Alec Clayton

 Well, the car is packed. Jay and I are off to the Camberwell Market at the crack of dawn to see if we can sell some of our unwanted good. Other than quite a bit of Jay's stuff, which has been sitting in my spare room for nearly a year, I've got a suitcase filled with office clothes, boots, CDs, DVDs, nick nacks, stationery, computer and IT cables... you name it, it's in the boot of me car hoping to be offloaded. So it's best I get this done now so I can relax when I get home tomorrow afternoon. 

Questions, as always, from Bev at Sunday Stealing. 

1. Do you put ketchup on hot dogs?

Is there any other way to have them. Mind you, we do hotdogs a bit differently here in Australia - the bun is often put on a spike to hollow it out, toasting it on the inside. Add a bit of butter and lashings of tomato sauce (ketchup) and maybe a little American Mustard (as that is the only place you put American Mustard if you're Australian) and Bob's your uncle. 

2. How many TVs in your house?

Two. One in the lounge, one in the bedroom. 

3. Do you put salt on watermelon?

Ew, no. 

4. Can you swim?

Of course. I'm Australian. We're drown proofed at six months, in toddler swim classes regularly and most of us can swim by the time we're five. It's essential as most of our cities are by water. 

5. Are your parents still alive?

Mum is, Dad isn't. Dad died nearly 23 years ago. Mum is doing well for eighty. 

6. First car?

A 1966 mint green, automatic EJ Holden named Edna. Great car. 

7. Surgeries?

Five. Two on my legs to sort out short achilles tendons as a kid. And three fairly minor general gynaecological issues which needed sorting as an adult. I've been lucky. 

8. What do you drink in the morning?

It depends where I am. Either water, a cup of tea or a protein shake if I'm at home. If I'm at the office, it's normally a large almond decaf latte from the coffee shop downstairs. 

9. Can you do 100 push ups?

From my knees, yes. On my toes, I'd struggle, but from my knees, no issue at all. 

10. Can you change a tire?

Yes, I can change a tyre (note spelling). I haven't done it for a long, long time, and the last couple of times I've got a flat I've called in the RACV (Roadside Assist / Autoclub - because that is what they are there for) but I do know how to do this. Did it a lot as a kid. Joys of being brought up in  the country.

11. Tattoos?

One. I've got a very small Chinese symbol for love on my hip. It's been there for over 20 years. I like it. I like that it's out the way. Other people's tattoos fascinate me.

12. Do you wear sunglasses?

Hells, yeah. I'm really light sensitive. I've got prescription sunglasses all around the place - car, every handbag, back pack.... The sun is harsh around here. They get worn year round. 

13. Do you have a phobia?

Yes. Huntsman spiders. Hate the fuckers. Not overly fond of snakes either. And I give birds and bees a wide birth too, but I just don't like things flapping and buzzing around me. they're not as fear-making as big spiders. Oh, and I loathe having my photo taken to the point of a phobia, but that is a long story. 

14. Do you have a nickname? 

Yes. I'm Panda to most people. 

15. Are you a picky eater?

Not really. I'll eat most things put in front of me. I'm not fond of bananas, lasagne, green beans and chick peas. I will eat them, I'm just not that fold of them. I'm also the person who will choose anything other than chocolate for dessert. Give me lemon or vanilla any day. 

Today's Song:

Movie Review: The Little Things

 Movie: The Little Things

Stars: 3 

Theatre: Crown Gold Class

This isn't a film I'd see off my own back, but it was Blarney's birthday the other week and I asked her what she wanted to see, and this was it. It wasn't really on my radar, but being her birthday, the birthday girl gets her wish. Besides it was rated M, so it wasn't going to be too gruesome or violent and the cast, with Denzel Washington, Rami Malik and Jared Leto, was not going to be too bad at all. 

I was underwhelmed by this. Looking at its reviews on Rotten Tomatoes, it seems I wasn't the only one who thought this. 

IMDB.com gives the plot as "Kern County Deputy Sheriff Joe Deacon is sent to Los Angeles for what should have been a quick evidence-gathering assignment. Instead, he becomes embroiled in the search for a serial killer who is terrorizing the city."

