stuff i think and do

O.L.S.I.O.H.T.P.

2011-08-16T13:52:00.012+10:00

I don't blog here very often anymore, and today I log in not to comment on Penny Wong or climate change, on riots or economic crises, but on that most pertinent of contemporary issues: Obvious Lesbian Subtext in Ostensibly Heterosexual Television Programming.

Let me begin.

In 1998, when I was 14, I was madly in love with a beautiful prefect 3 years my senior. This love was grounded in and found its safety in, certain undeniable truths:

nothing would ever happen between us
any other desires directed at me were not to be acted on because of my devotion to her
I would never love anyone like this again

All the while, I spent my lunch breaks sitting in a computer room next to a friend of mine, reading Xena fan fiction.

I don’t remember who introduced whom to Xena, though I know there was soon a group of us, all just-out-of-the-closet baby-dykes and baby-bis, who merrily gathered for sleepovers to watch this rather appalling tv show. We passionately analysed the glances and touches, puns and innuendo between the two lead characters, and a few of us read fan fiction. The internet was still in its infancy; we had no facebook or youtube, but we had email and fan fiction, and the school hadn’t worked out how to block porn.

And it was mostly porn we read. We consumed story after story in order to imagine what the television wouldn’t give us in Xena and Gabrielle: a requited lesbian love story.

---

The appeal of unresolved sexual tension (UST in the fanfic world) isn’t new or original. From Austen to the X Files, we adore being voyeurs as characters we deem so clearly in love dance around the possibility of romance.

The delicious tension of unrequited desire filled my adolescence: the prefect I couldn’t touch but followed through the halls; the straight girls I crushed on, imagining they might one day turn (some did, though not for some years, and not with me); the television programs spanning seasons without fulfillment, and the similarly themed rom coms I consumed voraciously.

There was safety in unrequited desire, in seeking only what I couldn’t have. More than safe, it was totally hot, and though I’m thrilled I hit a turning point at about age 25 and started seeking people I could actually have, I still sometimes yearn for that denial, and I satisfy that yearning with more UST-laden TV.

I recently started watching Rizzoli and Isles, a rather ludicrous buddy cop dramedy staring the devastatingly good-looking Angie Harmon and Sasha Alexander. I chose to watch it after I read a lesbian blogger’s ‘subtext recap’ celebrating its lesbian UST.

You can taste the UST subtext oozing off the screen. These two women touch each other gratuitously, share a bed regularly, have candle lit dinners, pretend to be gay to put off unwanted men, get jealous when the other dates, have a superb butch/femme dynamic, dine with each others’ mothers…I could go on.

I don’t know whether the producers planned it this way, or just started playing up to their rabid lesbian fan base as the series progressed [search #Gayzzoli and isLez on Twitter if you wish to find them] but now, in season 2, the subtext is ridiculously blatant. However, the actors, writers and producers continue to insist in interviews that these are totally straight women who are “just friends”.

And so the tv producers win: we, its lesbian viewers, keep going back for more, recapping crumbs of tension as they arise, penning epic tomes of fanfic and getting off on that divinely cruel state we remember from our adolescence; the closeted, secret, unrequited desire of a friendship laced with sexual tension.

Meanwhile, they keep the “family” viewers happy and don’t have to tackle the issue or become a “gay tv show.”

And most of time, I don’t really care. It’s a stupid tv show, that I watch cos the women have beautiful shiny hair, good comic timing, shoot guns and look at each other lovingly.
But part of me gets angry. Because Josh / Donna and CJ / Danny had their resolution; the Good Wife / Will got hot and heavy at the end of only the second season; Bones is pregnant to Booth; and Moulder / Scully had some weird drawn out romance resulting in that second movie that was shit.

Poor Xena died with only a chaste peck for Gabby and I highly doubt Rizzoli will ever push Isles against the elevator wall and finally show her how well a butch can treat a lady.

Of course there are exceptions – shows like Buffy, Glee and Greys Anatomy – which bravely allow previously straight characters to discover new facets to their sexuality and come out. But they are the exceptions, and these characters tend to be surrounded by a straight ensemble cast, rather than being eponymous heroes.

For the most part, we are left grasping at subtext and settling for unrequited desire. While straight viewers can watch with the hope of resolution, we settle for less.

---

I introduced that same Xena-loving high school companion to Rizzoli & Isles and she is, of course, hooked. I could have bet my right boob she would love it. Within hours of pressing download, she had texted me with ‘this is everything - EVERYTHING - I want in a tv show.’

I went over for dinner the other night and we gleefully told tales of our high school explorations. We have never kissed – rare among lesbian friends – but I discovered parts of my sexuality more with her than with the group of friends I did get drunk and ‘practice on.’

Because with her, it wasn’t practice. In that computer room, she was learning the ins and outs of her desires, and finding community in writers using the internet to tell the stories we weren’t getting on our screens. She was the first person to really describe lesbian sex to me, after being the first of my friends to have it.

She expressed her teenage desires in ways I wasn’t ready to understand, still caught up in unrequited love for my prefect – who was so safe because I couldn’t have her. At the time I think I was intimidated by how bold my friend was, and, while I seemed to have the power, as the early object of her affection, in truth, I looked up to her, so sure of what she wanted. To this day, I am in awe of her guts when it comes to sex and romance. She may privately eroticise the unrequited but she nearly always gets the girl.

---

My friend’s girlfriend watched, aghast with delight as we dissected our new show and reminisced about our geeky teenage adventures: “oh wow…I feel like I’m meeting you both aged 15,” she said.

Much has changed since then. I get now that requited love is superior and far more satisfying long term; these days, lesbians kiss on prime time tv; I’m facebook friends with that prefect and while she is still very pretty, it’s more than a decade since I thought we were “meant to be.”
But, it was nice to discover what hasn’t changed; what my friend and I still share, after 12 years of friendship. It’s more than a penchant for shitty tv, - it’s a certain kind of desire, and a certain way of enjoying what sets our community apart. The delight we take in getting attached to these characters, despite our text always being sub, is an unrequited desire all of its own.

---

The Kids are Alright

2011-01-31T00:35:00.001+11:00

I finally got around to watching The Kids are Alright last night. Anyone not up to speed, google it, watch it or be prepared for spoilers.

Basic premise is a family with 2 kids and lesbians mums. The teenage son wants to find their sperm donor so they look him up and contact him. He starts hanging out with the family, commences an affair with one of the mums, is discovered and then - thank god - is summarily rejected by the whole family.

Til last night, I had boycotted it. Finally, there was a lesbian mums film, and it had to be about the fucking sperm donor? And worst: about fucking the sperm donor.

Now, someone told me it was autobiographical when they heard my cry of "That would NEVER happen", but my complaint stands, because, despite it happening in this instance, it is not indicative of most lesbian families.

You know who lesbians often cheat with? Other women. You know how much time I devote each year to thinking about my sperm donor? Maybe 25 minutes, when Louise gets a birthday card from him and updates me on his life and I think, well gee I'm glad he gave

my mums that sperm.

In all my years of Lesbian Mothers with Children meetings and Rainbow Babies, The Kids are Alright is not a story I have heard. Curiosity about sperm donors: yes. Contacting them for information: sometimes. Lesbian mums having mad hot affairs with them: not so much.

The Kids are Alright is well written, with full characters and a bright script. I'd see it again just to see Annette Bening tell the sperm donor that she needs his advice "like I need a dick in my ass." It would have been ok - good even - if I had already seen five or fifty films about a variety of lesbian families, with a variety of stories. But WHY does the First Lesbian Mothers Film have to be about the god damned sperm?

And... it gets worse: the sex between the two women is dull, hidden, mechanical and lacking passionate. When Julianne Moore fucks the sperm donor, it is naked, graphic, passionate, varied, aggressive, penetrative and - apparently - better.

Not. Ok.

But perhaps the absolute worst thing about The Kids are Alright is how much it affected me. Perhaps it's that an hour after watching it I found myself in tears, halfway through brushing my teeth, sobbing because I had just seen my family on screen for the first time in 27 years. Sobbing for the parts of my family I have lost, and the parts we have fiercely held on to - having fought so hard. I watched a lesbian family with teenage children struggle with issues I recognised. I saw lesbian parents battle through infidelity. I saw the subtle differences that occur when 2 women parent together; differences I can't list here without hideous generalisation, but marked differences that fellow children of lesbians mothers would have seen too. Moments and lines and feelings we have seen and said and felt.

I am 27 and I have never seen my family fictionalised, never had narratives that reflected my own, never had movies or novels or television shows that legitimised my experiences, allowed me to laugh at them, or gave me the catharsis I got last night.

The Kids are Alright made me very sad and very angry: angry because they got it so wrong, and angry because they got it so right.

Blogging for Don't DIS

2010-11-10T11:19:00.004+11:00

Full disclosure: The ‘Blog for Don’t DIS’ thing was my idea. So yes, in writing this blog, I am doing my job. But that isn’t why I am writing it.

I started working for the Don’t DIS my ABILITY campaign in 2009, recently returned from my Big Overseas Trip and wondering what to do next in my odd little career. Thinking I’d be biding my time as an event manager while studying, I discovered firstly that what I was doing was so much more than events management and, secondly, that I didn’t want to study for a new career after all.

I feel so genuinely privileged to work for this campaign; to spend my days discovering new ways to think about disability, community, education and discrimination; to meet such engaging and thoughtful people; to develop new language techniques for communicating ideas; to have the chance to learn new tools and media for communicating online and off; to discover new Australian writers, bloggers, activists, teachers, musicians and more.

When I tell people about the work I do, they assume I’m then going to wax lyrical about “giving back” and “helping people” and “inspiring change.” But that is not what I focus on. I think people can tend to try and give the impression that they work in non-profits or social justice initiatives out of selflessness…

I don’t want to diminish the real action inspired by campaigning and education, or the genuine passion of the staff who work in these fields. But while I do my job because it’s important, I also work for Don’t DIS my ABILITY because it’s fun, because I learn, because it’s engaging and because I believe people who have been through hardship, people who are from a minority group, people who know what it is like to walk (or wheel) down the street as “other” are just more interesting.

I will leave this position at the end of the campaign smarter, more reflective, more aware and deeply enriched. I have met wonderful people, seen some amazing things and, most importantly for me, had some wonderful conversations.

...

iphones are ruining our lives

2010-08-16T21:17:00.001+10:00

M: Emily, what are you doing?

E: Feeding my fish in my shark tank. It's an app. Just promise you'll make me quit if I ever decide to buy fish coins with real money. I've been tempted...

A: Don't look at me, I paid for the advanced version of iperiod.

M: But iperiod is useful!

A: I'm on the pill, Maeve.

ch-ch-changes

2010-08-02T14:04:00.002+10:00

Old Habits:

Nail biting
Chewing lip
Jaw clenching
Smiling
Talking
Being happy

New Habits:

Nail picking
Putting hands in mouth to adjust plate
Rubbing sore temples
Frowning
Lisping
Being angry

jaws

2010-07-23T14:51:00.003+10:00

Every morning when I wake up, my jaw is locked shut. I can open it, clicking it painfully but it often continues to re-lock throughout my shower and breakfasting, much to my frustration. Throughout the day it clicks irritatingly, until sometime in the evening when - if I am lucky - it calms down.

After years - yes years - of this problem, I decided to mention it to my dentist a few weeks ago. He thought it was due to grinding my teeth at night and, maybe, my nail-biting habit. He was going to make me up a little splint. Then, luckily, in a moment of honesty, I said "...yeah... If I am trying to talk to someone, or drive, or watch TV, and I am not biting my hands, it's really hard for me to concentrate."

Deeming my problem "chronic" he referred me to a specialist.

I have spent the last month trying to stop biting my hands. It's felt like a break-up. My safe little crutch gone, I have developed a number of other twitches: twiddling my fingers, biting the inside of my lips, scratching at my cuticles and so on. But I have kept trying.

Today I went to said specialist and paid $400 to be told:

a) I am stressed

b) I am a classic personality type for teeth grinding / clenching

c) I clench my jaw at night, drawing moisture out of my mouth and placing enormous pressure on the joints

d) I need a plate - 24 hrs a day for 2 months, then at night. It will cost $900. It will cost $125 per weekly adjustments during the first month.

e) The plate will fix the locking. It probably won't fix the clicking as the ligaments have been stretched and may not bounce back.

He talked to me for about 45 minutes about stress and, having never met me before, described elements of my personality in depth, with disturbing accuracy:

"You are a worrier. You are over-analytical. You are a "what if" person, unable to make decisions because you are constantly pondering the options and you know that, once a decision is made you'll go over and over it. You may be sitting quietly and suddenly a decision you made years ago will start to plague you and your anxiety will shoot through the roof. You procrastinate. You are good at talking about what you think, but not how you feel. When a friend has a problem, they can call you and you happily provide sound advice but you are unable to apply this practical reasoning to your own choices."

And it went on..and was kind of intense...

This year I have had two long-term problems come to a very expensive head because I ignored them for years (vocal injury and now this). I think I had better call the podiatrist about my fusion foot before I step off the curb and it breaks...

2010-07-22T14:41:00.003+10:00

Last night, my mother's dear friend Peter passed away after 6 months of pancreatic cancer. Peter was one of Louise's oldest friends, a veteran from the heady days of communal housing, alternative families and queer-before-the-word-queer-was-trendy lifestyles my parents told me about when I was growing up. The years in London, before I was born, were retold as bedtime stories and through the photo albums lining our walls. I idolised the brown-tinged bell-bottomed hippies smiling up at me from English pebble beaches and little share house kitchens.

Peter was closer to Rowan growing up, coaching him in philosophy and Latin. I loved him as my mother's friend but we did not have a close personal relationship, despite running into each other regularly at Queerscreen events and the theatre.

So when I heard Peter had cancer, and last night when I got the message from Louise, I cried mainly for her, and for his family: two adult children, close friends and ex-lovers, and his lovely partner Rubens.

The past 5 years have not been easy to Louise. She has lost two brothers, the gorgeous Ingrid - another old friend, and two weeks ago, a treasured colleague. When life was hardest, Peter was there in ways only he could see she really needed. While others asked questions, imposed their own agendas and expectations, Peter took her to the opera and on picnics. Astoundingly intelligent, he talked to her about books and philosophy, not divorce and death, and he reminded her who she was and how much joy she could find in the world. He has been a true friend, and I know she will feel the loss of him daily.

Sometimes it feels like death is skirting the peripheries of my life, slowly circling closer. This big bad that frightens me so deeply, edging its way into my life, spiralling inwards, each time hurting that little bit more. I am terrified - cold and terrified - about the moment it will be not a mother's friend, or a cousin's father, but a sister or a close friend of my own. I am terrified that, unlike Louise - who is so much braver than she realises - I will completely crumble.

My mothers and their friends have taught me all I know about family. They have flaws, but you could never accuse them of disloyalty. Teresa told me yesterday how she happily skyped her first girlfriend from uni, Sydney to London, across oceans and what must be more than 35 years. They taught me that once you love someone, you should hold on tight. Some people don't like this little habit of mine - especially ex-girlfriends - but I have no plans to change. Once I'm yours, you're stuck with me, whether you like it or not. I make mistakes; I've hurt friends and I've of course been hurt by those I love. But I am still striving for friendships like my mothers maintain; epic romances really, with people they know so well and so deeply, but are still able to be suprised by and in awe of.

Peter farewelled Louise last week saying, "Enjoy everything, Louise." It's a pretty perfect piece of advice and one I want to heed. It's also something I couldn't do without my family and friends. I'm thinking about them today, and also about Peter.

...

Sleeping my way to a better me.

2010-07-08T16:15:00.000+10:00

Att: Customer Service
Ford Motors Australia

To whom it may concern,

I recently had the immense fortune of hiring a Ford Mondeo for a road trip I took through the USA's South West. It was Springtime and the wildflowers were in full bloom, but the weather was colder than expected and so I found myself looking at my little tent with trepidation. As the night air grew frosty on my first night in the stunning Yosemite Valley, I decided my Australian constitution wouldn't cope with the open air and I promptly set about creating a little bed in the passenger seat of my Ford.

I admit I was skeptical about the night ahead. I am not a fan of overnight travel, due to the typically uncomfortable seating of most transportation. An intermittent insomniac, I envisaged a sleepless night followed by a quick tent pitch or a flutter of the eye lashes at one of my travel companions in the hope that they might want to share body heat.

I awoke the next day, shocked and amazed. I had slept like a proverbial log. I felt more rested than I had in months and I bounded joyously from the car, refreshed and alive. I spent the next two weeks sleeping in the Ford Mondeo passenger seat and I had the best two weeks of my life. It was so comfortable that my insomnia was cured.

The night after I had returned the vehicle, I lay restless and devastated in my bed. I awoke the next morning with a familiar ache; the back pain that had disappeared for two blissful weeks had returned tenfold now that I was back in a regular bed.

I have spent years buying fancy mattresses, paying physios, doing back exercises and tossing and turning in vain. But two weeks in the passenger seat of a Ford Mondeo and all the pain was gone.

I truly believe that if I were to spend every night sleeping in such a seat my life would be greatly improved.

As such, I ask you whether it would be possible to purchase a passenger seat from a Ford Mondeo, or better yet whether any factory spares would be available in Australia - for donation, so that I may install the seat in my bedroom and sleep my way to a healthier, happier me.

I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.

Warm Regards,
Maeve

Lost.

2010-06-05T17:22:00.000+10:00

Fuck. Gone in a moment. I scream, terrifying these white bread swear-jar owning hikers who clearly think I am mad. They don't want to know the answer when they ask if I am ok.

I have said numerous times, in those repeated traveller engagements, that I'd rather lose my passport than my photos, my identification rather than my memories. Travelling alone, my camera is my companion, my little keeping box. In moments of solitude I take it out, to record a moment, to share a joke with myself, to make solid the beauty I've found in a little corner of the world just discovered, to fill my hands when they feel restless. It measures my learning, as I develop skills in the manipulation of the little dials, tactile as they click into place adjusting aperture, shutter speed, and other new words in my vocabulary. My camera is heavy around my neck, marks me tourist, makes me feel safe as an outside observer, excuses my gawking and wonderment.

Sitting on a little perch halfway into the Grand Canyon I clicked a button by accident and, in an instant, lost New York and Yosemite. Hiking out, sobbing, rapidly dehydrating, depleted and angry, where moments earlier I had been on top of the world. I was crying for the lost little rectangles, but also for the days to come when I knew I'd be characteristically self-critical, going over and over my mistaken fingers. And already, as I trudged uphill (faster than perhaps ever before), I was cataloguing the losses, imprinting them in my head, a different kind of memory card.

Memory is my obsession and losing it one of my great fears. In my mind, I quantify these little pieces of experience I am amassing; they are building something - someone - and the camera holds it all together.

I have given myself those well-practiced middle class children-dying-in-Africa, it-could-be-worse speeches. And of course I know it could bloody well be worse, I'm not an idiot. But sometimes always remembering "the less fortunate" can take away from one's right to just feel sad for a moment, or a day or two.

The camera allows me to share it all, my little forays out into the world, the ups, downs and footsteps. I don't go easy alone. I like telling stories. My photos type captions as I take them. They aren't just pretty scenery, but also punchlines, thoughts, quirks and tales. Some moments I feel alone don't feel real til they are shared. And while I know there is a lesson here in owning my alone adventures, I still feel sad - weeks later - about these lost stories, lost chances to make someone I love laugh or think or shake their head and roll their eyes at me.

So, if you're still with me, here are a few of my 700 lost moments:

In NYC...
Squirrels. So Many Squirrels.
Subway underpass slanting in Queens, sharp light hitting street art beneath the bridge and a man leaning out to look for the train.
Anna, old friend, living it large in NYC, in photos she deemed ugly and I deemed delightful (losses she may be pleased about actually...): in front of a shop named Anna; together, reflected in multitudes of tiny octagonal mirrors (or were they hexagons?) pulling practiced same-crazy faces; aiming her own camera on the Brooklyn Bridge; trudging through Central Park; pulling faces on the subway; pretty in candlelight at vegetarian Korean; looking up at theatre posters she may someday be written on; mouths agape over ice tea bottles - a little crazed after hours in the Met; faces squished together in Times Square.
The Brooklyn Bridge is crumbling sepia, rusted flakes on the suspension arching towards the pillars, Manhattan in the distance.
A series of ridiculous jackets in Williamsburg thrift stores, humoured by a new friend taking happy snaps of me in green corduroy.
A woman in a park with a hot pink bouncing ball that matched her shirt.
A field of bluebells in the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens; I stood for sometime finding the right setting to recreate the exact shades of blue and green.
Chronicles of my romp through the West Village with a round and lovely man named James: Stonewall and statues for my people; borscht and blintz in a Jewish dairy; the Friends building, taken for my sister; Christopher St Pier in slanting afternoon sun; and my first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty.
Bani, my funny little host in Jackson Heights, napping on the subway home, zebra print tights against bright orange plastic, cap falling into eyes.
James Spader, looking sharp, moments before I squeaked my ridiculous confession.
Catherine Zeta Jones, caught smiling despite the influx of fans, one sobbing woman crying "I LOVE YOU CATHERINE" - glad she isn't me.
The Bill of Rights, posted on the back of a toilet door in the Brooklyn Academy of Music.
The Guggenheim shot at angles that make its white circular look like a take away cup against the bright blue sky.
Knish. Vegan pizza. Bagels.
Four boys, slouch-shorted surfer types, standing in a line, stock still, contemplating art: specifically, a large canvas (seemingly built for this moment) painted one shade of grey green.
The highline, industrial parklife with a view, and an old French companion; smiling bilingual fun over coffee and crazy flavoured felafel.
Polite American signage: with <3s for some letters; much please and thank you; a 'Voluntary Quiet Zone' on the Staten Island ferry.
So many artworks and objects shot for friends who love them: Georgia O'Keefe and Monet for my mothers; Mondrian for Emily; a statue of Sappho (large feet, sensible shoes) for, well, so many; more Rodin for Viv and other little pieces of famous I won't see again.
Paparazzi waiting for Sarah Jessica Parker, shot so I could mock Louise about her love of Sex and the City. A bakery that apparently features in same: see above for reasoning.
A bridal shop in Flushing, Queens.
Rollercoaster at Coney Island which I rode, fighting that day's melancholy with breathtaking falls.
Old men and young professionals playing boules together in the sun in Bryant Park.
The Dinner Party by Judy Chicago at the Brooklyn Museum: close up on figures that resonated and on two names on the historical panels that accompany it: Maeve and Grainne. Writ large in this epic feminist memory keeper.

And in Yosemite...
Squirrels. So many squirrels. A squirrel posing pretty next to a blue jay. A squirrel reaching for Hermann's hand, hoping for food we didn't have (clif bars already eaten).
Our First Meal, bean and tofu stew that looked like dog food but was delicious post-hike.
Me, thumbs up and smiling above an American flagged 'Marsden for congress, Marsden for you' sign (possibly the loss I feel the hardest)
Tumbling waterfalls, cascading wonder, sharp granite beauty and a little sign that warned against swimming or creeping too close with the simple "If you fall, you will die."
A series of me and Morgana, running leaping and escaping into empty fields and sunsets.
A pile of junkfood purchased just after we had been discussing what a healthy road trip we'd had thus far: guacamole flavoured chips, twix ice cream, butterfingers and Morgana's hideous 'artificially flavoured strawberry shortcake ice cream.'
The Mariposa Grove of towering sequoias (pronounced not as I thought), mammoth ancient trees in deep red and cute moments standing under them. Snow falling gently, captured only as little blurs on the lens.
Terrifying winding drive into night time, dirt road, wondering if we'll find a camp, blank fields and mining towns. Deliverance country, we say.
Wildflowers and windfarms.
The sunset through the windscreen, behind our driving faces, across the steering wheel and through the windows: big beautiful sky, shared with new friends.

And finally...
My feet hanging over the edge on a little perch halfway into the Grand Canyon where I pressed the wrong button on my camera.

Weird stuff I do when I'm alone.

2010-06-05T10:33:00.001+10:00

I spent Wednesday night camping at a clothing optional Californian new age spa.

You see, when I am alone I like to do random shit I wouldn't normally do. It started in Norway when I stowed away on a cruise ship and sailed off into the midnight sun, sitting pretty in the jacuzzi. Note that 'stowed away' is code for paid a reduced fee and slept on the cafeteria floor. Anyway, this little solitary adventure went very well and began a series of little moments, some I share, some I don't, where I do things just for me. While I am away, I hike, I wear a bikini (sometimes), I stop drinking coffee, and - as of yesterday - I stay at clothing optional Californian new age spas.

Long story short, I picked up a flyer for Harbin Hot Springs at the Calistoga Visitors Centre, helped by two friendly plastic surgeryed women. I felt like a little rest and relaxation after my road trip and something needed to be done about my feet. Desert + walking = dry and icky.

Result: unexpected. The saronged lady with cracked lips at the gatehouse took my membership fee and camping costs. "We ask a fee because we are a clothing optional facility." Riiiight. I smiled sweetly and set off with my map.

Old and young, fat and thin, gay, straight, trans, families, hippies, hipsters and me. All naked or in varying degrees of undress. Plunging in and out of hot and cold spas, these tattoed, tan line free new age sorts debated psychology, their fellow spa goers tattoos and how the place had changed over the years. I roamed at first, not quite feeling like I belonged but not feeling like an outsider either.

I adjusted to the nudity. I relaxed into the walk from spa to towel, uncovered and anonymous. And I booked myself into a scrub and wrap - one of the most relaxing 90 minutes of my life. Oh Martine, you lovely German wonder. I sat and read, drank in the sun, made a little salad for one in the communal kitchen and trotted around the gardens.

The temptation was there to judge or laugh at these people - privileged lot - some reliving the 60s and some of that new age genre of pop-psych where being a hippy is about self-love not free...

But I didn't want to. I let myself enjoy this funny little departure from my day to day, my comfort zone. I sat in the spa and watched the stars. I don't do much alone, and travelling alone can be odd for me. But sometimes the alone is awesome.

