Monday, November 7, 2011

Helllooooo Universe!

Last week I was told twice to “be open to the universe”. Usually, I am a little cynical and would scoff or be a little smartarsey but this was a little different. The first comment came at a very nice moment, when I am more open minded after about 5 drinks. It also came from a ridiculously gorgeous man, who is both externally and internally scrumptious. So I was really paying attention. Too much probably, when he suggested I really need to think about what I wanted from the universe all I had in my soggy brain was “Um, that’d be you. I want the universe to give me you..” I was not quite in the right frame of mind for long term universe planning..

The second time was only a week later when a new friend said that her aim for some positive change in her life was to be open to the universe and really focus on what she wanted from the universe. I was amazed, I said I thought I was being really open to the universe ‘cause I kept hearing about being open to the universe and usually if someone even started saying something like “be open to the universe” I’d be out of the conversation like a vodka fuelled rocket. Whereas here I was, actually giving a little consideration to the idea. And enjoying a nice flashback to last week’s universe moment..

What does it really mean? To know what you want? That’s a little tricky. After having what I thought I wanted then it all going fuck-arsed, I don’t even know where to start with that. Does it work if you tell the universe what you don’t want? “Hey Universe, I really don’t want to get into a fight with my principal tomorrow or get punched by a student or find a massive cockroach crawling up my leg in bed. I would rather not decide at 2am that what I really need is more tequila. I don’t want my knee to hurt when I go for a run. I don’t want to go onto the Lush website to order a couple of bars of vanilla/coffee soaps and end up spending $200. I don’t want it to be cold when I go back to visit Victoria. I don’t want to get bogged driving out to Tarntipi beach in the wet.” But do I draw the Universe’s negative attention to those things by focusing on them in some weird arse-up way? The last thing I want the Universe to think is that I’m just a big whinger..

Shit, what do I want Universe?

Well, yesterday I went to a palm/tarot reader for the first time ever to see if a stranger would have any ideas about what I wanted or might have lined up from the universe.. He was recommended by a friend and works at the Mindle/Parap market. It was pretty interesting, I tried to turn off the skeptical radar and listen. So all very good for me apparently. He said the Universe was totally on my side and that I had to have confidence in making change because it is important for me and that next year will be the start of a new, good life for me. I am intelligent (or maybe he said very intelligent) enough to make the most of these new opportunities coming. Some financial decision will be very worthwhile and made in partnership, I have apparently earned enough good Karma to stop worrying about it, I will have a long term partner, I will work most of my life, I will have (which he amended to “care for”) three kids and-what I was most relieved about- I will have a big change to where I work and live next year. He said I will be able to leave past disappointments behind finally and leave where I am, probably for overseas. This actually made me feel very relieved, I’m in the process of joining a teaching agency for OS teaching, but apparently it was the quiet, odd-accent inflected assurance of a stranger who I paid $30 that has really given me confidence to follow through with the idea that maybe this was the next best step for me. And my relief and excitement at this also tells me that this is what I want from the Universe, so I’ll send that up a bit.

He also said my health would be pretty good but I had to change something about my diet, my digestive tract was not good. I’d like to think it was gluten but hadn’t had any for ages so it was probably just that my digestive system was still drunk from the night before. Or maybe it was in trouble from all of the incredibly hot chilli I put on the Cambodian rice balls I’d had for breakfast. So hot it coulda made my digestive tract sweat and go on strike.

So look at me all new agey and initiating a bit of a chat with the Universe – via some pretty interesting people. I do plan to become pretty chummy with the Universe; buy it a couple of drinks, a bit of harmless flirting, maybe encourage intimate confidences that I can exploit, and generally suck up any opportunity I can take advantage of. Moving up to the Tiwi Islands community was a decision that a lot of people thought was crazy but it has been the most wonderful, life changing, humbling experience. I have felt one hundred percent alive every awesome and horrible moment. And all I can hope is that my new mate Universe has a few more of those up it’s sleeve for me. It would seem that is what I want. So my new, exciting friend, my arms and heart are wide open, bring it on.

Sunday, July 3, 2011

Yo se Antigua

I left Australia Saturday and arrived in Antigua, Guatemala Monday morning 6am. I had two Saturdays, one in Australia and on a plane and one in L.A, if I had people to play with I would say that this should happen every week, the perfect weekend.

