Packing.

I’m taking flight again, channelling my inner migratory bird and fleeing to the great north and its rays of sun. In a way it’s the opposite direction to that which I want to be going, but all the same it’s suddenly hit me I’m going to leave the storms, cold and rain for a brief sojourn to sun, dirt and water. Bullshit will only get you so far, I’m not exactly sure how far, but probably far enough. At the moment however, I’m losing steam, I’m inspirationless and borderline brain dead. I’m hoping I’ll find something I’ve lost in a place I’ve never been to, I’m hoping at least the tinniest glimmer of inspiration returns to my mind, I’m hoping for that instant rejuvenation that one seeks ‘on holiday’. If all else fails I’ll get drunk. And sunburnt.

Tonight was the historically large $90 million lotto jackpot that had the whole country dreaming of what they would do if they won the big prize... The words on everyone’s lips? It would be nice. A big help. I considered myself lucky today when I found a new pencil on the ground, $90 million dollars? I could buy myself and the rest of Australia a friggin pencil. But the jackpot I’d really like to win is one particular heart. Yes, I’m that lame. It may be just as unlikely, but I’ve bought a ticket anyway. In a way I wish my heart would give up, its mad faith, like all faith but I’m praying, crossing my fingers and rearranging my furniture. If all else fails, I’ll get drunk.

Hat, towel, jandals, book, hairbrush, chess - I’m packing a bag and leaving my baggage behind. I’m going somewhere new, I feel it already, the wind in my hair, the sand at my feet, the emptiness of my wallet.. things are looking up. Yes indeed! Adieu cold wind, ciao grey cloud, please don’t follow me, take care Yellow Betty and send me fair weather Sky God...

And if all else fails.. well, you know.

All kinds of things lost and unwanted and found anew

I’d like to tell you that everything has changed. That I woke up this morning and the universe had rearranged itself. Plates were cups, cups were spoons, endings meant beginnings and I was happy. But truth be told, that’s a lie.

So let’s not tell the truth, let’s dance around in metaphors. It has been raining and raining and raining, and I have been walking in circles in the rain. I have knelt despairingly on the wet grass, watching the water slowly but surely seep through my pants. I have mumbled hazy words into the phone to confused ears miles and miles away. The rain has been a change, but I have to admit I’m over it. It’s grey and dramatic, but I’m chilled to the core now. There are somethings not even a warm coat and a yellow umbrella can protect you from. I’m ready for some sunshine.

Sunshine came via Sydney from the US of A with piles of chocolate and a lot of jetlag. Sunshine slept for many hours, and eventually emerged with a yawn and a wonky grin. The Great American Distraction, comrade Ruth and I made the most of a windy but fine winters day, eating good pizza and frites, being blasted by the wind and waves and wandering about the city of Perth. Good people, big laughs, and no rain.

As good a mood as I'm in, I’m still busy peeling the remnants of my heart off the pavement. It’s a cruel world, especially if you are an analogue TV in a digital age. We recently replaced our trusty hand-me-down, wheelie, pre-historic TV with a hyper-über-skinny-new-digital-flat-screen, and I found myself nostalgic for days past as I gazed at the forlorn TV sitting in the trailer on its way to the rubbish tip. I know it’s a little bit dramatic to react this way when things change and your old TV is thrown out but what can I say? I relate to inanimate objects. I understand their plight. In a moment they are rendered useless, having been unceremoniously discarded. Absolutely necessary one moment and mere clutter the next, they have been loved, but not quite enough to be kept around. They give us what we want, then we turn them out because times change, no matter how fond of them we still are. I guess thats why you're not supposed to form close relationships with your TV.

But anyway, I made this video, an ode to our old TV.

Communi-huh?

Communication.

