THE DEVIL HAS HER PERIOD

Outsecurity.

2011-06-06T09:21:00.002+01:00

I suppose most people would say I'm a confident person.

It seems to me this confidence isn't permanent. I don't know if insecurity and confidence exist on the same sliding scale, at opposite ends, or on two separate planes. This is, does a person tip from confidence to insecurity to confidence, or do we leap back and forth from one level to the other? All very abstract, sure. I want to work out how and why and where my insecurities arise. So maybe all this cloud-thinking helps.

I've set myself a task. I'm going to list my insecurities, what I'm afraid of. Here:
- being left. Abandoned? No, left.
- being second-best.
- being misinterpreted.
- being unwanted.
- being boring.
- being perceived as stupid.
- not knowing where I stand.
- not being in control.

There are also, of course, the superficial insecurities. I don't have bright white teeth, I do have stretch-marks, I do have a scarred hand from an accident with boiling water when I was young, I don't have a high-earning job, I do have large pores, I am weak in saying no to alcohol and cigarettes (I CAN say no, I just don't do it often enough).

We all know where the body-image stuff comes from and, to be frank, I'm not really terribly bothered by it. It's the Big Fears I'm unsure of. As a kid, for the first few years, I remember hating it when mum left me alone. Give me attention, lots of attention, all the time, don't go away. Mum and I were a team. Us versus dad's Schizophrenia. Eventually but suddenly, mum left dad and, for a couple years, focused inward. Christ, I was pissed at her for leaving me alone, without warning, in the middle of the field, forced to compete as a one-woman team.

Please don't cry me a river. See? I'm worried about being boring, being self-indulgent. I'm trying to figure things out. I'm broke and I can't afford to pay my psychologist twice a month, like I should. So I'm blogging instead.

What are your insecurities? And are they friend or foe?

Cleavage.

2011-04-02T17:34:00.003+01:00

Right, here it is: an article titled Cleavage. So titled, in this case, because of the very wide valley between truth and socially vetted opinion.

In an effort to find an Australian news publication NOT ruled by Rupert Murdoch and his kingdom, I came across Melbourne rag The Age. It's a little left-leaning, apparently.

So I'm browsing through The Age online and I come across a blog written by a woman named Sam. The idea is that she talks about sex and love and relationships. She's written a few books and been on TV so she's totally qualified to opine publicly. Or something.

Anyway, I start reading a posting of hers. It's about promiscuity among women and the perceived double standard that exists for men and women. Yawn. This particular theme invariably ends up with people siding with whatever their own experience tells them, thus suffocating any chance of objective and intelligent debate. Nevertheless, I give Sam and her blog the benefit of the doubt and read till the end. Sam's pearls of wisdom include this:

"I understand there are women who equate sex with love. But surely these days women have wised up? Surely they understand that men will do, say, buy anything to get some action between the sheets? "

and

"Of course, any woman who has casual sex with a man she's not in a relationship with will know all too well that, on the night, while she might feel closer to the dude she's bonking (physically, emotionally, even spiritually!), the next morning when the booze has worn off, the pheromones have died down and she's no longer looking as hot as she did the night before, he's (most of the time) no longer that into her."

This is just so damaging.

Firstly, what's with the hating on men? A lot of men like sex, yes. A lot of men find a lot of ways to have sex, yes. But the idea that they'll do "anything"?? This posits all men as sex-obsessed. Thing is, all men are NOT sex-obsessed. Men, in general, do not walk the streets with their dicks greased, straining to forcibly penetrate any oncoming orifice. This tired idea does a disservice to all of us, men and women alike. It is deeply troubling for the many men who feel great pressure to fulfill this 'sex fiend' role set out for them, who feel obliged to be overtly sexual. Men have to be accepted as so much more than their genitals. A whole lot of people, mostly women, have been going on about the need for women to be understood as not a hole but a whole person. Let's give the blokes the same respect, right?

The men-must-fuck-constantly myth means women are socialised to use sex to control and manipulate men. We are told that this is sexual 'power'. Really, it's playing in to the idea that women are only able to get what they want through their bodies and their sex. Not so liberating, is it?

Secondly, there's just so much wrong with Sam's paragraph here regarding casual sex. It's asking the reader to agree that a woman will most often be disappointed by casual sex because, basically, the man probably won't like her in the morning. I mean, a lot of the time, it ain't about whether HE is into her. It's about HER. The sex is about HER, HER enjoyment, HER sexual agency. Sam is only reinforcing patriarchal notions of woman's sexuality. Way to go girlfriend.

I'll finish up with saying how dangerous women thinkers such as Sam can be. She's basically blogging her opinion, under the guise of journalism. She's not liberal in her thinking. Rather, she's a conservative puritan disguised as an objectively-thinking liberal. I only hope we educate our children well enough to see the difference.

Cleavage.

2011-03-27T21:28:00.002+01:00

There's an article to be written here, I'm just not sure what it is yet. I'm reading Simone de Beauvoir's 'The Second Sex'. She talks a lot about cleavage, although rarely of the boob kind. I just think 'Cleavage' is a great title.

All ideas welcome. Nothing predictable please.

Torn.

2011-03-23T01:18:00.002+01:00

I love the beach. The salty water scrubs me clean of worry; the peppery sand massages my soul and my feet. I want to go every day to swim, to sit, to breathe, to feel warm.

Alas, alack.

Back to Paris this Friday. All polluted city and no taxis and arguments in restaurants over bad service.

And the most beautiful walks through history as I race by foot to work.

And friends who are family.

And an apartment high in the sky with a white cat aggressively purring to be fed.

I will greatly miss the beach and long for it every day. Now, though, Paris is a home found. Paris, mon ami, I'll see you very soon.

Her dark hair is curly and long.

2011-03-22T02:58:00.005+01:00

I know a woman who is courageous and tough. Born and bred into the Mormon church, she has recently left to pursue a life without Joseph Smith. She has fought a bloody battle, playing fair herself only to be pulled into a dirty war by those who judge her. She has already won but she doesn't give up. There are plenty more causes to fight for, and fight she does. For the rights of people to love and fuck and be whom they want, she fights determined and strong.

Seeing this woman's eyes sparkle with adventure and pleasure last Saturday night made every part of me smile and ache all at once. She is so much of who we all need to be. Maureen, you are proof of the power of goodness and love. You are an inspiration to us all.

Tree to be me.

2011-03-19T04:28:00.005+01:00

Being back in the town I grew is good. I like it here: the sun, the sea, the space, the trees, the family, the friends.

The friends.

The friends I made in my years here seem to peel away, drop off with every visit. Do I care? A little, I admit. It's a small rejection and it does dent the ego.

Some here continue to lovingly embrace the friendship we share, to nurture it. Others seek to develop a friendship, carefully planting the seeds for what will thrive for years or bloom only briefly. And there are those who don't seem to do much at all.

To encourage new growth, I suppose the old does need to peel away, to drop off. Friendships do expire. I know this. I don't know why the aftershocks of loss still hit me.

I'm glad I have friendships that exceed my high expectations. Pushing ever upwards towards the sun, it's these friendships that keep me growing.

Considering religion.

2011-02-23T12:51:00.005+01:00

My family was never particularly religious however I do remember going to a church group as a child and singing along to jesus jingles. Mum found solace from dad's schizophrenic terror in church spaces. I remember she ran a thrift store from a room in a big church in Brisbane. She liked working there. In this church space, I think, and in others, she was able to let her awesome operatic voice loose, and play and practice the piano.

Other experiences. In my early University days, I developed quite a successful eating disorder. I remember touring a theatre production with a large group. We had some drinks and some of us went in to the kitchen and helped ourselves to bread and butter and jam. That is one of the only times I tried to make myself vomit. I then went and told one of the other group members about it. She hugged me and told me how she loved jesus and how this love makes everything OK. In my fog of drunkenness, desperation and depression, what she was saying made sense.

When I first started masturbating - how old was I? 12 or 13? 14? - I would almost always stop at some point, lifting my fingers off my clit and surrounding areas, and recite a short much-repeated prayer I've since forgotten. I see now I did this out of guilt. I honestly thought - but without thinking much about it at the time - that my masturbating might cause harm to those I love. You know what? I still feel this guilt sometimes, even today, and while I rarely stop touching myself because of it, I do feel its ghost there, silently judging me.

Of course, masturbation is brilliant and necessary. Anyone who argues otherwise is misguided. Guilt is a dreadful thing to impose on anyone. Most (all?) religions operate on this corrupt idea of guilt and salvation. This is wrong.

People have helped me and my family over the years. Some of these people have been associated with church and/or religion, a lot haven't. Churches are big and beautiful architectural feats and I like them. There is no god at work here. Just people. That's all.

I'm not wearing anything underneath.