Ode to New York: A Poem in Three Parts

2010-05-19T13:33:00.004+10:00

everything whole wheat toasted with scallion cream cheese, tomatoes and cucmber
jalapeno with spinach artichoke cream cheese, tomatoes and peppers
egg with sundried tomato, tomatoes and peppers
everything pumpernickel toasted with jalapeno cheddar cream cheese and tomatoes

promises, promises
room for cream
a behanding in spokane
fuerza bruta
a little night music
race
vaginal davis speaking from the diaphragm
next to normal
memphis

molly shannon
christopher walken
sam rockwell
catherine zeta jones
angela lansbury
james spader
kerry washington
chloe sevigny

Maeve's Guide to Southern Cuisine

2010-05-19T13:32:00.001+10:00

1. Take an existing food item and play about with the spices a bit.
2. Make it bigger.
3. Add more meat. Or crumb it.
4. Fry it.
5. Include consistent ingredients over time and venue.
6. Rename it.
7. Voila: Regional Specialty.

Mexico

2010-05-19T13:30:00.000+10:00

I sit and eat my last meal, vegetarian fajitas and a melon smoothie, while the man at the viva mexico table cloth next to mine cheers loudly at the football on the screen. Twenty days and I have barely scratched the surface of this crazy nation.

From Mexico DF, massive, bubbling, teeming, with the grandeur of a mediterranean capital, the feel of Bangkok and Eastern European behemoth apartment blocks, crumbling like their communist counterparts on the other side of the world. Epic murals in the Palacio de las Bellas Artes passionately advocating a nationalistic, anti-capitalist politic, oozing history down colonial hallways, the details explained to me by a funny guide who was well informed about art, but more than a little bit racist. The highlight of the explanation: 'see there. that is a black man. they are very good at music and sports and the women they think they are good lovers. the white women, they love the black men.' Totally relevant to the works of Diego Rivera and Rufino Tamayo. The houses of Frida Kahlo, worth the pilgrimmage, but sadly lacking in her work. The casa y estudio, most disappointing with Rivera's house kept as was and hers turned into a little gallery showing someone else's work. Damn sexist history.

Arriving amidst Semana Santa, holy week, and experiencing the madness of celebration at the mammoth Basilica de la Guadelupe, where my kind and clever host Beatriz discussed with me the class system of her city and we bought giant cups of cordial and stared at the worshippers as they paraded through the square.

This in contrast with a small church in San Juan Chamula, Chiapas. I stood in that Church for sometime. The marble floor coated with drying pine needles and flowers, small clearings spread by individual worshippers who light the hundreds upon hundreds of small candles that light the space and fill it with a waxy smell that reminds me of my bedroom after I've fallen asleep with the candle lit. In various stages of prayer, children clung to to prevent escape, men and women kneeled on the floor, chanted, rocked back and forth, and presented offerings of home made liquor and coca cola.

No priest stood at the front and I was able to walk slowly through and around the people, following the path of the other pale voyeurs, peering into the cabinets lining the walls, at the many manequins dressed regally and labelled saints. Stoppedin my tracks, seemingly unashamed of my gawking I stared, transfixed as a woman clutched a chicken by its legs to ensure it did not escape and waved it over her young son's body. He seemed disinteressed in the blessing he received and, like a crying baby at a baptism, he protested by hitting the chicken intermittently. Waving ritual complete, she ay the chicken in her lap and calmly, deliberately, killed it, rubbing the pink and phallic neck firmly with the heel of her hand til it broke, then watching as the head flopped about. Still a little bit alive, she placed it in a plastic bag.

A voyeur. Large and intrusive. I found it hard to develop a solid response to this place. In traditional Christian churches I feel free to judge and criticise religion, but when the religion is unfamiliar, a mingling of ancient Indigenous rituals and introduced Christianity, to criticise can be to colonise, or so it felt. Lengthy debates followed with a German named Bee who I met that day.

In Oaxaca, the beautiful Pueblas Mancomunados, a collective of Zapotec villages who run a successful ecotourism network for intrepid travellers. Hiking their homeland cloud forests, village to village, amazed my body could make it post office-job-limb-crunch and thrilled by soaring horizons, local knowledge of medicinal plants and wildlife so stunning and unique, descending from pine forests, through oak to lush river fringing moss and bromelia. From the home cooked meals of the comedores, making blue tortilla, drinking such fine hot chocolate, to a night of luxury with my fellow hikers - Mexican gastronomical haute cuisine at El Teatro Culinario in Oaxaca City.

The vegetarian organic wonderland of San Cristobal, hippy town in the highlands of Chiapas, ringed by Zapatista communities I knew so little about. The thrill of discovering a small cinema screening a docco on my first night so I could be better informed. And that universal artform of revolutions - the murals - adorning walls of checkpoints when I travelled through the Chiapas countryside. The devastating knowledge that so many of these revolutionaries lost loved ones fighting the government for ridiculous wants like land, health, education and basic human rights.

Palenque. Beautiful ancient Palenque. And Agua Azul, a water wonderland of falls and currents no theme park could build. Pumping my arms against the flow to reach the edge of a waterfall and stand beneath it, my sore muscles pummelled, my bad mood that day erased.

And the tourist hub of Yucatan where I got lost in Walmart for an hour and had a panic attack soon after. People don't tell you that the biggest danger to peace of mind when travelling can be just that - your mind - struggling daily to make decisions, take in more knowledge than is available to you in a week at home, communicating with new person after new person and questioning all that you have done thus far. If one more fellow tourist says 'you are only here for __ weeks / days?! But you can't do ANYTHING in that time,' I may hit them. Hard.

But Mexico, that country an American official warned me was crazy, soothed my own madness, delivering up charming and talkative hosts, Manolo and Erick, crystalline beaches, private cave pools, ocean paradise and a reprieve from loud mouthed, sun burnt Westerners (including myself). I will come back one day. But for now, I will just feel full. Of fajitas, art, history, natures, people, religion and - of course - cerveza.

Heaven

2010-04-22T09:51:00.000+10:00

Heaven is stepping off a collectivo on an empty piece of highway and trudging down a path to a deserted stretch of Carribean; creeping down rocky path to swim in my first cenote, a deserted, mangrove circled peace and quiet; alone save for brush breaking wildlife sneaking closer (the dirty perves) and little fish that nibble my ankles in a pleasing food chain reversal.

It is returning to the beach to snack on carrots while I read then wading into the Carribean, sea blinding clear and shallow turquoise. Palm fringed sands like a dream, but barely another in sight. It's knowing that there are no trees like this in Cancun, where the tourists pay big for their piece of behemoth Hilton. Schadenfreude.

It is hopping off the bus at Cenote Dos Ojos and wandering up to the dive centre, splashing out on a snorkel so as to tour the cave depths of this mammoth network of tunnels and towers, shining fish and deep passageways I can't reach; scooting under the surface when an American afraid of bats declares 'you know the best part will be telling people I did this.' Knowing how wrong she is. Holding my breath to forge deep through a tunnel and emerge triumphant, only to realise I narrowly missed smashing my skull on the cave roof. Laughing.

It is fending off Decision Panic when the cabanas I head for are closed, only to land on another stretch of perfect sand. Diving under the blue so I can hear nothing and emerging to watch the thunder clouds roll in, fascinated by this pale turquoise ocean and indigo sky, like a house paint sampler; colours I have never seen side by side.

Heaven is tucking into an overpriced salad and beer at a candle lit, sand floor restaurant, while the black outside takes shape only beneath a lightening strike, and thinking that my most stressful day at work paid for this.

from palenque with love

2010-04-18T08:34:00.004+10:00

I wonder what will be left of our great cities in years to come, when ours is the ancient. Churches and houses of parliament, galleries and perhaps the foundations of our skyscrapers. Twists of metal and plastic; my mothers' ornamental plates, broken apart; your iphones, smashed to pieces.

What new age hippies of eras to come will wander down George St, stand on Gowings corner, where Supré today sports neon, and say 'Wow, I can really feel the power of this place.'

Will my touristic ancestors mosey the crumbled ruins of the QVB on some cliché journey of self-development, while their mothers receive postcards with pithy sentiments about disruptive tour groups and monkeys?

I close my eyes and try to imagine Palenque, this great city so named by the Spanish, as it once stood, bricks deep red and Mayans wandering, ruling, fucking, worshipping, eating and sleeping. I amble up temples and sporting arenas and wonder what it would now look like if the same effort had been put into constructing houses as these tombs and pyramids.

I was told to get a tour here and so, concerned about time, I took that advice. But, after comical mechanical disasters, we arrived late and 2 hours at Palenque was not nearly enough. I returned today to take my time in the sun, sit beside waterfalls and clamber down forbidden jungle paths, rest atop monuments, listen to the birds and discuss life, love, travel, anxiety and tattoos with a barefoot German yoga teacher called Gita.

...

oh I do wish things would stop going right

2010-04-15T06:35:00.005+10:00

I have nothing to blog about. Things are trotting along rather nicely; what is a self-decrecating chronicler of embarrassment and disaster to do? I have been trying to court catastrophe, but it's just not working for me. Examples of the efforts I have gone to in order to entertain you are as follows:

Adventure 1: Hiking
Risks: Fitness level, crazed fellow tourists who kill me or provoke me to kill them, lost in woods a la Kanangra 2002, fitness levels, fusion foot (in which my bones are growing together where they should not), death from smoke inhalation due to open fire in cabana left alight while sleeping, did I mention fitness levels?
Result: It was awesome. The hikes were challenging but totally manageable (about 12-14km per day). We stayed in cosy cabanas with open fireplaces in the Pueblos Mancomunados, a collective of Indigenous villages who have formed a successful community ecotourism organisation in the Sierra Norte. I was convinced that I was to die of smoke inhalation in said cabana which led to an amusing slapstick-esque routine in which I would get out of bed, open windows and leap back under the covers then Julie, quite cold at 3000m, would leap out, shut them and hop back in to her bed. All this repeated til we slept. And did not die. The scenery was varied and beautiful, we learned loads about local flora and medicinal herbs and stuff, we saw woodpeckers, we ate like vegetarian queens, the hot chocolate made Australian hot chocolate taste like dirt and wee and water, fusion foot only hurt on the very last day AND my fellow travellers were absolutely lovely. So lovely in fact that they too value fancy food and we celebrated our success with a visit to a super posh Mexican restaurant that was all fusiony and did a degustation with black bean cappuccino. BLACK BEAN CAPPUCCINO.

Adventure 2: Night Bus
Risks: Had been told horror tales of drugging and burglary, do not sleep well in transit and often tiredness can lead to lost belongings (Pierre Cardin watch, Norway, 2008) and falling over, generally have misfortune of sitting next to large, smelly, talkative people who carry stereos on bus and play them all night.
Result: Best night bus experience ever. I had a seat to myself, fellow passengers were silent, I took enough melatonin to knock out an albino horse and slept like a little baby, only waking up when people got off to check none of them made off with my precious belongings.

Adventure 3: Travelling solo
Risks: Going slightly mad, being kidnapped, falling over in a forest and no one hearing a sound!
Result: Look, it's not all roses, sometimes I get a bit lonesome (cue country music) but mostly it's pretty sweet. I decide what I do and when and early in the morning, I eat breakfast with appallingly bad table manners, when no one else is watching. I did have an unfortunate and terrifying run in with a middle aged, painfully tanned German woman in a g-string who creeped creepily toward my bed in the middle of the night at a hostel. It turned out she was seeking the source of a smell she believed to be my shoes. It was her towel on the end of her bed. Lesson learnt - no more hostels.

Adventure 4: Eating lots of Beans
Risks: Farting and diarhoea.
Result: When I fart, I pretend it was someone else.

So you see, I am at a loss. I have met other travellers who have been walking in the hills only to be surrounded by Zapatista rebels and held for half an hour with little information supplied (seriously!). But I have had no such adventurous madness myself. I plod through the days, learning lots, climbing hills, sitting quietly and finishing novels, eating yummies, writing postcards (none of which I've sent yet...), learning to use my camera well, investigating side streets and back alleys for street art and colourful corners, thinking thoughtful thoughts and hoping something out of the ordinary happens so I can write about it wittily and have you all think I am awesome. But it's no good.

There is only one solution: I shall run about town dropping banana peels in the hope that I'll slip on one, break something and be taken to a Mexican hospital in which I can't comunicate with the staff (my Spanish is still restricted to discussing food, bus tickets, costs for internet usage and shop opening hours). They will mis-interpret my injury and amputate a limb or somesuch and I will awake confused and shocked and staring into the eyes of a concerned nurse who realised the error but was ignored in the heat of surgery by the arrogant doctor (damn doctors, they never respect nurses!). Guilt-stricken the doctor will pay me off and I will use the bribe to fly myself and the attractive nurse (who has short hair and wears sensible shoes) to some exotic location where, slowly but surely, she will coach me in the use of my prosthesis and we will fall desperately in love while watching sunsets over the Carribean and sipping cocktails and doing physiotherapy and swimming with dolphins and stuff. I will sell my self-penned story to some trashmag, only to have a world renowned editor with a penchant for trashmags pick it up, decide I am totally witty and stuff, and commission me for a book. Book complete, and royalty cheque deposited me and my nurse shall travel the world, attempting to court disaster in order to inspire book number two.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must go buy some bananas.

...

am changed woman.

2010-04-08T05:48:00.005+10:00

Everyone knows than when westerners travel they have grand revelations and change and stuff, right? Sometimes these changes are evidenced by alterations to appearance: weight gain or loss due to beer or exercise; darkening in skin colour (occuring, no doubt due to a greater synchronicity with the local people of the nation one is visiting and not at all due to sun burn); overnight tattoo additions (complete with hepatitis if ya lucky); hickeys acquired via grand romances that last 3 days and that earnest look / clothing with spiritual themes which demonstrates one's greater understanding of the world and its varied cultures.

Well, I am here to tell you that I too have undergone great change in the past week. So that you may recognise me on my return (providing that I return and don't run off to join some hippie cult in the jungle) I have compiled a list of these Great Revelatory Alternations to my Being.

NB: Photographic evidence to support the below shall appear once I can find a computer that successfully uploads.

1. Am now animal whisperer - I connect on a deep level with Mexico's wildlife. I first suspected I may have a spiritual connection to my CS host's dog when she sat next to me and reached out her little paw to take my hand. Likewise the four cats living in the house (yes, host was a lesbo) took to both me and my luggage like we were long lost lovers. They gathered around me like I was a fairytale princess, reaching for me with outstretched arms as I ate my dinner. Perhaps in a past life I was a Mexican street pup or feline. "This doesn't make you an Animal Whisperer!" I hear you cry. "These are but domesticated pets!" Well, this is what I thought til I met the Squirrel. I was near Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera's abode in San Angel when I turned away from this great piece of artistic history to spy a squirrel running along a wire. With glee I took some happy snaps, but it ran away (it was probably appalled by the way that sites related to Kahlo are so dominated by Rivera paraphenalia that one would think she never painted a thing! I agreed with the Squirrel wholeheartedly, but a rant on the male domination of history is for another day). Anyway, (and here is where it gets creepy), what must have been that very same Squirrel appeared in Jardin Bombilla mere hours later. This time when I took out my camera it RAN towards me, came right up to me and then posed for my photos in a tree. AM. ANIMAL. WHISPERER.

2. I hike now. Well, I am hiking tomorrow. For three days. At altitude. In the cloud forests of the Sierra Norte. And I am definitely not nervous. I definitely did not ask the bemused woman at the hiking company to point out all the uphill bits on the trek. And I sure as hell didn't check whether I could take a short cut tomorrow if my period pain plays up (I can actually, but she just volunteered that information, as I wouldn't dream of asking). I can confirm that at no point have I panicked and had terrifying flashbacks to the hiking disasters of Outward Bound 1996 or Norwegian Hill 2008. Nor did I consider updating my will in case of cliff-based accident. Incidentally, if an accident were to occur, I would like everything to go to the animals of Mexico (see point 1). So, in conclusion, I am now fit and sporty and hike-y and I'm defying gravity and nothing's gonna bring me down, bring meeeee doooowwwwn. Hmm. Must remember not to break into show tunes mid-hike...
As an aside, it's times like these that I wish I was being followed by a camera crew who could film said hike and edit it together into inspirational montage a la The Biggest Loser or Mighty Ducks.

3. I'm getting married. I was thinking, earlier in my trip, as I ate some plain tortillas, that I was now of an age and class that I could enjoy Mexico's cuisine in a different way. While I spent much of Europe munching on bread and peanut butter, I think in this fair nation, it may be worth checking out some of the classier establishments. And so it was that I set off for Saks Restaurant, Lonely Planet in hand, in search of promised vegetarian Mexican classics. (will neither confirm nor deny not actually knowing that Saks was a classy establishment, nor arriving inappropriately attired and grubby from day of sightseeing). You know what is awesome? Taking yourself on a romantic dinner date; sitting joyously at a well set table, taking as long as you want to order without anyone getting annoyed, slowly sipping a corona and reading your book while consuming chile poblano stuffed with beans and cheese with tomato sauce and avocado. Did same at a Oaxaca restaurant last night.* And so it is that I have decided to propose to myself. Possibly soon (in case of hiking accident), or maybe at some romantic location such as Mount Rushmore or Vegas.

* After I had completed my cactus taco, another solo adventurer arrived seeking a windowside table such as my own. Her disappointed face when told that they were reserved inspired me to offer the short-haired French woman a seat at my table. We chatted for a while and she let me know she would be going on a 3 day hike in the Sierra Norte leaving tomorrow. Despite her use of the phrase "my ex-boyfriend" I decided meeting her was a sign... See point 2.

'it's that time again' or 'stuff you get if i die'

2010-03-29T23:09:00.009+11:00

Avid followers will recall that I am convinced that overseas travel leads to instant death. My mother, Teresa, who should know better, told me today about a friend of a friend who got attacked on a bus in Mexico and had all her things stolen. I was exchanging all my life savings at the time. The bonus of this rather distressing interaction was that I remembered it was time to update my will.

This REPLACES The Last Will and Testament of Ms Maeve Marsden Esq.

So...

Money shall be shared equally between my siblings and Anna Martin (because she's my wife)*.

* Mim Spring shall receive sufficient funds to help kickstart Mim's Sorbet, providing that if she sells it out of our backyard, the venue must be called Maeve's Backyard Bar. And Kate must sing our theme tune.

Amy Coopes shall receive anything practical I own for the purposes of:
a) being intrepid
b) frustrating Nic with middle-aged lesbian fashions.
Items including but not limited to kick-ass tent, self inflating mattress which does not self inflate, ugly walking shoes.

MollyPenny can have whatever they want because secretly I love them more than most people.

As per previous will, Laura Joseph can have my skull. And some bones. These should be fashioned into a skull and crossbones shaped shrine which must remain in Laura's home forever. Oooh, it can be a feature item at the Hell Party. She can also have her DVDs back. And some of mine as commission.

As per previous will, the ovaries are still going to Cameron Power. However I feel I lacked vision here and really he should get my uterus as well. He could get it transplanted for ease of babymaking. Baby shall be called Maeve 2.0.

Danielle Warby has requested that I not die. As such, if I do die, she must design a t-shirt with a picture of me on it and a speech bubble saying "I told you so." She can also have my pink soccer ball because someone told me once that she likes soccer. And she can have my jewellery for that jewellery making hobby we trawled the Blue Mountains in preparation for. And my china cat collection.

In addition to items previously bequeathed, Sally Shrubb can have my tea cups. But she must say something offensive and un-PC to anyone who drinks out of them in my honour.

Beth Allen can have all my clothes. And can live in the knowledge that if she'd said yes, we would have married and enjoyed a sexless romance of trading baked goods for clothing.

Emily Spencer can have my teeth, which she should fashion into a multimedia art exhibition to raise funds for orphans getting access to dental care. She can also have my computer so she doesn't have a panic attack every time hers breaks. She should email Archie Panjabi and bring her to my funeral as her date and should make out with her as close as possible to my lifeless form.

Phoebe Meredith, now sole owner of Blackcat Productions inherits the madness. It seems some days she can read my mind, so as such, I don't need to bequeath. She knows what she gets.

Annabelle Taillandier can have any food in my cupboards and she can also have my large French / English dictionary. And my copy of Harry Potter in French. She should wear her little hat and happy pants to my funeral and is only allowed to speak Spanish for a month after my death. She should give a eulogy in Spanish also. And should write it on a piece of paper that she subsequently loses and has to run around looking for in a panic.

Those Gleeson sisters can have my little sister as she will need some new mischievous sisters to argue with.

Viv McGregor can have my scrabble sets. All three. She must play against Amy Coopes once a month and must beat her or else Amy gets them.

Ali Benton can have my large book about horses.

Siobhan Towner can have all my stockings. And can she please sing 'Poor Unfortunate Souls' at my funeral. Jess Maynard should sing 'Dream a little Dream' and Anna can sing do an HSC-style monologue about life and death then sing 'New York, New York' in a new york accent. The entire troupe can sing a medley of songs while I am wheeled off to be cremated, including, but not limited to, 'Light my Fire,' 'Eternal Flame,' 'We didn't start the fire' and 'Beds are burning.' Tim Hansen, get arranging.

Lisa Bowen (and thus Kate Duffy) can have my my Australian passport for Lisa. She will need to gain some weight, have a shortening operation and a nose job but then she is welcome to my identity in order to remain in Australia!

...hmm. Conundrum. If Lisa takes my identity, will she need all my things so as to prove she is me? In which case the rest of you get nothing! Oh. Damn. That's it then. Kate and Lisa get the lot.

...

voices

2010-01-24T20:26:00.001+11:00

This past week I have suffered a very distressing loss of voice. After a couple of nights out and a foolishly lengthy rehearsal last Sunday, my voice rudely departed. Not due to tonsillitis, but over-use and, I have discovered, swollen and strained vocal folds. Despite my amusement at the regular use of the word ‘folds’ throughout the week, I am pretty miserable. My voice is my greatest tool – for communicating and of course for singing. Without it, I feel extremely sorry for myself and I find it impossible to really engage in social situations.

This experience has made me realise two things:

1) Kids should learn sign language. We have schools teaching second spoken languages all over the country. When travelling those languages are useful and I think learning languages does wonders for children’s grasp of English grammar, but why not Auslan? It makes so much sense. Firstly, and most obviously, because then everyone could communicate with people in Australia who already use sign language. But that should be obvious. The other reason is that sign language has applications when spoken language is not able to be used. Not only when self-promoting, over-confident singers damage their voices, but also in loud venues, in open-plan offices (think of the peace and quiet!), on film sets, in libraries, when talking behind people’s backs, across crowded rooms…the list goes on. Our bodies can communicate without speech and clever people have developed a structured language, with its own grammar and vocabulary and we don’t learn it unless we choose to specialise and pay for community college or similar. Sign language in schools: make it happen.

2) I do not take care of myself or my passions. I have known I was singing “wrong” for some time. It hurt some days and I push too hard, arrogantly proud of my “belt” and big volume, secretly aware that it couldn’t be good for me (nor my amusingly titled folds). But I didn’t check it out because I didn’t want to be told there was a problem and didn’t want to be told I had to stop. I was lazy and stupid with something I value and now, and for the next year I imagine, I am going to have to unlearn my errors and retrain my voice. It will be ok – usable and better than some people’s best for our performance on Tuesday. And, if I do my exercises and hibernate I’ll be in good form by our Mardi Gras show. In the meantime I will be absent from society and I will have to learn to be a quieter person. I am not good at quiet. I am currently hiding in West Wing and tea but I am going to have to expand my repertoire of distractions. I’ve heard books and hot chocolate are good too. A week without singing – not just rehearsals, but also that incidental happy, pottering in the kitchen singing – and I am truly miserable, prone to bursting into tears and not too pleasant to be around. I need to do this. The exercises that make me sound like a dying puppy, the expensive appointments with the attractive speech path (teehee, she says folds) and the solitary rest. See you in June kids.

Help! Where should I go?

2009-11-23T23:02:00.007+11:00

So I am planning a 2-3 month holiday next year and I have the following potential schedules. Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? Am I crazy? Are these feasible? etc.

Note that I have to visit New York City between April 28 - May 15 cos Anna will be there. this complicates things but is essential. cos Anna will be there.

To help you help me...

Tourism I like:

nature, big impressive nature. i like cities but quickly get bored and don't go out much.
food. new food, yummy food, vege food.
swimming and horse riding.
walking. not crazy hiking mind you. a little casual hiking. but mostly walking.
reading my book in picturesque settings or nice cafes.
obscure museums about weird little topics.
camping.

Tourism I don't like:

youth hostels full of drunk Americans / Australians / Brits.
I know this is a generalisation but I am way more of a museum person than an art gallery person. just am.
extreme heat. would rather snow.

With that in mind I give you...

Option 1:
apr 2 - 6: vancouver
apr 6 - 22: canada, various, def Alberta with side trip to Edmonton to see Bridgit
apr 23 - 26 washington dc
apr 27 - may 6: new york city
may 7 - 22: mexico
may 23 - 24: road trip to...
may 24 - 30: grand canyon and las vegas
may 31 - june 2: road trip to...
june 3 - 7: yosemite national park
june 8 - 14: san francisco june
15 - 17: LA

Option 2:
april 1 - 15: mexico
april 16 - 23: cuba
april 24 - 30: jamaica
may 1 - 12: NYC
may 12 - 16: Washington D.C
may 17 - 22: las vegas and grand canyon
may 23 - 25: road trip to...
may 26 - 30: yosemite national park
may 31 - june 7: san francisco
june 8 - 9: L.A

Option 3:
april 1 - 14: mexico
april 15 - 26: central america (guatemala? belize? costa rica? el salvador? nicaragua?)
april 27 - may 3: cuba
may 4 - 15: NYC
may 16 - 19: Washington D.C
may 20 - 26: las vegas and grand canyon
may 27 - 29: road trip to...
may 30 - june 2: yosemite national park
june 3 - 9: san francisco
june 10 - 11: L.A

Option 4:
april 1 - 6: san francisco
april 7 - 10: yosemite national park
april 11 - 13: road trip to...
april 14 - 19: las vegas and grand canyon
april 20 - 21: transit
april 22 - may 5: mexico
may 6 - 15: NYC
may 16 - 20: washington DC
may 21 - june ?: canada

ARGH. am going mad from excessive unproductive planning. someone do it for me. WAH.

