You've got the Love

So why don't you try internet dating? Everyone is doing it these days. It's not weird. People are far too busy these days to meet anyone, so people are using the tools available to meet each other without the time and cost of going out. A friend of a friend of mine and his partner met on the net and they have been together for ages, in fact I think they are getting married. My friend S says it so matter of fact. In fact a lot of my friends are telling me this. I guess at the age of 29 and still being single people feel the need to tell you this after the tenth time of you and them catching up and them asking, again, so seeing anyone? no, no, just me still............ [cue tumbleweed and sound of crickets] um...... (realising I have become a social faux pas) I guess I haven't had the opportunity, you know, to meet the right person? (I ended this as a question because at this point I don't what I'm saying)

At this point into the blog I just want to state (before you all go accusing me of being some Carrie/Bridget Jones wanna be) that I know being single is not the end of the world. I am somewhat intrigued at the fact that it comes so easy to some and not to others (IE me) and I am just wanting to explore that. I mean I actually thought that it would just all work itself out by now - I thought it was part of life's story - It was all very possible (and likely) to end up with a shit partner and thus partnership but you had one all the same. But as a surprise to me I can't even seem to get the shit ones to stay.

So, acknowledge that there is a problem, the problem however, I am assured to by friends is not me, not at all (well that's a relief) but the time that we live in - it's just impossible to fit everything into these modern days. I mean I wanted to be educated, be focused on my own career, my individual outcome and obviously that has come at a cost - not meeting Mr right because my attention has been on other things - so best trot off to the internet and make up for lost time.

Oasis, RSVP, Adult Matchmaker, hot or not, e harmony, fling finder (for the person far too busy to even rock up to a bar and say to the nearest person "oi fancy a fuck?"), plenty of fish (amusing - nothing like a witty pun to make you feel less of a freak) - Nowerdays there is a plethora of these sites just waiting waiting to have your profile installed and they are seriously high tech and very detailed these days which caters for ye olde science of attraction. I think back to the first days when these sites were just starting and wonder whether there was a serious number of mistakes happening or just a serious lull in partnership success. Some of the sites didn't provide photos or if they did some of the photo uploads compressed the image so that the end result was seriously distorted had you put a large file up - so you went by personality, which one might say, is being less shallow - but I think we all needs to face the facts here - beauty and attraction are part of the equation here, it's an intrinsic part of evolution governing laws of health and fertility. Symmetry and proportions, vocal sounds and even scent help us know whether we match well with a partner and will have the opportunities to have have lots of robust babies to continue our legacy. There are even some sites that allow a recording of ones voice to see if you like how the other sounds! I'm yet to find one that allows you to save your scent - so that it puffs out onto whoever has come across your profile!

A site called ok cupid combines all of this - allows you to show your physical side whilst asking you an array of questions in a survey to determine your morals and values of this world and match you accordingly (if you want you could answer all 20000 questions - the more you answer - the more definite the match) So great - we (site makers) are using the technologies properly now to make more "real life" type of decisions on potential partners. And whilst I find it somewhat interesting and mostly amusing, I can't help feeling as I answer the question of "If I was an animal - what would you be?", that we have somewhat regressed despite the 21st century capabilities of getting in touch with the 50000 other losers, I mean datees, that have lucked out in the real world.

I can't help feeling that I have just slapped a big FOR SALE sign on my forehead and I'm brokering myself through a concoction of witty short worded statements and a 10MB image upload limit. I mean our fore mother and fathers have worked very hard to be rid of the family ball and chain making marital decisions for us yet here we are, posting profiles and allowing virtual inspections as if it were a normal business deal much like the pair of pants you are trying to sell on your ebay account - 1 nearly new and without tags nearly 30 year old, only serious bidders may apply. And I have the gaul to look curiously at Indian friend Jatz who's brother was just introduced to his now wife and think that this is a weird and wacky cultural thing to do - my god my photo is on a webpage and according to text messages about 15 dudes have me pinned to their favorites page! And I still haven't said a word to any of them - not even in writing. That's what is fucked up. If we are regressing this far back can't someone indulge me by introducing the paper love letter back into common fashion. A request to merely sit next to me in a public place or to hold my hand or even talk to me, if we are going back this far can we bring the good parts back too? The sonnets, the poems, the communication for god sakes!

It makes me ask the question what am I doing this for? Is it all biological - Am I just pre-programmed like an outlook reminder to say oi, don't forget this oven has a warranty and you are getting very close to it's use by date. Surely not, It has to be more than that - I need it to be more than that. And I would say given that I haven't ovulated naturally in the last year (yes sorry bodily function details alert) I would say I don't hold the best chance of procreating given that I am not even generating the hormones to keep the system going, so I would say the hormones are not what is driving me. Another point of evidence is my appallingly shocking choice of men - I can't say that may choices have ever driven by biology to find a good mate given that they all seem to be as poor as fuck and wouldn't even be able to support themselves let alone a family and the dweeby guys I seem to favour are not yelling out "good genes" to me.

I know all you scientists out there don't believe in love but surely romance has something to do with it. So many stories are based on love, so many songs, so many poems verbalise the crazy manic feeling we get when we meet a significant other, in fact you scientists have shown that a brain in love is much like the brain of the insane. Insanity is not something to do with good breeding that's a feeling we want all to ourselves - the ultimate abdication of our sensible self. It's the feeling people ride roller coasters for, or bungy jump, or skydive. It's that raw nakedness of not only skin but soul and secrets thats given up to become a shared commodity - theres no hiding from a loved one - they witness the craziness, the dirty parts, the clean parts, the sexy parts, the smelly parts - all in ands outs of you.

But that feeling goes away doesn't it? So it can't be all about the romance because the craziness goes and the smelly parts stay - so is it trust I'm looking for? Correction that I need to look for? Given that my choices are obviously not engaging trust and therefore are so short lived. My girlfriend recently told me that her boyfriend said to her that when she washed her lady bits in the shower she reminds him of a monkey.... no shit. This same girlfriend told that once, when she farted in the car, she quickly auto locked the windows and took sheer delight out of his reaction of encountering it and then having no accessibility to any fresh air. What is that!? Other than pure openness and trust in another.

And then there is companionship. I don't want to come across as a loser but I think I may have just had one too many dinners sitting alone in my apartment, looking at the wall (or facebook). Perhaps even my cooking skills may increase if I feel I cooking for someone other than me, I mean my carrot cutting skills are seriously below average. Either that or I will start to get a better range of food being cooked for me! That and I may tidy up a bit more - there's nothing like a person to impress to get your living standard out of the gutter - right now sometimes I feel I'm on par with a homeless person, I'm so lazy. Plus in the last couple of weeks I've been a little poorly and there's nothing like having someone around to make sure you don't die of the common cold and if you do to make sure you are dealt with and it doesn't take a funny smell 5 days later being reported by neighbours. I know, a tad dramatic, but really just having someone around to hear a couple of your thoughts and opinions would be nice, you end up saying them into the air to no one when you live on your own (I'm dead set true about this, it's not made up) about something funny you read on the internet or whether the movie you are watching is totally shit and the silence that follows it, is deafening.

Ok then Lexi, what do you want then? What are you looking for? describe him? My girlfriend put me on the spot after one of my single rants and you know what after I blabbered around the subject for a little while I realised I have no freaking idea what I want. I can't describe him, I can't picture him, I can't imagine myself with him at all. But this is ok and this is probably why I have failed so dismally at the online dating saga. We need to just let it be, I need to stop questioning myself and my abilities cos my friend Felicity hit the nail on the head for me. What's the point of analyzing it Lexi, is it going to be any less confusing, is it going to refine the want any more? The fact of the matter is that there is a yearning, a want to find, a need to find and it occurs naturally and it encompasses every point that has ever been dissected and we are none the wiser because it just is, we. just. are. Just go with it. So this is what I'm going to do - I'm going to get out from behind the For Sale sign (and quite frankly I think everyone else who is online dating should as well - with the amounts of profiles out there we would have enough people to fill a gazillion bars and venues - so c'mon people lets just say hi to each other, what the hell are we all scared of?) and I'm just going to accept the want that is burning in my belly and be open to getting it - whatever it is and stop looking for the reason why not, am I doing it wrong, how can I do this better - those answer are not there and they are not going to help and being frantic about it is not going to help either. Just accept. Just be.

(And maybe ask better questions like - what do you think the best way of cutting carrots is?)

xx

PS. I just wanted to write some of my favourite lines from songs or books that I just adore that represent love to me.

" I wish that you wanted me, I wish that you needed me, I wish that when I said 2 sugars, you knew that actually I meant 3" - Kate Nash

"My phone is on vibrate..... for you" - Rufus Wainwright

"From the top of the mountain. Every morning I walk towards the edge. And throw little things off like: Car parts, bottles and cutlery Or whatever I find lying around. It's become a habit. A way to start the day. I go through all this before you wake up. So I can feel happier. To be safe up here with you" - Bjork

"The only regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love" - Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez (And there is more where that came from - so many pearls, it's hard to just choose one.)

If you have any quotes that some up love for you - I would love to hear them

Where are you when I have my head down a toilet?

April already? Holy Shit. I've been abandoned. By her. Already. Not by the old girl she never goes away - old faithful, a true stayer. Even though she had been given the marching orders. She sat outside, patiently, curled up on the mat. Peering in. Now and then. Finding a window. Like a naughty puppy, creeping back in, low to the ground, the master has forgotten, she doesn't even remember what she was angry about. I'll just show off the cute, fun side and it will be ever so natural to take up my regular position, in the corner of the room of her life. And where did she go? The new girl? Fucking holier than thou bitch. Butter wouldn't melt. "It's all going to change, everything will be right this year". The perfect life. What's stopping you. Me. Us. The blog. The Surfing. The Diet. The body. The temple. The Zen. What's stopping you. Fucking April is what stopped me. You. My dear. Where are you? Gone. Again. Typical. You never were a stayer, I told you - couldn't even commit until May. You pissed off already. Leaving me. With what? The pinots, the processed food, the sav blancs, the ciggies, the recycled fling, the regret, the toilet bowl - old faithful holding my hair back reminding me that this is what life is this fun - it's good she is gone the only thing she was stopping you from was living the good life. But you've called. haven't you? Disappointment laced between the notes of your voice. Offering Peace. Reconciliation. We can work it out. Can we? We made a date. Tai Chi, Meditation maybe a walk. On Sunday. Yeah Sunday. See if we can... Well we'll see. She says it will all change. When I least expect it. She could disappear. again. Leaving me. Alone. In tears. And old faithful. Pouring another glass of wine.

Labour (Day) Pains

**Please note some names have been shortened to first letters to protect what little dignity these people have left**

I sit on the couch on Labour Day and wonder what an earth brought me to this moment. Why am I nursing groin pains, have my top on backwards and why did I wake up on the couch curled up in a little ball next to Buffy the dog, who is in the same sleeping position? Why is B wearing two different thongs, resembling death warmed up? And why is J, still fully clothed in bed, sausage stains on the back of her t-shirt and sporting a plastic fork in her hair?

I have just finished my labour day weekend holiday, having celebrated it with 6 other people and 3 dogs. What an adventure has just transpired.

I have now increased my vocabulary by words and terms such as: Nisbit, rusty trombone, cuntkerchief, horse friendly wink.

I began the adventures with a replacement bus ride (due to train track work) to Geelong, our driver Barry - pleasant fellow - dropped us off at Geelong train station. B was meant to collect us, however being the eternally late angel that she is, we were forced to endure air sharing with some of Geelong's finest - who were off to Melbourne to enjoy the frivolities promised by Moomba Festival - wearing nothing but a cuntkerchief (an extremely small garment leaving nothing to the imagination) and really I do take my hat off to a crazy bitch who can tolerate such temperature conditions as 10 degrees wearing basically nothing.

B finally arrives, wearing mustard coloured jodhpurs, riding boots, a striped deakin university nurses uniform shirt and a V necked sweater. You see her strange attire was because today we planned to go horse riding at Blazing Saddles (sounds like an STI doesn't it?) in Anglesea. Something we all hadn't done since we were teenagers and quite possibly the reason for my current groin pains. However the pains could also be a product of seeing a photograph of a ridiculous pose, a male ballerina was doing up a wall, in a copy of vanity fair J provided to me for the bus journey to which all 8 of us decided to attempt - when J boldly stated that "anyone could do that" - she was wrong.

The trail ride, for the most part, was mediocre to say the least. None of us can really attribute anything that our horses did to our own riding skills. The bloody animals have been doing the same trip 2 or 3 times a day for the past 10 years and generally just follow the leader and know when to do what. We did however get a small canter in which was exhilarating for about 100 meters - but for the most part it was mainly walking - due to the fact the an 8 year old, rang-er girl dreadfully named Hester, decided to be a big fat cry baby and refuse to do anything fun. We all realised - during our post ride debrief at the pub - that at some point during the ride, had all wished ill of her and had all muttered under our breath for her the harden the fuck up. The most exciting part probably was when my horse, who seemed to enjoy taking close up whiffs of the behinds of the other horses, whiffed her last when the recipient of the nose decided to kick back in turn causing my horse to rear up. Much to the astonishment of the trail leaders and my fellow riders I managed to stay on and react rather cooly about it all. The leaders in their very "I'm a proper rider, not some disgusting cowboy accents" said "well done, well done, my, you did sit in that well, very good". Really I think I was more stunned than anything and have never gripped my thighs so hard together (again back to the groin pains). The other interesting thing about the ride was that we established, from the wink we got at every swish of Y's horse's tail that she was quite the town bicycle and no doubt had been ridden by, not only humans (in a transport sense) but also by every male horse that called Blazing Saddles their home..... tart.

After all that excitement the troop needed food and beer - to the pub! We disgustingly consumed many a plate of nachos, fries and calamari and washed it down with jugs of beer. I perhaps made an error of judgement and decided to re-enact a u tube clip I had seen of the today show presenters playing the winter olympic sport - curling - on a playstation wii - which involved very suggestive movements. On top of this J decided to tell us a story of revenge which resulted with a man being shat on by his very angry wife. We also got a story of a rusty trombone reach around (google the term). You could tell by the looks of silent horror from the patrons around us that we weren't really well received.

The next part of our journey went slightly awry - the intention was to walk down to the river and partake in the joys of bobbing in the water with the assistance of a rubber inflatable device and sip on champagne. We were told all we had to do was cross the bridges and we would be there. Well many a bridge later and 1 and 1/2 hours into the walking trip we were beginning to doubt that we would find the place and then disaster struck.

We had been throwing the balls to the dogs and B had thrown the ball that sailed with slow motion and plopped into the river water. The 3 dogs all bounced in after it and after a little bit of time wondering what an earth Roxie (the dog) was doing to Bella (the dog), we realised she was drowning her. Panic set in, B (the boy), bless him in his soft and effeminate ways bravely signaled by unzipping the v neck part of his sweater that he might go in after them. However there was no need, K (owner of both the dogs) was a woman possessed and fully clothed (spectacles, thongs and all) hurled in after them in a an act that can only be described as sheer bravery. Once the dogs were rescued they continued to run around again as if nothing had happened - however K was not only water logged but bore the lashings of bella's claws across her chest and was also missing a thong.

The thong never surfaced and it was assumed that it was indeed stuck in the mud. We made a slight attempt to feel around for it will the dog ball throwing plastic stick thingy, and whilst we were doing so - some dude in a weird leg peddled kayak, came past enquiring what we were looking for - when we told him he stated that he hadn't come across a thong, but had come across something. He produced a pink lip smacker lip balm, which indeed, did belong to K - so there was at least one win (although I would say chances are she wont ever use a river soaked lip balm again), sadly however, we never recovered the thong and poor K had to limp back home minus one shoe.

By the time we reached home - we almost had to turn on the spot and head out again for the main attraction of the weekend the "holly go lightly, Y's house warming party" which we also like to now call - a ridiculously debaucherous night to which we have photo evidence. On the way to the party, stopping in at the alcho shop, E calmly stated to the shop server that he had a massive huntsman spider crawling across his chest - to which the rest of us responded in hideous shrieks and screams and holding onto each other for safety, which I'm sure didn't help the situation one bit - I am happy to say the disaster was averted with a quick brush of a hand.

I won't go into too much detail of the warming because what happened at the party really should stay at the party, however I can mention that much liquid of the alcoholic variety was consumed, sausages were eaten, voices were lost from the amount of singing that was done on sing star, A parrot pinyata was bashed to death and then worn as a hat, a the movie goonies was played at the end of the night. This was where the night got somewhat blurry for me, due to the fact that I was found curled up asleep in a corner when everything was said and done. B had gone home and forgotten me and left me (I believe she had many other adventures involving mismatched thongs, cigarettes and bar fights but we can't be sure), It was just lucky that E found me when things were being packed up, she woke me up to tell me it was time to go - I obediently followed in a daze. Don't really remember the walk home - only that it involved strawberries. Once back at the fort I believe my efforts were much the same - falling alseep in a ball with the dogs in the lounge which I was left until the morning.

Bless her little heart Y did try and coax us all out of the house for a spot of surfing, but we were having nothing of it and decided to wallow in our hung over states and eat scrambled eggs with tomato and goats fetta, pancakes, bread and jam, popcorn and chocolate. J, still wearing her sausage stained top from the night before and branding a plastic fork that she got from the fudge shop, declared that she believed a cat had shat in her mouth - she also went on to tell us a story she had also once related to axel rose about a nisbitt (again google the term). We all sat in the dark, watching the movie vanity fair (a hideously awful movie, that we negatively commented on, every second of the way). Eating and sitting took up a fair amount of the day - and in the afternoon we all agreed that it was time to head back to reality and a hail damaged Melbourne.

We did our best to have a great labour day long weekend, and I can safely say that we did our best deliciously.

xx

The Man

He was late. His irresolution had got the better of him. When one usually has the opportunity to set sail to sober-land, being wholly satisfied with their third and, what should be, final drink on a Friday night at the fine establishment twenty yards from one's place of work - this man missed this boat, utterly and completely. A colleague defiantly sat a fourth in front of him. This fourth, being the gateway that led him to this very moment now. Pointlessly trying to grasp onto blank moments which, more than likely, would have been full to the brim of inappropriateness and his undulating dance with the door and house keys, that at any moment, could cause him to abruptly exonerate, the essentially consumed kebab - a gift for the front door mat.

He finally reunited door with keys, thankfully with no evidence of lamb betraying him. He painstakingly crept in, in attempt to make as little noise as possible, however the paralysis of his motor cortex, left his movements with the immaturity of a toddler learning to walk and he managed to hit every item in range of his two meter journey into the house.

There she was, poised silhouette - a dark shadow in a doorway. She gave him a look of dry disdain, subtle and forced, as if it in-dignified her to have to give any reaction at all. The expression one gives when they smack their faces into a glass door having mistaken it for an opening and are forced to acknowledge that the stupidity, indeed, had happened at all.

She added a slow drawn out blink, why was he wasting her time? He opened his mouth, one imagines to begin some sort of an explanation, however what came out resembled more like the agonising sound of a heifer in labour and before he had even had the chance to finish off that foul and disgusting noise, she had already turned swiftly, aloofly walking off, her shadow becoming a mere blend of the surrounding darkness.

Bitch.

Tonight he would probably have to sleep on the couch. He silently mocked himself. The hatred pinned to that thought was really intended for no one but himself. He knew in a couple of moments he would be begging for forgiveness. He mused with a fond curiosity of how she always managed to invoke such self hating thoughts, to immediately paint him with the colour of guilt. How could she drive him into such desperation, night after night, his ultimate aim to please her knowing she would always be so disappointed at any efforts. She was, after all, just his cat.

Loosie Toosie

I apologise to my sister in advance should she take offense to this, by writing this I, by no means, wish to exploit or offend her. This is for her.

One of the earliest memories of my sister was when she had just started primary school, kindergarten. I, however, that year had been proudly walked over, from the junior school building with it's childlike creamy facade, across the small alley way road that separated the dark, serious, looming brown bricked building for senior primary. This year, I had started year three and I wasn't a child anymore (ha what did I know). This is where the real learning happened, when you actually fit perfectly into your blue and white school tunic uniform and didn't trudge patiently around, drowning in an over sized hammy down potato sack waiting to "grow into it".

We caught the school bus into school and I had been entrusted begrudgingly to ensure that my sister arrived safely to the gates of her new place of learning. I was livid, not only did I momentarily have to break away from my pack of friends and interrupt my journey up the steps into the playground of the big school but I had to have my little 4 year old sister hang around me like a bad smell and at the ripe old age of 7 that was totally uncool. I didn't intend to be shy about making it obvious of my dislike for the situation and her.

My sister was and still is completely opposite to me. I was dark, more olive in skin and complexion, had thick and unruly brown hair and dark brown/green eyes with loads of freckles and less than perfect teeth (in fact my fangs were quite hideous at the time). My sister in comparison has a fair complexion, alabaster skin, thin and feathery blond hair that always looked like a golden fountain when tied back in a ponytail with a pretty ribbon. Her eyes, blue like swimming pools when the sun is reflecting of it. Cupid pink lips and teeth - straight as an arrow.

As we arrived at the gate I remember saying something unpleasant (I can't recall exactly what), followed by a get lost or something of similar meaning. She turned, he school bag almost as big as her on her back reinforcing just how small she was at the time, she looked at me, with almost no expression in her face, not the slightest bit of emotion, no anger, no upsetness, no bitterness. "Bye" she said with such innocence, squinting up at me as her little eyes were blanketed with the sun, turned back around, and walked down the snake like path to the entrance of her school, the junior building with tiny fragile steps.

That word.... bye.... had jumped into my mouth, traveled down to my lungs, got into my bloodstream, and at the moment it reached my heart, exploded. Erupting into painful dust that choked me of breath. I walked to the big school in tears.

For my whole life, my sister and I have said that when I was born and went shopping in the "gene pool" that I cleared the shelves of emotion and left nothing for her when she arrived in the world (obviously a joke but there does seem to be quite a realness to the notion).
For her and my whole life, it seems as if she was hard as a rock that nothing could penetrate those solid walls, while I walked fragile steps, cursed to be a blubbering mess.

You might have fetched a guess as to how, then, these lives might pan out - however think you would all be further from the truth. Whilst my life has definitely experienced it's fair share of downs on the roller coaster of life, I have always managed to hold onto hope and find the light at the end of the dark tunnel. I have never given up and although still poor, still (technically) a student and still a big fat walking emotional heart, still single, still sometimes lonely, still struggling - I still have a lot to show for it.

But my sister caught the wrong ride. Last time I saw her, she was drinking like a chain smoker - only with beers and scotch instead of cigarettes. There were bottles under her bed, left in the shower and in the backseat of the car, she is not even trying to hide the marijuana in her bedroom. My sister has lost her beautiful sweet smell of innocence I remember - it has been replaced with the vile putrid smell of defeat and addiction that matches that of the stench of a bar room carpet. She has lost her beautiful voice, it's been replaced with the scratchy, dark voice of derangement spouting remarks of delusion. This person is not my sister - it is addiction, it is a loss of hope, a loss for the want to live and it has taken over her soul and i feel alone in the world because of it. Like a lost child, in a sea of people, not knowing what to do to find the safety of mama - I feel the same not knowing how to get my sisters soul back for her.

Sure we are chalk and cheese, she always bore a stamp of originality, always doing thing 'her own way' and I always followed the crowd and trend, she was crazy when I am sensible, she was amazingly artistic and i am lucky if I can draw a good stick figure, I'm academic while she was pragmatic, I am words whilst she is pictures, I love drama and she loves simplicity, she can sing beautifully and i sound like an off fog horn, she looms tall while I stare at her belly button, she loves dirty when I love clean, she is strong and I am weak... but no..... I am strong when she is weak.

I am her yin and she is my yan. But my yan is slowly dying, fading away and killing herself. And me, the practical, sensible one, the one in control and expected to know what to do.... actually... doesn't know what to do. I feel I have failed you Loosie Toosie and I'm so sorry. This is agony to see you like, but it's not just my agony is it? It's yours as well.... the agony I stole from you all those years ago. But really I don't think you don't feel, in fact I think you may even feel things more than me but you have no way of expressing it. It's trapped, exploding inside you with no way of an emotional outlet and perhaps this is what led you to this course of action, to give up on hope. Whatever it is, if I could do anything to change it, even giving you my only heart, to make you realize what an amazing person this addiction is wasting, then I would.

I fear I will always be that little girl, alone in the street crying, wishing she had just given her little sister a cuddle.

Come back to us Luci.... please.

I love you x

We'll get her when she comes back in..... She's not coming back...

Well I am and I did.... but I couldn't resist using a line from the movie Point Break as my title of this post as I write about my first encounters with surfing, in Torquay, next door neighbour to the famous Bells beach that plays a starring role in the film, the killer waves that Patrick Swayze chooses to make his last. Well my experience wasn't that dramatic although there was slight trepidation as these first attempts were part of one of my New Year Resolutions; To tackle fear, and for me, this came in the form of salty waves crashing on the shore.

So I have booked myself into a lesson with Go Ride a Wave and three shabby looking blokes, dark skinned from the sun, roughened by years of salt and blonded by years sun bleach were going to teach me. These dudes, all with moppy haircuts of medium length, all look like they can or are growing a mean beard, but the 35 year old looking fellas turned out to be 19 and 20 year old babies! God I am putting my life into the hands of lads!

But they were nothing short of spectacular in teaching the group of 19 to tackle the big waves to us, small waves to them. All of us looking nothing short of looney, as the 19 of us act out our surfing moves on the sand. Very precise and direct instructions, a couple a bad jokes later and we were ready (really??) for the real thing.

I realised that this was possibly one of the best things to tackle if one is tackling fear for all kinds of life issues. You see what we do is before we have even put a toe into the situation we have played the outcomes in our heads already and pronounced our demise before it's even begun, then our bodies, our selves have already failed us and will be hit one after the other by crashing tides. We go in scared, we get treated scared, they can already sense it and they win. Shy back and you get hit. But out there in the waves I realised I needed to be brave, to charge, and that's what I did, I charged, I went in there head on, silently told them to give me what they had and I swear I wasn't being knocked around as much. Each wave I hit made me feel more and more empowered (wow this wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be this - actually this playful tussling with the rolling waves is actually..... wait for it..... fun).

Then there comes trust, an openness you need to work with whatever comes to take you along the wave. You wait patiently, you need to, using the time to study the form of the waves, your position, you are learning from the movements of the wave and dancing in time with rolling motions you have found yourself in. A wave comes in, the shape of it, the curve, the rise - all of this tells you this could be the one to ride in on. You paddle and do your best and wait for it to hit the board, to take you. When it does this is the point where you feel no control, possibly the hardest thing humans try to cope with - a lack of control. Fight it and you will fall off the back and never know what could have been or if you are too far into it you may end up dumped. But if you go with, open up to the possibilities that could be, let it do it's job and you do yours, it is the most exhilarating, free feeling I have possibly ever experienced. I felt lighter, dreamy, excited... happy.

And I got up... well I got to my feet and had enough time to scream "Oh my god I'm standing on a" before I quickly fell off again onto my bottom and into the water - the cool liquid covering me like a watery doona. But I didn't lose that feeling of exhilaration, falling off hadn't hurt me, it hadn't killed me , I got up, in fact I learnt something, I now had experience to try again, I had the fire of possibility lit up in my belly and I wanted to do it again - feel that freedom. It may not have been that wave, it may not be the next, but one of those waves I was going to carve up to the end, all I had to do was try.

YEW!

La (New) Vie en Rose : 2009/2010

The day is dragging ever so slowly, I'm impatiently tapping my pencil on the desk literally watching the minutes slowly ticking by. Someone has released the caged butterfly's in my tummy, they are flying about, their soft, vibrating wings tickling my insides and making me slightly nauseous. Today I'm doing my burly show for New Years Eve at Madame SouSou's, a french restaurant on Brunswick St, Fitzroy, Melbourne.

But first I have to work until 3pm because I have used up all my annual leave to go to New York and they don't close the stupid office over Christmas time. Still there are upsides to my caging today given that it is 37 degrees outside. The air is thick, sticky and hot out there and, was already so at 8am this morning. Each time you step out there, it wraps around your body like a cocoon, a pocket of air trying to roast you to a crisp. So being in a 22 degree air-conditioned office is, I guess, not too bad. However the boredom is battling with my adrenaline filled body, I feel like a bubbly champagne bottle, just waiting to be popped open because of my excitement and nerves of doing tonight's show - I'm not sure why I am so nervous this time round - it's not like I haven't performed before, I think it's because this time round my solo is completely stamped by me. My costume was made by me, I picked the music, I chose and created the character, I envisaged the story and came up with the choreography - this work is all mine and tonight I find out if an audience will enjoy it or not.

I am doing the show with two other girls Sheree (aka Scarlett) and Frankie (aka Pepper Lee) - two gorgeous girls that are cherished friends and I am more than delighted to be sharing the stage with these beauties. By late afternoon, we are all hiding in the bottom lounge at Sheree's house, hiding away from the ongoing heat that still bears down on the city, making it feel exhausted. We all suck down on cool, fruity icy poles, a treat because of the brazen sun. We are putting off getting ready as long as possible knowing the heat will try it's very best to mar our creative efforts.

Nail polish first, and of course the perfect partner to begin our transformation, flutes of champagne. The bottle, when opened, popped with such ferocity from the heat - there seems to be some pressure in the air giving everything in it an unusual kinetic energy. You can almost hear the creaking sounds of the city as it is pushed to the limits, beading with sweat and slowly melting, we watch as the dark clouds of breaking point roll in to aid the burnt and blistered.

Mirrors are everywhere, hair is curled, pinned and teased, bright colours don our cheeks and and lips and large fluttering lashes now perfect our eyes. The three of us are a creation of fabulousness, only missing our sparkly costume robes which we save to put on when we are in the 'dressing room'. The day has now given in, had enough - the sky fills with impressive light shows of the natural kind, followed by the grumbly old man of thunder, who curses the sun for the havoc it has caused. The rain starts to fall, the earth sighs in ectasy with a relieving snake-like hissing sound, as the cool droplets of water put out the fires that have risen within the scorching paths and roads. Umbrellas in hand, we all scramble into the car (actually the giant sized, manly, off road vehicle that Sheree's partner has lent us. Such a sight to see 3 pretty and petite girls in such a monster metal of a truck) the cool change is welcomed, but we still protect our painted faces from the rain that threatens to transform us into clowns.

The scene in which we are to play, is of perfection. Low lead lighting hums from the old light fittings, the twinkling of tea lights under white candle holders create a warm and inviting glow. The old mahogany wooden bar lines the room, standing tall like a man that is growing finer into his age. Strong edges carved into the bar gives it a gentle feel, like smile creases on ones face. An army of wine bottles surround the bar splashing the room with colour, blood red and golden white and a palate in between from all the different labels. The rest of the surrounding walls are plastered with colourful wall paper, beautiful framed pictures and random pictures stuck in between, peeping through, everything overlapping, leaving not a single blank space. If one looks hard enough through the collage, you are faced with a smooth round bottom or a voluptuous breast - the risque photography of the late 19th Century. The dark, wooden tables contrast the clean pressed white napkins, the wine glasses are the size of soup bowels, the silver cutlery is polished and an unimaginable amount of tables are squeezed into the tiny space. Guests of 4 and 6 and even couples surround the place - all so different - all so lovely - all ready to be played with. They feast on a decadent 6 courses, a range of french delicacies to excite their tasting palate. A murmur of chatter fills the space above their heads, hanging peacefully like angels in the clouds, watching over the loved ones. The air is friendly and warm, relaxed and at peace, while the cool change cheekily whistles through the legs of the chairs and people, filling the room with excitement and energy. The rain patters down at a steady beat - and everyone waits for the show.

