Batucada

Clancy's Fish Pub was transformed last night (at least the back room was) into a place of Brazilian verve and captivating extravagance.
Betty had us arrive nice and early, so there was a bit of standing around at the bar, me gripping my glass of soda, the boys grumbling non-stop.
I wish I could remember the names of the dances, but they were something like this:
an African style dance, wearing shushing grass skirts with a lot of leaping and shaking hands at the sky, then another African influenced dance with sticks where half-way through the dancers made a circle, and then two of the Capoeira masters - Betty's teacher and an absolute vision from Malaysia - entered the circle with machetes. The clanging was monstrous and rhythmic and exciting.
When the actual Capoeira exhibition started was the best though. Such incredible fluidity in everyone's bodies. In the more experienced 'dancers' the speed and contortion were almost frightening.
I felt so proud of Betty - this was only the second time I've seen her perform on stage but her happiness at being up there is infectious.
When the exhibition finished the Belaza drumming group got up on stage, and I recognised those yellow and red drums from when we saw them on the street corner in Perth. They play a style of African influenced Brazilian percussive samba. The rhythm gets into your bones.
Unfortunately the boys had had well enough by then and we had to leave half way through - me being designated soda-drinking driver had to leave too. I look forward to an evening when I can see that group, have a drink, and have a dance.

Before Clancy's B and I went to Lynwood earlier to pick up Pete and so that I could wash the car. It's a negative aspect of living in an apartment that I have no way of washing it here, and although those big colourful drive through wash things are exciting, I prefer the personal touch.
Now it is spotless, inside and out and I've left little mounds of red earth on Pete and Betty's driveway.

The rest of yesterday was uneventful. After the gym I cooked breakfast, and headed off on my mission to buy 'sensible shoes'. With my rebel sport voucher I figured I'd be sure to find something. I shit you not, EVERY singe pair of 'women's lifestyle' shoe was either: WHITE, PINK, SHINY or GLITTERY. Or all of the above. Then I clapped eyes on a pair of thoroughly unattractive walking shoes that have Cape to Cape written all over them, so the day wasn't a complete waste :)

Today- B has gone fishing, I'm about to sink into some analysis, and the wind is not relenting.

...

clear morning

yesterday was a day crammed full of hope and wine and food.
because plans changed (like they always seem to do) friday morning was spent whipping the house into shape for the evening.
we'd been planning it since I got the job in August, but finally Joe and I went out to celebrate at the newly refurbished Leederville hotel. We sat by this massive old gum at a table that wasn't stable and had the most wonderful time. The food was good too :)
Back at the office I was good for little else but to plot the evening's menu and find preserving recipes for the 10kg of mangoes coming my way next week. Chutney, anyone?
The day's worst experience was in coles when my card declined and I stood blinking at the checkout, not quite comprehending. so westpac paid for dinner.
I've been wanting to try coq au vin for ages, so that together with olive oil mash (made with the final splash of the Hardy's Mammoth oil we bought in Toodyay) was the main course. I made hummus for a starter, and I have to say, although it wasn't super smooth, because I pestled it all by hand it was damn tasty. (If only I had had the time to make the turkish bread myself as well).
Dessert was a shamefully simple apricot and pistachio tart, and basically I was done within an hour and a half when B arrived with our guests, Orsi and Balazs. I have met Orsi once before, beautiful, meek and pretty quiet, but I took to Balazs immediately, B and I agreed later he reminds us both of Szabi.
I know B had been hoping for a let-my-hair down massive night of drinking, but I was glad that it was civilised. There was a lot of catching up for the boys to do, but other than a bit of talk about refugees and immigration where i joined in, the chat was mostly beer stories, and vomit stories and how drunk were we when. So really, not that civilised after all. But the food was a success and maybe we'll do something together tomorrow, weather permitting.
I'm about to start the day with the gym and then some Anna time at the water's edge. Just to say hello.
A little work for today (thanks canon), Betty's performance in the evening ... time floats on...

I'm not too sure how it awoke inside my head, but while reading Clive James' essay about "The Australian Poetic Republic" I thought of Keith Harrison. And he has a website (why the hell didn't I think of this before?)

Pirra Homestead, Lara, around 1996. The theatre room at the bottom of the garden is full and dusty. As Geoff D'Ombrain calls various people up on stage the lights don't change, and only the vague animal sounds from outside seep in sometimes, accompanies by the whoooo of the wind.
I too am called up on stage, to read from my little sixteen year old's collection of goaty poetry. I will never forget that on those occasions the audience members thanked me for sharing.
Jenny danced too at the theatre, and despite her youth (compared to Geoff at least) I marvelled at how the two of them fit together so perfectly, and how lucky she was. He was (I hope he still is!) a gentle man, beautifully crafted.

After the performances we'd go back to the homestead, and the sky would be darkening - the red orb sinking over the You Yangs. Candles would be lit, and we'd walk around the groaning tables, sampling home made cheese, bread, soup, and of course wine. Even I was allowed to drink a little. Those nights were never difficult. I never felt then what I felt today at the meeting with 'the executive'. I didn't feel small then.
Sometimes Robert Drummond would be there, with great Beethoven-esque head of hair and his expressive hands. It was a wonderful community.

