Stem the Tears

I haven't been outside once today, which for me, is weird. I think I'm forcing myself to stay away from the shops which are pret-ty scarey places on wet weekends. Yesterday i went to IKEA, on a rainy Saturday, say no more.

Today was more about your back to basics wet weekend pastimes. Rekindling marital bonds, reading, talking to my mum on the phone for an hour.

My daughter and I decided to make some more mini-purses, they are basically ribbons folded in half with beaded sides. We made a basic one last week, today we embellished another one with a fringe. On the first purse I got her to paperclip it together, design all the ribbon/thread/bead combinations and did my best to hold my tongue, I can quickly lose my patience and she is quick to tears. I think we both tried hard and made it through. Today she was close to crying straight off the bat because she'd forgotten what she'd learnt.

We have a secret word that I say when she is about to cry when she can't do something. It is a dumb word with no relation to what we are doing except we both agree that it means "try not cry, lighten up" and she can use it back at me and it means "stop being mean, Mummy". Learning to sew, to use needle and thread is fraught with opportunities to give up, on both sides. Small steps, including a nap on my part mid-way, we got through.

Stripped Studs down to their Bare Nuts

Nothing worse than having your nuts stripped, as we found out today. Hmmm, stranded in Drummoyne amidst a lot of non-existent pedestrian crossings, loud construction work for the new Rozelle bridge, and our second attempt at two new front tyres thwarted again.

The first time the K-Mart auto tyre chaps couldn't get them off, then on the next visit those stud's tight nuts were given a beating. It warranted many phone calls around town to find some replacements, which Moshe of VW King was always going to offer the best deal to fix. A drive out to Canterbury tomorrow for a whole new rim $30. Sigh, it's not easy looking after a 38 year old sometimes.

Much more fun was hanging with my 3 year old. We killed time at the 'Christmas Shop' who were primped and ready with every kind of glow in the dark decoration, we even checked out the Vespa showroom and got a free magazine with poster just for being their only customers. Even the rainbow Paddlepop at the petrol station could not make the tyre change go quicker. Bacon and egg sandwich at The Cove cafe, play at the park....I was running out of ideas here.

Cockatoo Island

I was photographing some bullshit stiletto race in the Quay which stank of money and corporate sponsorship, not to mention downright demeaning to women, so I made a gettaway via ferry which dropped by Cockatoo Island, a little re-discovered abandoned patch on the Parramatta River. They used to build big ships there back in the days of black and white. The baby had finally fallen asleep on my chest from the swell of the ferry casting him about, I took my chance, took my leave and pushed the stroller ashore. I need some yin to the yang of 245 women running in high heels.

I found myself sucked into a 200m long sandstone tunnel to get some shade. It was eerie, speakers played creepy music as you walked under the wooden pillars that supported the low roof of 'Dog Leg Tunnel', cause it had a big bend in the middle I guessed. Finally we popped out the end into that Spring sun that's taking some getting used to, and found myself wondering what to do next.

This was a Biennale of Sydney location showcasing artworks from around the globe, but the backdrop stole the show. It was like the abandoned mine in 'Thomas the Tank Engine'. It was the perfect place for Scooby Doo Mystery Mayhem, it reeked of an olde worlde forgotten time. Huge factory shells dripping with industrial leftovers. Mega machines lay dusty and rusty.

I'm always amazed by the big scale of men

and their ways, how they build things, shift enormous chunks of machinery around the globe, whether it be a ship or a bridge or a building, they seem unafraid of scale. Why, women get to give birth, that's pretty amazing too.

The more I walk around this decrepit island, the mood starts to infiltrate me, the privacy and dusty corners are filled with floating particles of light that dance and take me to a lost quiet. The stiletto race washes away and I'm thinking about form and light for a change, not celebrity and exclusives, nor cheesy Opera House backdrops and whether some girl is sexy enough to sell a shot.

Why do people do anything?

Why do I toil at all, when I anything I look back on that once gave me pride, I don't feel any connection to it like I do at the moment of execution of creation, it's the doing that counts, not the memory. I get riled looking at old family photos because they are essentially useless, they only stir up muddy emotions, blow a wistful air in my ear, brag of a time that has passed. Why do I even take photos at all?

Mmmmmm, I start to think, this would make a terrific location for a shoot.....shove a pretty woman in front of this stuff and print the cash. Then suddenly there are other photographers next to me, with more expensive large format cameras, like a reoccuring nightmare, they've even bought their cute girlfriend. I breath and force myself to focus on focal points.

And tonal ranges, shadows, blacks, colour temperatures.....

I see a sign that says 'no photography', oops. I presume they mean of the artworks, which I've neglected to actually notice most of, so I try a little harder. It makes me think about the artists, and their current mood, or maybe their mood next week when the Biennale is over and it's all just a dream. All this hard work, just a dream. I think, did he have fun making that sculpture of a crocodile out of what are they.... rooftop capsules????