Im sorry what? I was going to say something but I’m not really sure what, because I know what I should say, but that conflicts with what I want to say, so I need to restructure this in my brain. I said I don’t like your shoes, that doesn’t mean I don’t like you. You asked me a question and I answered honestly like you wanted me to and this is what I get? Why won’t you speak to me? Tell me what’s on your mind. Communicate with me. I don’t know, I’m confused, I’d like to eat a rainbow. You aren’t communicating enough with me. What do you want me to say? I want you to communicate with me. I am communicating, I’m communicating that I don’t know what to say. Are you? I feel like I’m hitting a brick wall with you. Why won’t you open up, tell me everything. Ok. I think I love you. And I am in a relationship with someone else. What are you getting at? Ok I don’t like your shoes, I think you should change them; I don’t want to be seen in public with you. What kind of a statement is that? What is the point? There’s nothing in it. You’re lying. Overreacting. I’m surprised, I’m shocked, and this is exactly what I expected from you. Why won’t you just tell me what’s on your mind? If I had known, if you had told me, things would have been different. I couldn’t tell you, the words chained themselves to my tonsils. You should never be afraid to be honest. I love you. I can’t believe you said that, why would you say that?

***

I’m hardly the first to begrudge God for not sharing the ability to read minds with us lesser mortals, and generally I am more than happy that no-one can read my mind, but sometimes, like right this very second, I wish communicating with my fellow humans was not such a strenuous activity. I aspire to be the quiet type, but I’m not. I rattle on and on like a train rolling backwards down a hill but still I have the distinct feeling, I’m not really getting the point across. Sometimes that’s because I don’t know what I’m trying to say until I’ve said it. Sometimes its because the person stares at you, with the biggest open eyes and demands you communicate. Um.. next question? They rephrase, tell me how you feel about this? I ehrmm well I feel rather, particularly, lost for words.

What is it about communication that is so damn hard? In the past I have, rather foolishly, scoffed at people who do entire degrees on the act of communication, when they could, I don’t know... do entire degrees on history... but all of a sudden, I understand the intense conundrum of communication. There are the things you say. Then there’s what you mean. There’s what you want to say, then what you are expected to say, and what you are understood to have said. What isn’t said is often more important than what is. There is the question of whether what you say is actually true, the conflict between the conscious und sub-conscious self. Then there are the outright lies, which further befuck the entirely fucked attempt you are making at communication.

I mean what I say, and I generally say what I mean. But the problem is, when I don’t know what to say, or how to say it, or how to understand what is being said. The problem, and the solution, is communication. When it comes to navigating the waters of the emotions in the ship of communication, I fail, epically. I should just as well be deaf, blind and dumb and high on drugs.

Give me your hand and I’ll show you. Take my hand and show me. Don’t complicate this with attempting to communicate wordy nothings. Help me to see.

Ageing - shaken, not stirred.

I have aged. I have grown wise. The sands of time have changed me, the dunes have shifted, the autumn leaves aren’t quite falling, but the tick-tock hurries on over the hill. I slip about the house in my grandpa slippers, lost in a dressing gown. My forehead is creased with fresh lines that tell stories of pain and experience. I start sentences with “back in my day...” and dream of my ever more distant youth...

And yet, for all this wisdom that one of my vintage supposedly possesses, I still seem to misunderstand the fundamentals of life. Such as, the drunker you are, the more bruises you get. Or, the drunker you were, the worse your hangover is. Having turned 21 precisely 7 days ago, I may or may not have over-indulged in various alcoholic substances. I’ll leave that up to your imagination. Wether as a result of this or not, my 21st passed in a crazy fun whirlwind that ended in a pile of crushed lollipops and black tufts of fake hair. I have amazing friends and family who made me feel very special, in a loved as opposed to a retarded kind of way. I learnt that you’ve never really lived until you’ve had a bite-sized cupcake and revelled in the power of its tiny icing-capped-peak and that it’s a shame you only get to turn 21 once. After that, you’re just old.