2011-02-23T11:59:00.004+01:00

How important is it we know each other? How much do we need to share? I'm wondering if our knowledge of someone is ever complete, as though they're a book and we've just finished the last page. Or is it that there's always more to know, always another page, another chapter? And do we really want to know EVERYthing about people?

Do we need to manage information flow to ensure people stay interested and intrigued by us? Doesn't this demonstrate a lack of trust? And doesn't this lack of trust only serve to cripple communication?

To be known is to be vulnerable. The more information we provide to others about ourselves, the more powerful they become and the more vulnerable we are. So, here's the real question: why expose who we are?

Like a lump.

2010-09-09T14:07:00.002+01:00

The less I do, the less I want to do. I'm melting into the sofa bed, watching umpteen episodes of Six Feet Under, listening to awesome music, feeling far from awesome myself. There are so many options in what to do it scares me. At the same time, I'm not doing any of it. I don't seem to have much energy; I don't feel energized. Right now, I'm blaming this city. Paris is not my city, I tell people. I don't feel inspired here. Strangers don't talk and meet and share in the same way as in London or Perth or Edinburgh or New York. People seem so scared of experience. But is it the city? Or is it me? And will it change if I leave? Will I change if I leave? And how do I leave without money? And why is it so damn hard to get a job here? And oh how much easier it is to sit here, watching and melting into passivity.

A horizontal line of blocks without gaps.

2010-07-12T09:59:00.004+01:00

Sometimes there's this feeling of needing to be filled up. No, not in a youporn.com way. Filled up in the sense something is missing, there's a void. The quick and easy way to fill the empty space inside is by having a drink. Or a cigarette. Or eating, having something tangible to digest.

What's wrong with empty? I'm not scared of it when I'm on a stage. Or when I'm enlivened by passionate conversation. It can be exciting, this feeling of having so much clear creative space.

I imagine it's like Tetris, where the blocks stack up until they're matched and then disappear, making more space for blocks to fill. Funny, that the battle here is to make space, whereas I'm worried at filling it.

Maybe I'm fighting the wrong battle? What's the aim of the game?

Like father, like daughter...?

2010-07-06T12:08:00.003+01:00

Woke up this morning. Read the papers online. Ate. Showered. Cleaned. Listened to two Dan Savage podcasts. All the while, still receiving emotionally abusive, guilt-ridden, demanding texts from Dad. One day he'll die and then I'll understand, he tells me. Call him, he begs. He wants to die, he says. This, quickly followed by a "Not that I would do that".

I ring him. I have three things to say to him: firstly, the abusive texts need to stop; secondly, I don't wait around by the phone all day so it isn't right to get shitty at me for not always ringing when you want; thirdly, the little bit of money you offered is obviously a way of manipulating me therefore I don't want it, but thank you anyway. He begs me not to hang up. I say I'm not going to hang up. So he hangs up. He rings my mobile. Should I answer it? I answer it. He says I must stop with "the nasties". I explain I'm not being nasty and remind him that it is his doctors who need to help him now, not me. I am not a doctor. So he hangs up. He may have rung back, I'm not sure. I don't want to look at my phone.

On the other side of the world and it doesn't get any easier. Well, a bit easier, in that now it's me who has control over whether or not we speak. But the conversations, the manipulation, the heart-string puppeteering are as difficult as it was as a kid. I still find myself feeling guilty, sad, bad.

I emailed his doctor, explained Dad's health had clearly deteriorated. This happens regularly, every couple months. Many people - including me - can't understand why there isn't a more permanent solution, a longer-lasting way to keep Dad well. Sometimes I fool myself into thinking that Dad is fine, no longer sick. But he is sick and will always be Schizophrenic and depressed. I love him. It's hard loving someone who so wants to love back but is so riddled with sickness. And then I think that, while it's hard for me, imagine how hard it must be for him. And in walks the guilt, the sadness, the badness.

I.

2010-02-27T14:11:00.002+01:00

I realise I use the first-person pronoun 'I' too often. Does anyone have a suggestion on what I could replace 'I' with, or how I could write differently so as to avoid using 'I' so much?

Or maybe I'm simply a horribly selfish and vapid person. One hopes this isn't the case.

Push.

2010-02-27T13:53:00.002+01:00

I'll be in London for a month, auditioning. I just booked my return Eurostar ticket and I'm scared shitless. I've been pissing around for five years and now I'm finally getting my arse into gear. And I am so scared. Maybe I'm not that good. Maybe it isn't really what I want. And then what? Then what purpose do I have?

London date are 23 March till 20 April. See you there?

'An Education'

2010-02-26T10:28:00.004+01:00

Went to the cinema to see 'An Education' yesterday afternoon (yes, I'm currently unemployed) and I loved it. That is, I loved the first 85% of it. The ending was dire. (Stop reading now if you haven't seen it yet.) Brilliant and quirky performances, perfect casting, wonderful set and costumes, interesting and surprising direction... all let down by a spectacularly mundane and cowardly finish. A sixteen-year-old girl (woman?) meets a very exciting and rather dangerous older man who makes a living through relieving old ladies of their fine art. The girl goes on to tell anyone who will listen - and many who won't - that life is to be enjoyed and school and university is by no means a recipe for success. She seems totally convinced of this. And then...and then. She discovers the older man is already married and thus a prick. The girl is then somehow able to go back to school to do her exams and then gets into Oxford and dates boys (not men!) and rides a bike and wears a blue sweater and stops smoking and wears ballet flats because that's what good girls do. Out the window goes her belief that a scholarly education is not as necessary as life experience, that the country is in a rut and beige and boring, that the most awful fate would be to end up "dead" like her (impossibly devoted) teacher. And all this in the final 20 minutes of the film.

So, I would like to propose a different ending. Here it is:

Girl finds out man is married. Man gets divorce from wife and marries girl. Girl and man live happily for several years. Man gets caught stealing art from old ladies. Man goes to jail. Girl, now in her twenties, goes to America. Girl becomes a member of high society through her good looks and extraordinary powers of manipulation. By now, we are in the 1970s. Girl flirts with drugs but they don't interest her. Girl realises she is nearly forty, with no career. Through her connections, she enters the film industry. Girl finds, to her great surprise, that older man from years ago is now out of jail and has conned himself into the world of Hollywood. He is dating a sixteen-year-old new girl. Original girl is jealous. Man suggests three-way. Three way happens. Original girl and new girl are more interested in each other. They ride off into the sunset. Man grows old and lonely. Original girl is killed in a bus accident. New girl gets old by herself. New girl, as an old woman, is robbed, in her own home, at knife-point. By total coincidence, the man who robs her - surprise!! - is the older man from years ago's illegitimate son. The end.

Not great, I know. I challenge YOU to write a better ending. The crazier, the dirtier, the weirder the better. Obviously.

The kindness of strangers.

2010-02-25T12:24:00.003+01:00

To all those who have acted or performed in the past, and who want to do it again, what's stopping you? I'd like to know because something is stopping me and I'm not exactly sure what. Fear? Of failing? Of not actually being that good? Of having to work very bloody hard? Of not being financially comfortable? Of it not actually being what I really really want and that maybe I'll wake up when I'm fifty, with no money and not much talent and realise that it wasn't theatre but actually something else I wanted to do all along and that now it's too late to do anything else? Actors are constantly unsure of themselves, apparently. Except when we're on stage and gunning it and fully inside whoever it is we have become. The trick is getting to this point.

Have you got there? Where is 'there'? Are you trying? Did you decide to stop? Do you continue to believe you'll be discovered one day, if only you could get a show and someone would see how incredible you are?

I'm sorry. I dreamed last night that I was reciting Blanche Dubois in the kitchen. Now I am all a-fluster.

Wearing a habit.

2010-02-25T11:52:00.002+01:00

I'm going to embarrass myself. I'd like to talk about habits. Funny how we create patterns, don't you think? How we do something again, in the same way, again and again. We know the result, how it will change or preserve a state of being. And we do it again, again and again. I suppose a habit is an action started consciously and maintained unconsciously. This can make habits difficult to spot in oneself, because it's often something that has become so natural that we no longer notice it. Like the fact people wear clothes. We don't notice people wear clothes because it's so normal, so natural, so unconscious. We don't ask ourselves whether or not we should get dressed in the morning. In the same way, I don't question myself when I twist my hair to breaking point around my left index finger, or when I twitch and look to the right or left or above a person when they're talking to me. I do question myself when picking up a cigarette, lighting it and inhaling, but I continue anyway. I guess the fact I briefly question smoking every time I pull one out of the packet has become a habit too. It almost excuses the act itself.**

I derive great pleasure from picking the sleep out of my eyes in the morning and raising my finger to the light to see the shadow of the mound the little lump makes. I also routinely pick my belly button, pushing it in then pulling it out to make a prunish donut shape. Our bodies are rife with habit-forming possibilities. I cherish the sound and the feeling of cracking my toes and my bones locking in. Scraping my cuticles also entertains me, although I am totally unable to push them down with one of those wooden sticks as I find the feeling unbearable.

