treasure: the year that was 31

I wrote this last week, and then I got all caught up in cake and champagne and didn't post it. 

Here it is, with some final edits I couldn't help but add, for that is my way.

It’s the eve of my 32rd birthday. I haven’t written half as much publishable writing as I’d have liked to this year, but I’m a fan of the retrospective of a Year That Was Something, and boy was this one a year just like that. 

I like to take a breath and mark a moment before the next year starts - tomorrow, I will be into my 33rd year on the planet, and that will be another story entirely. Maybe. 

It’s been a real bitch, this 32nd year - and yet. And. Yet.

I’ve pulled myself together to write a Distinction-worthy Masters dissertation in a little short of a month (not counting reading and crying time), fighting those motherfucking Imposter Syndrome whispers all the way to the submit button. I can write! I have actual, honest-to-goodness original ideas. The sweet relief of it - I can’t begin to tell you. I even fell back in love, just a little, with the power of delivering a good strong sentence to a blank page. To let that certainty flow through me and to recognise it, however fleeting - a joyful miracle.

Another gorgeous happening, the strength of which I am only truthfully starting to grasp - the unexpected friendship of two warm, well-dressed (I believe this is fashun, Hamish?) and ridiculously goodlooking men. With open and well-muscled arms, you both pulled me in your separate and special ways out of some spectacularly deep mud, and into a space carefully lit up with avocados, drag queens, memes, wine, whisky and c-bombs, as well as (whether you admit it or not, Dan) good old-fashioned love. In a world that often feels like bits are missing, inexplicably you’ve become those bits. You’re a safe space to yell, nap, scoff mexican food, drink cups of tea. I’m endlessly grateful for it. 

I’ve been let in close to friends in tough places - I’ve shared the chance to chase away the shadows in city concert crowds, I’ve shared bottles of scotch in the height of unspeakable minutes that turn the world upside down. It’s an honour to be close and trusted with every part you’ve chosen to share, and a privilege I have done my best not to take lightly. I wish I could love all of you as much as you deserve to be loved every damn day - I’ve done the best with the love I have to give, and I thank you for letting that be enough.

I get to live in a houseful of flowers with possibly the best woman I know (besides my mum) arranging them into beautiful perfection, appreciating my cooking, encouraging the brand of self care that calls for movies and puppies. You have turned a house into a home, and I do not care how cliched that sounds, because it’s true. You’ve kept our glasses full of wine and are always, always there knowing just how I feel and then occasionally paying for my therapy. I love you, Mikaela Ingvarsdotter.

Each year I seem to get a little closer to knowing something good, and I feel like this year has taught me plenty, although there’s been less good to know than I’d have liked. I’ve been quiet for a while, and it’s because of how sad I’ve been. Bloody goddamn sad. A person I really quite liked stepped out of his story much earlier than any of us were ready for, and it sits with me every day, the way I know it sits with all of us. 

The thing nobody tells you about grief is how quiet it is. It lays itself in your bones so they’re just a little more dense than they were before. It lines the pockets of your clothes; it rests just a little heavy on your tongue. The thing nobody tells you about grief is how you’re alone with it so much of the time, because of the way people forget. The way people forget is sort of important too, to keep the world moving. The thing nobody tells you about grief is how it slaps you in the face; sucks the air from your lungs; drops you from a great height. It’s also nothing shocking - there, tucked underneath other piles of loose papers until the stone weighing it all down is shifted and it’s away.

There’s nothing to do but keep breathing, so on we breathe. 

There’s more, of course. There’s knowing my family are all coming home this month; that my brothers will be nearby for beers whenever I’d like is something so impossibly good I am waiting to be sure it’s really happening before I believe it. They bring with them two pretty great women that I can’t wait to have around. 

I did a lot of thinking, doing and feeling to the accompaniment to a pile of tunes this year - here's 31 I picked for that year that was. Special mentions go to Dan and Hamish for reminding me about Roxette, to Clare Bowditch for inspiring my dissertation and to Kate H for showing me how Bowditch's music was meant to be heard. Thanks to Sampa the Great for getting me through it, to St Vincent for existing (same goes Holly Throsby, Bec Sandridge and Asgeir, all of whom I managed to see live this year). Music is life, and it's the encouragement of Jordan, Elle, Alana and Dylan that put a good pile of these bangers right in front of me this year. Many thank yous, friends.