However, I have very few concrete recollections of the last week at all, despite the fact I was only actually intoxicated on one particular evening. This time last week I was saying a mournful goodbye to my 20 year old self, and now here I am, trying to establish what exactly happened to the last 7 days of my life.

I remember swinging my jacket like a stripper and shaking my ‘booty’ on the dance floor, eating two MacDonald’s chips and vomiting my guts up. I remember fresh ocean air and warm cosy pillows. Wrapping paper, friendly smiles, a bowtie and swinging a cricket bat, and then yakking my guts up. I remember staring into space feeling like someone had tried to remove my heart through my navel. I remember an overbearing numbness and dozing off leaning against a pile of t-shirts. I remember waking up even more tired and vomiting my guts up. I remember an evening when reality pissed off, and my heart flew freely. Then the dawn came, cool crisp air and there I was again, vomiting my empty stomach up for no apparent reason at all.

I vaguely recall having what was probably the most grown up conversation of my life. It was strange words whispered in an oppressive darkness and far too many “I don’t knows”. I have been talking so much, too much, vomiting honesty, carrots and hope. It all came and went so quickly, leaving only a fading memory, nausea and some embarrassing photos to testify its existence.

At 10.28pm on the 17/06/2009 it struck me that I hate every fucking song on the radio. Do they ever sing about something other than love or being rich and famous? Im sitting out in the dark, alone and cold and small. There are a million stars or more, and my heart is swallowed up again by the empty nothingness. When you are scared of loosing something, you hold onto it extra tight, even though you know you can’t win, you hold on anyway. I have the distinct feeling that someone shook up the fanta bottle in which I float and then opened it; the fizz was fun, but the ensuing silence is just sticky.

The fear within

I have a fear of buses. It’s alright if I’m on the bus, hanging on for dear life trying to remain standing and not fall on the granny next to me, that’s an adventure. But when I’m cruising along the road, hair waving in the wind, like a happy, high, hippy child on my two-wheeled-weapon of choice, and a bus comes flying past, ripping me from my blissful daydreams of daisies and kittens and ah-who-am-I- kidding- I-hate-cats, sending me careening uncontrollably into the gutter – I get a little scared. Bicycles that get it on with buses only end up in several thousand tiny pieces, and even the widest road doesn’t seem wide enough to fit their two bustling egos. The same goes for trucks. It’s at this juncture that the car-drivers among you will shout “well get off the road”, but the grannies I attack on buses also don’t appreciate being bowled over on the footpath, so your point is null and void. Anyway, fear and persecution isn’t the platform from which I’d like to launch my Cycle Instead campaign, and the point is really the fear, not the cycling.

Fear is an all powerful emotion. It drives humans to do ridiculous, regrettable, if not totally disgusting things. Or conversely, to be so paralysed as to make like a rabbit in the headlights and freeze. Some people seem to get high off the adrenaline of scaring themselves shitless, others, like me, would rather run screaming from deaths door than stare it bravely in the face. More sinister people get high off other peoples fear. Most fear is fear of pain, fear is a basic instinct that says “fuuccckkk!” and a choose-your-own-adventure with only two choices; Fight or Flight.

But there is another level of fear that plagues my mind, fear of the unknown. A thread of fear that perpetually runs throughout my thoughts is the fear of growing up and getting old and becoming somebody who I wouldn’t like. Of not succeeding in doing the things I want to do and at being a good person. It’s such an abstract and useless fear, that I can’t quite decide what to do with it.

Fear is important, but if it’s in charge, it gets me nowhere at all. Bravery takes fear by the scruff of the neck and tells it where to go. I was thinking today, that if I have a hero, it is probably the man who stood in front of approaching tanks in Tiananmen Square on that fateful day. If I have only an ounce of his bravery, dealing with the buses, bees and minor confrontations of everyday life will be a breeze.

But for now, the bus wins and I'll continue to avoid arriving too early, too late, walking into rooms full of strangers and eating pips.

So here in (slightly over) Minute Movie format – My fears.

My day in clouds.