When eating, I don't like large forks. You may not have noticed, but some forks are large, some are normal-sized and some are thin and delicate. It's the thin and delicate kind I like best, though I will use normal-sized forks too. Writing this, I feel ridiculous. Are habits ridiculous? I can use a larger fork, I'm not totally averse to the idea, but habit works against it.

Hopefully, I did what I said I would and embarrassed myself. Now, it's your turn. Tell me about a habit you have. Yes, the three people who actually read my blog, I'm talking to you.

**Not true, of course. But it's a habit. So leave me alone.

Bolognaise for breakfast.

2010-02-25T11:01:00.003+01:00

I have gone through various phases of thigh girth. There was the teen phase, where my thighs were fleshy with pre-pubescent ignorance. Then came puberty, when they warped into a longer, slightly leaner shape through the discoveries of gym and sex. Then, there was the very depressed and anxious over-excercising and under-eating phase, where my thighs were carved into little wooden splinters. Feeling stronger, I moved to London and found a little of myself and a lot of dodgy food and alcohol and cigarettes and even the odd snort of coke. For the last few years, I have been in the not bothered but totally bothered phase of consuming without desisting. And now, it appears, I am in the phase where I eat leftover bolognaise for breakfast.

Having sex, I find myself often turning away at the sight of my padded out hips, my travelling flesh. Last time, however, I quite liked what I saw. I admit, I have flashes of wanting to be a girl again, where I find myself looking at photos of models and wanting so much to be in the club of the skinnies and space savers. Other times, I think how glorious it is to have curves for others to imagine and my boyfriend and me to savour. When it comes down to it, to the root of my swinging self-acceptance, I suppose it is the difference between being a girl - a child - and being a woman. The idea of woman, of what this means, is heavier, fuller, more whole. The concept of girl conjures images of floating and careening and being as light as a feather. As a woman, one has responsibility and broken hearts and confusion and decisions to make. This is what I mean by heavier. As a girl, life is fine and breezy and, well, lighter.

I suppose the body image thing has much to do about wanting, accepting, inviting what it is to be a woman. The status changes, a different category is fulfilled, another box ticked. If only there were some kind of marker, of definitive point. A road, perhaps, which one crosses from one side to the other, thereby separating girl from woman.

Wise women talk about having found balance and laugh at their younger and insecure selves and wonder how self-acceptance could have possibly taken so long. Before this, what I suppose could be considered the final phase, we worry. Today, I am worried about the girth of my things enough to write this post, but not so much that I can't enjoy microwaved homemade bologniase for breakfast.

And...shoot!

2010-02-24T20:33:00.006+01:00

So he knows what a 'dedicated server' is. I know what Veuve Clicquot is. This says it all, really. He is a software engineer, which I think means something with computers. I am a colour engineer. This is, I engineer the colours of my finger nails regularly. And I am rather good at it. Today, I wear this season's nude nails but a black-painted thumb. Looks oh-so-trendy. No one has noticed yet. But they will. For I am a colour engineer.

I digress. It isn't always easy to find common ground with your partner when, well, whatever it is you like, isn't the same. So one must find ways of... enjoying each others' hobbies and passtimes. Tonight, for example, I organised a LAN party for my boyfriend's 32nd birthday. LAN is an acronym for Laptops And Nerds. Or not. I don't know. Anyway, it basically involves people and their computers at one person's home and some sort of game. Often shooting. Decapitating. Zombie-screwing. Whatever.

Obviously, I couldn't care less about LAN parties. Zombies aren't my style. However, one must love. You know, try and support the interests of the boyfriend/girlfriend/whoever. And, at home right now, the boyfriend seems terribly happy. This is good. Very good, come to think of it, because it means I get laid. WELL. Get laid WELL. Not to say that one must sacrifice one's own sanity in order to get laid. But, you know, happiness spreads. And, when it spreads into the bedroom, so much the better.

So, the lesson? Do something just to make them happy sometimes. You probably hate it, you know it is idiotic, but the person you care about gets happiness out of it. And then they smile and hug you manically and, hopefully, tell you that, after the zombie shooting is over, they will tie you up and make you feel more alive than ever.

Day job.

2009-12-04T14:21:00.002+01:00

Hate it. Stuck. Not moving. Exactly where I was several years ago. Want a career, not sure what career, only that whatever it is now isn't it. Can't stand the thought of having to do it all over again on Monday. Same shit, different week. Circles. A mouse running round and round. Change is in order.

We are not all right.

2009-09-26T12:35:00.003+01:00

I am not happy that people needing refuge are turned away by our respective governments. We're all human and all have the right to safety, food, clean water and warmth. I don't feel that providing these basic rights to others need necessarily compromise the quality of life lived by the person who is writing this and whoever you are now reading it. It can't be only a case of either 'let them all in' or 'keep them all out'; there has to be a middle ground. I have no idea what to do but it doesn't seem that any of our leaders do either.

Have a look at the article at the link below and read some of the comments following it, if you have the time. Then tell me what you think.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/libertycentral/2009/sep/24/calais-jungle-refugee-asylum

Movie night.

2009-09-16T23:00:00.002+01:00

Saw 'District 9'. It's about aliens, sorta. Absolutely a metaphor for what us humans do to each other. Natural instinct? Maybe. We're all capable of a full spectrum of deeds and demons: cruelty, compassion, hate, courage, hurt, cowardice, hope. It seems the bad always lurks, however, no matter how good or immune we think we are. We all have something inside us, waiting its turn to attack and damage. It seems to me that bad is heavier than good; bad weighs more when felt. Happy helps us stand straight but we carry sad so heavily on our shoulders. That may be why I was always told to stand straight, don't slouch or drag my feet. Dirty darkness stains.

Limits.

2009-07-20T11:16:00.002+01:00

Dad is sick again. I say again but, in truth, he's always been sick. Just varying degrees of sick. He's not taking his pills; he tells me he doesn't need medication.

The thing is, he IS capable of being logical and sane. On occasion, he has been more sane than anyone else. These windows of sanity, episodes of reality, make it very hard to know just how sick he is. The years of shouting, of coming home and not knowing what to expect, are far away enough for me to doubt the abnormality of them. We're all a little crazy; no one is ever perfectly sane. And so I convince myself that maybe he's right, maybe he doesn't need pills to balance the chemicals in his brain and make him a stable person.

Then he sends me email after email, telling me not to abuse him about not taking his pills. He talks about Mum, saying she is sick. This is insane, I know. It's just....everything is blurry. I don't have the lines, they weren't drawn for me as a kid. I'm walking around in an emotional fog. I can't see things clearly.

What if I move to Australia to live for a few years and, one day, come home to Dad standing on the doorstep, wanting to be let in? I want to have that choice. I want to be able to decide whether he comes in or not. In Paris, on the other side of the world, I have more freedom to decide. His constant neediness, his emails and texts are restricting, sure, but I don't worry about the possibility of finding him here, of having to let him in. Will I worry about that in Australia, always be looking over my shoulder?

I feel responsible. I'm not responsible. He's my Dad. He's mentally ill. I'm his daughter. I love him. He loves me. Where do we draw the line?

Cake dreams.

2009-07-18T15:56:00.003+01:00

I'm baking brownies. They smell like a warm hug. Like I'm walking in the door to a laughing family. My brother is studying, my sister is raiding the fridge. My parents are laughing, talking about work. The dog runs to greet me, jumps on me, almost knocks me over. The big question: what'll we have for dinner tonight? And who's turn is it to do the dishes afterward? He did them last night, says my brother. Lets take the dog for a swim at the beach before we eat, says Dad. Everyone agrees. In the car. On the sand. Surfing the waves, competing for the longest and most impressive ride. Home and a quick shower. Table. Dinner. Dishes. My sister calls her boyfriend. My brother tries to listen to her conversation but Mum tells him off. Read for a while, do a little homework. I don't want to do it but Dad says I must. I sulk. I do my homework. We all watch a little TV, a documentary perhaps. Bed time. School tomorrow. Mum has an early start the next day. The dog isn't allowed on the bed but sleeps with my brother anyway. There's sand in my hair but I don't mind. And then I'm asleep til morning.

Season 2, Episode 1.

2009-07-12T14:23:00.003+01:00

Facebook is a bitch. I'm on it all the time and it drives me crazy. I haven't written on here in ages as thoughts have become a simple 'status update'. No structure, no soul, just my name followed by an empty adjective.

