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Hello, may I talk with you? says the man extending his hand out to meet mine..
I think sure.. A big country howdy do smile on my head because I have had a pretty groovie morning so far and the weather is brisk and bracing and just right for a trot up the street on my way to lunch.. also I’m replaying the salient memories from talking with Plan A most of yesterday..
Yes, today I am happy and I’ll talk to anyone.
My name is S.. and I came to this country three months ago. You are very beautiful and I am looking for a lady friend..
Ya ya.. today I am beautiful. But I tell him no.. not me.. sorry and I keep walking..
I think about yesterday while chatting with Plan A I realised that for the last ten years I have had lovers who needed me for something.. to bear witness to all manner of journeys and recoveries..
I always thought it was that alcoholics, recovering addicts, those who were recovering from sexual and emotional wounds.. men transitioning out of marriage and then back again.. found me. Found me and asked me to stand by them.
Plan A says I have a touch of the Florence Nightingale complex.. he asks if in fact.. I find men I perceive need nurturing.. I know he is right. I need to take the responsibility of my journey and who I chose to spend it with..
Of course I know that everyone has wounds and are recovering from something. Even me.
Anyway. The guy on the street today. I wondered how many women he had stopped through the course of the morning. I wonder if he will be successful with his direct marketing method eventually. I felt like telling him that it is hard to not come across as a needy pervert with the random stopping of passer bys..
I wonder how else to do it though? How else do you meet people?
I also wonder today if the man I chatted to and bought a book from on Monday and chatted to today about how much I am enjoying the book.. would fancy a shag in his back room..
Random – but it’s where my head is at today..
Yesterday I bought my first ever spare bed. Share housing means forever being relegated to a one bedroom existence with most whitegoods and living room furniture shared between housemates.
A housemate match is more than matching personalities, it’s about finding out what you have two of and what you’ll need to purchase – do you purchase between the household or do you strike out on your own and buy something new to share with the other housies.. The amount of money you forked out for a fridge, a washer, a set of pots was directly proportionate to how well you liked and trusted the latest house sharers.
On visits, my mother would say to me sotto voce.. is this couch yours.. is this cupboard yours.. are these cups yours.. ?Having never become used to the idea of me changing my room mates every few years.
To me the changing housemates was like perpetuating a university lifestyle.. and it suited me until just recently.
So. Now with three bedrooms to fill, and friends booking in to stay.. I needed a spare bed.
Attractive, inexpensive and easy to re-sell on ebay if needed..
Behold
[artist's impression - mine is yet to be assembled..]
Predictable response from Plan A.. ‘could be handcuffed nicely to that..’
My friend B has used this song as the score to the photographs of the waterbirth of little baby Z.. The combination of the two has me tearing up..
This is a beautiful cover of a beautiful song.. sung by a man with a beautiful voice. Newton Faulkner.
Look out for the beats.. 42 seconds in.. amazing..
Driving from the city today, in the direction of my new home.
The last two hours in driving sheeting rain.. Lightning cracking the dark clouded sky and illuminating the wetlands on either side of the road. Wetlands, rivers bursting banks.. A torrent..
The car skidding in water too deep on the bitumen.
I dreamed that this was the one.. the big rain the farmers have been waiting for.. The rain to end the drought.. The rain that makes the world alright and reverses the desert that this part of the world is becoming..
I don’t think I have ever noticed the land as much as I do now..
God I fancy a roll in the hay.
About to head up to my motel room [staying in the city for a couple of nights for work]. In the foyer of the hotel on the internet.
Fully expecting there to be police tape across my door when I get up to the sixth floor..
In the bathroom last night I used the new apparatus I purchased to dry pumice the bejeezus out of my tired old country feet..
As I watched the white shavings fall to the floor I imagined the cleaners calling management in the morning, bagging up the illegal white powdery substance that had escaped inhalation..
We’ll see..
I am suddenly and acutely aware of why I blog.. Why I need to blog.
I am a judgemental cow who will go to Hell for all my judging of folk and their folky ways. I need an outlet so as not to make a public arse of myself.
In my inbox today is an invitation to meet and perhaps join the local eisteddfod committee, and to help them obtain arts funding for the event.
Holy farking moley bloody shit and you better be joking – there is no WAY I would be seen dead at an eisteddfod!!
