Haunting Sounds

Hello Possums. As I write I am listening to a recently acquired CD produced by a long term acquaintance. The CD is called ‘Cloudhands’ by Bruce Rogers. He did engineering with one of my best friends and, through this connection, I have known Bruce for over twenty years. He makes digeridoos, has a successful business and reputation for his craftmanship and artistry world wide. But two weeks ago was the first time I heard him play. 

When you listen to the digeridoo every fibre of your body resonates with the sound. You become transported out of yourself. You imagine damp earth, clean air. You could be a patch of soil, a piece of bark, a bird. Your soul becomes reduced and expanded at once. Reduced in your own significance. Expanded, connected. 

Beautiful V from India, tall and exotic, said after we listened to Bruce’s digeridoo concert “I thought I would have to go back to India to experience spirituality. But I have found it in Australia”. She and her son went with the digeridoo players the following day to protest China in Tibet. The plan was to gather didge players and blow together in protest, using the didge as a horn. Her son played. She was very proud. 

My father came over this moring to take Sally for a bike ride. He has a long standing arrangement with my girls (his grandchildren). Every Saturday he takes at least one of them out on their push bikes. It was his idea. This is how he stays connected with his grand daughters. He shares his love of cycling with them. They talk along the way. 

He reports family news, the latest being: my brother is suffering from stress-related health problems. Situations at work and with is ex take their toll on this easy-going man who wants to avoid confrontation and tries to please everyone. He surfs. He has a great sense of humour. He lives in a tranquil location. He has an adoring wife. Its not enough. 

The didge concert was part of a series. Its African Drums next month. One of the new people I have met recently asked me if I’d heard African Drums played before. I told him that I own a djembe and have practiced on it with a teach yourself CD. He laughed. “You are open to the world”, he said. “What do you mean?”. He explained that, like him, I appear to stay open to learning from what the world has to offer. I took him to mean ‘other cultures’ by ‘the world’, but on second thoughts he could have also been referring to technlology. I do tend to dabble in things. I hold learning in high importantance. I don’t believe modern society has answered the question of how to live well.  

Some highlights from my week in NYC

Hello Possums. I have come home from New York City with too many stories. Life goes on and as it does more stories develop. Let me capture some of the highlights from New York before they are completely forgotten (at Charlotte’s request). Here is a collection of highlights from my week in NYC:

1. The Empire State (and other adventures) with Karl.

With a gentle, affable young colleague of mine, I climbed to the top of the Empire State Building at 11 o’clock at night. We took in the retro magnifience of its interior. At the top, despite the freezing temperature and strong cold wind, we went onto the exterior deck. We walked around stopping frequently to stare out onto the sprawling brightness of New York to the horizon in every direction. We pointed out familiar landmarks to each other, including the brightly lit bridges. 

Back on the streets we walked slowly in the direction of our hotel. We were enjoying each other’s company and kept our eyes open for a nice bar to go to. In Broadway we met a police road block. They let us through when we were able to produce our hotel keys. No sooner than we had passed the barricade, a mass of rowdy black youth (girls and guys) rushed towards us yelling and screaming. A large group of police followed them running also. I grabbed Karl’s arm and pulled him out of their way into 47th street and we took slight refuge next to a nut vendor and his cart. After they rushed by, we continued tentatively on our way. We had not been threatened and had whitnessed no violence. The young people looked very well dressed and not incredibly angry. The reason for the stampede was unclear. I half expected to come across a brawl or some sort of ruckus at one of the venues, but nothing could be gleaned from the quiet street after we had left the immediate scene. Karl and I were perplexed.

The following night, Karl and I went to the 65th floor above Radio City. There we enjoyed cocktails overlooking New York City through floor to ceiling windows. We wandered the streets afterwards looking for a place to go, but we hadn’t planned anything. We were both content to walk and talk. 

“If I lived in New York City”, I said, “I would take up smoking”.

