IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME, I SHOULDN'T HAVE LEFT YOU...

ooops. i forgot to blog.

been busy with lover, friends, family and food.



trips to kiama blowhole, brother's birthday, family outings to metro to see brother's band, korean barbeque, engagement parties for friends, thinking about the direction of life in terms of money, work, and career as well as creation.
oh creation....



i just need a good idea.

in the meantime, let's eat....




...a caprese salad with the ladies who lunch.

OUT OF THE CLOSET

I went to dinner the other night with two very hip and happening mover and shaker young women. intelligent and clever chicks who know the latest about the latest everything, the kind of woman i wanted to be when i was the same age as they are now. the kind of woman i want to be now. i felt at times intimidated and in awe and at times older and wiser and far removed.
i tried to remember the feeling i had when i was younger, hanging out with my uber smart, ambitious and successful friends who were all about the same age i am now. how they had seemed to me at the time and whether i seem like that to my younger friends now. does age provide shelter and protection or does it make you irrelevant and an oddity?
i came out of the closet about my age when asked by the friend of my friend. it feels like a dirty secret and even now i don't like admitting it. i don't feel my age. i don't know what that means exactly, but i don't feel like what media expects me to feel at this age. i am supposed to be married and with two kids and a house, yes? Is that right?
i still don't know what job /career i want and i spend a lot of time talking with friends - younger ones in particular - about dreams and what to do next. i seem to consult the young as though i was the same. then i realise that i really am not. i should be wiser and more secure and more at ease.
it isn't that i mind being this age. but i don't feel that i have done enough to deserve this number around my neck. i don't feel like i own it yet. have i been running away from it? it must be time to turn around and embrace it now. like a pair of comfy slippers. but it is such a change in mindset.... i don't know if i am ready.

THE IMPORTANCE OF GOOD ART

good art and good food certainly make a difference on one's mood. i left the hotel this morning slightly hungover, tired and world weary and i return now, almost 17 hours later entirely satiated.
a day of hard work of listening to many artists talk about their art - some with passion and love and real inspiration and others with an edge of unnecessary cool that leaves a sour taste in one's mouth. i hung out with my crew and listened to their funny stories of dropping the microphone on the head of a six foot six actor's head, and debating about our favourite tom waits songs. we drank lots of coffee and rearranged a nice but plain room many times to try and make it look ok for tv. not sure we succeeded, but we had fun nonetheless.

then off to a function honoring the contribution of an important filmmaker - who had stumbled into the cab with me and my colleague last night and whom we had driven to the door of her hotel and made sure she was home safely, and whom had seemed so drunk in an unseemly and vulnerable way and then whom when i saw her today didn't acknowledge me. i love the australian film industry... i was feeling a little exhausted and ignored as i stood waiting for the speeches, and it was only after the event, that i stood in this lovely courtyard with the likes of the moma man and our very own bob ellis discussing the importance of good art, while we all sipped on nice wirra wirra in the afternoon sun that i relaxed a little and started to appreciate where i was and what i was doing.

then off to a film. one we had all been talking about since we arrived. the buzz was electric. i hoped that i wouldn't be let down because of the hype and the friends involved with the making of this quietly anticipated masterpiece. but believe me i wasn't.

Samson and Delilah deserved the standing ovation that grew out of the rapturous emotional applause after it's world premiere here in adelaide. it is powerful and moving, so simple and yet so layered and complex. an eternity of a people discarded and left to fend for themselves combined with the delicateness of a new romance and in the end i was moved to tears, shell-shocked, distraught with the state of the world, but also strangely, somehow uplifted. i haven't felt like this about a film in ages. there was moments in the middle of the film where i felt despair and heartache that came from so deep down that i thought i would crack and fall apart. then i was confused and then i smiled. it was a beautiful, beautiful experience to have in a room full of people. the kind that reminds you why seeing a film in a cinema can be so much more than a dvd at home on the couch.

i would have been happy to go home to bed, the idea of the after party was mildly appealing, but the thought of struggling to convey the effect the film had on me while standing in a room full of industry folk didn't do it for me. plus we had dinner reservations.



auge - with the accent on the a and the cute italian waiters - was delicious... my figs divine - wrapped in proscuitto and with baked gorgonzola, the lighting too dark to photograph them, then followed by garfish and eel baccala and bortaga and a salad of fennel and cucumber was all also amazing.

i am happy. satiated. delighted. and now the couple next door are having loud sex and it feels like all is right with the world.

EASILY DISTRACTED

pesky headache from wine with dinner last night. the first alcohol to pass my lips in 12 days. i am so bad at sticking to things. but dinner was ok and good and spicy so it was worth it. fancy thai at the new spice i am in victoria st. my dining companion and i counted 13 different surfaces used in the restaurant interior design... there is a LOT going on in the room and while it is cosy on a rainy valentines night, it also is a bit distracting. the food was pretty good but expensive. rich and heavy dishes were ordered and probably a better combination could have been had, but i think i found a new fave spice i am dish to replace the ho mok that i have at the old spice, this one is a vegetarian rice paper dumpling that the two lovely ladies made for us on the spot while we ate at the bar. Hmmmmm. don't know the name but i will be back again for those.


so now i am pottering around the new flat, slightly over-hung and slightly creaky. i move from room to room and un-pack a box or do a load of washing up or move a vase or a shelving unit or a piece of art and look to see if it works better against this wall or that. nothing quite gets completed, just left half done. easily distracted. but also determinedly not stressing. i just need to look up and see the harbour and the trees and hear the birds and there is no stress.

so far today i've twittered, i've played scrabble, i've entertained friends and an almost 1 year old boy and all along i've kept being distracted from the tasks at hand - settling in, and even more pressing, doing my tax. for 2006/2007 and 2007/2008. i better do it otherwise no part in the stimulus package for me.

i am the best procrastinator around. i think i have made an artform of it. many will agree. the dearly departed used to yell and scream and wring his hands in despair at my ability to be distracted and to procrastinate. my current beau is more forgiving, but still gets very frustrated and i can see him grind his teeth under his loving smile. the thing is, i don't know where it comes from. once upon a time i am sure i was a driven, enthusiastic, focused sort of person. diligence was something my mother used to always say i had. was that a nice way of saying that i was all heart and no talent?

EVERYTHING IN ITS RIGHT PLACE

Standing at my desk, half packed boxes surround me. I have decided now would be a good time to import a whole lotta music into my itunes. fan blowing occasionally, hitting my legs, my upper body is hot and bothered, sunburnt and sticky. moving house is such fun. less than a week and i am outta here. i start to get nostalgic now. even though my new place is the bomb. big windows, sound of wind rattling through an old deco apartment. i know i am going to love it, even if it means feeling scruffy in super shiny neighbourhood. at least there will be no dog hair on the couch and no passive stoning before breakfast.

the process of unloading shelf contents into boxes stirs up a lot more than dust. there are handwritten cd burns from certain folk who don't come around this way much anymore. distinctive script and i read and could so easily weep, but it's too hot to go down that memory lane tonight. move on, straight ahead. keep on pushing. look to the burning bright future and don't look back.

it is just another way we store and log our loved ones. i can't throw out these souvenirs of a love affair. they are a record along with the sms, voicemail and photos that are locked away in an old nokia handset waiting to be downloaded to some more permanent chamber. where they may join the emails and the photos that have been printed out. a life past and a life lost.

i can't be so sentimental. or maybe i can. afterall, i am listening to ella and louis while i am supposed to be packing.
"the way you wear your hat... the way you sing off key, the way you haunt my dreams, no they can't take that away from me."

MEDITATIONS ON RETURNING

Listening to Robert Wyatt and attempting to generate a cross-breeze by keeping all doors open and the fan going, i am less than a week returned after over six away. It has all slipped back on like an old glove or an old coat. The forty degree heat seemed normal, the coffees at the new cafe up the road (hallelujah! A good cafe nearby that opens on Sundays!) felt like ones had at an old local I'd been going to for years, the catch ups with friends seemed like we only saw each other yesterday, the swims at Bronte beach seemed every day. I wonder how it is that i was away for so long and yet not away at all.

Returning is always nostalgic and full of longing and sadness for me. The goodbyes at the airport (let it be known Frankfurt airport is devoid of hidden nooks and crannies in which to canoodle with one's lover), the boarding, the timeless void you enter between customs and security check in one city and baggage collection in another, all make me incredibly melancholic. That kind of delicious melancholia that surrounds you and somehow feels like the sweet stickiness of drinking a montenegro on ice, or if i were a cognac drinker, i'd say that.

I actually longed for the flight to be longer, i needed the extra time to process the previous weeks. I wanted to linger in the air and be enclosed and confined for another 8 hours at least. Maybe it was because i was upgraded to business class and they gave me that yummy wool blanket with the stitched in cotton sheet on one side (one day i will get enough courage up to steal this away in my hand luggage). I love the blackness out the window. The sound of the engines changing gear from take off to cruising. I love the wondering what it will be like getting off the plane and seeing friends and family again. Will i have changed? Will they have changed? What have I learnt on this trip? What did i do? Where did i go? When will I go again? Because returning always brings up that question, when will i return to where i've just left?


It took me 15 years or more to return to Barcelona, so when will i next return? Will I ever walk through Park Guell again? Will i ever see the Sagrada Familia again, will i see the Placa de San Felip Neri again?





When will I see the Mercat de la Boqueria again?





Will I eat flan in a cafe across from the Jardins Doctor Fleming again?


Will I ever get to go to all the places that i didn't make it to this time? Will I return?

And the melancholia becomes excitement and anticipation as i start to plan the next trip in my head. I hear the song in my head and it feels right for this moment...
"I have my senses and my sense of having senses. Do I guide them? Or they me?"

FLUSHED IN THE FACE

Drinking and me have never quite worked out. Aside from coffee and sugar, it is the only drug that I do with any kind of regularity and it is only done to keep me from being a dull human being.

I was trying to NOT be a dull human being on my second night here in Barcelona, playing with the dancers whose tour I have crashed - yes, i be the groupie of a sound man (and a Sound Man he is) - and getting to know them over dinner and red wine followed by several shots of tequila gold served with cinnamon and slices of orange. The canela y naranja caused many a raised eyebrow in the London Bar and a smirk or two in La Confiteria, where i also broke a glass. Oops.


But this drink comes to me from a New Yorker. It makes for good bonding with people you barely know. We first did them in some dark bar in Berlin and then again in some smoky bar in Brussels. We eventually traded shots - she gave me this and i gave her Russian Cocaine in Amsterdam on New Year's Eve. Vodka and a lemon wedge dipped in sugar and coffee grinds. When we started on these the party we were at suddenly woke up and was able to match the warzone of fireworks outside.




The hangover from that night prompted a New Year's Day Yum Cha at the Oriental Palace in Amsterdam. Whereas the hangover from a night of tequila in Barca prompted a day of throwing up and sleeping. I didn't leave the hotel, I watched Hilary Clinton address the Senate Hearing, and George Bush give Blair and that weasel Johnnie their medals. It all blurred with dreams of finding the right fridge door - the bright yellow one - in a sea of fridge doors. I could barely keep down a glass of water. I listened to the street below as it woke up from its siesta and as it went to dinner and as it partied into the night. A lost day. I've had these before and they kill me, but i know that i come back from the dead and that sure enough some time again i'll be back here trying to not be so dull.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES.... 24 HOURS OF CULINARY DELIGHTS. FROM MINUS 10 IN BRUSSELS TO 16 DEGREES IN BARCELONA.

THE LAST MEAL IN BRUSSELS. A LOCAL SPECIALITY. Frietjes drowned in gravy. I tasted, but didn't order these. For me, something a little simpler was needed. Plain frietjes and mayonnaise.



WE HAVE ARRIVED IN BARCELONA. A DECENT COFFEE AT LAST. Taken at the Flea Market Els Encants Vells at the cafe frequented by the stall holders called El Palmeria. These two ladies (only one pictured- and she is making my bocadillo!) had the whole market place covered.



BOCADILLO CON CHORIZO DE PUEBLO. Heaven. So happy to be here. I am not sure why this appeals to me more than the frietjes - probably same amount of heart-attack material here, but for some reason, so much tastier. Being back in Spain for the first time since 1992 (!!!!!) makes me realise my love for southern europe. As much as I have been diggin on the northern euro vibe a lot over the past two years the life here is damn appealing.

pronounced: smark-lick

smakelijk was one of the first words i learnt here in belgium. enjoy your meal. bon appetit. i remembered it because it sounded to my dumbass ears like "smart lick" which i kinda liked given the context. it is better than how i remembered the words for "a little sleep" which was being said a lot in the context of putting an angelic 2 year old to bed after lunch. "beetje slapen" to my upsidedown ears sounded like the family was deciding who was going to take the little one out for some "bitch slapping".

But smakelijk has grown on me. i catch myself saying it randomly under my breath while on a bus coming home from the centrum if i see someone eating fries/frietjes outside in the cold.


I think the crowning moment for me though was yesterday.

A day of self-loathing, of sickness in the head cold and sickness of the heart. grumpy, tired, and over the armour of 2 pairs of stockings, jeans, 2 thermals, jumper, cardigan, gloves, 2 scarves, hat, boots and a bag of tissues, i decided to head to antwerp to get out of brussels for the day. Of course, everything takes me a while at the moment (i blame the weather and the snow, but i think it is just the lethargy from not working for a month), and i didn't actually GET to antwerp til about 4pm which left only an hour of daylight and only 2 hours of shopping.

I pounded the pavement in the sub-zero temp, looking for the purchase of a life-time in the middle of the Soldes, i visited Yohji with determination. Nothing in my size or that i liked that enough that wasn't still too expensive to consider thanks to the good old aussie dollar. A visit to Labels - last year this yielded a couple of items of second-hand Dries so at 4.50pm i thought i might try my luck. Nothing. Off to Walter to visit a friend but she was stuck in a meeting and unable to come and say hi. A couple other shops but nothing that warranted taking off the armour in order to try on. The sky was getting dark and the air icier and I felt the creeping sensation of being bad at being a girl. Unable to spend money in the sales, a failure. I decided instead to look at some Kunst - well, kind of - the Maison Martin Margiela 20 years retrospective exhibition at the Fashion Museum.

By now, I was a wreck, my face flakey from the constant nose blowing, my hair lank and oily, my clothes purely functional - I looked like i'd put myself together from the St Vinnies bins off Cleveland St. I was in Antwerp the fashion capital of Belgium and i felt like the country bumpkin dragged in from the rain. When i rocked up to the exhibition i could sense the attendants snigger and clear a path for me to roll on in.







Exhibition was functional and interesting, but not much more than that. It was six o'clock and realising i hadn't eaten since breakfast i thought i'd look for a little resto in which to rest for a mo. I looked for something around the Cathedral but feeling sorry for myself and full of self-loathing decided now would be the perfect time to try the Belgian fast food chain Quick Burgers.

Bolstered by my shamelessness and fooling myself into believing i was undertaking some kind of cultural gastronomic research, I ordered a supreme cheese burger and then waited 10 minutes for them to make it. While i watched about 20 other customers receive their meals, i again felt the self-loathing rise and bubble in my throat. What am i doing? From the counter i could see an upstairs gym across the road and lots of bouncy silhouettes of buff young things doing some kind of kickboxing/aerobics workout complete with arm twirls and delicate punches. I waited for my supreme cheese and felt my love handles jiggle with anticipation under all the armour.

Where is the burger? I bet she forgot me. My dumbass non-dutch speaking self asked again. "Oh, yes Supreme Cheese. here you are." She hands me a tray with a burger and fries and an empty cup to fill with Coke, "Mayonnaise or ketchup?". "Ketchup". "6 euro and 80 cents". "Dank U"

and here it comes....

"smakelijk".

I don't know why but it made me smile.