Closets

A very camp older man came into work the other day. Professional type. Made some comment on the workmen downstairs in the room he was supposed to be a having a meeting in (or some such). Mock horror at their blue singlets, followed by quick retort from me re rough trade. Knowing laughs, and he was gone.

Another woman in the office commented on how different he was since he stopped pretending to be straight, and got rid of the acrylic jumpers.

And I got to pondering my own coming outs, some of them anyway, and how the very process of coming out had made me change the way I interacted with the world. Made me bolder, more assertive, more able to explore and challenge and put my foot down when people/society made crappy demands of me. Most of this is obvious, I know, but none of you reading this knew me BEFORE. When I was really shy and awkward and buttoned up, when I didn't sit in cafes on my own or ever get my tits out or travel by myself...

Farewell, Old Salt

Found out the other day that an old workmate had died. He was a crusty old salt of a bloke, a Scottish sailor who worked in the printing service and sneaked a ciggie at every opportunity. Cancer got him in the end, as well it would. I hadn't seen him for quite a while, and guess I didn't know him that well anyway, but I liked him a lot...

Somebody told me that since he was made redundant he had bought a boat with his brother, planning to sail around the world. Then he got sick, and that was that.

So I got to remembering the time I almost had my head blown off, and all the things I wouldn't have done if that bullet HAD hit me. The every day near misses too, the bus that COULD have knocked you down, the cliff you could have slipped off, the deadly snake that might have bitten your bits when you wandered into the bush to pee.

And I vowed yet again never to put off the joyous things in life.

Purge

Moving house. Much clutter. Time to cull.

Market stall -- four boxes less of clutter. Selling some books to mates -- maybe one less box of clutter. Throwing out CRAP -- couple of boxes (?) less of clutter. Still so much... argh! What IS it all? And why do I own it?

Getting less sentimental over time, thank heavens. But still, so many memories/ideas/identities tied to much of this stuff. Arrrgh!

Smoke and Mirrors

It will be two months next Wednesday since I gave up smoking. It hasn’t been easy, but then it hasn’t been as hard as I expected either. Just different.
It has mostly been a process of relearning how to exist in social situations without a cigarette in hand. Relearning? Actually, in most cases, learning – I was smoking long before I ever started clubbing or swanning around art festivals or lurking in bars and its the only way I know to be in these places. And so with each type of event or place of smoking, I have to readjust my mindset before I go. I find myself almost subconsciously imagining walking into the convenience store, finding the smokers’ lounge, lighting up, making small-talk with all the other stinky tar-babies. Not because I am hanging for a cigarette, usually, more because it is just habit, of course, its what my brain now associates with going out on the town, with drinking beer, with particular friends.

Every time I revisit these circumstances for the first time sans cigarette, I have to recognise what is happening and prepare myself for it. Yes, you will spend all of your time downstairs at Phoenix, only emerging if you really need fresh air or an ATM or chewing gum. No, you will not be able to escape the boredom of Wednesday night at the Sly by popping out to smoke at 15 minute intervals. Yes, there are certain people you will have to specifically seek out if you want to speak to them, instead of waiting to catch them up outside whilst you are both puffing away. Yes, you will have to find something else to do with your hands when someone cute is flirting with you. No, you don’t have a light.

Zoo Thousand and Ten

So, its the end of the noughties and into the... umm.. tweens? Much has been posted about making the next decade better that the last, but for me, the last was pretty grand on the whole (not in chronological order):