...

rape culture

2009-11-09T15:24:00.005+11:00

News flash people!

None of the following cause rape:
- university colleges
- sports culture
- different ethnic groups
- alcohol
- drugs
- women (or men) walking home alone / flirting / wearing provocative clothing / sleeping around
- unclear consent

Rapists cause rape.

And rapists are found everywhere, in all professions, in all socio-economic groups, all ethnicities and all age groups. Rapists do not rape people because either party are drunk or drugged, they rape because they live in a culture that teaches them that they can.

I don't have the energy to rant more about this.
See Rape Culture 101

...

EDIT: I shot this off quickly and a friend has pointed out that it looks like I am suggesting that rapists are individuals acting without cultural influence.

Quite the opposite! I am suggesting that our entire culture is a rape culture (as in blog link above) and that claiming that only certain spaces are at fault suggests that this problem isn't widespread; doesn't permeate EVERY part of our society; is the fault of "bad egg" groups.

I don't mean to say that the media shouldn't highlight groups and causes as they arise, but that the discourse shouldn't claim that these little groups or catalysts cause rape in a vacuum. Rape Culture is everywhere.

and i think to myself what a disappointing world

2009-10-29T14:18:00.003+11:00

Fuck I hate mobile phone companies. This is why:

A few months ago my 2 yr old phone was dying a slow and horrible death. What had been a great phone (functionality wise) was rapidly losing the ability to stay on, battery dropping out every few hours.

As if by magic, a lady from 3mobile called and told me I could get a new phone if I renewed my contract. Please note: I knew this was not magic. I knew she had called at that time because:
a) my phone had been built to break after approx. 2 years, in line with contract length; and
b) by calling me a few months before my contract was due to end I would be pleasantly suprised and not question why I was getting a new phone earlier than expected

I was clever though and I refused to choose a phone right there and then. She'll rip me off, I thought. I'll go into the shop and pick one myself. The nice man assured me my sensible, sturdy, economic, simple phone was going to be a good one (of course the LG phone I loved had been discontinued as everyone wants freakin' touchscreens now not flip phones).

I secured new phone and new plan only to since discover the following:
1. new phone is shit. it takes an age to start up again after being placed on the charger. it takes an age to perform any simple task. nothing is straightforward. i can't do the simplest of things. it is shit.
2. if i had waited mere weeks i could have gotten an iphone on my plan.

That's right folks. bitch at 3 was palming off the old phones so that less people would get iphones.

I have been mad about this for some time, but, as I have an aversion to touchscreens and fads I thought I'd just plod along with my shitty nokia. Until I got a bill in which I had gone $100 over my plan.

SHE SIGNED ME UP TO A NEW PLAN WITH HIGHER RATES. WITHOUT TELLING ME.
FUCKER.

Ever the optimist, I trotted along to the 3 shop today. Am old fashioned. Believe in customer service. You know, the man actually smirked at me, almost laughed out loud, when I told him what had happened. I asked - if I upgrade to a higher rate plan, can I have an iphone?

Oh no, that'll be $35 a month extra thankyouverymuch. On top of the new, higher cost plan.

How can they? How can they build these things to break and manipulate us so severely? Why don't people want to create quality merchandise and develop quality relationships with customers? As the world dies under a heap of rubbish and the bigwigs trip over themselves to claim they are green, no one is pointing out (or dare I say it legislating against) this absolute waste of resources, time and money.

YOU DO NOT NEED A NEW PHONE EVERY 2 YEARS. THEY JUST MAKE YOU GET ONE BY SELLING YOU SHITTY PRODUCTS.

When I actually think about this rip off and about how helpless I am to do anything about it, I feel like crying. Clothes, computers, appliances: all built to break. Why is no one (well no one prominent and powerful) saying that this fundamental principal is killing the earth and causing mental breakdowns in young and normally happy-go-lucky public servants like myself?

I left the shop not knowing how to solve the problem. I need a good phone. I am an obsessive communicator and, in today's society, the phone is an essential tool. But I don't want to pay them an extra $50 a month. And I don't want an iphone that will just break in two years. I want to leave 3 but I'd have to pay out my contract and all the other companies are the same anyway.

Why hasn't a phone company stood up and offered something different? Phones that don't break? Personalised service? An honest approach?

I left the shop and went off to iku in search of a soul reparing vegan lunch. Mmmm mushroom, thyme and leek pie I thought and purchased happily.

STUPID PIE WAS FULL OF LIMA BEANS.
So many lima beans I could barely taste the mushroom. I saw no leek. I tasted no thyme. It was fucking lima bean pie. Do you know what I don't like?

LIMA BEANS.

LIMA BEANS AND MOBILE PHONES: YOU'RE ON MY LIST.

Also on my list this week:
- 90 page strategy documents
- backing tracks that do not match the original
- people that think they know better than I do about my personal life
- rooms that do not tidy themselves

...

housework.

2009-10-22T16:16:00.002+11:00

I really hate housework. Today I have considered all of the following as methods for avoiding putting clean sheets* onto bed.

* Note that I have managed to take dirty sheets off bed and put in washing machine. I don't hate laundry so much, as a machine has kindly been invented to do all the work. And I have now bought one of these machines. Joy.

Avoidance options include:

1. Sleep on couch

2. Pay a friend $20 to do it for me (any takers?)

3. Go out every night and find a random to take me home so I don't have to sleep in own bed (unfortunately this clashes with my new celibacy resolution...but that's a different story)

4. Proposition someone flirtatiously in the hopes that they'll help me

5. Move in with a girlfriend (after having asked someone to be my girlfriend) so that she has to do it (girlfriends who live together don't have sex anyway, so this one is in line with celibacy resolution)

6. Sleep on bed without sheets

7. Use a sleeping bag

8. Rent a hotel room

9. Break my own arm so friend / parent / sibling / nurse has to come and do it for me

10. Go on internet dating site and find someone who gets off on doing chores for other people

...

blog. i does one.

2009-10-19T22:42:00.004+11:00

I was asked this evening when I would blog again and I realised I haven't written here in a while (for facebook people: what you read is from my actual blog on bloggy website...which is of course the same as what you see on facebook except with colours and fonts I choose...but I digress).

I go through phases of having enough of the following to rant in written form:
1. confidence
2. time
3. presence of significant irritation in life to complain about
4. solitude
5. energy

Lately I have not really had the above in remotely generous enough servings, thus silence. I have started blogs but had neither time, confidence or inclination to complete them.

Topics have included:
- a list of criteria for my ideal wife
- musings about women, drawing on references to the West Wing. This blog was a little self-indulgent and wanky so is languishing in drafts
- a musing about the advantages of bus travel over train. now out of date as was staying in clovelly at the time
- recount of dream in which i had a seizure on a staircase at an Indian cooking school and Anna had to hold my head so it didn't smash
- spiel about my relationship to food and its social / creative / sensual / artistic / scientific joys

Oh world, see what fascinating and essential insights you have missed due to my:
a) disinterest and disbelief in own writing capabilities
b) business
c) contentment
d) constant company
e) exhaustion

I like lists.

...

today: the good, the bad and the ugly. not in that order.

2009-09-25T15:46:00.003+10:00

the bad:
- Lateness. I am once more becoming incapable of getting to work on time. This must be rectified. These basic human tasks - falling asleep / waking up - have for so long now alluded me. I have so many random skills (e.g. remembering numbers, walking on stilts, carrying humans bigger than me, singing very loudly...). Why can't I get sleep right?

- Seeing a man in a fitness first uniform doing push-ups at a cafe on my (late) way to work. Fitness first has no place in my suburb with its uniformed athletes putting protein powder in my milkshake; a milkshake which will NOT bring the girls to the town if the (new)town becomes this crappy, increasingly homophobic, gentrified craphole I see it becoming more and more with every fake-tanned himbo that treks in to suck face at the Marly.

the good:
- Wonderful photoshoot for the front cover of Made You Look. If we don't speak, MYL is the magazine I am editing. I am not a journalist, let alone an editor. This amazing gift landed in my lap earlier this year and I really don't want to fuck it up. It's been touch and go, but on a sunny day like today I thank the heavens when the subject turns out to be hot, hot, hot and I catch the ball he throws at me instead of letting it smash a window. Plus, a bunnyrabbit ran out into the laneway where we were shooting. A bunnyrabbit! Who doesn't love a bunnyrabbit?

- Friendship: new + old.
1. Tomorrow night is my-favourite-person-in-the-world's little sister's birthday party. I had forgotten about it til an email reminder let me know and I felt so thrilled and relieved and joyous at the prospect of drinking bar tab with her and her family away from web-of-death mania.
2. I awoke to a message from Cameron, manlove of my life, to let me know he shall soon be visiting.
3. I am engaging in all sorts of written sassy banter with new potential gin-pals and playmates and it is super fun. I do love the written word. It's harder for me to interrupt people so I hear so much more of what they have to say. I am a firm believer that it will be a perfectly composed text message that will one day win my heart.

the ugly:
- My hair. Seriously. I don't know if I miss-aimed the hair spray or if the growing length and weight means a product change is in order, but things are NOT looking good today. I am yearning to get home to fix it. It disturbs me how much of my confidence lives in my hair.

- My room. Mess: I make it. It was going so well til my Clovelly jaunt, then I came home, didn't unpack and have consequently been frantically hauling clothes out of the suitcase every morning (see above re lateness) leaving room disaster zone once more. Oh well, at least with the mess I might start sleeping more soundly!

...

regrets

2009-09-21T13:30:00.005+10:00

Some people regret Big Life Decisions. They fret and analyse and find each time a greater failing falling moment that led to the disappointment of the now.

Perhaps it's that I have not made enough Big Life Decisions, or perhaps it's that I cannot begin to conceive of my life now had I not decided on Bathurst, Croc, that first fated relationship or other great life changes that now have a bittersweet taint of "maybe that wasn't the best idea..."

But I do not go over and over these problematic choices. That said, oh my, how I sweat the little things.

My Great Regrets generally fall into the following categories:

1. Cooking Mistakes

2. Stupid stuff I've said

3. Clumsiness

4. Purchases

And now, for your reading pleasure, I shall elaborate on these points with examples. This will be neither eye-opening nor informative nor witty.

Cooking Mistakes:

In case you hadn't noticed I take great pride in my cooking ability. The only problem is that it is not always consistent. When I am cooking alone, it is nearly always spectacular as I lack outside stimulation. Unfortunately, cooking for others can often go awry as I am easily distracted, leading to burnt or un-taste-tested dishes. One bad dinner party can lead to weeks of disappointment and shame. I go off cooking, start eating toast and repeatedly acknowledge the failure to all who will listen, even though they don't care. Forgetting to put corn in the corn mufflettes I made for the div 9 bbq nearly led to tears. On Saturday night I cooked a tried a tested beetroot dish which FAILED. I have, through careful analysis on the night's events decided that the problems were as follows:

- too many veges in the oven tray stopping them from crisping

- oven too low for beetroot, too high for fennel

- garlic purchased not as strong as normal garlic thus needed double the quantity

- not enough tabasco as was concerned would put too much on and burn guests' mouths

- wine consumption prior to commencement of cooking distracted chef

- good looking dinner guests with witty banter and requests* for dramatic readings distracted chef

* "Requests" may or may not mean me forcing them to listen to dramatic readings

Stupid Stuff I've Said:

Oh the stupid things I say could fill a book. This is due to my lack of tact, inability to comprehend my own privacy (or others') and a general nerves-based tendency to talk more and more in already awkward situations. I can and do relive these moments in my mind's eye, but with the advent of social networking sites (and my subsequent addiction) such mistakes can also be viewed by the world wide web. Well, 532 members of the world wide web should they be stalking my faceborg page. I have been particularly nervous lately after a VERY CLOSE CALL. Using a friend's iphone, I attempted to facestalk someone. Just as I was about to press go, it was pointed out to me that I was typing not in search but in status. IMAGINE. IF. I. HAD. WRITTEN. STALKEE'S. NAME. IN. STATUS. Sheer luck it didn't happen really, as this sort of thing always happens to me (along with talking about people when they are standing behind me, paying someone out behind their back only to discover I am talking to their girlfriend and writing a text message about what a big crush on someone I have only to send it to that very person).

Clumsiness:

Spillages on clothes in front of hot people. Tripping over in front of hot people. Breaking my belongings. Breaking other people's belongings. Spilling coffee on my desk. Getting make up on my clothes. You get the picture.

Purchases:

Oh, this is a bad one. See, I don't like spending my money too much. I am a saver. I also find clothes shopping oftentimes distressing because, well, I am an eater. Thus, I have, in my time, bought clothes that I have never ever worn. Get over it, one might say, give the clothes away, chuck them in the charity bin. If only it were that simple! Instead, I keep them in my cupboard, mocking me with their ugliness for years on end. Punishing me with memories of poor choices. I once kept a silver velour jacket for 8 years, wearing it once. The counter-point to this is the clothes I HAVE chucked out only to frantically search for them months later and then flog myself silly with regret once I realise they are gone (flog with thoughts not an actual whip). Same purchase theory applies to technological devices which I tend to a) know nothing about and b) impulse buy without proper research. Thus, an ipod without enough memory and a really shitty phone.

Le sigh.

I would like to learn to either not over-think these errors or, better yet, stop repeating the same old mistakes. But I don't see it happening. I am sitting here writing this and, even though I just made a killer stir fry, I am still forlorn about Saturday's fail. I am wishing I hadn't said a few silly things on the phone with a friend. I am mourning the stain on my favourite hoodie. And I was mighty frustrated by both phone and ipod on journey home.

...

he's like the wind

2009-09-15T13:43:00.003+10:00

Throughout primary school I spent most weekends in the company of a dear friend named Cleo. Our friendship is defined in my memory by dance classes and two films which we watched incessantly. Shaping the cushions of her brown velour couch around us to make dashboard and roof, we pretended we were at a drive in that played weekly reruns of 'Grease' and 'Dirty Dancing.'

When I logged on to facebook this morning, my feed was filled with messages of woe, commemorating the death of Patrick Swayze. I sat on the train and reminisced in his honour, about two 7 year olds, fascinated by the movement and energy of films that (pre-High School Musical and the like) dealt with real youth themes such as sexuality, parental control, class difference, trust and peer pressure. We may not yet have understood what exactly Rizzo and Kenickie were doing in the car, but we were transfixed.

I have fond and vivid memories of my early years spent at Cleo's Queen St abode. I remember the food her parents cooked; I remember the mosquito net over her bed and how it made me feel regal; my fascination at her asthma apparatus; choreographed dances to Grease songs and Ace of Bass; and the way her older sister pronounced 'Swayze', all fancy and Sean Connery-esque. It made us laugh to try and copy her tone.

Some films stick with you throughout your life and Dirty Dancing was one of them. In later years, new friends feigned irony when we pumped 'Hungry Eyes' out of p-plated car windows on the way to school. When I took up salsa with a friend in 2007, "I carried a watermelon" became a repeated joke, along with "this is my dance space, this is your dance space," when the bachata got a little flirty. Just recently I joined the hordes at Carriageworks for the Dirty Dancing Wrong Prom and we cackled with glee through each hip thrust and spin.

I think sometimes I am still 7 years old and waiting for Patrick Swayze to sweep me off my feet and turn me into a dancer. I want strong arms to lead me and teach me and one day, I'd like to look good in a pink leotard and denim shorts. It's strange reaching this age when the idols of early childhood start to die. I felt sad today, not for the death of a man I never knew, but for the loss of that wide-eyed wonderment I experienced with a friend I no longer know; that sense that a whole life could change in one summer and that someone would one day lift me high into the air.

...

My Giant Friend

2009-09-11T10:15:00.003+10:00

I wish I had a Giant friend. She would clamber through the city, punch a whole in my tenth story window and gingerly scoop me up from my desk. Cradled in her palm, all soft and pillowy, we'd amble away, my handbag swinging from her pinky finger. Detour via ocean and she'd dip me in and spin me around, salt cleansing my tired limbs and eyes. Then as we moseyed over to Enmore she'd dry me with warm breath. My Giant friend would lift the roof on my little mansion and push back my bed sheets. Ever so softly, she'd drop me in and cover me up, smiling from above as roof was lowered back into its place. And there she would stay, singing lullabies, watching over me and blocking my windows, making temporary night with her shadow so that I may sleep easy in my bed and dream of peaceful slumber.

Important point to remember if you are fearing for your safety:
- My Giant friend would have tiny feet which she balances on as if by magic. All reasonable scientists would not be able to explain how she balanced on such tiny feet, but she would say she was made that way so as not to crush the little people.

...

a story for the writer

2009-09-08T17:59:00.003+10:00

I have an old friend. She is an old friend as we have known each other for more than a third of our short lives. And she is old because of her insides, all they have seen and felt, both throughout these later years and in those that came before.

I love my friend. I don’t tell her often. I still have scars she dug in my heart and so it tries to keep her at a pretty distance. But I think, deep down, she knows she is one of the most important people in my life. I see her fight and struggle to be better. To be strong. To heal the scars cruel people etched in her. The scars she suffered and the scars she made when all alone. I see her fight and fall and crumble and break and it makes me so sad. But it inspires me too. To watch her grow. It makes me believe in healing and friendship and all the others things I call my religion.

I wish I knew a way to wrap her up, warm against the night. These women see the fire in my eyes and think it’s their reflection. They see my love and think that I want sex and ownership, that I want to keep her for myself. But that is so very much not it.

I have been through their fire and have come out the other side. I broke so completely and rebuilding took time. And even in my most recent loves I see her shadow, wrapping round me and holding me back from letting go. The memories we made taught me to protect myself and keep cool; to hide from those I love lest they smash my trust to bits. And in those moments, I hate her for what she showed me. I hate her pain and its ravenous depths, and I hate myself for falling in and believing I could save her.

So when I see them try the same, it makes me rage with pity and frustration. Because they can’t save her. And now I see that she needs to save herself. And these distractions and blows to her self-worth set back this process so thoroughly.

I know my friend is difficult. I see her myriad flaws. And she sees mine. I see her hurting others and I understand their anger. I remember it well.

In public and in future, I will tease her, poke and prod. Sometimes for humour, sometimes in retaliation, sometimes just because I can. People will call me bully and I won't deny it. They will laugh at our clowning and wrestling and strange attacks. But today, I’d like her to know that I believe in her, that I think she is amazing and brave and has so much to give. That I know she can’t see a future for herself, can’t muddle through the vast unjustness the world has given her. But that I do see her future. That it is bright and big and not as lonely as she thinks it may be.

Today, I want her to know that I love her, not because of what she gives me, but for all of who she is. That I am not asking her for anything except the trust, respect and friendship I intend to keep giving her for years to come. I think she needs to hear that this week.

...

creatures

2009-09-07T12:48:00.005+10:00

I dreamt on Saturday night that I was in a strange dusty town and it was the annual, terrifying day when strange creatures came from beneath the soil to hold the town to ransom. These creatures wanted money and food from the townsfolk and would stream out of the drains to attack passing cars. They trashed the joint.

I was trying to convince the town that if they just gave the creatures food and money in small amounts, regularly, they would need to complete the annual attack. And at least the buildings wouldn't be burned. But the people didn't listen.

Last night I dreamt Amy and I were singing the theme tune to Captain Planet. I woke up thinking The Planeteers would be a good name for a band.

I love that moment of waking when the dream reality is more real than the present. I grieve the loss of my dream memories every day, as the working week wears on and odd imaginings are replaced by filing and train trips.

My soccer team doesn't have a game this week and I am sad because playing soccer still fits into a bit of a dream reality to me. I still don't quite believe I had the balls (teehee: pun) to take it up, when for 25 years, sport /health / exercise have been so bound up in pressure and failure and a devastating awareness of my size. The fact that I have pushed myself to do something foreign and exposing gives me the same thrill as awaking after dreaming I could fly. I am embarrassed a little by my childlike response to this new hobby, but there you have it. Despite being really quite a terrible sportswoman, I am still giddy with pride each time I manage to go out in public wearing those shorts.

Travel had a similar effect last year, though much, much more so, and when I am trying to press my insomniac body into sleep each night I catalogue each day of my trip, committting small details and feelings and fears to memory, trying to lock in that sense that I was invincible. Trying to recreate that dream. And each week when I am paid for my filing and train trips, I get a thrill in clicking the transfer-to-savings-account button as, slowly but surely, I build the possibility of setting off again. I can taste my savings as icelandic geysirs and french romance, turkish delight and slovenian mountains, a cosy bulgarian hostel and thumbs-out adventures round Ireland.

Until I can afford that dream I will settle for soccer, strange creatures and the planeteers.

...

strange contentment

2009-09-05T14:11:00.004+10:00

When I was little(r) I always always always wanted to be older, to have more responsibility, to be taken as an adult. - (To me, older was about 17) - So desperate was I that I chased worshiped "older women" (read: 16) and felt consistently distressed at having been born to late. I should have been the oldest. I came too late.

I was convinced 17 was an appropriate age to start having children called Eliza (named as a nod to Pride and Prejudice) and that I could totally manage study and child rearing at the same time. Thank God or Science I'm a homo or I'd have been barefoot and pregnant as soon as you could say "oops I skipped that sex ed class to go practice for the Shakespeare Festival."

I wanted respect which I didn't know how to earn and I wanted to grow into a person my childhood self would chase and worship. I wanted to look after people smaller than me or weaker than me, as evidenced by a saviour complex that gets me into trouble some days. "No, Maeve, you can't go punch that homophobic boy who called your friend a faggot. He's twice your size and you like your face a lot," she said last week.

This year, for the first time in my life, I feel content with the age I am. I am in my skin and while it is not entirely as I would wish it, it feels more right than it ever has before. I am flirting with having a sense of my place in the world and I feel...dare I say it...content. I have what I need. And it is leading me terrifyingly towards writing a blog that is neither funny nor angry. Panic Stations!

And yet there it is. My strange contentment. My small and colourful home littered in memories of houses spanning Sydney to Bathurst, family to friends, happiness to rage and pain. Vegetable garden. Flowers in tupperware vases and the most delightful, thoughtful musical housemates who bring the ice cream addiction and dance off madness I had always dreamed of.

I miss my drama though some days. I just can't invoke the misery or fear I used to run to. I can't hate quite as I used to or scream like I did. I yearn for the days when I could throw a lovers belongings at her doorstep and yell bloody murder. I don't think I could do it with a straight face nowadays... I am loving with a force field to protect me from past ills repeated and I am burying deep my guilt at this happiness. I have watched some of the most important people in my life crumble and fall so many times and I often wonder what I have that saves me from their fate. Am I foolish to not see the chasm of disappointment they find in the world?

I have rage, oh how I rage. But I don't convert it into the depths of sadness my loved ones tend to find. Sometimes I think the rage is so huge I can't fathom it so I ignore it like other terrifying unknowns which don't fit into my realm of understanding. Like outer space, how the internet works and why people find men interesting.*

*(excepting my beloved male folk who defy this generalisation and know who they are)

I ignore the fear that my family will never truly heal itself. I ignore my sorry conviction that I will, in fact, spend my life without ongoing romantic love, not because I think I am unworthy, but because I don't know that I have the staying power. I ignore the concern that I don't know what my contribution to society must be, that I have left it too late to create a career, that I still don't know what that career should be. I ignore the devastating awareness that I will not see, in my lifetime, a world I would be proud to live in. A world where I don't have to be scared walking alone at night just because I am a woman. Where we can sit safely in the front seat of a taxi. Where governments work for good not votes and the earth isn't dying.

I don't write about my personal personal life on this little blog too often. It's for rants and foolish musings. I find it painful when others do, airing the laundry of the inner west for all and sundry. I'm a talker. If you want to know what I think, I will, 99% of the time, respond frankly (ok tactlessly). I don't need this for an outpouring.

But I thought, maybe, if I acknowledged the fear and celebrated the contentment, I could get a handle on the balance of the two. Either embrace the simmering terror in my belly, or calm it with a good dose of 'my what a beautiful day it is how much do I love bagels and cheese.'

I'll see how I feel in an hour or so.

...

The Beast

2009-08-28T16:33:00.003+10:00

In years gone by I could safely say that I had very low self-esteem. I covered this well - sometimes well enough to be accused of arrogance. But beneath the banter and sarcasm was your average teenage self-hating ball of fear and self-loathing.

But recently, thanks to some amazing women and a life changing Euroventure, I've begun to...well... like myself. I know it sounds cheesy, and I rather avoid writing blogs-about-my-feelings, but something must be said.

You see this newfound confidence has an unfortunate side effect. One brought on by that old foe, alcohol. We shall call this side-effect... The Beast.

The Beast thinks she is all that. She firmly believes she is the sassiest woman at the table and that everyone wants to hear what she has to say. While this may sometimes be true...it's never flattering to show that you know it!

The Beast is also an incorrigible flirt. Yes, in The Beast's mind, fat is IN this season and every woman in the bar wants her. The Beast thought it appropriate to go boozing last night with a bunch of co-workers. She regaled her audience of public servants with her political opinions, and tales of amateur theatre success. Humility was nowhere to be found. And she flirted. Appallingly.

This is not good. Because do you know what isn't attractive? The Beast. The lovely little Maeve that I have come to appreciate in recent months bears little resemblance to The Beast, who speaks like a trashbag, spills her wine on you, steals your belongings for giggles and hits on straight women. The very qualities that gave me to confidence to create The Beast, if you will, go out the window after the sixth sauvignon blanc... ok the fourth...

So what to do about The Beast? Drinking less could be a start... Or maybe I need to bring myself down a peg, remember all that teenage angst and rediscover my flaws. C'mon kids, insult me, bitch to me, tell me you hate me!

Help me slay The Beast!

...

sweetness

2009-08-18T22:59:00.003+10:00

I have been feeling a bit low on the body image front. But nothing makes a girl feel better than the following compliment:

"No matter how fat you got I would still love your teeth. I will only stop loving you if you get so fat that I can't see your teeth."

I am the luckiest woman alive.

