The other feature of the weekend just gone was the two tarot jobs of Saturday - one birthday party down near Frankston, then a hen's party up in Boronia. The normal fare of people - the normal mix of female human conditions - the frumpy best friend, the unfullfilled aunt, the overacheiving career girl, the overweight cousin, the childhood mate who now works in a factory, and of course, Nonna - who needs the reading translated into Italian by her aging spinster daughter.
The big difference in this weekend is that I met seven women called Tiffany.
Five of the Tiffany's I can't really remember - run of the mill girls - dental assistants, stay at home Mum's - nice enough girls, nothing out of the ordinary cards. Quick, light readings are my stock in trade at these events.
Next came Tiphany with a "ph". A young, eurasian girl, dressed differently to the rest with their off-the-rack dresses - better turned out, more self assured, classy jewellery - no Beville's charm bracelets or empty Pandora necklaces on this one. An artist, somebody who does a bit of this and a bit of that. A creature after my own heart. I saw what I could have been twenty years ago given some self esteem and nurturing.
Tiffany number seven was a bit of a basket case. She walked into where I was reading and I had to stop myself from saying , "Shite - you're a bloody giraffe!" Standing before me,a bulimic six foot, sixteen going on thirty, resentful Tiffany, bemoaning all the hideous luck of her sixteen years. She'd been ill recently and it had stopped her from auditioning for "Australia's Next Top Model." According to Tiffany, her life was over.
Dear me. How do you read for such a person?
Sorry for being so condemning and judgemental. It comes with the territory. I remember reading, telling her that respite was in sight and that all would work out. Can't do much more than that.
Reindert asked me if when I read tarot if I read the people or read the cards. It's a bit of both on these occasions. At these parties when you have five minutes to give a quick reading, you have to go by the cards - and a bit of instinct. You soon obtain the ability to read people pretty well. Once you open the cards that's when you get to the bottom of things - find out what makes the person tick. It's actually a very honoured position. How often do you get to look into the lives of strangers - and have them hanging on your every word?
I will also say that at every one of these events I will inevitably end up holding somebody's hand for a bit. You touch the raw nerve, the sensitive spot. The part they didn't want seen. Most often the words that set them off, "When did you last give yourself a break? When did you last pat yourself on the back?" or the killer, "You look after everybody else. Who looks after you.?"
When I read one-on-one for an hour, that's when the real magic of the tarot comes through. You can sort through stuff then. These five minute readings are teasers. It's a bit unfair, really.
These hen's affairs can be comical. I've not had that much experience at hen's nights - I've tended to avoid attending them in the past, always stating why go to something you have very little chance of hosting yourself.
Sometimes, more often with an older bride, you will find a more subdued and classy evening - days of pampering, elegant drinks served by a rather buff, topless young man from Wonthaggi (being the hired help, you always get to talk to the aforesaid waiter, never wanting him to ask to put his shirt back on - too nice a view.)
It's the young ones, the kid brides, the young girls from the outer suburbs who tend to have the tacky celebrations, with the plastic penises and the strippers and the blue party games like "Stick the Dong on the Donkey."
The hen's do on Saturday had some alternative entertainment. One of the blokes from Puppetry of the Penis was there to do dick tricks for the baying masses.
Had nobody told these women that a man standing there in socks, runners and a cape fiddling with his tackle isn't that interesting or sexy?
This is the third time time I've been the support act to the Puppetry of the Penis fellow. We ran into each other in the hallway between stints.
"I know you?" he says.
"Yep." I answer, "Still doing dick tricks, Dave."
"Pays the bills, Pand."
"Don't you get sore, Dave?"
"Yep. Don't these women drive you nuts wanting to know everything."
"Yep. Used to it. Don't you get sick of women looking at your bits."
"Used to it."
"Sluts for a buck, aren't we?"
"And we wouldn't have it any other way."
He went out to the lounge to entertain the throng, aged from sixteen to eighty.
My gig is slightly easier.
I stayed in the kitchen, getting some much needed fluid and food in my system before returning to read for the last handful of hens. I've seen the show once, in a theatre, years ago, that was enough. I let Dave and his appendage have their professional space.
Returning home after seven hours of driving and reading, I fell quickly into a dream plagued sleep where I was stuck on a boat in the bottom of the ocean with an old gramaphone for company.
Didn't say that doing this didn't come without a price.
Of the challenge - 19 kms to go.... Yeeeehhhaaa - that, strangely, is doable.
Card of the Blog: The Devil - lies, deceit and trickery. Not seeing the truth. Unseen blessings. Not seeing the out. Coming from a place of intellect to the self. The first dark night of the soul. The first steps towards courage.
Yep.
Pand
Kilometres walked since 29 January: 172 km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 109 km
Currently reading: Ice by Louis Nowra, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 1.7 kg
Monday, March 29, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The Challege
The problem with being inspired is not the ideas it generates but the following through on the inspiration.
After spending the day with Reindert, I find myself re-inspired, wanting to climb mountains, run races, save Africa... you name it. Reindert instills this feeling in you - the subtle knowledge that you can do anything you set you mind to. It's great, but a bit overwhelming.
We've both got a bit to think about at the moment. There are crossroads to negotiate for both of us - professional and personal. So we've spent the day talking about what to do.
I can't talk about his journey - it's his to blog for himself. But here I sit, knowing somewhere in me that I can run a marathon in Maine in October. I just have to put the work in.
Among other things.
Over lunch at a winery down the Mornington Peninsula we discussed what could be done with our lives. Here's me sitting here wanting to be the next JK Rowling or Lemony Snicket (though writing under my own pen name) wanting to know what to do next with work - which all looks bit uncertain.
Then he reminded me about manifesting - "Look at what you've done, Pand. Look at who you are now? Why aren't you patting yourself on the back? You, of all people, can do this. you manifested the trip to Spain you were longing for at your birthday last year - the one you never saw yourself taking. You've manifested your running self, the body you're proud of, a role in which you're respected. What else can you do?
When he puts it like that, it makes me thing a little differently about things.