I'm in Paris. It's been nearly three years. I'm itchy, as ever. I should be making the most of my talents, I know, but I'm confused and scared. What are my talents, for chrissakes. And how does one make a career out of them?

I love my boyfriend. Waking up to him every day is incredible. My heart is stimulated but my head is lagging. I'm worried my brain is going grey, fading, almost gone. I have the attention span of a....sorry, what was I saying? Interests are piqued and then dropped and roll under the bed, lost.

It's warm here, summer. I've spent the weekend watching 'Grey's Anatomy'. It reminds me of years ago, when I was a fan of 'Dawson's Creek', and how everything was open and possible. I find myself watching Grey's and thinking how sad, how very unfortunate, that I've missed out on so many possibilities. I don't want to be a doctor, sure, but what about the acting thing, the study, the thirst for knowing, learning. All under the bed, collecting dust and fur balls.

I'd like to know the secret to discipline. Does anyone have it? Tell me. Please.

Question (deserves an answer).

2008-11-18T14:12:00.001+01:00

What did you learn today?

Sophia Loren once said...

2008-10-09T12:42:00.000+01:00

"Everything you see I owe to spaghetti."

Glorious.

Sawdust

2008-10-08T21:07:00.003+01:00

A while ago, I started this blog. I wrote. And then I dribbled zigzags.
How bland and horrid my most recent posts are. Like I shit out my creativity and then didn't wash my hands. I wasted so many words on blandness. Toast with no butter, no spread, just toast. Gritty against the roof of the mouth. So boring, it makes boring look interesting.
I won't do it again. I might. We'll see.

Fouchon is white with black and white whiskers and a grey stripe or two

2008-10-08T20:42:00.006+01:00

I was thinking that I haven't written on here in an age and that I finally felt like writing something when the doubt emerged. It said that there wasn't any point in writing something on my blog because I let it go for so long that it has no meaning anymore. Then it said I don't have the time. This got me thinking about time, and about apparently not having any. It's a bit crap, really, this idea that we don't have time even though we live and breathe and die and are born again by it. Imagine a life without clocks, without tick-tocks...what would that be like? How funny that we 'have' time, as if we own it, as if it is ours to use up...to spend.

I spent 40 euro today on an hour with Fiona. She is a woman I talk to. Walking home afterwards, I felt normal for at least three minutes (at most, six). It was incredibly lovely. Normal tastes like sunshine. Clear and happy. I envy those who feel it often. I even envy those who feel it at all. Not envy in an angry way, I'm not angry that others have it and I don't. I just think about it, how normal is so abnormal for some people.

I miss my boyfriend. It's as though I have no shadow, no supporting force. I am without the very real sense that I am in within the radiance of his presence. Five sleepless sleeps until he gets back to Paris. Monday, I want you.

Our cat purrs and it makes me smile from the inside. Such a little fluff-ball of positive energy, so at peace with living. The French verb for 'purr' is 'ronronner'. I like this better. And who cares if my black clothes are now speckled with grey and white? Our cat, the fashion designer.

A picnic.

2008-07-27T09:11:00.003+01:00

On the river Seine. The clouds were pinky-purple behind the Eiffel Tower. Lot's of people. Summer in Paris.

Rendezvoused with J and Q, my entirely gay friends, at the big and welcoming bridge called Pont Neuf. They brought along another friend and also a couple who had just arrived from Australia. Discussing jobs, I learn that the Aussie bloke plays guitar for a popular band. I used to listen to this band when I was a kid, hoping desperately that it would make me cool and normal and like everyone else. It didn't, of course. And this is possibly why the group continues to be successful.

We all ate tomatoes and eggs and blue stinky cheese and drank wine and Perrier and spoke broken French and English. Danced to a brass band. It started raining. I took the metro home.

Climbed up the six flights of stairs to an open door, my boyfriend and our cat. Sleep.

I snored (apparently).

pee oh ee em

2008-05-18T00:57:00.001+01:00

O Could One Write as One Makes Love

O could one write as one makes love
when all is given and nothing kept,
then language might put by at last
its coy elisions and inept
withdrawals, yield, and yielding cast
aside like useless clothes the crust
of worn and shabby use, and trust

its candour to the urgent mind,
its beauty to the searching tongue.
Safe in the world's great house with all
its loves and griefs, at ease among
its earthly fruits, original
as earth and air, the body learns
peace, while the mind in torment burns

to strip the cloak of daily use
from language. Could one seize and move
the stubborn words to yield and sing,
then one would write as one makes love
and poems and revelations spring
like children from the mind's desire,
original as light and fire.

-- Gwen Harwood

A thought disorder.

2008-05-10T14:06:00.001+01:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/11/fashion/11madpride.html

Make mine a double.

2008-04-24T22:19:00.002+01:00

What stops me from being that old man at the bar
falling into his drink
and thinking how far
he hasn't come?

Chasing waterfalls.

2008-04-21T15:36:00.003+01:00

I need to pee but I'm going to finish this post before I relieve myself.

Work is getting on my nerves. I'm devoting a fair bit of time to something that is not giving me back what I want. It's great getting a pay-check at the end of each month, don't get me wrong, but at what price? I'm convinced that I will have a thousand more opportunities once I speak fluent French. But that's going to take at least until the end of the year. That's 8 months away. I'm fortunate, really I am. I'm relatively healthy, earning money, acting in a show for the Fringe festival, learning French a couple times a week, living in Paris (!) with the man I love and I've made some very special friends. All this and still not...full. Focus, I need focus. I guess I've set the context now I just have to write the story. Writing, acting, thinking, doing...

Now I REALLY need to pee. 'Scuse me.

Um/Aaah...

2008-04-20T13:25:00.002+01:00

How did I ever pass exams? How did I ever get through University? Now, I can't concentrate. I must have been able to concentrate in the past, if I was able to achieve what I did. Now, the focus isn't so clear. It's as though I can't see the target but I know it's there, so I just continue to fire occasional and random shots, hoping but not really trying to hit it. With this method, I sometimes get what I want. This is not always a good thing as it means I don't try harder. Harder. More. Focus. Perhaps concentration is exhaustive? No, that can't be true. I think it's laziness. procrastination, hesitation, indecision. Such a middle class dilemma. How repulsive.

Almost unbelievable. But true.

2008-03-13T18:47:00.000+01:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/13/us/13bishop.html?_r=1&th&emc=th&oref=slogin

Him...you.

2008-03-12T00:04:00.002+01:00

Ce soir, a girls night. Good fun. And now there is just me. No girls...and no boyfriend. He is far away, flying over the sea towards America. There for 2 weeks, working.

I miss him. I don't know if this means that I am not independent. I feel independent. But life is better with him. Everything is more whole. Every day is more...everything. I don't think this means that I am less without him. But I know that I am more with him. He makes my smile wider. Corny. And true.

I love him.

And then there was two.

To you: you want me how I want to be wanted.

Watch this.

2008-02-09T00:32:00.001+01:00

http://365joursouvrables.blogspot.com/2008/02/procrastination-is.html

Pizza and chocolate mousse.

2008-02-06T10:34:00.000+01:00

I feel as though I don't fit into this room, let alone my jeans. Silly how, when sad or grumpy, us women always go for our body images first. Forget the genocide in Kenya, who cares about the terrifying possibility that McCain will become the next American president, I HAVE FAT THIGHS!

Wobble, wobble.

On another note, I had an audition last week. If I don't get the part I will sink into a deep depression and possibly eat my body weight in chocolate. I want this part. It's a three-woman show, touring the Edinburgh Fringe festival. I want this part. I want it. I want it. I want it.

Moving on. Work is boring. And annoying. It takes too much time and energy and doesn't give me enough back. It does, of course, provide me with an income and therefore material comforts. And coffee. It gives me a wonderful excuse to drink too much coffee and smoke the prerequisite after-work 'de-stress' cigarette. Ain't life grand.

I have started French lessons again. Monday and Wednesday nights. Really such good fun. I've said it before and I will say it again, learning a language is an excellent experience and one that I can't recommend highly enough.

The boyfriend is well. And I am more in love with him and his hairy chest every day. This is a warm and fuzzy feeling and I like it.

I miss you. My friends, dotted all over this world. For those in Australia, the boyfriend and I will be making a visit late June through July. It better not be too cold or the weather man is gonna get punched. Hard.

A quote from Gloria Steinem.

2008-02-06T10:32:00.000+01:00

"Think,” she said. “'What do I do that when I'm doing it I forget what time it is? What is there that I don't care whether I get paid for or not? What is it that I'm really motivated and excited by?' And do that."

No need for dessert.

2008-01-19T23:55:00.000+01:00

This evening, over rapid French conversation and quiche, it lifted. The sadness, it floated above me, teased me, and then I blew it away. Astonishing to see the others at the dinner party talking and eating and laughing, apparently not worrying about any of it. I thought this beautiful. Especially beautiful was the cat, sitting as he wanted and where he wanted and thinking a thousand secret thoughts. A filling piece of peace.

