Ladies

Yesterday was a female day.

I picked up my new Camry from Carine, and very distinctly felt that she is a woman, quite different from the masculine feeling of driving the Commodore. So naming will be a bit more difficult. She drives beautifully. Is large and safe-making. And I had that feeling again, of just wanting to drive drive drive. But I had plans already for the evening.

Betty and Eszti were coming over with bubbles to celebrate the newness of the apartment, the car, the generally freshness of life. Later Evi came over as well, and basically the evening was spent screaming with laughter or doubled over with giggles. It was just plain, unadulterated fun.
I made hummus, and we ceremoniously smashed the wine glasses I had got from B - in a bucket, with a view to safety, of course - good riddance to bad ...

And so another day of perfect freedom begins. Dull grey and humid, peppered with echoes of crowsong and the rat-tat-tat of the retic.

It took some time and stress and work, but I am back to the life I desire.

I have a steaming mug of coffee beside me, I'm listening to the early silliness on Radio National (sleep still eludes me a bit), and the sunrise-tinged morning seeps in through the open balcony door.

On the weekend, M took me hunting. The eerie light hid a mild afternoon, and through my considerable nervousness I still marvelled at the vast landscape. We were only about 150km from Perth and there was just red soil and big skies and these huge cars. There was something so primal about the whole exercise.
I won't say I didn't almost faint at some point in the night, when the smell of expired animals just got too much, but there was less blood and more excitement than I expected.

So, mine and M's cultural exchange has begun. I have gone hunting, in April we're going to Carmen. He's given me a hunting book to read, I have promised him some Winton.

In the next few days, I hope to gather up some lazy minutes, and write about the adventures in Bremer Bay, the even bigger adventures with Bud recently and just settle into a happy routine that I've yearned for, it feels like forever.

. . .

Life is good

I met another Commodore yesterday. A white one, owned by one very charming elderly Frenchman. I want it. I almost wept when he handed me the keys - exactly the same shape and everything. And it goes, like any good Commodore should. M and I are going back today to double check.
Then I swung by the Herdsman for a head of Savoy cabbage and went home. I felt totally drained. I was crushed when I realised that the screwdriver was missing from the little toolkit, meaning I couldn't dissemble the desk in the study, meaning that full perfection would elude me. The stains on the carpet (what talent is required to destroy something so completely, in such little time?) are not budging, the lino in the kitchen is a nightmare... and I was so tired I kept crying. So I settled for putting all my clothes away, and making the meatballs, but the savoy cabbage remained untouched once more.
I had a fitful sleep, I awoke at 4 to some serious thumping and scratching in the roof (rats? amorous possums?) but slept again until 5 and when I got up, all clouds had lifted and i was full of energy and smiles.

I washed the windows and cleaned the last piss stains from the toilet door, I eradicated the last maggots hiding under the lining of the sink in the kitchen, I removed the dead bird from the chair outside the apartment and I put the new linen on the bed. It all looks seriously good. And clean.

I am almost 100% back to how I should be. Squealing with excitement at the colour of the morning light - this morning I took photos of the light on the bricks - and being unable to keep the smile off my face.

I purged a lot of anger with the Dyson and the scrubbing last night, but allowed myself one tiny vindictive victory with the Domestos.

From Winton: an explanation of why (for me) living here will always 'be enough', make me happy, hopefully keep me grounded.

"There is no one else around. I flinch at the sound of a school of whitebait cracking the surface a few metres away. It's alive out there. After the still, exhausted Aegean, where nothing moves but the plastic bags, it seems like a miracle. Call it jet lag, cabin fever, but I am almost in tears. There is nowhere else I'd rather be, nothing else I would prefer to be doing. I am at the beach looking west with the continent behind me as the sun tracks down to the sea. I have my bearings."

Discoveries

And I don't mean the egg streaked measuring cup in the cupboard, pretending that it's clean, or any of the other 'surprises' that I've found while cleaning.
I mean the vibrant-green bugs that tapped against the dark window at 11.30 yesterday, keeping me company in the long, thin night.
Or the wheeling black cockatoos that rent the morning with their cries while I ran several Jacob's ladders worth of stairs, up and down with garbage, and the microwave, and the mushroom kit.
Yesterday I bought new linen, with stars on, I felt I deserved something after the way the afternoon panned out.

When I was in the relationship, I couldn't imagine a situation where we wouldn't be civil; friendly, even. But here is that situation. Here is my vindictiveness rearing its feminine head, armed with matches and wickedness, my frustration and irritation. Ugh. Over it. And now I can't imagine a situation where we are friends once more. Not everyone can be like Dale.

