Tales from the Sickbed

Hello dear chickens and roosters (a special nod to my dear uncle Loz right there... pity your team sucks), I am most pleased to inform you that my rate of posting will be increasing due to (I am less pleased to inform you) another bout of Caitlin's Mystery Illness Adventures.

Seriously, if life were a lucky dip I would be picking up all the packages filled with pathogens, and not even the interesting ones.

I know it's not that bad, I mean it's just a case of letting myself get run down - flu followed by meningitis followed by whooping cough followed by whatever I have now (nausea, dehydration and crazy low blood pressure) is not terminal cancer, and for that I am very grateful, but HONESTLY. I am bored of being sick.

Do you remember when you were a kid and taking a day off school for being sick somehow made you a bit special or something? You got to watch tv and read and the next day when you came back everyone would ask after you and make sure you were okay. That seems so far removed from what I've been repeatedly experiencing over the last couple of months, which is being exhausted, missing out on all sorts of work, social, and most importantly musical commitments, watching awful mind-numbingly boring television and trying to find a good book to read.

But it's a learning experience, isn't it? That which does not kill us makes us stronger... or whatever.

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED FROM BEING SICK:

• Orange Gatorade sucks. Full effing stop. I shall never drink it again as long as I live, I don't care how it replenishes my electrolytes.
• Electrolytes have less to do with the Large Hadron Collider and more to do with fluid retention than I thought. Disappointing.
• Trying to perform a week long run of a musical with Whooping Cough is pretty much the opposite of a good time.
• Don't watch the news right before going to sleep when you're not sleeping well. You'll wake up at 4am and not be able to get back to sleep for thinking about escaped double murderers (Sydneysiders know what I mean...)
• Having a boyfriend with the immune system of the Winged Victory is really very good. My Roman has never been immunised against anything, and has not got one of the diseases I've had despite being perfectly happy to sleep beside me whilst I'm coughing/feverish/vomiting. What a trooper.
• My family are wonderful. That includes Roman, but also extends to my Mum and Dad, and Andrew and Lilly. Special mention goes to Lil for getting me a sick-bowl. Champion.

I've been very seriously contemplating how things got this way - how I've managed to make myself sick five weeks out of the last six - and I realise that I need a serious lifestyle re-arrangement. Details of said lifestyle rearrangement will no doubt follow, as soon as I've figured them out...

I Also Like Lists

So I'm kind of busy and stressed. Doing production design for a really wonderful play called Eurydice (by Sarah Ruhl) for the Verge Arts Festival at Sydney Uni. Unfortunately I'm kind of rubbish at set/props/costume construction and thus, here I am, 9 days out from opening night, with pretty much everything still left to do.

"Fucking fuck" is the most appropriate phrase, I find.

So, inspired by that colourful phrase and by my dear Rebecca over at the charming if inconsistent blog Feff's Flights of Fancy (look for it in my side bar, something strange is happening with linking at the moment), here is a brief run-down of what needs doing tomorrow:

• Buy fabric to make six cloaks, one skirt, six music-stand ornaments, 5m x 9m of "waterfall" set element.
• Scrounge around op-shops for and alter some ten items of clothing, including finding a grey morning jacket and tie-dying it.
• Learn to tie-dye.
• Read a couple of 20-page articles and write a 400 word analysis of a particular school of performance theory and how it relates to modern ceremonies.
• Cook dinner for five people.
• Prepare myself to be yelled at by a many and varied collection of people for not getting enough done.

Want to see the set plan? It's pretty cool, despite the fact that Roman and I haven't quite mastered textures on SketchUp, the program we've been using to make dimensionally sound set plans.

So there you have it. If you want to help me dye fabric of a Sunday, let me know, you're very welcome.

Happy weekend, my lovely friends.

Twenty Eight!

Oh my goodness, dolphins and porpoises, it's going to be twenty eight degrees on Sunday!

I know it's only August, but summer is really on its way, the breeze has been so wonderfully zephyric and balmy and I'm starting to turn into Summer Kenny (a fundamentally unsound oceanid with a desire to jump into water from dizzying heights) already.