And that's about all you need to know. Denzel Washington is fine as the cop who's burnt a few bridges. Rami Malik is good as Joe Baxter, the troubled up and comer who works with Deacon on the case, being warned off having much to do with him after he made some controversial decisions a few years ago.

And then there is a greasy-haired, pot-bellied Jared Leto as the suppose killer. He's creepy. Really creepy, and is one of the better bits of the film.

On the good side it has a killer soundtrack (pardon the pun) and the early 90's era is depicted well. And the acting is fine, but it's really not all that much chop. The film lacks any sort of emotional pull. You don't know who to trust, who to like or what is going on. The backstory is laboured. 

There's a lot of  "did he / didn't he?" sort of action as you are kept wondering who did what and to whom. The cinematographer is dark and gritty. John Lee Hancock's direction is okay. The film plods on, but it's not of the same calibre as The Blind Side and Saving Mr Banks.

A comment on RottenTomatoes.com read, "It wants to be Se7en, but it isn't half of that." I tend to agree. It could easily have been half an hour shorter (It's a long two hours, seven minutes). It's dark and gritty and it shows the underbelly of Los Angeles with aplomb. 

But I don't have much more to say about this. It's not on my radar. It's not really my type of film and I can't really recommend it.

Ah well. Blarney enjoyed it. That's the main thing. 

And the song of the day was the first song of the film. I thought I was in for something good.

Today's song:

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

A Taste

 Coming into the city, wandering through Flinders Street station on the way to the office, the eye wanders to the concession stands, which like all food shops around Flinders Street Station, have the faint air of rancid grease, salt and misery attached to it. There's the churro shop, where you wonder whether the churros are fresh (probably not). There's a sandwich shop with a lot of carbohydrates and not much else. There's a lolly shop which seems like a sad place. There's no excitement to it, not like the one in the Dandenongs where the most stoic of adults will get all teary about seeing a favourite sweet from their childhood (Red frogs and spearmint leaves are my favourites - and licorice allsorts... the list goes on). This is a generic lolly shop. I bought a bottle of water in there a week ago and felt sad in doing this. 

Currently the buzz of the city is subdued. It's a bit better than it was before. Okay, the food court at the bottom of our building, which I've named Salmonella Central is only half open. There's a branded burger bar, a Vietnamese place which is nowhere near as generous as the one near home of the same name. There's an Italian, a Chinese and an Indian from which I'd never get anything from the bain marie, as I avoid the sushi shop as it's just not a place I want to eat at. It's a bit nasty. The ice cream place is also sad, but any port in a storm. 

Food culture really makes a place. It was lovely going back to our Book Group haunt for lunch before the little lockdown, just having a Gustosa pizza, washed down with a blood orange soda. 

There are the little treats you go out of your way to find. Some of the favourites include a rose and lychee soda with lychee jelly from a little bubble tea place at QV - I wonder if that is still there.

 Or there's the favourite bahn mi place down Victoria Street - there is a couple of them down the way, but there is only place place I go regularly. I don't really eat pork, but the chicken ones are great. It has to have all the bits. The butter, the pate, the fresh roasted chicken, the pickled veggies, the hoi sin sauce, and the roll must be crispy on the outside and just out of the oven fresh on the inside. Oh, and just a little bit of chilli. There is nothing like dusting yourself off of the crumbs after eating a good bahn mi. 

I hate to say it, but nothing beats a fresh - and it has to be fresh - banana custard donut from the servo. 

Or there is the Dry Chilli Beef in Spicy sauce at the Vinh Ky down Victoria Street, which I introduce everybody to, because it is that good. 

After my Thursday night appointment I've been popping in for a bubble tea at The Alley Lu Jiao Xiang for a lychee slushie. And yes, I have a thing for bubble tea and lychees. 

Oh, and we can't forget the experience of eating fresh mangoes in the shower, naked, because eating mangoes should be done naked, in the shower, to get the best experience of them. Any other way is boring....

Or taking in a sneaky chilli hot chocolate at Chokolait down the Royal Arcade...

I am a woman of very diverse tastes. I like to think I know where to go. 

