Monday, June 23, 2008

Stop Scratching Skip

Oh god, 20 days since my last post. Am I suddenly unleashing the perfectionist who has been hiding somewhere? I've decided to spank her and send her back to her room. So please bear with me as I get over my blog hump and break through to the other side. I tend not to respond to compliments as well as criticism so now my mum has read my blogs and said they are lovely I'm basically cured of all attention seeking behaviour (for a while) and can just retire.

But alas, something burning at the back of my mind wants to be born, something called 'a family trip to the country', the remnants of which are still haunting me in unpacked bags strewn all over our bad carpet. My husband's incredibly reliable habit of finding a way to sabotage any attempt on my part to escape the shackles of domestic bliss worked again. I should have a sticker on my Kombi that says 'MY OTHER CAR IS A MERCEDES' (a shit one). That likes to run down its battery whilst the car doors are open to air out the mysterious source of mould.

'Lucky we have two cars darling' said I in a very good impersonation of someone with anger management classes under their belt. Perhaps all the self-help books are actually working. Or more likely I was so exhausted from packing I couldn't put up my fists. Not only was there too many things, I had also worn myself out getting the cat vaccinated and then shipped to Meadowmist boarding school for waaay bad ass cats.

VW to the rescue. South we were heading, overtaken by EVERYONE. Even really tiny little Jap Crap cars that were 20 years old. I'm starting to worry about the old girl and if she'll make it through rego. I finally won the battle of the Berry Donut Shack stopover cause I was driving. I can report they are very hot, sugary and nothing to blog about. 

I'm still scratching, you can't 
be too sure once you find one tick, there won't be more. Nurse Alison, my favourite removalist took to my neck with a pair of tweezers (that I packed) and deftly took out the the tiny bastard of page 55 on 'Family First Aid' (packed by me). The Paralysis (bush) Tick loves me. One year I had one on the labia majus and it wasn't till after a bottle of gin, a match, a wombat and some marital bonding that it was out of my life. Now on this dawn the 'weakness of the face and eyelids, then arms' alerted me to the fact that it wasn't just a hangover, certainly 'irritation at the site of the bite' (jugular) and 'breathing becomes difficult' (more of a panic reaction) - I thought it might be the mattress (holiday cabin quality), but the tingling fingers were an exciting addition to symptoms of the previous years, which I remembered well. I had a tick. I pulled out the secret weapon - homeopathic anti-insect-bite-potion.

Bream Beach is lovely. We are usually the only ones there, every winter solstice. The whales are passing on their way to Hervey Bay to birth. The sun sets early over St Georges Basin, we 
are on a small neck of land between there and Jervis Bay. The best part is we hire 6 cabins, all full of people who shall be called friends, old and young. Someone always swims, someone always sleeps, someone has firewood and nobody ever has an axe. The VW cosied up to a motorbike and the whole scene swum with kangeroo, kookaburra and possum. We burnt through 40 kgs of wood to get the fire just right for all the variety of meats. Nobody claimed the Portugese chicken which was cooked to perfection by the end of all 20 bottles of wine. It's always the Kiwis to bed last.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Call of the Wild

A Japanese man jogging in flip flops. His tight, brown calves are the best I've seen in the selection of leg muscles running past me on the Bondi to Bronte coast walk.

Here comes 'Wolf', an alsatian followed faithfully by his best friend, 'Dog Man' who wears Wolf's leash of colourful beads around his own weather beaten neck. 

I'm sleeping rough in the Kombi parked at Bronte Beach and soaking up a million-dollar view between the old-school VW curtains. I'm all alone for what seems the first time in six years, with neither baby in the belly nor crawling up my leg, laying in what feels like my Nana's spare room. Baba Yaga is looking after me.

The sound of waves crashing is constant, apparently they never stop. Even renovators go to bed. I am experiencing endless time (for today).

Inventory of the food basket offers a choice of grapes, one boiled egg, raisins, banana, bread, peanut butter and a leftover stirfry. Who packed this lunch? I consider a fish burger from the local deep fat fryer down the hill.

Outside my 'room of one's own' are Wild Men - surfers, fishermen, labourers in toolbearing utes cruising the coast for the great wave. I finally find the infamous cliff cave dwelling that is upsetting Bondi house prices and note the holey tarps and begging bowl.

Some budgie cages in a window overlook Tamarama beach, the lucky birds have their curtains drawn back so they can bathe in the morning sun.

Wild Women walk, take photos, sleep with abandon on the sand alone, shedding all the weight of life to soak up the earth.

At sunset, near the shore a solo whale arcs her back, heading north to warm waters.

I start spinning poi on the hill so they glow from  the last blazing rays of the day. Two dogs run to me excited by the possibility of getting a poi each. I stay away from the playground. A boxer, with his telltale nose in a hoodie accompanied by twitchy manager and trainer pass by. I avoid the paparazzi who ruin my sea air with their smokes.

Another night darkens, at dusk I light candles and pull the floral curtains shut, and turn in at 6pm to read in bed, to rest, to think long thoughts. I sleep alone. Charged dreams wake me, I chase after them with my pen. In this cocoon I incubate words flowing in, words flowing out and watch my mind as it discovers something rare - the final line of a book.

'Even in poverty and obscurity, (it) is worthwhile' (to write) - Virginia Woolf.

On the third day I hatch, aware that my self, my wild self is still alive, she is grown and all mine again, never will I ignore her and pretend she can live without being fed.