Sweet, pure and shiny.

I went, this morning, to see my doctor (who happens to look like Simon Baker, so never a hardship) for a full check-up. What this means is that at my prompting I have, this morning, had blood tests taken for everything and anything - organ function, cholesterol, iron, hormone levels etc etc etc.

I also had two tiny spots burnt off my face - well frozen. They were so small to be almost invisible but I could feel them with the tips of my fingers, so he removed them. These are a result of growing up in the Tropics. Over the last couple of years I've had 3 others frozen off. I am vigilant about it. A spot vigilante. He is always impressed that I've managed to locate such tiny things. In return I try to impress on him how much I like being alive in explanation.

He has been my Doctor now for many years. When he started his first practice, I was one of his first clients. I have remained with him as he moved on up to his present position at the best private Medical Centre in Cairns. He wears gorgeous silk shirts and Italian leather shoes, is a vegetarian, smart as the proverbial whip and is musically trained. I adore him. He says things like: 'I'm never going to get time for creativity if I stay in medicine', and this morning, upon hearing that I have begun my Doctorate: 'I admire you, you're so pure.'

So, you see - always entertaining. As though medicine is a millstone around his neck and I'm living a covetable life. Very funny.

But, back to the tests. In the spirit of transformation I am giving my body a thorough tune-up. Much as I hate car metaphors when discussing the human body, this one seems appropriate. No longer brand-new, I'd like to be well cared for and shiny anyway.

So, coming at you; sweet and pure, soon to be shiny.
Darkness is, of course, a given.
Midnight blue perhaps?

Conniptions.

Gaaah! Am having a conniption re: templates.
Is it a symptom of other things?
Perhaps a crisis of identity?

Maybe it's the low pressure curtesy of Cyclone Ellie, who blustered around off the coast a bit before blowing herself out, without so much as a fallen branch.

Conniption indeed.

A conniptious week then.
So far.

(Doo doo doo) looking out my front door.

Le Wet Season.

Diversions.

Have just arrived home from a rather diverting evening - a dinner party where each guest was required to give a performance of some sort, kicked off by the host who ate a number of pages of a book she didn't much like. Was she swallowing? No. After 10 or more pages were torn into small pieces and compacted somehow in her mouth, she spat it all onto the floor in front of her. Some review, huh?

Next was a fine piece of slide guitar, followed by an acapella gospel song, a book reading by the author of said book, and a remarkably moving reading of 'Oh The Places you'll Go' by Dr Seuss. I, of course, played a song (the guitar was finally slung on my back again for a moment). The night continued with more music and the type of conversation that spins off satisfyingly on tangents and then rings around again to the main thrust before whimsically spilling all over the place.

Tired, yet not.

Must, of course, go to bed.

Some nights: better than others.

On Death. ( A Post in 6 parts).

I.
Early this morning I was tossing and turning in my bed, slit-eyed at the first light that was managing to infiltrate my room, and grit-jawed at my own darkness which had laid claim to me in the night. 'Dawn be damned,' it/I said.

Hi-jacked for the day I made busy. Cleaning. Shopping. Sorting. Reorganising. And yes, running. I pounded the pavement, venturing further than I had so far. It helps. O tomorrow I'll be sore. Sore beats angst (paper covers rock).

The strange thing is that since I've taken up jogging, I've been dreaming it too. In my dreams I am strong and never tire. I run the length of the town, run the hill at the end of my street, run along the landing strips of the airport, and beyond.
Just as though I would live forver.

II.
I have begun reading for my grand project. First up: Breton's 'Manifesto of Surrealism' and Artaud's 'The Theatre and its Double' which already has me tracking back to Nin's diaries and wondering who in fact she did and didn't sleep with.

III.
The black dog is an unruly bastard. He really isn't mine. Maybe I'll put up some posters, somebody might lay claim.

IV.
I am considering a french polish. In honour of Anais.
Tomorrow I would like to don a red velvet cape and run off to a liquid lunch with Henry Miller. Alas. What I'll actually do is step out into the great wet blanket of the monsoon season plastered with repellant to guard against the outbreak of Dengue fever which is IN MY STREET as I write.

V.
Yesterday someone I know died suddenly. This goes a long way to explaining I. and III.

VI.
Life's too short etc. I won't bang on about it.
I will, however, recommend jogging and philosophy.
That is, of course, if you aren't in love.

Here's the rub.

I have just had a day to myself. My daughter has finally started school for the year, and I gave myself the day off before starting back myself.

I had coffee with good friends then took myself off for a much anticipated massage. I thought I'd choose something different in the spirit of transformation (my word for the year incidentally) and went for the 'Hot Rock' massage which involved warm rocks on chakras, a very nurturing massage involving said rocks, and the scents of vetiver and pettigrain and bergamot. There was even, at one stage, the sound of Tibetan chimes to 'breathe' in, and some Reiki.

I have noticed lately that I'm becoming sick of my tendency towards cynical stances. I'm tired of it. So, in the spirit once more, I shall just say that I felt extraordinarily relaxed and somehow opened up at the end of the session which lasted well into the second hour. So whether it was the rocks or the chimes or the Reiki or the rub matters not. The proof of the pudding is indeed in the eating, or in this case, in the feeling. I felt good and I don't give a rock why.

