'92 Vintage

Like a lot of people my age, I spent a lot of time listening to The Cure when I was younger. 

On a whim the other day, I pulled out their Wish album. Sometimes, there's nothing like listening to that album and feeling the intensity of being sixteen all over again. In particular, From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea. It's probably my favourite song of theirs, and twenty years later, I can still listen to it repeatedly. Everything about that song is perfect - the soaring music, the painful lyrics. It gets me every single time. Musical taste is a subjective affair, but I can't imagine how any person with a beating heart could not love this song.

Ah, but I still have so many other Cure songs that I love to revisit from time to time.

If I had to pick a single year that represents my youth, and sparked a love for the bands I still listen to today, it would be 1992. That year began with me heavily into U2, but before long I found myself completely immersed in Nirvana, Pearl Jam (a reason why Seattle has been on my radar for such a long time - although I never imagined I'd be living there one day), Red Hot Chili Peppers, The Smashing Pumpkins, R.E.M. and The Cure.

I like to think that - back in the day - I rocked the floral baby doll dresses or long flowing skirts, paired with either Doc Marten boots or Converse chucks, along with the best of them. I never went goth but my father used to delight in teasing me, telling me I looked "like a Greek widow". Instead, the grunge style had my full attention as a teenager, and I'm starting to see teenagers and students wearing green hair and Converse again, in the true twenty-year recycle of trends. That is what makes me feel old... 

Money Money Money

Have I mentioned how much I love money?

I don't mean in the sense of money being a tool to obtain food, shelter, clothing, and - if you're lucky - pretty things to admire.

What I am referring to is the weight of coins; the crinkle of notes. Germophobes will disagree with me, but instead of worrying about the dirt on money, I tend to wonder about the other lives that have been touched briefly by the same coins or notes that pass into my possession.

People sometimes say, if these walls could talk. Well, I'm pretty sure that the average piece of currency must have witnessed a great story or three... or at least overheard some - through their owners' purses, wallets, and pockets.

My one burst of doing something useful today was strictly reserved for packing. Today's target was a large bookcase, and the first thing I pulled down was a wooden box. It was a gift from a friend when J and I got married in London. Needless to say - as with our cat and dragon - this box has been around.

I opened it slowly - like the treasure box it is - and was a little sad to realise that the contents were still safely wrapped in butcher's paper from when we moved to LA, more than two years ago. Somehow, I'd happily put the box on the display, but never gotten around to freeing the contents inside.

The treasure inside consisted mostly of money that I'd collected during my globetrotting days - leftover coins and notes, most of them too pretty to let go of. I never really bought souvenirs. My mementos are basically photos; coins and notes; and used ticket stubs from various foreign public transport systems (okay, that last collection makes me sound like a hoarder, but to this day I use them as bookmarks and have even - in a crafty fit - made a collaged canvas with them).

Today, I had fun letting the coins trickle through my fingers, pirate-style. I tried to straighten some of the more crumpled notes, and admired their colours. I showed the money to the Faery, and talked about which countries they came from. She was immediately drawn to a Swedish hundred kronor note - an observation that wasn't lost on me, given the Scandinavian name she has.

What I love most about foreign notes are the different colours. I have to say (a couple of years into using it) that American money is dull. I miss being able to tell - at a glance - exactly what denominations are in my purse. If I'm distracted, it is too easy to hand over the wrong note. Maybe it's just me being a ditz, though.

Best of all, I found an extra special treasure in the box that I'd been thinking of lately, and wasn't sure which 'safe' place I'd tucked it into. A treasure which could not be bought for all the colourful money in the world... but it deserves a post of it's own, so I'll save that for another day.

Remembering, two

My baby just turned two. No longer a baby, but a sweetly crazy toddler who is morphing into an even sweeter little girl every day.

The day before her birthday was Sunday, so we threw a tea party for her and the smaller kids who live nearby. I've basically had zero experience putting a kids party together (sadly for the Faery, this is very much true - we owe her a few 'proper' parties by now) so I was happily surprised at how well it all came together - especially as it was something I'd only thought up and put together over a few days prior to the party. It was fun introducing our American friends to fairy bread - a staple for every Australian child's birthday party.

The loveliest part was the opportunity it gave J and I to get to catch up with some of the other parents. It brought home to us that we're very lucky for the little community we have going in our apartment complex.

Once the day was over, my belly full of cake and pastries, and the girls were fast asleep, I stumbled across some online birth stories - quite by accident, but perfect timing. I hadn't really read any since I was pregnant, so I allowed myself to read a few... and remember.

I remembered how drawn out the labour was with Miss Pie. How it hurt like nothing else. How relentless the contractions were, on top of one another. How wonderful the midwife was, with her soothing Jamaican accent.

I remembered not wanting the heavier drugs, and how I welcomed the nitrous oxide. Sweet, sweet gas, that became my best friend.

I remembered how fantastic J was, and how I felt like I'd have broken in two if he hadn't been there. How deeply primal it was.

I remembered feeling more confident this time round, knowing I'd done it before and could do it again - even if I did want to cancel the whole thing and go home.

I remembered the relief as she emerged. Out. In this world. Pain subsiding. Hello, look at you! You're so beautiful... and so... big? 

She was a whopping 4.44 kg (9 lb 13oz). That's right, I birthed a just-under ten-pound baby, with nothing but gas. I don't normally like to brag... but I wear this particular badge with pride. No apologies. Sure, I got lucky that things progressed in a fairly straightforward manner, but it was fucking hard work nonetheless, so if on the rare occasion I want to shout out from the rooftops about this achievement, I will. Her birth left me feeling like a superhero.

Whether she'd been born a whopper or petite and dainty, the fact remains that she's mine. Healthy, beautiful and loving. J and I made this gorgeous creature who possesses an adventurous spirit - the yang to her sister's yin. A delight.

We can't imagine life without her.

Happy 2nd Birthday, PJ.

Balancing

We first found this studio-backlot-themed play area shortly after we'd arrived in Los Angeles. We were living in a hotel until a suitable apartment was found for us to rent. The hotel was in a convenient enough location - walking distance through the nice part of town to Burbank's IKEA and local mall, enabling me to to stock up daily on the basics we'd be needing as soon as we moved.

Every day, the Faery and I would trek into town with Miss Pie reclining in her stroller. I'd buy the maximum amount of towels, sheets, pillows, kitchenware, pots and pans I could possibly fit under the stroller and hang off the side. The trudge back to the hotel was always a delicate balancing act, and I received more than a few strange looks from people along the way. The stroller was essentially a caravan, with just enough room for a newborn.

Anyhow, the play area in the local mall provided a convenient rest stop where the Faery could run around and burn off steam, while I breastfed Miss Pie - something I did discretely but earned me some dirty looks. I'm still trying to figure out 'liberal' California.

In those days, the Faery was three and a half, and Miss Pie just eleven weeks old. If she wasn't feeding, she'd be sleeping soundly in her stroller while the Faery played. Miss Pie just fed, slept, fed, slept - such an easy baby.

We found ourselves there again today, but under such different circumstances.

The Faery was in a state of anxiety when we realised she is now slightly taller than the sign showing the maximum height allowed for kids to play there - 4'2", whatever that is. Given she's a sensible kid who doesn't play roughly, I decided it was no big deal, but she was convinced she'd get into trouble from some random authority figure. She couldn't relax.

As for Miss Pie, she's now a fearless toddler and only days away from her second birthday. She was outrunning most the kids there, and deftly climbing the structures, giving cause for my heart to skip a beat on more than one occasion.

Time... it flies...

A thousand feelings

When it comes to the old adage a picture is worth a thousand words I often wonder what the number is for feelings that an image can elicit.