...

nearly there / a little late

2009-08-03T13:18:00.005+10:00

On the weekend the Labor party gave us a taster of equality with the recognition and a promise to register same sex couples. But marriage, that institution that so many inexplicably crave is still out of reach.

I feel like we are coaxing a child towards its first steps, "nearly there, Kevin, nearly there, you can do it..." You can recognise that fixing this same sex marriage storm isn't about finding a way to appease both sides of the argument, it's about standing up for what is right and good and acknowledging that all couples should be equal in every way possible.

There are small celebrations on the blogs of friends and in photos from Saturday's protest - action which may not always influence policy, but sure does empower community. With the ousting of Howard and the inevitable chug chug of progression, we are getting closer, little by little, to a society I would be proud to live in.

But the only relationship I would ever have wanted recognised and registered - that of my Mothers' - has ended now, recorded in photo albums and childrens' connectivity, but not written down or named outside of our little world. It is not etched into my chest as it should be.

"too late, Kevin, too late."

And when I think of my future, I do not see marriage. Community and love and friendship pushes my day to day and makes me care about the world, but not this institution of broken promises and tradition.

I was not at the protest on Saturday. I did not don a veil or kiss a girlfriend or raise my hands with pride, though I thank and congratulate those that did. I was busy rehearsing in a small, overheated room at the Conservatorium with a funny bunch of talented odds and ends who have made me smile and laugh and cry in the past few months of preparation.

And we are nearly there too. Opening next week, we will sing out to friends and family - and hopefully others... I will stand on stage and sing songs that cut to the heart of my love and hurt and play and happiness. It will not be subversive or outrageous or make statements about the world. But it will be celebration and community.

And my unregistered, unrecognised Mothers will attend on separate nights and sit proudly (even if I fall off the stage) as I share what they taught me: that pride and love and community cannot be validated by a government nor taken away by prejudice. They exist in celebration.

...

The Battle for Fun: Queers and Straights

2009-06-11T16:47:00.013+10:00

I recently posted this photo to the 'this is oz' website, an Australian initiative which basically involves people posting an anti-homophobia message in the form of a photo of themselves with a handwritten sign. The posts vary from playful, to political, to passionate pleas for equality, to more abstract statements.

I have received mixed responses to my "Queers have more fun...you're just jealous", from the positive to the confused, culminating last night in a straight woman saying something along the lines of "but I'm straight and I have fun"...or some such. Could she make a "Straights have more fun" sign, she asked.

No. No she could not.

There needs to be a class compulsory for all school students which explains privilege and power. Which explains why it is ok for a black person to say nigger, why there aren't straight bars or a straight mardi gras (because 364 days of the year ARE straight mardi gras) and why my statement about queers having more fun is not a flippant allusion to the idea that drag queens are like totes so funny right now and like being a lez is totally awesome cos it's just like falling in love with your bestest friend.

I chose my "Queers have more fun...' statement because I am sick to death of asking for acceptance, for equality, for tolerance (my MOST hated word). Because I am sick of gay rights meaning having exactly the same rights as straight people when I don't actually like the parameters of straight society and would rather redefine relationships and families for myself.

I chose it because I am proud to live in a society where, as a queer woman, I can have any fun at all! Where I am not gaoled, forced into straight marriage, beaten, silenced or killed. Because I could be raised by two amazing women and because I can live in a community of brilliant, out contemporaries who I adore.

I chose it because, in fact, I do see my queer community as capable of providing more of the kind of fun I want to have than my straight friends' communities do. I often wonder where I would find a community if it weren't for my sexuality. I see a lot of heterosexual friends (note I see a difference between heterosexual and straight) rally around politics or sports, past times or areas of study. But I choose to find the fun among queer politics, sports, past times and areas of study.

Being queer has given me a sense of history and culture. In a country where a lot is tossed around about a lack of history (white history anyway) and a lack of coherent, unifying culture, I feel I am part of an international shared history and language of queer. Though my community is extremely varied I feel a sense of nationhood and ownership and safety. We have citizens to be proud of and revere; writers and artists and activists and musicians and philosophers. And for me personally, I found that history and sense of unity in the family home where my wonderful mothers gave me a sense of my personal and global history - the events leading to the possibility of my mere existence! I had an A-Grade upbringing by queers.

It's fun to socialise and analyse with people that want to understand and better the world around them. Of course there are gays who do not strive for change and heterosexuals who work tirelessly for a better world. But when I think of my own queer community I see a higher than average willingness to support minority views and respect a marginalised group's right to agency. The other day a friend of mine who uses a wheelchair complained of perceived discrimination in a first aid course. Our coworkers initial reaction was to defend the tutor's intentions and try to explain his error, instead of saying to her - that's fucked that you felt persecuted. From a privileged position, it is easy to forget that when someone feels attacked they don't want the first response of their friends to be a justification of their attacker - they want support and then balanced analysis. I was really bothered by this interaction as I don't like to see a friend silenced, and on a personal level it reminded me of the myriad times I've been told I am overreacting to homophobia or seeing sexism because I want to (that evil Feminist agenda makes me oversensitive, remember?)

From the moment of self-realisation or 'outing' queers are explaining and justifying their sexual practices and relationships to the world. The number of overly personal questions that get asked is amazing. The positive of this (the fun part if you will) is that my queer friends are wonderfully analytical and productively critical about their relationships. We search for new ways to love each other and fuck each other and strive to find a model that makes us happy. We don't always get it right but I am proud and privileged to relate to people that care about how they love me and how I treat them and want to experiment with human interaction.

I'm going to say it: fucking queer women is fun. Now I can't make comparisons as my experience with men is limited, but I just can't imagine men being as...skilled... :-) Oh look, any straight friends reading this are going to have a tantrum now... One straight recently joked that lesbians shouldn't be allowed to use strap-ons - "you've made your choice" she quipped. Now the delivery was hilarious, but there's an underlying jealousy there no? Because we get to have it all... Am I due for another straight tantrum now? I don't care! The women I have loved have been bright, engaged, caring, supportive, adventurous, willing, playful, skilled, beautiful and yes - Fun. So I couldn't let this blog go by without acknowledgment of the joyous sex part of sexuality.

Maybe I think you're jealous because you have to stifle any urges you have for the same sex to fit in with your societal position. Whereas I can have a sexuality that is fluid and will not suffer the wrath of my friends if I deviate from their expectations of my gender and desire. Maybe you are jealous because I have sports teams I can join just for my kind and I have parties and events designed to appeal to my sexuality and desires. Or because some of my people are so clever they developed a whole queer theory. Are you jealous because I can define the rights I am fighting for and have a framework for analysing this very confusing world? Or because there are websites devoted to people posting messages of support for ME.

If you aren't jealous, you should be!
...

DISCLAIMER: I don't think the people I have referred to here read my blog, but if you do and you find it problematic that I have used your comments in this way, please let me know. I do not wish to offend you, but I do think it's worth me bringing up stuff I find problematic. If I am even talking to you, I obviously like you so hold you to a higher standard than the general population. And I'd be willing to chat and clarify. xxx

...

'the f word', or 'the longest blog in the world'

2009-06-03T13:17:00.008+10:00

It's funny how things come in waves. I won't hear about something for months then all in a week, it's the hot topic; spurred on by a news item or social happening, suddenly wherever I go we're all speaking with the same focus.

Since the NRL incident, women and sexual assault have been bashing their way through opinion pieces and coffee tables. But I have noticed a relative silence on the matter among my social circles (in person rather than online), as if we have assumed we hold the same position, we are the same brand of Feminist, we know where we stand. That little tidbit of sensation has all but exited the mainstream now, but it and the subsequent furor have rekindled my thoughts around Women and Feminism.

Things comes in waves and yesterday I could not avoid Feminism and its waves. At work, through my searches of disability blogs I came across an online battle between "radical feminist" (for want of another term) bloggers and sex worker bloggers. The contention was over bags made by and for sex workers at an Australian convention that said "Sheila is not my sister." Outraged, the women who say "prostituted" rather than "worker" had made a "Sheila is my sister" logo for their blogs and had then waxed lyrical over the "attacks" made by these "privileged, non-representative" sex workers against their "hero" Sheila Jeffreys.

Now I don't want to blog on about Sheila because what struck me in these comment wars was not about her views, but about the bloggers' inability to hear each other and their references to the alleged waves of feminism that have flowed in and over society in the past century or so.

Apparently, feminism has had three waves and apparently these waves hold values that are mutually exclusive.

You can be a second-wave anti-porn anti-prostitution warrior OR you can be a third-wave pole-dancing ignorant "mind-dazed" (an actual quote!) slacker.

You can be a rigid, out-dated, radical anti-sex Sheila wannabe OR you can be an enlightened, sex-positive, queer-friendly, sex-work activist.

You can't like porn and be a feminist.
You can't have an opinion on sex work unless you are a sex worker.
If you believe in sex worker rights you are supporting the patriarchy.
If you are anti-porn you are anti-sex.
If you engage in BDSM you are a victim.
If you are a sex worker you have a history of sexual abuse.

I couldn't believe the barrage of simplistic conclusions that absolutely disallowed complexity of thought or varying views or debate. And! When one person's comments were deemed too challenging to the view of the original blog, they started to be blocked!

I commented here and there, tried to point out that perhaps there was a middle ground. Perhaps Sheila-ites should listen to the sex workers they were supposedly saving. Perhaps there was a place for some porn, especially when it is female-made, queer or demonstrates safe sex practices...

Now, I am aware that I am demonstrating a bias towards the sex-positive, sex-worker rights side of this debate and I make no apology, nor do I wish to hide this. As a rule, I adhere with a lot of what this "wave" of feminism has to say.

The problem here is that then I am labelled third-wave, not allowed to use the word "radical" to describe myself and, according to some, am aligned with the "I can wear a short skirt if I want to" camp. Incidentally, I can and do wear a short skirt most weekends, but I digress.

Back to Tuesday:
I left the blogs and headed out for a beverage or two (non-alcoholic: see health plan).

I came across a group of friends sitting, primarily silently while two wonderful women waxed lyrical on what was wrong with the world. With the system. With the patriarchy. With the fact that even in Newtown - our supposed "pocket" - one of them could be assaulted in a park, then asked by the cops afterwards "Is that what you were wearing?"

These women are (perhaps including but not limited to) queer, sex-positive, kinky, radical, angry, intelligent, witty, bright and engaged. They have become my community in the past few years and represent a diverse range of views. And they debate!

When the conversation steered to a t-shirt worn by a man one of them knew, someone spoke up in opposition to the party line that had been drawn in the past minutes. The offending garment had said "Dead Girls Can't Say No." (It says something about my dark sense of humour that I stated that if a girl was wearing that I would think it sassy, confrontational and ironic...) One reaction was that the shirt was woman-hatred, plain and simple. Another advocated that necrophilia was the problem and that the shirt would be just as bad if it said "Dead people..." When will it stop being about women's rights and start being about people's rights?

GAME ON.

Never tell a Feminist that Feminism isn't needed anymore unless you want to see her face go purple. I won't transcribe the rest of the debate, but it was fiery and I imagine continued on after I skipped off to go see a movie (Synechdoche, New York, which incidentally I have a lot to say about - largely on the role played by women!)

But these Tuesday adventures made me sad. It made me sad that my angriest, most clever and passionate Feminist friends are debating these issues with each other but not always being heard in the wider community. Feminists are battling against each other online, but not face to face where a little more compassion may be allowed for and where comments can't be "blocked" with the click of a button. I was sad because I am tired of fighting and fighting and fighting and would rather leave the office than speak out when co-workers gather round a computer to violently denounce pictures of women at an award show as "fat," "ugly," "a tranny," "a grandma" and so on... (but that's another story)

I am not part of a wave. I see Feminism as a continuum with space for the views of everyone (yes, even Sheila Jeffreys though I think much of her work ridiculous). I don't want to fight with other women about Feminism, but I am not going to be silent when people say she was asking for it or think that, in a world where women are overwhelmingly more likely to be the victims of violence, we haven't got a struggle anymore.

It was quite a Tuesday all round, and I haven't even told you about the meat tray I sat beside for an hour.

...

My Extensive Intensive Comprehensive Health Plan

2009-06-01T13:20:00.007+10:00

I hereby declare that , for the next two months, I shall:

- not drink alcohol (excepting the housewarming we may be having and if my soccer team wins - these are the ONLY exceptions).

- drastically reduce my take-out consumption. I have never been one to buy when I can bake, but life has been a bit hectic and suddenly my diet is incorporating way more felafel rolls and big brekkies than it should. For the next two months I am only allowed to buy dinner / breakfast once a week and lunch at work once a week.

- take vitamins, not just buy them and remember every now and then to pop a few. I will be taking flaxseed and B.

- cut out heavy carbs (as in potato, rice, pasta, bread) after 3pm. This will be hard as carbs are so tasty and I am so good at making them. But I shall try!

- not smoke socially. I have cut this down since going overseas but now it's a no-no. If I ask say no...unlikely that I'll ask though as I won't be drunk! Hurrah!

- find a yoga / pilates class to do once a week. I believe there is pilates at Newtown gym at 10.30am on a Friday and Yoga at 6pm.

- start working Thursdays and Fridays. Three days a week does not a work routine make.

- tidy room once a week. More is just unrealistic.

- turn off computer at 10pm every night and place it in the lounge room. Unless I am chatting to France.

- regular coffee not large!

- buy the following things which will add to emotional well being:
* new mattress
* camera
* work pants
* new underwear
* washing machine

- start saving again like a crazy woman to make up for all the crap I just bought!

Prizes for me if I make it to August 1!

...

lazy me letting someone else blog about gay marriage

2009-05-31T22:53:00.003+10:00

i was going to write down my opinions on gay marriage, but this person did it for me:

http://shesacarnivore.wordpress.com/2009/05/29/gay-marriage-not-as-cool-as-you-think-it-is/

...

work choices

2009-05-31T01:16:00.004+10:00

i should like to have an office affair one day. it strikes me as something one should do at some point. unfortunately, i don't tend to work in places overrun with hot, young, single lesbians. yes, there have been a number of lesbians, but none of the single + in my age range. i may need to seek work in hospitality. which would defeat the purpose as cafes do not have elevators.

i am aware this is a cliche.

i am aware these things tend to lead to disaster.

but my life needs more cliche, yes more i say.

...

my mates clare and matty

2009-05-21T14:04:00.006+10:00

You know I didn't want to write about the recent explosion of football/rape/feminism/consent/other-relevant-key-words madness. I thought that, firstly, most of my friends and readers would agree with me (so I'd be preaching to the converted) and secondly, that many wonderful people had expressed similar views more eloquently than I.

However, I have noticed recently that a few of my faceborg friends have joined "I Support Matthew Johns" groups and the foul taste that fact left in my mouth has spurred a rant.

You see, I am going to go out and say that I am not that interested in this particular case. Whether or not "Clare" gave consent, whether or not the people who play whatever sport they play thought she gave consent...to all this I say whatever.

Because, you see, I think a big problem in the media attention this has received is the individualising and emotive reportage. We join groups supporting "Matthew" or "Clare" as if these people are our family members and require our love and attention. Debate rages as to his/their and her intentions and feelings and so on as if this is the only time ever that men and women have engaged in a sex act with unclear consent or committed acts that the general public consider morally problematic (e.g. group sex, infidelity). As if by knowing exactly what went on that night and why, we'll KNOW how to fix all of societies "gender problems."

So, in light of all the to-ing and fro-ing about these particular individuals, I am just going to go out and make some sweeping generalisations that I believe to always be true! Most of what I say is directed at the idiots who thought it appropriate to join groups supporting men who would invite their mates back to their room to fuck their date, but there are some truths in there for the 'feminists' who make problematic assumptions of their own!

The following statements have nothing to do with what happened in Christchurch, they are in no particular order, and I have made them into a list because I hope it will make me concise:

1. Police do not have to charge a person with rape in order for it to have been rape. Police make mistakes. People can be afraid to speak out. Money and fame are powerful. Our justice system is severely flawed. As is New Zealand's I imagine.
2. Rape is not the only unethical sex act a perpetrator can perform. Just because something wasn't rape doesn't mean it wasn't wrong or harmful.
3. Sex and Consent are never the responsibility of only one party. It is the responsibility of BOTH parties to negotiate sex.
4. Some women enjoy and consent to group sex, submission and other sex practices YOU may not agree with or find hot. This does not make them a helpless victim or a whore (incidently, there is nothing wrong with being a whore so stop using it as an insult).
5. Consenting to sex acts does not mean merely allowing them to happen or even saying "yes" when they are suggested. It means agreeing to do them with someone you trust or feel confident to stand up to. If you feel uncomfortable during or after the fact and don't feel like you can speak out, you are not consenting.
6. Not only footballers treat women like objects. In fact I wouldn't be suprised if the percentage of footballers who do is equal to the percentage of the general population. This is a whole-society-problem, not an elite-sports-problem.
7. Supporting a victim does not mean that you do not feel for the family of the perpetrator.
8. Enjoying group sex does not make you gay. Being gay makes you gay. There is nothing wrong with being gay.
9. People who have experienced trauma should not be believed / disbelieved based on at what point they spoke out / how they spoke out. Sometimes victims of abuse takes years to talk about it. Sometimes they talk about it jokingly or boastingly to cope. Sometimes they never talk about it.
10. YOU are never an expert on another person's life, experiences and sexuality. Discuss society, discuss sexuality, discuss notions of fame and power, ideas about masculinity and femininity, sexism and feminism - discuss them as much as you can because they are important and understanding them is essential. DO NOT TALK SHIT ABOUT INDIVIDUALS AS IF YOU KNOW THEM WHEN YOU DON'T.

and if you are going to write about things please, god, please learn some basic grammar and spelling*

* not intended to be racist or ableist. am referring to people who think "da" is an appropriate replacement for "the"and "l8er" is an appropriate replacement for "later." It hurts my eyes and brain and heart.

The End.

p.s. this is, alack, neither eloquent nor as well expressed as it should be. rage and bewilderment do that to a girl.

...

whatever trevor

2009-05-18T10:52:00.002+10:00

I have been feeling oddly detached and disinterested in human company this past week. Has someone invented Post Menstrual Stress yet?

Yesterday after soccer I hit the pub and was characteristically socially inappropriate for a few beers and a wolfed down shared fried rice. I felt unsettled, as I did on Saturday and indeed Friday when I cancelled social engagements to watch Frost/Nixon (pleasing) and then grumpily sleeeeeep.

All I wanted to do was get into bed last night and watch the Grey's Anatomy final which I downloaded with ma new technical skillz. But Grey's was DECIDEDLY unsettling as well. Stupid television, failing to warm my heart and threatening to kill off two characters. We do NOT kill two characters at a time, we only kill ONE. Stupid television. Letting me down.

So it is Monday and I am...you guessed it...unsettled! And jealous of friends who are travelling and cruely posting photos, like I used to.

I am meant to go to physio re knees, but don't feel like spending $80 to hear that:
a) I have harmed them in some way
b) I should lose weight (duh)
c) I need to do exercises or start pilates (bloody exercise is what's harmed them in the first place)
d) I will need further expensive appointments

hmpf. UNSETTLED.

everything is breaking

2009-05-15T13:14:00.003+10:00

My body is falling to bits, with sore soccer knees and flu sneezes and such. At what point did this body become an object I couldn't control, a piece of flesh that snaps and stretches in the wrong direction, that starts to hurt on a Thursday for no good reason since i haven't even been to work that day (flu!).

The one part I can control and do is my over-styled, too-regularly-trimmed hair. Fuck I love doing my hair. it's up for the chop in 43 minutes and I'm ever so excited.

I turned down a phsyio appointment I could have had at 1.30pm for my hair appointment at 2pm and I think that shows that my personality is still in tact and I still value vanity over ability to play sports.

stupid sports. breaking my body.

Why doesn't this body break in a repetitive, dependable, expected way? A few years ago a terribly sore lower back (brought on by body shop shifts and long nights of dancing) was treated with pilates and a shift in posture. Now the knees give way.

Actually i think it's a leftover injury from a chair lift incident some years back...the last time i engaged in sports... i'm sensing a conspiracy...

So anyway, I'm off to fix the one part of my body that seems to improve with age. For the rest I'm hoping that my new favourite show Dollhouse* becomes a reality and I can body swap. Ideally with Olivia Williams, my new celebrity crush (I say crush, but I mean passionate conviction that she is The One). Then we could be together foreva.

That said, if I was Olivia Williams I would have to have beautiful long hair like hers that curls and cascades around her british charm in just the right way. It wouldn't need such regular cutting and styling and what would I have to look forward to on a friday afternoon?

oh Olivia.

This blog has not been edited and has no literary merit i think.

* I think that Dollhouse, Joss Whedon's latest offering is not actually a good show. It's possible it's quite bad. But sometimes, just sometimes, strains of Buffy come through in dialogue or character or a particular fight scene (or in the huge number of recycled actors) and I think I am watching new Buffy and it's like a long lost lover has come back from the dead and is whispering sweet nothings in my ear. For that reason, as well as a recent bout of the flu, I have been addictively watching Dollhouse and am convinced Olivia Williams and I are destined to make love.

Too Much Information.

2009-05-05T14:27:00.002+10:00

My sister really wants the best for me. That's why she likes to impart charming little criticisms every now and then to encourage my personal improvement, to ensure I am the best that I can be.

One of her latest crusades has been this blog. You see, apparently, I was much funnier and more interesting when I was overseas. Now I am actually entirely in agreement with her on that one, however her other gripe is that I am far too open, that I give too much information.

("No one wants to KNOW when you have you period Maeve.")
ETC
ETC.

So, in honour of my dearest littlest sibling, I would like to share with you all the things you did not want to know about me. Cringe on, little sister! I have no sense of privacy and can't see that changing any time in the near future.

1. I smell my clothes (yes all my clothes) to see if they need washing.

2. I am very content on the toilet. I like how relaxed one can be. I sometimes have a little nap.

3. If we are friends, I have thought about what it would be like to have sex with you.

4. I have also probably talked to you while on the toilet. I do not understand why this is a problem.

5. I really like squeezing pimples and blackheads and sometimes I daydream about having a really hideous skin disease that I could squeeze and pick to my heart's content. I hope I never DO get a skin disease cos there would be scarring.

6. I ate beetroot last night and my poo was purple this morning and I wondered whether the friend I fed beetroot to for dinner also had purple poo but I didn't ask her.

7. I bite my hands. Not just nails, but cuticles, tops of fingers, and knuckles - both sides. I have tried to stop many, many times, but I can't relax in social situations unless I am biting them. Which is crap, cos I look entirely un-relaxed when doing so.

8. I pick my nose. In private. Well, mostly in private.

9. I like eating food with my hands. In private. Well, mostly in private.

10. Once my friend Anastasia and I decided after drinking a little too much of the cooking wine that the secret ingredient in our cooking was our own saliva (cos we tasted-tested everything and double-dipped). We then spat in the meal we were making for our friends.

living in a material world

2009-05-04T16:06:00.003+10:00

I didn't let myself buy pretty things on return from o/s having just spent a small car on travel.
But lately, I've found myself moseying into clothing outlets seeking little treats. I have bought a few new items and, time having passed since I last allowed myself guilt-free shopping pleasure, these items have brought me capital-J Joy. They are:

- 6 ties in various colours and patterns, all describable as 'grandpa,' $1.50 each, purchased on my day off when walking home through Petersham
- a Bananas in Pyjamas blue striped shirt that is big enough to be worn as a dress, were I that kind of trendy
- a navy vest
- a black and grey checked vest that cost more than three times the sum total of the above items, purchased from the same place I bought my favourite grey hoodie, an item which I bought in exactly the same way - wandered in while waiting for a movie to start, wandered out with new clothing item.

I want:
- new work pants. I wear the same pair every day. Time to hit up, dare I say it, Country Road.

The first time I tied a girl up, I used a Country Road scarf
...

leichhardt. it has two Hs in it.

2009-04-28T16:19:00.002+10:00

I went to Leichhardt this morning for a doctor's appointment, at the same practice I've gone to since I was 5 years old and Dr Ovadia came to our house every day before and after work to check on my paralysed meningitised self. I feel an attachment to that practice, though it has changed buildings and I've changed doctors over the years (to the friendlier, rounder, female and wonderful Kate George).

Walking round Leichhardt always has a strong affect on me. I have a real physical attachment to place and memory, creating a sense of nostalgia in a really short space of time. While I've spent most of my life around the inner west - never essentially leaving Leichhardt (we moved one suburb away to Haberfield in 1996), I have a definite nostalgia about those early years in Australia, living on James St, with neighbours Sue and the Browns and Heather & Skye and Elaine and that place where they kept their dogs under the house.

Because while Leichhardt has been gentrified and de-Italianised (damn Thai restaurants, what's THAT about?) it remains in many ways the same, with stalwart, memory joggers round every corner.

I walk past the school and remember the spots I waited for parental collection; the place where I first remember being shat on by a pigeon...elicits a sense of revulsion still, and humiliation as I look down at my fore arm - I remember the heat on my skin of the grotesque brown...the panic at not knowing how to make it go away. I see the steps where my friend Cleo and I were caught looking up a teacher's dress...though I have forgotten the teacher's name I remember my embarrassment and my conviction that it was all Cleo's idea! Despite extreme parental frankness at an early age, many of my first understandings of sex happened in that friendship, watching Grease and Dirty Dancing and negotiating an idea of what it all meant; I remember dragging my toy rabbit to school in a cardboard box on a string, spinning it round and discovering some scientific process that held the rabbit in the box even when I spun it round and upside down. I did this for so long, fascinated that she didn't fall out. Poor dizzy rabbit...

I remember my first Australian summer thunderstorm raging against the awnings as we walked up Norton St to school.

Irish dancing competitions in Leichhardt Primary hall.
Apricot pieces from the canteen.
The day my mother, Teresa (no Mother Teresa) threatened a girl who had hit me...an interesting parenting practice...

Rooms and teachers and childish confusion and friends who I have no way of tracing as I only remember their first name and would have nothing in common with them now anyway.

