Merci Julie

I sometimes play that game, Who Would You Want to Play You in a Movie About your Life?

My answer: Julie Delpy. She is so incredibly talented, in so many ways. Writer, composer, actress, singer, and more recently mother. Golly.

I have her films "2 days in Paris" and "Before Sunset" on dvd and will often turn to them on a Sunday afternoon or when I'm feeling a bit unsure about life. They give me perspective. I love her poetic approach to life and the way she writes about relationships and day-to-day stuff.

I love our life

I re-discovered my 2009 to-do list.

Happily, I've achieved quite a few of these to-dos which is such a nice feeling. There are definitely more destinations to add to the list, and my work focus has changed slightly.

I've started meditating at home, doing more yoga and this week, I indulged in two glorious Chinese massage sessions. I'm feeling a bit calmer about life and work and equipped to handle the busyness of this time. I told myself I would enjoy this dry season.

Today at a cafe, I noticed an older couple near us, clearly locals. The lady said to her husband: I love our life. That made me smile.

Back in Alice

Descending into Alice Springs.

Straight red lines of road form perpendicular connections, as boundaries to miles of flat land on which waves of low bushes lie, arranged like currents in a body of water. But water is the last image conjured by this landscape. Trickles of trees line waterways, results of recent heavy rain, but these are the only signs of wetness.

A beige dam appears, shaped like a dialogue cloud. Then, the ranges appear, jutting up like pinched pastry around a pie for as far as the eye can see.

We teeter on a breeze, rocking back and forth towards the air strip, passing houses, a highway and the train line, which takes the Ghan to Alice on its journey up the guts of Australia from Adelaide to Darwin.

The town of Alice is hidden on the other side of the Macdonnell Ranges, a glimpse of which you can see peeking through Heavitree Gap.

Stepping off the plane, its cold! We're about to embark upon three days of work at the Finke Desert Race, then three days of fun, enjoying tofu burgers and soy lattes in Alice Springs before doing some wintery desert drives.

Me and Dorothy

After talking about little black scottish terriers, I am further channelling Dorothy, finding some wonderful ruby red slippers which are tickling my fancy. I spied them at the Red Cross Op Shop as I was returning from lunch one day, and scooted in to investigate, leaving M to scuff his shoes on the sidewalk and people watch. Before you could say 'Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!' I had returned, $16 lighter and holding my new red slippers. I had been thinking of buying some red ballet-type slippers for a little while and all of a sudden they present themselves!

I hope a Top End version of a twister doesn't arrive to further the parallels....

Logan

I met Logan on Fannie Bay Road. He was scooting across the road on his little legs, avoiding cars as if in a game of Frogger. Luckily he made it across the road but kept running aimlessly so we pulled over and I jumped out to save him.

M and I were on our way to Deckchair Cinema, and had Arthur in the car.

Logan was a little black Scottish Terrier. He looked a bit like Arthur, but shorter and with a bigger head. He was adorable.

I ran up to him and he cowered, but let me pick him up. I could feel his little heart beating as I held him, looking around. I immediately checked for an ID tag, nothing. For a split second, I thought we might be taking him home.

But then there was a call and I turned around to see a man getting out of a car, and gesturing that I had something he wanted.

"Is he yours?" I asked.

"Yep. I opened the gate and he bolted."

"What's his name?"

"Logan," was the response.

I handed him back.

The name Logan has always reminded me of the suburb on the outskirts of Brisbane, half way to the Gold Coast and its not a place I remember fondly.

But I will remember little Logan fondly, with the burrs in his hair and his beating heart on his short adventure in Fannie Bay. How close he came to getting hit by a car... or coming home with us....

Arthur sniffed me suspiciously when I got back in the car, and we continued our drive.

Sydney - Toxing and detoxing

At first, Jen looked nice enough. She had a pleasant-sounding Irish accent, a pretty face and a tight bottom, and gently told me to take it easy during the class as I was new.