I start this 33rd year a little tired but a lot hopeful. I think 32 year olds get to have their feet on the ground but their heads still in the clouds, and even if that’s self-proscribed, it’s advice I’m going to take.

secret: new parts, hidden under old parts

4 July 2017

It’s cold today, and dry where I live, on the top of a mountain range. I keep chewing at my dry lips, peeling off their skin with my teeth – there are smooth new lips underneath, I know it, I just have to keep peeling til I get there. 

Once I get there, with my new lips, maybe I will be ready to find someone to kiss. Maybe then I’ll be a smooth-lipped clever-mouthed lover-in-waiting.

Maybe then.

treasure: writing grief

Today, I wore makeup for the first time since I heard you had died. My bare face was intended as a symbol of grief, but nobody has noticed. My mascara was not waterproof, in any case; impractical. I decided to trust myself not to cry unexpectedly; I hoped the majority of tears had been wrung out of me by now. 

There’s not a way to write an ode to you, Daniel. Each word you’re over my shoulder, knowing a better way to make a sentence sing. Your ghost is a literary monster shadow, and the thorough way I resent you for this is what I’d love to capture in words. 

I’ve made you laugh out loud with things I’ve written, your laugh inflating my ego every time. I’ve laughed at and loved your work, right before your eyes (or almost - you hid while I read and returned for the compliments, your cigarette smoked). 

I’m so tired. There’s only one night I can chalk up to sleepless grief, and that’s the night we had the news. Just so you know, I still don’t believe it. It takes the breath out of me and makes me wish to sleep a thousand years. I’m tired of feeling so very out of control - a whole planet, out of orbit. 

Today is a day I’ve been floating through; bumping into small parts sadness and distraction. I don’t know how to miss you. I don’t know what’s right - what you’d think made sense and what you’d scoff at.

Today is a day built on the fragility of our skin and bones. 

I’ve made a point of telling a story of my tears, to admit that most days lately I’ve cried the very tears I’m trying to manipulate into comic effect, somehow. I want to see how far I push this before they stop believing or responding. 

I wanted to tell the short story of us, to frame some of my sorrow in justification - see, we were close, he meant something - but also I mostly want very keenly to keep this close to my heart. I keep trying to take it out to look at it, to build some perspective, but my eyes beg to slide past it to focus on the middle distance. When does it go from being raw to being something to use? I’m trying to use it now, and getting nowhere.

The thing nobody tells you about grief is how quiet it is. It lays itself in your bones so they’re just a little more dense than they were before. It lines the pockets of your clothes; it rests just a little heavy on your tongue.

The thing nobody tells you about grief is how you’re alone with it so much of the time, because of the way people forget. The way people forget is sort of important too, to keep the world moving. 

The thing nobody tells you about grief is how it slaps you in the face; sucks the air from your lungs; drops you from a great height. It’s also nothing shocking - there, tucked underneath other piles of loose papers until the stone weighing it all down is shifted and it’s away.

The thing nobody tells you about grief is how it makes you look. Today, I wore makeup for the first time since I heard you had died. My face has been a mask plenty of other ways since then, but I have allowed space for the tears to fall away.

secret: a cool thing I found on the internet

I know not everyone loves Dylan, but I seem to know a lot of people that do.

This is a pretty thing I found a while ago, and forgot about until just now. Read the full post about the process here. Damn I wish I was cleverer with my hands.

30pictureschallenge: Day 18 (I'm kind of a big deal)

I'd date me, ya know?

I'm at this point where I've been single for long enough that it seems quite normal again. The idea of some person hanging around all the time expecting me to laugh at their jokes and remember things they did during the week so I can ask pertinent questions of them, well, honestly, doesn't that seem a little strange to you? 

On the flip side, I have started to think about just how good I would be to date. You laugh, but I thought I'd talk myself up a little as a fun sort of exercise (we never really do this so blatantly, do we?) and I'm hereby giving you all permission to do the exact same. Not about yourselves though, about me.

Just kiddin'. Or am I?