The first thing I wanted to know when I woke up to my alarm clock far too early this morning was how a jet plane with 300 people on it goes missing. People embarking on holidays, leaving home, returning home, vanishing into thin air.

An essay deadline and a rumbling in my belly prised me kicking and screaming from my nest. Cold air and work to be doing never made anyone want to get up. Its like tempting a donkey with a brick. When I walked next door to tend to the two fluffball dogs my neighbours trustingly left in my care, the sky was forebodingly dark, like grey paint swirled on a canvas, the contours and texture made in a flurry of movements by a moody artiste. I was running on tea-power alone, and the stormy attire of father sky seemed to my semi-hysterical brain to be a sign. Indeed, as I blundered blindly through the final lines of my essay, wielding an axe and slashing wildly, torrents of water and flashes of light tumbled down upon the roof.

Then, like a simile for my very existence, when I strode triumphantly out of the house to announce to Baloo that I had indeed finished the last ridiculous, elephant-sized-shit on a page of my undergraduate degree, the sky was blue and the joyous fluffy clouds had chased away the grey.

Jet planes go missing when humans get too sure of their ability to fly. Perhaps clouds are mountains we should leave unconquered, just because we can pass through them doesn’t mean we should walk all over them. But it’s just that they are so inviting, really we are more like them than we would like to admit; transient, watery and moody.

As I sidestepped, hopped and danced my way over tree roots and loose bricks of the university pathways, the whole expanse of the sky seemed to worm its way inside of me, as the elation of being free from uni set in. I breathed in the cloudless, generic pale blue Perth sky, with its cool winter breeze and begun to feel a vague sense of achievement. Suddenly I became aware I was at the end of something. I had a strange out of body experience, in which I saw a young girl, orange hair tied back in a ponytail and hidden under a woollen hat, lying in the sun in awe of everything. Seeking wisdom and learning to know herself, the peacocks, and why one shouldn’t feed ducklings bread. I’m still a little girl, what can I say, I’ll always be short, but 3 ½ years down the track, what have I learnt? I went to uni for answers and questions tumbled down upon me until I learnt to stop expecting answers. Now I am content in these shoes and I see things in the mist that I can believe in.

Where am I going? I am going to live, love and learn.

But right now I am going to lunch.

And to lunch I went. Back on the bus , into the city, up the stairs, across the bridge, along the street to stop and stare... at the cappuccino froth clouds. It looked like the crane was reaching up into the sky to catch the cloud and tie it down while it was trapped neatly between two towers of glass. I was inspired to do a little research on cloud science. I learnt that when people got enlightened and started classifying everything in the physical/metaphysical/possible world, some young dude took the trouble of conquering the clouds. He picked them up and set them into families like Nimbostratus, cirrostratus and altocumulus, along with many other names I wouldn’t try to pronounce. I figured, if he can do that, then so can I. This cloud is called Henry. He escaped the ravages of the crane.

The day was drawing to a close, and while the sun reflected on the clouds, I was roaring along the coast on my scooter. I have realised that I am not very driven or motivated to overthrow the world. Yet I feel I should be. Sometimes I am dismayed by the fact that I am quite content to watch the clouds and point out the ironies of the world. To write blogs that are premised on statements like “Today I ate a banana” and suggest that we all be nice to each other for a change and then have the audacity to think people might suddenly start doing just that. Am I just a bored white middle class youth with a blog? More or less. I think it’s important to make people smile, but that’s like the soft-core porn of activism. Piss weak. And then I can’t decide if I wouldn’t be better off contemplating the clouds, maybe that’s just what I’m meant to be doing.

I don’t know. I can only begin to wonder. And so I chased the sun to the end of the world...

And sat there and waited for the night to begin.

The use of pictures in this blog was difficult and hard to format, but more importantly, partially inspired by the wonderously creative daily photo blog of a friend, which you can/must check out here http://introducingruthie.blog.com/