When everyone had settled in the room with the piano sometimes Geoff would bring out his flute and play, closing his eyes with feeling. Sometimes someone would play the piano (though never me) and he would sing.

Pirra Homestead - I didn't visit when I was in Geelong with Dad. And I can't quite explain why. What would I say? There seemed to be all that promise and nothing really came of it. It's the same kind of feeling I have when I think of visiting the Monea brothers - I played for 11 years and now what? There were aspects of that small town Geelong life that suited me. And these warm memories with their soft edges are perfect tonight.

I must start at least the first Thursday of the month readings again. Perhaps it would help.

...

Between April in Paris and Autumn in New York Charlie Parker lowers his mournful cape of sound over all.
The atmosphere today is like a long, uncomfortable hug after a hike in the rain.

It would be the perfect time to spend long hours by a steam-mottled window with a book.

In that swimming place again, or rather floating - where so long as I am doing something, occupying my mind or my ears or at least my hands with something I am safe.

Yesterday's wild endorphin rush was welcome - a natural high with no comedown (until I got home to the murky greyness peppered with filth). It was so strange to be back in Murray Street, where little has changed since Francie worked with me there. Happy times. :-)

This week is dragging - and this sounds awful but I'm enjoying the daytimes better than being at home. something constricting about those little walls. But the weekend should be fine.
I think I should get myself to a craft shop and make an effort at a hat contraption for the Melbourne Cup lunch (oh to be drinking Pimms from a bucket on your nature strip, Jules) and then to the gallery - to finally see the McCubbin exhibition that opens this weekend. I can't wait.

Good things though: Ian Rankin writing about Edinburgh sent wild flurries of words dancing through my head and waking up all sorts of fine memories of that great city.
And re-reading Dawe (from Geelong, no less) - best read out loud.

Drifters

One day soon he'll tell her it's time to start packing
and the kids will yell 'Truly?' and get wildly excited for no reason
and the brown kelpie pup will start dashing about, tripping everyone up
and she'll go out to the vegetable patch and pick all the green tomatoes from the vines
and notice how the oldest girl is close to tears because she was happy here,
and how the youngest girl is beaming because she wasn't.
And the first thing she'll put on the trailer will be the bottling-set she never unpacked
from Grovedale,
and when the loaded ute bumps down the drive past the blackberry canes with their last shrivelled fruit,
she won't even ask why they're leaving this time, or where they're headed for
she'll only remember how, when they came here
she held out her hands, bright with berries,
the first of the season, and said:'Make a wish, Tom, make a wish.'

...

Private Sunrise

at least that's how it felt this morning. I slept right up till the alarm at 530 and when I blundered out of the bedroom it looked like the windows were on fire. I hurried out to the balcony to see the morning sun do valiant battle with the bank of clouds. It was a close fight, but in the end the sun pulled back and the clouds won out- there is now a diffuse light (I was going to say mellifluous light but the word makes me wince) and the morning is soft and beautiful.
Yesterday after work I walked around Lake Monger with Kym, and the best part about it, other than talking freely, was the baby birds. I was a little wary of the motherbirds, but man these chicks were cute.
The baby water hens are like long gangly-legged balls of fluff, with an entirely different appeal to the baby ducks. Cygnets too are wonderful, but it's their mothers that worry me!

Steve's death has had a different effect on me than I thought it would, if ever I really thought about it. I was so angry when he moved out, and I thought he had done so much damage, if not to me than to mum, probably most of all himself. Anyway, I was angry (flexing claws again), and thought that if this day ever came I would feel indifferent at best, and happy at worst.
But when I read about it, I felt a kind of itching frustration. Not quite a sadness, but a feeling that no matter how I felt about him in the end, it's still a waste. Or perhaps the only end that could have been. In any case, Laci went to Paks and farewelled him properly, so this chapter closes.

So in awe of the sunrise was I that I missed my pump class. I had a shortsweatysandy walk on the beach to compensate, and there's another class I can go to tonight in the City.
The usual, comforting morning routine now- top up the coffee, cook breakfast, pack lunch, throw clothes around in a flurry of what am I going to wear? All to the soundtrack of Fran Kelly.

...

afterthought

blogging angry is like texting pissed...I may not have phrased that last post all that elegantly. But there's no one in life I'm more protective of than mum. So, I had a cup of tea, and settled for half an hour with some Neruda and realised that you can't read "in my sky at twilight" and stay angry.