Karl laughed and then confessed. “I gave up smoking. But just today I went out and bought a pack of tobacco”.

“You have rollies? Lets have one”.

“But you don’t smoke”.

“No, I’ve never had the habit, but I like the occasional rollie, especially after a drink”.

He laughed again. We walked and talked and smoked for I don’t know how long. 

In the end we found ourselves in the bar at the Sheridon. The bar man made a fuss over pouring me a tequila. It was almost two in the morning when I got back to my room. 

Later in the week I heard that there was a movie being shot in Broadway around the time Karl and I witnessed the “riot”. I texted him the news. He shot back a quick reply about keeping an eye out to see if we make it into the movie as extras.

Yesterday, I thought of Karl, his easy company and the adventures we had together in New York (three weeks ago now). I punched a message into my phone and pressed send, “Hi. How’s things. Are you still smoking?”. “No, I managed to leave the dirty habit in New York. Are you well?”, he replied. 

Its funny how conferences throw people together. Karl is much younger than me. Whilst we will work together in the future and possibly catch up socially with the larger group, it is highly unlikely that we will ever just “hang out” in Melbourne like we did so easily in New York. 

 

 

Sweet Dreams

Dear Possums, this is not a usual blog post by me. Its a little bit self indulgent.

Whilst riding my pushbike to work this morning the Euythmics song, Sweet Dreams, came into my mind. It is such an apt song for me to be singing today. The lyrics mean more to me now than they did when the song first came out. I tend to enjoy songs for their lyrics. “Sweet dreams are made of this. Who am I to disagree. I travel the world and the seven seas. Every body’s looking for something”.

I like to trust and see the good in people. I have learnt something about myself recently. I am at a loss as to how I am able to live with this fault more wisely. Is it practise? Do you have to throw yourself out there to practise being cautious. Or do you accept the fact that you tend to find good even when it is not there, write yourself off as a danger to yourself and stay indoors and out of circulation for the rest of your life?

Everybody’s looking for something. I thought about that. Its not just other people who are looking for something from me. What am I looking for? I think I know. But what I’m looking for is simple. I think I may already have what I’m looking for. Life beyond my boundaries can seem enticingly exciting, but I think I have learnt that what I’m looking for is probably not out there. And those out there are looking for something different to me.

Art just is. (A bit of social planning too).

I have subscribed to the Melbourne Theater Company for the second year in a row. My first production for the year last night was The Season at Sarsaparilla by Patrick White. Dee and I arrived at Federation Square in time for a bite to eat for dinner before the show. It was a warm balmy night. We ate outside. My hot salami pizza was light and delicious with a very thin base, and Dee’s tandoori caesar salad looked mouth watering. Dee looked elegant in a flowing yellow wrap top given to her by her mother on her wedding day. This was the first time she had worn it! I teased her, “waiting for the right occasion were you?”. “No”, she replied,  ”the style just didn’t suit me when I was young”. The moral here – don’t throw anything beautiful out. I wore my orange shirt from Rome again with three quarter pants. Dee wore her three quarter pants as well and we hadn’t even intended to coordinate! There were a lot of people in the city last night. In the open spaces in Fed Square a crowd had gathered. People were sitting around watching the cricket on the big screen. Their ooohs in unison almost echoed around the square. If we weren’t due at the State Theatre in only five minutes we would have stopped for awhile to soak in the great atmosphere. We both enjoyed the play. She hadn’t been to the theatre for fifteen years and was enthusiastic about her reintroduction. The set was remarkable. One house occupied the stage within which the characters of three different households simultaneously performed their lives through a snapshot of their summer. It was nostalgic and contemporary, celebratory and critical. The acting was convincing and the dialogue multilayered, haunting, flippant, succinct, indulgent, knowing… Patrick White. He has the ability to somehow capture the essence of a being.  White’s created world performed by these skillful and intuitive actors resonated with the complexity of life. The best way to describe it really is to say that the overall effect was a piece of art. This year I have done something different with my subscription. Instead of booking all seven plays with Raya, I have booked double tickets to the plays by myself. With the extra ticket I have decided to take different friends along. Dee was great company last night. It was refreshing because we don’t ever get enough social time together. Usually when we spend time together our attention is split at least two ways. Raya still wants to come to three of the plays I’ve chosen. But she wanted to see a few more films this year rather than all seven plays. I know how she feels, actually. Already my list of films to see is growing out of control. Amongst recent releases are Once, Atonement, The Kite Runner, Juno and Sweeney Todd. Why does all the good stuff come out at once? Exciting though, isn’t it Possums? Now this reminds me: I will give Raya a call and organise a night at the movies. In fact I might even invite Dee as well. I have always thought the two of them would get along famously. I just haven’t got around to introducing them. In the past I would have had a dinner party. These days however, with my study and building our new place, dinner parties have been relgated to “after we move” status (like lots of other things)… I have wandered a bit off track with this post. I was intending to atriculate what it means to me to describe something as a piece of art. I will conclude now by just saying that in this context I do not use the word ‘art’ flippantly.

