I always liked that bit on Saturday Night Live.

note to self: Never again buy clothes when PMSing. Cardy with one big button? err, what the hell were you thinking?

note to self: Laughing while eating marshmallows is a bad fucking idea.

note to self: Not knowing something is fair enough, thinking it’ll get you through a class on clay is just plain dumb.

note to self: Three cups of coffee before 9.30am is not a good way to go when you want to create a nice serene atmophere in the art room. OKAY KIDS OKAAAAYYYY??!!!!!!??!

note to self: Do not laugh when children are doing immitations of Van Gogh cutting his ear off and then try to reign them in again. They already know they’ve got you.

note to self: Wine does not make a bad headache feel better.

note to self: Agreeing to supervise the Art Club on a lunchtime after you already have yard duty means that you will not actually get to eat lunch that day. You are an idiot.

note to self: Stop being so nice to people or they’ll keep walking all over you. sigh.

ciao mate

We have a preoccupation with food.

How do I even begin to describe the process that got us to this simple dinner? It was months in the making.

You start with tomato pasta sauce made from scratch last January. This means buying the tomatoes from a trusted dealer (yes, you read right) – crate after crate of tight red skin encapsulating ripe tomato juice – sorted, cut, squashed, seasoned, bottled with basil stuffed in the bottom and top of each bottle, boiled in drums on an open fire, and left to cool. Months later you are digging the bottles out from the bottom of a dusty cupboard in the cellar to start the process of making the sauce. You pour, add, season again, add meat, other bits and pieces, leave it to simmer until the smell has permeated into all nooks and crannies including the bathroom and there you have your simple napoletana sauce. Others would just buy the Leggos ready made pack. Oh the shame!

During the day sometime, in a spare hour or three you prepare the filling – ricotta cheese, egg, various seasoning and parsley/spinach all combined and put back into the fridge while you concoct a smooth dough from various ingredients. You then nurture the pasta dough under a warm tea towel until it has risen and then you beat it down and roll it out again, and again, and again – pressing it against the rollers on the machine and watching it come out smooth on the other side while your hand gets tired from turning the crank on the side of the shiny pasta maker.

Then you scoop, fill, and cut the sheets to the perfect size and there you have some plain ravioli. You could probably just as easily buy something similar from the Latina fresh packets found the fridges in your local supermarket. Just add water and you’re done. Well, I suppose you could but you actually wouldn’t dare.

Luckily you’ve already gone down to the local Mediterranean supermarket where you know you’ve bought a decent slice of Parmesan cut straight from the wheel. You grate it yourself – and place it in the fridge for later. None of this packet stuff. Oh no.

Boil, drop in the pillows of ravioli, turn occasionally so it doesn’t stick, re-heat the sauce, drain, sauce, cheese…eat.

You remember a time, long ago when you were just knee high to a grasshopper, when the wine was also homemade, the sausage too – but those days are over. Some things are too cumbersome to keep doing in suburbia past a certain age. Tonight it’s only simple old lamb and pork (yes, two) and salad collected from the garden just 10 minutes ago – simple olive and salt dressing.

While you eat, everyone discusses what they ate last night, and the night before, and the night before, what others are eating, how to cook the crackling on the pork just right, how apple sauce is strictly for the Aussies and Brits, how the meal could be improved. There are constant apologies for the lack of eggs in the pasta, or too many, or how it needed just two more minutes on the stove.

You pause and everyone is on your back, Why aren’t you eating?, What’s wrong? What’s the matter? Oh Dio, you no like my food! on and on it goes until you have decided to brand yourself with deaf, dumb on your forehead. It probably still wouldn’t work.

Just another meal with your Uncle and Aunt and selected family; no biggie.

The culture shock from inside here and outside there is overwhelming sometimes. You realise that you’ve never had baked beans on toast before, an Aussie staple. You’ve never had beans from any tin. Never. Never wanted it either, if truth be told. In your family the beans were grown in the back-fucking-yard mate.

the art of not knowing anything much.