And James St, which I have passed so often, still makes me close my eyes and see bicycle rides round blocks (we were so unbothered by repetition), Grainne and I flower stealing to make revolting 'perfume' and street parties where particular games, or particular dishes stand out vidily in my mind.

The walls on Campbells' Cash & Carry where Rowan and I would bash tennis balls crying "WAMSTECKERS" with each hit. Only years later did we find out where we had discovered that word (which went so well with the thwack of a tennis ball). Hank Wamstecker was my mothers' accountant.

Pizza at Leichhardt swimming pool when it opened til 8pm and the infamous incident when Louise accidently got anchovies on our pizza. Travesty.

I remember sitting outside the house in the rain under an umbrella reading a book and pretending to be homeless. A few years on, I sat in my cupboard the day we had to move, sobbing and devastated to be leaving a home I loved so much, not understanding the logic behind this departure for Hateful Haberfield and its quiet streets and lack of broken glass.

I could list on, try harder to create a montage in my head of all those moments and firsts and family rituals, but nothing does it like a walk through old DykeHeart. I can almost do the same in Haberfield, Bathurst, even Newtown now, where I am creating a lived nostalgia, a sentimental attachment to little moments and corners. But not like early-childhood-Leichhardt, where the memories are framed in childish fascination and wonderment.

I cling to my past, grip fast to memory and panic when it fails me. And at the same time I spend so much time day dreaming about potential futures.

It's amazing I have any energy for the now...

money money money ah-ah, must be funny

2009-04-17T11:12:00.003+10:00

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! K-Rudd stimulated me last night!

I would like to hereby state that I think the tax bonus is a stupid idea and am, in principle, opposed to it.

That said, Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I shall be placing mine into my savings account.

I love nothing more than watching my savings account climb. Especially after the mildly traumatic months abroad in which I watched its rapid descent. I like making my savings account into neat whole numbers by transferring odd amounts. I like checking when the interest comes in. I like developing strange savings schemes. I like putting everything that is left at the end of the week into my savings and starting fresh with a new paypacket. I like spontaneously tending to my savings account with small amounts like $20 or $50. I like trying to calculate how much I will be able to save this year. I like trying to work out what my tax return will contribute to my savings account. I like imagining the grand things I shall buy / do when my savings account is healthy and robust at the end of the year.

Potential recipients of my carefully tended to and adored savings account:
- a trip around Australia
- a trip to the Americas
- cookwear (various)
- a shiny, fancy camera
- gardening equipment and plants
- an apartment

But for the moment there shall be no spending, no sir. The stimulating buck stops with me. I have a love affair with my savings account and I is stimulatin' her good.

Sorry Kevin.

reflections on the west

2009-04-16T14:31:00.004+10:00

I ran into some guys from uni the other day, most of whom I don't like. One of the charmers saw fit to sit with my friends and I for a time, feigning friendliness. He said nothing particularly offensive (unusual) but his presence bugged me. And so did his comment that I "have not changed."

In the 3 and a half years since I left uni I feel I have changed a great deal. This is, in part due to growing up, but when I think back on who I was then and place her next to who I am now I notice marked differences - and at times it is hard not to feel angry about who I let myself be before.

I allowed myself to feel ashamed of my politics and to think that my rage was unjustified. I apologised for my "radicalism" and I let my sexuality be exoticised by straight men and, bi-curious women who confused me.

I let my brain get lazy, and shunned my academic side and allowed people to ignore my skills and criticise the fact that I did not have physical talents, without standing up and saying "but this is what I DO have."

I let myself be mistreated by a lover, and I at times mistreated her. I let myself live in a place where there was little choice in lovers and we believed this was the best we deserved.

I tried to prove I was some form of normal, instead of being proud of the fact that I was not.

I believed that I was ugly and bought into a beauty ideal that does not belong to my community. I developed a language of body shame that I am still trying to un-learn.

I would never change my choice to study in Bathurst. There is a list of what I learned as long as the list of what I gave up. I needed to leave my cushioned inner-west environment to SEE what the rest of Australia can be like. I needed to see that open-mindedness and care come in many forms and that judging someone based on their background or religion or education is just as bigotted as homophobia or sexism or racism. I saw the beauty of rural Australia, its history, nature and people. I learned that I could be left in the wilderness for a few nights and survive. I learnt teamwork and discovered I could write but also that I like driving trucks and drilling holes in stuff - and that these practical skills were just as valuable as the academic ones I proved I had at high school.

I learnt a lot. But I will never go back to a community in which I am the minority, in which I am ridiculed and in which I must compromise my values.

I have changed. I am not hiding or apologising anymore.

...

i know better about me

2009-04-12T02:07:00.001+10:00

sometimes i wish i didn't take the advice of others. i knew i'd need a bigger ipod (more space, not bigger object). no, no said the naysayers, 8GB is enough. it's not enough. i listen to a lot of music. i'm not taking advice anymore. i clearly know best.

the story of Maeve's Wednesday Night:

2009-04-09T13:45:00.003+10:00

i went to soccer. i was SO tired as i haven't had a good night's sleep in ages due to a) insomnia b) cramps c) staying at my mum's house thinking it'll give me a good night's sleep forgetting she has internet and cable and a tv in the spare room.

but i went to soccer nonetheless and ran around learning skillz and made friends with bev. we kicked the ball to each other but she didn't seem to like me very much cos she kept aiming it at other people not me. she has named us 'Super V' cos we both have Vs in our name. she googled super v and found out it is the name for a very powerful gun, a brand of vitamins or a brand of ten pin bowling pins. she made us a logo.

after soccer a different friend drove me home (soccer = instantaneous friendship) and i saw another car of soccer people drive past on enmore rd and then ran into jen and carl and i felt like i was postman pat.

then laura brought me a cheese and spinach triangle and i ate it and we went and got gelato. i bought a big gelato thinking i'd save half for a rainy day. there is no more gelato so on said rainy day methinks i shall have to exercise to cancel out the gelato i scoffed last night.

i watched two episodes of big love which i really truly think is an excellent show. then i took a happy blue sleeping pill that laura gave me and passed out.

the end.

think about THIS while you are eating your lunch

2009-04-08T12:47:00.001+10:00

Having my period makes me believe in intelligent design over evolution. Well, not intelligent design, rather evil, misogynist, stupid design.

"Some" would claim I know "nothing" about "anatomy," but my friends, riddle me this:

What other body parts need to regenerate themselves monthly??? Ok, skin and hair reject themselves and start afresh, but they are outside the body so it's a kind of self-cleansing due to the grubby, grubby elements. We get rid of poo and wee, but they are the waste products from stuff we put into our bodies.

But the lining of my womb is made by ME right? No outside germies or last night's dinner? So why has it got to go the way of my sister's dead goldfish? What is so defective with my womb that it can't stay garden fresh while it waits for a baby? My veins don't split open in time with the moons and eject all that dirty, dirty blood before refilling themselves with the good stuff.

The only male comparison I can think of is the regular ejection and regeneration of sperm. BUT YOU DON'T SEE BOYS DOUBLED OVER IN PAIN AND SNAPPING AT THEIR FRIENDS IN RAGE EVERY TIME THAT HAPPENS NOW DO YOU?

Scientists, Enlighten Me.

Or I shall have to become a God-resenting Christian on the morrow.

Alternately, deliver hard core pain killers to me at my desk.
ASAP.
AMEN.

...

insomnia

2009-04-08T10:53:00.000+10:00

I can't sleep. I lie awake waiting for it to come, I run around all day trying to tire myself out, I breathe in, breathe out, can't sleep. So I stay up, watch a movie, read, mess around with computer. The activity stimulates my brain, so of course, I can't sleep.

My eyes are red, my body is sore, I can't focus on uni or work or you.

I can't sleep.

Why the Courthouse Hotel is the Mardi Gras of Pubs

2009-04-06T10:24:00.001+10:00

It's an age old problem that when something is good, people find out that it's good and it inevitably becomes crap. A victim of its own success. This process can take the form of gentrification / wankification (think Paddington or The Bank Hotel) or, in the case of Mardi Gras and the Courthouse, it's simply a takeover by the hoardes.

The courthouse used to be a cosy, beer gardened place where one could find a table and chat with mates. Now, to find a table, you have to a) wait b) share or c) seek out the eastern suburbs bus-ins, sit a little too close to them and talk graphically about sex, making them feel uncomfortable / oddly arroused til they leave.

Bar queues take FOREVER and I have many a time had to contend with sleazy menfolk wishing me happy birthday and winking sleepily. Check the hair do and baggy jeans matey - do the math!

Speaking of hair dos, there is a poshifying straightifying element going on as the clientele moves from vinnies to vintage - a problem facing much of the Newtown area.

I like space, comfort and like-minded friendly folk. I don't like waiting around and I don't like sleaze.

Crowds, waiting and straight-sleaze also sum up my Mardi Gras experience this year. My friends and I saw more homophobia that night than we do in an average month of Newtown ghettodom. The mammoth parade is overpoliced, over-sponsored, and no longer a particularly pleasant experience for participants with gawking crowds full of tourists who sneer when you seek out a cheer.

Mardi Gras is like a family tradition for me and I have supported it longer than many. But next year, I think I'll have a subdued Mardi Gras in Newtown. Maybe with the hoardes lining Oxford St, I'll head to the Courty for a quiet beer.

oooohhhh I Wanna Dance With Somebody

2009-04-02T12:07:00.000+11:00

To Dance or Not to Dance....
I love dancing more than most things in the world. I would place dancing up there with eating, fucking, watching TV and swimming as my five favourite things to do. It saddens me deeply that my passion for dancing is sometimes misunderstood as skill...or the belief that I think that I HAVE skills.

I have no skills. My dancing takes the form of faux-krumping, bad-robot, jumping, bottom-wriggling mania. When my "friends" say they don't dance (we can't REALLY think of them as friends in this case) because they "can't" I feel like bitch-slapping them...in time with some super-fun, wicked beats. Teehee, I don't think I've ever used the phrase "wicked beats" before.

EVERYONE CAN DANCE. JUMP UP JUMP UP AND GET DOWN...etc etc.

Never Again

2009-04-01T13:06:00.000+11:00

Our first soccer game is on Sunday. As in the first competitive game with another team of people who aren't (necessarily) lesbians so can't be distracted from my lack of ability by my charming charm and asymmetrical hair do.

I hadn't really thought about the First Game til today when an email full of sporting information came through and I wanted to hit the panic button. You see, I've been jollying around with soccer peeps about how I Don't Do Sports and I Hate This Stuff for weeks, but it's all been in laughter.

The Problem:
I REALLY DON'T DO SPORTS.

Not because I can't. I am competitive, reasonably strong, unfit but not the least fit in the world, I like team stuff and I have good hand/eye coordination (useless in soccer, but still worth mentioning). I don't do sports because they evoke the trauma of childhood obesity (which we just called being fat back then cos it wasn't an epidemic). Up until high school I was trundled through a number of sports in an attempt to get me into exercise.

The end result is that sports make me panic.
Doing sports in front of others makes me panic.
Especially if those others are more sporty than me.

Case Study: I love climbing trees. Once I locked a friend out of her apartment and came to save the day by climbing a tree onto her balcony, all nonchalant like I did that every day. This was possible because a) I like saving the day b) it was my fault so the least I could do c) my friend is less sporty than me so there was no pressure. Last week I went to the beach with Soccer Girl and I said I liked climbing and we went to climb a rope play equipment thing and she bounded up all tall and efficient and looked back to see what was taking me so long. Result: I panicked, slowed down and climbed gingerly up like I'd never climbed anything in my life.
Pressure = Failure.

Do you know what there will be on Sunday at the soccer match?
PRESSURE.

Sometimes I think my fat / body image / food neuroses are on the way out. Improvements include:
1. enjoying food without excessive guilt
2. being naked with the lights on
3. joining a soccer team

But then I think of the panics that still remain, and I wonder if I will ever NOT feel like the fat kid.

1. Panic at the thought of actually playing soccer
2. Panic every time I have to choose something on a menu (considerations: a) will people think I am ordering too much? b) will it be good enough? food = fat so if it is bad it is WASTED FAT)
3. Panic when choosing what to wear when going out, resulting in being an hour late, sitting on bed wanting to cry

Oh well. Baby steps.

I've loved him for a long long time...

2009-02-01T21:24:00.000+11:00

...I know this love is real.

He walked in to a standing ovation. That says it all really. But, with that much adoration, failure - or at least disappointment - could have been on the cards.

To be honest, what I expected from the Leonard Cohen concert Wednesday night was to bathe in the glory of sharing air space with my favourite musician (or at least my favourite lyricist.) But I thought, at his age, that maybe some of the musicality might have left his dulcet tones. Or that he'd be doing one of those token revival tours that can be a little lacklustre and depressing.

Not so, my friends, not so.

He was a delight.

"The last time I was here it was 15 years ago...I was 60...just a kid with a dream..."

He tipped his hat to our cheers and skipped off the stage. Hell, if I can still skip in my 70s I hope I'll get to do it in front of thousands of people.

I know I am not original in my passion nor am I new. But love him, I really really do.

It's the words that do it. He manages poetry in such an effortless way. Though I have heard that he works years sometimes on a song, his metaphors and imagery never seem laboured. Brilliant, rich lines ("and jesus was a sailor when he walked upon the water") couple with simple statements like "there ain't no cure for love" or poetic nonsenses like "a thousand kisses deep." And he writes concept songs, not just simple storytelling or ditties imploring someone to love him - 'Everybody knows' and 'Repent' have IDEAS in them. His storytelling works too though with beautifully told narratives like 'The Partisan.'

and oh the wit - from "Everybody knows you've been discreet, but there were so many people you just had to meet...without your clothes" to "we are ugly but we have the music." He's so wry and divine.

and of course the random - "all the women tear their blouses off and the men they dance on the polka-dots, it's closing time."

oh, and when he does write a love song, as often he does, they always appeal directly to my unfortunately over-passionate, worryingly submissive attitude to romance. The devastation of unrequited love in 'ain't no cure for love,' the adoration of 'dance me to the end of love,' the mournful longing of 'hey, that's no way to say goodbye' and the sacrificial 'if it be your will' - all of them can make me weep with memory or hope or loss or passion.

and of course the eponymous heroine of Suzanne - I do heart the crazy ladies. (Butterfingers also summed this problem of mine up with the line "I like it when they're troubled," but they don't really compare, now do they?)

But my ultimate Leonard will always be 'I'm your man.' I don't actually think it's his best song, musically or lyrically...

But fuck, it's sexy.

It has all the abandon of submission and all the power of standing before someone and stating your case, almost demanding they love you back. It is superbly open and a little wild and singing it just makes me feel like a king.

The concert was amazing. Standing up with the 'Came so far for beauty' Cohen tribute concert of 2005 as one of my favourite gigs ever. This opera house spectacular was astoundingly good, especially for giving me Antony's 'If it be your will' and Martha Wainwright's 'Tower of Song.' These divine covers rival the originals and demonstrate the other wonderful quality of his songs which is that they are so adaptable. Easy to cover badly (Monsieur Camembert's soulless covers album comes to mind), but when done well (Clare Bowditch's 'Hallelujah' also a gem) they are songs renewed and re-examined - something that can well be done when the lyrics are able to be intepreted in so many ways.

I am not a fan, in the traditional, 'worship the individual' sense. I have never been into researching the personal lives of my favourite artists. I think when I know too much about them it detracts from my ability to claim the stories as my own, as soundtracks to events in my own life. I actually know little about him, or my other favourites and I think I'll probably keep it that way... I should admit that this also fits in with imagining that it is I, not them, who will be performing the songs. Can't get too attached tho those who we would like to kill in order to steal their lives (Camille the Dark Angel - look out! I am out for your blood!!)

But I just wanted to write this mini-fan-letter down. Make love official. Tie the fan knot etc etc. Anyway, I'll end there. Rant over. Love expressed. Joy shared, I hope.

Sincerely, M. Marsden.

There's just something about Paris

2009-01-29T15:40:00.000+11:00

I love it. It's a cliché. I like tacky tourism. I have romantic day dreams in which I am starring in an appalling coming-of-age drama with a stellar soundtrack. However, I have tried to avoid being absolutely cliché. But when it comes to Paris, I just can't help it.

This would be fine if I had well defined reasons for my love, but I don't. In fact, I have far more reasons to dislike Paris than I do to love it.

It is insanely busy, something that irritates me about London. It is not clean like Ljubljana or traffic-free like Amsterdam. It's not quaint like Edinburgh or as cool as Berlin. It lacks nature. And water, which is my favourite thing about Sydney. And it isn't varied. All the suburbs look the same.

The things that other people love about the clichéd Paris aren't qualities I seek out. All that alleged romance. When I sensed romance in Dubrovnik I ran, ran, ran from the cliffside cafe with its crashing waves and smoochy music. And the sophistication thing? All I see is people not wearing colour. All the brown and grey and black (I have only been to Paris in Winter, but I am sure they all wear monotone coats in summer as well.) I am not sophisticated, and being in Paris sometimes makes me feel like a clown.
NB: This is especially bad when couchsurfing with super-cool, tidy, classy french types who have a lovely appartment that you keeping wrecking. Sorry about the bed i broke* Anna...and the piece of tofu I lost behind the cupboard...oops I didn't tell you guys about that one...
* NB # 2: Did not fall on bed and break it in a passionate French way. Fell on it in a tripped over whilst picking up my backpack way. SO sophisticated right now.

So why like Paris? I do enjoy how easy it is to fit anything that happens there into the cultural stereotype built up for the place. Easy when the stereotype is pretty much anything goes. Any expression of individuality? Anything random? TOTES French right now. This is harder in, say, Germany where something disorganised is unGerman, or Scandinavia where wood that isn't blonde just isn't right. Cheery service in London, opinions in Switzerland, you get the picture. These countries have far more restrictive travel expectations.

But even though I am aware of this I still succumb to the romance of it all. The "ooooh I am in Paris." I suppose it's good marketing on Paris' behalf, having us all think it is the ultimate travel destination. Putting it in movies and books and such. I read The Flaneur before I arrived and so, (even though I'd been to Paris a few times in the past) I felt all excited like I was going somewhere really special.

It helps that I can communicate with people there. And that I have been fortunate to meet some lovely French people over the years. I guess it also helps that my first big, independant adventure was in France (exchange when I was 16) so I associate the city with that grown-up, big-world kind of sensation that became a permanent emotional state over the past 6 months.

So maybe, I am not being cliché. Maybe I love Paris for my own reasons. It doesn't stop me going "EEEE LOOK LOOK, THE EIFFEL TOWER!!!" though...I am still a dirty big tourist.

bored now

2009-01-25T02:10:00.000+11:00

Time goes differently here. A week has passed since I got home and I feel like I've done nothing. Where is the learning folks? Where are the new people to meet? I promised myself I would live Sydney like it was Europe and see new places, do new things. But my old habits are, well, habitual... Hmm, Maeve use words good.

I didn't think I'd get travel hangover. I was so ready to come home.

So here I am and the heat is blending into my boredom. My friend whimpered like a little girl today cos the heat was so bad. I made whingy noises then hot-footed it (scuse pun) to the beach.

I saw a woman at the ladies pool whose nipples were getting sunburnt. Is this what we have become? People who purposefully burn their nipples? Imagine if they peeled! I wanted to take her aside and say, 'Lady, you are burning your nipples!' But I didn't want her to think I was a sleaze.

There was also lettuce floating in the water and a film of oily matter on the surface. I think it was sunscreen. Laura and I decided that this meant if we were under the water we wouldn't get burnt. Ah, science, you have always eluded me.

Randwick Council has cut down a lot of the shrubbery that used to protect the ladies pool from the prying eyes of leisurely walkers strolling along the path nearby. Now anyone can see the topless lesbians, nice old nannas and awkward teenagers splashing about in single-sex glee. This makes me mad. Maybe some old man was also looking down and thinking 'Lady, you are burning your nipples!'

Life: you are disappointing.

I am, however, thankful that green grapes are in season and enjoy eating them crispy fresh from the fridge.

FUCK YOU EBOOKERS

2008-12-25T12:41:00.000+11:00

This is a rant. It won't be witty. It won't be Christmassy. Quite frankly Christmas can shove it, because I am mad. I will outline why:

Yesterday, I attempted to book a flight on ebookers. Now, ebookers is a nightmare before you even get to the payment stage, advertising flights that then disappear when you click on them and such. So I finally chose my overpriced return flight to Paris and then the website politely informed me in red text that ebookers was still confirming the flight with the airline and that if I didn't receive confirmation within half an hour to go ahead and rebook.

You are kidding me. I JUST ENTERED CREDIT CARD DETAILS AND CLICKED GO.

So I waited.
and waited.
and waited.

No Confirmation Email.

Better rebook, yes?
No.

Why? Because the bastards have just charged $413 to my bank account, that's why!

Not to stress, I think; it is the holiday season, people are busy celebrating a holiday honouring a deity I don't believe in, eating lots of food (which I do believe in) and generally being merry. Surely, the site is just busy with crazed customers, touched by the light of consumerism, I mean, Jesus, busily snapping up last minute flights to romantic destinations. Like Paris. Which is where I want to go.
I'll just email ebookers and tell them to send on the confirmation.

Later (much later) I get an email telling me that no, no, they have no record of my booking. Not even a failed booking record. Just nothing. Nor do they have record of charging me a fuckload of money for the flight. Can I send a bank statement?

No I can't send a bank statement, say I. See, when one is travelling around the place, one uses last minute internet booking sites, not for fun, but because one is travelling around NOT SITTING AT A FULLY EQUIPPED HOME OFFICE CHEERILY MAKING USE OF THE SCANNER AND PRINTER AND PEN HOLDER AND PAPERWEIGHT AND WHATEVER OTHER NICE ITEMS ARE FOUND IN OFFICES AND NOT IN THE PLACES FREQUENTED BY TRAVELLERS! (please note that the above text was not included in my very polite response to Mr or Mrs ebookers. Please also note that I am not saying Mr or Mrs to suggest that I did not know the gender of the staff member who replied to my emails. I did know the gender of each staff member who replied, it is just that a different one replied to each email. How's that for customer service? Fuckers.)

But wait, there's more.

After a number of emails I called ebookers and after a number of phone menus I spoke to a customer service lady who was very polite even though it was obvious I was on the verge of a tantrum. Unfortunately, polite is useless when not coupled with any kind of asistance.

All I wanted was either:
a) an email assuring me that if I were to book a new flight the current charge would be refunded or
b) A GODDAMN FLIGHT TO PARIS

I got this via email:
We would also like to inform that the details which you have provided us though we are unable to retrieve the booking if you go ahead and rebook and if the ticket is non-refundable then you will be at a loss.

Right.
The woman on the phone told me to call the airline directly. I said that the airline charged £1 a minute, and that it was ebookers fault and could she please fix it.

No.

So, I set the timer (so as to be able to pay my nice hosts for the expensive phone call) and called easyjet.

USELESS

They have no record of my flight either. They suggested I call ebookers.

So right now I have no flight to Paris, $413 less in my bank account, and a FUCKING TRUCKLOAD OF RAGE on Christmas Eve.

Ok Santa, baby Jesus or whoever else is running round the skies tonight, step up. I don't want socks, I want a flight to Paris. I'll even be nice the next time I visit a famous church - no scoffing, no suggestions that someone have sex with me in the confession box, no stealing of anti-abortion fliers and certainly no graffiti (that was Brie and it was a church in Bathurst, not a famous one.)

It has happened. I am finally sick of travel and ready to come home.

The Singing Housewife and Simone the Little Pig

2008-12-03T03:03:00.001+11:00

Things I love about La Ferme du Lama Gourmand:

1. The fact that it is called La Ferme du Lama Gourmand - The Farm of the Gourmet Llama. And, evidently, the llamas. Quite possibly som of the funniest looking animals in the world. They are also very well behaved when it comes to posing for photos which the 26 million llama photos I have taken will show.

2. Mud, fine food and pretty countryside.

3. Simone....I always thought pigs were semi-cute but never truly understood some peoples' passionate love for them (hey chand.) Then I met Simone. Simone is very small and brown with paler stripes (stripes! on a pig! like a little tiger pig!!!). She is round like a barrel and often gets scared of people. Apparently the solution to this is to let her sleep in your bed one night, something which Michel intends to do next weekend. I am devastated not to be here and I think that if Viv had not booked her flight to Paris already I would have cancelled that little adventure and stayed here just to see it!

4. French Scrabble. Playing it. More importantly, nearly winning it. I lost by one measly freakin' point! Though at third game, I drank too much wine and forgot to count half the points, so who knows who won. Not me though. Foreign language + wine = no.

5. Frère Jacques ring tone on phone.

6. The music collection of hosts. No one has been home during the day so I get to make dinner whilst singing at top of voice along with Nina Simone, Edith Piaf, Eartha Kitt, Shirley Bassey, Liza Minelli, Antony & the Johnstons, a wide range of opera classics and various excellent soundtracks including, yes, Yentl! (meanwhile not smoking for 4 months has stopped that unbearable pain I used to get on the high notes - woot woot!)

7. Being introduced, in the evenings, to the CDs I didn't recognise including Juliette and Nina Hagen as well as a variety of old French singers who use a lot of euphemisms for sex, masturbating and genitalia (hairy mountain being my favourite.) A few of these songs are great for a charleston which I attempted to teach to Guillaume.

8. Meeting someone else (Guillaume) who's voice can carry through several rooms and who you can hear even when you can't hear the 12 other people in the room with him. I am not alone!

9. Three words: Hay Bale Backpack.
Is backpack two words or one?

10. Finding out that one of my three favourite French words; Pompier (meaning fireman) is also a euphemism for blowjob. Very upsetting. Fortunately have replaced it with 'topinambour' which is a jerusalem artichoke. The pigs eat them. (coming in 1st and 2nd are 'quantitativement' and 'plombier.' in case you were interested)

Queer?

2008-12-02T22:00:00.000+11:00

A friend of mine from Norway, Frederik, posted these quote from Whipping Girl by Julia Serano and I found it interesting...thoughts? comments?