And just one more thought for the evening...today in a book of literary criticism, Clive James writes about Philip Larkin, and from his poem "For Sydney Bechet"

On me your voice falls as they say love should
like an enormous yes

border

I had a beautiful weekend... almost all of it was shiny and warm and full of new and good people.
I watched another gorgeous sunset just now, and felt ridiculously fortunate and happy. And then I came home.
And I called Tusi nagyi, and spoke to her and granddad too for a while, and then called Mum on her mobile while she was on the bus home to Budapest.
This is what happened at the border. This hasn't happened since the late fucking 80's.
Everyone was ordered off the bus, and ordered to open their bags. The guy that was inspecting mum's back mustn't have had sex in a while or something, because he went to go in her bag quite aggressively, to which mum said please don't rummage through my stuff.
So they took her into some 'private' room (at this point i think pulse rate doubled) and made her unpack everything, piece by piece 'the book i'm reading' 'the work i'm translating' 'my dirty laundry' etc etc. And they said "so where are the cigarettes and the palinka?"
I hate them. All of them. That country will never crawl out of its own self pitying pathetic hopeless bullshit. They will never get ahead, never grow a spine, never get by without aid, and I hope they will never be prosperous. I hope they sit on their mound of rusting Nobel prizes and disappear. I hope mum comes back here as soon as possible and then we never ever have to go back there again. Of course Pista would come too.
I am so angry I actually feel like fighting. So perhaps now is not the time to write about the beautiful day. . .

Fancy

Yesterday carried on in much the same happy vein as Friday.
I woke at 6, took an hour to clear the debris from the kitchen and then prepared the dough for the first rising. I think I'm starting to learn to use yeast more confidently.

Then I went to a pump class (Yoga was later in the day, so I'll go today instead) and on the way something really strange happened. I got this very strong stab of missing Mum so intensely, that I had to pull over on Hay Street because I was crying too hard. I don't know if it was brought on by the act of making baguettes, or the fact that I know she's with Tusi now, or the fact that I had those old black and whites at work last week, or that I've been using Trieste as my relaxing visualisation tool, or that I was listening to our driving cd from down south. I just very suddenly, and not for a long time felt like a very young girl who wanted her mum. I'm going to call my two generations of Gyorgy women today and get my fix.

Class was excellent, now it hurts to laugh, bend over and generally walk. At home we set off on a domestic frenzy of cleaning (the laundry basket is bare!!!!) and after punching the dough down again I went to the Herdsman (that parking director lady is fabulous), spent more than I should have, and filled the car with the heady scent of truly fresh basil.
Then, onto Floreat, where I joined the library and spent a few dizzying minutes choosing books. I borrowed a Dessaix novel, and a book of poetry from all the Laureates in the UK, one about using your dslr, one about Soo Kyi and a little book of wine tasting, oh and a book by Clive James, remembering way back in Corio those days when the three of us would still sit down and watch telly together. And it gave me shivers to think that I could sit at home guiltlessly, and read whatever I wanted.

Then Coles and home to shape the loaves and make the peach and yoghurt slice for dessert. We were almost ready on time, but I think the extra 20 minutes we had to wait for the peach thing were worth it.

We had a beautiful (an denormous) dinner with CS and KS and their lovely daughter (who paints!). Most importantly I think B felt good with them, and if work doesn't get in the way, fishing may be an option next Sunday for him. It was a night of laughter, and that was even better than the wine to me. Now my face hurts as well as my tummy muscles, but it's a good pain.

I slept through till six again, I've had my mug of Paul, the eggplant is baking in the oven for the dip, and I have a full day of freedom ahead of me!

...

"Every March since they have lifted again
out of the same bulbs, the same
baby-cries from the thaw
ballerinas too early for music, shiverers
in the draughty wings of the year
On that same groundswell of memory, fluttering
they return to forget you stooping there
behind the rainy curtains of a dark april
snipping their stems"

Hughes, Daffodils

Today was the best day I have had in a long list of days. Thanks to some strange but good ear putty I managed a luxurious extra few minutes of sleep, then got up and checked over Matyi's translation for the diabetes doco subtitles, then made a mediocre icing for my coconut cake, and then sauntered, happy, in flat shoes to work, blinking in the cheeky sunshine.
There was a big corporate-wide breakfast today, but I'm still not quite 'in' enough to mingle freely (and no blooody marys at breakfast). So I had some bacon and an awful coffee with Maria, then chatted to Bernie while we munched pastries, and then hoofed it back upstairs, where I was just buzzing with the happies. These last few days I've felt constantly full of hope, full of light.

There was a meeting, mercifully short, and all the soft IT men there enjoyed (and appreciated) my baking. And I thought hey, at least that's something i can do...

I was going to the esplanade to lunch with Chris, and there was a slow-motion moment when i put my feet on the freeway bridge, when I felt like everything was perfect. That I could exit right then, and leave happy. I love my own solitary belonging here. Peppered with second-hand negativity as it may be.

We went for a sunset walk in Bold Park, for over an hour, tramping over paths that curved and dipped and rose (and how I felt those inclines in my bum post-pump-class!) and while B pressed play on all the usual complaints, I got lost in the bushes and wished that I could photograph birdsong. I tell you, that park is a gift. The flies are not.

Back at the car I had the urge to farewell the day 'properly' so we sped quickly down to City Beach, to catch the finale- the perfect fiery orb melting into the perfect ocean. Surfers galore, and quiet couples on the now cold sand. It has been a happy Friday.

Tomorrow: early, make the dough for the baguettes to let them rise, bake chocolate cake for Chris and co, bake peach something for Balint, go to yoga and possibly, finally, paint. On my balcony facing the trees, resplendent with parrots.