By the end of my second day in Antigua I had managed to….

• Survive Venice Beach in L.A and not get recruited for the Freak Show on the Esplanade, although I think I’ll drop my Resume in there on the way back through.
• Wake up to my 3rd country in 4 days.
• Meet 3 ridiculously hot Antiguan men, each of whom go to or are personal trainers at one of the local gyms.
• Join the gym.
• View a hundred more hot Antiguan men at the gym.
• Spend a significant amount of time wondering if all of these hot Antiguan men are gay because they’re so hot and muscly.
• Complete a yoga class despite it being run by a gorgeous German girl speaking solamente en Espanol and being distracted by all of the hot, muscly Antiguan men everywhere. (This is not a comic theme, this is a fact. Although maybe not a hundred of them. You know, they move around a lot in the gym so it's hard to pin down an exact number especially when you're jet lagged and trying to balance on one leg.)
• Complete 4 hours of Spanish class – y hablo solamente in Espanol – I have potentially never paid attention for that long in my life!
• Learn that it is ALWAYS mucho gusta, not mucho gutso which I have been saying for about 20 years.
• Learn that’s it’s not appropriate to say “Un hombre is muy caliente” because it has sexual connotations – meaning he’s hot n potentially horney.
• Say “Un hombre is muy caliente” to myself all afternoon.
• Estudio mi primero Salsa class con mi maestro muy caliente Manolo, not stepping on his feet or embarrassing myself too much – although I did say (in Spanish) that after studying so much Spanish and salsa in one day I had “La bomba” (the fireworks that continually go off all around the streets at all hours of the night n day) going off in my heart – instead of saying my head so he MAY have thought I have a huge, gigantic wet spot of a crush on him…
• Develop a huge, gigantic wet spot of a crush on my Salsa teacher.
• Not say “tu is muy caliente” to my Salsa teacher.
• Corrupt the other “students” who are staying in the house after dinner by announcing it was time to go up the road to Café No Se for drinks – I cannot believe they hadn’t been there or the other bars/cafes close by. Geeez..
• Sleep like the dead – in between roosters crowing in the early hours of the morning, church bells chiming in the early hours of the morning and Las bombas going off in the early hours of the morning.

If this pace continues I may not survive 3 weeks in Antigua. There’s some cliché about grabbing horns n riding hard? I might have even referred to it before, I have been known to get stuck on a theme…It’s to do with opportunities or experiences as opposed to sex. Dirty minds…I guess that means there’s a big chance of getting bucked off; getting bruised, broken, concussed, dead even, but it would not be a bad way to go.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

The Other side of LA

The taxi driver from the airport was absolutely lovely. He’s originally African and friends with an Australian writer so was quite at home with an Aussie and enjoyed telling me how really fucked up the U.S is. Economically the situation is still really dire. Teachers and policemen getting laid off. He told me how scary schools were already in L.A and now with lots shutting down, bigger class sizes and a much poorer – to the point of homelessness – middle class, it was very scary for him as a parent of a ten year old girl. The driver said he used to enjoy a holiday to Europe every year, now he can’t afford to take a day off. Although we have elements of this in Australia, you wonder how the US is going to come back from the reality of potentially losing it’s working and middle class in some areas and how this generation of kids will be affected. Considering how gang-affected LA is already, I wonder what ten years’ time will look like?


Then there’s the cheery, chatty Los Angeleans. The problem is, they’re often chatting to themselves. There’s some serious mental health issues rollerblading around the Venice Boulevard and walking the streets. There’s the homeless lying on the grass sleeping with all of their belongings in a bag next to them. I know this is not just confined to LA or the US but it always looks sadder in such a tourist hot spot. Families eating ice cream and tourists drinking beer to blaring music while people wander or sit, disconnected, dislocated, from any kind of normal life.

The fatties with way too little clothing on, choosing between burgers and hot dogs served in sizes worthy of three people. The guy playing air guitar in the middle of the footpath to no music. The guy yelling out his thoughts to the world as he wanders back and forth. The chick who tried to bum a smoke of a guy eating at the restaurant and asked if he was enjoying his grapes. He was a little bemused as he was clearly eating a burger.