Where does it hurt?

2008-01-19T14:23:00.001+01:00

I don't seem to be able to shake it off. This time, the sadness is sticking. It goes away sometimes but is more often with me. Just this past couple of weeks. This has happened before and, after a while, it ended. But maybe it ended only temporarily, maybe it never really ends entirely. Maybe it grows out of whatever is left behind from the last emotional tumour. Another cancerous anxiety. Multiplies. Overwhelms. Shuts everything down.

Does anyone have a cure? Doctors, please advise.

Something simple.

2008-01-16T14:36:00.000+01:00

Turkish delight is so meaty and sweet. I think it's one of my favourite treats. I don't like it with too much icing-sugar so I wipe the excess of with a tissue before eating each rosy lump. I also like shiny finger nails. I think they look so neat and tidy. And I like the clicking sound of my cracking knuckles. And the feeling of eye-drops flooding my eyes. The smell of a candle just extinguished is pleasing, too.

These are a few of my favourite things. Tell me some of yours?

Circles.

2008-01-16T14:20:00.000+01:00

Miserable is only sometimes. Other times are happy and light and strong and full. I don't know when miserable is coming. It storms into my peace and destroys all smiles and softness.It does it quickly, deeply, until I forget what calm feels like. I get angry at myself because I think I have a choice, and I think, therefore, that I must be responsible for choosing happiness and sadness. And then I feel really guilty because the people who care about me worry about me and I know I'm a fraud because all my pain is self-inflicted. I'm really struggling with this whole 'be true to yourself' thing. I don't know how to do it or where to start. Less difficult is crying into a cigarette or glass of wine over wasted hours of dwelling and procrastination.

What's my problem? What do I have to be depressed about? Not much. And this is why feeling sad is so very depressing.

Indulging myself.

2008-01-08T10:26:00.000+01:00

Miserable. Unhappy and unsatisfied and lonely and sad. Such a luxury, this velvet melancholy. Spending all my happiness on something expensive that I want but don't need. But who can say no to a bargain? Buy sadness, get guilt free. A deal with the devil is a deal nonetheless.

Quoting Norman Vincent Peale.

2008-01-06T00:31:00.000+01:00

Change your thoughts and you change your world.

Children.

2007-12-29T01:08:00.000+01:00

Tonight. We went for dinner with our friend and her South African amour. Nice guy. Special eyes and gleaming teeth. Young, about 20 or so. Said guy thinks it a good idea to state that all women are "full of shit". Give him credit and respect his argument; he's obviously reiterating his dad's ideas of women. We chat. He says, later in the conversation, that "Sim, you'll be interested to know...I like baiting people". Clap for the fucking genius in the corner. The man - the boy - likes to pretend. Gets in to the ring with a fully grown bull and then backs away with a sheepish baaa. No. You get out how you came in: fighting. So the little thing flees with his tail between his legs. Later, boyfriend says that I stepped on the poor thing. STEPPED. Give someone credit, take their opinion seriously...and I'm stepping on the defenseless little being. I can't help thinking that this is a gender thing. If HE was a SHE...would I have "stepped" on him? Or is it because I am the nice and sweet and nurturing kind that I should have let the little one run away...free and without responsibility? Am I taking this too seriously? Or am I not taking this seriously enough??

Punctuation makes things simple.

2007-12-16T23:18:00.001+01:00

I'd like to cut my hair long but things don't happen this way. I'd like to feel warm snow butterfly around me but snow is cold and butterfly isn't a verb. I'd like to be a resident of other worlds but all I have is mine. I'd like to stare at the candle flame but it burns my eyes. I'd like to have more hours in the day and to stop counting the hours at night. I'd like to finish this paragraph with something neat and friendly but all I can think of is this, a full-stop.

Today...

2007-12-09T14:28:00.001+01:00

...the windows are splattered with rain drops. I'm sitting in our warm study, too hot but not uncomfortably so, in front of the roasting heater. It is cold outside, I think. I haven't been out of the apartment today; I am enjoying my solitary safety high amongst the roofs of the 9th arrondissement. My partner is away today, growing the yearly Christmas tree and enjoying being his parents' son. I'm thinking of him. I'm thinking that I like how he moves his head to the side when concentrating. And the way he hangs his shirts on the line, taking care to do up only the first and third buttons. I like how he invites me inside his arms and the way he welcomes me home. I like him, very much. Up high in our study splattered with kisses, filled with our things, surrounded by brick-red chimneys and the Paris white sky, I am warm.

(So warm inside
that I almost forget
what it feels like
to be cold and wet.)

Knock, knock.

2007-11-29T23:46:00.000+01:00

Take me home, inside myself, to a place that is warm and by the fire. Where I sit and read my thoughts and hear the fire crackling life and happy experience. The cat warms my lap and mews strange peace and purrs a truth so soft and friendly. A warm mug of knowing and a satisfying need. Please welcome me in.

Movie night.

2007-10-21T17:56:00.000+01:00

My mood channel is stuck on fast-forward. Makes following what's going on pretty difficult, requires huge amounts of concentration. That's why I've a bowl of red wine sitting on the desk next to me. And some loud jazz to serve as an appropriately erratic soundtrack. Would dearly like a cigarette at this moment but am not wanting to upset the happy boyfriend/girlfriend equilibrium (he hates the smoking, thinks it stupid and ugly and toxic, which it is...) So, am writing this in between neurotic fingerings of my hair and regular sips from my bowl of wine soup. Not working but should be. Lots to do, always too much but never enough. I WANT to be busy and am glad when I am busy but then find every possible way to procrastinate from doing the work that I am so glad to have. Makes no sense.

Speaking of making no sense, am mighty disgruntled at the success of one of my favourite writers. The thing is, she has a successful blog. It's okay, fairly funny and down to earth but it isn't AWESOME. Good, but not AWESOME. Why is she published and paid when her blogging isn't the BEST EVER THING YOU'VE READ?? I suppose it's because she got off her bum and pushed her work in the faces of countless publishers, editors etc. She writes a lot about feeling shitty. Such a cheerful indulgence, reading of another person's melancholy. Then again, can we believe a writer when she openly addresses her neurosis and self-doubt? Maybe she's just writing for attention. Or justification, a reason to be emotionally twisted. How self-absorbed and uninteresting.

Twist, twist. Sip, sip.

Cry me a river (of Nutella).

2007-10-14T18:25:00.001+01:00

Just wrote a nice little post but am so very scared of being boring and sounding self-indulgent that I deleted it and wrote this static line of truth instead. Chocolate. I need chocolate. Where's the chocolate...

I am so NOT paranoid.

2007-10-14T18:07:00.000+01:00

So THAT'S what people mean when they tell me I'm neurotic. And here I was thinking they were simply referring to the randy sexual behaviour of my brain cells.

A quote from an article by New York columnist Ariel Leve:

I wanted to understand why being “neurotic” is a bad thing. “What makes it negative [...] is that there’s an implication that the anxiety is unjustified by the facts.”

And now for the resounding 'aaah'.

Ponder this...

2007-09-12T20:07:00.001+01:00

"We don't see things as they are...We see things as we are."
- Anais Nin

Tick-tock.

2007-09-12T12:00:00.000+01:00

So it looks as though I may have a job. Teaching corporate english did not initially appeal to me but now I find it a fantastic challenge. Learning, so much learning to do. I like learning; I enjoy it. Learning to love and be loved, learning to communicate ideas and feelings, learning kindness, learning strength. The smartest people, to me, are those who realise that they will never know everything and will thus always have something to learn. All the knowledge we need is the knowledge that we are learning. This opinion may change as I live and learn, as I make mistakes and stumble and fall and then start all over again. And stumbling is okay, I think. Slowly, I'm learning to accept it.

The American constipation.

2007-08-20T14:05:00.000+01:00

I'm writing this whilst sitting on a big and beige and unmade bed. At a super luxe resort. In Connecticut, USA. I'd ask you to pinch me but the flight over here at such short notice would be a little pricey. The boyfriend and I rode here from New York, along with a proportion of his colleagues. 137 miles, or something like that. Yes, it now hurts to walk/sit/pee and YES I would rather drink a well-made Cosmo' and eat New York sushi than grate my arse like a lump of cheese on a bike seat for three days but, I gotta say, I really enjoyed the ride. It was, as all experiences are, a chance to learn a lot about myself and the way I approach this life. At first, I couldn't bear the thought of being last in line, of being the last rider to finish a section of road. Last = lost = public ridicule = shame/humiliation. Talking to a couple people, I realised that this was a shitty way of thinking, shitty because it meant that I would never find my own rhythm if I concentrated on keeping up with everyone else. A great metaphor for life, I think. When a hill comes along, get into gear, find your rhythm and go at your own pace. You'll get to the top eventually.