No White Flag

“I’ve still got sand in my shoes, and I can’t shake the thought of you. I should get on and forget you. But why would I want to? I know we said goodbye, anything else would have been confused. But I want to see you again”. [Sand In My Shoes, Dido]. The job of moving on is a hard thing to do.  The hardest break-up I experienced was with a tall, blonde, athletic Ukranian. We dated for two years. It was during a difficult period of my life. My mother died. He was the last of my lovers to have known my mother. Its possible that my need for security at that time in my life made the split harder to take. However difficult a split is for me I have reflected recently that in general my psychological tactic has been to latch onto the failings of the other. In the case of my tall Ukranian, after we split faults were easy to find. For example, he used to set ridiculous ultimatums. I was playful and could not take them seriously. I tended to push boundaries and flout his ultimatums. To punish me for my behaviour he would withdraw. Once when we were swimming down here at the very beach I still spend all of my summer holidays at, he gingerly entered the water. “Don’t splash me or I will never trust you again”, he warned. Of course, in my book, the only thing to do in this situation is to splash and if possible, trip. He lacked humour. As far as he was concerned I had breached his trust entirely. “I think you are too immature for a sexual relationship”, he pronounced gravely afterwards. Yes! That’s right Possums, he threatened to withdraw from sex because of this. After we split I vowed to never again have an intimate relationship with a person who wagered sex in arguments. Its hard to believe upon writing this story that I ever regretted splitting up with him, but I did for a long time. Focussing on this and his many other failings helped me to recover. There were quite a few actually. He was a creature of habit, cooked the same four meals on a rotational basis and if I joined him in the kitchen had to put up with strict instructions and routine, routine.  We clashed here. My cooking is organic and experimental. He had pannic attacks occasionally to the point where he would purposely lose tournaments in his sport of choice (fencing) to not have to appear in front of the assembly for the trophy. His insecurity manifested iself in our relationship in many ways, right down to long listening sessions on my part. And he was obsessed with his mother. (But he was beautiful. I adored the entire length of  his body during our relationship). I saw him again out of the blue four years ago at the Melbourne Cup. I had since had four children. He was still single, and incredibly nervous at meeting me. I have no desire to keep in touch with him or to ever see him again, but I have been thinking about the process of splitting lately and I wondered why I had been holding on to those bad times. I have decided to let them go because I don’t need them anymore. There were plenty of good times. He taught me how to cook traditional Ukranian food, and decorate eggs for Easter. We went on fishing and beach holidays together up the east coast. We were physically and emotionally intimate for two years. I met the hub less than a year after our split. I destroyed all of our photos after I was married, but my memory is clear. Now, twenty years later I am able to look back upon those memories through a different lens. It has therefore occured to me to ask the question, is it possible to break up with someone without going through a stage of remembering only the bad? Remembering the bad can justify the split and give you a sense of control. Remembering the good brings back the pain of grief for what might have been. Remembering the good happens within a state of melancholy as the process of grief works its way through your psyche. But why is melancholy such an unbearable, intollerable thing? Melancholy is associated with every phase of becoming who we aspire to be. And we are forever and always constantly becoming. This I have been reading about in the philosophy of Judith Butler. Why did it take me so long to see the light? I can walk with sand in my shoes.