There is always the seedy side, it seeps through the joy of experiencing a new place but I guess that’s OK, you can appreciate it for what it is rather than walking around blind and ignorant. Reminding you of the privilege of being able to work, travel, have a place to stay, converse with someone outside your own head.

Perspective, again.

An Aerial view of LA

From the balcony of the Cadillac Hotel, I watched the bustling, vibrant crowd below. The sunset spot lit the palm trees and wide, white sand where people walked and the sounds of Caribbean drums played. Very pretty, very relaxing and a lot of fun down there.

So Los Angeleans are a little weird. And bright and loud and cheery and grooovin’ all over life. And ridiculously friendly, like by last night, accosted by a mad Brazilian, after an overnight flight and fuck all sleep in two days, almost offensively friendly.

In Venice Beach there’s a hodge podge of nationalities and ages and tourists. It is lively and colourful and pumping with music and loud chatter and no sign of any acknowledgement of the US woes. I suspect any economic concerns have been soothed by a drug buzz or silenced by beer bubbles. There are issues, a guy was desperately trying to find a rolly paper last night to smoke some weed and couldn’t afford to buy some, but I suspect his situation has had little to do with the GFC.

I turned up yesterday and felt strangely comfortable, a familiarity that was unexpected. My room looked right out onto the main boulevard so I could hear the voices and loud 90’s music (I knew every song over two days, I didn’t know anyone else listened to this stuff anymore but me!). The locals with stalls on the footpath wear baggy pants-jeans or cotton, most no shirts, the girls in hemp, faded colours.. Lots of Caribbean accents and muscles of all colours– some with beer guts under them, lots without... Behind their stalls they yell to each other and lift weights and play drums and smoke. The tourists walk by and eat and drink in the bars on the other side of the footpath. They all have ready smiles and conversation – not all of it legible – ready to chat and exclaim. There are taco bars and rollerbladers and Happy Hours and tarot readers everywhere.

The feeling of familiarity came from the locals. With their easy natures, their dredlocks and faded cotton, their relaxed attitudes (especially about working) and their stonededness, they reminded me of uni in the 90’s. Especially with the background music – Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Red Hot Chilli Peppers (not my favorite..).It’s like the 90’s revival of the 70’s hippie lifestyle and attitudes just kept on going here. And it’s not a super young crowd. Perhaps this crowd have been unalterably influenced by the hallucinogenics and speed their parents indulged in. Regardless, they’re happy and chatty – a little much for the reserved single Aussie female traveller.

My first stop: coffee, if I was to make it through the day – or night as it was about 4am Aust time. I found a gorgeous little vegan garden café (not a place to eat for this carnivore) and had a coffee the size of my head from the friendliest waiter in the world (or so I thought having only been in the US for a coupe of hours). He was very enthusiastic about the types of coffee they had, so I left the choice to him in the end which he was very chuffed with, walking off, head held high with responsibility telling me I wouldn’t be sorry. And I wasn’t, although drinking two litres of strong coffee on jetlag and plane food gave me an interesting experience in my head and stomach. Delicious though.

Then a driver picked me up for the “must do” L.A tour on my first day. I thought it might be a good way to stay awake with jetlag (not so, I slept every time the guide stopped talking and all through Rodeo Drive, head lolling all over the place like a string-cut puppet). Carlos the Columbian (!) asked me all about Australia, very excited and lots of questions, and jet lagged with my guard down I chatted back. Mistake: “Do you want some company tomorrow” he asked as he dropped me off for the tour. Ah. No (fucking way druglord), thanks, I’m right..

Then a harmless afternoon spent sleeping in the car tour wishing I was on the open air bus, looking at the shit gates and driveways of famous people (and dodging the camera of the guy next to me who was taking photos of driveways and closed gates..) and visiting the Hollywood Farmers Market, walk of fame etc. I’m not sure the Supersized coffee should have been followed by clam chowder and green tea ice cream but whenever travelling I’m determined to eat food that is a) local/ traditional food and b) something I wouldn’t normally have. The second’s not hard considering all I eat on the island is what I cook (stir fry, curries, meat n veg) or from Thay’s Asian food van (only OK for hangovers). But chowder and ice cream it was surrounded by people loving food and the sun and each other’s company, followed by some more napping on the tour and a stop off on Hollywood Boulevard. Happiness reigned here on the Hollywood stars, people scrambling to get a photo with people dressed up in costumes – fake characters from movies sent everyone into a mad frenzy of photography. They did not care that they weren’t REAL! I nearly got sucked into it, contemplating a snap with a fake Captain Jack Sparrow, not so much for the novelty as the fact that he was seriously good looking..