And I have a strange urge to curl up under fluffy doonas, and read Henry Lawson aloud.
"..a beauty that even the drought cannot mar"

goodnight...

...

Long pointed hours

full of dullish white light and lazy uncold wind. The feeling in the air today reminded me of early summer in Geelong - in a good way, if that can be believed!
I finished the big lump of metrica yesterday, and was almost too tired to feel relieved but I managed it :)

Despite the met deadline, my sleep pattern hasn't clicked back to normal, and although I managed to go back to sleep at 3am, I woke again at 5 (after a rather delicious and vivid dream, the kind that leaves you confused upon waking) - but at least that gave me the oomph to get my arse to the gym. As usual, a decision not regretted, although there will be happy pain tomorrow.

As for the sleeping, I'm attempting ear plugs tonight, so i shall not hear the kookaburras and the maggies and the rosellas (is that what they are?) and the red wattle birds... if they could start the morning even half an hour later...

I read a really fine essay (and now shamefully I don't remember who wrote it) on the ABC website, abotu Kevin Rudd and his attempt to marry religious morality/ethics with poltics...

Because I had finished work, B and I chose tonight as our 'date' night, not that we had anything major planned. I baked a coconut and lemon cake for tomorrow's meeting at work - something sweetish to butter up the it guys. It's endearing how they can peck at crumbs of goodness, yet be frighteningly serious at all other times. Which reminds me, I must finish Middlemarch, and give it back to Ian.

So, the date. A Chinese restaurant in Wembley which was as badly decorated as every other chinese restaurant i've been to in the world, bar one. And woefully empty.
Lesson 1 never drink wine at a chinese restaurant....
but the food was pretty damn good. That san choy bow was almost as good as I make :) and reminded me of boozy almost-morning-late-nights at the Supper Inn in Melbourne.
I miss laughing more. But the evening was nice, in a pastel coloured even way. Maybe we just need more practice. Maybe I need to learn some jokes...

First thing tomorrow I must ice the cake and also go through and proofread a text that Matyi is sending through sometime in the night, and he's actually going to pay me for this one. In forint, but I won't count the gift horse's teeth...

...

Unforgettable Strangers

This morning, I woke at 5.08...I know the exact time because I was so frustrated to be awake before the alarm again! I had the clothes laid out, the coffee ready to go on the stove. It looked like a beautiful morning.
Even at the bus stop I felt little oomphs of pleasure up and down my spine- early morning excitement.

But by the time I walked through the waking cbd and found the hulking huge Hyatt, I was shitting myself. My bad-brain went into overdrive: you're a fucking secretary, what the hell are you doing at a business leaders breakfast?"
A bit of Bizet calmed me a little and I walked in. The hotel was almost deserted, but as I walked towards the down escalators, I realised it was none other than Jeff McMullen in front of me.
He held the door open, and I said I'd follow him as we were going to the same place, and bless his unassuming humility, he extended his hand and said "Hi, I'm Jeff". It coloured my morning.

And it all just got better. I sat at a table of people who didn't know each other, and none of them were really over 30, or managers or anything like that. Rowena, on my left works at the Comm bank, and Philip on my right is in the Navy. We chatted and laughed and I was genuinely happy to be there. And then Mr McMullen took to the stage and everything melted into silence and attention. He spoke for over half an hour, maybe more without notes, and I wish I wasn't too tired now to recall and give back much of what he said.
About custodianship, about responsibility, about truth. About how we must never stop asking questions, never be complacent, never just shrink back into our matrix of false comfort. (How much that resonated!) His idea of leadership is so different to much of what we see in the world now, but to hear him talk, it filled me (and I think everyone there) with hope that wasn't just blind. To take notice of all the unforgettabl strangers in our lives, and to treat every day like a gift... I floated all day. I am still somewhat hovering...

The rest of my day and all other happenings will have to wait, as I am shivering with sleeplessness, and still a pile of expedia to wade through. Ty called me - he's on a plan to Afghanistan already. Godspeed March and his safe return.

...

Adult

I know that being this tired colours my mood, but I felt so hitbyatruck today, when i got home from work, new rego sticker in hand, thinking 'yay, am adult, have new rego sticker'...only to open the letterbox and find the renewal notice for my car insurance. (I can hear Dad - owning a car is expensive, are you sure you want a V6?) But it's not just the car, it's everything. And I really wonder how responsible adults do it. I mean god, I don't even have kids! Or a cat!

How do you make everything run more or less smoothly and still have time to take a breath at the end that doesn't end in a sigh?

too much work to think now...
lunch at the garden with Craig though, was the highlight of the day. That, and the lemonade B just made me. Just like what we used to drink from jars in his old apartment in Budapest.

machines

and no, not the kind everyone on facebook seemed to think I was referring to. Not fucking-machines... rather 'those fucking machines' as in my laptop that has unceremoniously died, taking with it all my photos. Nothing else on there that I care about particularly deeply, it's not as though I've written anything of note recently... but right in the middle of my metrica work, and now the screen I'm working on is the size of a miniature frog's scrotum (said frog is at the bottom of a coalmine too, and I sit, sadly, under its arse).

