Some Room Of One's Own

This week, an article in the G2 reported on several prominent women who have gone public about their struggles with depression, including Marian Keyes, Emma Thompson and Alison Pearson. This development, the article reports, reflects the trend that modern women are as twice as likely to be diagnosed with depression as men. My reaction on reading this was:

No shit Sherlock.

The way I see it is like this:

First wave feminism: Make equal space for us.
Second wave feminism: This space is ours and we’re going to define it how we see fit.
Third wave feminism: There’s too much space we have to fill. We’re knackered.

The article referred to an American report called The Paradox of Declining Female Happiness by Betsey Stevenson and Justin Wolfers which debunks the myth that working women are knackered because they do it all. The article claims that the time spent working in and out of the home are roughly similar for both men and women. However the article states that it is women who carry the overall emotional responsibility for the domestic sector whilst men are more “helpers.”

Is this true?

It's true in mine. Both my husband and I work full-time but somehow the management of our household falls to me. I know that if we had kids, the flow of their day would become my remit. In order to raise a family, I know I will need to give up things that I love to do as well as, to a large degree, my solitude. The thought of this alone is depressing enough.

Is this it?

What happened to A Room of One's Own? What happened to The Women's Room?

What happened?



Kids or no kids, most women I know are so busy they don’t even have time to scratch themselves. The expectations surrounding and from within are so high. We push it physically, mentally and emotionally day in, day out. After awhile, such relentlessness takes a toll.

Look after yourselves ladies. It’s not worth it.

Step Outside, Posh Boy!

In the lead up to the 2008 US elections, I was glued to footage of the Democratic nominations and the final sprint between Obama and McCain. The excitement and on-the-edge of your seat anticipation generated by the American election process was unlike none other. The world seemed to wait with bated breath to find out who was going to replace the man who trashed America, a.k.a, Bush.

It’s the Brits’ turn now and even though I am a Brit, I am nowhere near as excited as I was then. Partly because I live in dread of the Tories getting in and also because the UK election lead up is boring. B-O-R-I-N-G. There is no excitement in the air. The general feeling seems to be that a change is needed but whether that comes in the form of Brown or Cameron is much of a muchness for voters. The pundits are predicting a close call and perhaps this is reflective that the public is voting for the lesser of two evils rather than the party/leader that moves and inspires them. Because in all truth, there ain’t one.

It hasn’t been all doom and gloom though. There have been the rare moments in the lead up in which British wit and irreverence have shown their faces. Two of my personal favourites are below:





May 6th. Who's it gonna be?

Pina Bausch

Pina Bausch changed my understanding of dance forever. When I first clapped eyes on her choreography, I was a teenager who was sick of tendus and plies but didn't know how to get past the strictures of classicism, nor the abstractions of contemporary. Pina stripped back the pretensions of form and showed that dancers could be individuals; nuanced and real. That dancers need not be dancing lines in the air but characters that speak, fart or fall down onstage. Her work was poignant, dark, wicked and funny. It influences me to this day.

For all the impact that she had on me, I'd never seen her work live. That drought came to an end when I scored tickets to Kontakthof at the Barbican. The piece was to be performed by two casts; one group aged 65+ and the other, teenagers. I plumbed for the oldies because how often do you get to see a group of pensioners in a major dance work?


Kontakthof, trans. - a place to make contact, to meet, was simply that. A dancehall where a group of people had assembled to play out all the games we humans play with each other. Taking my seat, I was afraid that up close, Pina's work would fall flat of my (sky-high) expectations.



I needn't have worried. The piece drew from me a range of responses. I laughed till I snorted. I wondered what the hell was going on. I wanted to know more about those people onstage. I felt uncomfortable by some of what I saw. I thought it was too long. I loved, loved, loved that the dancers were 65 and over. It gave me hope.

I walked out still a grateful fan and aware even more of her influence on my dance education.

RIP Pina. Thank you for the moves.

Happy Birthday Jimmy*

I'm inspired by many people. Some of them I don’t know or aren’t real (although Yoda feels very real) but today is the birthday of a real life dude whom I find inspiring. For the sake of anonymity (mine, not his), I’m gonna call him Jimmy*.

I met Jimmy through my husband. They were old friends, having survived their college years together. Later whilst working in Kazakhstan Jimmy met and married a rockin’ babe from America and my husband, well he met me(sucker). They both lured their new spouses to London under the pretence that it was the Land of Milk & Honey, which turned out to be not quite true but true enough for now.

As I’ve gotten to know Jimmy, I discovered that he makes his dreams a reality. When I first met him, he was in the transition of leaving his secure 9-5 job to launch his own online business. He hated what he did for a living and he wanted to be his own boss. Developing and launching the business was a fraught time. He still had the responsibilities of a marriage, mortgage and bills and there was no guarantee his idea would work. Nonetheless he ploughed steadily away, making his vision real. Now he has since launched a second online business; has staff working for him and appeared briefly in the Apprentice! Blood, sweat and (some) tears were par for the course I imagine but he did it!