* Met the Monster. Several times, before we finally got ourselves sorted into the MonsterUnit.
* Came out. Repeatedly. As queer, kinky, etc etc.
* Reconfigured my gender. Bye bye 'girl/woman', hello 'monster'. Works for me.
* Got my arse to Uni, got my BA (Hons) and am currently a proto-Dr. Still have days of feeling like a pretendy academic, and paranoia from the fact that I was a high-school drop out. Silly, I know.
* Started performing. Still scary. Still do it. Still not sure why, but I need to.
* Embraced my creative side again. Participated in tons of photo shoots, films, wrote for magazines etc.
* Began to read fiction again.
* Learned to dance in public without a) freaking out that I was unco or b) need to be really drunk to avoid a).
* Got a lot of ink and metal. Shaved my head a lot. Didn't shave anything else much.
* Travelled a lot, mostly on my own. Lived in Sweden, visited NZ a few times, wandered around Europe and San Fran and NYC. Lived in Perth for a bit too, which is kind of like another country.
* Lived in zillions of sharehouses. Mostly with amazing, if mad, people.
* Had many relationships of various durations and configurations. Most of them lovely at some point, lots of them quite hideous in parts. Learned a lot from all of it-- I hope.
* Was quite a trashy tart when not having relationships. Or sometimes whilst having them.
* Became part of a fabulous community of performers, artists, writers, perverts, bears, divas and other gorgeous, generous, and joyous eccentrics.
* Stopped taking many chemicals, or thinking that I had to.
* Learned to appreciate my body in entirely different ways.
* Saw stupid amounts of fantastic art around the world, and lots of great theatre.

And ever so much more. Looking forward to the next decade of consolidating and building on all of this. Bottoms up!

Growing Old Disgracefully

Worked out one of the things that unsettles me most in Perth yesterday-- people seem to accept that growing UP is somehow compulsary. Was asking some mates whether they were participating in the Pride Parade, and the general consensus was that this was something one did when one was young and then you retired gracefully to watch it from the sidelines. Fair enough if these mates were 70 years old, but a bit odd to me when most of them hadn't even hit 30. Hmm. It happens in other ways too, people past their mid-20s here don't play dress-ups nearly as much as my crusty old mates back home, and, well... they are all just so sensible and ADULT with careers and cars and mortgages and baby plans and whatnot. I'm beginning to feel like some sort of juvenile deliquent...

Soggy Serviettes

Went out for a lovely walk on Beucott St with the Monster this morning, and stopped to grab a coffee and a spot of something tasty. When our lemon slice appeared, it was presented on a small plate, as expected, but between plate and slice was A PAPER SERVIETTE (NAPKIN).

This practice has always bewildered me. Why would you serve food, and often food designed to be eaten with a knife and fork, on top of a piece of PAPER when it alraedy on a nice ceramic plate? The paper goes soggy from the cream/sauce/grease whatever leeching out of the food, the soggy paper then gets all stuck onto your food... its just SILLY-- a waste of trees and a messy inconvenience (which then requires extra serviettes to clean up).

Does anyone know the WHY of this practice? Is it some sort of hygeine measure in case the plate isn't quite clean? Is it some sort of doily substitute, purely there for visual presentation? And if so, what time of person would be impressed by a plain paper napkin folded in half and stuck underneath their cheesecake? Perhaps its a display of wealth, as in, we're doing so well we can afford to provide a layer of soggy paper with every meal and dessert? Perhaps there is some perfectly simple reason for this which has eluded me and I am being an idiot. If so, please let me know via the comments box. Ta!

Mama Bear

sometimes i am astounded at the Mama Bear within me: growling and paused ready to tear the throat out of anyone and anything who threatens my kin... maybe it is because the older i get the more that i am sure of my own instincts, my own beliefs and my own ability to take on all comers?

Ghosts

20 years I spent a semester in an adolescent psych facility (basically because I wouldn't go to school, and was pretty adament and stroppy about it). It was a strange time, sad but not entirely so, and it taught me a lot in ways that weren't in the program (smoking and cutting, for a start, but also more positive things). There were magnolia trees and an old boat shed and huge gardens and much magic in the making somehow-- the buildings were formerly a convalescent hospital. I wrote poetry there, I think, worked on my moontan, and read The Bell Jar. I met my first boyfriend there. He used to wear eyeliner, listen to Nick Cave and steal his mother's brain meds.

Last night we went to visit a young friend who is in the mental health facility right next door to the one I was in. Different institution as such, but was still a little odd to be driving down that road again. It has been a long time, and I wonder where that girl ever got to...