I'm booked in again next month.

Messing

I'm messing with templates. Obvs.
I like rearranging furniture too. Can you tell?

Feastish things, and an admission.

Just surfing around after a feastish night at a buffet on the Cairns Esplanade called 'Charlies'. 'Charlies' is one of those places you would never go unless your Swedish step-mother, who is in town sans your father, (and with a rather bright grand-daughter who is halfway through medical degree in tow) invites you there.

Three languages were spoken, many oysters eaten, and much women's business hashed over, from recipes to Pilates to my absent father's increasing girth. Apparently living back in Europe has prompted a not surprising return to drinking and proscuitto and other good stuffs, and really, why wouldn't it?

We also discussed jogging, and since I've now mentioned it, I will now have to admit to this year's resolution. Oh yes, really.

And since I've now admitted it, I suppose I shall have to keep you updated.
Oh, alright then, if I must.

Fortune, the gods, and Spanish crushes.

And then . . . a new car!
Well, newish. White and sporty at that.
I pick her up today. She shall be named sometime soon. The last was called Silver. Hi ho and away. I have bequeathed Silver to my brother who will perform some sort of man's business on it, and resell it for a tidy profit.

Anyhow, what with the scholarship and the car, and managing Christmas without too much moroseness and no family arguments at all, I am growing a little anxious.
You know - it's all just going a bit too well to be comfortable.

There have been times in my life where it's been too easy to believe that the gods are gaming with me - 'HA, lets see what she does if we throw this at her!' Looking at misfortune like this gives a sense of perspective, fulfills hero fantasies and gives you something to rail against, to shake your fist at so to speak.
It's not illogical then, is it, when experiencing a run of good fortune, to be suspicious.
What are they planning?
Did someone hear a snicker just then?
I thought I heard a snicker.

In other news, I went to see 'Vicky Christina Barcelona' last week, and what was with that annoying Voice Over? I really would have preferred to gaze at Javier Bardem uninterrupted, thankyou v. much. In fact I could have done without the rest of the characters, and just watched Penelope Cruz and Bardem wandering the streets of the mucho guapa Barcelona, or painting/cooking/drinking/fighting etc in that covetable house with a fair lashing of sex scenes thrown in for good gratuituos measure.

Call me shallow. No, please, feel free.
They are both being sent to the list, along with Barcelona, the star of the show.

A New Year

Cairns Lagoon

This morning I slept in till 8, such luxury. We were out late last night swimming in the lagoon (yes that's it pictured), right up until the life guard blew the whistle at 10pm. It was balmy and languid and every shade of tropical and included a sunset barbecue, and ice creams later in the evening.

While my daughter J slept on, I did some pilates stretches and finally, all the general hoopla of Christmas and New Year behind me, turned my mind towards the coming year, let it roll it's swanky red carpet right up to my toes.

You see I have good news. More than good news. Good news upon good news. First it was receiving great results for my Masters dissertation. Fantastique, no? Followed swiftly by an offer of a scholarship to do my PhD!

And for a creative thesis at that. A proposal which could hardly be more whimsical if it sprouted gossamer wings and flew.

Having delivered J for more swimming with the boy next door, I am sitting here letting the the full euphoric vision of what this will mean just wash over me.

Firstly, goodbye to fulltime work and hello to a part-time job, at a far better rate of pay too due to my new Masters status. And, wonder of wonders, a scholarship to do exactly what I love, that is, of course, reading and writing and setting my fancy free.

A celebration is imminent.

The last year was marked by its discipline. I chopped wood and carried water and thought of enlightenment. I spurned alcohol, coffee and all the naughtiest things for a fridge full of organics and my trusty juicer. I walked and stretched and climbed and swam and I am feeling very grateful to the person I was, the one who this time last year rang in the changes.

It was a year of mulling things over, of great nostalgic jags and long stretches of night-time sat before the screen conjuring up my dissertation. I ate in, and filled any spare time with more and more reading. Friends knew where I'd gone, though I imagine they wondered if they'd lost me forever to the page.

Perhaps I am lost to the page but it's always just for now, isn't it?

Ten years ago, I was touring endlessly (and childlessly) with a band, shacked up, when we weren't on the road, in a cottage in Richmond (Melbourne, that is) with lavender at the front gate and music spilling out of its crooked little windows day and night. Every night I would head out in my boots, with my guitar case slung over my shoulder to some gig or another to sing out my heart, to drink red wine or Guinness, to eat, to listen to music, and then late late homecomings, and the crackle of winter and the changing of guitar strings and Portishead and Tom Waits and Van Morrison's Astral Weeks on the stereo, and risotto on the stove, and white cotton sheets, and he of the pale skin and the long fingers and the darkest of deep pools inside.

Sometimes I think of strolling up that street again, pushing open the gate, crushing the lavender again between my fingers and bringing it up to my nose as I walk to the front door. I miss the familiar weight of my guitar on my back. I don't carry it anywhere anymore. It stays where it is, and I pick it up to play.


So, now, I am in thrall to the page, to words.

Everything changes.


To the New Year then. From here it looks like a blue sky, a forever sky.

I'll enjoy forever while it lasts.