(This is not Jimmy of course but I feel that the force of Yoda resides in all my friends)

I’ve also witnessed the same application of dogged effort and belief to his London marathon training. Less than a year ago he was unfit. When he announced his marathon intentions, I don’t think he could run 200m without hacking his lungs out. Undeterred Jimmy started putting one foot in front of the other. Slowly and steadily just like he built his businesses, he built up his fitness. When the time comes, the marathon will be another of his dreams achieved.

Our friends don’t always know that we may admire them for aspects and qualities inherent within them. As it’s your birthday Jimmy – I thought I’d tell you. Happy Birthday! Keep on truckin’...

*You know who you are (I hope!)

James Lovelock

I was a teenager when I first heard of the Gaia hypothesis. In Oz, we learned that the amount of CFCs emitted by our spray aerosols, refrigerators and so on were contributing to the phenomena known as the Greenhouse effect. We heard that these CFCs were creating a hole in the ozone layer which protects Earth from being burnt to a crisp by the Sun. This was big news in Oz, a place where the sun is so strong you can feel it burning into your skin on hot days. Suddenly we all started using roll on deodorants and pump sprays.

James Lovelock is the man who discovered the build up of CFCs and coined the Greenhouse effect which is part of his larger Gaia hypothesis. His view is that Earth is part of a self regulating, living organism of which the human species is but an element. Due to the impact of human activities on Earth, the median balance of this organism is shifting, causing a rise in the average temperature on Earth. Put it this way. It’s as if the human body temperature rose from an average operating point of 37 degrees celsius to 42 degrees. What would happen to us as a species? Some of us would die but over time, perhaps our bodies would adapt, evolve and our species might live on in an altered way.

I went to see James Lovelock last night in conversation at the Southbank Centre. For an eminent scientist/philosopher in his 90’s, he did not disappoint. His brain was sharp and irrigated and his views were not those of a harbinger of doom as he is often portrayed (unfairly, I feel) in the media. His approach seemed based on empirical evidence and he fully acknowledged that science does not have all the answers and is based wholly on probability. He spoke about the need for scepticism in science to challenge views of people like himself. The area for which his scorn was reserved was that of politicians, climate boards and scientists who fudge data in order to affect policies. I felt that I was in the presence of someone truly learned whose vision is before his time.


It was bitter sweet to see in the flesh someone whose learning and advice will accumulate resonance as the years roll on, long after he has passed. I feel sad about this but for many great thinkers in human society; this always seems to be the way.

All the more pity for us.

Thriller

I went to see Thriller last night at the Lyric on Shaftesbury Avenue. I had heard that the musical was a tribute to the music of MJ rather than a story of his life. My friend Nancy and I had been talking about going since last July. Finally we managed to park our butts in said theatre seats as the house lights went down and the disco lights came up on four men wearing black afro wigs and shaking their groove thang. A short kid with a natural afro followed them. As he got ready to sing, I wondered:

What’s it gonna be? Ben? I’ll Be There? Blame it on the Boogie?

He opened his mouth and out floated … Music and Me.

Cool, I thought. It really is going to be a tribute.


From there on in, we were not disappointed. The cast on stage delivered song, after song, ebullient and effervescent as if they were singing and dancing the tunes for the very first time and not the 7045th. They sang songs I did not know as well all the hits. Backed up by excellent set and lighting, the show focused wholly on entertaining the bejesus out of us. Good ol’ fashion showbiz entertainment. Which whatever your opinion of Michael Jackson is, is what he left us as his legacy.

So stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

The G Spot

Lady Gaga released her new music video, Telephone recently and all hell broke loose.

Oh, it’s so sexist, foamed one female reviewer.

We’ve come a long way baby, but you’re taking us back to the Dark Ages, bleated another.

Lesbian kisses and studded bikinis do not good female role models make, was a third retort.

I watched the video to see what the fuss was about. And then I watched it again because I liked it. I found it smart and sexy. Full of cinematic references and designed with all the House of Gaga trademarks of ingenuity, humour and irreverence. Lady Gaga divides opinion like Moses the Red Sea but to all the humourless, feminist-masquerading journalists with their poised talons, I say:

It is possible to wear a bikini and still have a brain you know.


Lady Gaga is a performance art installation come to life. She is Alice in Wonderland grown up and on acid. At a time where pop means American Idol and X-factor producing bland forgettables, someone who can write catchy pop tunes, sing, dance and look like a moving art exhibit is a breath of fresh air.

As is another lady whose name starts with the letter G. After all these years, I finally know what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be Granny OGrimm. Click here to see why.

Academia or Bust?