'I used to sometimes try to catch her, but never even caught her name'

Where's Monster?

'Where is Monster?'

Obviously, if I am out and about on my own, or with somebody who is not Monster, then the world has gone mad and its time to call the authorities.

'Where is Monster?' is a reasonable question if I am out clubbing solo, at a party without my monstrous companion, or am going it alone some place we would usually inhabit together.

'Where is Monster?', in a tone suggesting mild curiosity as to what the Monster is up to, cool. I like that you like the Monster, and that you care about her whereabouts and welfare. She probably likes you too.

But 'WHERE IS MONSTER?' in that sort of bewildered, demanding, interrogating manner, said when I should have the audacity to wander along King St on my way home from gallivanting on my lonesome, say from work or being inked or doing some shopping or having coffee with a mate, well...

Monster could be at home working, she could be at her art class, she could be helping a friend with some handywork, she could be doing anything really! And, while its nice that you care, please note that we are INDIVIDUAL monsters, not some sort of monsterunit that cannot move about the ghetto without our other half.

Thanks.

Loosing My Religion

And my patience with the ongoing lose/loose confusion which seems to have affected almost everyone who is allowed to put finger to keyboard these days.

PLEASE NOTE

If you repeatedly misplace, cannot find, do not know the whereabouts of your car keys/underwear/mind then you do not write:

'Damn, I am always LOOSING my _____'

Unless you are to deliberately set these items free, as in:

'I cut my _____ LOOSE from the shackles of being possessed by a troll with an irresistable urge to use two Os where one O will do.'

Otherwise, you LOSE things. You are forever LOSING your ____. And if you are forever losing your underwear, you might just be loose but that is another matter...

Going Underground

'By dreaming and idleness and then by intense self-discipline does the artist live...'

--Winterson, Art Objects

And so to my thesis, my current and largest art project.

I have dreamed it, I have played with, I have slept on it, I have imagined it, I have read about it and talked about it and pondered it and now... The time has come to WRITE it. Properly. No holds barred.

Intense Self Discipline now. The winter has come and almost gone again, and the writing is starting to take shape. Maybe 40-50 000 words or so (out of 85-100 000) written up, more in draft form. Time to strap myself into the hard work of edit, rewrite, edit, rewrite, add, subtract, repeat. To this end, a note to my crew:

Please do not ask me to do any more shows until I have submitted the beast. If I get the urge to strut my stuff I'll contact you. At the moment I need to reserve most if not all of my creative juices for writing.

Please don't be offended if I don't make it out to a lot of events, or don't stay hugely long when I do. I still need the odd spot of trashiness and debauchery, but I also need plenty of shuteye and large chunks of time when I don't leave the house at all (except maybe for a wake-up walk or to fetch beer).

Visitors are often welcome though, so if you are in the hood and fancy a cuppa in our backyard then feel free to text. Just don't be offended if I say no, or postpone, or start getting twitchy when you're there and boot you out after an hour.

Creative fits are not predictable at all for me. My whims are erratic, and I my hours rather eccentric, and so I don't quite know what I will do next really. I will endeavour to behave responsibly, and not comitting to very much is the best way to avoid disappointing folk.

Still, deadline is February or thereabouts. Six months of Intense Self Discipline, lower levels of social activity, more chocolate, less beer and increased levels of incoherence adn delirium and it should be done.

Love you all! Wish me luck.

The old grey mare ain't what she used to be...

(Ain't a 'she' no more, for a start)

Lately it has become increasingly apparent that the Zoo is getting on a bit. I can't drink ten beers in an evening and then make it to work in the morning. In fact, I would be lucky to even drink the ten beers. I can't really party three nights in a row, period. Sometimes I stuggle to do three or four different activities in a day (work, write, coffee date, art, play, whatever). The idea of afterparties exhausts me, and my perfect recovery is being in bed by dawn with a crumpet and a cup of tea. I don't do any chemicals anymore really-- never could really handle them but now they just floor me. Often I don't take as much pain as I did in days past, can't cop fifty needles or an hour-long beating with nearly the same ease as when I was first a painslut.