I got frustrated to the slamming things around point (tearfully, of course) and I decided that this is crazy. I've worked all weekend for just over 200 bucks on a brief that is so juvenile I could scream. I may as well have gone to the hostel and mopped up after the oldies. At least there was some human contact there and a beautiful view out to sea.
B said the machine is fixable, but at the end of the day, I don't want to be tied to machines. I would love to live a computerless life, at least at home...

So we resorted to tapas on the balcony again, and a glass or two of wine from York, and soon we're going to Perth to meet Craig (successful business man that he is!), and then going to see the Kill Devil Hills at 10pm...
the weekend can still be salvaged.

jumble

It's strange even now, when i should know that I am here in Perth for the long haul- with the first real summery day, I had that inescapable panic of 'oh my god summer is almost over' that almost sick, addictive need for sunshine and heat. I got a little of it in the morning, at 7 with the ridiculous birds, but later in the afternoon B and I went down to the beach again (man there are a lot of beautiful people!) and I felt the warmth like some sort of embrace. And it wasn't only because I was reading Durrell at the time, although he was writing about Alexandria again...

It felt wonderful to be lying in the sun like that - I know the weather now is doing things it's not supposed to- mum is freaked out about the sudden onset of serious winter, just like this 35 degree day probably isn't normal for us here...but I am so happy it was baking today.

Hard to work, but I have to work because today I discovered for myself, after Zoli talking about it for ages - Herdsman fresh. Oh my godfather. Have you ever seen a shop with such beautiful presentation of fresh foods. I had to talk myself out of so many purchases, and even so, came home laden with goodies. At the checkout, after I had cleverly parked my trolley on the wrong side of the bench, a man came up to me shaking his head, and pushing my trolley round the other side. "You haven't been here before, have you?" ...

And I wonder why I am in the lard wars? Food rocks.

After an all too brief stint on the sand we came home, I marinated the salmon, B cooked it and we ate out on the balcony, sipping the Eaglevale white that reminds me so much of Sancerre. It was beautiful.

Had a lovely long conversation with Mum too - Laci is still sick, and is lying about it now, and I've never heard mum so helpless. I told her to talk to him as if she were talking to me. Because I know that no matter how hard it was, or what kind of trouble i was in, she'd never give up in my case.
And Ty's going back to Afghanistan next week. And the less I think about that the better. It frightens me. The thought of it frightens me more than I can say.
But better news from across the oceans: Mari is in love (it would explain her silence) - with some German astro physicist who lives just a jot away from her Munich, yet they met online... news to relish!

I have promised myself another hour of work and then I think I deserve bed, or a massage or something.
I salute summer, and bare feet and few clothes. :)

...

Morning.

Today has started exceptionally well. A steaming mug of Paul (that I let go lukewarm so I could drink it), dropped B at work before 7 and then drove down to the beach, which was already a determined hub of activity. It's wonderful seeing so many people making the most of it.
I took a slow walk, and sat down with some birds to watch the waves for a while.

But I also wanted to write about last night. I came home from work absolutely buggered, and B surprised me with snacks on the balcony which was just beautiful. The air was soft and warm and I could see the tops of the city buildings over the railing. Later Craig called, and asked us to meet him for dinner or some drinks and although neither of us had much enthusiasm, we put make up on and went in.
I have never seen Perth so alive on a Friday night. There were impromptu gigs on street corners, dancing in front of buildings ... it was beautiful.
We had a beer at the Belgian where a Perth girl was singing some lovely songs, and then (oh but wait, that was a private function for delegates and people on the guest list. B and I were neither, but then Craig, in his inimitable irresistible style said 'they're with me' and in we went) when a more raucous clawing band started we walked out into the night and found two more stages just around the corner. The boys however were unimpressed by the synth-heavy 80's style disco (oh if only Em and Timea had been there) and we walked on.
And on the corner of Hay and King we found them. Mikeleza. A percussion band playing the most infectious beats that something started happening to me at hip level.
Never mind what was happening to Craig! He said "I should have been born a Brazilian woman" and looking at him move, I was inclined to agree.
The group was wonderful, and then a bizarrely tall man was reaching into the crowd pulling people in to dance. I was terrified that he's spot me, but of course, standing next to Craig there was little danger...
We bought a cd at the end and then B was tired and wanted to come home, but I'm hoping we'll go back in tonight too...

So now, shopping list and breakfast and then to work to work.

...

The walk home in the mellow afternoon sun was punctured with the scent of lilac and put me in mind of large breasted women with soft bellies. It was a sensuous walk - the air was just full of sex, I can't think how else to describe it. Sun warmed skin, touch and smell.


We're just back from City Beach - VCraig and I did a bloody good job with the salad, and we had kangaroo and lamb and I met two of Craig's friends, Caroline and Emily, who are beautiful and so easy to get along with. I left with a phone number stuffed into my pocket. Friends?

We cooked in the gathering dusk, and then ate in the night dark, soft and littered with splinters from the spotlight, seagulls careening overhead. Crash of waves and whisper of voices. Only half listening, I did hear Craig say something like "I love this place"...did I just imagine it?

