The End of the Line

How do you know when is enough is enough? How do you know when it is time to end a relationship or start a new one? Quit your job. Pack up and move to another house, another city, another world? What are the signs?

Some might say that it is not about signs, but about choices. That we make our decisions based on the information we have.

The information we have.

What is this but signs?

I have made a big decision. Actually the decision was made long ago but it is only now that it has forced it's way to the surface of my life. It's a big leap off a high cliff but never mind. I like to do that every now and again.

The signposts that have been pointing the way to this crossroads have been getting bigger and more glaring of late:

A gift of white flowers
The concern on my husband's face
The vision of my friends being held in a box to be unpacked in winter
The big "A". Addiction and dependency
The acute sense of physical revulsion that strikes
The unhappy faces of the bright and loving people in the same situation as me
The feeling that something inside has snapped.

The biggest sign of all was a two hour pep talk given to me by someone who wants me to make a different decision to the one I have made. She does not know of my decision yet as I have not told her. But something inside her knows as she spent two hours bolstering me up. She challenged me to be strong and face the difficulties. To detach myself emotionally from situations so I can get what I want. To be crafty, clever and strategic. She lectured me about maturity. That I have to force myself to do things I don't want to for the bigger picture. To disassociate myself from all the negativity, rise above it and live to fight another day.

By the end of the talk, I felt as if I was about to go into battle. Fight a war. And then I remembered that abridged quote by Sun Tzu who wrote The Art of War:

Choose your battles wisely

and

He who knows when he can fight and when he cannot, will be victorious.[sic]

Instantaneously, the two hour working over I'd had dissipated in the face of the simple truth that I did not want to fight her battles for her anymore.

Wisdom comes with age they say. I don't agree. Some people older than me are the daftest people I know. They have closed themselves off and are locked into a quagmire of their own making. They have stopped paying attention to the signs around them. They think they have already learned all the lessons they ever need to.

What arrogance. What fear.

Wish me luck as I jump off this particular cliff. I'll let you know what I find when I land.

Sutra

I've just come back from seeing Sutra at Sadlers Wells. Of the current Sadlers' programme, it was the one show I was most anticipating seeing. The combination of Shaolin monks, Antony Gormley design and contemporary dance posed an interesting challenge and I was curious to see what the outcome would be.

I don't go see many dance shows these days because I have become super picky. It's not something I'm proud of but rather the by-product of having watched dance shows since I was five. It actually started earlier when I was a toddler but I don't remember those shows even though my mum was in them.

As I sat watching the theatrics of Sutra, I tried not to be uncharitable in my thoughts. I looked for the bright spots. The clear lines. The light humour. The interesting idea of putting a show together as if it was a Lego set. The visual synchronicity of the monks in dark suits. I did like some of the images. I tried hard to like the rest. But I had to try. It didn't set me on fire.

Before we went into the show, my friend and I had a chat about dance choreographers. We discussed (in our opinion) which current choreographers rated on the world stage and which were big locally. We tried in vain to list more than a handful from memory. We couldn't. As we both work in the dance industry this means we officially suck at our jobs.

You know what,? I said. You know why we can't think of anyone apart from one or two?

My friend looked askance. No. Why?

Because there aren't any that are so amazing that we remember them.

It occurred to me this week after Michael Jackson's death and also Pina Bauschs' that dance has lost two of its brightest sparks. Jackson was a superlative dancer. He had it and he shared it and made us all want to dance as well. Pina was brilliant too. She plumbed our murky human depths and conjured up some of the most beautiful and eloquent imagery onstage that I have seen in contemporary dance. Both were pioneers in their own way. Both of them set me alight when I watched them.

The term Sutra means (according to Wikipedia), a rope or thread that holds things together. I looked for this thread in the performance tonight and I saw only what I see too often in dance shows. Nothing holding anything together apart from a few gimmicks and a lot of hot air. It was entertainment I guess but it wasn't enough for me.

I want the real deal. Where is it? Who is it?

Thank You Michael

Apart from death and taxes, I think another possible truism in life is that sometimes you don't know what you value until it's gone. With his death, I think Michael Jackson has reminded billons of people around the globe of this.