Sometimes, shock horror, even warmup (and in dire moments, foreplay) seem necesssary.

Much of this, I know, is to do directly with the thesis beast. It sucks a lot of energy, even when I am not working on it directly. If I write for more than four or five hours a day I pretty much don't want to do anything else afterwards. And the closer I get to the end, the more intense it becomes and the less energy I have for other things: making shows, socialising, dancing etc. The next six months is going to be HARD.

Much of this is also to do with my chronic sinus pain (8 or nine years now I reckon). This had been tenporiarily relieved by magical chinese herbs, but my therapist has left and I need to source another who can do the same thing for me cos nothing anyone else has given me has worked. Sneezing and wheezing for the first two hours of most days, and often an hour or more at the end, is quite debilitating. It makes one tired, and nauseasted, and eventually very flat and sad. Not to mention the pain, the day in day out pressure in one's face and gums and eyes and head. (Am trying to get details of an amazing chinese med dude in Marrickville pronto so I can get this all sorted. Its just foul, and has a massive impact on my everyday life.)

And some of it is just to do with getting old. Physically old, but also not WANTING to do so much anymore. Or wanting to do different, often quieter, things. Quality ovedrriding quantity. Increasing discernment, and increasing realisation that its only worth surrounding yourself with roses if you take time to smell them.

And I am comfortable with most of the shifts that are taking place in my head and even my body, I feel wiser and more happy with my place in the world and with myself generally and its all good. Mostly. Sometimes though, just sometimes, I see a young'un up on the rack with that thirst and that hunger for pain and sensation and everything and for a moment I miss it...

It's not gone entirely, of course. In fact I don't think that it has gone at all. I still want to learn things and experience as much as I can and travel and meet new people and throw myself into challenging situations and expand my boundaries and question everything but somehow the energy has shifted.

I'm not who or how I used to be, but most probably that is the point.

Odd Jobs

Somehow started thinking of all the things I had done for money in the past 20 or so years, and came up with this (probably partial) list:

Bakery assistant. Bank teller. Bum model for a girly magazine. Manager of a second-hand record store. IT geek at the Uni computer labs. Transcribing dialogue for a voice-recognition software company. Selling ugly, dodgy 'art'works of the Harbour at Circular Quay according to a pre-written script that involved the word 'pointellism' one to many times. Customer service at a home loans company. Market research cold calling (the pork surveys were always a favourite). Face to face market research interviewing. Coding surveys. Binding books at the Uni publishing service. Selling books at the Uni copy centre. Credit card call centre. Performance art.

Actually, most of it was performance art.

Home Alone

Unless you count the loudly purring pussy, which of course one should.

The Monster is in Perth this week, whilst I try to write and work here in Sydney. There is LOTS to be done-- an art chapter draft due in a day or two, a proper seminar paper to be given next week... fortnightly deadlines until completion/submission of the beast... at a loss with some of it, quietly confident about other bits-- just not sure which is winning at the moment!

And a show to be reworked for Hellfire next month (the Queers will be invading-- be there!), another to be created for Wham Glam Thankyou M'aam the following week at the Rattler, an Inqui outfit to devise (boots mended and attended, and general questions of tiny dress? chaps skirt? leather hotpants? what to do with the tits? what to pack? leather jockstrap or frilly knickers?), and so much other stuff to be getting on with.

Much be gotten on with and much joy to be had, but damn I miss that Monster already. Sigh. Absence makes the parts grow fonder and all...