Due to exhaustion I ended up eating on the boulevard outside my hotel. I ordered tacos and a Margarita – YUM! And was quickly accosted by the local crazy Brazilian (I knew he was local ‘cause the waiter’s knew his name when they told him off for smoking outside the restaurant – again). He was very cute and looked fairly fit but was clearly stoned and had mad dog in his eyes. He carried on an almost interesting conversation – mostly with himself, occasionally asking me: what do you think? You’re telling the story bud, I responded, which he was pretty pleased with. Thank god he took off to another table when my food came and I after eating I tool off quickly to my hotel for much needed sleep rather than taking up his offer of partying with he and his friends. I suspected that way lay schizophrenia, especially as one of his mates was wearing 10 different types of clothes and riding a scooter with half a surf board attached.

What I discovered is that this overt friendliness is actually a local custom. Eavesdropping o the girl sitting next to me (not hard as she was American) I discovered she was sitting with two guys she had just met, a younger one who she had met on the beach and who trusted her enough to leave all of his stuff with her while he went in search of weed and an older guy who had been sitting alone so they sat with him. All American, all crazy trusting and friendly.

This morning I heard more of it, this crazy, apparently genuine niceness. People walking along the boulevard would stop and chat in depth to the artists, praising their work and asking lots of questions. Waiters holding in depth conversations with customers. It made me feel a little cynical and defensive..

Venice Beachiens; have perfected the use of the exclamation marks in conversation. High on drugs for sure but also high on life.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

On a train

So trying to breathe is a struggle. It brings tears and heart palpitations. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to go back. In not wanting to go back I feel so bereft. The grief is sucked in with every breath like dust particles – choking, coating my throat and eyes and lungs.

All I have to do is go and pick up the ute to borrow for 2 days. The keys should be in the mailbox.

But.

I can picture the front of what was my home so clearly – the small fence where I’d stretch after running, the gravel I shoveled onto the driveway. The front yard where I read and slept and fucked and had drinks with friends. The side gate behind which my dogs bark at the posty and sit waiting impatiently for walks. They will be there. I will hear them sniffing and scratching and puffing and I don’t think I can open the gate or my world will implode and suck me into the world of Everything Fucked Up Big Time. There are dragonflies on the front of the house that the ex put up for me because I love them. The plants along the side that replaced the crazy overgrown bushes, the mailbox that let everything get wet. The bins in the corner – the recycling one was always fuller than the normal one due to grog bottles. The front door that I loved – I walked in and out of it to al the bits of my life and the sun shone hottest on it so even if it was cool everywhere else it would be warmer in that spot. Where my car sat in front of the front door – taking me anywhere.

So real and so gone. I love the island for all the weird and whacky ways it has. And I love it because it is so removed from that life. It’s easy there to not think about my old home and friends and work and life and hopes. Because what’s the use in thinking about it? It’s not avoidance it’s just not useful in the slightest. It’s sad and hurtful and pointless. It makes me feel hopeless. It makes me feel alone and lost.

I don’t want to go back.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Woman-ness.

Darlene walked past my house today in full magnificence. She strutted with her/his head held high and spine straight wearing an African caftan in the brightest blues, greens and gold and a bright blue turban. A Tuesday afternoon stroll, I’m assuming she/he’s off to the club for a couple of mid-strength tinnies. An amazing outfit. I was super impressed, because it wasn’t an African influence, it wasn’t an accessory or item of clothing, it was the full kit and caboodle. This kind of effort is absolutely admirable, for the rest of we white women on the island, the heat has totally reduced our commitment to beauty and fashion.