Now, I have an immediate challenge - Looking at my tallies down the bottom of the blog, I have 33 kms to cover by the end of March to make it 300 km on foot in two months. I want to do this by the end of March. I have three days to do this.
April is 200 km month - time to step up things - get serious.
ARGH.
Kilometres walked since 29 January: 166 km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 101 km
Currently reading: Ice by Louis Nowra, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 1.7 kg
After spending the day with Reindert, I find myself re-inspired, wanting to climb mountains, run races, save Africa... you name it. Reindert instills this feeling in you - the subtle knowledge that you can do anything you set you mind to. It's great, but a bit overwhelming.
We've both got a bit to think about at the moment. There are crossroads to negotiate for both of us - professional and personal. So we've spent the day talking about what to do.
I can't talk about his journey - it's his to blog for himself. But here I sit, knowing somewhere in me that I can run a marathon in Maine in October. I just have to put the work in.
Among other things.
Over lunch at a winery down the Mornington Peninsula we discussed what could be done with our lives. Here's me sitting here wanting to be the next JK Rowling or Lemony Snicket (though writing under my own pen name) wanting to know what to do next with work - which all looks bit uncertain.
Then he reminded me about manifesting - "Look at what you've done, Pand. Look at who you are now? Why aren't you patting yourself on the back? You, of all people, can do this. you manifested the trip to Spain you were longing for at your birthday last year - the one you never saw yourself taking. You've manifested your running self, the body you're proud of, a role in which you're respected. What else can you do?
When he puts it like that, it makes me thing a little differently about things.
Now, I have an immediate challenge - Looking at my tallies down the bottom of the blog, I have 33 kms to cover by the end of March to make it 300 km on foot in two months. I want to do this by the end of March. I have three days to do this.
April is 200 km month - time to step up things - get serious.
ARGH.
Kilometres walked since 29 January: 166 km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 101 km
Currently reading: Ice by Louis Nowra, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 1.7 kg
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Old Ones are Gold
I've been reacquainted with two old friends this week leading me to believe that the more you've seen each other through, the better friends you are. Both friends have seen me through some extremes.
Gareth, who's over in Australia with his family for a bat mitzvah, was about when my father died. We've known each other for nearly twenty years. I remember him coming down to Surrey to stay with me when I was looking after a friend's house and cats a few weeks after Dad had passed. He was just around the place, checking up on me, making sure that the zombie I'd turned into wasn't doing anything too silly. I don't remember anything more than the gesture was appreciated - a lot of my friends weren't too good at dealing with death at the time.
Fifteen years on, Gareth is still Gareth. He has a small pot where a washboard used to be, there's more grey in his hair that there was. The jokes are still awful. But he still has his mobile clipped to his belt, his clothing is still of your mid range department store lines - shirt tucked into his jeans, sensible shoes, nothing fashionable, but nothing objectionable either. All very comforting stuff. His quick fire mouth has been passed on to his nine-year-old daughter, who stangely has all of his mannerisms, the best of his looks and all of his guile.
Gareth's wife, Georgina, would be a close and constant friend if she lived here instead of in the UK. Her warm presence, down to earth nature and love of family have kept them together, happily married for twelve years now. I don't think I could cope with Gareth's dark side, reliance on convention and sheer bloody mindedness. Georgina and I met on the steps of the registry office at their civil wedding. We summed each other up and asked "who are you?" She was the bride. I was Gareth's - um, err - old friend (after a brief fling two years before Gareth and I worked out things were better being friends) She and I have get on like a house on fire. We're good at ganging up on Gareth - it's easy to do - we both know him very well.
Spending time with them on Wednesday night was like falling into an old armchair by the fire. It was a lovely quiet night, spend with a bottle of wine catching up on the last four years since I was last over in the UK.
I find a lot of comfort in the constant nature of this friendship. We don't talk often ,but they are always there.
The following morning, Reindert walks back in.
You are always going to bond with somebody you nearly get arrested with.
The halls of Tin Can, String and Whistle haven't been the same since he left, and I've enjoyed watching the ripple effect him being around has had on the guys around me.
Reindert's a bit of an enigma. A bit strange to look at, Popeye often calls him the "Great, bald, Dutch, white worm". Even I'll admit that Reindert is a bit odd - I mean he runs a marathon a month. How odd do you want? He also is bald, by choice, thankfully not favouring the comb over his father wears back in Holland. I don't think he produces melanin either - being a fetching shade of eggshell all year round. There is a legend around the traps that when he announced he was going to Uluru to see the rock, self tanning lotion was put into his moisturiser that he was forever rubbing into his head. The aforesaid moisturiser tube was taken away with a note left for him saying "Can't having you go to Ayre's Rock looking like Ayre's Rock...."
Having him around for the next ten days is great. I've stopped bouncing around like Tigger chanting "I've got me mate back." Things have settled back to where we were before he left.
Reindert was the one who got me into running. He was the one who said I could do a half marathon, and the one who saw me across the finish line of the Adelaide half marathon.We also took a trip to transport the Grounded Dutchman's Landcruiser back from Newcastle to Melbourne after his accident - via Parkes, Dubbo, Wagga Wagga and lastly Rutherglen - where the near arrest took place. (Don't ask - how we got the Landcruiser up to 117 in a hundred zone I do not know, and don't ask me how he blew just on the limit and I was well under...).
Many people will say Reindert is one of the most generous people they know - one of the few in senior management who is truly guiding, inspirational and encouraging. There aren't enough people like him about.
I'm still a bit amazed that he's singled me out a a friend.
Unfortunately he's been called to Sydney for business for this part of his trip - we were rather looking forward to a night at beer club followed by a meal at a favorite cheap Malaysian restaurant - then churros. All not on the diet, but it doesn't happen often. I think he's as disappointed as I am. Will just have to catch up on a visit to the wineries of the Yarra Valley on Sunday. And do the beer club, Sambal and Churros thing after work lets him out next week.
I'm just seeking comfort in the fact that some much loved people have returned. I'm glad I have people like this around. In this aspect of my life, I am blessed.