Irony

In Brisvegas last week for a Mother and History conference. Go out foraging for food the first night, hear chanting, look around: Pro-Abortion march going by. Not totally incongruous of course, and I don't think the two were related, but still made us smile.

writer's block

post-super-meeting ramble:

what is my thesis? what it is about? what is my argument? what am i doing? what should i present when i talk about milk and art at a 'mother' conference next month? ARRRRGH!

she is asking question, making very helpful suggestions, new ways of attack and organisation and inquiry, new methods and means and then she is asking me what i think and all i can think is...

i don't want to directly dissect the discourses being played out, i don't want to write a chronological encycolopedia of the topic/subject/object at hand, i don't want contemplate what an image might mean in a certain context and set of socio-political-econonomic circumstances, i don't want to categorise and logic my passions out of existence, i don't want to argue as much as i want to discuss and play with and dance with and seduce and be seduced by... its not the cold hard 'logic' and 'facts' of the Matter that make me wet, (it never has, and what are the facts anyway)... its the affect, the visceral response, its the twitch and nausea and phantam letdown pains and the tears and the involuntary clenching and the smell and so much stuff that can't be put on a page in tables and figures and ordering of desire and substance and all organisation is pretty much arbitrary anyway and there are so many other connections that never get played out because time and notions of reality and history always take precedence and i just want to write the whole thing in fictocrit because it is the only way that even seems to come even close to capturing any of the essence andthe taste and the spirit and the memory of my subject and maybe i could just do the whole thing in interpretive dance?

inspired to write again at least...

Autumn Daze

'Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end.
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed'

-- John Keats
'Endymion'



It feels like Autumn more than ever. The hot water bottle is back in use, bedsocks are worn, and porridge is on the breakfast menu. Washing days are planned according to the weather forecast and laundry often finishes drying indoors.

We are preparing the house for the cold times ahead. Sowing silverbeet seeds and stocking up on soup supplies, feeling compelled to accumulate large stores of root vegetables and tinned tomatoes. Yesterday we hung a patchwork quilt from the bedroom window to keep the heat in, last week we bought door snakes to stop the draught. We still need thick curtains and rugs for the bare floorboards, and to locate scarves and gloves and warm hats. I'm planning flanellette pj purchases, and checking out slippers in the winter catalogues. My mother gave us pots of bulbs, and I am happen imagining what lies beneath the damp bare earth. Spring will come, but first it is time to hide away and grow.

I'm preparing for the Winter Writing Frenzy too: have added instant coffee to the collection for wee small hours consumption, am storing up chocolate and office supplies, photocopying masses of articles and chapters, ordering in large numbers of books from the library, sorting out folders and files. Its a matter of getting things in order, clearing my desk and my rubbish bin and making sure I have enough staples and highlighters to see me through the dark times.

And so my fur grows thicker, my fat deposits and my cheeks are stuffed with nuts...

Silver Linings

* Monster and I are both sick with some sort of (hopefully not porcine) flu-type configuration. Actually more like a headcold, but has knocked us both considerably. On the upside, this has made for many days of cuddling and caring for each other in soft, gentle ways. Of fluffing pillows and making tea and filling up hot water bottles. Aside from feeling like crap its been kinda nice!

* I have given up eating seafood, and have begun to miss it a bit. On the upside, there are many fun mock-meats to help me get through, and I will be scoffing many of them tonight at the Green Gourmet. Yummy!

* I have been researching booze in relation to vegie/veganness. Some of my fave brews do use fish scales and whatnot. On the upsdie, Coopers doesn't. Neither does Grolsch, or many other yummy pints! Huzzah!

* My thesis has been causing me considerable angst. On the upside, the moments when I do make sense of it all somehow and see that glimmer of hope, those magical minutes when I stumble upon a new article or poem that makes it all seem that little more possible... oh! Sheer delight!

Random Acts Of Sydney

Our furniture and other belongings have still not been delivered to us by the company who is moving them from Perth (due one week ago today). Strange, and annoying somewhat. When Monster came home on Sunday afternoon she was greeted with a new doormat, which neither of us had purchased or placed there-- no note or indication of who had either! The mat has flowers adorning it, and is very pretty. Odd. The weather is all over the place-- sunshine one minute and hard showers the next. And on Saturday night we went to Rockin' the Random at a nearby warehouse. Bands, suspension show, and a wild collection of wastrels I hadn't encountered in a long time (one of them now wearning a truly delicious Poirot moustache). It was magnificently trashy, in all sorts of unexpected ways...

Sydney always delivers on the randomness, that's for sure. And I love her for it.