A beautiful night, full of promise and warmth.

A humourous moment today, in one of the most awful moments.
Dale is in hospital after being knocked off his bike at a crossroads. He is at the Alfred, and he called, because he thought he had seen Manna.
"Does Manna still hate me?"
Remembering the post London time when Manna and Sarah protected me like a moat, hating what hurt me, even if it wasn't his fault. That feeling lingered, like a nasty fart.
Five minutes later, Manna called me.
"Do you know someone called Dale Hooper?"
"Do you still hate him Manna?"
"What???"

They spoke for over half an hour and then Manna called me back, saying she had gone to him to apologise. Sorted. Small, beautiful, aching world - I love it.

Jeff McMullen

I just registered for a breakfast next Tuesday at which Jeff McMullen will be the speaker. Granted it's about leadership, and is organised by Curtin as part of their management leadership rah rah rah...but I just got so excited when I saw the flier, that I quickly okayed it with Dave and bought my ticket.
fucknows what I will speak about with the other people at my table, and what will I tell them about work, career etc, but I'm not going to let myself worry about that. If it's important enough -and it is- I'm not going to let myself get nervous (yeah, just keep repeating that Anna)...

The other wonderfulness is that I was still home when VagueCraig barrelled through the front door in his orange shoes and signature hat. Aside from a little weight loss (the bastard) he hasn't changed, and I can't wait for lunchtime, when I can pick his brain. And he can see why I'm here, and not there in Melbourne.

The other wonderfulness is that I finally got off my arse and phoned Gary yesterday. I left a wavering message and he called me back, saying he was worried at the nervousness in my voice. I said "well, I've got a lot to be nervous about."
"Are you sick?"
"No"
"Then you've nothing to be nervous about".
I told him that I didn't want to do this PhD anymore, and after talking about it a little, the process, the usual constant encouragement, he told me he couldn't even say it was sad, because at last I was doing what I wanted to do.
And then he said that I should still join them all at Clancy's because they love my company, and we won't talk about academia, but instead about Europe. And he said he and Jo would love to come to dinner, whenever we'd like to have them. I could have smiled all day, but the dental anaesthetic fucked that up.
I really am so lucky to have had the opportunity to work with Gary. I think even honours would have been impossible without him.

The darkness of the soul may not be lighted by moving the body to another place, but if that place is WA, it sure helps a lot :)

tonight i lack weber guilt

i love the wide blue expectation of the morning, the curve of the bridge like a salute and a sigh. Like a strong industrial longing- the gap-toothed maw of a city, and the absent rain clouds missing time.

i love the stain of flowers as I crunch them in my hand - I walk with other worlds between my ears and the palpable yes-ness of my city is on my fingers.
The white roses escaping from the suburban fence, like forgiveness stretching into the gritty street. i love the metronomic sureness, as they tap time with the wind.

i love the long blue ocean, where our encumbered lives are sandblasted and reduced to the insignificance that eventually brings comfort. Waves curl in silent perfection, and it makes me happy that here we are, brittle, sometimes plastic, often fake, yet the waves curl in silent perfection then splinter perfectly, against the rocks. I am so much smaller than all of this.

i love the colour of the sky two heartbeats after sunset. It has settled like a blanket now, and the bird outside the window cocks its head unsure of the strange pair of eyes looking back at him.

it has been one of those i really love days

...

Slayer

Our taxi driver was a wild looking huge Polish man, who didn't speak - not even when I asked him a question. It was a wordless, slightly agitated transaction ... but no mind, he got us there in plenty of time for Megadeth (and they have been spelling that so wrong, for so long now).
I wasn't familiar with any of their songs (for shame!) except Symphony of Destruction, which was great, and I was rather impressed with them overall, though would have liked it better without the singing.
More interesting than anything though was the crowd - mostly older guys, in a staid fug of Lynx and Old Spice overpowered by the most disgusting feet-smell...and then that was joined by warm beer breath, BO and cigarettes. There were only a handful of girls and mostly they were more frightening than the blokes.

And then Slayer started. The volume made my hair dance and my eyeballs throb. Balint actually suggested we move back in the crowd. The stadium was packed, a sea of black figures headbanging as if their lives depended on it.
There was no comparison with the previous Slayer concert a couple of years ago (poor Remy!) - this was amazing. A lumbering mountain of a man came and stood squarely in front of me, but when we moved I actually got to see the stage and Kerry King and Tom Araya - bloody hell, pushing 50 and still...

The trip home was more adventurous... there were no taxis waiting at the venue when the show finished, they only started arriving later and I didn't fancy a ride on a bus to Claremont station...so we started walking away from the stadium, hoping to catch one somewhere in a side street. A couple of times we called the taxi company just said go back to challenge stadium and wait, but then we tangled ourselves into the Floreat streets (not even knowing it was Floreat) and called a taxi to a specific address in front of a flash house. By this time I was a barefoot hobo, as the shoe purchases I made at lunchtime weren't the wisest...

Finally the taxi came, only for us to realise we were about half an hour's walk from home...

Today: Joe's birthday - coffee syrup cake with Tia Maria and chocolate icing, then lunchinthesun and then the dentist.