So, just to get me more excited, twenty eight glorious things Sydney summer is bringing to me: -

1. Icy Poles

2. Clovelly

3. Twilight Picnics (mosquitos and all)

4. Strawberries

5. Raspberries

6. Blackberries

7. Eurydice

8. Making a Dent in My Reading List

9. Getting Oil Paints all over my Hands and Clothes

10. Sleeping with the Windows Open

11. The Clovelly Groper and his Lady Gropers

12. Late Nights at the Duck & Swan

13. White Sandals

14. Sun dresses

15. Home-Made Lemonade

16. Summer Projects

17. Sewing Bags and Dresses

18. Early Sunrises

19. Late Sunsets

20. Late Nights with Good Friends

21. The Mystery of Edwin Drood

22. Colourful Flowers Everywhere

23. Straw Hats

24. Sleeping Nude

25. Swimming in the Ocean Every Day

26. Wandering Through Markets

27. Living in Bare Feet

28. Spending a Third Summer Kissing That Man of Mine

Tea for Two

Hello Strangers,

I was just recalling an anecdote my darling boy once told me.

In the 1920's, the conductor of the Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra, Nikolai Malko, bet the composer Dmitri Shostakovich one hundred roubles that he couldn't completely arrange and re-orchestrate the Vincent Youmans standard Tea For Two in an hour.

Shostakovich, of course, did it. From memory. In forty five minutes.

If you're interested, the arrangement is called the Tahiti Trot, and after first being performed in Moscow in 1928, has been performed ever since.

Anyway, that's a fun little story that actually has nothing to do with what I want to talk about. Well, very little.

In the winter months (fuck you, Northern Hemisphere readers, your balmy weather reports are not welcome here) I am a tea fiend, especially when I'm staying up ridiculously late for no good reason.

So, today I bring you a post-hibernation reflection on tea. Mmm, deep.

Five Amazing Cups of Tea:

1. Russian Caravan, home-brewed by Dad, with a big splash of milk and a heaped teaspoon of sugar in a purple flower mug.

2. Chai tea with steamed soy milk from the Frisky Goat at Wynyard Station, drunk half-asleep on the bus to uni.

3. English Breakfast with a dash of milk in a Boleslawiec blue mug at Roman's house on a Sunday morning with a good British fry-up.

4. Jasmine tea in a latte glass at Toby's Estate, served with good conversation with a dear friend.

5. Hot lemon and manuka honey tea with a drop of liquid echinacea, the perfect healing potion when one is ailing.

Finally, I'd just like to share an image I have, an image of what I want my life to look like in the indeterminable future - it involves mugs!

Just to have a little house with some mis-matched furniture and a cat or two, a big bed with a nice quilt, and perhaps a blue-eyed man napping in it... and mugs. I can't wait to have a mug that's mine in my own cupboard in my own home.

It'll be special because of the hundreds of times I'll raise it to my lips. Whilst reading a good book. Whilst skritching a cat behind the ears. Over a fierce debate, over comfortable silence, over a murmured "I love you".

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

This little birdy is grateful to weheartit for the beautiful photos whilst I am devoid of camera.

Love and Art

The transition between childhood and adulthood doesn't happen suddenly.

It happens over time - first there are hormones, then physical changes, then new relationships and broken hearts and lots of teenage "firsts", and suddenly you've graduated from high school and turned eighteen and you realise that within the next few years you've got to be a Grown Up with all the associated responsibilities.

Things like finding a place to live, furniture to go in it, toasters and kettles and whimsical teacups, paying bills and affording any sort of comfort in your lifestyle... not to mention getting/keeping a job or an education.

And I don't even think that's the most difficult part of becoming an adult. I think what's hard is breaking free of the protective shell that is your family home and going out into the "Real World" to be independent and in a lot of respects, alone for the first time.

