I need to tell you about 'the hug'. I was sitting at the St Andrews' pub - which for those who don't know it it quite simply one of my favourite places in the world. On the outskirts of Melbourne's east, it's a beautiful little town past Warrandyte that is all rolling green hills and tall stands of ghost gums. The pub is a sprawling timber barn with a big deck and inside it's all dark timber and a blazing fire. There's a yellow helmut on the bar with a slot cut in it for donations to the local CFA. There's a sign saying how much money has been raised for Maddy, a girl whose entire family died in the Black Saturday fires. There's rows of big golden brown timber tables with bench seats and they're filled with young mums nursing newborns, dads chasing toddlers and dread-locked hippies nursing pots of beer. A guy in his fifties fills the place with the sound of his voice and his guitar. There's the smell of hot chips and people are hunched over slabs of parmigiana.
I'd settled at a table by the window after being at the Saturday market with a couple of friends - one of those impromptu "how bout coffee?" texts that turned into lunch, wine and wandering in the Winter sunshine. It was over a glass of semillon that I saw them. Funny how my gaze was pulled. Like I heard a note ring in the air. There they were, outside on the decking, embracing. I'd noticed her earlier, wearing a sheepskin coat dyed the strangest pale green. I'd turned to my friend and asked if she'd wear that colour, saying it would drain every drop of blood out of my face. I couldn't help think of minty sheep leaping in a paddock. Odd.
But now it wasn't the shaggy coat or her messy blonde curls falling softly about her pretty forty-something face that I was looking at.
It was the way he was pulling her close to him.
He was taller than her, shaved head and wearing a black leather jacket. He had a strong build, broad shoulders and a gut that was large enough to let you know he didn't work out but not soft enough to even consider he'd let himself go.
But ah, how he was holding her. As if she was keeping him afloat. Pulling her in so tight that she had to lift her chin up onto his shoulder, balancing on her toes. She didn't mind. Not at all. Her eyes were tight shut and she was smiling. I couldn't see his face. I didn't have to. The way the fingers of one hand spread out across the small of her back, the way he slung his arm across her back. The way he buried his head in her neck. Every part of him said 'mine'. Through the cold sheet of glass I was sure I felt him sigh. I saw her melt into him. They swayed a little with the moment. I heard a voice in my head say 'home'.
I leant over to my friend and nudged her, flicking my eyes over to where they stood.
"Affair? Married? New love?"
My friend considered. "Nah, not married. Or if they're married there's something going on - a reconciliation?"
That's when I saw she was holding back tears. And failing. The air seemed to hum around them a little. He let her go. She stepped back, looking at the ground. He did the same. Then they looked at each other and smiled, he patted her arm and she seemed to give herself an internal shake and rested her arm on his shoulder, but just briefly. The moment was over.
He walked inside ahead of her. She followed.
"God, she's blushing. She's all aflush."
My friend smiled and nodded. "Something definitely going on."
"Yep, that was a moment. That was definitely something. Look at her. She knows it. And look at him. He knows it even more and is trying to keep it together."
We looked at each other and raised our glasses. "To them".
"Cheers".
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Meanderings on things...
I've had a strange week - huzo'mine took off skiing Saturday nite and I packed up the kids and went over to my friend's place for spaghetti bolognaise and to watch the election results with her and another journo mate from 'back in the day'. On the way there my 9-year-old daughter Keziah asked what happens if it is a 'draw' - and I laughed and said that wouldn't happen. Mind you I also got lost in the backstreets of Northcote, ended up somehow in Ivanhoe and managed not to faint from low blood sugar. So suffice to say I'm not sure I was all neurons firing! I blame this on the damn "flu-oh-look-now-we-have-a-chest-infection-and-two-courses-of-antibiotics" vileness I had picked up.
But we finally arrived, the kids clinging to the notion that one day they'll be old enough to move out of home away from the crazy lady. I ate. And then I tried to digest the night's events as they unfolded all too quickly. No clear result. No clear result. I sat there shaking my head trying to look vaguely astute with my mates who knew all the candidates, their policies, their battles and their plans. Then I gave up because they are my mates and they'd know if I was foxing them. I have no game face. But a great thing I've found with journos is they don't mind at all if you ask questions. Even silly ones. Not my journo mates anyway. Just as well because I like to know things and I like it even better if I can be told something simply - preferably over a glass of wine.