Food gives us memories. Chilli wontons from the Hu Tong Dumpling Bar, sitting eating while you watch the kitchen staff makes them, like you do at Hong Kong restaurants. Braised pork belly from found at Red Spice Road (Now boycotted after they did a dodgy on their staff). The Mexican food at Touche Hombre washed down with a Margarita. Putting the world to rights over a beer on Ponyfish Island with a beer... the list is huge. I'm just happy eating Nandos with friends, because Nandos is the bomb. 

Today, I had a hankering for noodles. I made my way up Degraves Street, hoping, in vain, to see my favourite Nepalese gay waiter. I wonder what became of him. There was talk his father wanted him to return to Kathmandu and marry. The fact that he's as camp as a row of tents appears to have bypassed his Dad. 

But I really had a hankering for noodles - and my noodles, from the Zen Noodle Bar down Centre Lane. I wanted to walk in and ask for my standard order - flat rice noodles with chicken and hot chilli. They're excellent. They've been excellent for nearly 20 years. They've flash cooked on the premises. I'd walked down Centre Lane the other day, just to check they were still there. Unfortunately, so many favourite places have closed down over the last year. Some are starting up again.

I got to the end of Centre Lane. It was busy, but there was room to move, unlike pre-COVID days where you were elbow to elbow with every sort of Melbourne trash you could find. Students pressed in with suit wearing twinks. The Kinki Gerlinki crowd are set amongst the tourists looking at the street art. 

And when I got to the Zen Noodle Bar. it was fucking closed. It was subject to capital works, a big container was set around it with workman darting about the place. 

I was gutted. 

So my search for a substitute lunch went on. I didn't want bread. There were people wandering around with decent looking poke bowls, but when I found the place on Flinders Lane it was crowded. Besides, it would never live up to the poke bowl I had on retreat on the weekend.  Brunettis, now located on Flinders Lane, was not an  option, though the thought of one of their fancies did tick a box. But no. 

Working from the office two days a week, I've decided to buy my lunch to put a bit of money back into the economy. 

But for today, with my desire for noodles, I made my way back across the bridge, went to Salmonella Central and bought some sub-standard Char Kuey Teow. Drowning the noodles in sriracha sauce made them palatable, but they were not what I really wanted. They were a poor substitute. 

I want the memory. I want the intake of breath as you place that first morsel in your mouth. I wanted my eyes to roll, savouring the texture and flavours. 

I want to be delighted by taste once again. 

Maybe another day.

Today's Song:

The Audacity of Hope

I had Barack Obama's latest book, The Promised Land,  pumping through my headphones at work today. He's easy to listen to, easy to take in. His melifluous tone are the right side of soporific, yet the discussion is invigorating and interesting, but not exciting that it stops you doing any work. He's good to have in the ears as your working. 

He keeps using the term 'the audacity of hope,' which he explains comes from a preacher friend of his. It's the title of his second book, which I think might be on my to read list at some time in the future. 

And I've been given something to hope for. I'm hoping somebody drops out of their place at Varuna and I get to go up there for a week. 

Varuna you ask? 

What can I tell you about Varuna? Well, it's THE writer's retreat. It's the place that publishers send their recalcitrant writers to get writing. It's a place where writers hang out and write. Getting offered a place there is a big deal. They do all sorts of fellowships, courses and other things, but the thing you hear the most is of people going into residence for a week with other writers. The thing is that the don't let anybody in here. To get a place you have to submit work, plans, bios, synopses. There's an application fee. I applied for a place earlier this year and got nowhere. As one of my Faber mates said, it's $65 down the drain, but you never know - if you don't enter, you don't know if you'll get a spot. 

This time I applied for a cancellation place - and got news yesterday that my application was successful and I'm on the cancellation wait list. If somebody drops out - I'll be offered a place. 

On receiving the email, after the necessary jumping around, I emailed my Faber tutors, saying "I think I did something half good." 

One came back to tell me that this was ALL good and these places are hotly contested. The other sent me congratulations and has every faith in me and that I will get up there and shine. Both of them have spent time there over the years. To have the support of these women means the world to me. Between them they've won The Stella Prize, the Queensland Literary prize and have been shortlisted for everything else under the sun. As somebody attempting to write literary fiction, these are the people I look up to. They're my mentors and friends. 