But on entering the class room, everything changed. Friendly Jen turned into Scary Jen, a yoga sergeant of sorts, barking orders and directing the ‘lesson’ through sharp claps of her hands. I was hit by a wall of hot air and the faint yet omnipresent smell of sweat.

Bikram yoga, or hot yoga, aims to help its devotees develop their lung capacity through deepening their breathing. But immediately on entering the room, I found breathing near-impossible. And that was when I was standing still.

The room had been heated to over 100 degrees. Other participants were in various states of stillness but fairly similar states of perspiration. Each of us needed a towel to place over our mat, I assume to soak up the moisture flowing from our bodies. Newcomers were asked to identify themselves, and then told to go to the back of the room (to avoid us mucking everyone else up?) We started with some heavy breathing in quick repetitions. Everyone around me was making a lot of noise
breathing, and I felt quite self conscious emitting deep, coital-like exhalations.
Happily, Jen told us that we wouldn’t be able to drink our water until the end of our third series of asanas. That took about 25 minutes and by then I was desperate for a drink.

“Ok, time to have a sip of water,” called Jen. I broke into a run to reach my bottle which I’d placed on the floor near the wall, about two metres from my mat.
Jen stared at me.

“Put your water next to your mat,” she said pointedly. “When you move away it disturbs the class.”

The postures continued and by then we all resembled mini waterfalls, with visible streams of sweat falling from our bodies and our clothes drenched. I’m sure that being out until 3am drinking red wine at a seedy Darlinghurst bar would have contributed to my state, but I was feeling terribly nauseous. I was in pain. My face glowed red raw and seemed slightly swollen in the mirrors that surrounded me and my hair plastered to my head unattractively. I do yoga fairly regularly and considered myself quite capable when it came to the practise, yet felt thoroughly hopeless at this.

Feeling like I was going to faint, I took the cue from others and started skipping a few poses, lying on my mat to rest. Jen didn’t seem to mind, and continued to direct and clap. She told us it was better to stay with our mats if we were feeling ‘weird’ and to continue the class when we felt we could. That was just fine with me.

The class went for an hour and a half. I was so glad when we reached corpse pose.
Standing at the doorway, Jen declared, “Good practice. Stay with your mats and rest. NAMASTE!” and left with a flourish of her toned arm as the door swung shut.
Wanting to avoid the shower queue, I jumped up to go, but felt woozy and was forced to balance myself by holding onto the wall.

Half an hour later I was showered and eating a healthy lunch at a nearby Iku outlet, full of a sense of achievement. My skin felt amazing and I felt thoroughly cleansed and was planning my next visit. Reminded me of what they say about childbirth: as soon as its over, you forget the pain, and could do it all over again.

Sydney with Robert

Once the decision was made to spend my short, sweet holiday in Sydney, I promptly bought tickets to see Robert Forster at the Sydney Theatre. He was performing his first solo concert in Sydney for many years as part of the Sydney Writers Festival.

J and I had front row seats and were so close to the man himself that I could see what brand of water he was sipping (San Pellegrino, in case you were wondering).
At the beginning of the concert, he told us that about a week ago, when he was thinking about the gig, he decided to do 'Fifteen songs of Sydney'.

He then proceeded to play a suite from his back catalogue, as well as one new song, which all have Sydney references or significance.

Between each offering he told us stories behind the songs or stories of the time they were produced. These stories each had a Sydney slant, and offered a wonderful insight into the lives of The Go-Betweens and Robert himself. We heard stories of road trips with Grant McLennan, midnight walks through Darlinghurst and origins of lyrics.