Somebody made this, they took lots of time to specially write out all the different measurements, to file something that made something, that made something.....and so on it goes, like ants in the nest, we are but put on this earth to roll little balls of dirt about because that is what we do. The rain can wash it away at any time, but it's that drive to do that we follow till the heart stops.

Why does the light of an open doorway appeal to me, why is it my job to notice it? I start to think that I'm ready for my old career back, the last baby is a boy now, but this boy starts to stir in his stroller and upon wakening fully throws himself onto the concrete and wham, I'm back in the day job, fully. But whilst he dreamt that 45 minutes away, so did I. 

Fast Paced World

Being a parent has its perks, like holding the purse in the toy shop, and writing letters to the teacher why your child was absent, and you don't even need to forge your mum's signature.

This morning we had to get our first late pass organised at the school office. When it came to filling out 'Reason for Lateness?' I wrote:

'Fast paced society'

(as in trouble keeping up with).

After shoving my late daughter into an already filled classroom, I disappeared over the horizon to the seaside with my son who at two, has no concept of time nor lack of it.

His main objective for the morning was to do a poo on the beach. Luckily for me (or unluckily) an elderly couple were cruising by, trying to tear their minds away from the enormous pollywaffle gracing the sands. I embraced the truth and asked for a spare tissue (old ladies are famous for carrying them) - she gave me two. Bless her. I vow to carry a box in my purse from now on. 

We marvelled at the beautiful, empty(ish) Sydney harbour beaches in the Autumn. 

At 3.20pm when school was due to finish I bought up the 'Slow Movement' with another waiting school mum (not to be confused with the earlier one).

She seemed nice, normal, maybe even more feral than most, and even admitted to only putting her sons through swimming and some other extraneous hobbie slash improving activity (I started to drift off). I noted her eyebrows rising when I mentioned the Slow Movement. It obviously rung some far off bell for her. Why do parents insist on swimming lessons in the Autumn? For god's sake - it's fucking cold. My child enjoyed cavorting with his pants off, but when I washed his dirty bum in harbour water, I tell you, he wasn't happy.

I used to be the A student, the overachiever, and look where it got me.

Today's excitement came in the form of a 244GL Volvo, powder blue, driven by the octengenarian owner of KHE XXX (best he remain nameless - you know who you are), we were both doing 10 kph over the speed limit, and STILL, we had people on our arses. Is it the coffee they grow these days or what?????

Folk don't believe me when I say I don't suffer road rage, I love tormenting other drivers. Especially tailgaters. But like old ladies hogging isle four of Coles supermarket, you can't just shove us into the honey section, you've got to wait till we decide to actually move. That's what it's like with the Kombi. Heh heh.

So me and the Blue Volvo are growling along River Road, we are holding up all the traffic in the race of the turtles. I'm not sure who won. Me probably. We took turns. Winning is for losers. We both won. We both got to drive slowly, at 10 am, the road ours. If you are late or early for the peak hour, that is your fault not ours. Hmmmm, maybe I'm passive aggressive road rage.

Exterminator for Hire

So after five years of an aversion to reading the newspaper, I can actually absorb a whole page on Saturdays, usually the previous week's edition of the SMH, and not just the movie reviews either.  Today I read all about PM Rudd's totally groovy speech to Peking University.  Obviously my Getup contribution drove him to the edge.

I felt a bit confused when fellow Buddhists were apparently going ape in Lhasa, understandably so, I know how  being pent up for years on end can make you want to leap the barrier, although according to my Facebook confidant, there is talk of them actually being Chinese soldiers (seen above holding robes).  Today I popped over to Bondi in record time, using some of those lucky punk karma lane changes that you can do off peak. On the way there I see a Sydney cab driver do something original - talk about politics.

Free for the arvo, I get to my pregnant friend's birthday party - afternoon tea, innocent enough, and there are twelve adults and twenty under 5's.  I left my children at home because I could.  There was a riot going on.  That'll teach her for having baby number two.  I experienced a zen-like calm owing to the fact I was the only parent with a pass-out, and as a random act of compassion I offered the birthday girl and her one and a half children a lift in the Kombi.

Little did I realise that at the exact latitude and longitude of my VW was an extremely functional 70's three tier bookshelf (our books are currently stacked on the floor) and a very cute toddler bed (a perfect upgrade from a cot) of the roadside chuckout variety.  It was a case of pregnant birthday friend with child(ren) in the rain V's free furniture.

Guess I've matured.  I gave up the furniture and got a nice packet of assorted creams for my sacrifice from birthday girl.  Mental note to self:  there are better roadside dumps in Bondi than any other part of Sydney.  My theory being a/more backpackers coming and going (especially this time of year - yay for the locals) and b/more aspiring Good Weekend readers who have turfed out those unpretentious hardy veneer shelves on coasters for a nice bit of Chinese-made IKEA Billy.