But for me, now, I just see the audacity of hope. It's been a pipe dream of mine to get to Varuna for years. I've watched writers I admire talk of their time there. It's not only about the writing but the networking. Meeting the people who's books may come out with yours. Exchange ideas, processed, thoughts, tips and tricks. There are others you can work through the blocks with, talk about plots, relay themes...

Varuna is a long held dream. Just like getting a story into Meanjin.... don't ask. All too hard to explain. 

And then I get ahead of myself and think about getting on a plane again - it's been nearly a year since I've been on a plane. Then getting out to Katoomba, and.. and.. and...

It's a big thing. It may not happen. It's just a cancellation waitlist place.

But I have the audacity of hope. 

Today's Song: 

By Rote

We don't learn things by rote any more. If you're lucky you might be able to remember your own phone number, but there was a time you could rattle off any number of phone numbers. I remember working in London and being in a job where I was ringing counterparts all over the world. I had around ten 15 digit phone numbers on instant recall. Talk to Anja in Belgium or Mike in New York - no drama. No computer to auto-dial. Nothing but a teledex, which after a while you don't need it because the numbers are committed to memory.

Well, now I find myself having to learn something by rote. A heap of ritual for tonight's meeting. There are a lot of thees and thusses and all sorts of consonant sounds which trip over my tongue. I've been at it for a month, really trying to bed down the text for tonight. As always it will be all alright on the night, but I'm still nervous about this. 

I mean, it took me years to get Jabberwocky down by heart - and I can still do this. I have half of The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock down by heart. As demonstrated on Saturday night, I've got the lyrics of many an eighties song down. But I liked learning 80s songs.

Learning lines of ritual is HARD.

But I have a responsibility to get this right, as today's Goddess Card is telling me. I have to get this ritual as good as I can. 

Maeve

From the Goddess Oracle pack, by Amy Sophia Marashinsky, illustrated by Hrana Janto

There is something olde-worldy about having to remember slaps of  text by rote. Actors doing it all the time. 

I am not an actor. 

But I am feeling the responsibility to do as good a job as I can at this.

Wish me luck. I go on in three hours. 

Today's Song: 

Sheela Na Gig

I would like to get Cardi B's song WAP out of my head. You've not heard about WAP? Ah, what can I say? It got played at the retreat and it became a bit of an anthem over the retreat weekend, but that was to be expected. You're amongst a group of strong feminine feminist personalities who take their lives and run with it you're going to start grinding, twerking  and singing the eye popping lyrics and laughing. Sure, this was among a group of women of strong character. I can't twerk to save my life, but I'm good for a grind. And sing about women's sexual empowerment - well why the hell not!

I'm still processing the retreat, and from experience, this will take a while. 

What is coming to me is the joys of being a crone, something I never thought I would say?

Crone, you ask.

Well, the online dictionary states that a crone is 'and ugly old woman', which is selling out crones bigtime. 

For me, the crone is the third stage of womanhood, the state of being free from all of the crap you put you with in your late teens, twenties and thirties.  In New Age and feminist spiritual circles, a "Croning" is a ritual rite of passage into an era of wisdom, freedom, and personal power. I like this interpretation of the word. 

But back to Cardi B and her chant of an anthem, the thought about singing a song which is a celebration of women's sexuality, in some of the crassest language is all a bit foreign to me. I mean, celebrate your sexuality? Really. Love you body? You can do that? You mean the body that the universe has provided me? A body which now it cannot provide children doesn't really have a purpose in the world except for transporting my essence around. 

As a woman, I've always had a difficult relationship with my body, and indeed, my sexuality. So to be around others, who appear to have less of fraught relationship is refreshing. Singing along with gay abandon to WAP felt like a female equivalent of a group of men singing football chants, but where the men often sound tuneless and regimented, this felt very primal. If I'm honest, it was bloody enjoyable. 

On the other side of things, watching the weekend, watching the older women, you see the other side of things. Age ravages us - it runs rampant over our selves and our souls until we are spent, which is where Sheila Na Gig comes into play. 

