The Dreaming

I dreamt I was underwater with a big brown dog swimming toward me. The closer it came, the bigger it got. Bigger and bigger and bigger. Its paws like shovels coming at my face. But every time it lifted its head for air it floundered and grew small again. And so it went. Hour after hour.

I dreamt I was eating apples in a haystack. I’ve never been in a haystack. All I know of haystacks I learnt from John Steinbeck.

I dreamt of my feet detaching from my body and floating up to heaven to visit my grandmothers who took them on a grand adventure.

I dreamt I was so famous you could right click on my name to get the correct spelling.

I dreamt I had a tiny baby in my womb. She unzipped my skin and started to climb out, eager to see the world. I coaxed her back in with a Mozart sonata and a cup of tea and hoped she would stay there.

I dreamt of home, of lying in sun so bright it bleached my hair white and turned my bones to dust. I flew across the surface of the hot ground and was swept back to Maman.

(Maman is the Nyoongar word for God or Creator.)

Floored

I had surgery on Monday. I’d never had surgery before. I’m 37 years old. Many of my friends and family said that’s old for your first go at it. I would think 80 wouldn’t be old enough. C’est la vie. This is all in preparation for IVF. My insides are sparkling clean now, as well as minus a tube or two, and I’m ready for the barrel of fun IVF is supposed to be. Word.

Never having had surgery before I assumed (don’t ask me why) I’d be back at the gym in a day or two. Maybe not doing a 200kg leg press, but at least walking or something. Ha. It’s been exercise enough just getting in and out of bed. I’m the sort of gal who sits on the floor. Like, all the time. I have to say, not being able to get on the floor was one of the most frustrating aspects of my week of incarceration in the house. Along with not being able to sneeze, cough, twist, bend, laugh, or blow my nose. Those things were inconvenient too.

Do you know how many episodes of Sopranos you can watch in 5 days? Several seasons worth, that’s how many.

Still, my IVF doctor and her anaesthesiologist were both amazing and I have even more faith in them now as I begin the next step of this adventure.

So, this weekend brings my meditation class, one more season of Sopranos to get through, my stitches out, a photoshoot for a very talented make-up artist friend of mine who has somehow convinced me to be a model, and a dinner party for 4 of our best friends where masterchef  CJ is going to cook up a storm.

Cin cin!

Big Sister

Remember the sock fights when it was time to put away the washing?
Remember how hot it got in summer in the cubby house with the plastic roof?
Remember the Christmas we got sent on a treasure hunt all around the neighbourhood that ended back where we started at a fabulous new swing set?
Remember how loud Dad played the Star Wars soundtrack on the record player?
Remember the purple paisley carpet in the family room?
Remember our walkie-talkies?
Our ugg boot dance?
Eating raw shortbread dough?
Going to archery?
Bike riding down the creek?
The smell in Nonna’s house?
Mooshie’s conniptions behind the lounge-room curtains?
Gran’s paper lips?
The doll-house?
Children of the Corn?
The Incredible Mr. Limpet?
Dad’s BBQ chops?
Mum’s Chinese chicken wings?
Sour plums?
Remember Italy in summer?
Florence of the bolognaise?
Greece at sunset?
Marseilles frog mascots?
Laughter in London?
And before that.
Remember Yugslavian lakes?
A night alone in Padova with the Zias?
German sausages?
A cheese fair in Holland?
A mini snowman in Switzerland?
Dachau?
Remember hauling that Italian boy off me on the train to Venice?
Remember the clock you brought back for me from Korea?
Remember carrying me across the back patio in summer because it burnt my feet?
Remember helping me build sandcastles at the beach in Marmion?
Remember the letters you wrote me when you left home and went out into the big, wide world?
I loved that clock.
I still have those letters.
I remember all of it.
And more.
I remember you.
Sister.

I am from #2

I am from Australia. I am from ‘G-day mate, how yer goin’?’ I am from clean air and big yards with rusted swings. I am from waves that pick you up and throw you down, grind your head into the sand. I am from red earth that flies up and settles on your skin like a tattoo. I am from ancient times. I am from fire and corroboree. I am from the rivers and the dried up riverbeds that cry out for salvation.