"It [the queer/transcommunity] is a subgroup of the LGBTIQ community that is composed mostly of folks in their twenties and thirties who are more likely to refer to themselves as "dykes", "queers" and/or "trans" than "lesbian" or "gay". While diverse in many ways, this subpopulation tends to predominately inhabit urban and academic settings, and is skewed toward those who are white and/or from middle-class backgrounds. In many ways, the queer/trans community is best described as a sort of marriage of the transgender movement's call to "shatter the gender binary" and the lesbian community's pro sex, pro kink backlash to 1980s-era Andrea Dworkinism."

....

"[I call this trend subversivism] Subversivism is the practice of extolling certain gender and sexual expressions and identities simply because they are unconventional or noncomforming. In the parlance of subversivism, these atypical genders and sexualities are "good" because they "transgress" or "subvert" oppressive binary gender norms. The justification for the practice of subversivism has evolved out of a particular reading (although some would call it misreading) of the work of various influential queer theorists over the last decade and a half

To briefly summarize this popularized account: All forms of sexism arise from the gender binary system. Since the binary gender system is everywhere - in our thoughts, language, tradition, behaviors etc - the only way we can overturn it is to actively undermine the system from within. Thus, in order to challenge sexism, people must "perform" their genders in ways that bend, break and blur all imaginary distinctions that exist between male and female, heterosexual and homosexual, and so on, presumably leading to a system wide binary meltdown. According to the principles of subversivism, drag is inheretly "subversive", as it reveals that our society's binary notions of maleness and femaleness are not natural, but rather actively "constructed" and "performed" by all of us. Another way that one can be "transgressively gendered" is by identifying as genderqueer or genderfluid - i.e., refusing to identify fully as either woman or man"

....

"On the surface, subversivism gives the appearance of accommodating a seemingly infinite array of genders and sexualities, but this is not quite the case. Subversivism does have very specific boundaries; it has an "other". By glorifying identities and expressions that appear to subvert or blur gender binaries, subversivism automatically creates a reciprocal category of people whose gender and sexual identities are by default inherently conservative, even "hegemonic", because they are seen as reinforcing or naturalizing the binary gender system. Not surprisingly, this often-unspoken category of bad, conservative genders predominately made up of feminine women and masculine men who are attracted to the "opposite" sex.

....

"One routinely sees this "dark side" of subversivism rear its head in the queer/trans community, where it is not uncommon to hear individuals critique or call into question other queers or trans folks because their gender presentation, behaviors, or sexual preferences are not deemed "subversive" enough. Indeed, if one fails to sufficiently distinguish oneself from heterosexual feminine women and masculine men, one runs the risk of being accused of "reinforcing the gender binary", an indictment that is tantamount to being called a sexist. One of the most common targets of such critiques are transsexuals, and particularly those who are heterosexual and gender-normative post-transition. Indeed, because such transsexuals (in the eyes of others) transition from a seemingly "transgressive" queer identity to a "conservative" straight one, subversivists may even claim that they have transitioned in other to purposefully "assimilate" themselves into straight culture. While these days, such accusations are often couched in the rhetoric of current queer theory, they rely on many of the same mistaken assumptions that plagued the work of cissexist feminists like Janice Raymind and sociologists like Thomas Kando decades ago."

Farewell sweet friend of mine...

2008-11-19T09:42:00.000+11:00

| Edit Note | Delete
We met in 2006. You arrived just when I needed you. Bringing comfort and support, giving me space, complimenting me perfectly.

Together we toiled 7 days (and nights) per week at the Edge where the stars trod the boards 10 minutes apiece in efforts to prove their potential fame and entertain Newtown's masses. Incognito, we melted into the black drapes just as we were supposed to, strangers in the night, moving this and that this way and that. Stuffed with importance you were just what I sought.

Soon after we would head for deserts red, dust covered fields we would tramp toger, up and down, up and down. Rising early to face another day's hard work as dirt from the nation's corners settled in our cracks. Pushed to the limit, with wristbands and torches and scissors and spillages and searing sun and rain. Not to mention our fellow staff... The year ended brutally for us both and we sought comfort in life's pleasures, in leisure soon to come.

So we were city bound for a time and you joined me for wide-eyed, dry-mouthed Great Escapes as we danced pushed up against hippies and children, beautiful women and sweaty alcohol-drenched men. But you were faithful, sticking to me throughout this foray into fun. We leapt and bounced and shook and ran with old friends and sisters, new friends and lovers.

You were a constant, dear friend of mine.

It seemed life was slowing down...time for retirement? But I kept you on your toes with the occasional odd job. We took on poorly matched pink t-shirts as thousands crossed Our Bridge in commemoration. You felt redundant though in shiny 4WD, when on January 26, crewing meant following a GPS and trundling through the city on wheels. Pockets included. Mud minimal.

I missed you so took you out one night, and in some serendipitous wonder you were so very needed. An unfortunate digestion of a little something someone found on the floor left me sprawled on another's lap all night, unable to move. But you were there, as always, to protect my dignity. A Kooky turn of events.

These past months we have climbed mountains, passed under waterfalls, tramped through cities we'd never heard of before now. Your retirement seemed complete.

But no, I have brought you here and you have said Bonjour once more to bon travail. Salut mud and heavy lifting. You are torn and smeared, ripped and covered in unidentifiable matters.

And I think this may be your final resting place, this Island Home (as sung Christina Anu when you came out to Aurora and we worked behind the stage the only ones not sporting tails and gowns.) You shall rest here, broken as you are, and sleep at last.

I doubt I shall ever truly replace you.

RIP beloved.

- One pair black cargo pants: $40 from leichhardt market place
- Thread used to constantly try and fix numerous holes in said cargo pants: £1 in Edinburgh
- Three years of damn good trouserage known by many names (short&sweetpants, crocpants, crewpants, theatrepants, festivalpants, practicalpants, movingdaypants, farmpants):...

priceless

the day-to-day today

2008-11-15T17:46:00.000+11:00

I am content.

I wake up in my cottage with a red door. I'm all covered with blankets but I get up and shower while it is dark. Breakfast is at 8 with coffee-in-a-bowl comme d'habitude and muesli laden with nuts. Then it's to work.

I can bike ride to the greenhouses, down narrow hedge-lined roads that criss cross the stunning green island. There are no cars here. It's a while since I've ridden but riding a bike really is...like riding a bike. If it's raining or I am lazy I can ride on the tractor. Nicolas drives and I sit on a metal platform above the wheel making sure my gumboots don't touch it. Aurelie rides a bike as she spends half the day working on a boat collecting oysters and needs to be able to travel to the south side. Temptation to make Tipping the Velvet references: high.

There's much to do to prepare for winter and next year's harvest. Also, there was a fire in the greenhouse a month ago and there's still lots to tidy.

Pulling up nettles, rearranging equipment, picking peppers, repotting thyme and mint, putting potatoes in the compost, realising they were not meant to be in the compost, standing knee-deep in the compost picking out the good ones, weeding, realising I can roll tubing the same way that I roll theatre electrical cords and that that means I have a skill to contribute (mine are the neatest coils), hanging chilli plants to dry, dragging heavy dirty stuff this way and that, avoiding spiders because I forget that I am not in Australia and they will not be poisonous, once again forgetting that I am not in Australia when I am scandalised that Nicolas pours a bucket of water on the ground - one look at the clouds tells me I needn't worry.

Lunch is at 1pm and we eat like kings. Veges and fruit and nut and seeds. Big salads and ratatouille crusty bread. Nothing is wasted and last night's dinner is reheated with some extra rice or herbs that change the flavour. And tea. Lots of tea. Oh and of course the chocolate and pear gateau we made yesterday.

And the cheese. Oh the cheese...

...pause for small cheese related taste bud orgasm...

We get back to work, strapping a massive plastic sheet to the tractor to take back to the greenhouses. My French is getting better every day (slowly returning to my former glory) but I still don't quite know what this plastic sheet is for. Sometimes instructions are clear, but their aim is not. But I assist nonetheless and enjoy the mental effort of trying to keep up with the slang-heavy conversation.

Dinner is excellent much like lunch. I learn an important lesson when Francois insists that I wash the tomatoes very well. In broken English (he speaks in English when he thinks something is very important for me to understand) he tells me that the little bits of black stuff might be rat shit. 'This is ok. But it might be plastic sheet bits from the fire. This is not ok. Shit ok. Sheet not ok.' I wash them well not really wanting to consume either.

We sit next to the fire and afterwards Francois, who owns this farm gets out his ukelele. I play guitar and sing The Waifs and Tracy Chapmen as that is still all I know how to play. He joins in while Aurelie and Nicolas read. When Nicolas takes up the guitar we have a slight difference in taste until we are able to settle on Leonard Cohen and we sing 'the partisan song' in French and English.

We talk and they make fun of my inability to pronounce 'tout,' a ridiculously overused word. If my French accent is as wonderfully comical as their English ones, having me around must be great.

Early to bed of course.

And that's just today.

After 4 months of holiday I decided it was time to be of use to someone. I have heard a lot about wwoofing on my travels so decided to give it a go. The deal with wwoofing (worldwide workers on organic farms) is that you pay 15 euros for a massive list of host farms in a particular country. Then you go work on the farm and they give you board and food. This farm, Kervillon, is my first go at wwoofing. It is on the lle de Brehat in Bretagne and it is pretty damn gorgeous.

Good Times, Cheese & Swissbians*

2008-11-12T09:58:00.000+11:00

* Please note that not all the lovely Swiss citizens I hung out with were lesbians, it's just that swisstrosexuals doesn't have the same ring to it.

I arrived in Bern after an epic journey (well epic if compared to getting the train from newtown to central...not epic compared to, say, the odyssey.) I caught two overnight trains in a row, mainly because I wanted to get to Switzerland quickly, but also I think just to see if I could. One sets oneself funny tasks when travelling alone. And one starts to refer to oneself as one so as to give the impression that everyone behaves exactly as one does. Yes.

So I caught first an overnight train to Vienna from Romania and had the good fortune to be sitting in a carriage with two large, suit-wearing Romanian men who saw fit to have lively debates all through the night and ate very smelly sandwiches in the morning. One of them was very well-endowed. I know this because he was sitting opposite me, with legs very wide apart so that said endowment was very much on display through aforementioned suit.

I spent a day in Vienna (see photo album: one day in vienna) and then had a very stressful time trying to find Stian who was in a hotel on the longest street in the world, a street I powerwalked up and down searching for the hotel. When I found it I was informed that were three hotels with this name and that my friends were not in this one. By this point I needed to go catch my train.

I was not pleased to discover that this time I was accompanied by two laptop endowed young men who also chatted, despite having aforementioned laptops to entertain them. I had also been seated in a carriage with people who were not, unlike me, going all the way to Zurich. This meant that every few hours I had to return my seat to the upright position and shuffle around so they could get off the train and be replaced by other people also only going short distances so not requiring peace and quiet.

You can imagine my joy when I arrived (unshowered for quite some time now) at Susan's charming flat in Bern, to be greeted by offers of laundry facilities (one adores laundry facilities) and tea. I love staying with lesbians; they always have such a wide variety of herbal teas.

That day I went to the Einstein museum and fell asleep during the little film. I may need to write a Note entitled Stupid Things I have Done when Ridiculously Tired.

But when I met up with Susan and Amanda after my ill-fated sight seeing in Bern (I was also very distressed by a caged bear) they were lovely and took me for nice coffee and then there was the supermarket which I always enjoy and a nice dinner with them and Susan's remarkably well-behaved son, Noam, who I later sang songs to before he went to bed. He liked the songs but was a little annoyed that they weren't in German.

And so began my preference for just hanging out with Swiss people rather than seeing their rather famous sites.

Oh, I tried, I really did but I kept getting set back. Fog on the mountains, rain in the valley, missed trains and later on the beginnings of a cold which led to the entire photo album of flowers in Montreux - I was a little delirious. Not to mention the fact that they turn off Geneva's world-famous fountain at night. Well I think they do because after a fulfilling day of museumage and a UN tour, I bought a felafel and strolled down to get my token photo and it was nowhere to be found. I looked for some time and felt like I may be crazy as I had seen it from a distance earlier in the day...

But enough complaining, I did see some very pretty stuff. The day I went to Gruyere with Cosette was wonderful. Perfect weather, charming old town with the same name as the EXCELLENT cheese it produces and a HILARIOUS audio guide in the Gruyere Museum (which gave you 3 pieces of cheese as a ticket! Anna - I think it is the museum for you!!! Well actually it is the country for you but this is a blog not an email so I will tell you about it later.) There was a quaint restaurant with flowers on the balcony, where we had a large fondue followed by ridiculously over-the-top sundae*... Birds were singing and the sky was blue, children were laughing, people were getting married and even that couldn't kill my mood. And then my camera ran out of battery before I could make a record of it all. VERY UPSETTING.

* I don't know why neither Cosette nor I remembered that you should NEVER eat ice cream after fondue. Eating cold things straightaway can harden the cheese in your stomach into a 'cheese ball' that you can't digest. Now, we weren't whisked to hospital for cheese ball removal but we did feel mighty ill for quite some time after. Worth it though I think.

Where was I? Ah yes, providing no information about Switzerland for my eagre readers, just nattering on about nice people you don't know. It is just that I am getting to the point in my trip where I may just have seen enough churches, old cities, castles and museums about WWII.

And so it was that the highlights in Switzerland included exquisite homemade fondue, long chats, silly dancing and music tips with Susan and Amanda, hot chocolate with Cosette and Charlotte when the other young things were partying and drinking beer, and also dinner on my last night when both Charlotte and I were sick and so I made soup.

And I read a lot. And was entertained by getting trains between French and German sections of the country and hearing them change the order of announcements from French then German to German then French.

The moral of the story is that Switzerland is fabulous, its people are charmng and one day I must go back...when it is not Autumn. Pretty much any season but Autumn would do the trick.

Love Maeve

p.s. random fact: Apparently all Swiss residences have to have a bunker in case of attack.

p.p.s. random fact 2: They have some crazy political system with 7 rotating presidents who do a year each or something. It was very hard for me to understand.

p.p.p.s. Bern, Switzerland's capital only has like 120,000 people. Wonderfully small! And lots of them ride bikes. And the public transport is STILL better than Sydney's.

Places I've Been and Things that I've Seen

2008-10-30T18:07:00.000+11:00

In Sarajevo I read a lot. Zadie Smith. She's a champ.

In Croatia, a south african retiree told me and Kamilla that 'communism had made the croations grumpy.' She then told us that the 'turkey people will just bend over backwards for you.' I'd say Turkish myself but hey. This woman had the best South African accent EVER and I don't know if Kamilla quite understood why I kept talking to her. Oh Liz, if you had only been there...though we may have lost composure and started giggling!

Louise and I caught overnight buses in Turkey to cover the long distances between the places we wanted to see. Buses in Turkey are amazing. It is like flying (back in the day when flying meant free food and customer service.) One bus even had wifi and headphones for listening to music. A bus attendant comes and gives you water and such. AND, when I left my phone on one of the buses, I got a dude to call the company and it was back in the town I was in 12 hours later! How's that for service!!!

I flew business class from Sarajevo to Istanbul. This was not intentional. I believe it was an error made due to late-night flight booking. It was pretty funny though. I got to sit in the business lounge where plastic surgeryed women didn't eat the peanuts I was gorging on and there was free juice. Then, on the plane I was given real cutlery because rich people don't hijack planes and they pulled a little curtain across so I didn't have to look at the peasants.

We had the best kulfi (indian dessert) I'd ever had in Istanbul. I doubt they make it so good in India. I will have to go check.

My host in Sofia, Bulgaria works for an NGO that helps Roma people living in the ghettos. Her co-worker had just quit after 6 years of working with local sex workers because she can't live on the pay anymore and they can't get more funding. Iskra (my host) was mighty generous despite the fact that I now knew how minimal her salary was. She paid for the dinner she made me and then slept at her boyfriend's place so I could have the bed. Yep, she left a girl she had just met alone in her apartment. I can't believe the trust people have put in me. I did the dishes the next morning. Least I could do really.

While I was in Croatia, an Australian went missing and died. Teresa and Rowan were in Nepal at that time and two Australians died in a plane crash. Creepy.

Travelling with Louise is tops. One can forget sometimes how entertaning one's own family can be. Louise has this habit of saying totally random stuff at strange moments as if it isn't funny. It is funny but she never seems to think it is. It is said in a way that you can laugh at her without feeling like you are mocking her, but at the same time you don't think she is being consciously witty in order to impress anyone. The quotes I managed to write down follow and you may not find them funny. But I did. And it's my mum, so damn well agree with me or there'll be trouble.

Louise in defence of endless window shopping: I think I was arabic in a past life. Or German baroque. I'm just decorative.

Maeve: Ah! Apparently Tsar Boris of Bulgaria sided with Hitler but then refused to send Bulgarian jews to the concentration camps saving 50,000 lives.
Louise: mmm, good reason to name your son Boris.

...meanwhile, interesting fact about Bulgaria, non?

I heard my first call to prayer in Sarajevo and thought it atmospheric and un-western in a cheesy-touristy-exoticising-the-other kinda way. Sometimes it would happen at the same time as church bells. By the time I had spent two weeks in Turkey I had lost patience and religious tolerance. I don't care if people want to pray at 5am, I want to sleep. In a strange switch of alliances, I appreciated the smell of Sarajevo's cevapcici (tiny fried meat matter) more than the burek I lived on for 3 days. But this was mainly because of the masses of raw onion they were served with and the wood smoke from the fires, both overwhelming enough that I could not smell the dead stuff.

Kamilla and I spent some time devising amusing ways to convince baffled guesthouse owners that we wanted a double room not a twin after an unsuccessful first night. We didn't get to dress her up as a boy in the end but we did have a VERY funny time with the man who owned our guesthouse in Dubrovnik. I chose him because unlike the others hassling us at the bus station he stood quietly aside with a sign that said "Inside Old City." Once we got in the van, we realised it was the end of the silence. He prattled on about the greatness of his business, leaning away from the steering wheel to point to his reference in some obscure Korean guidebook or to point into the distant suburbs claiming that this giesthouse or that guesthouse was way out there. He spoke of its cleanliness, location (not actually inside the town but right next to the wall so we forgave him) and value for money. He continued to sell his wares at top vocal speed even once we were inside, taking us into both bathrooms, pointing at his large supply of cleaning products, putting his head inside the shower cubicle, inhaling and saying "see! we clean every day!"

In Turkey, stuff is sold by theme in individual areas. When wandering through town we came to a whole suburb devoted to hardware, taps, doorknobs etc., spilling out onto the street. Louise was not wildly into this suburb and politely suggested (i.e. firmly insisted) that we head for a more enjoyable quarter. The bookshop street was great. And just when I was yearning for thermal longjohns, we came upon camping, fishing and outdoor town - right next to our favourite baklava joint!

I saw a land mine action team still at work in Sarajevo. Sarajevo is still covered in bullet and shell damage and packed with crumbling buildings, unlike Dubrovnik which, despite also coming under heavy fire is near perfect.

They drive crazy in Turkey. Though I have since discovered that the true speed demons live in Romania. My oh my, they go sooo fast. In Turkey we had a driver who's first day on the job it was. He got lost and then semed to be falling asleep. Louise and I were sitting in the front seat of the minibus and kept trying to do things to wake him, but it was hard as he spoke no English. Louise considered doing what she thought was the 'international gesture for sleeping' to show that she sympathised but was then concerned that he wouldthink it was the 'international gesturefor do you want to come to bed with me?'

In Zagreb, Croatia, my host Jelena gave me rakia (alcohol - spirit) that her Serbian girlfriend had made. She had stored it with fresh mint and honey and it was a flavour sensation. Whycan't I have a Serbian home-made-alcohol-producing lady friend? Why I ask?

I've punched through a lot of books lately so any suggestions would be appreciated. Though nothing obscure, as I am trawling book exchanges. I went to a charming one in Veliko Turnovo, Bulgaria run by a Welsh woman. We chatted about books and I ended up selecting Perfume by Patrick Suskind. I gave her Amsterdam by Ian McEwan and now I feel like I ripped her off. Sometimes I am mildly concerned/amused by how many sights I miss because I think I'd rather sit in a cafe and read

soon to come...Bulgaria and Romania aka The Countries That Mother Me

Don't judge a country by its train station...

2008-10-28T17:52:00.000+11:00

Arrival in Romania this evening was not smooth.

I should have stuck to the tourists in the carriage next to mine, followed them to their hostel, split the cost of a cab. But the conversation that wafted through the carriage wall was inane and I was keen to find my Lonely Planet-alleged Villa 11, conveniently close to the train station for tomorrow's departure to Brasov.

I exited, cash in hand and quickly realised that my Lonely Planet map little resembled the heaving city before me. I was soon surrounded by enthusiastic taxi drivers who seemed to be offering to take me to the hostel for an exorbitant 30 lei. In retrospect, I think they were saying 3 lei and that perhaps my hearing had been affected by the numerous warnings I had received about rip off cabs in Bucharest. Nevertheless, I did not want to pay for what appeared to be a 500m walk.

I tried to call the hostel but just as the woman was starting to give directions my phone ran out of batteries.

My next offer, after a hair raising road crossing, was a 10 lei guide on foot in the form of a friendly looking fellow. But I only had a 100 lei note and something told me he would not have the right change. Unable to see the street sign I required I returned to the station in the hope of a tourist information centre. A friendly looking man inside asked if I needed help and, a little exasperated, I just said "I don't have any money."

"um...that's ok, I am a dentist. You just look like you need help."

I felt like a right twat.

With his (sadly incorrect) instructions I wandered through some inner-city backstreets complete with atmospheric dog barking and broken street lights for some time before returning to the corner where my potential 10 lei guide had been to see if I could convince him to show me for the 4 euro I had in coins. He was gone, but thankfully another fellow sent me in the right direction.

Villa 11 is seriously weird. The door finally opened to reveal a pallid, pony tailed boy of about 12 years old who then fetched a pallid, pony tailed boy of about 17...(pallid, pony tailed 15 was outside fixing a bicycle.) I was shown to my dorm with no explanation of bathrooms, keys, breakfast or anything.

Strict instructions about what the staff would and wouldn't do on the sabbath were pasted in reception. A Canadian flag was stuck to the door. The entire house smelt like tuna.

I left and headed to the metro station, starving after taking an hour and a half to travel 500m. And there I found a famailiarity so very unexpected. To get onto the train platform you have to dip your ticket in the exact same green machines we have on Sydney buses. At the Beepbeep-bebeepbeep, I nearly laughed out loud.

I finally made it to food and a glass of red that tasted a little too much like balsamic vinegar but was satisfying nonetheless. And then to this internet cafe. You will be pleased to know that, should I want to, I could also see a number of live sex shows in this area once I am done online.

Over and out.
Maeve. xxx

...The morning brought more confusion as the house appeared empty save for a middle-aged man who did not reply when I said hello. I showered and noticed that there was food on the table, which was set for 8 despite my being the only guest. I ate cold pikelets with jam and a strange (but pleasant) stinky cheese.

Finally the owner, Debbie appeared. I knew her name as 'Debbie's Kitchen' was etched into a wooden mug rag on the wall. She was actually very nice, if oddly conservative and old-fashioned as one might imagine a mormon might look. She was the round, large-breasted, high-waisted full skirt wearing version of her sons, but she was friendly and chatty and I felt bad for passing such harsh judgment on her home.

She told me how they had a single room upstairs that had shelves on which her daughter stored her extensive porcelain doll collection. She had once shown the room to a man and the next day a review appeared on hostelbookes.com calling her establishment (and her home) "a pedophile's paradise." I thought of telling her she was a Canadian/Romanian Bill Henson but I wasn't sure she'd get the reference.

It must be had for people who open their homes up as hostels. I mean, I maintain the place was weird but that was because of the initial lack of customer service, the location and the tuna smell. I would never go so far as to write cruel things on a hostel site (only on facebook which Debbie won't see.)

If you're interested, Debbie and her family moved to Romania in the 90s. The house was her husband's grandmother's and was seized in 1949 by the government. After the revolution, she told me, they came to get it back. There was a lengthy legal battle and by the time they won they had decided to stay. This explains why the place is in the middle of the military medical institute.

It is interesting to be in a country where people say "after the revolution" casually in conversation.

this finish skin baby nice

2008-10-23T10:48:00.000+11:00

My mother and I were the only customers at Antalya`s hamam and, unlike their regular tourist clientele, we were not German. This did not stop the many Bitte Shuns as we were ushered into the 700 yr old marble bathing room.

Thankfully alone, we were quickly disrobed (our host unceremoniously whipped off our towels) and instructed to lie on a marble bench while she poured hot water on us. She then introduced herself and without any further ado she departed.

We cautiously sat and set about pouring the water on ourselves, thinking that perhaps it wasn`t worth the cash. Then, all of a sudden our host Rose, 5ft tall and round, marched naked past the door, laughing hyserically. She soon re-entered now clad in a zebra print bikini. `Come Baby`she saıd and led me by the hand into the next chamber.

`Sit baby.`
`Sleep baby.`
I was to lie down.

She put on a loofah mitt and said `This finish skin baby nice`before beginning to scrub.
Thoroughly.

Louise was next while I sat bathing. Rose`s terms of endearment did not take age into consideration. We were both called Baby.

Me again. Sit baby. Sleep baby. But this time with an added `Mama fingers!!`and a friendly wiggle of her paws before she suddsed me up and washed me.
Thoroughly.

I stood and she splashed away the soap, taking great delight in throwing buckets of water at my bottom. Both back bottom and front bottom. What could I do but laugh with her?

Then she washed my haiir, slamming my face into her belly and even bothering to wipe the soap from my eyes.

As she washed Louise she asked `Where husband?`and `This your baby?,`pointing at me. She then said `Me two babies, no husband,`but she was not part of the sisterhood. She mimed a car crash, pointed at the ground and shrugged.

Then, before you can say sleep baby, we were clean and being hussled out of the room, wrapped in towels and offered tea. I also got two complimentary face pinches complete with a `Nice baby.`

The massage was brief and disappointingly uneventful by comparison, but then, I don`t think we could have coped with any more amusement. Soon Rose was dressed and ushering us into the street.

We walked around Antalya a lıttle dazed before making our way to the otogar and our overnight bus to Goreme.