The consummate gentleman with wonderful onstage presence, he was resplendent in his suit and leather shoes. He showed his finger firmly on the pulse when, with his grateful return for an encore, noted being influenced by Vampire Weekend after seeing them live in Brisbane recently. He is wonderful. *sigh*

Up in the air

Despite the fact that I adore living in Darwin, I am conscious of not being here forever and endeavour to squeeze as much out of my time here as possible. There are many places to see while I'm here, and I've collated a list of to-dos while living in the Top End. There's the road trip to WA; Bali for the Ubud Writers Festival; Gunlom Falls; and another wintery desert getaway to Uluru. So for M's birthday, I decided to give him an experience; a flight over Kakadu. We drove out on Saturday afternoon, and attempted to cross the wet roads to Ubirr but failed, so did a steep walk up Mirai Lookout. The walk hurt, yet it was worth it for the spectacular view and experiencing the complete stillness of being so high up. All we could hear was the birds and the distant rumble of a car driving through the national park. We checked into the hotel, in the belly of a crocodile at Jabiru. Then early the next morning we drove to the Jabiru airport and climbed aboard a tiny plane to embark upon a one hour flight down the Arnhemland plateau, taking in Jabiru, Nourlangie Rock, Jim Jim and Twin Falls. It was a truly amazing way to experience Kakadu in the wet season when most land-based activities are closed.

Watch this space..

Oh dear web log, how I have neglected you!

It has been so long since I've darkened my blog's doorstep that I'm sure there must be virtual cobwebs growing in it's pages and I had to think long and hard about my log in password.

But this does happen when I am inundated with 'other' writing, namely paid work for glossy magazine. That has taken precedence lately over blog and diary writing. BUT, the creative tap-tap-tapping will resume today, so am corralling thoughts in an attempt to channel more thoughtful entries for this writing precinct.

The magazine officially went to print today (I think) so it is all done and dusted.

Other exciting news includes a shortlisting for the NT Literary Awards (yes, OMG! sounds big, doesn't it?)for a travel story I wrote on a day trip M and I embarked upon to a ranch outside of Buenos Aires last year. It was such a lovely day, and I wanted to write the story and find it a home, but I did wonder if it would translate to those who didn't experience it. So anyway, it is incredibly cool that I have been shortlisted.
The awards on are 13 May.

This weekend, last weekend, today

After a busy week and late nights, I am longing for days at home, soaking up our little kingdom. Time to fooster around the house and yard, time to read and sleep and be.

This weekend holds a Valentine's Day retreat for me and my beloved. A trip to Kakadu for a sunset picnic at Ubirr (weather permitting), overnight at Jabiru then an early morning walk at Gubara near Nourlangie.

Last Saturday we visited a garage sale, spent $15 on a tent, a camping mattress, book and yoga bolster. M set up the tent on his freshly cut lawn in the afternoon while I wrote and watched him from the window. A big storm last night tested the tent's resilience, but it came out on top.

Today brought news of a trip to Alice Springs at the end of March. Will try and add a few days either side to see some more of this part of the world.

January 2010

My beloved favourite writer every, JD Salinger, passed away last week. I re-read 'For Esme - with Love and Squalor' in commemoration. The papers were full of feature articles musing on whether his unpublished canon will soon appear. Part of me would love to read every single word that the man has written, but I also feel like it would be a slight betrayal considering his refusal to publish for so many years, despite admitting that he still writes prolifically.

Spent last week on hols in Queensland to visit new flaxen-haired nephew Sam. The week was a wonderful blur of restaurants, wine, family, drinking coffee and bobbing in the ocean. We were in Brisbane for four days, then Coolum for three. Arthur joined us on the trip, and flew down in a cargo box - quite comfortably it seemed. He emerged unscathed and mostly unphased by the experience, scooting out of his box, sniffing around and lifting his leg. I was definitely more stressed for him than he was. I think I projected my own claustrophic inclinations on Arthur, afraid of being cooped up in a box in the cargo hold of a plane for four hours. But he shrugged these fears off and managed the journey with aplomb. Well, as much aplomb as a small, odd looking terrier cross can have.

Now back in the Top End. Back at work. Ready to start the year with gusto and energy. Lots of plans afoot.