My dad is a professional hobbyist. This aspect of his personality benefitted me hugely growing up as I got to participate in whatever had captured his fancy. Fishing, building construction, tennis, stamp collecting (I passed on that one), table tennis, dancing and so on. But for as long as I've known him, his love for the written word, politics and history has remained constant.
Dad contributes regularly to an online Chinese poetry site based in Macau. Recently he posted a poem in tribute to ths year's Nobel peace prize winner Liu Xiabo who is currently imprisoned in China for his non-violent struggle for human rights. Dad called today to tell me that he had been criticised and accused online as being an anti-revolutionary for what he wrote in his poem.
Liu Xiabo
I warned him to be careful on his trip to China at the end of the year. I said maybe his phone was bugged as we spoke. After all, he was a counter-revolutionary now!
Here is the poem below. It loses a lot in English translation, rather like comparing an ice sculpture with a lego house but you'll get the gist:
In Praise of the Liu Xiabo - Nobel Peace Prize laureate
Praise, for you have gone to prison with courage.
Not all Chinese are gutless.
You refused to go into exile
although now you are in such a fatal enterprise.
Heaven and earth tremble beneath your dignity
while the termites put on their show.
In the chill of the morning,
I behold your withering statue
as the rising current, rages on.
Personally I think he shoud re-title it - Not All Chinese are Termites
When I was just a wee young girl, far from the clutches of puberty, my mother and I had a conversation about marriage and children. When I declared that I wanted neither, she replied:
If you must get married at all, put it off for as long as you can
and
You won't know what it's like to be a woman unless you have children*
I was just ten at the time but even then I retorted:
That's rubbish. Are you saying that women who choose not to have babies or can't have them are not women? If becoming a woman means having views like that, I'll give it a miss thanks.
As I digested the fact that my mother's dream for me was to become a single mother, I felt my anger at her statement grow.
Twenty seven years later, I still get mad when I hear this nonsense spouted at me. Unfortunately it has been said to me far too often. And always by women.
Does this make you a woman?
In the period after I got married (sorry mum), I got the baby question a lot. It drove me crazy. Some people felt it was their right to assess my womanly status in direct correlation to my breeding status. However when I asked these people if they were planning to go back to work or what else they were planning to do apart from childrearing, it was as if I was launching a nuclear attack. Defenses went up. Tangible bristles appeared. How dare I question the sacred fount of Motherhood!
Well don't dish it out if you can't take it I say.
I'm going to become a mother sometime next year. So far my pregnancy has not made me feel any more womanly. It has made me feel pretty gross in fact. I know there are big changes ahead and I know nothing I can do will ever prepare me for them.
But I do know one thing. And that is I will not suddenly become a Woman when the baby is pushed, pulled, yanked, cut, tugged out of me.
It will be another stage of becoming me.
*To be fair, she did tell people to shut up about the kid question after I was married and told me that having kids was definitely not the be all and end all of life and sometimes it was better not to have them. I was somewhat reassured and offended at the same time.
Many moons ago I was presented with the opportunity to return to academia and undertake postgraduate studies. I wrote about that here.
Well I did it. I signed up and am a bona fide student again. Part -time. I couldn't quite commit my whole life to poverty.
The campus I am attending is gorgeous. It's like the Lost Gardens of Heligan plucked from Cornwall and plonked into London. Swanning around the grounds makes me feel very at one with student life. It reminds me of the times I spent sitting on the lawns of Bush Court at Murdoch and the Great Court at UWA, chatting with friends and skipping classes. The library at this institution holds more dance resources than any other place I have been. As I am a library junkie that is studying dance, this is heaven.
Just like this woman in the Lost Gardens, theory waffle sends me to sleep
The only thing that bugs me right now is Theory.
What did I expect. What did I think I would be doing?
But why does so much have to be hot air? Why can't some of these published academics say in one sentence what they use a whole page for? Why can't the language be plain instead of convoluted? Why do you have to read twenty crappy pieces of theory to find one brilliant one.
Keep it simple people.
So the wall I came up against in my past studies is still there.
But this time, I'm going to smash it down. Or get kicked out. Or fail.
This real life tale chronicled the story of Eustace Conway; a one-of-a-kind modern pioneer who had spent twenty years in the American wilderness, living entirely off the land. I found myself riveted by the opening paragraph which reads:
By the time Eustace Conway was seven years old, he could throw a knife accurately enough to nail a chipmunk to a tree. By the time he was ten, he could hit a running squirrel at fifty feet with a bow and arrow. When he turned twelve, he went out into the woods, alone and empty-handed, built himself a shelter, and survived off the land for a week. When he turned seventeen, he moved out of his family's home altogether and headed into the mountains, where he lived in a teepee of his own design, made fire by rubbing two sticks together, bathed in icy streams and dressd in the skins of animals he hand hunted and eaten.
As I read on, I found the book did not dissolve into a Davy Crockett style caricature but instead painted a complex and fascinating portrait of a man who battled to live a completely self sufficient lifestyle on Turtle Island in North Carolina and the challenges he faced as a result.
After inhaling the text in one sitting, I made a mental note to keep an eye out for future books by the author. A journalist and novelist called Elizabeth Gilbert.
Several years later, Eat, Pray, Love was published. I grabbed a library copy, eager to find out what new journey she was going to take me on.The journey it turns out, was her own.
Eat, Pray, Love has now become almost a doctrine of sorts for women who "have it all" but find that this does not bring the happiness they expected. I think most people on some level can identify with the beginning chapter which finds Gilbert on her knees on her bathroom floor, despairing of her life, even though everything seems fine on the surface. If you haven't ever felt even a glimmer of this, I think you're a liar or on some very good drugs.
Sadly once she got off the bathroom floor I found Gilbert's story tedious. I expected the writing to have the same forensic intimacy yet detachment as displayed when she wrote about Conway. Instead when writing about herself, I found Gilbert indulgent and in need of a better editor. Obviously I am in the minority with this opinion as the success of the book has probably set her up for life.
If it hasn't, the the film surely will. I went to see the film today. Yes, I did not like the book but went to the film anyway. Why would I do that? Two words.
Javier Bardem.
The film was gorgeous to look at. Julia Roberts was gorgeous to look at, with her usual doe-eyed dewiness and big, laughing mouth. Gorgeous as it was, the film did go on and on. I thought that the director, Ryan Murphy who gave the world Glee would give us some light relief in the form of a song or two but no. Just Julia crying. Again.
Gorgeous. Meet Gorgeous.
I almost cried too, with relief when Javier came on screen. None was more gorgeous than he. Sadly his total screen time amounted to what felt like about fifteen minutes. But in that short time , he made a long and plodding film sparkle with life.
My five and half week traipse across Australia is drawing to a close. And I am glad. These past three weeks in Perth have been wonderful but back-to-back catch ups have taken their toll and I am looking forward to returning to noisy, bustling London for a nice rest. Oh the irony.
Exhausting as it has been, I feel very fortunate to have people in my life who have made me feel so wanted and lobbied for a return back to Oz as soon as I got here. Loved ones who made sure there was space in both our diaries months in advance of my arrival. Friends who squeezed every last second out of my time here, probably at great inconvienience to their daily schedules, just so we could share those precious face-to-face seconds before my time ran out.
In the spare moments I had to myself, I made it a priority to visit some of my Perth stalwarts. I hotfooted it down to Fremantle Yoga Centre which was founded by Kale Leaf, yoga teacher extraordinaire and who first introduced and instilled in me a love of iyengar yoga twenty years ago. Unfortunately Kale was not teaching the day I attended but I still had a great class and wished, as I have many times that I could bottle the vibe of the place. The studio is calm, down to earth and serene and I always feel a sense of peace and relaxation whenever I attend a class there.
Kale doing his thing
Another must-do was Leighton Beach, my favourite piece of coastline in WA. It might not look like much to you but it is laden with history and memories for me:
I was glad to see that my favourite Freo gym, Warehouse Fitness was still keeping it real with its bare bones approach. I checked out a Zumba class to see what the craze was about but if you ask me, body jam is still where it's at if you like dancing as opposed to aerobics. I also had the luxury of swimming in a heated 50 meter swimming pool again. And it was clean!
Other old haunts frequented included Ginos, Cicerellos, King St Cafe, Clancys and Kidogo Gallery where the current exhibition, Paint, Laugh, Live has been coordinated by a friend of mine. New places such as Wolfe Lane Bar where another good mate has taken up DJ residency showed me the changing face of Perth inner city life.
Wolfe Lane. Where the bar is.
Places aside, this visit back to Perth has been all about the people. Over breakfasts, brunches, lunches, drinks, dinners, cups of tea and coffee, we've talked and talked and talked. I've met children of friends for the first time who now I can't bear to leave and my darling godaughter who I am bonded to as much as I was when she was born, and once again I'm reminded how lucky I am to have such love and friendship in my life.
I have been back in Australia for three weeks now and it has been exhilarating and exhausting. I've barely stopped to catch my breath as we've moved on from place to place in an Antipodean journey down memory lane.
Sydney was pretty much as I'd left it twelve years ago. There was no love between us then and there is none still. Lindfield where we stayed was lovely with its wild squawking birds and verdant bushland. Bankstown where we spent an afternoon was also charming in a 1950's retreat-back-to-the Orient way. Our family and friends welcomed us in their warm embrace but Sydney still felt aloof, hungover and suprisingly stale. We made it to Bills in Darlinghurst which according to the New York Times has the best scrambled eggs in the world but unless you like your eggs 70% cream, I'd give it a miss.
Melbourne, dining capital of the world lived up to its reputation ten times over during our stay there. As well as seeing old, dear friends, we ate up a frenzy and left the city with bad indigestion. As soon as we landed I hotfooted it to the Shanghai Dumpling restaurant on Tattersalls Lane.
This way to Dumpling Heaven
To my relief it was still there, intact and slightly less grubby than before. Comforted by a steaming hot bowl of noodle dumpling soup, I had a feeling that our Melbourne soujourn would be A-OK. After scouring for bargains at the best car boot market in the world (Camberwell) , we met up with Tim and Cory to feast on Chinese nosh and talk about the old days of environmental campaigining and the election fallout. In the days that followed our mate John feted us with a Mexican lunch at Mama Sita, Spanish churros and drinks at Movida and a ten course French degustation menu at Vue du Monde. As if the sight of two stuffed walruses was not enough to suggest that lettuce was in order, he invited us to dine the following night at his own restaurant Carsons in Yarraville. How we managed to put away all the delicious food coming from the kitchen I do not know. We rolled out of Melbourne content and already nostalgic for the food that we had seen but not had time to sample. We'll be back Melbs, with Gaviscon in one hand and a fork in the other.
After long last we landed in Perth, my home town. Once I see that clear light sky with minimal pollution, I know that I am back. The elements in Perth are what draw me back in at first. The big sky, blue in the daytime and star-filled at night. The ocean that is ten minutes drive away and the smell of air slightly crisp with sun.
And slowly then come the people whom I have known for many a year and shared much with. Last night in a big group reunion at Clancys, I sat amongst my old, dear friends, some whom I have not seen for three, four years. Time seemed to have preserved us in a bubble for it was as if we had spoken and laughed together only yesterday. Closeness really has nothing to do with distance. Last night reminded me how lucky I am to have those old bonds still.
Michael Leunig is an Australian cartoonist/philosopher extraordinaire. I've been following his whimsical work for years:
I am also a big fan of his sister (?) Mary Leunig who is also an illustrator with four books published: One Happy Family, No Place Like Home, Black and White and Gray and A Piece of Cake. Mary's work is much darker than Michael's and perhaps as a result, less popular. At least that might explain why it was so difficult to source one of her images online. All I could come up with was this book cover:
Whilst Michael's work is gentle and poignant, Mary wields her pen like a knife at times. She translates the world of families, domesticity and relationships into images you can't help but react to.
They both give me a kick, albeit in very different ways.
In 2006, a group of friends boldly embarked on a mission that was to lead them to wrack and ruin. With stars in their eyes they decided to formulate a plan whereby they would tour the world alphabetically, via the portal of food.
On that fated night, the following game plan was laid:
Participants: Four couples of diverse heritage, countries of origin, hairstyles and temperament.
Aim: To alphabetically sample cuisine from different countries, e.g. A – Algerian food, B – Burmese food and so on
Rules: Cuisine to be from a country that none of the participants’ originally harked from or were or had been citizens of. Just so you know, this ruled out America, Australia, Britain, China, Hong Kong, India, Ireland and Vietnam.
Modus Operandi: Once every two months, one couple would be in charge for a designated letter of the alphabet. They could either cook the food themselves or book a restaurant.
Finale: If the group make it to Z in 2011 without committing collective hara-kiri; the plan is to fly to Zanzibar and never cook again.
My spot in Zanzibar
In truth there were more rules stipulated than above but if you’ve read this far, you may be wanting to commit hara kiri yourself so I’ve spared you the fine print.
Miraculously we have kept the momentum going over the past four years. We have eaten our way though a birth, house moves, robberies, job changes, muggings, holidays, overseas guests and a million other life incidences that could have derailed us . We have gorged on cuisine from Argentina, Belgium, the Caribbean, Holland, Egypt, France, Greece, Hungary, Indonesia, Japan, Korea, Lebanon, Madagascar, Nepal, Oman, Peru, Canada, Russia, Spain and Thailand.
And now we are at U as in Uzbekistan, Uganda…. er... Uluru?
The end is so close. I can feel that Spice Island breeze already.
I got my first mobile phone in 2002. Prior to that, I’d resisted getting one because there was no real need for me to have one. Working freelance in events quickly put an end to my Luddite status and I was lumbered with an old clunker of a beast (Nokia) that quickly became indispensible professionally. I latched on soon enough to the personal benefits of mobile technology when I moved interstate. Lonely and missing my friends, I found much appeal in texting drunken messages in the wee hours:
I miss yoooouuuu……..hic!
That Nokia lasted me a lifetime. It bore witness to some truly memorable experiences. It contained the travails of moving interstate and coming out of a four year relationship. It saw me through about six job changes. It contained all the early courtship texts sent between me and my soon-to-be husband. And then in fitting fashion I lost it somewhere in Changi Airport en route from Australia to begin my new life in London.
My first mobile love...
Since then many mobiles have come and gone. They break down on or fall into the toilet. I lose them in my own house or they disappear in film cinemas. As another one bites the dust, a part of me mourns:
Every time we say goodbye, I cry a little Every time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little…
And then when the replacement comes, it’s hard on both of us. The animosity is instant. I poke at its buttons with disdain and it blanks me. I poo poo the software and it freezes. Finally one of us snaps. I throw it across the room screaming:
I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! It doesn’t work!
But then slowly we start to get to know one other. Hidden qualities emerge which hold me in thrall. I start to open up, trusting it with private messages and details.
Sick or not sick, life goes on. Last week passed in a whirl of birthday celebrations, overseas visitors and a jaunt to Wiltshire to visit friends.
First up was a night out at the Punchbowl which is the pub in Mayfair owned by Mr Ex-Madonna, Guy Ritchie. When you hear about these celebrity haunts in the media, you get the impression that they are touched by stardust given all the fuss generated. After spending four hours in said venue, I concluded that it was not stardust that lingered in the air at the Punchbowl but the faint whiff of Eau de Bull.
The charm of the place eluded me but maybe that was because I was starving. I’d ordered the scallops for my mains so when all six of them arrived I thought:
Where’s the rest?
As it was my friend's birthday, we wanted a few happy snaps but the small print on the menu clearly stated:
No photography is allowed in the venue.
Oh please. As if I want to take photos of a bunch of bankers and tourists. Get over yourself Guy. And how about churning out a decent movie one of these days eh?
Dean Street Townhouse where we took our visitor from Oz the following night was pleasure itself. It’s so refreshing when a place lives up to its hype. Part of the Soho House group, Dean Street is a relatively new kid on the block and has been garnering rave reviews ever since it debuted several months ago. I can happily contest that the food, atmosphere and service were delightful. And like the previous night, I did not leave hungry. Only hungry for more.
The weekend saw us winging it to Wiltshire for a long promised visit with friends who have a weekend hideaway out that way. The weather was delightful and our friends whisked us on a jaunt through the English countryside, incorporating the Ridgeway which is the oldest known road in England. We also went to see the White Horse of Uffington which dates back to the Bronze Age and has beside it, Dragon Hill, purported to be the site where St George slew the dragon.
Seeing where a dragon was killed was not too shabby a way to end the week. And we could take photos.
Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place. -Susan Sontag
I think my body is punishing me for running a marathon. Since I crossed the finish line and stopped pounding pavement, my body started pounding me.
Take that! it said as I hacked up phelgm from a chest infection.
You don't know the meaning of pain, it taunted as my throat swelled red and raw. Here's dehydration for ya, it sung as I prayed to the Porcelain God.
Vengeful huh?
The result of having been sick on and off for two months is that I am now on extended rest leave from work on Doctor's Orders. For one week.
As much as I do not like being sick, there is value in it. Sickness can be a sort of communion with oneself. When thoughts or ideas that you have been too busy to attend to in the frenzy of daily life, have an opportunity to surface. Sickness makes us be still.
It's great.
From stillness comes ideas, creativity and regeneration. I've barely left the house all week yet I've been more productive and stimulated than in the longest while.
As long as I get better after the week that is. After that, not so great.
Chronic illness, the type of inflictions which make people flinch or look blank when they come up in conversation is no-one's idea of a good time. Illness that lingers or has no cause nor cure. It tips a person from the land of the living into a strange subterranean territory where you are utterly alone with your character and conscience.
It's terrifying.
If you recover and re-emerge, blinking and shaken from the long time spent in that murky land, you are changed forevermore. The life lessons you get about yourself and those around you whilst chronically ill are unlike any other.
The challenge is to live well after that. Which I hope, most do.
Because I for one sure as hell don't want another visit to that hard and lonely land.
When I was at high school all those many, many years ago, there was a period of time in which my mates and I used to wag school quite a lot. I think back to this as the start of my delinquent phase which I am still waiting to grow out of.
But, I digress.
Having successfully legged it from whatever class we were supposed to be attending (Home Economics was a popular choice), my mates would chirrup:
Shall we go hang out at the park? Stalk some cute boys? Listen to music? Go to the markets?
Nah, I’d reply coolly, I’m going to the library.
That’s right. The Library.
Now you may be thinking, what sort of freak wags school, a place of paid learning and education just so they can go to the library?
Erm. That would be me.
After my friends had ditched me (after much vociferous disapproval at this library business), I would hunker down between shelves with a stack of books higher than my head and just dive in.
Bliss.
Together with delinquency, the need to read is also something I have never grown out of. I think if I could eat books, I would.
Therefore I am so happy to be visiting the London Library soon.
The London Library is, and I quote this from their Facebook page:
the world’s largest independent lending library. Founded in 1841, today it houses a remarkable collection of over one million books & periodicals from the 16th to 21st century.
Billions of stories are hidden behind those walls...
The library offers a service by which they give a tour to wanna be members. Membership is open to all but is incredibly expensive. £395 annually. So despite the “all is welcome” policy, the subtext is actually, "money talks, the rest can walk". On a brighter note, you can pay £10 for day membership and have access to the library but without borrowing privileges.
I haven’t a hope in hell of gaining borrowing rights but I’m excited still. Posing as a rich person, I will be getting a guided tour through this lush and gorgeous place where Tom Stoppard goes to write and Jeremy Paxman is on the board of Vice-Presidents. I can’t wait.
The germs that got their mitts on me a few weeks ago have come back for seconds.
I. Am. Not. Happy.
Sickness and I have a push-pull relationship. I pull myself out of its fug and it pushes me back into it. It’s like a freaking tug of war. Some time ago, it pushed me into ME hell for two years.
But hello. I ran a marathon. Isn’t that supposed to mean I’m healthy now? Fit?
I am particularly unimpressed to be ill right now because not only is it summer and there are Lots of Things to Do but I have an overseas trip to plan.
Ill or not, my excitement is growing. Apart from all my loved ones that I’ll be flinging myself on, there are many places that I’m looking forward to visiting. Places laden with memories; good times and bad. Places that I’ve never been to and always wanted to try. Places that might mean nothing to you but everything to me.
Sydney has always confused me with its ghetto-like urban sprawl and wannabe mentality. This time round I hope to make some sense of it. Apart from seeing my dear Grandma and some friends whose kids I plan to kidnap, we are going to Sydney so I can visit Glebe Markets. I am a market aficionado and Glebe is one of my favourites since I stumbled across it in 1998. Back then the hostel I stayed in stunk of pee. This time round, I'm not even bothering with accomodation. I'm going straight from the airport. From a 22 hour flight. I'm not kidding.
I love Melbourne. I love it more now that I don’t live there. It’s the perfect city for me from a distance with its amazing food and coffee, great shopping, integrated demographic, cultural riches and diverse nightlife. I have a long list of must-go-to’s in Melbourne:
Shanghai dumpling place on Tattersalls Lane, my kitchen away from home
The Latrobe Reading Room at the State Library. Quite possbily the reason I moved to Melbourne in the first place.
Northcote, Elwood, Balaclava, Fitzroy, Thornbury, Yarraville, Footscray, St Kilda, – all places I formed a bond with
Hosier Lane to check out the latest graffiti art. Melbourne has the best graffiti art and has done for years. Far before Banksy became all the rage.
The Astor Theatre; the best place to watch films in art deco decadence
The Ding Dong Lounge and Northcote Social Club. Melbourne's live music scene is amazing. These are just two of the many places to go see some great acts.
Beautiful, natural, isolated Perth. A frontier city perched on the edge of the Indian Ocean with a Mediterranean climate. Relaxed, quiet, beautiful and clean.