Have you ever had to instruct someone how to do something you don’t know how to do yourself? Sometimes being a teacher is less about sharing knowledge and more about bluffing it – and this year this rather embarrassing fact seems especially true.

What are the words that bridge the knowledge gap and make learning functional? This term I feel a bit like I did in my first year of teaching. There are so many things I don’t know how to do or achieve. All the mountain tops are hidden behind thick clouds. Who knows how far up they go? I’m a little terrified of not really knowing what I’m doing.

Thursday I have to teach a class on clay. The tiles we’re making will go on a mural that is going to live at the school forever. We have one lesson to get it right. No pressure! I haven’t taught a class on clay in …ooo.. NEVER! I haven’t actually worked with clay since I was in year 8 and I made a bust of a duck (yes, it was a little surreal I admit. The whole family laughed when I brought it home and it became known as ‘the ugly duck’). Can’t wait for Thursday! Go team.

I’m what you would call a learn by experience type girl. It isn’t enough to plan and theorise (though I like to theorise, often too ridiculous to mention things) – I do best by living in the moment, testing my flying skills for the first time when standing on the edge. Gee..perhaps I should have practised this before. Ahh, let’s just hope for the best. Every time I think I’ll learn from that mistake; leaving everything until there is no other choice but to plunge in, but I still keep doing it. Despite the laid back approach to life, I would be nothing without my nervous tension.

I haven’t exactly planned properly for this term yet. I haven’t even thought about that movie project. I haven’t devised proper assessment piece for the levels. I haven’t organised the art show, or the artists’ project or anything. I haven’t I haven’t. I haven’t. I haven’t. I approach it all like a clean slate. But it’s not.

Today was a good example of how I work with the clean slate. This morning, still deliberating of what I was going to achieve today with the grade 3 and 4. I knew that I wanted to do a Ken Done inspired series with one of the levels at some point, but I didn’t know what. I wanted something Australian, without it being all about the outback all the time. You know, Pro Hart died today and so Australianness and Australian artists were at the very forefront of my mind as I rubbed sleep from my eyes. Ken Done, I knew depicted Sydney and none of that seemed very relevant to me or what I wanted to achieve right now. I wanted his enthusiasm for Sydney, somehow transpired to Melbourne. This morning while looking desperately for a piece of artwork to inspire some sort of Australianness and Melbourne spirit, I came across a picture of Sidney Nolan’s Footballer.

Of course Sidney Nolan is best known for his iconic depictions of Ned Kelly, which I may revisit later in the year. But Footballer is a striking painting and since I am about all things Melbourne I saw the opportunity to trick the children into being interested about an artist while including something very Melbourne related and topical (the football season starts this week). This is truly a city which loves its football. I was surprised about how interested the children were about Sidney Nolan himself. They adored the stories I relayed (hastily grabbed just half an hour before they walked in the door, actually), of his life – his paintings – his vibrant colours and haunting story telling through pictures. I was interested too, feeding off their enthusiasm; them feeding off mine.

They were to create their own AFL picture using a few cues I had for them that were inspired by Nolan’s painting. The clean lines, the prominent footballer, the fence line, the goal post. Apart from that – they had free reign. It’s amazing what kinds of things children will come up with. The pictures were all different, amazing, vibrant – and this was before we added the paints.

The visiting artist decided to use my rushed together lesson in her own program, which was very flattering since the lesson was at best hastily stitched together with hope and nervousness. But somehow it came together. I’ve had worse lessons that take weeks from conception to birth and are still stagnant and boring. Sometimes not knowing allows us to take the journey with an open mind, and heart. I’m hoping this will happen with the clay work. It had better. I haven’t got knowledge fall back on now, do I?

What do you ever *really* know to begin with anyway? And when I think about it, there is no mountain top is there? Life is really only a series of never ending footsteps that take us closer to the end without ever taking us anywhere at all. Putting aside death: Is there ever really a finish line? We’re always constantly evolving aren’t we?

The thrilling of Miss M.