First the eyeliner is dropped, then the lipgloss, then foundation I guess – am not quite there yet, still have the tinted sunscreen…we begin to have longer stints between hair removal and don’t bother doing our hair – just tie it back wet and ignore it. There is dirt under our nails constantly so we cut ‘em short and don’t bother with polish. We regress to our basic states while Darlene shines in transgender glory. She/he reminds us that to be a woman is something to be proud of, to not dissolve into androgeny, to not assume that living on a tropical island in the wet season should mean we lose our femininity. She’s got it going on and that is why we should curl our eyelashes and pluck our brows and pop on a glossy smile and get out of our Birkenstocks once in a while. Be a bit girly, revel in our curves and the fun of being female and put together an outfit. Make an effort and not take the joy of being a chick for granted. Because it’s not easy for just anyone to be a woman, Darlene has had to make some pretty difficult choices – on an island of indigenous, conservative people, the sister girls are not always accepted or respected. But she frocks up and struts her stuff and is proud to be leaning on the side of sisterhood.

She looks scary as shit but at least she took the time to do it.

Invasion Day

Australia Day 2011 was not in any way typical to previous years. Most of the last 10 or so have been spent on the beach, then a BBQ somewhere while listening to the JJJ hottest 100. Celebrating with as the knowledge that the holidays are almost over looms and drives us to frenzy of socializing, eating and drinking.

This year was a little different. It began with an awesome tropical storm – the thunder literally shook the house and the rain pelted. The toilet blocked up so a plumber had to be called. Noone was sure exactly where a plumber might be – for some reason the school maintenance man couldn’t call one, he had to go for a drive and see if any of the 3 island plumbers were on the island. Where else would the island plumbers be I wondered? I figured that with Tiwi time our toilet might get fixed by the following Wednesday. But no, the trusty plumber – who turned out to be Irish and a hottie – was far too prompt in coming to our rescue. So prompt I had just jumped into the shower and my house mates were out of the house. I had to yell through the bathroom window – conveniently located next to the wide open front door – and ask if he’d mind waiting 3 mins in the scorching heat- while I got out of the shower. Then I had to introduce myself to the hot Irish plumber in my crazy caftan that I use to cover up naked situations, wet and dripping ‘cause I’d forgotton to take my towel in. Lovely. At least he gave me a ride up to school to have Oz day lunch with the other newbie teachers. Once I was dressed that is.

So had lunch with the newbies and Wayne – Tamara had pulled over to say hello to him and he just jumped into her car and wouldn’t get out so there were 6 adults, a baby and Wayne for lunch. He was very happy, he ate a frozen Prima (or “Poppas” as they’re called here and apparently anywhere that’s not Victoria) for about an hour. Then we all went over to watch some of the Tiwi island of Origin game. The sun was out for the first time since we’ve arrived and it was HOT! Searing white heat and these big guys were running around while we did lizard impersonations and sweated our rings off out in the sun. There was absolutely no shade but the outside of the footy ground was dotted with big rainbow striped umbrellas – it’s what the local shop sells so everyone had them up for shade – it looked very pretty against the green of the island. It was fun to hang out with the locals and relax in the sun – you’re not really out in the sun that much here. Wayne cuddled up to me again – not necessary in the sauna we were already experiencing but he’s such a cool little fella. And totally silent – he gives you a nod or a stare and that’s it.

In the arvo we headed to The Club. It’s open for 3 hours, 4 days a week and only sells mid-strength tinnies. There’s an undercover area for when the rain pelts and tables and plastic chairs outside. The cement tables are stained and mouldy. It stinks of cigarette smoke and B.O inside and the toilets are unusable. It’s fenced off like a prison and kids peer through at the crowd looking forlorn as their parents smoke and guzzle their beer. It is shit ugly. The Club’s system is ridiculously convoluted – you have to show ID at the entrance (a security guard is there at all times, he has a Greek accent – and looks very uncomfortable) who gives you a card. Then you line up and get scanned and pay for up to 6 tickets (the maximum beers you can buy). You then line up again to buy your beer. Singular. You can only buy one at a time and you can’t buy anyone else one or give your ticket to anyone else or you’ll be banned. It’s hilarious because they belt out a siren for last chance of ticket purchasing then for last beer purchasing and you get this mad rush of people – who usually move so slowly they can be mistaken for one of those street theatre human statues you see around Melbourne- pushing and yelling and generally absolutely desperate to get their last drink in. It’s a beautiful sight.