But. The job I do is my job. My responsibilities to the community extend to feigning an interest in the eisteddfod.. I will attend a meeting.. but not join. In the meantime I need to learn a technique that will stop me from bursting into hideous all consuming judgemental laughter in meetings..
Eisteddfods.. a dated pastime to amuse the white collar mothers of shiny primped children. Or am I wrong?
As a child all the kids I knew who entered eisteddfods were the offspring of uppity wankers. The kids, inflecting and enunciating all over the freaking place in preparation for the big Speech and Drama competition..
To what end?
If I could say one thing to the eisteddfod competitors.. it would be.. Do it my way.. Get down and dirty, gutteral and primal, poor and desperate the way I did at University when I was studying acting.. THAT is the way of a true artist. Your parents will be terrified of you.. But that is quite the fun bit.
Hmmm.. maybe I would just say that to the kids over 10.
Ever wanted to be a secretary?
I would dig it.. if just for this office alone..
[Watching the dvd back-catalogue]
This evening I have watched two films.. [and watched the dog dismember a puppet, while I cheered him on.. hate puppets.. hate..]
Burn After Reading was a film I was desperate to see.. but.. meh. Brad Pitt is hilarious. Everyone else was solid.. but.. meh.
Little Children.. I loved. LOVED.
Made me think about inserting myself in another life. Have I ever wanted to do that? Re-invent my life by leaping into someone else’s path and staying there? Passionate intense desires to be with someone despite the sacrifices to be made..
Yes.
I hope I feel that passion again [soon]. I guess making the choice to move here was partially that – not led by any relationship.. but by a desire to put myself in the way of a new life. Discard the old.
Must be an eyebrow day. I mentioned eyebrows in the previous post, thick eyebrows are judged in Little Children and I have ‘eyebrow maintenance’ on my list of things to do tomorrow..
Today I played ball with the dog in a deep red dust park. Once as he chased he couldn’t find his feet in an especially deep soft patch and rolled 2 – 3 – 4 times. Patting his little white back later in the day puffs of dust lifted off his coat like he was the arm of an old overstuffed couch..
He trotted off down the main street of a tiny town [140 people] in no danger of being mown down by a car as everybody was at the footy. He’s becoming a country dog and I am losing the neurotic city edge to my voice.. I don’t need to be able to see him every second we are together. I found him a few minutes later at the service station down the road sniffing in the tall grass around the derelict utes and valiant sedans.
Each time I drive through these wheat silo towns I laugh and think how the fuck do I find myself here?
I guess it’s the desire to put myself in a different life path.
I know you all know.
But I am amazed every day.
I am sick to death [and it has only been two days] of the Press using the term spinster to describe Susan Boyle, the woman from Scotland who sang on the TV the other night.
She’s a single, unemployed woman who doesn’t pluck her eyebrows, but who can hold a tune.. and she made a pretty fucking clever song choice. But everywhere you look she is the spinster, the virgin, the woman who has never been kissed.. FFS.. do you think that is a bit irrelevant? [the eyebrows thing is irrelevant, yet obvious..]
Anyway.. have a look at the vid if you haven’t seen it already. Although I generally dislike musical theatre, I make an exception for this song.. I have only ever heard it sung by a bloke, so having a chick sing it adds a new dimension.. And having a ’spinster’ sing about how she had never imagined her life as crap as it is.. well it adds a very poignant dimension.
Last night I was awake for hours in the darkness. I confided in the dog if it wasn’t for him I would have gone insane – at home – alone in a town where I have no-one – in the middle of nothing. Two hours in each direction of emptiness pretty well.. There should be a gothic opera written about this kind of isolation.
A girl who shares my office just asked me what I had planned for the weekend. Nothing. Not that I am dead flat boring. I just have nothing planned and no-one planned to do nothing with. Oh.
I had heard it was hard. I knew it was going to be hard. But here I am – eyeballs hot and body weary from the insomnia of last night and I want to curl up under my desk and stay there.. No-one would notice.
I am headed back up to town next Thursday for two nights.
Meeting up with my lovely galpals who I miss so much.. my lovely friends.
I am tired. Even Plan A can not be relied on to draw me out of my fog.. Plan A. You are a disappointment. Entertain me. Or else it is back to talking to the dog.. and he has heard all my stories before..
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