This is the story you need to remember when the well is dry. And dry it is.

You are eleven; finally beyond two hands and it is grade 6 camp. An idyllic farm near Warrnambool. There is a pool and animals that make weird noises at 5.30am. You are not a farm girl, but you love this. You love seeing the waves of muted colours outside your window each morning. You love the quiet contemplation of the gums standing straight on the closely shaved hills at dusk. The scavenger hunt they’ve organised this late afternoon is a fun idea and * the boy who thrills you is your partner; drawn out from the bottom of a sock. Fate, and you both know it.

You have spent the year watching him during silent reading over the top of your book. He sits two rows across and one desk down. At one stage he was moved right behind you but that wouldn’t do. It didn’t allow you the distance to look and wonder. Luckily he was moved away again and you could go back to watching him mouthing the words. You are the shy dork. He is the blonde sporting hero. Let’s face it, you’re still the dork – He’s probably still the stud.

You are both picked as leads in the school musical and sing a duet together. He always wants to get together at lunch time to rehearse all lines and the song. You hardly know what to say to him, he almost makes you stop breathing, stop moving, stop everything.

He tells you little anecdotes about his weekend, tries to teach you how to kick a footy (you are terrible, of course), claps your high jump achievements (you have a great scissor kick), helps you up the stairs when you hurt your ankle during gym and slaps your hand the hardest when bush dancing. A girl collects little seashells like these. The lovely things stay in your heart.

So back at the farm, you set off for the scavenger hunt. This is a team to be reckoned with, you gather small artifacts from around the farm at lightening speed. A leaf in the shape of a country. Something blue. Something light… You’re going to win. You have all the grand ideas and he has the know how of how to make them happen.

The last question stumps you especially. Something pretty. You look around at the scenery. The whole place is pretty. If only we could take a photo you muse. Maybe I can draw a picture of it... You look at * to get his opinion and find him staring at your face, smiling at you, the sky almost indigo behind him ..or we could just take you back, it is almost a whisper but the grin reaches his eyes. To this date the best pick up line you have ever heard and the last thing you ever expected to hear. umm you blush eloquently. He picks up a flower and gives it to you and grabs your other hand.

You are last back for the scavenger hunt.

Why do you choose to remember this innocent story beyond any others; more adult or juicy?
It’s simple;
You want to be *that* thrilled again. Girlishly, blushingly, tantalisingly thrilled.

Naughty Miss M.

When I was a kid I loved Enid Blyton (who didn’t?) and I went to bed each night with my cup of hot chocolate and read my book until I fell asleep. The Naughty Amelia Jane series was my absolute favourite, even more so than the Magic Faraway Tree or Famous Five.

It was about a group of toys who came to life when the boys and girls weren’t around. I fancied my toys doing that also, so it wasn’t a big stretch for my rather active imagination to see my own cabbage patch and eeyore toy doing the same thing. In the stories Amelia Jane was the ring leader and biggest trouble maker of all the toys. She was a rag doll, which explained a lot really (apparently rag dolls are loose and from the wrong side of the tracks..oh Enid, you’re a gass really!). She would rile up the other toys and convince them to do naughty, naughty things so much so that the faires would have to come and save their sorry arses before the kids came home and realised that their toys were actually alive and sold them to the local circus or something.

Mum used to say that I was like Amelia Jane, because as the older sister I would lead bro into trouble. In fact, now that I think of it I’d get blamed for a lot of things that he did, even when I wasn’t involved. When I’d say that it wasn’t my fault I’d get “well, you’re the older sister and you should look after him and make sure he’s behaving” and I’d get into trouble anyway. That’s a shitty deal – damn those younger siblings and their angel wings. Thanks mum – this explains much about the perception I have of myself as flawed in every way (save that for the mental health entry)…

I thought Amelia Jane was a little misunderstood. She knew that she was naughty but it was like a compulsion. Afterwards she was always so very sorry to have lead all the good toys astray and promised to be more like them in everyway. You see, Amelia Jane wasn’t one of those new fangled factory made toys, she was held together with the evil, evil threads of home making. Poor Amelia, you could hardly blame her. Besides she was the one who always paid the most for her crimes anyway. err..anyway