Card of the Blog: The King of Wands - an active, vital, creative man. Mastering creativity. Joy. Passion.
Pand
Kilometres walked since 29 January: 165 km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 98 km
Currently reading: Celebrity by Andrew O'Hagan, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 1.7 kg
Gareth, who's over in Australia with his family for a bat mitzvah, was about when my father died. We've known each other for nearly twenty years. I remember him coming down to Surrey to stay with me when I was looking after a friend's house and cats a few weeks after Dad had passed. He was just around the place, checking up on me, making sure that the zombie I'd turned into wasn't doing anything too silly. I don't remember anything more than the gesture was appreciated - a lot of my friends weren't too good at dealing with death at the time.
Fifteen years on, Gareth is still Gareth. He has a small pot where a washboard used to be, there's more grey in his hair that there was. The jokes are still awful. But he still has his mobile clipped to his belt, his clothing is still of your mid range department store lines - shirt tucked into his jeans, sensible shoes, nothing fashionable, but nothing objectionable either. All very comforting stuff. His quick fire mouth has been passed on to his nine-year-old daughter, who stangely has all of his mannerisms, the best of his looks and all of his guile.
Gareth's wife, Georgina, would be a close and constant friend if she lived here instead of in the UK. Her warm presence, down to earth nature and love of family have kept them together, happily married for twelve years now. I don't think I could cope with Gareth's dark side, reliance on convention and sheer bloody mindedness. Georgina and I met on the steps of the registry office at their civil wedding. We summed each other up and asked "who are you?" She was the bride. I was Gareth's - um, err - old friend (after a brief fling two years before Gareth and I worked out things were better being friends) She and I have get on like a house on fire. We're good at ganging up on Gareth - it's easy to do - we both know him very well.
Spending time with them on Wednesday night was like falling into an old armchair by the fire. It was a lovely quiet night, spend with a bottle of wine catching up on the last four years since I was last over in the UK.
I find a lot of comfort in the constant nature of this friendship. We don't talk often ,but they are always there.
The following morning, Reindert walks back in.
You are always going to bond with somebody you nearly get arrested with.
The halls of Tin Can, String and Whistle haven't been the same since he left, and I've enjoyed watching the ripple effect him being around has had on the guys around me.
Reindert's a bit of an enigma. A bit strange to look at, Popeye often calls him the "Great, bald, Dutch, white worm". Even I'll admit that Reindert is a bit odd - I mean he runs a marathon a month. How odd do you want? He also is bald, by choice, thankfully not favouring the comb over his father wears back in Holland. I don't think he produces melanin either - being a fetching shade of eggshell all year round. There is a legend around the traps that when he announced he was going to Uluru to see the rock, self tanning lotion was put into his moisturiser that he was forever rubbing into his head. The aforesaid moisturiser tube was taken away with a note left for him saying "Can't having you go to Ayre's Rock looking like Ayre's Rock...."
Having him around for the next ten days is great. I've stopped bouncing around like Tigger chanting "I've got me mate back." Things have settled back to where we were before he left.
Reindert was the one who got me into running. He was the one who said I could do a half marathon, and the one who saw me across the finish line of the Adelaide half marathon.We also took a trip to transport the Grounded Dutchman's Landcruiser back from Newcastle to Melbourne after his accident - via Parkes, Dubbo, Wagga Wagga and lastly Rutherglen - where the near arrest took place. (Don't ask - how we got the Landcruiser up to 117 in a hundred zone I do not know, and don't ask me how he blew just on the limit and I was well under...).
Many people will say Reindert is one of the most generous people they know - one of the few in senior management who is truly guiding, inspirational and encouraging. There aren't enough people like him about.
I'm still a bit amazed that he's singled me out a a friend.
Unfortunately he's been called to Sydney for business for this part of his trip - we were rather looking forward to a night at beer club followed by a meal at a favorite cheap Malaysian restaurant - then churros. All not on the diet, but it doesn't happen often. I think he's as disappointed as I am. Will just have to catch up on a visit to the wineries of the Yarra Valley on Sunday. And do the beer club, Sambal and Churros thing after work lets him out next week.
I'm just seeking comfort in the fact that some much loved people have returned. I'm glad I have people like this around. In this aspect of my life, I am blessed.
Card of the Blog: The King of Wands - an active, vital, creative man. Mastering creativity. Joy. Passion.
Pand
Kilometres walked since 29 January: 165 km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 98 km
Currently reading: Celebrity by Andrew O'Hagan, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 1.7 kg
Monday, March 22, 2010
Let's Talk About Sex
No, let's not.
Maybe it's because I grew up in Adelaide, born to a family of fervent Methodists. Maybe it's because I'm just a bit of a prude. Maybe it's because I'm single and I can't say that making the beast with two backs has been a constant feature of my life for a very long time.
But of one thing is going to irritate the excrement out of me it's when people I don't know that well start discussing their sex lives as if they were discussing their shopping lists.
Seriously. I just want to stand there with my hands over my ears and sing "I'm a Little Teapot" really loud.
It's been like this for a long time.
I have one old friend who lives interstate and I don't see that often who peppers all of her conversations with double entendres and smutty talk. You'd think rolling my eyes and groaning every time she has done this over the last twenty years might tip her off to the fact that she's making me uncomfortable - but no. Last time I saw her, on mentioning that I'm ambidexterous she asked if that meant I can masturbate with both hands? Like, what? I'm 41 not fourteen - come if it. I have asked her to tone it down over the years. It makes no difference. She's an old friend, I deal with it. And I'm grateful she lives eight hours drive away. There's lots of normal conversation in between the smut too - and motherhood has tamed her a little, thank goodness.
However, tonight, on my way to doing some study, I popped onto Facebook. An instant message pops up. Joy. It's Virgil.
Virgil, good Thunderbird name. Alas, Virgil sort of looks like a thunderbird. Well he looks like a thunderbird mixed with your mother's creepy second cousin that you have been warned about. Virgil, for all intents and purposes, has all the makings of a nice man. We met at work a few years ago. Never had much to do with him when I was there. I left that company three years ago now.