I'm trying to decide at the moment whether academic life is the way forward. I have an offer to take up postgraduate study in the UK in a subject area so niche that nowhere else in the world offers it. Does this mean it's a shit subject? Or so cutting edge that everyone else has yet to catch up? And even they offer it, is the uni in question any good at delivering it? The sceptic in me decided to undergo my own research before I handed over my dosh and committed myself to a scholar's life a.k.a. as, poverty.

Stepping onto campus resulted in some vivid flashbacks. Walking past the uni tavern, my tastebuds suddenly craved nachos and cheap beers (UWA). The student union office flashed like a homing beacon; sending out purple t-shirted flares to snare me back in to the mothership (Murdoch). Memories flooded back in a deluge so thick that for a few (lovely) minutes, I thought I was in my early twenties again running around campus, loving student life.

Oh why did I ever leave?, I bemoaned as Memories played on full volume inside my head.

I remember why. Earn Money. Travel. And I had poohed-poohed the idea of being trapped in the ivory tower and not experiencing "the real world."

Well I have been out working in the supposed real world for awhile now and it ain't so great. At uni you are exposed to (well I was in my arts degree) the ideas and thoughts of key thinkers. It's a shock to come out and find that the day-to-day world is run by mostly idiots. And that if you had a brain in the first place, best turn it off so you can swallow up all the middle-management banality or avaristic policies without wanting to kill yourself. Success in the "real world" is about how much ass you kiss, how you navigate yourself and how much you can endure. And this is coming from someone who has mainly worked in the arts, education and charity sectors. Call me cynical. I dare you.

Can you hear my fist banging on the door of the proverbial tower?

As I sat in the lectures I had managed to inveigle my way into, I almost passed out with bliss as I listened to the audible noise of people's minds turning over. Words that I had not seen nor used since I left university made a sudden re-appearance:

Well hello Hegemony, I said. Here you are with your old friends, Phenomenology and Hermaneutics. Where have you been keeping yourselves all these years?

Oh how we laughed during our happy reunion. I still had no idea what they were on about though.

As fun as it was to pretend to be a student again for the day, I am still in two minds. I'm not in my early twenties anymore. And I have already worked in the industry that this degree situates you to go into. The only other outcome for me would be the academic path. To go forth into that tower for a long, long time.

And I'm not sure still, after all these years, if that is what I want.

If the Mountain Won't Come to Mohammed...

Ingleborough is the second highest peak in the Yorkshire Dales and my new hiking boots are just begging to be broken in.

High School Reunion

When I logged into my Facebook account this morning, I was greeted by a sight so horrifying that it was all I could do not to projectile vomit my breakfast all across the screen.

An invite to my high school reunion. Accompanied by all our yearbook photos.

Holy shit.

I thought I had escaped this particular rite of passage. I went to a hippy dippy arts high school crammed with stoners, Fame wannabes and bogans. I did not believe anyone from my year would be ever be motivated enough to organise a reunion. Or even want to.

Clearly that was just my own projection. Post graduation, I thought we had all run out screaming but maybe it was just me.

As I scrolled through the invite, all the faces from my past looked so happy and carefree in their Facebook profile pics. Smiling alongside their partners and children. Climbing Everest. Dancing the night away. They didn’t seem stoned (particularly) and any bogan-ish tendencies were well hidden.

My high school nemesis was amongst these faces and even though I screamed a silent Nooo..., my finger clicked on her link. Her shiny, successful life flashed before me. Her success was so blatant that I started comparing myself instantly because that’s what nemesis’ are for. And because I am a masochist.

The definition of a High School Reunion is: compare and contrast yourself against everyone else and feel superior or feel suicidal. That’s what these reunions are about right? Who did well? Who looks good? Who lived up to their potential? Who didn’t? It’s like a meeting of racehorses.

It’s an awkward feeling when your high school self and current self meet as mine did today. The conversation they had went something like this:

High School Self: So what the fuck have you been doing with your life?
Current Self: Errr…umm…. Stuff.
High School Self: Like what?
Current Self: You know. Work. Travel. Dance. Love.
High School: Oh dance. Yeah I remember. I expect you’re working in dance now aren’t you?
Current Self: No. It’s a hobby
High School Self: What a shame. You must be doing something else pretty special. You did so well at school.
Current Self: No, not really. Nothing special.

And so on. They talked for a really long time and it was really depressing for both of them.

Beware the words High School Reunion. It’s just brutal.

The Road

I went to see The Road last night; the film adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's Pulitzer winning novel.


I had read many reviews of the film prior, all of them commenting on the grim, relentless bleakness inherent. It's to be expected though, when the film's subject is surviving a post-apocalyptic world where hope hangs on a thread.

Before I left work for the cinema, I mentioned to a colleague that I was going to see it. She looked at me in alarm.

Oh no.

What do you mean, Oh No?