Although I was painted as a naughty Amelia Jane at home, I was an absolute angel in public and especially at school, people couldn’t believe that I wasn’t mute. I was so shy I’d run and hide behind the paisley (yeah, you read right) couch when we had visitors that I didn’t know and would have to be coaxed out of hiding with ice-cream or threats (both worked well). But I suppose if you had to twist my arm about it then I was a bit like Amelia Jane when I was comfortable. Yes, I knew as the oldest sister and cousin (that we associated with) that I could make my younger brother and younger cousins do what I wanted. Most of the hair brained schemes (“let’s jump on the couch!”, “let’s use Dad’s saws and nails to build a cubby”, “it’s not really stealing if noone knows it’s missing”, “let’s make $50 worth of prank calls”) were my brilliant idea. Hey, I was the outgoing, outspoken persuasive one (what the hell happened?) except when I was in public. Maybe I’d already been labelled as naughty and there was nowhere else for me to go.

I came across a piece of writing I wrote here, and saved as a draft. I may have posted it in lookingsideways but honestly I can’t remember anymore. I keep being reminded of it as an example of my Amelia Janeness:

My cousins lived in North Fitzroy until I was about 5 or 6 years old. When I was 2 I took my best cousin T (who was almost 2) by the hand and led her down the driveway out onto the busy road and down the street and almost under a tram. This sounds exactly like something I’d do. I probably looked like butter wouldn’t melt and my teachers wouldn’t believe you if you swore black and blue about it but I was trouble. Probably still am.. I’ve heard this story a million times. Mum was 9 months pregnant with my brother and when she realised we had gone missing she ran down Liverpool St. holding her pregnant belly with both hands and racing for Nicholson St. There we were, stepping onto the road when she grabbed us both by the collar and pulled us back to safety. I spent many years after that leading T into this forest or down that overgrown pathway. She always followed and I played on that a lot. As the older cousin by 8 months I was hard to resist. This bizarre story has been reconstituted many times, so now I have hazy memories of myself on unsteady feet waddling along the road dragging T behind me. She is wearing a red wool-knit sweater, which I have seen her wear in photos of us when we were toddlers. I don’t know whether to trust these memories or not. As I said, the story has been told and retold as folk lore until my brain has absorbed them as visuals.

You know, this entry was going to be about The Fonz. No kidding.

looking forward

trav·el
v. trav·eled, or trav·elled trav·el·ing, or trav·el·ling trav·els or trav·els
v. intr.

1. To go from one place to another, as on a trip; journey.
2. To go from place to place as a salesperson or agent.
3. To be transmitted, as light or sound; move or pass.
4. To advance or proceed.
5. To go about in the company of a particular group; associate: travels in wealthy circles.
6. To move along a course, as in a groove.
7. To admit of being transported without loss of quality; Some wines travel poorly.

I’m feeling uninspired lately. Or rather, I am feeling lethargic and low which in turn leads to apathy – which inspires absolutely nothing which then makes me feel low.

Cycles, eh?

I’ve been thinking a lot about escaping. It’s been a long while since I travelled and I’m ready to do it again. As much as I can get used to the comfort of complacency I am a girl who is in constant need of newness. New places. New thoughts. New stimulation. I want rivers not pools. The thing is, most everyone has already paired up (people are having….families folks..FAMILIES!) or is completely engrossed in their careers. Noone wants to pack up and just leave everything behind, except me. I think about it all the time.

So, do it alone you stupid wench. God you annoy me so much. I wish I could strangle you and dump you in the Yarra where noone will ever find you except the radioactive eels, I hear you say…well, I’m at that stage where I’ve only just realised that I can go to the movies alone without freaking out. The thought of just leaving alone really terrifies me and yet I think about it a lot.

I know that it can be difficult for girls travelling alone as well and stories I’ve heard from friends about travelling alone haven’t all been life affirming and happy. I’m not dumb. I know there is a double standard for men and women – travelling and otherwise. I don’t want to get caught up in a stupid situation. I guess stupid situations exist in everything huh? I also know that I always think about changing my life when it’s nearly my birthday and I get scared about things being so stagnant for yet another year. I genuinely love Melbourne. It’s my home and my love – really, I’ve been to Europe and while many of the cities are more beautiful, have more history are colourful and inspiring they are still not Melbourne – which is where my soul lives. But, still something has got to give.

It’s not Melbourne.
It’s me.

broken girl

hugs

I have a couple of friends who are weak huggers. What’s up with that? I’ve known them both for about 10 years and we’re all fabulous friends but they’re weak huggers. It’s a fault that gives me pause. Maybe they don’t have the upper body strength to carry it off..I don’t know. Though I can’t imagine that it would take that much effort. It’s a hug!

I’m of the opinion that if you engage in the hugging movement that’s sweaping the nation (followed by cheek kiss..how continental are we?) then you ENGAGE IN THE MOVEMENT! Good god, the last thing I want to do is go for the hug and end up feeling like I’ve broken someone’s bones by accidently resting my arm against theirs or violated their privacy and will have to defend myself in a court of law. If you are uncomfortable with the body contact required for hugging then just don’t hug! It’s as simple as that, really. But don’t tease us real huggers with the weak hug!

The big problem I have with weak huggers is that I feel like I’m imposing my hug on them. Sure, as far as I can tell, these huggers “go for” the hug too..but they just don’t deliver! It’s like trying to hug a feather. You know there’s something there but it’s light and fragile and will probably float away at any given moment. Are they afraid of being squashed and killed by my He-Man like powerful arms? Are they afraid of contracting some sort of germ from me? Do I smell? Do you secretly hate me?

And ultimately my mind goes here: Do weak huggers have the same weak body contact in bed? Is everything else sort of …hardly there as well?

I don’t mind the one arm huggaroo, I don’t even mind the faux air kiss (sometimes it can be hard to get your lips to eachothers’ cheeks at the same time), even the chest press is okay for some people but damn whatever it is put some oomph into it! I hate to be teased by the promise of a real hug and then coming away with nuthin’ but dissapointment.

Hugs are great. I love them! They make you feel nice. They’re friendly. They’re sexy. They’re sweet. You can get your arm around and steal someone’s wallet if you’re clever! I love hugs! Offer me a real one and I’m *there*. I like it how bodies go “squish” together! It’s cool. It makes me smile.

Weak hugs make me feel cheap and dirty. They leave me lacking and unfulfilled.

I’ve got blue balls for real hugs.

photos

Something makes me want to check the photo album. I do it every so often, looking for clues, trying to bridge the disconnect from myself that I sometimes feel. The memories are mostly sweet. Summer day photos, sometimes smiling (mostly pouting) of me in a red polka dot dress and t-bar shoes. Yellowing portraits of cousins I’ve never met and uncles and aunts that are nothing more than faces in albums. There is so much I don’t know, nor will ever know, about this family of mine. Much is glossed over and waved away with the flick of a hand “oh that’s not important”, “oh I don’t remember anything about that”. I have no idea who I am, and that’s a scary thing. How do you create a person from thin air? This could be my problem.

I run my fingers across the edges of happier times, before I was born or just after. My father with a smoke in his hand and my mother in a flowery dress holding me in her arms, in a christening gown. And there are a few others, smiling poses, hugging shots: I guess photos don’t really show where the cracks are – you smile, you put your arms around eachother – the move is a reflex. Except me, of course – who pouts with wet lips in almost every shot. Scared of the lights on the camera or crying, or just grumpy – what a difficult child! I remember being prodded and poked or tickled to smile, but I wouldn’t have a bar of it. Don’t tell me what to do! I only really smiled later, probably after 2 or 3, when I realised that’s what people wanted to see. The photos before then are very telling.