Then late last year he facebook friended me. And as you do, we got chatting. After a few weeks of chatting on and off we decided to hook up for a run around Albert Park Lake. No worries there. I've met Virgil's partner, a nice woman. Read her cards even at the company Christmas do two years running. I'm always looking for people to run with. And Sunday morning at Albert Park Lake there are lots of people around - so it's not like we're meeting in a quiet place to do anything nefarious. It's just running.
The thing I didn't know about Virgil before going running with him was that every second sentence that he produces has to do with sex. I knew from chatting that he could get a bit fruity, but the great thing about talking over the internet is you can turn it off if you have to. (BRB - phone.... and go appear offline for the rest of the night)
After two laps of the lake I knew everything about him and his partners bedroom antics and what he'd allegedly like to do to me given the opportunity. I asked him to stop with the sex talk. He continued after a break of ten minutes. I asked him once again to stop - I wasn't comfortable with it. After ten kilometres of him telling me how he liked watching my breasts jiggle up and down while I ran, I promptly made the decision not to run with him again.
The really daft thing is that when he's not being pretending to be Werribee's answer to Ron Jeremy, he's quite sweet and nice to talk to.
Tonight, over the communicator, between stories of the bedroom kind, Virgil asked if I wanted to go running with him again. I've managed to put him off until after Easter - what with Reindert here this weekend, and Easter, and the fact that I don' think I can cope with his florid descriptions of his new lover that he's boasting about...
Maybe I'm just a prude - or a glutton for punishment. Will I go running with Virgil again? Do I have to examine why I'm so uncomfortable when it comes to these matters? Do I wish the human race procreated through osmosis? Do I need a decent session with a fellow I fancy? (not a Thunderbird?)
Maybe.
Card of the Blog: Six of Swords - the divorce card. Travelling from rough waters to smooth, The Family Curse Card. Overseas Travel.
Pand.
Kilometres walked since 29 January: 156 km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 94 km
Currently reading: Celebrity by Andrew O'Hagan, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 1.7 kg
Maybe it's because I grew up in Adelaide, born to a family of fervent Methodists. Maybe it's because I'm just a bit of a prude. Maybe it's because I'm single and I can't say that making the beast with two backs has been a constant feature of my life for a very long time.
But of one thing is going to irritate the excrement out of me it's when people I don't know that well start discussing their sex lives as if they were discussing their shopping lists.
Seriously. I just want to stand there with my hands over my ears and sing "I'm a Little Teapot" really loud.
It's been like this for a long time.
I have one old friend who lives interstate and I don't see that often who peppers all of her conversations with double entendres and smutty talk. You'd think rolling my eyes and groaning every time she has done this over the last twenty years might tip her off to the fact that she's making me uncomfortable - but no. Last time I saw her, on mentioning that I'm ambidexterous she asked if that meant I can masturbate with both hands? Like, what? I'm 41 not fourteen - come if it. I have asked her to tone it down over the years. It makes no difference. She's an old friend, I deal with it. And I'm grateful she lives eight hours drive away. There's lots of normal conversation in between the smut too - and motherhood has tamed her a little, thank goodness.
However, tonight, on my way to doing some study, I popped onto Facebook. An instant message pops up. Joy. It's Virgil.
Virgil, good Thunderbird name. Alas, Virgil sort of looks like a thunderbird. Well he looks like a thunderbird mixed with your mother's creepy second cousin that you have been warned about. Virgil, for all intents and purposes, has all the makings of a nice man. We met at work a few years ago. Never had much to do with him when I was there. I left that company three years ago now.
Then late last year he facebook friended me. And as you do, we got chatting. After a few weeks of chatting on and off we decided to hook up for a run around Albert Park Lake. No worries there. I've met Virgil's partner, a nice woman. Read her cards even at the company Christmas do two years running. I'm always looking for people to run with. And Sunday morning at Albert Park Lake there are lots of people around - so it's not like we're meeting in a quiet place to do anything nefarious. It's just running.
The thing I didn't know about Virgil before going running with him was that every second sentence that he produces has to do with sex. I knew from chatting that he could get a bit fruity, but the great thing about talking over the internet is you can turn it off if you have to. (BRB - phone.... and go appear offline for the rest of the night)
After two laps of the lake I knew everything about him and his partners bedroom antics and what he'd allegedly like to do to me given the opportunity. I asked him to stop with the sex talk. He continued after a break of ten minutes. I asked him once again to stop - I wasn't comfortable with it. After ten kilometres of him telling me how he liked watching my breasts jiggle up and down while I ran, I promptly made the decision not to run with him again.
The really daft thing is that when he's not being pretending to be Werribee's answer to Ron Jeremy, he's quite sweet and nice to talk to.
Tonight, over the communicator, between stories of the bedroom kind, Virgil asked if I wanted to go running with him again. I've managed to put him off until after Easter - what with Reindert here this weekend, and Easter, and the fact that I don' think I can cope with his florid descriptions of his new lover that he's boasting about...
Maybe I'm just a prude - or a glutton for punishment. Will I go running with Virgil again? Do I have to examine why I'm so uncomfortable when it comes to these matters? Do I wish the human race procreated through osmosis? Do I need a decent session with a fellow I fancy? (not a Thunderbird?)
Maybe.
Card of the Blog: Six of Swords - the divorce card. Travelling from rough waters to smooth, The Family Curse Card. Overseas Travel.
Pand.
Kilometres walked since 29 January: 156 km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 94 km
Currently reading: Celebrity by Andrew O'Hagan, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 1.7 kg
Sunday, March 21, 2010
One,Two, Three...
The young do not have a monopoly on having fun - they may think they do, but they don't. Last night proves this. I sit here, hoarse from screaming, aching from some bizarre dance moves, a little sinusy after having to walk through clouds of cigarette smoke.
I am also euphoric.
The Pixies are still God and I am their willing disciple. I bow down, awestruck, to the brilliance of Frank Black, Kim Deal, Joey Santiago and David Lovering.