A little on desire and feminism

OK I’m reading two books at the moment. ‘Gender Trouble’ by Judith Butler and fiction: ‘Black Swan Green’ by David Mitchell. The thoughts expressed here, however, have nothing to do with the fictional book, as much as I am enjoying reading it. I have a post brewing on gender and female sexuality. I think I might ask Lia to post it over at the Red Tent. I haven’t quite managed to get my head around my thoughts yet, but they have been prompted by what I have been reading in Gender Trouble, beginning with Butler’s argument about why the project of feminism should not include the delineation of the term ‘woman’ and moving on to her critique of certain structuralist accounts of gender, sexuality and desire. The discourses she critiques pervade our society. I have become aware of them through living; I am an educator, not a philosopher. Wittig takes the masculine as the only sex, and feminine as the absence of sex. De Bouvier takes the feminine as the only sex, masculine being taken as the unmarked norm. Butler’s critique of these and the theories of Lacan and Levi Strauss are thorough and necessary. Theory often seems disconnected from the lives we live, but not only did the theories of Wittig and de Bouvier articulate discourses that accounted for many a women’s lived reality, the concepts from theory filter into everyday lives and help shape the reality of experience with their explanatory power. A classic example of this is the concept of the ego from Freud. Invented for its explanatory power, it is often used in everyday speech as though it is a reality of our psychic lives. Butler brings our attention to the unthinkable and uninhabitable positions brought about by these contemporary theories on gender and sex. One consequence and contingency to their survival is the absence of women’s desire. The scary thing is that not only must women’s desire be absent in order for the theories to hold (particularly Lacan’s theory on bonds between men as the fabric of society), it may be absent from our psychic lives and the discourses we live and think within. Think about it. How often is women’s desire unnameable? unknown? How many of you had to break free from patriarchal, phallocentric, or heternormative rules in order to name and live your own desires freely?  For example, I contributed to a conversation about desire and a man’s need for pornography last year. Some of you might have read Mr Z’s post about his friend who’s internet was down and had been suffering through lack of access. The general male comments in relation to this were sympathetic. I expressed concern for the effect using porn could have on relationships and was met with the (light hearted) justification that men needed variety and the not-so-lighthearted suggestion that I lighten up. I wonder why factoids like this on male sexuality circulate as normal, yet women’s desire remains unknown and unnameable. Why can’t it be conceivable as just as likely that women need variety too? … my latest idea is to try to couch these thoughts within my own experiences. (To be continued on Red Tent).