So where did it go wrong? Maxine McKew summed it up beautifully - the ALP should have run the campaign on the fact that Australia is doing so well in the midst of that dreaded GFC. Then there's the whole carbon emissions crap. Sigh. So now it's down to the wheeling and dealing - when isn't it?
But that isn't really what I wanted to talk about at all.
I am still quite mesmerized by the radiolab podcast on Musical Language - you may remember it from the last post of mine. It talks about the music in langage, the sound of sounds. In fact if you listen to this episode you will be able to hear the sound of sound being made. Yep. I kid you not.
It got me thinking about people's voices. The voices I love. I'm not talking about singing voices - that is a whole other topic for another time. I'm talking about the everyday speaking voices of people around me. I've realised over the years I'm very sensitive to the tone of voices. I love Marcus' voice - that be huz - I can still remember falling asleep on his shoulder as a teenager as he read to me (It was The Hobbit) and feeling so soothed. If I had to choose an instrument to describe his voice it would be a cello. In fact if I think of my closest friends, male and female they all have voices that are low, rich and smooth. They have a warm timbre. I love that word - timbre. It does make me think of polished timber (I married into a family where the Patriarch was a cabinet maker - you burn wood, you build out of timber.)
When I hear the voices of my friends there is that zap of 'ah, that's you'. They of course have different 'grains' and hues but yes, there is a depth to all of their voice that warms me.
My kids have a different effect on me - their voices dance across my skin, lighter, brighter but somehow the sound of them feels right. It makes things seem right. They talk and their words flow into my blood and make my heart beat.
And then there's the laughter. The laughter is something else. That bubbles and bursts and erupts and cascades like a waterfall and makes me smile and giggle along with them. Keziah's laugh often makes me gasp in surprise at just how full of life it is.
It is music. Our music.
Like when I'm soaking in a chat with a good friend. The fantastic banter, the quiet asides, punctuated by plumes of laughter,the rat-a-tat-tat rhythm of someone you love telling you a story that defines their day or THAT moment when it ALL changed. The sighs and the smiles. And there it is. The gaps between talking. Those spaces when you both sit, holding each others hearts and don't need to say a word. Music. And on that 'note' - time to sleep.
But we finally arrived, the kids clinging to the notion that one day they'll be old enough to move out of home away from the crazy lady. I ate. And then I tried to digest the night's events as they unfolded all too quickly. No clear result. No clear result. I sat there shaking my head trying to look vaguely astute with my mates who knew all the candidates, their policies, their battles and their plans. Then I gave up because they are my mates and they'd know if I was foxing them. I have no game face. But a great thing I've found with journos is they don't mind at all if you ask questions. Even silly ones. Not my journo mates anyway. Just as well because I like to know things and I like it even better if I can be told something simply - preferably over a glass of wine.
So where did it go wrong? Maxine McKew summed it up beautifully - the ALP should have run the campaign on the fact that Australia is doing so well in the midst of that dreaded GFC. Then there's the whole carbon emissions crap. Sigh. So now it's down to the wheeling and dealing - when isn't it?
But that isn't really what I wanted to talk about at all.
I am still quite mesmerized by the radiolab podcast on Musical Language - you may remember it from the last post of mine. It talks about the music in langage, the sound of sounds. In fact if you listen to this episode you will be able to hear the sound of sound being made. Yep. I kid you not.
It got me thinking about people's voices. The voices I love. I'm not talking about singing voices - that is a whole other topic for another time. I'm talking about the everyday speaking voices of people around me. I've realised over the years I'm very sensitive to the tone of voices. I love Marcus' voice - that be huz - I can still remember falling asleep on his shoulder as a teenager as he read to me (It was The Hobbit) and feeling so soothed. If I had to choose an instrument to describe his voice it would be a cello. In fact if I think of my closest friends, male and female they all have voices that are low, rich and smooth. They have a warm timbre. I love that word - timbre. It does make me think of polished timber (I married into a family where the Patriarch was a cabinet maker - you burn wood, you build out of timber.)
When I hear the voices of my friends there is that zap of 'ah, that's you'. They of course have different 'grains' and hues but yes, there is a depth to all of their voice that warms me.
My kids have a different effect on me - their voices dance across my skin, lighter, brighter but somehow the sound of them feels right. It makes things seem right. They talk and their words flow into my blood and make my heart beat.
And then there's the laughter. The laughter is something else. That bubbles and bursts and erupts and cascades like a waterfall and makes me smile and giggle along with them. Keziah's laugh often makes me gasp in surprise at just how full of life it is.
It is music. Our music.
Like when I'm soaking in a chat with a good friend. The fantastic banter, the quiet asides, punctuated by plumes of laughter,the rat-a-tat-tat rhythm of someone you love telling you a story that defines their day or THAT moment when it ALL changed. The sighs and the smiles. And there it is. The gaps between talking. Those spaces when you both sit, holding each others hearts and don't need to say a word. Music. And on that 'note' - time to sleep.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Whisperings from the cave
I just had one of those floaty, in-between thought and daydream moments when I knew that magic was afoot - or at least giving the venetians a quiet little shake.
I am presently holed up in my office at uni. Let's just ponder that for moment. I am sitting in a corner office at Melbourne University, heaters on, door locked, all by myself. There is no washing machine to load, no bench to wipe, no table to tidy, no dinner to plan. And yes, of course Virginia Woolf is whispering in my ear - "I told you so". It is made all the more delicious because I have a thermos of chicken soup and am riding a pseudoephedrine tinged cloud of cold medication - I've entered the woods of the cold but yet to trip-trap across the bridge to full blown flu. (And with my quiver full of chemical and herbal remedy arrows, who knows, I may defeat this lurgy yet).
So I was curled up in the comfy chair - yes, the room is that big! - getting lost in Kevin Brophy's book on "Patterns of Creativity" when I decided I needed to come up for air. I put Kevin down just as he was trying to explain to my fuggy brain Aristotle's take on mimesis and it's implications for understanding poetry (I'm sure I've got that wrong but I'll enjoy correcting myself). I wandered (ooo I realised I had typed 'wondered' instead - I kinda like that) over to the computer - one of those indecently large, sleek, lovely-to-behold "apple" things that I adore and my husband loathes and there it was. Exploding into starbursts of crimson, aqua, gold and emerald. Unfurling streamers of colours, waving at me like those fantastic balloon creatures that they have outside of used car yards. I was transfixed. I let it lure me. It saturated my tired irises and sparked something off deep inside my neural pathways. I think I mentioned my love of pretty, shiny things. And look where that has led me on this cold, rainy, Melbourne lunchtime. To you. I told you magic was afoot. And then, and then, and then..... I found this. And it changed everything. And now I'll share it with you. Here it is, imagine it is in a small, turqoise box (no, not that pale blue Tiffany hue). You lift the lid, it sticks a little because the cardboard is thick and this box wants to be kept safe. And there, nestled on bright yellow tissue paper is this....now click. And enjoy. We can talk about it later.
I am presently holed up in my office at uni. Let's just ponder that for moment. I am sitting in a corner office at Melbourne University, heaters on, door locked, all by myself. There is no washing machine to load, no bench to wipe, no table to tidy, no dinner to plan. And yes, of course Virginia Woolf is whispering in my ear - "I told you so". It is made all the more delicious because I have a thermos of chicken soup and am riding a pseudoephedrine tinged cloud of cold medication - I've entered the woods of the cold but yet to trip-trap across the bridge to full blown flu. (And with my quiver full of chemical and herbal remedy arrows, who knows, I may defeat this lurgy yet).
So I was curled up in the comfy chair - yes, the room is that big! - getting lost in Kevin Brophy's book on "Patterns of Creativity" when I decided I needed to come up for air. I put Kevin down just as he was trying to explain to my fuggy brain Aristotle's take on mimesis and it's implications for understanding poetry (I'm sure I've got that wrong but I'll enjoy correcting myself). I wandered (ooo I realised I had typed 'wondered' instead - I kinda like that) over to the computer - one of those indecently large, sleek, lovely-to-behold "apple" things that I adore and my husband loathes and there it was. Exploding into starbursts of crimson, aqua, gold and emerald. Unfurling streamers of colours, waving at me like those fantastic balloon creatures that they have outside of used car yards. I was transfixed. I let it lure me. It saturated my tired irises and sparked something off deep inside my neural pathways. I think I mentioned my love of pretty, shiny things. And look where that has led me on this cold, rainy, Melbourne lunchtime. To you. I told you magic was afoot. And then, and then, and then..... I found this. And it changed everything. And now I'll share it with you. Here it is, imagine it is in a small, turqoise box (no, not that pale blue Tiffany hue). You lift the lid, it sticks a little because the cardboard is thick and this box wants to be kept safe. And there, nestled on bright yellow tissue paper is this....now click. And enjoy. We can talk about it later.
Slippery when wet...
Well here I am. Virtual swim-suit on and standing on the high-board looking down at the patch of blue that is my open lap-top screen. Big breath and dive - arghhhhhhh! Splash. Sink. Swim? And emerge in the wonderful world of the blog-o-sphere. Kick back, blow some bubbles and look around. Come on in, the water's fine!
My first blog. Scary. As a writer I tend to guard my words - the written ones are special. I seal them up in password protected files and unlock them when I'm alone, turning them over in my mind, rolling the words off my tongue, letting them take me where they will. And I'll keep doing that - it's an integral part of my bower-bird personality, the "look at that glittering thing over there, let's take it and keep it safe" thing.
My "walking out in the world out loud" self is another thing altogether. I throw words about like confetti - explode them like those party-poppers, wave them about like sparklers. Delicious, gorgous treats to be shared. Here, take some, I've got plenty more cooking. No, no, really, you have to try this - you'll adore it, promise. In other words "come play with me". Ah ha! I think I've found it - yes. It's the "come play" factor of the blog that I like. It's what has got me reading blogs like Penni Russon's beautifully whimsical Eglantine's Cake. Or the whip-smart Pursuit of Harypness - and the divine Mixed Nuts by Nadia Niaz - and yes, I'm just naming a few because quite frankly it is taking me a while to get the hang of this stuff and if I list any more we'll be here till Armageddon. Good. So yes, I wanna play. I do. Even if, just like the playground, I may get the cyber equivalent of the odd football to the head (crikey I was a magnet for that as a kid!) or step into a game I'm really not equipped for - remember British Bulldog? (An outrageously violent school yard game where you had to run from one side of the oval to another, dodging thugs whose job it was to take you down in any way they could. It was banned at Donvale Primary because of the broken bones and bloody noses - which made it even better). But hey - I've got a sneaking suspicion it may just be fun. And that is something I'm always up for. Except when I want to nap. Then I want you to pat my head, tuck me in and tell me everything will be just fine. Napping is its own kind of fun. So I am now going to do the terrifying thing and hit "publish post". And then I'm away. Let the ride begin.
My first blog. Scary. As a writer I tend to guard my words - the written ones are special. I seal them up in password protected files and unlock them when I'm alone, turning them over in my mind, rolling the words off my tongue, letting them take me where they will. And I'll keep doing that - it's an integral part of my bower-bird personality, the "look at that glittering thing over there, let's take it and keep it safe" thing.
My "walking out in the world out loud" self is another thing altogether. I throw words about like confetti - explode them like those party-poppers, wave them about like sparklers. Delicious, gorgous treats to be shared. Here, take some, I've got plenty more cooking. No, no, really, you have to try this - you'll adore it, promise. In other words "come play with me". Ah ha! I think I've found it - yes. It's the "come play" factor of the blog that I like. It's what has got me reading blogs like Penni Russon's beautifully whimsical Eglantine's Cake. Or the whip-smart Pursuit of Harypness - and the divine Mixed Nuts by Nadia Niaz - and yes, I'm just naming a few because quite frankly it is taking me a while to get the hang of this stuff and if I list any more we'll be here till Armageddon. Good. So yes, I wanna play. I do. Even if, just like the playground, I may get the cyber equivalent of the odd football to the head (crikey I was a magnet for that as a kid!) or step into a game I'm really not equipped for - remember British Bulldog? (An outrageously violent school yard game where you had to run from one side of the oval to another, dodging thugs whose job it was to take you down in any way they could. It was banned at Donvale Primary because of the broken bones and bloody noses - which made it even better). But hey - I've got a sneaking suspicion it may just be fun. And that is something I'm always up for. Except when I want to nap. Then I want you to pat my head, tuck me in and tell me everything will be just fine. Napping is its own kind of fun. So I am now going to do the terrifying thing and hit "publish post". And then I'm away. Let the ride begin.
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