Yes, I am an unapologetic Pixies tragic.
I have always loved going to see live music, although I've never gone regularly to gigs. As I've got older, I've succombed to the perception that it's something those young things do. It might get violent. There might be mass drunken behaviour. Oh for pities sake - that's what I was doing twenty years ago, beered up, revving, out for a good dance and scream. I remember fronting to Football Park in Adelaide to see the Hoodoo Gurus, or the Tivoli to see Hunters and Collectors (still up there with my best ten gigs, evah!) and dissing the folks who went to see the B52s at the Thebarton Theatre when they were on their Love Shack tour - me the purist, had loved them since their Private Idaho and Rock Lobster days - how dare they love the sellouts.
Living in London, there were the rare concerts - David Byrne from Talking Heads, with this 45 peice Mariachi band was incredible. The Rolling Stones at Wembley Arena had to be done. I remember an old boyfriend dragging me to some dodgy Irish bands - and I ended up loving it - the feeling of just being there experiencing the music, the crowds, the general atmosphere.
When in England, I never did the festivals. Like lots of my twenties and thirties, there was nobody really interested in going with me - and live music needs to be shared. Coming back to Australia, it was a similar problem. My friend Caramel is big into Crowded House - she'd come with me to see them. Australia does good stadium shows - Robbie Williams and the Cure come to mind.There was the odd pub gig, but really, knowing I have dodgy music taste, finding willing gig goers can be a bit hard.
Things changed four years ago when I met Alice.
We sat next to each other at work, got talking and were both amazed at the coincidences. Alice is a week older than me to the day. We lived a few streets away from eachother in London at the same time. We'd hung out at the same pubs and clubs around West Hampstead. We had never met before we sat next to each other in a financial software firm in St Kilda. Alice is also a live music fanatic, and finally, I found somebody to go to gigs with. Well the occassional gig - Alice also has a five-year-old son and a husband.
So after Jason Mraz and Billy Bragg at the Prince of Wales we hit pay dirt. The V Festival. We went up to the Gold Coast to see that most revered of bands - The Pixies. Until then, they had never played in Australia. We were in heaven. Alice had already seen them at the Brixton Academy and she managed to score a ticket to a renegade concert in Northcote. I was sooooo envious, but happy to shell out the money to make the trip up north to see this mose revered of bands.
I remember thinking at the time that it was a funny mosh pit. Lots of people with the appearance of being in their late thirties/early forties, wearing in sensible shoes, daggy jeans, glasses, hair going grey at the temples, checking watches, calling home to see if the babysitter was okay. Without fail, everyone of these geriatric mosh pitters went for it harder than the young ones in the crowd. We knew every word to every song. We bellowed our never ending praise. It was the best gig I have ever seen.
So when the Pixies announced another round of concerts, I was in quicker than you could say "Debaser."
The last gig I'd been to before this was Jeff Beck at the Palais. The Grounded Dutchman and I got last minute tickets to his second concert. I have no idea how that man does what he does with a guitar, but it's a form of magic. It was one of those hot nights in Melbourne, when everything was trying to cool down and failing miserably. All you could to was sit back, drink beer and hope that something would take you away from the stifling heat. I only remember being transported to another place as this magical electric guitar music played on. GD has always said I'm funny when I listen to music. I seem to disappear as I let the beat and melody take me over.
He's right - music is like a drug to me - it's partly why I listen to talking books or podcasts when I'm in the car - other than it's too embarrasing when I get caught singing along and I tend to drift of. Talking books are much safer.
Last night was a bit different to other gigs. Alice is not having a great time at the moment. After a day which involved a few hours in a dentist chair, worrying about an imminent trip back to England to see her ailing father, her head was elsewhere. Her husband Dougall was also a bit quiet. He recently snapped his achilles tendon, so he's only just getting back on his feet. Thankfully for Dougall, he arranged a possie in the stalls, not in the floor, which really did look a bit feral. Though looking forward to the mosh pit, I think I'm glad we were up in the seats. I don't know how I'd go with crowd surfers overhead.
Festering, whoops, Festival Hall has been in existence since God was boy. Talking to some folks on the tram on the way in, this fellow way saying he saw the Roller Derby there in the early seventies. This is possibly the last time the hall got a make over. You mention the place to some and the words 'death trap' come out. At least you can't smoke in venues any more. Mosh pits have lost their danger appeal now you can't lose an eye to a lit ciggy any more. Nor will the place be torched by the but ends (though the electrics might get it in the end) But the accoustics aren't too bad - and they sell beer. What more do we need? .
Not much.
Being the magicians that they are, the Pixies delivered with buckets. Starting with a few B-sides, they went on to play the whole of the Doolittle album, end to end. Heaven. The bad day, the dentist chair, the Hell Week, a sick father and a dodgy leg all disappeared. All that existed was rock and roll, the manic movements of Dave on the drums, Frank Black at his creepy best, the etherial harmonies from Kim and Joey going hell for leather on the drums.
Alice has the advantage over me - being a good Essex girl she can whistle with her fingers in her mouth - I just have to scream. We did lots of both. We danced a lot. We got lost in the beat. I can't think why I don't do this more often.
Alice and I took bets on the encore. We knew there should be two of them. The first set was almost a forgone conclusion. The Second encore was going to be where the gems came out. Alice wanted to hear "Head On", the cover of the Jesus and Mary Chain song that they do. I just wanted to hear "Where is my Mind." And "Nimrod's Son". We got our wish. Along with "Vamos" and "Gigantic" as a third encore.
We left, amid a cloud of cigarette and dope smoke that had sprung from the crowd leaving the builidng - tired, hoarse and happy.
Today, I feel very flat. Maybe that's why they only play for such a short time so infrequently. Too much of a good thing would be dreadful.
But there can never be too much of The Pixies.
Pand
p.s. for those of you asking who the hell are The Pixies - without the Pixies there would be no Nirvana.
I give you my favourite ever Pixies song. "Where is my Mind."
I am also euphoric.