We're at this resort in Connecticut for three nights and days for the boyfriend's summer company meetings. There are about a hundred people from all over the world involved, some friends and family and everyone who works with the software engineering firm. I'm surrounded by intelligence and intellect, by scientists and engineers and Harry Potter fans. It's the best kind of friendly company, people talking and thinking and laughing and drinking. I realise more than ever how much thinking space and time is lost by my often superficial thoughts and anxieties and how much there is to learn and discover about... everything. My mind is clogged with rubbish and guts, leaving little space for anything else. It's no fun being the crusty crouton bobbing around in genius soup. Time for a mental detox.

Peace is a puzzle.

2007-08-06T13:06:00.000+01:00

I often write in a forgotten journal. There's an entry from my last landing in London, which seems like years ago...in a past life, almost. And then there are some scribbled screams and rants and raves. And some criminally bad diagrams. A few weeks ago, I started writing in this old journal with uncharacteristic consistency. When the creative tap is turned on it is best to make use of what's flowing out of it. Otherwise, ideas and emotions get spilt, splashed all over people who just happen to be around at the time. A little creative engineering is needed so as to ensure that there are reserves of sense and cohesion to reference. It's incredible how logical the past seems, when it's all made tangible with pen and paper.

I saw the beach last week. And the week before. In Brittany, on the French coast. Salt in my hair, sand everywhere. Two weeks on vacation with the boyfriend and his family. How bizare this concept of family is, this idea that a family can love and co-exist and share and dive for food the moment it hits the dinner table, for fear of being left with only crumbs. I have a very different concept of family. Mine is a scramble of love and emotion and anger and guilt and acceptance and strength. It hasn't killed me; I'm stronger for it. It's who I am. It is because of my family that I love every day. And cry sometimes. And embrace the unusual. And never stop creating. And it is because of my family - of who I am - that I struggle to find a place within the other kind, the more peaceful kind. Peace is sometimes hard to accept: what's to fight for in life if there is no argument? Where does peace fit in with the 'fight or flight' reaction?

I can accept that I have more peace in my life now, that I am more at peace with my life now. This has enabled me to remember happy times, to have flashes of smiling moments and to recognise childhood smells and curiosities. My emotions are more raw, more honest. Like squeezing a splinter, I guess. I've just got to grit my teeth and squeeze, otherwise the damn thing will stay in there and forever be a part of me.

Pointing the finger.

2007-07-02T16:17:00.000+01:00

True, I haven't written in an age but you lot haven't either. It's either that we are all terribly busy or else just plain lazy. Or both. How about we make a deal: you post comments occasionally and I'll write more often. On second thoughts, I'll write more often regardless - I don't NEED you. HMPPH.

...Ok, excuse me while I go find a rock to hide under and slowly perish. I could write about it, this perishing, something along the lines of 'Rock of Rejection and Pebbles of Tears.' Don't like the title? Blame yourselves.

I'm well, thanks for asking. Just back from London, which was nice for a few days. In case you were wondering, I didn't have the urge to pack it all up in Paris and remain in London. On the contrary: I have decided that London and I are no longer friends. London depresses me; Paris doesn't. Plus, Paris is better-looking. Perhaps London and I will rekindle our friendship one day but, now that that I have Paris, I'll limit our get-togethers to only several times a year.

Speaking of only a few times a year, I excercised a couple weekends ago. I hiked up a lovely mountain in the Alps. Felt so bloody healthy that I almost had a coronary. Honestly, all this salubrious mountain air and wholesome home-cooking can't be good for a gal. Where are the hangovers, the grilled fat and the idle days spent watching porn and checking emails? I'm telling you, it's all about balance. Porn on mountain tops with freshly fried air, that'll do me.

I'm unemployed. Surprised? I don't like being unemployed, not really. I want to work, as you may have gathered from previous posts. In the meantime, I'm studying French. I'm finding the experience incredibly rewarding and I thoroughly recommend studying a language. French, Japonese, Pigeon-english, Rebublican, anything. Just start studying, before you've destroyed all your brain cells and are no longer capable of remembering your name, let alone the idiosyncracies of another vocabulary.

I've just read over this post and I see that the tone is rather negative. Serves you all right. I hope you're all in tears, bent over double with the agonising thought that you, yes YOU, have contributed to the emotional pain and utter abjection of a dear and special (really good-looking, intelligent and charismatic) friend. Shame on you. SHAME. ON. YOU.

In just one teaspoon...

2007-06-12T21:51:00.000+01:00

All you ever wanted to know about sperm:

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/12/science/12angi.html?th&emc=th

Heavy breathing.

2007-05-27T14:32:00.000+01:00

..."and, bingo, so it begins: tweaking that inch of midriff fat; plucking at the pad of flesh in the cleft of your armpit; spinning around to look at your bum in the mirror again and again, until you can't remember who you are, what you have achieved, how much you are loved or how many people have quite fancied you despite all your terrible imperfections."

I didn't write the above paragraph: Times columnist Shane Watson did. The link to the full article is given below. It concerns a particular female celebrity who I am not particularly concerned with but it is worth reading simply for the fact that there are women everywhere who are afraid of themselves. What a waste of life time this fear is. What a waste of us.

http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/beauty/article1824204.ece
(If directed to the general site and not the specific article, scroll down the site page to find an article titled 'The body shape blues'. Click on it.)

Walking this way.

2007-05-22T12:43:00.000+01:00

And so I find myself without a job. Worried? Always. About not continuing this particular job? Not really. It has taught me several things, and reminded me of a few more. I have again been reminded that some people are bullshit but that most are not. I've learnt that there are people who will lend a hand, simply for the sake of doing so; I've learnt that there are people who will do anything they can to cruelly manipulate a situation, simply for the sake of doing so. I've realised that fashion today is not a deeply rewarding industry to be in but that it does, like any art, have an incredible history. I've realised a few of the vast differences between working in London or Perth and working in Paris, things like the duration of the French lunch 'hour' to the obligatory complaints of colleagues about their boss/children/partner/banker/pet cat. This job will give me the line on my resume that I was after and it has afforded me a salary for the last few months. I'm happy. Really, I'm okay.

I've been given a few incredible contacts, which I will exploit as best I can. One is in fashion and another is in film. I've also been researching the theatre scene here and am rekindling an enthusiasm that has been quietly flickering away while I've been exploring possibilities. I'm starting French lessons next week, which I will be continuing at a rate of ten hours a week for three months. Oh, to speak French (said with appropriate dramatic exhalation)! The incredible man who loves me was, is and continues to be an unending source of strength and inspiration. He's buying a place in Paris and we are looking at apartments every day. I feel like I'm walking three steps forward and two steps back. This is fine, I think. It isn't very fast but it's getting me somewehere. Where to, I don't exactly know, but this isn't so bad. In fact, it's kinda exciting.

White and Black.

2007-05-16T12:17:00.000+01:00

Sometimes we meet people who hardly exist. I know someone like this. She's putrid, like a rotten egg. Poison. I will always struggle to believe that the body can continue to grow while the heart and soul collectively disintegrate. I may be ignorant to the evils of this world but I simply can't understand that someone would choose to be like this. It must so very painful, having only half a human heart...

...Often we meet people who are much more than themselves. They are sunshine and brilliant and bright. Human, prone to mistakes, learning and laughing. I know many, many people like this. Butterflies, flittering through life, pollinating the world with friendship. Sometimes I smile when I see someone do something kind and I want to say thank you for the smile that they have given me.

[Insert smile here.]

Thank you.

23 is a prime number.

2007-05-02T09:10:00.000+01:00

I believe that old friends make us new again. After several sunny days and windy nights staying with Nikki in Edinburgh, I awoke this morning in Paris feeling as fresh as the proverbial daisy. The world is not such a lonely place when we carry friendship in our hearts. I felt awfully lonely last week, so lost and wanting...of something...I don't know what. Now, today, I feel warm. This no doubt has something to do with the early onset of summer however I feel that it is also a result of the smiling sunshine that the past few days have filled me with. The city of Edinburgh is an unending earthquake of theatre, always alive and moving and shaking, forcing people to succumb to the natural pull of the stage, of playing. This, coupled with my friends and my boyfriend - my partner - has made me whole again.

And now, as I sit here at work, in the office, waiting to learn whether or not I am still employed, there is a cat standing on the left of my computer, making love with the screen, and forcing me to laugh at the comedy and tragedy of life. All the world's a stage, and all the men, women and cats, merely players...

Catching a taxi along the path of Greatness.

