(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.