Once in a lifetime

I had a brief conversation while out to dinner last night in which I recommended one of my favorite books, The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood. My conversation although brief has caused me to reflect on one of the ways the book affected me. It is written in three threads which eventually come together with a twist. One of the threads is a piece of fiction written by a character in the book. This piece of fiction shares its title with the title of the novel. The Blind Assassin thread is a story of two lovers. It accurately captures the state of being of a young woman experiencing her first meaningful sexual relationship. The Blind Assassin is the story her lover tells her as a serial from one encounter to the next. That someone could capture this state of obsessive love using language completely blew me away. Prior to reading this, it had remained an unspoken yet all encompassing state of being that I had experienced in a similar way at the age of eighteen. It made me realise that my experience was shared. Thinking that my experience was unique I had previously never shared it with a soul. Yet reading this novel, I realised another person had known it well enough to write it. My experience was with a boy I met at university who enchanted me entirely. I had come to university looking for excitement and I found it in him. He was beautiful to look at, half Chinese and half Scottish, an accomplished musician and he was studying medicine. He first made love to me in his bedroom at his family home. We could hear other family members moving around the house (he was the oldest of four children) and eventhough I was scared someone would walk in I was so overcome by the sensation of it that I let it continue. I was amazed what my body could feel. On the bus to university the next day I remember allowing myself to recall the experience, mind and body. I thought I had discovered something no one else knew. He possessed me in a way no one else ever would again. To me it was as though he was “the only person in the world with a penis” (a line from Blind Assassin). We skipped classes to be together. We made love in unusual places: garden beds, ovals at night, in the Law toilets at uni, in swimming pools… He failed his first year in med. His family sent him against his will to live in Tasmania for the year to study first year at another university, billeting with a family friend to keep an eye on him. We wrote everyday. His letters were poetic. I lived the year as a shell of myself. I carried his photo, read and reread his letters. He refused to study and returned to Melbourne a year later having failed that year too. We moved into a flat together against all of our parents’ wishes at the age of nineteen. I was studying third year by this time and working as a waitress to pay the rent. He played music and read books everyday. When I returned home, I cooked and cleaned. In our three quarter size single bed at night we searched until we knew each other’s bodies intimately. He was like a puppeteer or a sorcerer. He played me like an instrument, owned me like a pet. Some evenings he read to me. The first book he read was The Three Musketeers. He used a French accent and different voice for each character in the novel. I remember his laughter over this. These moments were joyful. Our bubble burst eventually. The pain of the previous year lingered, especially in him. Being together was not enough to lift his spirits after failing his course and letting his family down.  I felt the stress of study and his monetary dependence upon me.  We started to fight and I met someone new. I wonder how we would have fared if we didn’t have to struggle under such pressure. Was such an obsessive relationship doomed to failure?  He completely owned me for almost three years. When I read The Blind Assassin five years ago or more I cried. It was an eye opener to realise other people had experienced this too. (But, strangely, this is the first time I have articulated it for myself).

Tradition

Hello Possums. Its getting close to christmas. Already my eldest two children have broken up from school. We are all starting to get excited about six weeks of summer holidays. We traditionally spend Christmas and the whole of the break at our beach house. We pack up here in Melbourne and head down as soon as the primary school kids finish. For the last two years we have had big family gatherings at Christmas time. My brother and his family of four from Queensland joined us for the week including Christmas last year. The year before we were joined by my favorite cousin from Brisbane and his family of five and my brother in-law from the UK, who also has a family of five for two weeks. Every year my friend Bree joins us for at least a week on Boxing Day and at least two extra families join us for New Years Eve. On New Years Eve down there the head count is usually 35 children and 20 adults. We decorate the children with glow sticks when it gets dark, so they are easy to find, and walk into town along the beach to watch the fire works.This year our Christmas gathering will be much smaller. Just the three remaining grandparents on the actual day and my sister and her hub on Christmas Eve. However, with my four girls and the beach nearby, its always a good day regardless of the social scene, or lack of one.The Yacht Club are having a party on New Years Eve. I suggested to the girls that we might go there instead of hosting our own this year. “No!” and “Now way!”, was the outcry. “We want to have our own party and walk to the fireworks along the beach – its family tradition!”. So there you have it. Kids rule at our place. I am out numbered. After all, how many traditions do we actually have?Strangely enough, I was thinking of my summer rituals as old news. We have had our place there for eight years, prior to that we stayed at my fathers place down there and prior to that when I was a kid we stayed in caravan parks in the same spot. I have been going to this beach spot since I was eleven years old. But then, I only started blogging in February. So you, dear reader, haven’t spent a summer with me yet!

I don’t often just ramble on, but…

Hello Possums, have you discovered facebook? I think I’m a little addicted to it. Its proving to be a fun way to keep in touch with friends and for providing light relief from my work (aka an excellent tool for procrastination).