I still can’t figure out exactly what the card is for and no one can tell me. It’s a Tiwi thing – there’s a few of them. Things in place for no apparent, useful no explainable reason. Or things that happen for no reason we can understand. An undercurrent of Tiwi-ness we whities just can’t grasp.

So, it was the perfect arvo to sit outside in a type of beer garden and I decided to throw gluten intolerance caution to the wind and have a tinny. A) Because it was Australia day and a sweating, mid-strength warm beer in a can sounded very patriotic, B) because I was so fucking desperate for alcohol and C) I wanted to support a culture where you have limited amounts of alcohol and hours it’ll be served which encourages the desperate need to drink the most you’re able to get in a restricted amount of time – ie binge drinking – my favorite kind of drinking.
So, sweating, tepid mid-strength in hand, I was enjoying a relaxing chat and de-brief of the game where a massive fight had erupted between some players and onlookers and were dragged away to continue it out of the ground, when the biggest, ugliest, scariest Tiwi I had ever seen walked into the club. And then came over to us because one of the new teachers, Tamara, knew the monster as she has been over to the island quite a few times and has connections with some of the Tiwis. So we got to meet - let’s call her/him Darlene. Darlene had once been a man and I’m not sure how far the process had gone in converting to the sisterhood but there sure is more work to be done. At least 6 feet tall, denim skirted over a massive gunt, striped pink singlet top with an AFL-er’s chest and no boobs spilling out, pony tail and bling for a queen she/he was hideous. And hilarious. “Happy Invasion Day!” she/he preened – the campest of the camp- to our table of whities. She/he is smart, caustic and her/his English is great. She/he has travelled the world, attending transgender conferences and the like. And she/he can smash the tinnies. So that is how I got to have a tinnie with a Tiwi tranny on Australia Day 2011.

It was a great day. I didn’t get to hear the JJJ 100, although we kept tabs on the countdown and I was the happiest I’ve ever been with the winner – a song that breaks my heart every time I hear it- and I didn’t have a BBQ with the people I love or get to swim in the beautiful cold Victorian ocean. But I did get to really experience a bit of the Tiwi culture. This is the island – AFL, sunshine and showers, frozen poppas, rainbow umbrellas at the footy, long, lazy chats with your (new) friends, hot tradies, people wandering and greeting and lounging and fighting, trusting kids ready to love you, a beer at the club, and Darlene.

I loved it. I didn’t miss home because not one bit of it was anything like home – no shadows of my lost life and hopes jumping out to terrify me, no empty empty echos, nothing familiar or expected. So I love my home and my friends and family there but this day was such a day to celebrate because I feel like I had a chance to stop feeling like the arse has fallen out of my world. It was all about living in the moment and appreciating every enjoyable and ridiculous moment that popped up. I don’t know if that’ll last but I’m so glad for this day. I’m glad for new friends and this new adventure. I’m glad I met a hot irish plumber. I’m glad the sun was out and I went to the footy. I’m glad I had a luke warm beer in an ugly club with an even uglier transgender person called Darlene.

And I’m glad I didn’t stay at the Club till stumps ‘cause Darlene got in a fight. The poor bastard on the other end of that would be having a very different type of adventure..

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Awana

Well, I finally feel like I am rightways up again. Or on the way there. It has been a bit of Alice falling through big, dense tropical clouds and not knowing what the fuck was going on.

I had three incredibly intense Orientation days in Darwin where they figured it wasn't hard enough to pack up your life and say goodbye to your friends. It had to be followed up by nonstop information (lots useless - as always with Orientations) from 8am to brainfucked O'clock. Run by people who no longer teach - for a reason, they forget all about we poor ADHD visual/kinesthetic learners who are ready to stab ourselves -or the presenters- in the eye with their "gift" of a flouro orange water bottle after being made sit and listen for hours and hours and hours.