Roman and I have a little dream about buying a theatre together and living in the back of it with a cat called Claude (as in Depussey) who can help with the rigging and keeping us warm together when we're in bed in a little room behind the stage.

It's that little projection that makes me realise that however hard being Grown Up is now, I will grow up and as long as I always hold my love and my art in the highest regard, my life will be full and rich.

Claude...

Grateful

In a week that has so savagely filled me with vitriol towards some repulsive, disappointing and downright euthanasia-worthy excuses for human beings, I feel I should depart from my regular blogging pursuits (as infrequent as they are at the moment) to express my gratitude to people who are endeavouring to not be fucktards in my face.

Cecilia - I wish I could be as patient and kind as you. If someone slept with your husband and ran over your cat after stealing from your house on the way out, you would just feel sorry for them because they're obviously "not in a very good place right now". I love you dearly, thank you for your kind and patient friendship.

Tristan - You and I are kindred spirits, except that you are way more awesome. Thank you for making it okay for me to love nerdy things like lolcats and corsets, for being a lovely friend and not disowning me for the Week of Accidental Tristan-Beating.

Hugh - Your beard is extra luscious and I just adore you. let's start a band.

Emily - Your blog still inspires me to be creative and worship gently and lovingly throughout this time of trial for me. Thank you for being so inspiring.

Minna - You're an angel. We've been together since the beginning of uni and you're the only person who has been there so constantly in that time. You are beautiful and talented and well adjusted. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.

Captain Pants - I look up to you more than anyone else in our age group. You're super intelligent, inspiring, and yet so easy to get along with. What a gift that is - thank you.

Roman - You have the patience of Atlas. You are solid, dependable, but always entertaining and quite the bunk-buddy... And thank you for letting me post crude references to our relationship on my blog. I love you.

Thank you all for helping me deal with the mess of feelings I've been trying to battle in recent days. It seems like a weird thing to post so publicly (although I garuntee that you guys and my dad who inexplicably checks this blog will be the only ones who read it) but I just want you to know how grateful I am for the amazing people and strong friendships I have.

In other news, here's a picture of fat people in tie-dye.

(Source - pictureisunrelated.com. Another perfectly whimsical Tristan recommendation.)

Random Thought Friday!

The concept of seasonal produce hurts my brain.

This, friends, is not because I am retarded or somehow incapable of associating fruit with weather, but because I live on that funny little island down the bottom of the world.

Raspberries and strawberries in summer, in England, makes sense. Because berries happen in summer, in England.

Berries are not from Australia.

So what are the poor little strawberry brains supposed to do - keep bearing fruit in June, or skip forward six months because it's too chilly out?

Think about it.

And then there's the whole issue of how strawberries got over here in the first place... Were there garden boxes on the First Fleet? I like that idea...

Now you are pushed to your feet every day,
Kicked in the ankles to force each foot forward.
You have always been told to kick yourselves,
But you've always had each other for that.

Now you are the points of a compass,
Destined to point your separate ways,
Told that your paths must divide,
But fighting tooth and fucking nail to cling together.

Now you are broken shards,
Of something never quite whole,
You're not healing the way you used to,
But you don't know quite why the stitches don't hold.

Now you are stupid,
No - you always were stupid,
Foolishly idealistic, with foolish faith in each other,
But your hearts fit back together and your scraped knees healed.

Now it does not come so easily.
Now you point to different corners.
Now there is space.
Now there needs to be space.

Now you are Men and Women.

Towers and Trees

Once upon a time our cathedrals were the trees. We worshipped with our knees in the earth and our eyes on the sky.

Around the World in Eighty Years...

A list of places I want to visit - it's quite comprehensive. Bold means it's on the cards for the next couple of years (yay!)

Adelaide (Australia)
Amsterdam (Netherlands)
Ankara (Turkey)
Athens (Greece)
Auckland (New Zealand)
Barcelona (Spain)
Bangalore (India)
Bath (England)
Belfast (Northern Ireland)
Berlin (Germany)
Bombay (India)
Brandenburg (Germany)
Brighton (England)
Bruges (Belgium)
Brussels (Belgium)
Buenos Aires (Argentina)
Caernarfon (Wales)
Cairo (Egypt)
Cambridge (England)
Cardiff (Wales)
Catalonia (Spain)
Capetown (South Africa)
Chicago (U.S.A.)
Christchurch (New Zealand)
Copenhagen (Denmark)
Corfu (Greece)
Crete (Greece)
Cyprus (Greek/Turkish Republic of Cyprus)
Dublin (Ireland)
Edinburgh (Scotland)
Freetown (Sierra Leone)
Geneva (Switzerland)
Gibraltar (U.K. Territory)
Glasgow (Scotland)
The Hague (Netherlands)
Hanoi (Vietnam)
Helsinki (Finland)
Istanbul (Turkey)
Jerusalem (Israel)
John O' Groats (Scotland)
Kathmandu (Nepal)
Kodiak Island (U.S.A.)
Lhasa (China)
Limerick (Ireland)
Lisbon (Portugal)
London (England)
Luxembourg (Luxembourg)
Madrid (Spain)
The Maldives (Republic of the Maldives)
Mandalay (Myanmar)
Marseilles (France)
Melbourne (Australia)
Mexico (Mexico)
Monte Carlo (Monaco)
Montego Bay (Jamaica)
Montreal (Canada)
Moscow (Russia)
Munich (Germany)
Muqdisho (Somalia)
Nagasaki (Japan)
Nairobi (Kenya)
New York City (U.S.A.)
Noumea (New Caladonia)
Osaka (Japan)
Oslo (Norway)
Oxford (England)
Paris (France)
Perth (Australia)
Philadelphia (U.S.A.)
Phnom Penh (Cambodia)
Porto (Portugal)
Port Louis (Mauritius)
Prague (Czech Republic)
Quebec (Canada)
Rabat (Morocco)
Reykjavik (Iceland)
Rome (Italy)
Saigon (Vietnam)
Saint Petersburg (Russia)
San Francisco (U.S.A.)
Sao Paulo (Brazil)
Sarajevo (Bosnia & Herzegovina)
Saskatchewan (Canada)
Shanghai (China)
Stockholm (Sweden)
Sussex (England)
Taongi (Marshall Islands)
Tokyo (Japan)
Tunis (Tunisia)
Vancouver (Canada)
Vatican City (Italy... sort of)
Venice (Italy)
Warsaw (Poland)
Washington D.C. (U.S.A.)
Wellington (New Zealand)
Yerevan (Armenia)
Zagreb (Croatia)
Zurich (Switzerland)

Musings of an Evening

I had a very domestic day by myself today, cleaning and cooking and not doing very much at all. It gave me a lot of time to think about things and I have got a list of goals and resolutions for the new year...

Things I Will Do in 2009

• Costume a musical and a play and a lot of other things besides


• Learn silk painting


• Make a dress out of my painted silk


• Make a corset


• Make several corsets, actually


• Get an etsy shop up and running for prints, silk, clothes, and gruntles


• Keep my soon-to-begin routine of two hours of dance and two hours of yoga each week


• Get a credit average without having to go part time


• Direct my first show


• Cook good healthy food often


• Do lots of kissing and loving and be happy with my beautiful lover.

... It looks like rain!

A Field of Poppies

This is a beautiful piece of speechwriting that is an absolute inspiration to me as a writer and as an Australian.

We do not know this Australian's name and we never will.
We do not know his rank or his battalion. We do not know where he was born, nor precisely how and when he died. We do not know where in Australia he had made his home or when he left it for the battlefields of Europe. We do not know his age or his circumstances – whether he was from the city or the bush; what occupation he left to become a soldier; what religion, if he had a religion; if he was married or single. We do not know who loved him or whom he loved. If he had children we do not know who they are. His family is lost to us as he was lost to them. We will never know who this Australian was.
Yet he has always been among those whom we have honoured. We know that he was one of the 45,000 Australians who died on the Western Front. One of the 416,000 Australians who volunteered for service in the First World War. One of the 324,000 Australians who served overseas in that war and one of the 60,000 Australians who died on foreign soil. One of the 100,000 Australians who have died in wars this century.
He is all of them. And he is one of us.
This Australia and the Australia he knew are like foreign countries. The tide of events since he died has been so dramatic, so vast and all – consuming, a world has been created beyond the reach of his imagination.
He may have been one of those who believed that the Great War would be an adventure too grand to miss. He may have felt that he would never live down the shame of not going. But the chances are he went for no other reason than that he believed it was the duty he owed his country and his King.
Because the Great War was a mad, brutal, awful struggle, distinguished more often than not by military and political incompetence; because the waste of human life was so terrible that some said victory was scarcely discernible from defeat; and because the war which was supposed to end all wars in fact sowed the seeds of a second even more terrible war – we might think this Unknown Soldier died in vain.
But, in honouring our war dead, as we always have and as we do today, we declare that this is not true. For out of the war came a lesson which transcended the horror and tragedy and the inexcusable folly. It was a lesson about ordinary people – and the lesson was that they were not ordinary. On all sides they were the heroes of that war; not the generals and the politicians but the soldiers and sailors and nurses – those who taught us to endure hardship, to show courage, to be bold as well as resilient, to believe in ourselves, to stick together.
The Unknown Australian Soldier whom we are interring today was one of those who, by his deeds, proved that real nobility and grandeur belongs, not to empires and nations, but to the people on whom they, in the last resort, always depend.
That is surely at the heart of the ANZAC story, the Australian legend which emerged from the war. It is a legend not of sweeping military victories so much as triumphs against the odds, of courage and ingenuity in adversity. It is a legend of free and independent spirits whose discipline derived less from military formalities and customs than from the bonds of mateship and the demands of necessity. It is a democratic tradition, the tradition in which Australians have gone to war ever since.
This Unknown Australian is not interred here to glorify war over peace; or to assert a soldier's character above a civilian's; or one race or one nation or one religion above another; or men above women; or the war in which he fought and died above any other war; or one generation above any that has been or will come later.
The Unknown Soldier honours the memory of all those men and women who laid down their lives for Australia. His tomb is a reminder of what we have lost in war and what we have gained.
We have lost more than 100,000 lives, and with them all their love of this country and all their hope and energy.
We have gained a legend: a story of bravery and sacrifice and, with it, a deeper faith in ourselves and our democracy, and a deeper understanding of what it means to be Australian.
It is not too much to hope, therefore, that this Unknown Australian Soldier might continue to serve his country - he might enshrine a nation's love of peace and remind us that, in the sacrifice of the men and women whose names are recorded here, there is faith enough for all of us.


The Hon. P. J. Keating MP

Prime Minister of Australia



For Remembrance Day.

God is in the Rain

God is in every ripple.

God is in every sunshower.

God is in every lightened path.

God is shelter from the storm.

God is friendship.
God probably isn't in a hot cup of tea, but it's still pretty wonderful.
God is in every rainbow.

A Winter's Tale

Every pair of flat shoes I own either have holes in the soles, are unwearable in public (very muddy trainers) or are thongs.

And it's cold.

Believe it or not, that's pretty much all I have to say on the matter. But seriously. Why can't one pair of shoes stand the test of one winter? Perhaps I should invest in some higher quality shoes. And some wellies.

I'm not a great fan of winter, I miss the beach and my floral dresses too much.

As miserable as I felt with my freezing wet feet and freezing wet everything else yesterday, there was something poetic and mighty about the rolling thunder and the sheer volume of the water cascading from on high.

The best part of the wet and cold of the current season is most definitely plunging through the door of your home and into the warm air inside, a wonderful sense of sanctuary you don't get in the warmer months. And I think of hot baths with a good book propped up on the knees, snuggling together for warmth with siblings, or in bed with someone you love, copious mugs of hot Russian Caravan, and hot water bottles... maybe there is something to be said for the otherwise hostile winter season after all.