One of my friends and colleagues asked me to send the address for Epossums about three weeks ago. She sent me a message via facebook, which I received this morning, to say she had read this entire blog. Have you ever read an entire blog before? Admittedly I only started blogging in February this year, but in some months I have posted every day!

I wonder what her impressions of me are now? I often wonder this when I give face-to-face friends the blog details… to the extent where I usually put in a disclaimer like “remember, storying life experiences changes them slightly and they become more fiction-like. Life cannot really be compacted into discreet stories…”

One friend, upon reading snippets from Epossums commented, “I think you live a very compartmentalized life”. It could be read this way, but in reality the compartments are not so easily separated. Home life dominates entirely, as most parents would know. Matters related to home and friends are fundamentally important to me, and any threats to these relationships cause my own problems or issues to fade into the background. Yet, the blog is sometimes an airing for these, especially the mid life crisis musings. One could come away with a skewed view of my life.

I suppose good friends can balance the real with the written quite well. One of my oldest, dearest friends is a regular reader. When I caught up with her recently she told me that reading Epossums helped her keep up to date with what I was up to. For example, she rang to congratulate me when I managed to get Kathleen booked into another school at late notice after reading about it here. Although I would love to see her or talk to her every day, our separately busy lives prevent it.

I also wonder how these electronic mediums change friendships, and as a consequence people. I believe without visual cues, it is possible to misinterpret what people say and, without social cues people can be less inhibited and say things they would not normally say face-to-face. I believe this affects a person’s sense of responsibility for what they say and how it affects others, and wonder what this means for persons and relationships.

Eventhough Facebook, email and blogging allow contact that would not normally occur, I believe face-to-face should still be taken as important for friendships. I would assume that if you form a friendship electronically then both parties would be theoretically up for a face-to-face meeting. If one or both do not want to meet face-to-face then it is not a real friendship. Is this how everyone feels? Or is it possible to have real friendships without ever wanting to meet?

You get what you pay for

Hello Possums. I want to tell you about Martin. I don’t know how old he is, but I think he’s probably older than me. He has just become a grandfather, but he still looks very young, and is very young in the way he relates to people. He is enthusiastic and kind. He is also excellent at what he does. He is a musician and he plays violin, classical guitar and mandolin. He is also a music teacher.

Martin has inspired my children. My two youngest are learning to play the violin with him and my oldest is learning to play the guitar with him. Emma was the first to ask if she could take up an instrument. Martin runs group lessons at my children’s primary school and for the first year, Emma hired a violin from the school and went to a group lesson for twenty minutes once a week. She enjoyed it and took it seriously.

That was three years ago. She now has a private lesson with Martin in his own studio. Sally took up violin at the start of this year and also has a private lesson with Martin. When Kathleen expressed an interest to learn the guitar, Martin made a time to fit her in as well on the same day as the others. On Tuesdays the three of them have their lessons in half hour stints all in a row. So on Tuesdays, I pop in and out of Martin’s studio four times. We always chat while the children are setting up their instruments. He is always happy and has something interesting on the go. The children feel energised and encouraged by him too. He is a wonderful, gifted musician and individual.

Once I was leaving his studio and another parent arrived with her daughter, who is Emma’s age. I stopped to greet her. On this particular occasion it wasn’t long after Emma changed to individual lessons. She had been thriving and had expressed her appreciation for the opportunity to change from group to individual and to be learning in the serenity of his home rather than at school. I made a remark to the other parent, something like, Oh Emma is loving the individual lessons. Martin is wonderful isn’t he? Her reply to this was:

You get what you pay for.

I did not voice my opinion at the time. However, I certainly did not give any indication that I agreed with her. This particular statement I found insulting, to Martin and to my general philosophy on life. Who Martin is and what he gives to others is priceless.

Later, I wondered if she had passed her philosophy on to her children. I wondered how many people subscribed to it. I wondered if they also unthinkingly applied it to people. I wondered what it meant for society the way I thought I knew it.