Sheila Na Gig 

From the Goddess Oracle pack, by Amy Sophia Marashinsky, illustrated by Hrana Janto

\

I'm starting to embrace cronedom, although it's an evolutionary process. HRT is staving some of this off too, and this is also fine. Having a chat to a GP this weekend, we talked of the freedom it gives. It allows you to be 'you'. You're far less hot (temperature wise), itchy, grumpy, tired, flabby, psycho and dry. The seven dwarfs of menopause. You get to reclaim your vagina. As one GP told a friend of mine, HRT will make her vagina meaty again. That it takes away the feeling that your sex organs have turned into a vice is reason enough consider it. That it may take off a few years at the end of you life - as the GP and I agreed, what's the difference between 85 and 90? Enjoy the life you have - and sex, comfort and desirability are all part of this. 

Because really, do we want to end up like Sheila here, opening herself up after being sucked dry. 

Talking of being sucked dry, we then have the Diana of Ephesus. 

Diana, the huntress, the provider is found here in Ephesus, with a gathering of pendulus breasts, expected to feed the world. Talk about sucked dry indeed. Here, Diana looks stoic, but what is really behind her eyes.

I think it should be more like this:

This being a woman thing is hard. 

Far too many aspects to juggle, too many societal judgements and expectations.

Sometimes it just feels right to sing along to WAP, grinding your hips with the group, laughing with abandon, wishing you knew this feeling 30 years ago. 

...Tie me up like I'm surprised

Let's roleplay, I wear a disguise

I want you to park that big Mack truck right in this little garage

Make it cream, make me scream

Out in public, make a scene

I don't cook, I don't clean

But let me tell you, I got this ring (ayy, ayy)...

Today's Song: 

February Check In - March Goals

 I'm still recovering from the weekend away at the Gunnas Writer's Retreat, which was as fantastic as it was exhausting. This means getting this done is hard asd I'd rather be in bed reading a book. 

Anyway, here's how last month's goals went.

At least half an hour of novel writing a day

Nope, didn't happen, but I do think the writer's retreat has got me back on track again. 

10000 Steps every day.

Although not perfect, I did manage this 4-5 days a week during February.

Read four books over the month

I get a nearly for this one. I finished:

• Hamnet by Maggie O'Farrell
• The Commitments by Paddy Doyle
• The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje

And I'm about halfway through The Animals of that Country by Laura Jean McKay and I've just started Barack Obama's A Promised Land.  Did okay on this one. 

No takeaway

Takeaway consumption went down, but it wasn't obliterated. 

Finish the painting.

Yeah, nah. I have a deadline now as the landlord has said the floorboards will be going down in the next few weeks. 

Be in bed by midnight

This one I did well on - I missed a few days, but as a rule I was climbing into bed by 11.30. Happy about this, it's a good habit to get into. 

And the goals for March:

Finish the f*cking painting

Now that the floorboards have been confirmed - and there is a bit of urgency to this. At least there's a long weekend next weekend. 

Read four books

I like this goal, keeps me reading and I like it. 

Work on the novel a couple of times a week

I think I've got my impetus back from the Writer's Retreat. We call it Vitamin Dev, an existential kick up the arse from Catherine Deveny. Long may it last. 

Minimise discretionary spending

Partly because my car registration is due soon, partly because I want to save a bit, but I want to spot my bad habit of buying crap on the internet. Also, as Jay and I are having a stall at the Camberwell Markets next Sunday to get rid of some crap and hopefully make a few dollars. 

The March Metamucil Challenge

Metamucil is good for you. It cleans out the pipes. I want to see what a daily dose does for me. Who knows. 

One Lindt Ball a day

Our trivia team won the 80s Trivia Quiz at the retreat. Along with another coffee mug, the team won a big bag of Lindt Balls. I've got 30 of the buggers in my fridge. Tried giving them away, but to no avail. So rather than scoff the lot over a week, I've shoved them in the freezer and I can have one a day. This is very unlike me. 

That will do. I'm being kind to myself for this month. See what comes of it. 

Today's song: