Peaceful Saturday

The day starts off quietly as most Saturday mornings in the city do. Melbourne is still wrapped in a peaceful blanket and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Overlooking the Yarra River while sipping their espresso type people are already wearing their sunglasses in face of the unusually bright sunny morning. It is not quite crisp but not quite warm yet either – somewhere in between, but I’ve got the air conditioner on anyway – I like things fresh. I turn the wheel this way and that, under the bridge, through the mall frequented by those early morning sightseers and across this city which seems to be in continual refurbishment: The scaffolding like a suit of armor around many of her landmarks.

By the time I’ve finished my errands and do the drive back through the smooth quiet streets there is a small crowd gathered outside the old pub on the corner of Flinders and Russell. They are leaning against the bricks, propped with signs and giving very good scowls. Jesus invites everyone to the table one sign says. I smile thinking that it only sat 13 anyway. Other signs tell far more blatant messages condemning the G20. The police look on from behind their barricades with a practised indifference. One is learning against the water barrier with both arms, a stoic expression on his face. He’s been here before, I can tell and I do a double take because I haven’t. It’s beginning to warm up now and the sun is being filtered through the leafy part of Finders Street making bright irregular patterns on the footpath and road below. People are smiling and strolling past, some walking hand in hand and gazing around in wonder, others rushing past the NGV with their hands in their pockets. You’d be hard pressed to find a person that cares today, I think to myself.

R.O. and I catch up for lunch. She is missing the city, with its hustle and bustle. Country NSW is a long way off – and Brisbane, the nearest big city just makes her miss Melbourne more. She’s sick of the quiet, peaceful serenity of waking up to an eyeful of blue seaside each morning and perfect weather. The lack of stress is making her stressed. I think it sounds divine…for a while anyway. We share little anecdotes about our days apart. I think she’ll be back soon.

Later that evening I’m treated to that hustle and bustle when I try to make my way back into the city. Every way in has been blocked off, and the sound of sirens can be heard in the distance. A throng of disheveled people make their presence felt by shouting about fascism and capitalism – but the message gets lost somewhere beneath the drum beats. A young girl rides on her bike holding up a sign admonishing “terrorist capitalists”. Further into the city are puddles of broken glass and other bits left over from the riot. I guess people started to care after all.

The police look calm and collected, like the beast has been tamed – many of them have their hands on their hips as they patrol the outskirts of the city, many more control the traffic. I catch one of them, on his own absentmindedly fiddling with this walkie-talkie and looking at the protesters near parliament house with a wistful little smile on his face. Maybe he used to be part of that crowd, maybe he still is, somewhere inside – maybe he doesn’t quite agree with the way of the world either. I catch his eye and he winks.

The next day a newspaper reporter wonders who these hippies are and indeed where do they disappear when these events are over? “They’re” probably putting a parking ticket on your car right this minute, mate.

Speaka da Englisha muchacho!

the other side

We size each other up with nervous smiles on our faces – which is what tends to happen on first meetings. The questions I want to ask are inappropriate; my, those muscles are big – how often do you work out? and of course tell me everything about this family that no one ever talks about. The thing about these kinds of gatherings for me is that this side of my family is a mystery – every time I meet someone they are completely new, on a fleeting visit and usually unable to speak English so communication apart from hand gestures are out. One side gives me nightmares. The other side is an unknown quantity. This ‘other side’ are the side I never met, hear about, or even know the names of. Generations past of grandmothers, grandfathers, uncles, aunts and cousins I wouldn’t know how to address if I ever met them – though so many have passed on. People I wouldn’t know how to contact, even, baring names I can’t pronounce and speaking a language I only ever heard through screaming conversations in through the phone line, circa 1987. Long distance. Telecom.

But here is one of them – who has not seen my mother in over 50 years and I am fascinated by the strong familial traits he and my mother share, the eyes are the same, the mouth is the same the expressions are ..uncannily the same. The traits have been diluted through my brother and I though – hardly in existence anymore – like the family itself. They speak at each other in broken English interspersed with the mother tongue. Leaving me clutching to the tail end of a conversation suddenly turned confusing.

I listen to the nostalgic recollections about the old monastery that was ruined by the communists and the brothers who lived there and made handmade cheese by a secret recipe; sold to the French after the war. Funny stories about my uncle building unique wooden sleds and sending my mother hurling down a snowy hill at a high speed, causing her to break her nose from the crash at the bottom. Family wars over soccer teams, with team colours painted on the trunks of trees outside the homes of non-supporters just to test their ire, and of course the ever explosive diatribes about political life in post war Europe. Everything is still emotional and things get personal very quickly for the inhabitants when a country is ruined and torn apart.

I try to build a memory bank of these things so that one day I have a reference point as to who I am.

visitations

Last night I had a dream that I sat down to dinner with my extended family, cousins, aunts, uncles etc and they all proceeded to tell me the things they hated about me. It wasn’t good. When I woke up I lay there in my bed with the covers pulled up around my chin blocking out the cold morning and thought about it for a long time. The dream was quite timely considering that there have been a few family issues lately that I’ve somehow gotten involved in without actually *getting* involved. Maybe that’s the problem and I need to get *more* involved but to be honest, I can’t see the point. It’s all infighting about issues that are not going to be resolved, they haven’t been for too many years already. Anyway- the family issues have made me feel a little insecure (read: feeling like shit) and while that fact was probably the starting point of the dream, it still doesn’t explain the content.

Anyway, the dream felt so real and I know enough about myself to know that when I have those kinds of “real” dreams that it’s something I need to take note of because there is something I need to change or that something is about to knock my world about. I was almost late for school because of it. I know that dreams are important because they are what your mind tells you without all those walls we put up during waking life – and that can be pretty terrifying. I’ve got to wonder whether these mean things I heard (in the dream) are the things I tell myself or whether others really think them about me. I’m pretty hard on myself – and noone has ever told me anything to my face that I haven’t already told myself (but worse) in my head.

The dream has put me completely on the back foot. I can’t stop thinking about it.

Do you ever feel that sometimes no matter what ever you do, or say, or be it just won’t be ‘good enough’ for some people?

learning

There’s something about teaching that keeps your neurons firing. I’ve learnt a great many things from children, probably learnt more from them than they’ve learnt from me to be completely honest.

It’s been hailing on and off all day (didn’t we just come off a heat wave?) – each break brings with it a sliver of blue sky and a touch of glare behind the heavy grey snow cloud laden sky. Around lunchtime was when it hit the worst out our way. Big sultana sized globes of white ice firing down from the heavens making everything white below. I couldn’t speak over the sound of it without shouting.

Immediately 23 or so little feet bounded towards the windows and they all stood there squealing and shouting and staring at the strange sight outside. I tried in vain to round them all up again. Back to work they went, painty palate knives still in their clenched fists but their eyes kept wandering towards the windows and their voices kept rising and rising until again they were all up and walking towards the windows. Again, I round them back up like some kind of kelpie keeping the herd together and keep doing it until I am frustrated, exhausted and ready to give up altogether.

Later, I asked the v.prin how his kids were during the storm. He laughed and explained how ridiculous, loud and bouncy they were, like mine. I asked him what he did to counteract that. I just said “bugger it” and let them all go and watch the storm out the window. That’s what they really wanted to do and we weren’t going to get anything done while the storm was going anyway. After the storm we went on with what we were doing before.

Lesson #1: You can’t fight the rip – it’s too strong. Swim diagonally with it, but never against it or you’re a goner.

I spent my lunchtime in the resource room laminating art prints. Not exactly a fun way to spend your time. Laminating is excruciatingly slow business. I am the girl who is constantly running into sliding doors because they don’t open fast enough! I don’t do too well with slow stuff. Anyway, lately I can’t quite seem to get ahead of my workload. Every time I look around there is something new to add to my ever-growing list – perhaps I should stop looking the hell around then, eh? But I digress.

In this laminating process I’m mounting prints (don’t be rude) to coloured board and then putting them in the sheath (err) and sliding them through the hot, tight slit (um – this doesn’t sound quite right). Okay, it’s not as exciting as that. It’s just boring, frustrating and time consuming. M, the teacher who wrote me that nice note the other day happened to be walking past the resource room and saw me muttering to the laminator while simultaneously flipping my hair out of my eyes and giving every art print the evil eye. Obviously I am a very composed person whose body language never gives them away. She walked in and offered to give me a hand. I smiled and said no. I hate inconveniencing people. When it comes to asking for help I am decidedly male about it all (stubborn and stupid – sorry guys but you know you are – plus I am lumping myself in with you). She insists on helping me. I insist that she go enjoy her lunch break. Once again she insists and I, by this stage am completely frustrated and am ranting like Dame Looney Madwoman about how it’s important for her to have her damn lunch break and this is a one woman job blahblahblah.

She just gives me the ‘you’re dumb’ look (I get it a lot) grabs the prints and says that if I don’t tell her what to do she’s just going to start cutting them up and sticking them on any old way. I finally relent and M is left to mount the prints and put them in their little sleeve while I put them through the laminator and cut off the excess plastic. We’re talking and laughing and making jokes and we’re done in no time.

lesson #2. Sure it might take a strong character to reign me in, but its okay when that happens once in a while. Sometimes I just need to let others help me out. It’s easier and it’s funner (made up word).

oh my ..

*sliding up to me*
pssssst!
…*looking over shoulder*
Looks like you’re going to get your budget
…all of it
Yes, even the media centre. They were very impressed with your proposal. It was a good one.
But you didn’t hear it from me.
*walks away*

oh.
…fuck!!

Moo-sical Monday

If someone had asked me a year ago why I thought it was that men leave women and never come back, I would have said this:

New Cow.

New-Cow is short for New-Cow theory, which is short for Old-Cow-New-Cow theory, which, of course, is short for the sad, sorry truth that men leave women and never come back because all they really want is New Cow.

Animal Husbandry – Laura Zigman

A few years ago I read one of those chick-lit books that struck a chord. At first I laughed it off as typical paranoid woman’s business, but then the thought that though it might not be true it certainly sounded true, and felt true, and wait – men all around me kept reaffirming that it was true with the things they kept doing and saying to me, in just a ‘wink wink nudge nudge – don’t tell the girls this but I’m going to let you in on a little secret’ type of way..and I thought. Oh Jesus, maybe it *is* true:

Are men always on the look out for the “new cow”?

The book Animal Husbandry is fiction but it does reference a man called Glen Wilson (whose ideas I don’t necessarily promote as my own) who wrote The Great Sex Divide: A Study of Male-Female Differences. The book looks at how basic biological differences between males and females have had important evolutionary and social impact on the genders. And according to Glen, it all comes down to this:

The males of most mammalian species have a definite urge towards seeking variety in their sexual partners. If a male rat is introduced to a female rat in a cage, a remarkably high copulation rate will be observed at first. Then, progressively, the male will tire of that particular female and, even though there is no apparent change in her receptivity, he eventually reaches a point where he has little apparent libido. However, if the original female is then removed and a fresh one supplied, the male is immediately restored to his former vigor and enthusiasm.

And that’s that.

And that is also the starting point of the New Cow Theory in Laura Zigman’s book. Here, the main character reads an article in the science section of the newspaper about The Coolidge Effect which “describes the re-arousal of a male animal by the introduction of a new female” (click that link and take note of the male ejaculate graph). She generalises this to explain the curious and infuriating behaviour of all men who leave women for seemingly no good reason like: “it’s just not going to work” or “I have commitment issues”.

I think the premise of the theory was that men say they ‘fall out of love’ citing incompatibilities or just a general feeling that it’s not right. Which they do believe to be true. It’s not a lie. BUT really it all comes down to this subconscious biological imperative for ‘new cow’

The book goes blahblahblah until at the end something nice happens and all is resolved and explains that perhaps the New Cow Theory is just about women being paranoid: Men really do love us and want to stay with us forever even when we don’t shave our legs everyday and get a bit pudgy and wrinkly and grumpy and …they realise we are just human, just like them. Love trumps biology.

…or does it?

But even after all that I was left still thinking about The New Cow Theory. Why did I think about it? Well, I guess it’s because I keep hearing over and over and OVER again from men themselves that men are polyamorous creatures – not suited to monogamy at all (honey) – it’s nothing personal, it’s just biology, so stop trying to pretend we’re monogamous and let’s just fuck already! I keep reading it on blogs written by men. I read about it in scientific studies and it keeps being reaffirmed in the actions of men around me both in the public eye and not.

I know there are theories that dispute the The Coolidge Effect and some animals find a mate for life and indeed – if we’re thinking that women don’t leave then we’re really wrong. Women leave plenty. They also cheat. But do we cheat for different reasons? Maybe the men who find one mate for life are like the male species that mate for life – rare. And so I am left with one burning question;

In 50 years time, are we going to see any 50 year marriages? Or have all the bulls found new cows by then?

What do you think? New Cow Theory – truth or bullshit?*

Here’s some thinking music – which is from the movie Someone Like You, starring Hugh Jackman and Ashley Judd – and is the film adaptation of the book Animal Husbandry.

The song is Absolutely Cuckoo by The Magnetic Fields – and it has been the reason for my secret smile this week. It’s one of those quirky, lovable, whimsical melodies with lyrics that I’ve fallen in love with and have decided to print out and wear as a sandwich board. It’s only fair.

Absolutely Cuckoo – The Magnetic Fields

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* Or is this one of those questions that
-people in love say “bullshit”
-people not in love say “maybe”
and
-people who have been jilted say “send ‘em all to the Big Mac factory”?

You’d think people would have stopped caring by now!

To the people who are still fucking well searching for Axel Whitehead + penis + arias in google hoping to get a squizz at Axel’s enormous hot throbbing cock but instead coming up with my blog,

SATISFIED?!!!!?!?!

Love
Me

that damned fig tree.

warm/fuzzy

Isn’t it funny how the bad things that happen stick out in our head? I know for me, when things go wrong I go through my mental filofax and pick out all those things that have almost destroyed me and replay them over and over again until I feel even worse. I reaffirm how crap I am by relying on the bad memories to support my inadequacies instead of the good. But shouldn’t it be the nice things that are on file for instant replay? I have to admit, that apart from a certain notable, I am always the first in line to tear myself down.

When I was in year 12 our psychology class made warm/fuzzies about each other. It’s where you write something about everyone in the grade and at the end you have a envelope full of warm/fuzzies about you written by your classmates. Our teacher said that whenever we feel that life is beating us down we should open the envelope and read about the nice things about ourselves. Sometimes you need to be told, instead of telling yourself. It’s been 11 years but I still have that envelope. It’s not full of anything life-affirming or even deep but they do give me a warm/fuzzy feeling when I read over them and yes – every few years I do. Even though I don’t speak to 90% of those people anymore, it still makes me feel happy to read them. There are also a few cards and things from kids that I’ve kept which also are part of that ‘envelope’. Those good things, they’re there yes – it’s just more of an effort to access them than the bad stuff. I don’t know why.

Sometimes this journal is like that envelope. Every so often, I might read over warm/fuzzy entries I’ve written or come across a comment that one of YOU guys made and it gives me a little buck up. Maybe I don’t have the resources to deal with things properly, so that’s why they’re important to me – but they are. So thank you.

And here’s something for my future warm/fuzzy – just so I know it ain’t all bad, even when it feels like it is:

Yesterday, I was standing in the corridor talking to a teacher about my pop art display and feeling a little bad about what had happened with that parent when one of the kids I taught last year (the one who ranks up there with my favourite teaching moments when he finally wrote a sentence all by himself) comes up, buries his face in my middle and squeezes me tightly in a hug. He smiles up at me with his snotty little face, gives me a grin and then goes back to hugging. I totally melt. Then another kid comes up and joins in the hug. Then another. Then another. Then another. I am soon surrounded in a Georgian skirt made out of children. It made my day. I love hugs.

Then I got to the art room and M, the PE teacher had written me this lovely note about how she thought I was such an inspirational teacher and how my displays made her day and, and, and …nice stuff. So I wrote her a little card back thanking her and letting her know how great she is. Another ‘made my day’ moment.

I need to put these ones in my little envelope I think.