I am from my father’s house. I am from white rendering and Italian tile. I am from the smell of spaghetti that makes you weep to be fed. I am from my Nonna’s thick thumbs. I am from Ave Maria and French horns. I am from rose gardens and the smell of frangipani. I am from the sound of crickets in the night.

I am from a sister who held my hand. I am from a mother who weeps for the sorrows of the world. I am from Grandmothers who buried their husbands. I am from strong women. I am from a quince tree in the backyard. I am from bike rides and gumboots in the creek.

I am from nightmares of tidal waves. I am from war. I am from pig farmers and professors. I am from my high-heeled red wedding shoes. I am from my aunt’s violin. I am from love.

Turning the Lights Back On

What is my creative process? How do you create something from nothing? More importantly, how do you create while turning off that inner critic, the inner editor that constantly questions whether what you’re creating is ‘right’ or ‘good’ or ‘acceptable’?

I’ve been struggling (more than that – waging a bloody war) with my creativity since the beginning of the year – hence my disappearing act from this space. (My heartfelt apologies to any regular readers, particularly my Godfather who helped ignite this rekindling of a spark the last time I saw him.) Coincidentally, (but probably not) this struggle began as I left my job as a speech writer for the Lord Mayor. Can I blame that job that I struggled with so monumentally for my ‘block’? Maybe, but for how long?

Not this long. So what’s up? My husband CJ sent me a text this morning after he left for work and I was still mooching in bed, too lazy/depressed to get up. It read:

Rise and shine my darling! It’s a lovely mellow winter day – not too cold, calming and still – in which you can gather your thoughts before the next step in work and life. Do some exercise, get a massage, and write a blog post. Sending you my love. Always yours.

How many husbands would so thoroughly understand where I’m at right now and why I didn’t want to get up? Maybe many, I don’t know, I’ve only ever had the one, but he seems pretty amazing to me. The fact that he’s so incredibly creative and gets stymied by his own inner critic too, means that he understands me more than just about anyone I know, which is fortunate really, considering he’s my husband. So here I am. Inspired by my Godfather and my husband to sit and write something, anything. So I thought I might as well write my truth, seeing I have nothing I’m working on and a massive fear of starting something new. Here I am. Me and my creative void.

So, my creative process. It was all ticking along smoothly, and then wham! It was like someone tripped a switch and the lights went out. I called an electrician, but he didn’t show and I fumbled around in the dark until I sort of just got used to it and readjusted my life to a new dimness. The thought of turning the lights back on filled me with dread. What if I could see the cracks in things? I was filled with fear. I am filled with fear. It’s nothing new. It’s the same old anathema that’s always plagued me. Lights on or off it’s always there. Thing is, why did I assume I’d be safer in the dark, where in all the best fiction, monsters lurk?

It’s time to shine the spotlight on my scourge instead of ignore its presence in my house. I have always feared my creativity, that’s an absolute in my life. And it is a part of my creative process. If I try to ignore it it paralyses me. If I face it, stare it down, it retreats just enough for me to get my fingers on the keyboard for a while. If I throw some love its way my inner critic takes a short nap and I sit in the flow of my creativity, sail downstream and ride the current all the way to the sea.

I turned the light back on. Just now. Feels good and right and frightening, like all things that are worthwhile.

Gone Fishing

My latest literary news is rather exciting, considering all the work I’m doing at the moment, setting up my new business and still working in the other job (which requires me to get up at 5am three mornings and finish at 8.30pm three evenings, blurgh) I was pretty positive there’d be no literary news for a while. It’s true that I’ve really only written one thing in quite some time, but it seems that that one thing has been short-listed for the Fish Short Story Award – an International award hailing from the UK. This year it spawned 2000 entries world-wide with a first prize haul of over $4,500. Happy. Yes. Happy. Just happy and surprised to be short-listed to be honest. The story wrote itself very quickly and had very little editing because I liked it so much as it was, which really isn’t the way it should be or normally is, but there you have it.

In other literary news, I’ve had some great feedback on another short story from a Melbourne literary journal, who said it’s “beautifully expressed and extremely moving” but would like to see a longer draft. It’s always great to get feedback with a rejection and even greater to get an offer to look at something again. I guess I better get back to it then!

My new business venture is going well. I had my first full week in my new healing room last week and thoroughly enjoyed being in it. It will take time to get it cranking, but I’m pretty happy I almost broke even in my first week!

Fantibilyastic

Twelve Apostles in a misty Dawn

So, my new business venture starts on Monday and I can’t quite believe it’s come around so quickly. Saturday I move in all my new furniture, including THE chair and all the bits and pieces I need and then we have the twilight opening Saturday night for friends and family and then come Monday morning I wait for clients to arrive! Gulp.

I bought some beautiful new crystals in Apollo Bay and then came home and bought some more in Williamstown, including an amazing Madagascan double terminated smoky quartz that sings to me every time I walk past it.

Our getaway in Apollo Bay was fantibilyastic. It was very rejuvenating and one of those weeks that don’t fly by, but amble along at a relaxing pace. It’s a magical spot: the bay is one of the most beautiful beaches I’ve ever seen, which for a Perth girl, is a big statement! It’s clear, still and turquoise, rain or shine and I was quite besotted by it. I’m a tree girl rather than an ocean girl, but the bay called to me and we swam several times in not very hot weather and really loved it. We even went boogie boarding!

We loved exploring the forest and did a wonderful 45 minute rainforest walk early in the week and marvelled at towering century old myrtle beech trees. We drove to the Otways lighthouse and on the way were thrilled by finding many cute koalas in the forest gums lining the road – the first time either of us had seen koalas in the wild. I kept exclaiming “There’s a tiny, furry bear in a tree! A bear CJ, a bear!” Cutest dang thing I ever did saw! (And, yes, I do realise they’re not bears, but they so look like bears and that’s enough for me.)

I’ve never been to the Twelve Apostles before and got it in my head that I’d like to see them… at dawn… which meant getting up at 4.30am on Thursday morning! I guess I’d seen too many beautiful orangey photos or something. Anyhoo, CJ baked delicious lemon and date scones for the journey and drove the hour and a half on the dark, windy road, watching out for roos, while I slept in the passenger seat. Oops. We arrived just before sunset with a few other hopefuls and a fair few professional photographers only to be greeted by a thick Dickensian mist that obscured most of the view! It cleared a little for about 15 minutes and then was so thick you couldn’t really see anything! We giggled, ate scones and enjoyed the sound of the surf pounding the dramatic coast and then had a wander around Port Campbell and had some breakfast before heading back. The drive back was incredible. We went through the national park through kilometres and kilometres of hairpin roads through the most breathtaking forest, just gorgeous and totally rejuvenating.

Another great thing that happened was that I managed to procure a mentor without even trying! His name is Peter Mackey and he runs a bookshop down there which also sells the beautiful crystals and he’s been an energy healer there and in Melbourne for many years. I met him and knew that if there was ever going to be a mentor for my healing work, then he was standing right in front of me. So I took a deep, courageous breath and asked him and that was that. He’ll be in Melbourne in March and we’re having him over for dinner for my first mentoring session. I’m not even sure what one does in a mentoring session, but there you go, I’m sure all will be revealed anon.

Chesterfields Chihuahuas and Chillaxing

How quiet I’ve been of late. I do apologise for my quiescence. And there’s about to be more of the same. CJ and I are going to Apollo Bay for a week of relaxing, reading, walking and rejigging the old batteries. Yeah! I’ve never been there before, so I’ll let ya know what I think ‘pon our return.

It comes at a perfect time as the weight loss coaching is about to go into overdrive with the launch of a 12 week challenge, of which I’m an integral part. But then, on March 1st, I get the keys to my new office and start my business at the Wellness Centre! So it’s going to be a very busy and challenging few months, but hopefully immensely rewarding as well.

I’ve been an eBay aficionado of late, buying stuff for my new room. I am now the very proud owner of the totally fabulous Chesterfield chair pictured above. I was able to view the chair before we bid on it and that in itself proved to be a grand adventure. We arrived at a rather posh house in Richmond and were buzzed through the gate and welcomed at the door by the cutest campest Puerto Rican boy wearing teenie tiny shorts, grabbing my arm with one hand, calling me dahling and holding… wait for it… a chihuahua in the other! I loved him. I loved his house. I loved his jodhpurs wearing boyfriend who told me his saddle wax was just the  best thing to use on Chesterfields. And I loved the chair. And now it’s mine.

So mostly I’m organised. I have THE chair, a beautiful desk (also purchased on eBay) and several other things that are perfect for the room. Now I just need a rest so I can come back and heal the world. Ok, maybe not quite the world yet, but you know, one by one by one.

In all things writing, I am slowly getting my head around the fact that in order to end this dry spell I must, you know, write something. I’ve submitted a short story to Sleepers because you know, you just never know, and will soon be very happy to see a story published in Etchings. That’s all folks. I’m off to relax!

Today…

Got up at 5am.
Between 6-11am coached a handful of women to rethink their eating choices, stay on track, or scare the bejesus out of them.
Shook my head in disbelief that Tony Abbott really could be that dumb, chauvinistic and hypocritical.
Watched an excited and talented Chinese tennis player tell Australia that today was her bestest day in her whole life.
Received some kindly pummelling from my Osteopath who lectured me (kindly) about my spleen.
Posted a short story to Meanjin (what? a girl can dream!).
Procured my first ever significant eBay buy: a glorious deep green Chesterfield tub chair.
Had a coffee with a girlfriend at the local chocolate  café and managed to avoid eating any chocolate.
Meditated and wrote in my journal.
Attempted to sort out my mother’s IT problems via phone to WA.
Stared at my new Chesterfield online and daydreamed about sitting in it (and wondering how I’d squeeze through the front door).
Realised that I didn’t achieve all that much really, but had fun doing it!

Explicit Excerpt

‘We can definitely do something with these. These are very fleshy.’ Dr. Woodcock pokes my left labia with a gloved finger.
I’ve experienced humiliation before, but with the poking I reach a whole new level.
‘The labia majora really are fleshy. The minora aren’t too bad.’
Dr. Woodcock grabs a lab and pulls. ‘Mmmm’.
This was no ‘you’re a Goddess, every man in the known universe would kill to be in my position right now mmmm’, no, this was a ‘mmmm, what’s the best way for me to give your weird and undesirable genitals a modicum of appeal?’
‘I think what we’ll do is actually a liposuction procedure on the labia majora and leave the minora alone. When the minora sag further as you age, we can always do the labiaplasty then.’

I’m forty years old. I’m lying on my back in a plastic surgeon’s office. My legs are spread and my labia are being manhandled by a man whose name ends in cock. This man is going to charge me a stupendous amount of money to suck the God-given flesh right out of my genitals. On top of that, he has forecast I’ll have sagging minora in the not so distant future. I don’t even know what that is. It sounds life-alteringly grim. I should leave. But I don’t. And Dr. Woodcock is now pulling on my right labia, elongating it with what is clearly a clinically-derived sense of wonder.
‘Gosh, yes, look at that.’
Even if I could, Dr. Cock, I just don’t think I would right now. All I can think about is how I’m going to break it to my family that my minora are droop-destined. They’ll all be crushed.
‘Alright, Mrs. Bell, you can get dressed now.’
‘Call me Sam. You’ve seen my droopy vagina, I think you can call me by my first name.’ I give Dr. Cock a half smile as I yank my Bonds up over my hips. His face remains impassive.
‘Perhaps you might like to look at these Mrs. Bell? Might help to make you feel more comfortable.’
Cock pushes an album across the desk and makes fancy loops and swirls with his Mont Blanc while I pull my jeans on and shove my feet back in my Nikes. A vagina album. Pages of pussies to peruse. Fantastic. If only Alex were here; he’d love it. I can feel Cock staring at me so I focus on the twats. Perhaps he has a point. There’s some seriously sagging snatch in this album. Sagging snatches on the left, tight, hairless pussies on the right. Not your classic before and after shots. No mood lighting or lipstick here.