2007-04-23T15:48:00.000+01:00

I have a plan. In fact, I have four of them. Today I made a one, three, five and ten year plan. Scary stuff. I'm motivated by the words of a hairless American leadership guru, tanned the colour of crispy bacon and toned to a point of industrial perfection. I'm now thinking to myself in guru language, using phrases like 'scary stuff' and 'big idea'. The guy looks like a cross between Buddah and a politically-correct Ken doll. He's even a bit sexy, in that too-much-bleach-in the-toothpaste style popular with the shiny, happy, soy-latte-drinking people of America. I won't tell you the guru's name because I don't want to contribute to the commercialism of spirituality. Ok, I'll give you a clue: the guy recently sold his ferrari. Now, if you really care, you'll have to find the patience deep within to research the answer.

Anyway, as I said, I have some plans. It's quite an experience, iterating what you want your future reality to be on an A4 piece of paper. It's a difficult task when you're not sure what your reality is now, let alone in one or several years. There are a few goals that are easy for me to pencil in, like living with my boyfriend in a home of our own, becoming bilingual (providing I don't kill myself with a cheese knife at the frustration of it all first), beoming ridiculously successful at work and generally staying fit and healthy (exercising for a minimum of an hour three times a week, getting over my fear of having a rounded bum). There are some more insightful goals to plan towards, like getting a handle on my ability to go from 0 to a 100 on the stress-o-meter in 8 seconds flat. There's also a plan to smoke less - a lot less - and therefore kill myself a little less quickly. Moving to New York is part of the ten-year plan, as is maintaining and eventually realising my dreams as an actor. All seems so simple, this life business, once written down. Big idea: maybe this life business is simple, or at least a little less complicated that what we seem to insist on making it.

Roast Swan for dinner, Sir?

2007-04-21T09:55:00.000+01:00

I was charged 30 euro for paying a foreign cheque in to my bank account. This I would not mind if the charges were justified. They weren't. Apparently, 'telecommunication costs' give the bank the right to charge the account holder anywhere up to 50 euros, without explanation and without the prospect of getting one. This, I feel, is bullshit. It makes me angry. The thought that I am paying towards some rich and swollen big-shot banker's next meal makes me lose my appetite. The thing is, nothing of what I say here is new. Daylight robbery has been going on for centuries. In fact, the phrase 'daylight robbery' originated many years ago in an area of England called Bath, when home owners were taxed according to how many windows they had and the quality of the view, forcing them to brick-in their windows so as to escape the additional taxes. "HA! There is no way we would put up with such an outrageously unjust tax today!" Maybe not, but have you considered the charges you pay to the banks and other corporate giants without being told why? The likelihood is that you have and that, like too many of us, you don't care. That's life, we say. Shit happens, we tell each other. Nothing much can be done, we comfort ourselves. No, nothing much, not quickly anyway. But thinking about it and being conscious of it is a good start.

Blood runs dry.

2007-04-20T11:38:00.000+01:00

The following is a link to an article detailing the coming release of a contaceptive pill that will stop a woman's period entirely. Note especially the final two paragraphs - are we, as is suggested, too busy to menstruate? Comments welcome.

http://www.iht.com/articles/2007/04/19/business/period.php#top

I can't think of a title for this post and now I'm stressing about it.

2007-04-17T10:01:00.001+01:00

Stress is like a never-ending menstrual cycle. Worse, it's like a never-ending menstrual cycle during a world-shortage of tampons, chocolate and men to blame it all on. It controls the moment, sapping all energy and forcing us to find ways of coping, to smoke or eat or drink or scream or hide. We each think we suffer from stress in a way that is different to everyone else, which may be true, but, at the end of yet another anxious and teary day, it all amounts to the same tightness in the throat, the same fear of everything becoming nothing and it being all your fault.

I have no advice, only a suggestion that a friend recently shared with me: when you feel it, when you implode and feel the anxiety leaking in to your veins, don't concentrate on the million ways that you could have made the situation better, concentrate on the one way that it could be truly worse. This may help, it may not. Either way, I'll stress about it.

A vomiting monkey.

2007-04-16T09:50:00.000+01:00

I'm bruised. And sore. And happy. A weekend of lifting and climbing and swinging from trees has left me rejuvinated and feeling strong. The French have this wonderful mentality whereby they assist their friends and family when moving house, knowing that others will do the same for them when their time comes to vacate premises. On Saturday, my boyfriend and I helped shift his brother and girlfriend in to their new home. Up stairs, down stairs, load truck, arrive at new home, eat lunch, then more up stairs and down stairs, before passing out in the truck on the drive back in to Paris. The system works well and there is little complaint. That evening, my newly-toned boyfriend and I dined at our home, eating an Aussie/French combination of tapas and drinking cold wine, discussing the experience just lived, and the years of experiences lived before this. An extraordinary evening, hot outside and equally warm and sunny within.

On Sunday we awoke as monkeys. The adventure planned for the day was to visit a tree-top obstacle course, an hour or so out of Paris. Hours later, we found ourselves 16m above ground level, swinging precariously from tree to tree, from bridge to bridge, and from life to possible death. I am thankful not to have a set of testacles: the harnessess necessary are not uncomfortable for us Eves, but to the Adams of the world it must feel as though both their apples have been bitten at once.

I will admit that I was scared. The fear was not of falling from a tree, but from not being able to understand the instructor's words as, of course, they were all in French. It is debillitating to have to be at the mercy of my boyfriend's english translation, to have to rely on someone else so entirely. I panicked. I felt ridiculous and stupid. And then I climbed up a tree. Once up, I felt strong again. This new-found strength was partly to do with knowing that my harness was on securely, and partly because I realised that not understanding the French language does not make me weak, it just makes me unable to understand the French language - for now. C'est pas grave.

Our dear blonde friend with amazing legs did not fare as well as the rest of us. She is the only person I know who can honestly say that she has vomited from a tree 16m above the ground. My only complaint is that she didn't aim better - how funny it would have been to decorate some monkey's ego with her earlier lunch of tomatoes and zucchini. Following a worryingly lazy rescue, she managed to keep her stomach in its rightful place, right up until our return train pulled in to Paris, when the day all came rushing back. Again, she misfired and managed only to embellish upon the train carriage floor. We waited at the station until two firemen with very tight black trousers came to gallantly provide our friend with a purpose-built vomit bag. The fourth monkey in our troop, Bert, kindly escorted our damsel in distress home. You see, the French have this wonderful mentality whereby they assist their friends and family when moving stomach fluids, knowing that others will do the same for them when their time comes for their stomach to vacate premises.

Cleaning m'fancies in the bathroom sink.

2007-04-12T11:37:00.000+01:00

This is not something I say lightly. I publicise it only to begin the journey to recovery. The general idea is that, in identifying a problem, one is half way to solving it. Hopefully.

I carry tissues in my bag, in case someone sneezes or needs to wipe their hands. I cook. A lot. I look at little dogs and squeal with delight, when I know full well that it is that little dog who is directly responsible for the tonne of steaming brown that I will shortly step in. On the few occasions that a baby has goo-gooed straight at me, looking in to my eyes, I have looked back in to theirs, imagining that they are instilling in me the power of youth that is lost once puberty hits and Santa is no more than a morbidly obese (maybe gay? Catholic?) old man. I wash my whites separately and I soak my fancy underwear in the bathroom sink (future guests, take note). Worst...I floss my teeth and examine the gunk with a forensic curiosity, detailing exactly which piece of what food was consumed and when. It's not that there is anything wrong with this behaviour, it's just that there isn't anything right. It doesn't get me anywhere. Except to a roadside where I can scrape of the dog shit I stepped in earlier thanks to a seemingly cute but potentially explosive schnauzer.

Have I achieved my greatest fear? Has it taken me 22 years to achieve this petrifying state of... mediocrity? And most troublesome of all, when I turn 23 at the end of this month, will I have nothing more to look forward to than, simply, a better kind of mediocrity? Am I on the road to boring? Oh hell...have I all ready arrived?

Fantasies of Vegemite on a wholemeal baguette.

2007-03-28T13:46:00.000+01:00

Don't hate me: I've been busy. Too busy to wittle my thoughts down into an intelligible page of words and punctuation. If you are here, thank you and, if you're not, then you're lying.

I am employed, which, in this sense, means that I have a job. Every day I wake up and work and wish that I didn't have to and that I could sleep all morning. It's a delicious dissatisfaction. Working with four women, three cats, too many industrial-strength coffees and one crapper of a kid makes for interesting times. Last week, Melinee, a usually sirene and delicate woman, launched a grenade of demands at our boss, Sigrun, after which followed a broken lap-top (mine) and a spoiled attempt at quitting smoking. The lap-top has since been fixed and Melinee has resumed smoking three cigarettes a minute. Her demands have been met, or at least considered, and the company is functioning far better as a result.