...

Up and down and back again...

The weekend was good. I think I stepped away from the precipice of wild idealism, wrapped those ideas up in a soft cloth and put them in the treasure box alongside other rolled up fantasies.
There wasn't much to say really, although we said it over and over on Saturday - it takes effort and these past months we've been too tired or maybe too lazy to make an effort. And I want everything to be perfect. Maybe that requires some revision on my part.

What was perfect though, was the countryside around York. We did a self drive tour around the wheat belt ghost towns - abandoned dwellings under wide, frightening skies. The weather was moody, and the landscape reared up, proof that humans are smaller, and our mark can be forgotten. It was eerie but comforting.

There weren't as many wildflowers as I had expected, having dreamed of carpets of colour, but what patches there were were impressive, Pollock-like splashes on the grey and green grass.

On Saturday night we stayed in mythical Northam. I had painted so many dream pictures of that town, since 2005. And to say it was disappointing would be an understatement. York was by far the more magical little town, utes resplendent with antennas and spotlights, big bikes, big blokes. It was beautiful. :)
Northam made me feel like Norlane back home. No pulse in that place at all.

The Shamrock hotel may have been impressive decades ago, now it was broken in its grandeur, and our champagne glasses were made of plastic. In all honesty, if the weather warms up, I shall have no need of hotels and can't wait to break out the tent handed down by Remy.

Colourful, textured nights of summer- I can't wait.

supplementary coffee required - my body clock is not yet used to the parrot wake-up call at sunrise, which is earlier each day. . .

Impossible

few days.

I caused an explosion on Tuesday night, all by myself yet we've been picking up the smoking debris and far-flung body parts together.
Now we sleep in separate rooms in the smoking husk of what used to be 'home', coming together at mealtimes to forage silently in the destroyed kitchen.

The weekend was going to be all about wildflowers and long country drives and mellow orange sunshine. Instead, we're attending crisis talks and neither of us is confident of a successful peace process or resolution.

Hard words

Another Sunday

And the moon is swimming naked
and the summer night is fragrant

alright, not quite summer, but when I got out of the car at Zoli's house and the moon was askance over the roof, drifting in a negligee of cloud the scent of violets was so strong in the night.

I have been weepy and emotional all day today, so perhaps those whisky sours had more punch than I gave them credit for. My eyes flew open at 6.40 and I had a strange panicked feeling, that I had lost something or forgotten something. I got up, coffeed and began to work. It's agonisingly slow work, and also hard to stay focused because I really don't give a shit about it anymore, and that's an almost impossible way for me to work.
B and I decided to go try Charlie's for breakfast - I couldn't have faced egg whites again - and called Zoli when we were there. It was a strong, sunny morning and it felt fantastic to dare my legs at the sun (don't know how the good residents of Wembley felt about it). A sort of fug of misery descended when i took B to work after breakfast and I know it sounds uncharitable, but I felt like saying hey you're not the only one that has worked on weekends... but why bring that up Banana, after all?

I drove home to change and put some water and writing materials in a backpack and then drove to Reabold Hill, where the carpark was full, so I circled around to Tuart Park and left Little Car there, heading off into the fragrant bush. I felt electric. Momentarily I felt so happy I could have leapt and danced around. But I didn't.
I walked fast, I relished the harder bits, thinking that the more I do this kind of walking, the closer I am to finally finishing the Cape to Cape. The vegetation was incredible. Technically right in the city, yet it felt far removed. Trees with exquisite bark that looked like skin and flowers and flowers and flowers.

I reached the top of the hill and the Indian Ocean spread out in a heartbreaking vista and I burst into tears. Why, I have no idea. But luckily there were only two evil-looking magpies there so no-one saw.
Later, on the way back to the car I passed an old couple, at least 70 - fully equipped with hiking gear, and walking hand in hand. Yet I didn't cry about that. And I thought to myself yet again, that there must be something missing in me, because I am more moved by and drawn to places than I am to people.

As so often happens, after that hour's walk I couldn't bear the thought of returning home, so I zipped down to Floreat to dip my feet in the water, but I also took a long walk along the undulating sand and looked for treasures and took a picture or two.

On the drive home, I decided to take a suburban detour. I remember how returning to Corio after ten years' absence i still felt the streets in my marrow. That soul-memory. And I thought how nice it would be to get to know my area of Perth that well. So I just went where the road took me, and I may have found that Herdsman fruit shop Zoli is always telling me to try...

When I picked up B from work and we were headed to Zoli's, a car cut in front of me from the opposite direction and we almost crashed. He braked and apologised, saying he wasn't paying attention but Balint yelled so loudly that I just shut down and generally felt sick. That was worse than the fright from the almost-collision.

Dinner with Zoli was quiet, and my favourite part of it was the Nandi-love. I miss having a cat so much sometimes I almost feel like I deserve to be a single thirtysomething cat lady. I miss Pista. But Mum sends lardy cat updates with her new camera.

next week I will be another man's PA, while Dave is on holiday - oh the challenges :)

...

Realisation

Kym's birthday celebrations last night. . .