A bit of a saving grace was a girl who was supposed to start remote teaching but was gracious enough to cause quite a scandal and bond everyone together very quickly passing on stories of her incredibly bizarre behavior. She was pissed from the moment she got to the Orientation– and perhaps stoned on something potent enough to give her a stare that suggested a family of mice had taken refuge in her brain and chewed though all the wires. When speaking at you she would stare at the empty space next to your ear and lean over as though she was going to kiss you, which she might have if you didn’t back away quick enough – she did ask all the males there if they were single – regardless of whether they were 24 or 64 years old. She was found asleep outside one night, tipped water all over herself while in the morning session of the Orientation (I was sitting next to her and was amazed and impressed, she didn’t even blink as the water missed her mouth and went all over her and her handbag on the ground– although she actually did everything without blinking) and fell over a Tiwi teacher in her effort to put her smoke out. I decided I wanted her to be my new bestie, I figured with her for a BFF no matter what I did I would always look like an angel. And that’s some pretty hard work! Unfortunately it was not to be, we would not be hanging out and I would not be able to use her for a scapegoat..she did not end up staying on past the 3rd day – whisked away into the oblivion…So I was back to trying to behave myself.

Anyway...

I developed a crawling creeping freak out over Thursday and Friday, which culminated in realising this was all a monumental mistake and I was super-retarded to ever want to leave my home and the people who have saved me from insanity and despair. There were again some of those moments that I’ve had over the last few months, where I have to actually tell myself to breathe, breathe, breathe – in and out – when I feel absolutely terrified because I know I can’t just go home, that the life I missed isn’t there anymore. I breathe and breathe because the moment when I feel there’s only an echo in my heart of what was and that I am going to shrivel up from loss and lacking – will go. It will. And it does. With a little help from some fellas o do not keep normal hours and are available for late night chats and texting freak outs. Love them!

And with lots of breathing I made it to the island. I flew through the most beautiful clouds, right through them, we fly so low there is nothing but cyclone clouds floating, spiraling and cushioning all fears. I know being in a tiny plane seeing nothing but clouds front, side and back of us could make some people anxious (one newbie was panting rather than breathing with concern) but they told me I was heading somewhere so new, I felt a little relieved, a little happy. But.
After making it to the island I was faced with the dirtiest ramshackle house on earth - I have seen better kept places in the slums of India. Old and so covered in mould and dust we couldn’t tell what colour anything really was. The furniture was damp and lumpy and ugly and covered in dust building it’s way up from the 70’s. Everything was dirty; the walls, the ceiling, the few bits of crockery, the cutlery, the inside of the cupboards, the bathroom. Dirty shelves and toilets and fridges and mattresses and floors….And in between the dirt were the absences; no drawers or couch or coathangers or bin or plates…it was a pretty nasty shock . But my new house buds - who are fab - and I sucked it up and cleaned and washed and cleaned and swept and cleaned and collapsed Saturday night (not my usual weekend activity, well not collapsing sober anyway). And the best thing: I was so knackered I didn’t care about the lumpy, damp mattress or the mouldy 1970’s Hawaiian curtains or the small bed on wheels that rolled around when I moved too quick on it (lucky I was in it alone I guess!) or the cobwebs or the fact that I had left everyone and thing familiar and loved and was alone so far North of anything. I didn’t think or feel sad or lonely one bit, I slept so hard.

Sunday was more cleaning and unpacking (difficult when there was actually nowhere to unpack my stuff into..) and to top off a crazy, confusing, exhausting, bewildering five days, I had to go to MASS! Fuk! I was seriously concerned that in this tropical wet season I might get struck by lightning if I stepped foot inside and take out all the locals with me. But I rocked up with the other newbies to six o'clock mass and the first lovely surprise was this gorgeous open air circular church full of Tiwis and whities sitting on the ground cross legged, comfy and relaxed. Tiwi art decorating the poles and altar and the Tiwi ladies sang and danced and clapped the hyms in their own language (Who knew "How Great Thou Art" could actually sound good?). Their versions were like islander Jack Johnson cruisey, sunny tunes. And the next unexpected joy; a little mini 5 year old tacker called "Wayne"-a traditional Tiwi name I guess- got up and started bustin' some moves in front of the priest. He wouldn't listen to any of the Tiwi ladies hissing for him to sit down, spinning in front of the altar in his own groovy world. So of course I fell in love with him. He ended up cuddled up on my lap like a little Tiwi hot water bottle and the tension in my gut and heart and brain eased. For the first time in weeks I felt it might be OK.