Without further ado, here are the reasons that I'd date me:

1. I am clever. I know some big words, but graciously never attempt to use them unless I'm into my 3rd beer or 2nd glass of wine. I have some edumacation about my person, which I think makes me interesting to talk to at parties.
2. I can read. I do it all the time. I'm doing it now. I read all sorts of stuff, but thankfully can rarely be snobby about it because I'm no good at name dropping, in that I promptly forget who books are by and sometimes even what happens in them, exactly. 
3. I write things. This means I think about things too, which I feel is a bonus. I like to feed my creative brain, which means I like to grab ideas and run with them, which means I need quiet time where it looks like I'm watching YouTube, but really there are things ticking over. It means I collect zines and other forms of writing that inspire me. My bookshelves are always full. I try not to be a writer-bragger, which means I probably won't ask you to read my blog, but I will be secretly touched if you do. It still surprises me when people say they've read it. I like that. Thanks, readers.
4. I believe in stuff, and like having discussions about it with people who are friendly about disagreeing with me when I am clearly right.
5. I like rituals and routines, but only the fun ones. There's not a regular day I do my washing, and there's not a time of day I have to shower, but I do have breakfast almost every week with my lovely friends Nevanka and Elsie, followed by thrift shopping, followed by free time at home. I have lunch with my mum every Thursday. Some rituals are fun.
6. I like spontaneous activities. My favourite of those is probably unexpected dinner at Kate and Phill's house. I also like to go to the movies at almost the drop of a hat. Why, one time, we did both of those things in a day, and I was just in heaven. I am not always spontaneous though, it's not crazy all up in here, just occasionally. Spontaneously.
7. My friends are awesome (see above: dinner at Kate and Phill's). They dress up for Halloween parties, they are absolutely fantastic at activities which include but are not limited to drinking, dancing, watching stuff, eating, cooking, skiing and snowboarding, planking (remember that, guys?), hiking, biking (even though I do not bike, I can recognise that is a cool activity for some) and much, much more. 
8. I wear pretty dresses, most times.
9. I am not unsightly.
10. I have a very, very cool van called Maude which is good for adventures.

I think 10 things is enough, for now anyway. I don't want to intimidate you all any more than this, except maybe with these awesome pictures.

treasure: let's talk nicholas sparks & romance genre movies

this weekend just passed i fed both sides of my personality: the side that likes to get out and about, see people, meet new ones, laugh and eat and drink and dance and inevitably, end up at the pub talking nonsense to total strangers, and the side that likes to get favourite foods from the supermarket, make a tasty lunch and then snuggle right down in bed and watch an entire back catalogue of nicholas sparks and nicholas sparks-esque romance movies.

i have an interesting relationship with popular culture these days because i inevitably take great issue with a lot of it as a feminist, but also love the shit out of a movie where there's love and obstacles to overcome and maybe someone with a secret from their past that surfaces at an inappropriate time. 

*takes deep breath* so i'm going to be honest. on Sunday, i watched 'the last song', 'dear john', 'the vow' and 'imagine me and you'. the breaks i took between movies, while i waited for them to load (i use project free tv for most of my watching these days, as i have neither the patience nor the knowhow to actually download things), i worked on a job application. i worried that i might have gotten a bit too emotional addressing selection criteria, but hey, i think that's an asset, right?

'the last song' i watched because i have had an uncontrollable obsession with miley cyrus lately, and that liam hemsworth character ain't so bad to look at, either. i think miley is a great many things, but i am in a state of interest in her things and stuff, for now, until something changes my mind. for now, i am interested in her talent and her art, and alongside that i have a great interest in watching movies where i know the two stars have actually fallen in love with each other while making the movie. anyone else get into that? i look for hints in the acting, which is silly considering they're playing two people falling in love. but i get something out of it. miley plays the misunderstood teenager with dad issues, or authority figure issues, or trust issues. or all of the above. liam hemsworth is just dreamy and gorgeous, and it was a wise move for him to always be playing volleyball and having fallen in mud that needed to be rinsed off, shirtless, under a garden hose. well played, director.

i wanted to watch 'the lucky one' next, because it has zac ephron in it and i think he's just great. but unfortunately, when you're only using a free site to stream things, recent movies with zac ephron in them are not available for your viewing pleasure. in a happy turn of events, my mum owns a copy of it on DVD and i will be proceeding to hit that DVD collection up later in the week.

so instead of 'the lucky one', i went to 'dear john', where there's a summer romance and letter writing and an autistic father, as well as september 11 and the army calling. that one was tough, and i cried at the bit where they said goodbye one of the times. i like amanda seyfried, but it was really channing tatum i was there for, his lovely square jaw and broad chest showcased in gratuitous beach scenes (he's a surfer, so it's legit).

i got really into the channing tatum factor and so went straight to 'the vow', which is not actually nicholas sparks but really plays out like it should be. partly because rachel mcadams was in perhaps his biggest book to movie hit, 'the notebook' (which i thought about watching but decided to avoid), and partly because there's amnesia and love and a family secret. my favourite and best bit of this whole movie is at the very end, where there is snow falling, people in beanies and the national playing. oh man, i thought to myself at this point, why is that not my life?