The Pixies are still God and I am their willing disciple. I bow down, awestruck, to the brilliance of Frank Black, Kim Deal, Joey Santiago and David Lovering.
Yes, I am an unapologetic Pixies tragic.
I have always loved going to see live music, although I've never gone regularly to gigs. As I've got older, I've succombed to the perception that it's something those young things do. It might get violent. There might be mass drunken behaviour. Oh for pities sake - that's what I was doing twenty years ago, beered up, revving, out for a good dance and scream. I remember fronting to Football Park in Adelaide to see the Hoodoo Gurus, or the Tivoli to see Hunters and Collectors (still up there with my best ten gigs, evah!) and dissing the folks who went to see the B52s at the Thebarton Theatre when they were on their Love Shack tour - me the purist, had loved them since their Private Idaho and Rock Lobster days - how dare they love the sellouts.
Living in London, there were the rare concerts - David Byrne from Talking Heads, with this 45 peice Mariachi band was incredible. The Rolling Stones at Wembley Arena had to be done. I remember an old boyfriend dragging me to some dodgy Irish bands - and I ended up loving it - the feeling of just being there experiencing the music, the crowds, the general atmosphere.
When in England, I never did the festivals. Like lots of my twenties and thirties, there was nobody really interested in going with me - and live music needs to be shared. Coming back to Australia, it was a similar problem. My friend Caramel is big into Crowded House - she'd come with me to see them. Australia does good stadium shows - Robbie Williams and the Cure come to mind.There was the odd pub gig, but really, knowing I have dodgy music taste, finding willing gig goers can be a bit hard.
Things changed four years ago when I met Alice.
We sat next to each other at work, got talking and were both amazed at the coincidences. Alice is a week older than me to the day. We lived a few streets away from eachother in London at the same time. We'd hung out at the same pubs and clubs around West Hampstead. We had never met before we sat next to each other in a financial software firm in St Kilda. Alice is also a live music fanatic, and finally, I found somebody to go to gigs with. Well the occassional gig - Alice also has a five-year-old son and a husband.
So after Jason Mraz and Billy Bragg at the Prince of Wales we hit pay dirt. The V Festival. We went up to the Gold Coast to see that most revered of bands - The Pixies. Until then, they had never played in Australia. We were in heaven. Alice had already seen them at the Brixton Academy and she managed to score a ticket to a renegade concert in Northcote. I was sooooo envious, but happy to shell out the money to make the trip up north to see this mose revered of bands.
I remember thinking at the time that it was a funny mosh pit. Lots of people with the appearance of being in their late thirties/early forties, wearing in sensible shoes, daggy jeans, glasses, hair going grey at the temples, checking watches, calling home to see if the babysitter was okay. Without fail, everyone of these geriatric mosh pitters went for it harder than the young ones in the crowd. We knew every word to every song. We bellowed our never ending praise. It was the best gig I have ever seen.
So when the Pixies announced another round of concerts, I was in quicker than you could say "Debaser."
The last gig I'd been to before this was Jeff Beck at the Palais. The Grounded Dutchman and I got last minute tickets to his second concert. I have no idea how that man does what he does with a guitar, but it's a form of magic. It was one of those hot nights in Melbourne, when everything was trying to cool down and failing miserably. All you could to was sit back, drink beer and hope that something would take you away from the stifling heat. I only remember being transported to another place as this magical electric guitar music played on. GD has always said I'm funny when I listen to music. I seem to disappear as I let the beat and melody take me over.
He's right - music is like a drug to me - it's partly why I listen to talking books or podcasts when I'm in the car - other than it's too embarrasing when I get caught singing along and I tend to drift of. Talking books are much safer.
Last night was a bit different to other gigs. Alice is not having a great time at the moment. After a day which involved a few hours in a dentist chair, worrying about an imminent trip back to England to see her ailing father, her head was elsewhere. Her husband Dougall was also a bit quiet. He recently snapped his achilles tendon, so he's only just getting back on his feet. Thankfully for Dougall, he arranged a possie in the stalls, not in the floor, which really did look a bit feral. Though looking forward to the mosh pit, I think I'm glad we were up in the seats. I don't know how I'd go with crowd surfers overhead.
Festering, whoops, Festival Hall has been in existence since God was boy. Talking to some folks on the tram on the way in, this fellow way saying he saw the Roller Derby there in the early seventies. This is possibly the last time the hall got a make over. You mention the place to some and the words 'death trap' come out. At least you can't smoke in venues any more. Mosh pits have lost their danger appeal now you can't lose an eye to a lit ciggy any more. Nor will the place be torched by the but ends (though the electrics might get it in the end) But the accoustics aren't too bad - and they sell beer. What more do we need? .
Not much.
Being the magicians that they are, the Pixies delivered with buckets. Starting with a few B-sides, they went on to play the whole of the Doolittle album, end to end. Heaven. The bad day, the dentist chair, the Hell Week, a sick father and a dodgy leg all disappeared. All that existed was rock and roll, the manic movements of Dave on the drums, Frank Black at his creepy best, the etherial harmonies from Kim and Joey going hell for leather on the drums.
Alice has the advantage over me - being a good Essex girl she can whistle with her fingers in her mouth - I just have to scream. We did lots of both. We danced a lot. We got lost in the beat. I can't think why I don't do this more often.
Alice and I took bets on the encore. We knew there should be two of them. The first set was almost a forgone conclusion. The Second encore was going to be where the gems came out. Alice wanted to hear "Head On", the cover of the Jesus and Mary Chain song that they do. I just wanted to hear "Where is my Mind." And "Nimrod's Son". We got our wish. Along with "Vamos" and "Gigantic" as a third encore.
We left, amid a cloud of cigarette and dope smoke that had sprung from the crowd leaving the builidng - tired, hoarse and happy.
Today, I feel very flat. Maybe that's why they only play for such a short time so infrequently. Too much of a good thing would be dreadful.
But there can never be too much of The Pixies.
Pand
p.s. for those of you asking who the hell are The Pixies - without the Pixies there would be no Nirvana.