But the anger is (mostly) gone now, and I am home.

Dom dom est os...

I have the brand names and jingles of cleaning products screeching through my mind in operatic frenzy. My hands are scarred and raggedy from encounters with steelo and scourers and sharp oven edges. My brain is comatose in a milky mist of domestos and white king. I am going home!

The last couple of months have been a complete mess, with pockets of perfect, clear light interspersed to help me keep my sanity. I think I have. Although I have been caught in the bathrooms at work, making "hair product" noises that Timea would be proud of.

So, pockets of light - people's goodness and generosity: from lending cleaning items, to rolling cigarettes, to parking the car when I wasn't capable... these small acts of beauty keep me believing that this year will kick arse. Not ass, arse.

And now that I am finally moving home - although this week it still feels a little alien... a landscape littered with beer bottle tops, cigarette buts and foreign hair ... I am making it mine again. The doona is on the balcony, soaking up sunshine and fresh air, drying sheets of linen adorn the house, mingling fabric softner aromas with the nag champa I am constantly burning to counter the stench of bleach and ammonia.

But the frangipanis made it, and this morning when I had my first cup of Paul back home on the balcony, it felt right.
I will try and recap major events, now that I'm more or less back on line, and back in action.

. . .

This year has started ... well, the year has started. I have had shiny days full of quiet sparkle and gratitude, and then days like today, when by the end of it, I just want oblivion in sleep. Except sleep has been elusive lately...and not always for good reasons.

I have been looking for apartments, ignorant of the glaring fact that B is still in our 'home' and I am still guilty enough to keep forking out for it. Pete, Betty and M sat around the table at the pool and berated me - in the gentlest way they could - and told me that it's time to move on this decisively.
I'm trying, and I'm so tired of being a 'nyuszi' - a wuss rabbit who is scared to speak her mind. And then one day, after too much whisky I will just explode and say things I'll regret for a long time.

So that's what I started to write last night. This morning, all rabbity traces are gone. I parked the car at the apartment, and lo and behold who walks out of my apartment, looking for all the world as though she were at home - why it was Balint's ladyfriend. And she was the straw that broke this camel's back. The same way it was Damien Rice that did it with Sacha.
Tomorrow is the last day I pay the rent. From there on in, it's no longer my responsibility. No more Mr Nice Guy. I felt wooooo charged up with assertive power. I've written the email, had it checked by Pete (I think he's feeling pretty proud of me today) and sent it. I'm nervous, of course I'm bloody nervous, but enough is enough.

The other big thing that happened yesterday was my bidding farewell (and christ it was teary) to the best Little Car this side of the black stump. Seeing what I had done to it again was pretty awful, but a lesson has been learned.

The apartment search continues apace... with little success thusfar, but I'm not giving up. I'm geographically certain of "home", now I just have to find an abode to complete the picture. Either that or pitch a tent on Monument Hill...

the indistinct rustle of the radio filters down the too-long hallway to the bedroom, where I am lying in the gathering heat, wondering what words I can find to fit the start of what promises to be a good year. Better than the last in any case.

If I had to sum up 2009 I would use words like work and compromise. I don't regret any of it, but I never expected it to be so hard. To build up another little existence, my banana coloured bubble in this corner of the world. I didn't think it would be this hard because I thought B and I were on the same page in terms of what and how we wanted to build. Alas, naivete on two legs strikes again, and for all the name calling and silent arguments I can accept being selfish if it means being able to look in the mirror without flinching.

I know what I want - maybe it won't happen this year, but I won't settle for less just because I'm getting older. I also know what I'm capable of giving, and how much pleasure I get from that giving. The pleasure comes from knowing that I am not being taken for granted, that what I do is not expected, but appreciated.

I want to keep playing, without the false sternness (word?) of adulthood peering over my shoulder. I have loved the last few days - this has been the best Christmas season I can remember. I have had beautiful company - people that made me feel alive, and worthy and special. Happiness.

Today will be 39 degrees, I am borrowing Zoli's camry while my injured little car is in the hospital (possibly the most expensive fucking hospital ever), and in two days I will be driving down to Bremer Bay with Sandy, Paul and kids. Life is good, I must never forget that.

Hugging Ross and Mel - arguably some of the best huggers in Australia - and hearing them say again how much they miss me, how like the old Anna I am again - I know for certain I have found my place. Building the nest may take a little longer than I expected or hoped, but I've got time.

So now, with a cold slice of rockmelon, I am going up to the balcony, to look at my cranes, and complete some more elementary sketches.

Happy new year.

. . .