i was pretty much an emotional wreck by this point, and also feeling a little bit dirty for being so easily manipulated into enjoying beautiful men and tiny girls who fell into their arms with only the slightest amount of pretended rebellion and resistance. so i decided to end with one of my favourite love story movies of late, 'imagine me and you'.

when i first saw the shorts for this, before i watched it, it was cut to preview like a completely different movie, where the wedding happens at the end rather than the beginning. i wonder, given that (spoiler alert) it isn't a conventional heterosexual love story, whether whoever made the trailer just wasn't confident that anyone would come to watch the thing if there wasn't a hetero happily-ever-after in store. when i watched it the first time, i was pleasantly surprised (the trailer, as a result, made it look like a wishywashy & gutless film) and quite taken with how the story develops, and how much of a victory for love the ending is. i particularly like the part that plays alongside the first of the rolling credits, where we see what everyone's got up to, like it's months later, even though we have literally just finished dealing with finale drama.

i hope this post has either inspired you to watch a love story movie, avoid them completely, or stop feeling guilty about your secret love of channing tatum. we're only human, after all.

30pictureschallenge: Day 9

this mug reminds me of a pillowcase i saw recently, in an article about tavi gevinson where they put in some photos of her in her room. the pillowcase in question has "here you will dream of endless kissing" on it, and i sort of wish it was mine.

i have a bit of a love-hate relationship with love. wait, hear me out. i'm a reader and sometimes a writer (a lover and sometimes a fighter) and so the concept of love to me is sometimes that it's a thing of power and awesomeness, like all you need is love... like the moulin rouge guy, wasshisname mcgregor (kidding- love ewan and all of his accent and face). maybe it's the first parts that come with being in love that i love so much. the parts where you're bulletproof and giddy.

i don't love in halves. when i love a person, that's basically like saying, i really like them quite a lot. i could write poetry and songs and let's face it, drop them into blog entries as much as i can.

or i have in the past, anyways. but after this last particular failed relationship, i can't help but feel a little suspicious of love. like love is a bit of a tricker and a heartbreaker. i suspect that i'm overly enthusiastic about being in love, and that probably what i should do is just chill the fuck out and play it cool, let love sneak up on me, impress me, buy me flowers. oh wait, that's not love - that's just a nice boy.

i've managed to date a whole collection of people who may have, collectively among them, bought me flowers 3 times in an accumulative total of 7.5 years. i am clearly picking the wrong people, and those people are picking the wrong flowers (by that i obviously mean: no flowers at all). i've always hoped for them, much like i've always hoped for commitment and a little emotional maturity, and yet here i am, me, the friendly blogger, without flowers or commitment or any of those things of the fairytales.

it's a tricky thing though, because even after all that whining, i'd take the endless kissing dreamt of on a special pillowcase, or the warm coffeecup kisses. i'd take them and run away with them, all the way to a dream place full of adult men with aspirations and goals, flowers, and -let's face it- failing actual facial hair, at least the ability to grow some.

love, huh? tricky bastard.

30pictureschallenge: Day 3

this is winter time in whistler. it looks like it's christmas, but the magic of whistler is that it looks like this all through winter.

things freeze, things stop, things slow. at the same time, there is frenetic energy. the village is filled with visitors; it's a visitor's town.

when fresh snow falls, right down to the village, there's a nice time during the night before it's cleared away and salt laid to make safe paths for those unaccustomed to the white winter underfoot. before it's cleared away, it gives beneath your feet. it makes a sort of muffled crunch, a murmur released as you leave a footprint behind.

it's ankle deep. sometimes it's knee deep. these are the nights you quietly head for home; these nights promise nextmornings filled with pow turns and faces full of snow. your heart fills with the anticipation of it. you smile at strangers as you trudge by them, wading through the fresh snow to the bus stop, and home. you pull your hood up; you wrangle your toque into place under your hood. you check your pockets and pull on the mittens you have stowed there.

the more the snow falls, the wider and fuller your heart becomes. the flakes are big, floaty things; they drift slowly to the ground or they fall thick and fast. you're covered in them as you walk, you brush them out of your face and off your eyelashes. they're wet and cold, but you don't mind; on still snowy nights such things can easily be forgiven.

off the bus, you're making your careful way up a hill that is foiling any cars without winter tyres. you pick a path and patiently put one foot in front of the other, avoiding the slipperiness that comes with packed down snow.

once home, you shake yourself off and shed a wet outer layer; hang up a coat, stash your boots. you rub your hands together and blow into them as you stomp your way up the stairs, buoyant with the magic of the winter world you just traveled through to make it back. upstairs there are housemates, equally happy in their anticipation of what tomorrow will bring on the mountain.

a cup of tea, a brief chat, a plan made for the morning, then bed.

lyrics & music: the national, this is the last time

Just listen to and love this one: it might change your life.