You'll need a drink when you get out, she replied. Actually maybe best to have one before you go in too.

All this wonderful preamble fully situated me to come out of the film and slit my wrists.

I went nonetheless.

Afterwards I did not kill myself but instead went for pizza with my friend who had come with me. We went in a slightly stunned state, as if we had been bludgeoned by a mallet, but in a good way.

The film was bleak and grim and relentless. It was also familiar, tender and visionary. At least for me.

I sat rivetted throughout. I didn't find it plodding or angstful. The images and emotions onscreen seemed universal. Questions raised in the film were my own and that of my generation and the ones to follow. Questions about survival, morality, humanity, hope and love.

It was compelling and I can't get it out of my head.

The Winter of My Discontent

My husband put in a request recently for me to write some more topical entries.

I like it when you write about issues. It makes me think about what my point of view is in relation.

The subtext of course being:

I’m sick of your navel gazing.

So I thought about what recent issues I could pontificate on at length here. Some that have captured my attention include:

• The recent life sentence of Frances Inglis, the mother who killed her son by heroin overdose. An act of mercy or murder?
• Ludwig Minnelli, founder of Dignitas and his vision for a humane way to leave this life
• The Hope for Haiti telethon (the tag line being – Is George Clooney positioning himself as the new Bono?)
• The dolphin killings that happen in Taiji, Japan as depicted in, The Cove

Whilst the above are all topics worthy of discussion, my attention is distracted by an omniscient presence that pervades my every thought and has done for many weeks.

January.

January as a month deserves to have a blog entry dedicated to it. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve written about my rapture for this time of year. January is a season all of its own. It’s the season of Hell.

As I wake in the morning gloom to look out the window onto another grim and cheerless day, I wonder whether this is what it might have been like to live in The Dark Ages. Certainly the pale faces squashed up tight in the airless confines of my rush-hour tube carriage, look as if they have been subjected to hours of mediaeval drudgery and hard bread that hurts your teeth.

Powerless as we are to change Mother Nature, it does beg belief that people choose this most joyless of times to practice abstinence. Detox? Are you kidding? We already have no light. Why no food and drink too?

I know I’m not alone in my January-itis. Apparently you are susceptible to this view if you are Australian*.

Despite the connotations of the term, Downunder, the country I hail from is not dark (or hairy). The quality known as light is in such abundance that sunglasses grow from our heads.

I can hear voices echo, well if you love it so much, why don't you go back? Or is that my own talking?

I’m not happy about the lack of sympathy. I probably have S.A.D. I need medical attention.

January-itis is a real thing. They dedicated an episode to it on 30 Rock. The song, A Whiter Shade of Pale was inspired by it. When Dylan Thomas wrote those oft quoted lines:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light

he wasn’t writing about death. Mark my words, the man was Welsh. He was writing about January.


*Quote: If you write about January you will just sound like a moaning Australian.. Husband …(still)

A Rose by Any Other Name

One of the things I appreciate most about having a diverse mix of friends is the different experiences I have with each of them. For example, my mate Renata is a free food magnet. Many a time I have been walking down the street with her when out of the blue, someone will offer us free food. I think she has a homing instinct similar to carrier pigeons when it comes to saving money. Another friend Lupe is a man magnet. She meets men at the rate at which most people blink. Her hectic love life makes Sex and the City seem like dating for geriatrics.

I was out with both of them last night for a night of food and frolics. Renata left early leaving me and Lupe to entertain ourselves. True to form, Lupe started chatting to two blokes on the street whilst having a fag. They came in and ended up sharing our table. As they sat down, one of them turned to me and said:

Hi, my name’s XXX

I didn’t think I’d heard right.

Excuse me; did you say your name is XXX?

Yes, that’s right.

I laughed.

But that’s my name!

You may be thinking, what’s the big deal but my name is not common. It’s the equivalent of being called Hortensia and then meeting some dude with the same name.

As the weirdness of it sunk in he told us his surname.

Get out of town, that is not your real name! was mine and Lupe’s instant reply

He shrugged and showed us his business cards.

There it was. His real name.

Oh how we laughed.

Then Lupe decided to share with us a name that she loved.

I love the name Hint. It’s just so....strong. If I had a daughter I would call her that.

As the guys stared, probably regretting their choice to join us, I told her that she must not do that to her future children. That she must not do that to anyone. Not even a pet.

But I like it.

Hortensia (the male) chipped in:

Look love, you can’t call your daughter Hint. It’s like Mint. It’s like Lint. I mean I could get it if there was some big bloke down the gym with muscles bulging out to here and he’s your trainer and he comes up to you and says Alright? The name’s Hint. I could get it then but not for a little baby girl. It’s just not right.

Duly chastened there was no further mention of that moniker for the remainder of the evening.

I fear the worst though. Poor little Hint.