I give you my favourite ever Pixies song. "Where is my Mind."
Friday, March 19, 2010
So if Hell Week is over am I now in Limbo?
I've got my spring in my step back.
The good food and the running and the being nice to myself is all good. Hell Week officially ended last night at 9.30 pm when Pinochet gave me one last set of 20 push ups to do before bidding me goodnight and announcing that he may be leaving the gym. Not sure how I feel about this. Pinochet has been with me through the journey of the last three years. He's seen me go from a morbidly obese couch potato who had no flexibility to the woman, toned, fast, strong, looking to attempt a marathon in six months time. Not having him around may be strange. Okay, he's a bit of a soccer playing lunkhead - but he is my friend and he helps to keep me on track. We will see what happens there.
I'm also a bit pumped as I ran to work this morning - taking the 8 km route down Burnley Street and along the Yarra. What I didn't factor in was that at 7.30 am it was 25 degrees and you could cut the air with knife - not pleasant. Ran 5 minute intervals most of the way in, not wanting to collapse from the sweat. Also got bailed up by one of my team mates who was cycling in.
Cycling and running gear are great levellers. The day they start making sexy cycling clothes is the day I will take it up. Fortunately that day will never happen. Got to the corner of Flinders and Exhibition Street on the hour, my hydration bladder empty and my thoughts set to rain - and wishing it would. At least I feel like I've acheived something today.
However, this spring in my step is there because of Reindert - or Strange Running Ex-Boss. Reindert is due back in Melbourne for work for ten days. If there is one thing that will put a smile on my face it's the return of a friend. Noisy Raymond made comment 'Ah, your other work husband is coming back - Glen Waverley will divorce you for bigamy.' I'm just pleased to have my friend in close proximity. We've got a winery trip and a few runs already sorted and he hasn't left Boston. There's quite a few people who are very happy to hear of his return. Tin Can, String and Whistle is not a fun place to be. Lots of change and movement. Having Reindert around will help soothe a few frayed nerves.
The other person to re-enter my life this week is an old friend from London, Gareth - who's over here for his neice's bat mitzvah. Reaquainting with this one will be a bit strange. He and I went out together for a few months about fifteen years ago. After, we remained friends. His wife and I get on better than he and I do - which isn't a strange event for me. Whenever I'm in London I stay with them or at least visit. It will be odd to have them on my turf this time. After living in Melbourne for ten years, this is the second time somebody has paid me a visit.
I'm just finding it strange that people are coming back - normally they leave.
The third exiting thing to happen this week - I'm off to see the Pixies at Festering Hall on Saturday. I will elucidate after the concert. Needless to say, at 41 years old, I am still queen of the mosh pit...
Card of the Blog: Seven of Pentacles: Gain from steady work, keep working at things, seeing things come to light after hard work, repetition, lessons learned
Pand x
Kilometres walked since 29 January: 150 km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 94 km
Currently reading: Celebrity by Andrew O'Hagan, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 1.7 kg
The good food and the running and the being nice to myself is all good. Hell Week officially ended last night at 9.30 pm when Pinochet gave me one last set of 20 push ups to do before bidding me goodnight and announcing that he may be leaving the gym. Not sure how I feel about this. Pinochet has been with me through the journey of the last three years. He's seen me go from a morbidly obese couch potato who had no flexibility to the woman, toned, fast, strong, looking to attempt a marathon in six months time. Not having him around may be strange. Okay, he's a bit of a soccer playing lunkhead - but he is my friend and he helps to keep me on track. We will see what happens there.
I'm also a bit pumped as I ran to work this morning - taking the 8 km route down Burnley Street and along the Yarra. What I didn't factor in was that at 7.30 am it was 25 degrees and you could cut the air with knife - not pleasant. Ran 5 minute intervals most of the way in, not wanting to collapse from the sweat. Also got bailed up by one of my team mates who was cycling in.
Cycling and running gear are great levellers. The day they start making sexy cycling clothes is the day I will take it up. Fortunately that day will never happen. Got to the corner of Flinders and Exhibition Street on the hour, my hydration bladder empty and my thoughts set to rain - and wishing it would. At least I feel like I've acheived something today.
However, this spring in my step is there because of Reindert - or Strange Running Ex-Boss. Reindert is due back in Melbourne for work for ten days. If there is one thing that will put a smile on my face it's the return of a friend. Noisy Raymond made comment 'Ah, your other work husband is coming back - Glen Waverley will divorce you for bigamy.' I'm just pleased to have my friend in close proximity. We've got a winery trip and a few runs already sorted and he hasn't left Boston. There's quite a few people who are very happy to hear of his return. Tin Can, String and Whistle is not a fun place to be. Lots of change and movement. Having Reindert around will help soothe a few frayed nerves.
The other person to re-enter my life this week is an old friend from London, Gareth - who's over here for his neice's bat mitzvah. Reaquainting with this one will be a bit strange. He and I went out together for a few months about fifteen years ago. After, we remained friends. His wife and I get on better than he and I do - which isn't a strange event for me. Whenever I'm in London I stay with them or at least visit. It will be odd to have them on my turf this time. After living in Melbourne for ten years, this is the second time somebody has paid me a visit.
I'm just finding it strange that people are coming back - normally they leave.
The third exiting thing to happen this week - I'm off to see the Pixies at Festering Hall on Saturday. I will elucidate after the concert. Needless to say, at 41 years old, I am still queen of the mosh pit...
Card of the Blog: Seven of Pentacles: Gain from steady work, keep working at things, seeing things come to light after hard work, repetition, lessons learned
Pand x
Kilometres walked since 29 January: 150 km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 94 km
Currently reading: Celebrity by Andrew O'Hagan, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 1.7 kg
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Other Side of Everything
I am standing in a line, dressed in white; waiting. The room is hot. The scent of incence is soft in my nostrils. I'm underwhelmed by the solemnity which I am supposed to be feeling. Behind me, there is the heavy breathing of a person struggling to walk. And I realise that if life hadn't turned the way it has, I could well be in the same situation.