The spare time I've had these last few days have been spent organising a stack of photos I finally had printed back in May, into newly-purchased photo albums. Because I can be pedantic about dates and correct sequences, I had to check every single one of these photos with the information on iPhotos.

Somehow - between May and now - this large stack of photos had been rifled through and mixed up. Badly. Did I mention that some of these photos date as far back as early 2008? That's a shite load of photos to be sorting, and each day ended with a headache.

That's at least three and a half years of photos.

Three and a half years of my life, captured, in images.

The oldest photos in the stack were, in some ways, the hardest to look at. That year was all kinds of fucked up for us.

We moved house. A close family member attempted suicide, and of course there was fall out from that. We also had to urgently find day care for the Faery (in an area with long waiting lists), while trying not to miss out on badly needed days of work. Our computer died. Then, J was made redundant (without a payout). I had to switch to working full time while he looked for a job, knowing that my salary would never be able to cover all we needed.

All kinds of fucked up.

Looking through the photos from that period, I had strong physical reactions. Seeing the faded hallway carpet patterns, I could smell the rising damp and mouldy ceilings of our first winter - in what turned out to be a hideously drafty house that we'd moved into.

Seeing the golden sunset glow on the bricks of the back of the house, and the large frangipani tree in the back corner of the yard, I can taste the wine we sipped at once we'd put the Faery to bed. An end of working-week treat.

Seeing the front door open, I'm reminded of the strong winds that barrelled through it and also down the side passage of the house - winds that came up one side of the hill that this house was perched on, bitter in winter but blowing my washing dry in no time.

Seeing photos of the Faery playing on the painted kitchen floorboards, I felt the urge to scrape the white flecks of paint that stuck to the soles of my feet in those first few weeks there - a result of the landlord's cheap DIY before we moved in.

Seeing the light green kitchen walls, I can smell the cooking I did. I also feel the walls' stickiness - from lack of adequate ventilation (no extraction fan above the stove). I can also taste the distinct worry that comes with not having enough money. Not knowing when things would improve. A tight feeling in the pit of my stomach. All. The. Time.

This period was only three years ago, and I can feel it so clearly... but it also feels further back in time. We got through it, and so much else has happened - starting with another move, then another baby, a fantastic job for J (after several false starts with some shitty companies), and that job being the reason for our biggest move of all.

The photos from the newer chapter have a shiny glow to them in comparison, even though everything was printed at the same time. It's purely my perception.

Moving to a new city, a new country... things tend to have a shine for a while. The shine of newness. Adventure. Plus, the feeling of relief that we aren't in the position we were only a few years ago. We didn't run away, but anyone who knows us well understands that we needed a fresh start, and a chance to maybe even get ahead one day. With the industry that J had been employed in, if we'd stayed in Sydney, I'm pretty sure we'd still be stuck on Struggle Street today.

Things are a little less shiny now, but it's still good. There's hope, and one day we'll return to Sydney - winners, not losers.

This has been my headspace over the last few days. Reflective, and grateful that the stomach-churning anxiety of that time is gone (mostly, because I'll always find something to fret about).

I'll never underestimate the impact a photo can have.

22

I'm not really one for making lists, unless something major in my life requires it - like moving overseas. Oh, I have plenty of lists in my head; they just rarely make it on to paper... which is why, when I saw this writing prompt (from Mama Kat's Losin It) it seemed like the perfect way to spend a drizzly morning inside. It gave me flashbacks to my classrooms as it reminded me of the classic EFL writing tasks I'd set my students, to practise their present perfect tense.

(Click here for link)

Twenty-two things I've done (in no particular order)

1. Seen the sun rise and set over the Pacific Ocean.

2. Moved home thirteen times.

3. Taken belly dancing classes.

4. Made mistakes.

5. Picnicked on camembert, baguettes, and wine outside the Sacré Coeur in Paris.

6. Cried over accidentally-thrown-out artwork.

7. Poured a thousand pints of beer in London.

8. Dabbled in a little French, Italian, Irish Gaelic and (now) Korean.

9. Had my nose and belly button pierced.

10. Experimented.

11. Photographed donkeys in Mexico.

12. Created human life.

13. Dyed my hair red.

14. Swum at beaches on three continents.

15. Consumed vast quantities of chocolate.

16. Feasted on tapas in Barcelona.

17. Rescued frangipanis from the ground, and worn them in my hair.

18. Given birth.

19. Welcomed in a snowy New Year in Sweden.

20. Married my high school sweetheart.

21. Nourished my babies from my own body.

22. Inhaled the alpine goodness of the Swiss Alps, and thought of Heidi.

Mexico, 2000

Woven

We first met in a fine arts class that we shared at university. When I look back on those outdoor lunches we had between classes, there's a warm, golden glow filtering through my memories.

I'm not sure what T saw in me, why she wanted to get to know me. To spend time with me.

In her, I saw sunshine. Others saw her light, too - so many of us, like moths. T was completely unaware of the effect she had on people, though.

In her, I learned what gifted meant. Her words tumbled and flowed. Her drawings oozed and dripped, revealing shafts of light - and darkness - from her soul. The very sight of her handwriting, alone, filled me with anticipation.

In her, I found a sister. A friend for life. The world, as I'd known it then, shifted. Tilted. Expanded.

I miss her so much.

Those student days were intense.

Together, we danced and sang to music we loved. We lost weekends to 'recreation'. Juggled study and work. Juggled housemates and relationships. Love and heartbreak. Colour and chaos. Entwined.

A few years later, she came to see us in London, and stayed for the summer. More adventures. Sunshine. Music. Barefoot freedom. More broken hearts.

Since then, geography has got in our way. When J and I returned to Australia, we moved to Melbourne. T was in Sydney. We eventually moved back to Sydney, and I was able to start spending time with her again. Then, when I was pregnant with the Faery, she left Australia. A new life in a new country was calling her.

I didn't want her to go, but I understood. She needed to be with the love of her life, and so once again, a sea stood between us. Another timezone. It was only a few hours, but it seemed so far.

Now, it's an even bigger ocean between us. We've never been into buying birthday cards or gifts for one another, although I still have - and treasure - one she made for me all those years ago. Shyly given to me outside Fisher Library. A black and white drawing, a silhouette of two female figures on a small boat, sitting opposite, palms raised up and pressed together. There's a large full moon rising behind us, illuminating the gentle waves.

That card is tucked away into a shoe box of mementos, inside a bigger box of belongings, in storage. Far away from me. I haven't laid eyes on that drawing for a very long time, but when I close my eyes, I can see every last etch made by her pen. Every line. I know the picture well.

Just like the card, I haven't seen much of T in recent years. Months, and more months, will pass before one of us gets in touch with the other. Sometimes longer.

It doesn't matter though. Our letters and emails have been prompted by dreams we've had about the other. A hunch, pushing us to pick up a pen, or switch on the computer. The timing has been uncanny.

She expressed it beautifully, not long ago - it's like we're cut from the same cloth, and it doesn't matter how much time passes before we speak or write, because there's always a part of us in one another.

Woven.

I love that.

Yesterday was one of those days when I heard from her, out of the blue, but the timing was perfect. As always, her words made me want to cry. I still get a lump in my throat each time I replay her words.

I'm not a gushy person. I'm not touchy-feely. I do the whole bottle-it-in-with-stiff-upper-lip thing a little too well (just like my family). Some people probably even find me... prickly. I don't do declarations of love, except to a select few. That's just who I am. My poor husband.

I needed to write this, though. I love and miss T like crazy and today, it hurts... so I'm making an effort to go against my usual grain, and attempt the mantra of better out than in.

I hope T knows just how much she means to me.