If you had asked me a few weeks ago whether I was a Michael Jackson fan, I probably would've said that I liked his music growing up but did not really consider myself a fan. The circus surrounding his personal life (actually did he ever have a personal life) left me cold and for a long time, it seemed that his name was synonymous with scandal rather than music. Even with the announcement of his impending tour dates the media focus was on his health, his wealth, body doubles and whether or not the whole thing was going to be a scam. Not about the man and his music.

Now he is dead and suddenly, all the scandal that surrounded him has melted away (for now) and the music has re-emerged. We're now reminded, post humously, of the brilliant legacy that he has left us. We've remembered why we loved him in the first place.

And I have been reminded of the hours and hours I spent as a kid and teenager singing his songs and making up dances with my friends. How at school discos, the girls would dress like Madonna but try to dance like Michael. How all the music videos I watched on the weekends as a teenager owed much of their format to his vision. I miss those less cynical times and perhaps he did too.

I realised Michael was also very much in my present. Billie Jean will always get me on the dance floor. And I confess I have a few of his ballads on my ipod.

I didn't realise it till now. I'm a fan. I'm sorry it took me so long.

Thank you Michael. For everything.

When the Rain Stops Falling

It's always interesting to track the signposts that lead you to an important juncture in life. A few weeks ago I was at the Origins Festival watching a documentary called Black Chicks Talking. The doco had been based on a book of interviews by Leah Purcell, who also directed and featured in the film. At the end of the screening, a Q & A was held whereby the audience was informed that Ms Purcell was currently in London acting in a play called When the Rain Stops Falling.


It was a busy week that followed but it seemed that everytime I opened a newspaper I would spot an interview with someone in the play. Or a favourable review about the play. Not long after, a friend from work told me about a brilliant Australian play that she had seen the night before. I must go she told me. I acquiesed to the inevitable and got the tickets straight away online.

I have now just returned from the Almeida Theatre where I saw Andrew Bovell's play at long last. It not only met my expectations but exceeded them. It was the best play I have seen in a very long while. It seamlessly combined good acting, excellent set design, good venue and an engaged and eloquent script. All elements combined which held me in thrall for a good two hours without interval.

The suprise for me tonight was how moved I was by the play. It wasn't the storyline (although good) that did it but rather the evocation of the Australian landscape through language and imagery. I found myself in tears when footage appeared of waves lapping up against a beach at night or the dark Australian sky filled with clusters of stars. I did not realise how much I miss the landscape and how deeply it is entrenched somewhere inside of me.

This desire for land and light and sea and sky is hard to explain to people. It therefore gave me comfort to read Andrew Bovell's words in the play's programme:

The Australian landscape and the sense of loneliness and isolation it evokes resonates in our collective consciousness and finds expression in our literature and art. Most of us live in cities and yet the sense of distance and space that surrounds us continues to play in our minds. I grew up in the isolation of the Western Australian wheat belt, a long way from the nearest city, Perth, which in itself is the most geographically isolated city in the world. There was space and time to fill out there. It is a strikingly beautiful landscape if you know how to see it and if you know how to be alone.

So beautifully put. I couldn't have said it better myself.

All the Single Ladies...

In my social and work circles I am surrounded by single women in their mid twenties to late thirties and the one thing they all have in common is that they worry about not having met a partner. Not being in a relationship and what this means if they want kids. When I sit and talk with them about it, I can feel their anxiety and pain.

What's wrong with me? they say. Why can't I meet anyone?

I don't know how to answer them. Because sitting in front of me is an intelligent, accomplished, beautiful, funny, down-to-earth woman.

Don't worry about it I eventually mumble, It'll happen.

But inside me is rage and anger. Why do my friends have to feel this way? Why do they denigrate themselves because of it?

Where does this pressure come from? Biology? Society? The Joneses?

My husband and I had a debate recently about this very issue. He said the pressure came from other women.

Well not from me it doesn't I replied.

But I take his point. What women wear. What women do. What women want. It's the sisterhood that is kicking us up the bum. In our strive to be superwomen, we set an impossibly high standard for all of us. We'll end us killing ourselves if not each other.

C'mon ladies. Let's just hang out. Like we used to.

String Metal

I've had an idea brewing for some time now for a show. I've been looking around for music to fit in with what's inside my head which is a dance piece which merges intense classicism with intense metal/punk thrashiness. I haven't been researching much, just mulling over the idea. I think of creativity like baking. You need to give time for the ingredients to synergise and rise up together.

The universe threw me this today. Apocalyptica. Four Finnish men who play metal cello.



Had I been researching, I would never had typed into Google "Finnish metal cello".

Love it.

Million Knives

Last night we went out in Camden to Proud, a 200-year-old Grad II Listed Horse Hospital in the Stables Market which has been redone into a live music and bar venue. We went to support our friend who was performing in his debut London gig with his band, Million Knives.

I haven't been to a gig in donkey's years. I felt my age in donkey's years when I walked into the smokey, booming venue. The too-cool-for-school brigade was out in force (after all - it was Camden) and I foresaw a long night ahead of me. I wondered how many Budweisers I would have to neck to numb the need to go home.

Fortunately I was only on my 2nd Bud (they were a fortune! £14 for a round of four) when I started to enjoy the electic range of bands onstage. The weariness of the day had fallen away and I started to appreciate the friendliness of the crowd and how easy it was to chat to strangers.

By the time Million Knives came onstage, me and my gal pals were front centre, screaming our lungs out and reviving the not-quite-dead 16 year old groupie that lives in us all.

When we stumbled out in the early hours, I'd met a bunch of great, new people and seen some great new bands. My taste for live gigs had been reborn.

Rock on!

You Are My Sunshine

It's muggy in London tonight. The sky is grey and low slung. It's 9pm as I write this yet it's still light outside.

I'm not used to London feeling like this. The warmth and humidity reminds me of the tropics. It makes me want to be outside by the ocean. If I was in Perth right now, I would drive myself to the seashore and lay on the sand and breathe.

Over the weekend we had fantastic weather. For the first time this year I lay down in the long grass in Richmond Park



and looked up at an all blue sky. I took off as many clothes as I could in a park without being arrested. I closed my eyes and took in the warmth of the sun. I turned my head to my husband who lay next to me:

Hey, if you close your eyes you can hear the sea. I can hear the waves lapping up against Leighton beach...

courtesy of Ben Cooke

The all seeing, all-knowing BBC weather channel has informed us citizens that we are in for a good summer. We're going to get consecutive days of sun interspersed with a few odd days of rain. Just so we don't forget that we're in England.

I hope so much that we have a good summer. Every year everyone I know hopes. Our collective hope could power Ireland.

I love that about you Brits. Despite the grey and grime and grot - you hang on and never stop hoping.

Freedom's Just Another Word...

with nothing else to lose", sang Janis in her usual husky style.

I was certainly not free at work yesterday when I came across this speech by David Foster Wallace about freedom. I had a mountain to move off my desk before I could leave for home so that a new mountain could appear overnight.

Nontheless we all pick and choose our moments so I decided to ignore the incoming emails and phone calls and questions and tasks and deadlines. For ten minutes I sat down and read what Mr Wallace had to say.

When I'd finished reading I went back to my mountain and worked steadily away until I couldn't anymore and left for the day.

Before and after those ten minutes, nothing changed in my space. If you looked into my world through a viewfinder you'd have seen everything was where it always was.

That's the way it is. That's the way we see each other.

So you wouldn't know unless I told you that the ten minutes I spent reading that speech were ten of the best minutes of my life.

I have had lots. But yesterday. They were ten good ones.

Thanks DFW. RIP.

Climb Every Mountain?

In my work life I am surrounded by successful career women. Women who have clawed their way up to the top of the arts' professions. Women whom I never once thought I would have the opportunity to meet. Once upon a time I would have considered many of these people to be role models. I would have considered myself lucky to have landed any one of their jobs.

But not anymore.

I am lucky. I am lucky that my current job has allowed me to meet and work with these women. To see that up close, all that glitters is not always gold.

These women will have had made significant personal sacrifices to get where they are. I know they all work hard and have persevered for years against constant obstacles. I know that they have beat off hundreds, even thousands of competitors to survive in their chosen environment. Up close they do not seem particularly hardened but they are as tough they come.

Knowing this makes me feel distinctly uneasy. Why?

Because I don't want to get to where they are and have become like that. But to get to where they are, I don't think there is a choice. The arts world in London (and everywhere else) is dirty and grasping. As soon as you get a known profile, the knives come out. You have to get your hands filthy to survive and the higher up you are, the grottier they potentially get.

When I was little, my mother, to warn me off a career in politics used to say:

All politcians are corrupt. Even if they start off with good intentions, to stay and succeed in the game, they have to become crooked. A good politician is a contradiction in terms.

So where does that leave me?

With clean hands but no career? Or with a potential career but at what cost?

The Food Anger

I hate getting bad food in restaurants. It makes me so angry. In fact, it makes me LIVID.

London is not a city where the general standard of food is average or better. It varies wildly between bloody awful to exceptional. When you try a new restaurant in London, you are taking a risk.

I had dinner this week at the Giaconda Dining Room. This place is well known as being a little haven of inexpensive civility amongst the brashness of Soho. I'd heard good things so was looking forward to it.

When we sat down to order at 8pm I was ravenous. I'd been up since 5.30am and worked on a photoshoot all day long. My eyes made quick work of the menu. Rigatoni Puttanesca for starter. Baked cod with polenta and endive salad for main. Done.

The Puttanesca came and went without comment passing from my lips except for two words:

Very salty.

The Husband who was happily tucking into his Pig Trotters cast a wary glance in my direction. There was fear in his eyes but he wisely made no comment.

When my main arrived I dug in with gusto. My enthusiasm palled after the first bite. And took a rapid nosedive after the second and third. The flavours of the dish were not fish as expected but oil. The fish tasted of oil. The polenta tasted of oil and even the salad tasted of oil. I put down my fork. My husband looked up nervously from his Hashed Ham Hock with Egg and Salad.

How's yours? I asked
Good, he said. Do you want to swap?
No.

I sat fuming and then it was upon me.

The Food Anger.

When I am very hungry and I do not eat, I get a bit nuts. I'm short tempered, irrational, snappy. I would not trust myself to drive when I'm like this.

However when I'm very hungry and have paid good money to eat something at a nice restaurant and it turns out to be crap, I lose it. One of these days a plate will hit the wall. Another diner will be spattered with food as collateral damage. I will probably be arrested.

As my husband ate, I stabbed. I stabbed the oily fish on the oily polenta. In my mind I was stabbing the chef. Then I started to complain. Loudly.

I warned all the other diners not to get the fish. I also told everyone not to bother ordering fries either as they were oily and rubbery. I lamented how it was too late for us but they should all leave now if they hadn't yet ordered.

My husband continued to eat and ignore me.

I was being childish and obnoxious. But I didn't care. I didn't want to speak to the waiter politely and ask for another dish. The waiters were giving our table a wide berth by now anyhow.

When he had finished his meal my husband ushered me out as graciously as he could. He did not tip them however which was just as well as it would have meant the end of our marriage.

Two days later and I am still pissed off. But at least I am not foaming from the mouth anymore.

We went out for dinner the next night too. But that's a whole other story.

Coffee Makes the World Go Round

This London man is supposed to make the best coffee in Britain



I must hunt him down...

Like A Fish to Water

In Australia I am a below average swimmer. I would swim but I was never one of those strong, sleek bodies that charged through the water doing lap after steady lap. In Oz I always swam in the Slow or Medium lane. I would never have dared dipped my toe in the Fast.

When I moved to London I stopped swimming. Having been spolit by Perths' open air, salt walter pools, I could not bring myself to become enthusiastic about swimming indoors in a heavily chlorinated, 25 metre urinal.



After a few years of non-swimming, I got free membership to one of London's best gyms. The pool in this gym was decent by London standards. It was still indoors and 25m but it looked clean. The husband said:

No excuses now. You can start swimming again.

But I didn't. By now I hadn't swum for years and was out of the habit until.....

the Paris Half Marathon.

Training for the half marathon forced me into the water again. I knew I needed to incorporate some cardio exercise that would not put weight on my joints. So I dived in and to my surprise I discovered that not only could I still swim, I wasn't bad at all. In fact, I was pretty damn good.

What happened? Three years of not swimming and in the first lap I become Esther Williams? Something's wrong.



I looked around and slowly the light went on.

I was in London.

A city of BAD swimmers.

As a general rule, Londoners are not great swimmers. It's not a part of their upbringing like it is for Aussies. They try, bless them and it's not their fault. They don't have the sea and lovely pools like us.

Still, this makes me feel great. I did nothing and became an above average swimmer. Over here I even swim in the Fast lane.

It doesn't get any easier than that.