some strange infection that managed to lower his temperature to 33.5 degrees. The doctors still can’t identify where the infection was, or where it came from. Life conquered death once again. Apparently this 94 year man still has enough reasons to kick on a little longer on our dying planet and inside our funny little human reality.
In the time that has passed since Friday’s scare, my life has shifted from photographing 150 people full-of-life live life to the full at my sister’s engagement party; to creating systems and designing database reports for various departments of my Dad’s business; to today’s adventures riding horses along the Hawkesbury River (one of the myriad prizes my Mum wins in random magazine competitions) which unfortunately included a very disturbing image of the longest pee ever spurting out of the hugest penis I’ve ever seen (not that I’ve seen that many)… ewwwwww!!! I really didn’t need to see that thank you Pluto (my horse for the day that definitely had no sense of decency.) Following two hours of trotting through rain forest the five of us hobbled as if we were my Opa’s age back to our cushioned car seats for a far more comfortable drive back to Sydney.
Strangely enough I found the experience enlightening for the essay I’ve been working on in every moment in between the above (ahhh it’s due in less than a week) on the relationship between agency and structure of the World Political Economy. I’m trying to identify how the structure of our economic and political system causes poverty and who has the power to do anything about it – to which I’m hoping hoping the answer is you & me.
Praying to the universe it wasn’t my day to fall off and break my back I dug my heels into the innocent horse’s sides and pulled tight the reins and using my stern voice so he knows “who the master is” as I’d been instructed and I found myself comparing human’s approach to animals to human’s approach to humans. I guess it came down to a few things: 1. Slavery 2. Self-determination and 3. What was my part in all this.
If I was a horse I would want to be a wild horse where I could gallop where I liked when I liked, free to be me. Self-determination. Similarly if I was born in a country of the “developing world” I would want to be able to live my own culture or choose to be part of the global culture, whether or not we actually want to “develop”, and whichever we choose I’d want it to happen in a way that wasn’t positioning me in a global economy that effectively takes from the poor and gives to the rich. Slavery surrounds us. Not only these people in “poor” countries who work for nothing so that people in “rich” countries can work less and get all the materialistic things they want. But even the “not-so-rich” in the “rich” countries are slaves to mortgages and dreams about the joys of retirement that by the time we get there we are too old and sick to enjoy. What does it come down to? Self-determination. Empowerment to make choices for oneself. Self-determination is even the answer to my issues with religion. Education rather than indoctrination so to empower individuals to articulate and question rather than accept and blindly adhere to.
To say my mind is a bit scrambled with these juxtaposition of events is an understatement but strangely enough rambling about it to the world helps, even if just a little. The very strange thing about all of these things that have happened in the last four days, from near-death to life-commitments to slavery of humans and horses is that they have one thing in common: they all surround us. We may not be conscious of all these things all the time, but they are all existing simultaneously, side-by-side.
So what is my part in all this? Well at least on the political-economic landscape I’m hoping my research will point to people like me - individuals living in the developed world – who actually do have the power to, together, stand up and make a difference. I think with all issues, be they empowering individuals (human or animal) the ability to make choices for themselves we together can change anything. I’m not saying, per say, that we shouldn’t train horses for us to ride them, but I do feel a certain empathy towards the horse destined to walk tiny trails with 80kg men hoisted on their backs and never fulfill it’s dreams of being wild and free. I was once a tamed horse living that mundane existence where every day was determined by someone with greater power. I am now a wild horse. I have (at least in some small part) escaped boundaries society dictates and I feel free (at least in some small way) to determine my own destiny. If a horse wants to run away and be wild there is really nothing but it’s mind, the way it has been conditioned to behave, that is holding it back.
All in all I have had a good weekend: my Opa didn’t die, my sister is happily engaged, I didn’t fall off my horse, and my essay ideas are slowly evolving in exciting ways. Now I just have to write down these ideas and reduce them into the tiny 3500 word-limit within the 6 days… keep your fingers crossed for me…
I’m late
Time is my most valued asset. Time is money. And money (in its intended design) is a store of time. Money effectively allows us to trade our time for the time of others.
Numbers in bank accounts provide me no pleasure. It seems to provide a deluded sense of security. Financial collapses happen too regularly to place all my eggs in that basket. I’ve just been learning about Argentina in the 90s – those digits can mean wealth one day and mean nothing the next. Accumulation of capital, anything material, or even digital, has little value to me – while time lost can never be regained.
I LOVE time alone. Time in silence. Time in chaos. Writing. Reading. Time spent deep in conversation. Time relaxing. Time eating. Time sleeping.
And there is nothing worse to me than time lost or wasted. Waiting in line. Sitting in traffic. Computers crashing. Cleaning up.
My choice of rabbit costume for my cousin’s Alice in Wonderland party was more than appropriate. In trying to maximise how I use my time I am often be running late or arrive just in the nick of time.
Strangely enough following this logic I actually like it when people are late or even when they blow off our plans (unless I’m hungry and I’m waiting for dinner) I feel like I’ve being given a gift – time I would otherwise not have had. If I’m at home this means time to clean up my messy papers, pay a bill, send an invoice – all the things I endlessly put-off ‘until tomorrow.’ If I’m out I always have a book in my bag and more than happy to sit in my car and read. Random yes I know.
I love the way sometimes time speeds up, and sometimes it slows right down. Sometimes I like to press pause – daydream, reminisce, go on a wild rollarcoaster ride of contemplation – and hit play again to realign my mind with the ticking clock.
This entry was initially inspired a few days ago when my yoga teacher told us about her friend’s parents house being destroyed by a fire. The girl got out with nothing but her mobile phone. Her parents were overseas and when she called them to tell them the news and they responded by saying: “We had too much anyway.”
“It makes you realise that the things that matter are the things that can’t be taken away from you,” her friend had said to her. “Friendships, knowledge, experiences, your yoga practice. Material assets are not what is most valuable in life… It really makes you think about where you put your time.” True words of wisdom.
Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8
A Time for Everything
1 There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:
2 a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3 a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
4 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
6 a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7 a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8 a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.
It’s quite Taoist hey! Not really what you expect in the Christian Bible (one of many unexpected things you can find in there) The whole of this short book of Ecclesiastes is an interesting and slightly depressing rant about the meaning of life – times haven’t changed as much as we’d like to think.
To conclude this messy rant about time I would like to say that there really is a time for everything. And as you all know I think it’s about time for peace.