Psychedelic History of the VW

Think one of those pesky kids took this, very creative little chicks.

Ode to Motherhood

I love being a mum

I love being a photographer

I love having a fat bum

But I should listen to Ajay Rochester

I love my sunburnt country

I love my sunburnt bum

I hope Obama wins

I pray for new manchester

Find Yourself a Nice Bird

A sound rings from the swamp, a clear clang bird call, slowly emerging from the tweet-clutter.

A boy bird searching for a spring love. Even my human-girl ears are piqued to this heart cry ringing true. All noise litter stops to hear the deep evolutionary song trickle through the air and thick vegetation,  a rythmic ponk ponk sent out with the pure mission to enrapture a mate, to seek for that one set of ears that cannot resist.

Then a hammer starts to bang, a plane flies above, all the creatures titter at once again. Rowdy rainbow lorikeets squawk like a football crowd, cheap chirps fling about in casual conversation about the weather, gossip, where to eat, where to go. The lover's throat is quiet.

Eucalyptus leaves rustle in a high breeze to shoosh the rabble. In the vacuum after a plane trail a space grows.  All the chat starts up again only to give way to the soloist who emerges above the din to pierce a  lovebird heart that beats in the swamp.

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. 

Don't Mess with the Don

I'm having 'blog wishes' come true. After my previous whinging about having no mobile phone I now possess a sexy white iphone with $500 per month credit...and after moaning about having no career, I did two freelance jobs this week. As it's never come up before I may as well mention I am what is formerly known as a paparazzi, but now that word is too loaded with lawsuits and manslaughter charges, I just prefer photographer.

Today it was actress Eva Mendes, a Cuban hottie who flew all the way around the world to squeeze her little brown self into my camera lens. I am a sucker for a pretty lady and a gift bag. After two kids and low income I now cram as many freebies in with my camera gear whereas in my previous life B.C. (before children) I must have had so much disposable income I just sneered at the promotional perfume or italian water being past around.

So I turn up early to get a good spot, and lo - there's one right in the middle waiting just for little old me! I am technically the shortest photographer in Sydney so I go well in the middle of a media scrum, it's great to double park behind me and shoot over my head, as long as you don't try and use me to balance on like a tripod, I won't accidently step on your foot.

So this bloke I've never seen (fair to say I've been on/off 5 years maternity leave mate) pipes up and says,

"that's Don's spot"

I'm like who-the-fuck-is-Don? "Well where's Don now?"

"He's gone out for a sec but when he comes back he's not going to be real happy"

I'm thinking who IS this Don that's got fatboy really scared.

I said "well he's not here now so it doesn't matter, he'll find another spot"

and fatboy is shaking his head at me like I've just sworn against the mafia. I know I've been a casual drop in since I left the scene to have babies, but this guy doesn't realise that time and space has only made me stronger, why all that time at home I have been wrestling for tiny increments of my own personal elbow room, Lord I finally got the cot out of the bedroom last week and have a child-free nighttime for the first time since the original conception.

"What are you, his bodyguard?" I said "Don knows the rules mate, yer leave a bag or something" I reminded him of statute 21 of celebrity photographer's code. "Possession is ninth-tenths of the law".

He hissed through his teeth like now I'm really gonna get it. "Don't blame me when he get's back and he wants his spot back"

"Don't worry I'll sort Don out" I said, thinking Don is nothing compared to a tantruming two year old.

"Oh there's Don over there" he says, relieved and his shoulders unscrunch.

"Oh what, Don's got two spots going?" I say and overlook fatboy to say hello my oldest colleague behind him - the only one with manners and kids.

I leave early because the fatboy on my right and the photographer on my left started the squeeze on me, but I already got the shot they missed, I decided to get home early and wire it out first. Now I'm sitting here smelling like a tart's armpit and wondering what else I can ask the blog fairy for......

Mummy, where is my career?

What do you tell yourself after you've pushed the boat of your career out and realised you forgot to tie a line? Turn and look at what is holding you to the shore? Turn your back on the sea and delude yourself "it's not so great, I've seen it before." At what stage do I just dive in fully dressed and start to swim like mad to get that little boat back or is it gone forever, nobody told me not to let go, to shelter it somewhere. Isn't that what you should tell your daughters before they have children, before they sink the little part of their heart that is so hard to resuscitate after letting it go? What have I done!

Pessimism is a last resort

Very busy dreams last night.  Melinda (she's a fitness instructor) is baking pies. I'm not allowed to touch them. Eunice is at Coles, she walks past me, I'm near a register waiting to be served. I must also find time to enter the Moran Art Prize. The dream shows me ten artworks so beautiful, a whole body of work - pointillist, silvery, esoteric - great stuff. Tiny windows of magic light flashed at me for a second. I suppose my imagination was exhibiting what I am capable of. I drink them down fast like shots.

I wake up to fart and think on this coldest morning of the year. 'Six degrees' reported from MSP who delivers the morning cup of 'hot, steaming Joe', which it is not by the time I pull-up on one elbow. My fingers peep out from under the doona, feeling bitten, looking for pen and paper. My arse does an excellent impression of a trombone. I consider risking frostbite up to the elbow to reach the coffee before it is beyond repair.

This was to be the weekend I meant to rent a six hundred dollar snow chalet overlooking Lake Eucumbeen. Poverty, once again, has forced me to live behind my hopes. Our next fabulous weekend planned in the country of my day-dreams is Dubbo Western Plains Zoo. I shall wake up in August and think 'I dreamt of lion's roaring last night - in Gladesville'. 

It hurts. I like to concentrate on pain in the morning. By afternoon I've worked my way up to mild discontent. If I plan an outing I can enjoy slight boredom. In the evenings I turn to drink. I've decided that making money might get me truly wondrous. That way I can use it to gawp at expensive magazines, spread my legs at top-class beauty salons and ideally visit African animal resorts and centrally-heated winter cabins. I would alleviate my ennui with trips to IKEA and post large packages of gifts to my nieces instead of the piddling efforts I'm currently guilty of.

For this week's menu, in order to buy myself a book or a bra, I'll plan meals that rely heavily on noodles and vegetables. That old temptation to toilet train Chuckles returns every time I enter isle three for nappies. By the time I pay for my trolleyload I'll experience the equivalent of a tiny thrill, smug in the knowledge I can feed the family for another week, or is it just seeing a three figure number on a cash register. In my Coles dream I spot Eunice shopping, I bet she never has to count carefully for groceries. In real life I did phone her for a loan so I could rent the snow chalet. She never acknowledged the request, she did however tell me of her own plans to take her children skiing. I pray to be a considerate friend, so blog bitching about them isn't very good as they are my only readers. Names have been changed.

There is a particular time of morning, when I am due to get up, the sun enters the window, piercing my dim, sleepy world. I am not a morning person because I wake up angry, covered in sleep-mud. Writing helps me beat off depressing, rabid-dog thoughts. I have to mentally kick the little fuckers off me. Sometimes that small, happy square of sunlight drifts over me and picks me up from under my armpits and props me up on the pillows and says 'here, drink this'.

The clouds mask the sun with a grey filter, everything is not so sunny, there is no pick me up. My pen is grumpy, the coffee has gone cold. But today I remember the science, that if I lay here as usual, I know that somewhere the sun is swimming in its blue sky as usual, just behind the clouds, right there where it always is, only obscured by a passing earth mood. It will come back. I cheer myself with thoughts like 'when I am dead I will get to sleep in a bit longer'. My Auntie Christine (pictured in the 60's) died in her mid-thirties of a brain tumour, cleaning the kitchen cupboards.