It’s the solo picture of my father I come back to most. He is young and handsome and smiling. The colours have faded to orange and black. Somehow the photo means a lot, though I never knew him then. It fades a little more each year – every time I look at it, it seems that he is dissapearing. Soon it will be a shadow on a piece of paper. I hope my recollection does him justice.

books

Even though I am now an art teacher I am still drawn to the kids section in bookstores. In fact I was drawn to the kids section even before I started teaching! I love bookstores in general – I don’t care if they are cramped dusty affairs where the treasure is in the inscription or glossy huge spaces that cater for the masses. I love the smell and feel of them – and I buy too many to even finish (I probably have about 30 on my shelf that I’ve yet to read). Life gets in the way sometimes. I almost died on the spot when I stepped into the reading room at the British Museum in London a few years ago – a circular room with floor to ceiling books. I stopped breathing. People urged me to hurry along but I stood rooted to the spot with my mouth open and knees weak. God, I’m such a dork. But I’m drawn to books – like I’m drawn to notebooks, sharpened pencils, spongey erasers and reems of paper. Yep, dork.

A bookstore is where I found myself last night; pre-movie (Capote, v.good). I was looking for some good art books that were geared towards children, but found myself mesmerized by the reading books instead. There are so many good ones. I don’t know how parents can avoid going bankrupt over them. I would insist on one of each book for my child, hard cover – reading room, comfy chair, art corner. sigh. I guess that’s what I really wanted as a child but never got. I don’t know how I ended up so interested in them. My brother refused to read but I wouldn’t let books alone. You know how kids throw tantrums in supermarkets because they want a lolly? I threw tantrums because I wanted books – but books were expensive and my mother (who took care of the money side of things) rarely let me indulge in that. I’d pick those Little Golden books up off the rack and try to slip them into the trolley but I was only allowed to have them sometimes. This was before I could actually read the words, mind you. I remember being pretty proud of myself when I finally worked out what they were on about.

In grade 2, I remember only being allowed to borrow 2 books from the school library. It was agony. I wanted more than two (which I suppose is always the case with me..I want, I want) but it wasn’t to be. Sometimes I would sneak them out anyway – it was the 80s and this was a time before sensor beeps at the door. In fact my best friend and I would go into the school library before school, unlock the back door and steal into the place at lunchtime when noone was around and pretend to be the librarian; stamping the books and swanning around. My parents would have been mortified and disowned me if they ever found out. My mum and dad were less than impressed by my devotion to books. I would spend all my time either daydreaming or with my nose in a book. They thought education was the most important thing they could offer me (because they hadn’t had it), but that I took things too far. Not reading again! You’re going to go blind! I heard it so often, I recited it back to them and added that reading doesn’t make people blind so ner! I guess I was precocious – though my school report always said ‘quiet and conscientious’ – I suppose I was that too.

That year, grade 2, I begged to be allowed to borrow from the local public library. I remember my mother being especially perplexed by my wanting such a thing. Didn’t I have a million books at home already? Why didn’t I just read them? But she took me anyway, because I complained annoyingly until she had no choice. I could have spent hours in there – but was always dragged away before I could complete my journey from book to book. The library was also where I discovered a lot of music and film. I owe a lot of my obsession with pop culture to the public library.

I haven’t visited a public library in many years. I’ve got (hundreds of dollars worth of) fines in all of them within a 20 km radius. I am good at borrowing, but not returning. So sometimes I treat bookstores like public libraries instead. I go in, I touch all the covers, flick through them and daydream. There was a toddler in the child section last night who was pointing at each word and saying lalala. Sometimes I want to give random children gold stars. I get so excited by children who love to read. It melts my heart when they can get through a page when before they couldn’t and they look at you all surprised becuase finally, it clicked and they can read! It’s the best thing I can do for a child I think – teaching them how to read – so, that is probably why I’m not going to be an art teacher forever, you know?

One second I’m sprouting about boys being idiots and then next I’m embarrassing myself about loving books. I don’t know what you must think!