If you`re ever in Turkey, say Hi to Rose for me.

Biscuits and Patriotism

2008-10-21T11:24:00.000+11:00

Please excuse typos, strange letterıng and Is wıthout dots...Turkısh keyboard.

I am not a good patrıot. I went to Gallıpolı the other day and was unmoved by the multıtude of war memorıals and tales of heroıcs. Even when I found out my great-great-Uncle Arthur had fought there and survıved I dıd not feel prıde. I just thought `my, how the Marsdens got around.`

But I have been thınkıng lately about the contradıctıon of beıng able to feel ımmense shame at the terrıble thıngs `my country` has done, but feelıng uncomforable about the possıbılıty of any Natıonal Prıde, Prıde that I have only really notıced ın the last 3 months.

Prıor to travel, I had cheerıly claımed the phrase Scenıc Natıonalısm to descrıbe that physıcal joy I get ın certaın parts pof the Australıan landscape: Coogee beach (well the ladıes` pool...and ıts ınhabıtants...l), the plaıns between the blue mountaıns and Bathurst etc etc. But any other kınd of natıonalısm I shıed away from wıth fear and repulsıon. I stıll fınd blınd patrıotısm rıdıculous (especıally ın lıght of an ıncreased awareness of European hıstory and just how many dıfferent peoples have owned each tıny pıece of land.) But recently, as I meet people from other countrıes ın hostels and buses and such and we ınevıtably ıntroduce ourselves wıth `where are you from?`I have found myself talkıng dıfferently about Australıa (and my Australıanness.) There have been a number of tımes when I have felt dısturbıngly proud to be from Australıa and have found myself extollıng Australıa`s vırtues to others. Sıtauatıons where thıs has happened ınclude:

1) When talkıng to eurocentrıc twats who thınk I lıve ın a cultureless backwater. I am allowed to say that I lıve ın a cultureless backwater but I sure as hell am not goıng to take ıt from some colonıalıst drunk Brıt ın Barcelona.

2) When `my fellow Australıans` use the followıng ıdıotıc sentences when faced by any buıldıng more than 5 years old:
- we just don`t have hıstory lıke that
- we`re such a young country
Hey dıckhead, read a book. You lıve ın a country wıth some of the oldest survıvıng cultures and languages ın the world. Your country has evıdence of habıtatıon from 100,000 of years ago. Paıntıngs from over 30,000 years ago! No, the ındıgenous people dıd not buıld temples. It`s called actually beıng able to lıve wıthın your envıronment. We could learn a thıng or two. Feel free to say that we don`t have archıtecture lıke that. We don`t. It`s one of the reasons I decıded to come to Europe...whıch brıngs me to:

3) When people judge me for ellectıng Europe as a travel destınatıon. Why not Afrıca? Why not South Amerıca? Europe ıs just full of other Western natıons rıght? That one gets me. There ıs an assumptıon that Australıa ıs so lıke Europe that comıng here would not be as worthy frustrates me. You see, we really don`t have archıtecture lıke that. Beıng ın Europe ıs amazıng. It ıs the power centre. Amerıca may have the reıgns at the moment but Europe ıs the damn saddle. Or the horse. Or the leather that the reıgns were made out of...prızes for a better metaphor... To be here, where my ancestors decıded to go and pıllage a few other contınents, fascınates me. And seeıng modern natıons here (prımarıly ın Scandınavıa) that have the gender neutral marrıage laws* and free educatıon of a hıgh standard and the publıc health systems that we want ıs ınspıratıonal.

* I am actually ıntendıng to form a group agaınst gay marrıage. It wıll be the `Ban gay marrıage...ın fact ban all marrıage` group.

4) Talkıng about or to Amerıcans. Proud to be Australıan cos I`m not Amerıcan.

5) When people actually want to come to Australıa but ıntend to only vısıt the east coast and drınk a lot at the Coogee Bay Hotel and sımılar establıshments. Thıs shıts me. The good stuff ıs spread all over. Get thee to Western Australıa! Skıp Canberra.

I can`t be bothered complaınıng anymore because I am ın a good mood today.

Over and out.

'An Other Tourist' or 'The Problem with Straight People'

2008-10-08T12:42:00.000+11:00

The other day Kamilla and I were spat at for kissing in the streets of Dubrovnik. Now, I myself have great disdain for overt public displays of affection, but the violent hate on this man's face told me that it was our gender and not any perceived cutesy romanticism that led him to part with his saliva.

Prior to our arrival, we had both read the Lonely Planet warning that homosexuality was legal, but not generally welcome in Croatia. Our couch host in Zagreb had spoken of being firmly in the closet and we had discussed difficulties and differences...but we mostly found amusing similarities in our stories (lesbian webs, asymmetrical hairdos and such.)

After the incident in Dubrovnik, Kamilla and I did not conclude that Croatia was a homophobe. Sadly, we acknowledged that what we had experienced could be suffered in any country of the world. But this overt rage at my sexuality reminded me of a complaint I've been meaning to Note for some time.

As I travel, I inevitably meet more new people than I would at home. Thus I find myself coming out several times a week, sometimes several times a day. This is not out of some desire to share of myself with these new ˝friends.˝No, it is out of necessity during any conversation that moves beyond the basic - that is, if I do not want to lie by changing gender pronouns on lovers, exes or indeed parents.

It is so tedious.

I have a rainbow flag stitched on to my bag as a reminder to myself that I must not allow laziness or frustration to tempt me back into the proverbial closet. This is of course a luxury of travel in Europe, knowing that the most I will probably suffer is some old man's spit. But my insistence leads to the same conversations time and time again...

Answering those generic questions that people pose as if they are original...or indeed risqué. I am tired of my own voice, producing these old gay-clichés like greeting cards for the people of the world. I never refuse, out of some childhood belief that I can educate in some way. But Pride does not diminish the boredom of repetition.

I try to stay with queer couch hosts when I can to avoid the inevitable Heterosexual Assumption and allow conversation to get to the good stuff. But then, in Berlin of all places, I found myself justifying my need of a queer community to one such host. She didn't ˝need˝ gay friends because all her other friends ˝accepted˝ her as ˝normal˝ and liked her just the way she was, Bridget Jones style (my bad pop culture reference, not hers.) I yearned for Laura to be standing next to me scoffing ˝gay˝under her breath...sigh... I explained, in as many different ways as I could, but she kept bringing it back to prejudice and discrimination, which apparently she has never suffered from.

But it is not the discrimination and the spitters that really bother me. It is the assuming (which I've heard from time to time makes an ass out of u and me...hehe...sorry...) The assumption of heterosexuality. When I meet other lesbians I have a joyous physical reaction, not of arousal but of relief - relief that they will understand that ˝I met a girl in Norway˝ does not mean that I only met one female in 3 weeks of travel, but that I met one significantly interesting female in Norway. (Incidentally there are many significantly interesting women in this fair nation, but one only has so much time...and this is beside the point...)

It is the assumption that bothers me.

So, if you have read this I set you the following challenge -

For one day, assume that everyone you meet is a homo. This is not an original proposition. In fact, I think a certain school teacher was crucified recently for suggesting a similar exercise with his students. But do it, nonetheless. If you meet someone and they mention a partner of the opposite sex, or indeed parents of opposing sexes, ask them the following questions:

1. Wow, you're straight? (insert reference to another straight person you know. Maybe suggest that they should be friends.)
2. When did you know?
3. Do you think you inherited it? (find a way to use the phrase Nature vs. Nurture in a manner that suggests you came up with it yourself.)
4. Why do all of you dress like that? (insert description that suggests all straight women are fat and lack fashion taste or that all straight men spend their life savings on clothes items)
5. Why do you feel the need to separate yourselves from normal people? Like, do you really need your own parade? Your own bars? (scoff scoff)
6. How do you fuck? (you only need to have known a person for an hour or two for this intrusion to be deemed appropriate.)

I know I have straight friends who are sick of this rant, even gay friends who are sick of this rant. Hell, I am sick of this rant. But I shall rant on.

Don't even get me started on coming out as a Vegetarian...

Maeve's Travel Tips for Various Countries

2008-10-06T20:51:00.000+11:00

Czech Republic
1. In Prague, be prepared to be somewhat unconvinced that you are in an actual city and not a European Fairytale Theme Park.
2. Avoid large groups of British men with 'lads on the lash' t-shirts and freshly made tattoos.
3. Do NOT avoid the communism museum, amusingly situated behind a MacDonald's. Please also go to the Sex Toy Museum and the Museum of Medieval Torture Instruments, both of whoch I was devastated to miss.
4. The castle is overrated.
5. Cesky Krumlov is not. In fact, shorten your stay in Prague and lengthen your stay in Cesky. Camp by the river, drink absinthe, go to the Two Marys to eat a massive feast and admire the gorgeous waitress. Travel with people who would rather call the town Crusty Demons than Cesky Krumlov. Continually wonder why.

Hungary
1. The drive to Budapest from the Czech Republic is long, especially if your are in a car with 4 other people. You will drive through Austria so attempt to find at least one companion (thanks Liz!) who will continue singing Sound of Music ditties with you even when others turn up the radio.
2. DO NOT DRIVE IN BUDAPEST. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO PARK IN BUDAPEST. If you do attempt these things, have some cash handy to pay off various people who promise to ensure you do not get a fine. When you do get a fine (and you will), it can be paid at a local post office.
3. Go to Gellert Furdo. Bathe. Relax. When sitting underneath the strongest spa jet in the world, do not attempt to tell a friend that it 'makes the other spa jet feel like an old man pissing on your neck.' You will think you are whispering. You will not be. Everyone in the bath will hear you.
4. Budapest has good bars. Find them.
5. Continue your exploration of Eastern European communism at the Socialist Statue Park. It is weird, and very entertaining to hear Western tourists too stingy to buy the brochure speculate on the significance of the statues.*
* The Western tourists I refer to may or may not include myself and Stanley...

Slovenia
Slovenia is above bulleted points. Slovenia is European heaven. Slovenia deserves prose. Sandwiched between Italy, Austria, Hungary and Croatia makes Slovenia, first and foremost, a haven for good food. On top of that it is spectacularly beautiful, with mountains, lakes, 47km of stunning, albeit stunted coastline (though I like short things!) and a charming capital with an excellent name (I recommend travelling with people who suffer in silence at your habit of saying Ljubljana over and over again like you have capital city tourettes.) Slovenia has conveniently located and wonderfully situated campsites in all towns and, when unable to provide, you can always pop over to a neighbouring country (see below: Italy.) Its countryside is clean and picturesque (see excessive number of photo albums) and it has all number of fun activities for the adventurous tourist. Its people tend to speak at least German or English so, travelling with people who speak at least one of those languages will mean success. Said people can also be extremely generous. One man, on hearing the average wage in Australia, bought us a round of beers. Others cheerily took us home to Grandma's house but that's another story. Slovenia was once part of Yugoslavia and it makes good cheese. It has one island, in a lake in Bled, and you can ski in Triglavski National Park in Winter. Hitch hiking os common, and generally safe. It even has a cow festival which, in this humble author's opinion, shits all over Spain's ˝running˝of the ˝bulls.˝
Get thee to Slovenia. Now.*
* Your love of Slovenia will be especially heightened if you spend a long time there, having only found out days before heading to Croatia that your German hire car is not actually insured for Croatia. If you then focus all of your energies on getting excited about Slovenia, and sing songs about its marvels before even setting foot on its shore, you will definitely love it. Slovenia. Fuck Yeah.

Italy...well...Muggia...
1. You will only need to go to Italy if Slovenia does not provide a sufficiently wonderful campsite. (NB: As Slovenia is perfect, it is likely your fault that the campsite is shit and small, not Slovenia's.)
2. You may find yourself in a campsite 100m from the Slovenian border, near a town called Muggia. When going out for dinner in Muggia, do ensure that you know what you are ordering and how much it will cost, or you may find yourself spending a day's budget at what must be the most expensive restaurant in town. Make yourself feel better with millefeuille flavoured gelato. MILLEFEUILLE FLAVOURED GELATO!*
* For those not in the know, mille feuille, or 1000 layers, is a French pastry made with layers of vanilla custard and pastry. It is heavenly. My mother, Louise, once decided to quickly illegally park to pop into a cafe and get a mille feuille, such was her craving. She got a $150 fine. I think she still believes it was worth it. They are kind of a family obsession. Anywaaay...
3. Muggia's taxi service stops at 8. Once stranded, I recommend befriending a gang of feckless youth (Liz would make an excellent Australian ambassador) and allowing them to drive you home. The singular experience of careening down the coastal road while your possibly 14yr old driver blares AC/DC's Highway to Hell is one you shan't forget. People of Muggia: You are welcome in Sydney.

Germany
1. Slovenia (yes Slovenia) is good for many things. Namely, meeting friendly Germans named Diemut and Max who offer to let you stay with them in Noerdlingen, a small town north of Munich (who needs Munich anyway?)
2. Noerdlingen is the sister town of Wagga Wagga. SERIOUSLY. Apparently, it is also the only town in Europe with a complete city wall and the meteor that hit the region creating the crater in which the town sits led to a particular type of unique rock. Astronauts were sent to train in Noerdlingen. Seriously. Who knew?
3. In Noerdlingen, you may also be subjected to the most amazing display of German hospitality ever known to a troupe of travelling, smelly, dirty, post-campsite Australians. How's 5 beds, in a nice house, with massive traditional dinner and breakfast (both accompanied by a variety of beers and some lessons in local history)? Good yes.
4. Stay in Dresden for longer than we did.
5. Berlin is awesome. Do not go there for four days or you will spend the whole time wishing you were staying longer. I think that, like Slovenia, my Berlin rant could get...well...ranty. Here goes...

Berlin makes the rest of Europe (well, what I've seen of it) look somewhat unlived in. Berlin is lively and messy (Budapest is also like this and is thus also recommended.) Where the rest of Europe has monuments that advertise a country's virtues, Berlin shows its shame, almost grotesquely so. From the Topographie of Terrors, to the Jewish Museum, to the East Side Gallery and other Berlin Walls monuments, the city's ugly past is almost flaunted. Fast food from Snackpoint Charlie anyone? But amongst all this is a massive queer scene (they have a gay museum!), Kreuzberg, which is like Newtown's cooler older sister, buildings covered with amazing street art, an excellent public transport system, great food and shopping...the list goes on. And the historical horrors, while at times presented cheesily (care for a souvenir piece of the wall?), are at least honest. At least we don't get the shiny version of history, packaged in statues of knights and kings and presidents. It feels more real, even when it is tacky. I stayed with two couch hosts and had a wonderful time. I did not want to leave and, when I found out that there was a Leonard Cohen concert on the next week, it is possible I cried. For some time... But Croatia called, and I had already booked my ticket, as had Kamilla. So off I went, to the next chapter.

Ice Ice Baby

2008-09-07T16:05:00.000+10:00

I arrived at 1am at my couch surfing host's place in Reykjavik and knocked on the window as instructed. "Am I in the right place?" I asked when the door opened. "I don't know...Are you?" My host was out at work and his two friends were waiting at his place. They weren't sure if he was expecting me but they said I could probably sleep there anyway. They then spent the next half hour admiring the very dashing vest the Icelandic man had knitted for the Finnish woman.*

*NB: I will be describing most people I meet rather than using their names as I can neither spell nor prounounce them.

A too-short sleep later and I was boarding an early bus to Skaftafell to meet Kamilla. In between napping, the bus passed through some amazing landscape and stopped off at spectacular waterfalls. I also got very excited about black sand, a romance that would continue for the following week.

Iceland is amazing, treeless, vast, empty, black, grey, green and unlike anything I have seen before. I thought Skaftafell was a town (as black dots on maps normally are.) It was a campsite. I later found out Kamilla had gone to two supposed "towns" and discovered first, a farm and second, an abandoned farm. Super cartography Iceland.

Kamilla had pitched our tent pleasingly in view of my first glacier (impressively, the third biggest glacier in the world - after the 2 poles). I was pretty stoked and feeling very outdoorsy and pseudo-butch. That night though brought the windstorms our guidebooks neglected to mention. Our tent creaked and groaned which made sleep impossible. At about 5am a polite Englishman politely yelled that we should probably pull our ten down before it blew away with us inside (windstorms in Iceland have caused cars to blow off the roads!) As the wind whipped us we gathered our belongings and forged a path to the toilet block to huddle with the other campers.

At 8.30am, bleary-eyed but stoic, we began to trek through the occasional rain and wind to Svartifoss, the famous waterfall to which I was pilgrimmaging. I think we are some of the only tourists who have experienced this site blissfully alone (aka stupid enough to walk up in the rain, early in the morning, after no sleep.)

We then visited the empty farm house at Sell...which is set up like an old farm house would've been set up...with beds...

The first tourist who woke us up quickly shut the door saying "Ooh! Sorry!" As if it were our house. But when 12 French hikers started up the stairs we quickly put our pants on and departed. Still, it was a good one hour nap which fuelled us as we collected our backpacks and tramped up to the crossroads in search of a ride...

We hitched to Jökulsarlon, and breath taking lake filled with icebergs broken off of the glacier. I touristed good, taking a million photos and squealing when seals surfaced. Then got collected by a nice man who took us a long way and was very chatty and informative, though by this point we were feeling the lack of sleep and joyously checked in to an uncommonly cheap and charming riverside guesthouse in Hella. The problem with large, comfortable beds is that you sleep in til midday.

It was ambitious to try and get to Landmannalauger in one afternoon, especially since our third lift (a family of 5 who squeezed us in the back with the picnic) offered to take us sight seeing and we agreed. Two more beautiful waterfalls later and we were standing at a crossroads at 6.30pm, 40km from our destination, and it was starting to rain.

Tents are useful. Fields are useful. I think I may carry a tent with me always - it'd be handy when I couldn't be bother walking home from a friend's house...or the towny...or the bus stop.

We camped in a ditch and got a ride the next morning with 2 geologists in Iceland to sign an agreement between Iceland, the US and Australia about geothermal energy. Travelling with geologists in Iceland is like stumbling upon enthusiastic art experts in Florence or Paris. Iceland has some of the "newest land you'll ever see," which is "like born yesterday in geology terms." 5000 years old, this means. I now know about lava flows and geysirs and geothermal energy. At Landmannalauger, Kamilla and I intended to hike we really did, but we ended up sitting in a hot spring for an hour and a half. Bliss.

Ted & Paul (I can pronounce American names) took the long road back, traipsing across a river or three and frequently losing the road which would've been adventurous (the first 2 hours were) except that our cold night at the crossroads was starting to take its toll on my health. I graciously thanked our drivers by asking them to pull over so I could throw up. EXACTLY what one wants to do in front of one's charming Norwegian companion. Anyway, turns out I wasn't exactly carsick. Had tonsillitis. By the time we arrived at our host's place in Reykjavik I had a fever. Delirium is also very attractive.

The next day was a bit of a right off. We went on a walking tour (learning about axe wielding child vikings, why they make houses entirely out of corrugated iron - no trees, and how come everything is so damned expensive) but I felt ill and slept through the afternoon, while Kamilla hitch to Thingvellir (where they invented democracy! See if anyone should be invading Iraq and showing 'em how it's done - aka killing them - it's the Icelanders. Ooh! And how much funner would a war be if the victims were harpooned instead of bombed.)

Refusing to be broken, I committed to a 9am horse ride the day after. Now whether or not my fever was related to the fact that I fell off half way in is debatable. What is definitely true is that mid-gallop my saddle slid to the right and I with it. Icelandic horses are a special breed with a smooth 5th gait (which I did not experience). They are also very small which was lucky as when I was catapulted me face first into the road I escaped with just scraped hands, bruised knees and a purple hip. Awesome. Just awesome. I did have a few good gallops after that (possibly to prove to the cute French instructor that I wasn't a complete git.)

That afternoon we hitched via some Spanish tourists, a local nurse and some Germans in a campervan, to Geysir (hot stinky water hurtling into the air) and Gullfoss (now THAT'S a waterfall.) We got a ride back squeezed in the front seat with an electrician who couldn't take us all the way, but handed us over to his son who he was meeting at a petrol station. All very odd.

Our final day in Reykjavik we headed to the national museum (free on Wednesdays!) which Kamilla found all very dull as she knows lots about Nordic history already. I was entertained by dressing up as a viking. She perked up at some massive whale bone carvings. Yes, all Norwegians do appear to be pro-whaling... (Note that by all I mean Kamilla.) We have had many a debate about the issue (Note that by debate I mean argument.) Though even I was complicit in the entertaining photos of Kamilla next to a restaurant serving whale pepper steak and am in full support of her making a t-shirt that says "If we had dolphins, we'd kill them too."

Early the next morning (as in 5am) I set out through the dark cold streets of Reykjavik to get to the airport and begin my epic day's journey to Prague to meet Liz and Stanley.

Iceland is amazing.

Go there.*

* You will need to be rich or have a tent and penchant for hitch hiking* if you want to go there.

*or a Norwegian companion with a tent and a penchant for hitch hiking

Why all these cheap airline companies suck balls

2008-09-06T07:51:00.000+10:00

Ok, so the internet and the airports are now packed to the gills with cheap cheap cheap airlines travelling all over Europe. Super, right? NOT SO. They get your money other ways, yes yes they do. The first is in the ridiculously over priced ticket that gets you to the random, tiny, middle-of-nowhere airport you are flying from. The second, and my most hated, is in their luggage restrictions. In this matter, it has been out and out war between me and the airlines...war I tells ya. (Note here that I have mostly been victorious, only paying excess once!)

Some companies will get you to pay online for 1 checked in bag of 20kg. Turn up with any extra weight and you will pay at least $10 per kilo. Per Kilo! This has led to me hunched in a corner of the check in, hauling out luggage, putting on heavy shoes in the middle of Spanish summer, clipping plastic bags with shoes to my little backpack, wearing 3 jackets etc... (actually when the security guard said "Please take off your...3 jackets..." it was pretty funny)

Some companies then proudly advertise that there is no weight restriction on hand luggage. Awesome. They are basically encouraging people to break their backs by putting all their heavy stuff in their carry on. Maybe it's just me, but surely it would be more efficient to put more stuff below than spend half an hour wrestling with other passengers to try and get your bag into the overhead compartment with their massive case full of what appear to be lead weights! Not to mention the fact that if we get turbulence (movie style turbulence) and the overheads open I would not want all my books, my boots, my sleeping bag, my towel, 3 jackets, and 3 glass bottles of vitamins FALLING ON MY HEAD!

On my last flight (London to Prague), I thought I'd finally got it together, leaving a bag of stuff at a friend's house and practically bouncing off to Luton Airport (4th of London's four airports that I've now been to). I proudly placed my 19.8kg suitcase on the conveyor and skipped off to security. And then it happened. The smarmy British wench over the loudspeaker said:

"Please remember that you are only allowed one piece of hand luggage. If you come to security with more than one piece of hand luggage you will be sent back to check in..." (that's alright, I thought, they always let you have a small handbag...) "...Please note that laptop bags and handbags count as one piece."

BITCH!

Cue me spending the next 10 minutes wrestling the contents of my handbag into my already full little backpack, eating my apple (which was going to be my aeroplane dinner since they don't give you those anymore), shoving things in my pockets and then strapping my rolled up canvas handbag to the side of my backpack. I considered shoving stuff down my pants but was glad I had not when I was subject to a pat down later on.

The thing is, that all of this hoo ha at airports today does jack for security. So far I have twice forgotten to take my little clear bag of liquids-in-less-than-100ml-bottles out before passing security and no one has noticed. I have carried a nail file through three times and nail scissors twice. But they make me drain my water bottle before entering so that I am busting throughout take off. It is ridiculous.

Fuckers.

this is the life.

2008-08-15T08:48:00.000+10:00

hi hi friendly readers. i am not sure if there are many of you but i will blog on as it brings me joy.

I spent a wonderful week in Edinburgh with Liz. As is our way, we fell into a pleasing routine were we would get up, breakfast and coffee at Black Medicine together (Kath used to work there!), then she would go to work, I would take her crew pass, go see shows for free. Dinner during her break then more shows for me then I would collect her round midnight and we´d go out for a drink. It was all most enjoyable.

I saw some great shows, have a newfound passion for Tim Minchin (genius!), respect for Reginald D Hunter (anyone who can do a stand up routine about Josef Fritzl and keep the audience´s love deserves it) and a strong dislike for stupid old Parky wannabe, Nicholas Parsons. I also saw a great musical called The Kiddy Fiddler on the Roof, wonderful childrens theatre (Potted Potter, all seven booksz in seventy minutes), caught up with Cath at Circus Oz, ran into Alice in the street, and met Camille The Dark Angel (well technically we chatted to her sister but she was standing RIGHT THERE.) Oh and I saw Jennifer Saunders. That was exciting.

Sleeping on Liz´s floor nearly broke my back but it was worth it to see her flip out at her messy housemates and start hiding clean dishes for us to use in the morning. Her abusive notes pasted on doors and ovens also entertained. Especially when the angry note was written to a guy whose birthday it was. No excuse!

I sadly farewelled my companion and boarded a flight to Barcelona on Monday. Where it is boiling hot. Liz had told me I would love Barcelona but I wasn´t sold right away. I am not one for truly appreciating 35 degree weather. It made trudging around the spectacular Sagrida Familia a bit exhausting. However when I hit the beach on Tuesday afternoon I was pretty stoked. Also quite pleasing is the European penchant for not wearing a top on the beach. Not for the perv factor but because I could just change into my swimmers right there. I have a new rule when it comes to vanity or modesty: Ýou will never see these people again, who cares if they think you are fat. It is a good rule.

On Tuesday night I made friends with a Canadian traveller. We realised that we both:
a) were nearly 25 (cue quarter life crisis)
b) had recently quit our jobs
c) were blowing massive savings
d) had recently participated in pleasing holiday flings

With these commonalities we set out to find a tapas bar, found a restaurant instead, gorged on Spanish delicacies and proceeded to catch the wrong night bus, finding ourselves in the Barcelona burbs at 3am. We got a taxi back to the hostel and apart from some murmurs from disgruntled sisters from uruguay that we woke up when we got in, all was well.

Yesterday was bliss. We went to some Gaudi buildings and Parc Guell and marvelled at the view over the city, and Gaudi´s fairytale like crazy style. We headed for the beach and lay in the sun, got a 5 euro massage and took photos of ourselves. And swimming in the sea with someone who hadn´t been in salt water before this trip was HIGHLY amusing and joyous. Finally we dragged ourselves from the sand, bought an excess of fruit and veges from the market for about 10 euros each and headed back to the hostel.

This arvo I´m off to Granada to couch surf with some guy called Tom. Not too thrilled about the 14 hour bus ride, but good times ahead I hope.

I am happy.
I am well.

Love Maeve

yes, yes, it's the gay tour of europe

2008-08-06T10:46:00.000+10:00

hi. so my captions on the last three albums of photos were factual rather than witty so i am writing a blog as penance. with sub-headings. this won't be amusing either in all likelihood due to exhuastion after a late one at the pub with liz. sorry.

Stockholm

I was in Stockholm for a week. It is a beautiful city. Actually it reminded me of Sydney a lot as it's on an archipelago so lots water. Lots water = architecture which employs glass and balconies a lot, plenty of parks and green, bridges, ferries and the ability to really do summer (an ability which many European countries, e.g. London, lack).

So when I was moseying by the water, admiring the rooftops (great lines) and the people* I was very happy.

* It is true. Swedish people are better looking. I didn't want to believe the stereotype but they are, in general, taller, higher cheekboned, tanneder, better dressed and generally more likely to look like a supermodel than the rest of the world. It's just a fact. Factual information. Don't say I don't inform ya.

I took in some sites:
- Parliament House (Sweden also has an interesting political system like Norway)
- Fjaderholma (Feather Islands): Note that while Stockholm may look like Sydney, options for swimming leave a little to be desired. I waded with pain into the rocky, slimy water at the edge of the islands, floated for a bit, then went back to my towel and read. The point of going to 'bathe' in Sweden is clearly to look good in a bikini and work on your terracotta tan (while young Swedes may be super hot, older Swedes tend to have that beautiful brand of handbag leather skin and a whitish patch under their chin that the sun has burnt quite so effectively.)
- The Architecture Museum and the Dance Museum (see below for my love of obscure museums)
- Gamla Stan, the old town. Very pretty.

I stayed at a bad youth hostel without a proper kitchen, leading to some amusing cooking debacles but mostly it was all ok. I also did gay stuff, which brings me to...

Europride 08

This was a reasonably generic Pride event with events, seminars, concerts and a parade. That said, it was fun, a good opportunity to make friends and I saw some great stuff (excuse bullet points, I am too tired for narrative structure):
- A seminar on making it as a queer artist by trans RnB singer, Joshua Clipp.
- The book launch for Femmes of Power: Exploding Queer Feminities. I met Del La Grace Volcano (networked actually) and asked a question. Go me. I now wish I had gotten a bunch of signed copies but my luggage is SERIOUSLY overweight so I did not.
- some excellent drag kings
- VERY amusing ABBA cover band and eurovision night
- a bunch of burlesque (inferior to gurlesque)
- Sadly I missed the seminar on how to give good head as it was full. Sorry to any future sexual partners.

I made some friends at the couchsurfing picnic which improved my week as I had people to mosey through Pride Park with and sit in gutters eating pizza. I also heard stories from fellow travellers about pride in Croatia and Israel and felt very lucky to live in Australia.

I also went to a dance party called Queer All Stars. Sobre. and Alone. And I loved it. The freedom to dance RIDICULOUSLY was awesome. Not to mention the wandering through the crowd watching the frivolity like a creepy voyeur. I did meet up with some people by the end of the night though and after random beers in their backyard I wandered home as the sun rose over pretty pretty Stockholm and I thought, life is good.

Obscure Museums

I do not like rushing from museum to museum in order to 'do' a foreign city. I like to pick one or two and really spend a few hours in them. And I do not like 'Nationa Museums.' I like odd museums devoted to one thing. I have been to:

- Vigelund Sculpture Museum (Oslo, Norway)
- Viking Museum (Borg, Norway)
- Leprosy Museum (Bergen, Norway)
- Art Deco Museum (Alesund, Norway)
- Architecture Museum (Stockholm, Sweden)
- Dance Museum (Stockholm, Sweden)
- and today, the Surgery Museum (Edinburgh, Scotland)

I shall be a trivia expert, I shall, I shall!

I am waiting in heady anticipation for the obscure museum of obscure museums...in Iceland...they have...according to my guidebook...

A Museum of the Phallus! (with hundreds of specimens from whale to guinea pig, stuffed and preserved for my viewing pleasure. oh. my. god. it. is. too. funny. Apparently they do not have a human specimen, but they have some donors lined up.)

Anyway, I shall leave you on that note as I head off to meet Liz for dinner. Am in Edinburgh now, if my vaguely racist status updates hadn't informed you. I am loving the festival, and will wirte about it soon. Also enjoying doing a restaurant tour of the town with Liz as her only break from work is during dinner time (how convenient...) After weeks of ryvita crackers with peanut butter and tomato, apples and water, this is sweet sweet luxury. Liz's floor, where I am sleeping, is NOT sweet sweet luxury. Rather it is like a sadistic lover, bringing me pain but making me happy as it's free and comes complete with great Liz companionship. Life's good.

Over and out.
Maeve

Fun Facts About Norway

2008-07-31T13:05:00.000+10:00

NB: Am highly likely to get off track...as is my way...

1. Norwegians really like cream. I got in trouble when I got a bowl of fruit salad with just a tiny dollop of cream. Apparently it is not the Norwegian Way. Apparently the Norwegian Way is 1 third fruit to 2 thirds cream. Seriously. They were quite affronted.

2. Norwegians have a billion languages (slight exaggeration). They actually have heaps of dialects though. And two written languages that were invented. One is a bit like Danish and one is a mix of the dialects. And some people get very very passionate about the written language that they like using. If you would like a THOROUGH analysis of the differences in the languages, the political implications of each, and which dialects sound sexy let me know and I will put you in touch with Kamilla. I would try to tell you here but if I get it wrong I fear there will be dire consequences.

3. Norwegians have a plethora of political parties and each party tends not to get more than like 30% of the vote so they form coalitions. I will get the following wrong, but I know there is a red party and a socialist party and a left party and a farmers party and a populist party and a right party and a christian party and a centre party. I think.

4. They have extra vowels!
oh dear. i was going to explain the different vowels to you but I am on a Swedish computer and they have different extra vowels. Sorry.

5. They also have a whole new kind of cheese in Norway, made with whey instead of curds if memory serves. It is brown. It tastes bad. But you haven't been to Norway without trying it. Try a piece. Don't buy a block.

6. Vikings did not have horns on their helmets. Very. Upsetting.

7. Norway only has 4 million people. No wonder they liike exercise, you'd need to hike several kilometres just to see another human.

8. Norway won Eurovision in 1985 and 1995. If you cannot sing both of these songs, you are not Norwegian.

I have more fun facts but I have run out of internet time. Sad.

Reasons that Norwegian Trains are Better than Swedish Trains:

1. On Norwegian trains, the conductors answer your questions. They do not:
a) laugh at you
b) tell you the train is full and then
c) tell you to get on anyway whilst
d) suggesting with another Swedish laugh that you sit in the luggage rack.

2. On Norwegian trains one is able to buy a ticket. The conductor does not tell you his machine is broken and suggest that you get one at station where you change trains (a station in the middle of nowhere where you are informed that the train is full. see point 1.)

3. On Norwegian trains, you get a seat. You also get a blanket and an eye mask and ear plugs. Simple process. As opposed to a variety of seating options none of which are clear. And when the conductor sells you a ticket on a Norwegian train you get a seat, rather than having angry Swedes and tourists kicking you out of seats. The conductor does not then inform you that your ticket was just to 'go with the train' rather than sit in it.

4. On Norwegian trains the doors don't try to close on you, breaking off two of your badges which you then have to search for on the dirty floor.

5. On Norwegian trains, people aren't sitting in a tiny aisle and your bag doesn't get caught on them leading to it opening and your jar of peanut butter falling out and the lid breaking and Swedish women laughing at you as if it is your fault and NOT THEIR DAMN TRAIN'S FAULT WHICH EVIDENTLY IT IS!

It wasn't so bad in the end. I upgraded to a cochette, or sleeping room, where there were bunks and I got a seat and then a bunk. I also met a charming Dutch single mother and her loud but cute son. When I turn my travels into a hilarious coming of age saga I think I will have the main character* have a wild affair with said Dutch woman, move to Holland, don clogs, pick her tulips and make happy. She was hot.

* Shall we call the main character May? or Eve. Not Eve. A little too biblical for a coming of age saga methinks.

A note to those judging my complaining and think I am a whinger when I have such luxury and if I were somewhere else I would get a corner of a people stuffed carriage and not and bunk near a charming Dutch woman and her loud but cute son. Please understand that if I were in a third world country or even a second world country, or even a first world country that isn't in Scandinavia I would be a lot more patient. But this place is like super rich and I am paying through the nose just to breathe Scandinavian air so excuse me if I have slightly high standards.

I am tired.

I love you all.

Maeve.

show us ya fjord

2008-07-29T15:05:00.000+10:00

I found this quote in Orlando by Virginia Woolf and it seemed like a good place to start...

´Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy; bring them together and they tear each other to pieces. The shade of green Orlando now saw spoilt his rhyme and split his metre. Moreover, nature has tricks of her own. Once look out a window at bees among flowers, at a yawning dog, at the sun setting, once think ´how many more suns shall I see set´etc., etc. (the thought is too well known to be worth writing about) and one drops the pen, takes one´s cloak, strides out of the room, and catches one´s foot on a painted chest as one does so. For Orlando was a trifle clumsy.´

I sympathise with author and character. Except my painted chest is an oversized suitcase on wheels and I do not have a cloak (if only). I am not going to describe how beautiful Norway is. Look at the photos. Or come here yourself. Though if you do come to Norway, heed the following:

1. Norway is super expensive. Coffee & cake $15. A room in a youth hostel at least $40. Average museum ticket $20. Finding out we´ve all been pronouncing fjord incorrectly...priceless.

2. Norway expects you to be fit and healthy. They like steep and high things. And they have a thing for massive outdoor museums. To go from one exhibit to another at your average Norwegian museum, expect to walk at least 2 km. Seriously.

2.a If not outdoor, museums (such as the Nobel Peace Centre) are likely to have extensive computer based exhibits that take forever to navigate and are so shiny and over produced that they are difficult to get much information out of. I say back to basics people, back to basics! That said, the basics of the stuffed polar bears and seals in the Ålesund museum kind of distressed me...but I digress -

3. Norway breeds pretty people. Prepare to feel short and round. I also recommend commencing daily massage of your cheek bones to make them higher. And find some way to grow skin like honey.

and now for a little narrative rambling...

I arrived in Oslo very early in the morning on July 7th. It was cold and raining and I was alone. I walked to my youth hostel on top of a hill (the first of many tall Norwegian items to scale) and felt a little lost and confused. You see, I have discovered that when I am alone my emotions work to far greater extremes (yes, yes, I am MORE moody). One moment - such as when I was sailing on a fjord in beautiful sunshine - I feel free and wonderful, an independant traveller taking on the world. The next moment, something goes wrong and I am useless, hopeless, disorganised. Lost... Devastated... And then, ooh! Something pretty! Isn´t life grand!

A high point was my arrival in Bergen, after a beautiful journey from Oslo. Alone, I was not ashamed when tears came to my eyes over the beauty of the town. I found out later that it rains 70% of the time in Bergen, but I missed this rain. I had picturesque sunsets, moseys across the pier and the frisson of walking through forest at midnight feeling alive and even like someone who may enjoy exercise just a little bit.

This luck and good fortune continued when I failed to catch a bus and instead climbed aboard the Hurtigruten (a word I am yet to master the pronounciation of). You can get a cheap ticket ship if you don´t book a sleeping cabin so this is what I did. I sat in a jacuzzi as we sailed out of Bergen, swam laps the next morning at 7 before disembarking at Ålesund. I should mention that this was one moment when it was truly wonderful to be a solo traveller. I felt like a stowaway, surrounded by middle aged German tourists, wandering through the deserted ship at 1am searching for a corner to sleep in. It was eerie and amusing and I imagined I was in a certain X Files episode set on an abandoned cruise ship...I imagine about 2 people who read this will actually know what I am talking about here...

But, my travels seem intent on forcing me to use the cliche of a rollercoaster because no sooner had I trumphantly disembarked in the art deco town of Ålesund* than my luck began to drain...

*Ålesund is built entirely in the art deco style because it burnt down in 1904. I know a lot about the places I have visited, about the leprosy hospital in Bergen, the sculpture park in Oslo, the 11th century church in Trondheim etc etc...but I figure if you want to know facts and history you can look at wikipedia. or come to norway. so i am writing about me.

where was i...oh yes...a turn for the worse. So I lost my watch in Oslo and funnily enough one is not able to charge one´s phone when one is sleeping in the cafeteria of a cruise ship. So I set off from Ålesund to go to my couch surfing host´s farm in Slyngstad, without phone, watch, or her address. Kamilla was to meet me at 10pm. My bus dropped me off at a small bus stop beside a road, about an hour from the nearest town (or so it seemed) at 9pm. I sat. I read. I thought gleefully that this was all a big adventure.

Then it began to rain.

I became convinced that more than an hour had passed, that Kamilla wasn´t coming, that I was in the wrong place, that I would have to sleep in the Norwegian countryside. I truly started looking for the cosiest patch of scrub...

...and that´s when I started talking to myself. After 15 minutes or so of this I decided to hitch back to Ålesund. But before I could succeed a voice said "Excuse me but you are walking in the wrong direction." Kamilla came and saved me from certain death by reindeer attack and so off I went to quite possibly the most luxurious couch surfing experience anyone has ever had.

I think I shall start a business pimping Kamilla as a tour guide. I am sure her parents won´t mind a few more house guests...
"Small cottage on farm next to fjord with own bedroom (with ensuite.) Personal host well versed in every aspect of her country´s language, culture and history. Willing to give lessons. In the schoolhouse built in 1895 that is on her parents´property. Complete with antique globe."

NERD PARADISE.

Seriously though, I had such a good time. We picked blueberries from the side of the path (Kamilla says this is very common and unexciting but I don´t care). And we went hiking 3/4 of the way up a small mountain. (see note above, Norway hearts steep things). We watched Norwegian films and ate Norwegian food (though this was limited to a sort of porridge and chocolate because of my vegetarianism).

and then we went to a week long queer youth festival.
and it was awesome.

I am now in Lofoten, islands above the arctic circle famous for fishing, hiking and bicycling. So not really my ideal travel destination. But it is truly beautiful here and I´ve stayed in a lovely youth hostel that is in an old fisherman´s hut, dockside in Stamsund.

...and when I am alone walking along a beachside path near the foot of a mountain or rowing a small row boat or driving my rental toyota camry across yet another fjord...I just quietly practice counting to 15 in Norwegian.

I do prefer company, and look forward very much to seeing Liz in Edinburgh (after next week in Stockholm.) No doubt I´ll feel miserable again soon for I am catching an overnight train and I tend to end up in noisy carriages filled with couples chattering and babies crying and what sounds like broken hinges on the wheels. But I´ve heard Stockholm is very pretty so I´ll soon be gaily bounding through the streets taking too many photos and feeling on top of the world.

Love Maeve xxx

Americans say the darndest things

2008-07-10T18:05:00.000+10:00

I wrote the following quotes down. These people were crazy. and possibly oil tycoons. a man in his 70s and his two kids (in their 30s). I wasn't fast enough to note the conversation in which the father denounced global warming as a joke. i had been surreptitiously listening to them and when this started i laughed out loud and the daughter said 'look dad she's laughing at you.' anyway, i'll write creatively about norway asap but wish to be able to upload photos to match which i can't yet so for the moment read the following in a southern american accent:

'so i said to her sweetie if you're gonna be an illegal immigrant you really shouldn't be a republican'

on barack obama: 'you don't think he's a muslim? my inlaws think he's the spawn of satan! they think he's the devil! what do you think dad? are the alabama baptists just freakin out right now?'

daughter: 'my husband's best friend is getting married in prague. he met his fiancee there.'
father: 'so he's marrying a czech.......as opposed to cash...'
daughter: '...oh she likes cash!'

'you know the woman who lives down the street she has triplets. and now she's about to pop out another set of triplets!....i guess she'll have to get another nanny'

'my friend she imports her help from the phillipines and she pays them like 1000 pounds a month. says she doesn't believe in the class system you know upper class and lower class. so she pays 'em heaps. doesn't believe in class, isn't that cute!'

'i don't mind rising oil prices, i get more from my oil stocks than i pay at the gas station.'

over and out.

London: it was the best of times, it was the worst of times

2008-07-07T17:08:00.000+10:00

The Best of Times

1. Dolly Parton. I thought about leading up to this...putting things chronologically...then promptly changed my mind. I got to see Dolly live from a corporate box thanks to the brilliance of Nat. Well...thanks to her housemate who had the tickets. She offered them to Nat and when I started hyperventialting and listing obscure Dollysongs she asked if I could come too. Anyway I heart Dolly. I want to BE Dolly... sigh...a stadium filled with 14000 people in pink cowboy hats singing and dancing in time to 9 to 5...I can die happy.

2. Pride. The parade anyway...me, kieron et al had a blast and...most importantly ended up marching with Ian McKellen* (see photo evidence). The parade is so crazy. Not like super organised mardi gras who have super awesome SMs that volunteer and where headsets. Oh no. We were able to just join in a group. And there were no baracades on the half the route. It was all DIY madness. I like Mardi Gras better. Sure ending in Trafalga Square is pretty spectacular, but I'll take participants I know and cheap fireworks any day.

* Ian McKellen wears natty linen jackets and cream converse that are perfectly clean. I think dirt just bounces off him and runs towards lesser male actors like Tom Cruise. I'd say Tom would have dirty converse. Ian is clean clean clean.

3. Visiting my Nan. (secretly I think of her as Nanny Bingo still but I think Nan sounds more adult.) I went over for lunch (quiche, jacket potatoes, apples & custard...essex soul food) and it was lovely. She has so many stories, all delivered with immaculate comic timing as required. 'When I met Fred I was so impressed because he brought me roses...then the next week carnations...then I found out he was working in a morgue!' It was fascinating to hear my mother's childhood stories told by her mother. And I really did hoot with laughter more times than I can count. By the way, if you ever need protection, my Nan fended off two armed intruders a few weeks ago. She was in the paper. 'Plucky 80 yr old pensioner fights off home invaders.' AND, she gave me £30 from her bingo winnings!

4. Sitting Reading reading sitting. In parks, in cafes, in bed, on the tube, on the bus, on the nightbus, in the bath. Have finished The Vintner's Luck and I Capture the Castle.

5. Kieron, the gay Irishman I met on the bus on the way home from a mediochre London Pride. We made fun of an American tourist and he has a cousin called Maeve and a cousin called Grainne and he looked very very much like Ian and that made me very very happy.

6. Going to meet Nicole and having her suggest we drink beers she smuggled from a work do in a park nearby...you can take the girl out of Bathurst...

The Worst of Times
NB: by worst I mean not quite as good. I am on holidays. The standards are lifted.

1. Dying my hosts bathtub and towels pink with hairdye. When they really have been lovely hosts. Sorry Carol. Sorry Kathy.

2. Opera in the Park (please understand that the actual opera in the park with the actual picnic and the actual friends was absolutely wonderful. I speak only of the lead up...) So I turned up good and on time for Don Carlos on Thursday, picnic in hand. Then it rained on me. And I mean bucketed on me. Where were Liz, Carol & Sadie? Not there. Not even a little bit there. Fortunately the BP poncho man was. So I stood under a tree in a thunderstorm (stupid) wearing my fetching poncho. For half an hour. Would've been fine if the stupid smarmy wench on the screen hadn't said in her plummy accent 'well here I am in covent garden, but we are streaming live to canary wharf...where I think it might be raining...' And if she had pronounced singer with a hard g one more time while telling us that our view really was better than the view from inside the warm theatre...I tells ya... But salvation arrived in the form of a take-charge Liz Hayllar who found us blow up cushions and extra ponchos for sitting on. Sadie came with a feast and...just like all the other insane poms...we sat in the rain and watched 4 hours of opera. good times.

3. I promised MollyPenny i would not mention going out with them after pride. So I won't tell you that they never arrived like they said they would at 3pm at the women's stage in soho (napping they said they were...) or that drinks in Soho became drinks at Elephant & Castle while I was at Dolly. Or that when I arrived at Elephant & Castle they had decided to get out of the queue for Gay Shame and catch a bus to Vauxhall. We won't mention the £14 'official' women's afterparty in Vauxhall populated by what looked like:
a) straight women
b) teenagers
c) pensioners
d) us
No need to let you know that some of the rooms were half empty or that during the 'show' the women kept their clothes on. What's that about? I definitely mustn't tell you that we got ourselves just a little bit lost in Vauxhall and that if it weren't for Penny we all may still be wandering around London...or floating in the Thames. Oh and I promised not to mention that Penny sometimes doesn't recognise Molly. I will say that it was great to see them and that their friends were lovely and that Penny is an excellent dancer (I respect the posing in time with me more than words can say) and that I enjoy Molly's ruffles and hope they have a super time at the gay ball in gay Paris because I adore them both immensely.

4. Thinking all week that I had booked a 10.30am flight to Oslo. Realising that, no no, I had booked a 7.20am flight. I will be leaving at 3am to get there. I will be tired. I am not happy. Though on the other hand...

...Norway here I come!

The Last Will and Testament of Ms Maeve Marsden Esq.

2008-06-30T01:02:00.000+10:00

So...I hate Qantas. I am all for workers' rights I really am.

BUT NOT WHEN THEY MEAN MY FLIGHT IS DELAYED FOR 14 HOURS.

'I'm flying out on Sunday', I have been saying. Well I have been lying to you all.

Monday. I now leave for overseas on Monday. I am an angry angry young woman.

So. I decided to make a will. Because if my luck is bad enough to cause a 14 HOUR DELAY, it is surely bad enough that I will perish on my journey. Logic, folks, pure logic.

So, I bequeath the following:

My money shall be shared equally between my siblings, Anna Martin (for paying off her actors' centre fees), Amy Corderoy (tax debt) and Tish's cats (cos I promised when I was drunk at my farewell)*

* Tish's cats count as one entity when dividing funds as she only had one when aforementioned promise was mumbled at her with a wave of the finger and a 'darn tootin'

Laura Joseph can have my skull. And some bones. These should be fashioned into a skull and crossbones shaped shrine which must remain in Laura's home forever.*

* The money for the cats is dependant on the creation of the shrine. No shrine, no money.

Viv McGregor can have my clothes. cos they fit her. and my CDs. cos she likes them. But in order to receive these bountiful gifts she must promise to listen to 'Wind Beneath My Wings' twice a day and cry loudly and think of me. This must be done in public. Possibly standing on the octagon in front of the hub. During peak hour.

Kylie Benton-Connell can have enough money to replace Raewyn's blender.

Molly (Tregonning, not Vallentine) can have my mother.

Cameron Power can have my ovaries. Providing they are harvestable. So he can have a baby. For scientific proof that this is possible, watch Junior. If Arnie can do it, you can too!

Oh! I have two ovaries, don't I? Adam Powell can have one too then.

My head should be shaved and the hair given to Cat, the friend of Maddie's who wouldn't stop going on about how much she liked my hair. She can fashion it into a wig.* I don't think she really liked my hair. or me. oh well...

* Once said wig is made, can someone please put it on and cook for Amanda Cheong so she is no longer upset at me for not inviting her to my dinner party. In order to give her an authentic experience, get drunk and anxious before she arrives and then talk loudly about yourself all evening. And spill stuff. And don't clean up after. Leave it to your housemates. Or better yet, take it to my old house and leave it for them. Ha!

Liz Boyer shall inherit all my kitchenware and cookbooks on the proviso that before eating any meal she says Grace, replacing God's name with mine.

Sally Shrubb can have any books of mine that she does not already own, of which I doubt there are any. I am sorry Sally. How cheap of me. You can also have anything I own made by Bonds. Oh! And all my Patsy Cline CDs cos Viv won't appreciate them properly like you.

Phoebe Meredith doesn't get anything because she is super organised and already has everything she needs. But I would ask that she play Pacman in front of the congregation at my funeral for a full 3 hours. They must sit in silence and watch.

Speaking of my funeral, can Chloe, Viv, Andrew and Mollyjen please be doing a dance demonstration to all my favourite tunes. Viv, you'll be in charge of music because you'll have my CDs. And no complaining about your knee when dancing.

Kate Duffy can have my violin and my guitar. A pointless gift as she needs neither. But hey, sell them and buy a new violinist.

Inside my wallet is a 9 visit pass to Netown gym (NB: formally a 10 visit pass but I went once). Emma Wood can have this and any hoodies she wants. These won't fit her now, but may be appropriate clothing choices once she is heavily pregnant with Cara's offspring. If Emma & Cara really love me they will name their first-born Maeve.*

* If they don't name it Maeve, can someone go egg their house please?

Burn my diaries. Or read out the funniest parts at my funeral for cheap entertainment.

Keep any love letters written by others. These are mostly amusing and should be saved to use for bribes should an ex become famous. Money from bribes goes to whichever kind soul egged Emma & Cara's house. Or to Emma & Cara if they in fact named a child Maeve. In fact if they did name a child Maeve, she (or he, it's a fairly androgynous name) can have the money.

In fact! Any offspring named after me get anything they want. ANYTHING! Go out now and get pregnant. Before it's too late!

ALL OFFSPRING NAMED MAEVE GUARANTEED AN INHERITANCE OF $20,000 (minus what I've spent already when I perish) GET IT WHILE IT'S HOT! THIS OFFER ONLY VALID FOR 6 MONTHS OF LIFE ENDANGERING TRAVEL! BREED PEOPLE BREED!

BRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEDD!!!*
* Cats count as offspring. Dogs and fish do not.