Hell Week is nearly at an end, I have made all of my commitments, enjoyed most of them, participated with gusto for the most part and now see that I can rest soon. Well, at least relax in the knowledge I don't need to be anywhere in the evening for a while.
The meltdown of last Friday has also sent ripples into life, providing different perspectives and challenging insights. As much as I hate knowing I suffer from periods of mild depression, I'm almost grateful for the chance it gives me to look at things in my life, and make some changes. Nipping it all in the bud early just means that things get to move a bit quicker. I'm also glad, so glad, I've taken the alternative route for dealing with this. Counsellors, psychologists, dream group all keep things in check. I don't think I'd get anywhere if I was medicated - not that I am critical of anybody who takes this path - I've just fallen into the other side of depression treatment - ant thankfully it works for me.
These insights really started kicking in when I was at my mason's meeting, listining to the person behind me heavy breathing, knowing she was to be barely able to stand for the time required - I started to fret. Was I ever like that? What that what life was going to be like for me in twenty years if I hadn't remedied some of the symptoms and causes? There are a few in the group who are as large, if not larger than I was a few years back. I watch them struggle. I feel their pain - and then count my blessings.
Following the meeting was supper. I try not to stay for supper at these meetings, but there are times when it's unavoidable - like it was on Monday. Supper is lethal. I'm not great around food late at night as I really do have no willpower late in the evening. They put asparagus rolls, the best home made vanilla slice in the world, plates of backlava and curried egg sandwiches in front of me at ten pm - all of my favorite things - and I just hoe in like it's my last meal. Rather than get depressed about what was eaten, I'm learning to just schedule in another run and eat properly for the next week. I no longer get angry with myself when this happens, which now is not that often. Live and deal - it's taken me forty years to get to this. So much better than being angry with myself.
Other insights are flowing - a little harder to fix than getting angry when I overeat late at night. Things I don't know how to fix. Like how to fix being alone? What to do about work? What to do about the fact that friends are morphing and changing?
One thing I do know is that I never make firm decisions when I'm coming out of these cycles. I caught myself thinking, "Gee, why not go internet dating again? What would I put in my profile? "Young 41-year-old, emotionally crippled over acheiver seeks similar"? "Running girl, sick of running away, seeks a stable rock to hide under"? "Nice man wanted for cuddles and more. Players, mummies boys, co-dependents and ferals need not apply"? After a few minutes of pointless pondering, I got rid of this thought very quickly - don't make any rash actions in the time around these cycles. (My forays into internet dating are for another blog - depressive spirals are not the time to hash over the joys of the aforesaid mummies boys, co-dependents, ferals, bogans and the eponymous Boring Richards.)
I just know that things are coming good. The sound sensitivity is fading. I'm smiling more, talking more, getting back into life.
Card of the Blog: The Sun: Freedom, self expression, life force, clarity, optimism.
Like it.
Pand
Kilometres walked since 29 January: 143 km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 84 km
Currently reading: Celebrity by Andrew O'Hagan, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 1.6 kg
Hell Week is nearly at an end, I have made all of my commitments, enjoyed most of them, participated with gusto for the most part and now see that I can rest soon. Well, at least relax in the knowledge I don't need to be anywhere in the evening for a while.
The meltdown of last Friday has also sent ripples into life, providing different perspectives and challenging insights. As much as I hate knowing I suffer from periods of mild depression, I'm almost grateful for the chance it gives me to look at things in my life, and make some changes. Nipping it all in the bud early just means that things get to move a bit quicker. I'm also glad, so glad, I've taken the alternative route for dealing with this. Counsellors, psychologists, dream group all keep things in check. I don't think I'd get anywhere if I was medicated - not that I am critical of anybody who takes this path - I've just fallen into the other side of depression treatment - ant thankfully it works for me.
These insights really started kicking in when I was at my mason's meeting, listining to the person behind me heavy breathing, knowing she was to be barely able to stand for the time required - I started to fret. Was I ever like that? What that what life was going to be like for me in twenty years if I hadn't remedied some of the symptoms and causes? There are a few in the group who are as large, if not larger than I was a few years back. I watch them struggle. I feel their pain - and then count my blessings.
Following the meeting was supper. I try not to stay for supper at these meetings, but there are times when it's unavoidable - like it was on Monday. Supper is lethal. I'm not great around food late at night as I really do have no willpower late in the evening. They put asparagus rolls, the best home made vanilla slice in the world, plates of backlava and curried egg sandwiches in front of me at ten pm - all of my favorite things - and I just hoe in like it's my last meal. Rather than get depressed about what was eaten, I'm learning to just schedule in another run and eat properly for the next week. I no longer get angry with myself when this happens, which now is not that often. Live and deal - it's taken me forty years to get to this. So much better than being angry with myself.
Other insights are flowing - a little harder to fix than getting angry when I overeat late at night. Things I don't know how to fix. Like how to fix being alone? What to do about work? What to do about the fact that friends are morphing and changing?
One thing I do know is that I never make firm decisions when I'm coming out of these cycles. I caught myself thinking, "Gee, why not go internet dating again? What would I put in my profile? "Young 41-year-old, emotionally crippled over acheiver seeks similar"? "Running girl, sick of running away, seeks a stable rock to hide under"? "Nice man wanted for cuddles and more. Players, mummies boys, co-dependents and ferals need not apply"? After a few minutes of pointless pondering, I got rid of this thought very quickly - don't make any rash actions in the time around these cycles. (My forays into internet dating are for another blog - depressive spirals are not the time to hash over the joys of the aforesaid mummies boys, co-dependents, ferals, bogans and the eponymous Boring Richards.)
I just know that things are coming good. The sound sensitivity is fading. I'm smiling more, talking more, getting back into life.
Card of the Blog: The Sun: Freedom, self expression, life force, clarity, optimism.
Like it.
Pand
Kilometres walked since 29 January: 143 km
Kilometres run since 29 January: 84 km
Currently reading: Celebrity by Andrew O'Hagan, Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes
Weight lost since 29 Jan: 1.6 kg
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)