I won't bore you and explain the arguments that I've had with my boyfriend over the last few days. Not that I could explain them, even if I wanted to. Hurting someone you love can never be explained. I desperately want my friends, my family. I don't have anything philosophical or reflective to say about this, I simply know that I need to hear a familiar laugh. Mum is coming in May, a couple favourite tutors from Uni will soon be staying with me and I will be seeing a few of the ol' girls at some point this year. It isn't enough; I want it all. Perth and Paris and my friends and my job and the Louvre and the beach and Vegemite and my boyfriend. And my book collection. I miss my bookshelf and the sunshine-coloured wall that stands opposite it in my apartment.

You know, it's crazy, this...living in Paris, making a life with the man I think I will love forever, beginning a career in France when in fact I speak little French, trying to find a wholemeal baguette (doesn't exist). All these answers provide me with a lot of questions. Strange, then, that it all seems to make sense.

If it's working, it's not working.

2007-03-07T23:29:00.000+01:00

Tomorrow it's possible, just a bit, don't wish too hard, that I may have work. Not another gig with kids that, while cute and sweet and everything they should be, don't give me purpose. Tomorrow I may have a job that I want, that I consider an occupation. A job that I get dressed for. That I style my hair for. That I think and smoke and don't drink for. It may possibly be a career. An anecdote to my constant hunger. A starter to the meal, at least. I am loathe to anticipate success as it may yet result in failure. Tomorrow may be a day I don't want to wake up to. This is not yet determined; Tomorrow is not today, but it may well be yesterday. I hope, j'espère, that soon I am one of those stressed commuters running late to work. To work.

Feed me.

2007-02-14T13:13:00.000+01:00

How hungry do you have to be before a message is sent to your brain and the hunger becomes conscious? And once this hunger is realised, how do you fulfill it? Do you give yourself something you want? Something you need? Or simply whatever is easiest? And so you blindly eat. Now you're not hungry anymore. Until a few hours later and it happens all over again.

My career: I'm hungry. But I don't know what I want. Or even what I need. So far, I have gone for whatever is easiest, whatever is readily available. A quick ham and cheese sandwich and life goes on. But it isn't really what I want. Hell, I don't even like ham and cheese sandwiches. I want, no, need, to feed my soul with something that I enjoy, something that stimulates my mental metabolism. Simple, really. It should be. But it isn't. I don't know what will sate my appetite; I don't know what I am craving. Now, 22 years later, I'm still hungry.

"The jazziest of my career..."

2007-02-01T23:46:00.000+01:00

I'm going to eat a bagel out front Tiffany's. Then I'll be just like her, in her fatless frame and diamond-studded perfection. I am going to be Audrey Hepburn. “My look is attainable. Women can look like Audrey Hepburn by flipping out their hair, buying the large sunglasses, and the little sleeveless dresses.” If Audrey says so, then it must be true. All I need is New York and tomorrow I will have it. This particular city, 'Noo Yoik,' is my unicorn. Doesn't exist anywhere except in my imagination and is therefore entirely possible and possibly probable. Tomorrow I will land in a puddle of unknown and soak myself in it until I don't remember what it is to be dry. And I'll flip out my hair and buy large sunglasses and dresses with sleeves (because it's too bloody cold for anything else). And no doubt, at some point, my dream will become a reality and I'll wake up in a cockroach-infested hotel and choke on polluted air and later step in dog shit and then realise that I'm in just another city. Another city where ideas flow as fast as a homeless man's urine on the sidewalk. Where I lose myself as fast as a tourist loses his wallet to sticky fingers in the subway. And where I am as awed and transfixed as Holly Golightly staring at the impossible diamonds at Tiffany's.

SALE.

2007-01-24T16:53:00.000+01:00

Money is cheap. It provides an empty happiness and offers little resemblance to the real thing. It is a poor-quality substitute, void of any true significance and without any durability. Still, we attribute thought and consideration, meaning and value to this badly sewn material joy. Money is, like a spray-on tan, nice to have but by no means necessary. It's clearly not real and only ever skin-deep. I loathe discussing money, thinking about money and worrying about money. This said, I like spending it. We all do. We want. We spend. We want some more. And so we continue to discuss it and think about it and worry about it. Happiness becomes a currency that we can buy and sell. We invest more, make more, spend more, have more. Until, at some point, the market will crash and we'll be left with nothing but a fading glow and an itchy conscience.

Digesting a human heart.

2007-01-19T14:17:00.000+01:00

A lovely young woman came to dinner last night. Blonde and brilliant and dismally lonely without her boyfriend. Said boyfriend is rarely in Paris as he is often away for work. To think that he could leave his girlfriend for up to six weeks at a time is a sobering thought. I've discovered that it is often the most talented and exquisite of women that willingly suffer mediocrity in their relationship. Constantly disappointed and rarely praised, they settle for an unsettling second best. Our dinner companion explained that she had been flirting with the idea of meeting other men. Even as she said this, she expressed an obvious reluctance to betray her partner and the relationship. This brings me to wonder exactly who is betraying who. He gives her an engagment ring last year and leaves her with false promises of an impending return. She says fine, yes, I'm okay and I'll see you soon and goes out to a party where she'll laugh with a man who wants to know her. Infidelity is not confined to sexual promiscuity. One need not be in a bedroom to cannibalise a human heart.

I don't pity her. More than anything, I'm angry. Surely it's just a matter of this woman realising her enormous worth and finding a man who treats her accordingly? Then I remember my last relationship. Ex-boyfriend didn't want me the way I want to be wanted and yet it was me who begged him to stay when he wanted to leave. It seems we're all a little stupid after all. Stupid enough to want to be wanted and loved and needed. Stupid enough to be human.

Today I woke up.

2007-01-18T11:06:00.000+01:00

Lately, I've been focussing really hard on heightening my stress levels. Anxiety is a great skill of mine. Concentrating on the fact that I have no career as yet and that my arse is now the size of a Frenchman's ego has produced admirable quantities of nervous tension. My astonishing success has brought me itchy skin, cloudy eyes and a bloated stomach. I thought I was doing rather well at not doing very well, until an email arrived this morning. Jessica is a cat with a human heart. She ended her email with the following words:

Sometimes you can feel like you are drowning in the unknown. I have been at university for five years (with two more to go) and I don't see a light at the end of the tunnel. Okay, maybe a dim flicker, but I hope that it brightens soon. We are only 23, we should be trying new things and exploring every opportunity ... and be slightly unsure.

So repeat after me " I am [enter name here] . I am wonderful in bed, but the truly interesting things occur in my head."

I think I'll give up the stress thing for now. I can always pick it up again later.

Up and onwards.

2007-01-17T11:16:00.000+01:00

I woke up this morning and created a blog. As pregnant as I'm going to get any time soon, this blog is a baby I'd been considering having for months. I'm sitting on the couch at my current lodgings in Paris, watching BBC news but wanting desperately to watch the Fashion Channel. The boyfriend's flatmate is at home and so I daren't be so vacuous as to watch something based entirely on aesthetics and sartorial significance. Flatmate is a pilot and so I'll refer to him as thus from now on. Pilot is, like all the boyfriend's friends, ridiculously intelligent and disgustingly well-educated. I couldn't possibly be found watching a program by this demonstration of human perfection that didn't exemplify my fantastic wit and extraordinary literacy.

Moving to Paris and falling in love with a software engineer has meant that I'm constantly surrounded by intellectual minds and patronising glances. And what do I do? "Oh, I'm a writer, an actor...my studies are in theatre...and literature. Gender studies". Sometimes I think I'd generate more interest if I simply said that I'm great in bed. "It's an Aussie thing," I'd tell them. "We're renowned for our dedication and endurance. Remember Gallipoli?."

While I am, I hope, great in bed, this is not how I procure an income. Far less interesting, I work as a part-time au pair. On top of this, I do a few hours of cleaning and a couple hours ironing. A far cry from my journalistic aspirations in Vogue, I know. Then again, ironing is sweaty work and so saves me suffering empty miles on the treadmill. Lucky, as scoffing food and downing alcohol has proved a useful method of avoiding awkward conversation and embarrassment with the intellectual elite at various social gatherings.

'Titire'?

2007-01-17T09:28:00.000+01:00

How fitting that the instructions for this blog should be in French, a language I don't yet understand and one which I often find myself drowing in, gasping for the spoken English word. Suffice to say, this posting will no doubt be placed in an entirely inappropriate section and under a laughingly misplaced title. Such is life. So, formalities over and cheek-kissing done, I introduce you to 'le blog de Simonne'. Join me as my French improves, my waist thickens, my heart is lost to a frog and my taste for Acid Jazz grows desperate. We'll begin at the middle and work our way towards the beginning. This is, of course, if I can remember where I began...