We are costumed - colours of creams, whites, pinks, purples, blacks from materials such as pearls, lace, satin, nylon cover our skin. It is oh so hot in the back room, so we retreat to the side hall, with a door that welcomes the night sky in - the naughty wind almost bowls us over, the coolness of the rain sends tingles into our flesh. We are called through to begin. A quick trip through the blistering heat of the kitchen, the chefs with cheeky smiles on their faces, we are introduced and our music begins to play. Firstly a flirtatious dance to begin with - the crowd are different than usual, slightly more conservative than usual and from a glance at all the faces their are expressions of modesty and shyness, trying not to look, although some are faces of glee and cheekiness, with a certain hope of what may come.

To our places for our solos, we begin with a masquerade, an interlude of dark circus music plays, creating mystery and mystique. A white mask begins to travel to each table, a black regal beehive adorned with soft and shimmering feathers stands tall above the mask, with grace and dignity. With a pop of the music we glide, with a waltz, into the pomp and ceremony of Edith Piaf's Padam, Padam. Lace gloves are slowly taken off, accepted by the audience with sheer delight. With a gorgeous wiggle of a petite bottom, a fru fru skirt swishes delicately to the floor, exposing a satin girdle and a cheeky grin. A black lace fan is opened, which covers the virtues of her olive skinned body, whilst a top is undone. Then slowly and seductively draped over an audience members shoulder, she cooly pads by, inspecting the feast of eyes, feasting on her. The climax comes, the fan swoops into the air and the reveal is made with a rainfall of glitter to end the piece.

A piano interlude begins, and a bride begins to get ready for her big day. She takes down the locket hanging off a rose lamp, looks lovingly at the picture of her true love and hangs it around her neck. She picks up her veil and carefully and places into her hair. she slowly pirouettes so the everyone can she what a beautiful bride she makes. She tenderly picks up her bouquet of cottage pick roses and with a final check stands and waits..... and waits..... and waits. The music notes change from a melody filled with happiness to singular notes of sadness. A member of the audience knows what is happening.... leans forward and whispers....."he's not coming is he".....
The music changes into a dreamlike version of Que Sera Sera by Pink Martini and the drama begins. The bride possessed begins to rip off her gown! The is much crying into sleeves, back bending dramatically into laps, blowing ones nose into napkins on peoples laps and drinking peoples wine. But wait.... Is that her love in the crowd, at the back there? She runs to him knowing he wouldn't leave her and plunges his head into her breast and when she looks closer... gasps... it is alas, a stranger... it was all her imagination, with that, the music draws to it's peak and she throws off what is left of the bridal wear for the reveal. Remembering the locket, she opens it, looks at it and buries it into her chest. Pain is felt and she realises her heart has literally bled for him.... this cad.... he is not worth her blood. With a swift yank, the locket is pulled from the neck and is deposited in somebody's water glass, she turns quickly, hands on hips and proudly marches off.

The music of sensuality fills the room, the red haired seductress takes the stage. Her smoldering eyes and blood red lips. One sharp look from her would send a virile man wild with the madness of lust. With elegant moves her white gloves are removed, her innocence at this point, lulling you into a false sense of security, her back bends and twirls - so soft, so slow, so flexible - you feel the audience begin to move and sway with her. She has got you. The music changes and the angels mischievous side comes out to play, strands of pearls are now gripped between her teeth, you watch and wish that it was you instead, that was gripped between her teeth. With one magnificent movement, her bouncing lace skirt is removed and you are left with pleasure of her alabaster skin and her twinkling sequined knickers that hit the light and cast rays around her like a shooting star.

The end piece - the fun, flirtatious, frivolity of New Year begins, with winks and kisses to all and sundry. Two of the girls are in position for their curtain call while the third is too busy flirting and kissing the older gentlemen! She looks around and skips quickly into line - the three of the blow luscious kisses into the air, with their hips out, swivel on their toes and in one movement they are gone - finished reaping havoc on an unsuspecting crowd.

With a pop of the champagne cork, the tickles of bubbles on the nose, the turn and blast of the confetti poppers and a sweet kiss on the cheek... or even better on the lips.....

...... It is the year of new. xx

(Photos by Francisca Venegas aka Frankie)