I spent the day trying to work, after B and I had raced through Whitfords and done everything we set out to do- including my purchase of a frock - though not from Good Sammy's...
The site supplying the latest cuttings wouldn't refresh, wouldn't load, wouldn't search, big fat disaster so I continued on with other clients, not paying all that much attention to time.

When I spoke to Mum I glanced at the time and shrieked. Then I started getting ready.
It was all a bit of a rush job, and I've endured a week of bad face days and there's still no sign of improvement but no matter, I was so excited to be going.
The taxi whizzed me through a delectable Perth sunset, the whole sky looked liquid yet fiery.

Kym and Karen were still getting ready in the hotel, bottle of Bollinger open but we were soon seated at Sirocco, waiting for our steak. Through the dinner Kym received various texts from people who weren't going to come after all, so it was just our merry group of three.

And then the Minq bar. Oh dear Lord. I wasn't the oldest there, because Kym and Karen are both older but.... -sigh-.... Gin Palace it wasn't.
Okay so the bartender resembled Patrick Swayze a smidge, but he was in love with himself, and didn't know what Pisco was, so I settled for whisky sours which were decent but not fantastic.
What was fantastic was the chance to talk to women about womeny things. It felt like I hadn't done that in ages!

There was no dancing, and around midnight we went back to the room, after the ladies tried to convince me to go and gamble and failed. We lay around eating room service chips and toasted sandwiches and then I reluctantly called a taxi to take me home.
"Did you say Oxford Street?"
"No, it's off Cambridge Street. Between Cambridge and Railway Parade."
"Oh, okay, I know it."
No he bloody didn't.

"This is Oxford Close, is that right?" er, no and you can't turn right here so you have to turn left and make another circle around the block so well done on scoring another dollar on the fee.

I slept but then woke at 6 again, and am thinking a lunchtimeish walk around Reabold Hill Park will be just the ticket to calm my frazzles.
So I can tick the Burswood off as places I don't need to go again - and to be honest it doesn't upset me so much.

to the sound of the parrot argument outside now- back to work!

...

Perfect Pink

Sunrise...

My eyes flew open at 4.44 this morning and after a few minutes of futile head-talk ("PLEASE GO BACK TO SLEEP") I rolled out of bed and into the kitchen to make a disgusting egg-white omletty thing and a big Paul-mug of espresso.
I have already started work (and good thing too, as all my other metrications have uploaded more work) and I'm feeling good.

The week ended very well yesterday. The time seems to have arrived for lazy too-long yet not-long-enough lunches in the sun. Even my toes were happy.
And the cardamom biscuits? All 32 disappeared - I think that recipe's a keeper.

Later: body pump for an hour at 8.30, then returning some weights to the sports store, picking up ---- and here I was about to reveal a secret that I won't because my Mum reads this blog too -, then perhaps going to Good Sammy's and picking out an ostentatious party frock for a fiver to wear to Kym's cocktails at the casino tonight... and then, of course, back to work.

And, because although I've had beautiful full days, my head has been racketing away, here's a touch of Fitzgerald, because I've been remembering:

"It is sadder to find the past again and find it inadequate to the present than it is to have it elude you and remain forever a harmonious conception of memory."

...

Cardamom

Today was nudging perfection. If I don't concentrate so hard on the bad stuff, I'm quite good at seeing all the beautiful things.
Today started at five, getting coffee and breakfast for B who started work at 6. I got so happily carried away with getting ready and listening to Fran Kelly, that I too was in work at half seven. I love clean mornings like this.
I had a comfortingly hilarious conversation with Timea - so hilarious in fact that I had to tell her I'd call her back, because I was wretched with giggles and couldn't talk. Also thought taking the raucousness out of the office might be appreciated.
She is struggling with the distance bug, with the lack of communication from her Gringo, and I know exactly how she feels. Except credit to her, she's handling it far better than I ever did.

Then I stayed in the sun, with Durrell and listened to the birds. (Incidentally, Timea said "It sounds like you're in paradise, surrounded by that birdsong")

And on the walk home I really listened to Hallelujah- the original, by Leonard Cohen, and have finally decided that it is by far the superior version, no matter the soul wrenching voice of Jeff Buckley.

Ooh, and although Castle is a crappety crap show, it does star Nathan Fillion so I have my shallow pleasures in watching, but the last episode- the dead chick had a message written on her face. And what does he notice about it? The spelling mistake! The murderer had written YOUR instead of YOU'RE. Castle said: "He has also murdered the English language". Pathetic I know, but public recognition of this mistake made me feel better.

After work I drove to Floreat Forum to buy baking things (it's just a Thursday feeling)...and then I remembered the bead shop and the bead shop man. And I went back. And I spent an hour creating something I'm really quite bloody proud of. It's not entirely comparable, but being there on a Thursday night sent echoes of Robert's studio back in Geelong through my head.

And now, the house is full of the smell of roast veg with crumbled blue cheese and biscuits that are seemingly quite an adventure. B is at a party with school mates and I have the whole freezing apartment to myself!

I've pushed it away for long enough- to work to work.

Smiling into the evening.

...