And so Wayne has helped me breathe a little easier. And then to work on Monday where I've been working on trying to get my head around what I'm doing this year - in the last two days I have been assigned Re Coordinator (I knocked that on the head so fast), Yr 9 coordinator, "You Can Do It" Coordinator (Seriously! I'm keeping that one..), Special Ed support ( the principal wasn't even sure what that one involved), teaching Drama, ESL, SOSE (Know nothing about it), RE, Sport (Can’t even follow the few rules I do know in games), "health and beauty" (?)..the timetables change quicker than I can keep up with. But the staff are awesome, the Tiwi support teachers are funny and so friendly and proud to show you there place. Although their information is not always reliable; “No! No crocodiles there. Oh, last week there was one but you'll be OK...Oh, I saw one there one time but he’s not there now..” The IT is useless – so that makes me feel right at home-people duck out for 5 minutes and come back an hour later, meetings don’t start or run they through recess or change to other meetings, Tiwi teachers just take off without telling anyone because someone has died and they all go to mourn them, noone knows how many students exactly will turn up or stay, and the keys don’t fit the locks and the school was broken into but all they took was the petty cash and Ben’s mentos lollies and my rice cakes and it is mad busy and confusing and noone really knows what's going on. So it's actually a bit of fun! I can barely remember my name I'm so tired and tomorrow is Australia day and I can't drink and apparently, even if I do find a hot tradey (I have spotted some on the rooves of the many buildings with their shirts off..) I'm not allowed to do anything about it - there's not a lot of privacy on this island – everyone, especially the Tiwis, knows what's going on... Shitballs...

I can't believe I'm here and not "home", I can't believe I don't have that "home" anymore. I can't believe there's only two TV channels. And they don’t work if it’s bad weather (and that’s a lot). And no alcohol. I can't believe someone saw a croc not far from my house two days ago. I can't believe I can't go for a swim. Or that, like uni days I'm using a cardboard box for a bedside table. And there's only the beanbag I brought to sit on. And I might be celibate for a while. I can't believe I accidently brought two hairdryers and I haven't used one once. That I have to meet a barge at 7am on Thursday mornings to pick up the food I've ordered online and there might be crocodiles there. And I have to run or walk with a stick in the mornings in case the local wildish dogs try to attack me. That it might take up to five weeks to get a liquor permit so I can order some wine.

It pisses down rain randomly and the frogs are on steroids and sound like they're in my actual eardrum they're so loud. The aircon is always too cold or not working. I can’t fucking swim anywhere in walking/riding distance and have to cover up in boardies and a rashie if I do manage to get to the waterhole. We have to walk through jungle-like tropical growth and mud to get to work and there's NO VODKA!
And I kinda like it. . Crazy mixed up mother fucking times boys and girls.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

A minute please

A minute please.
To pause and think:
So, here is what I have said and will say; that I have made the very real decision to wear a smile. That I have made the choice to be magnanimous, that I will be gracious in defeat. I will forgive and smile and understand and move on. That I will have an amazing adventure, a new life, and I will see you in the near future. That what matters, always, is friends , when you’re old an senile who will remind you of your name and how many cats you have.

But this is what I will not say; I am alone. I have been defeated. I will not grow old surrounded by my family. And I don’t know if I can watch while you are. I smile and say I’ll be back soon but I can’t be. I am dislocated and dissolved.

No one can say this: It’s always hope and optimism and promises. The reality is less. I’ve made promises about what I believe and the future in waiting. I sound “better” and “’in control of my life”. I am “moving on” and “so strong”. I am ‘brave”. But I can’t say;

I don’t know what to hope for.
I can’t remember why to wake up.
It’s all pretend. It’s all what you want to hear.
I will put on my pack and move on but I don’t know what to wish for. I don’t know why I’m moving.
I run to my music for the beat, I don’t listen to the lyrics any more.
I can’t say:
It’s all gone, I’ve lost and lost and lost and I don’t know how to fill that.
I don’t know how to not be a wife and mother.
I don’t know how to not be an us.
I don’t know what’s left.

And I’m sure that will change. I’m sure that time and time and change and change and new and new.

So just another breath, another falsity, another promise that might become real if I repeat it enough.
Breathe and breathe and breathe through the moments.

A minute. A minute. A moment.

A pause.