Oh, when I lift you up you feel
Like a hundred times yourself
I wish everybody knew
What's so great about you

Oh, but your love is such a swamp
You don't think before you jump
And I said I wouldn't get sucked in

This is the last time

Oh, don't tell anyone I'm here
I got Tylenol and beer
I was thinking that you'd call somebody closer to you

Oh, but your love is such a swamp
You're the only thing I want
And I said I wouldn't cry about it

This is the last time
This is the last time

(full lyrics here)

#30daychallenge day 10: discuss your first love and kiss

My first love was probably either Dean Cain/Superman, Hanson, or Jonathon Taylor Thomas/JTT (this post is in the interests of exploring the origins of my own fangirl self).

I'm not sure exactly of the timing, but the teen hormones must have been on their way, because all of a sudden I desperately had to have TV Hits, a pop culture magazine dedicated to TV, movie and pop stars. Anyone else remember TV Hits? I saved up pocket money (probably no more than a measly $3) to buy it every month. I had a process, too; I've realised I still follow this very ritual with Frankie magazine now. It goes skimread, read cover to cover, put aside, return to 1 week later, re-read and decide which pictures and posters to cut out (based often on which picture was on the other side of the page). Cut out, install on wall, lay on bed looking up at new wall decoration.

Shit, I had a Jonathon Taylor Thomas shrine. Every picture of him I could get my hands on. I wrote diary entries about how cute he was, debated his levels of hotness dependent on which movie or season of Home Improvement had featured him. I was in love with him. I'm pretty sure he featured very heavily in my daydreams; I'm not sure if these ever involved us kissing, but boy did we talk. Mainly about me.

 It's hard to figure out where I learned this behaviour from. Was it my cousins, or was it Sophie and Nevanka, my good-as-sisters? I know they thought Dean Cain was a bit of alright; I'd hook them up with episodes of Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman on a weekly basis, painstakingly recorded on VHS, even with the ads cut out (all because they didn't have an aerial for their TV at home and couldn't get the Lois and Clark channel). 

The way I felt about Hanson was the same, and my friends Lauren and Willow (yep, BAM! Hanson-shamed) and I used to trade Hanson posters in the first year of high school, before we decided Nirvana were way cooler, almost denying Hanson's very existence.

Whomever I learned it from, I fangirled hard over those fellas, in all their boyish glory (well, not Dean Cain: brother was a muscly man. Have a diary entry circa 1996 which reads "Latest TV Hits today! Huge fold out poster of Dean Cain with a wet white shirt on. Oh my god, so sexy, you can see his MUSCLES!").

That kind of love is like a crush, except that it rests solely in a glorious fantasy realm. It's enthralling, and really gives you a safe space to grow that little bit in your imagination. Because inevitably, real life boys are just not that cool, not that smooth with the ladies. 

Which brings me to the second part of the question.

My first kiss was with a boy when I was in year 10 (I think I was almost sweet 16, never been kissed).

It happened at a dance party in the Armidale Town Hall- one of the local radio stations would hold these things periodically, everyone would pay their $5 to go, and breathe in some smoke machine and get their groove on to the Britneys, Christina Aguileras and N*Syncs of the day.

Miracle of all miracles, I was allowed to go (I lived almost 60kms from Armidale and a parent had to stay late in town, like 10:30pm, to pick me up afterwards) and my mum had even let me buy a new skirt for the occasion. Knee length, hot pink with black lace over the top and tassels in a fringe along the bottom. I felt pretty and happy and ready to dance with a boy.

I'm pretty sure we sucked face for about an hour. Don't tell my mum. I remember it was a fairly damp experience; more saliva than I was expecting. 

I emerged victorious; a woman, somebody someone wanted to kiss! It's a powerful feeling. I hugged it to myself for days. 

Alas, the relationship lasted only 3 months until I dumped him in an email. 

I still feel bad about that. 

#30daychallenge day 9: what you hope your future will be like

I feel as though I probably touched on the things I want in my "10 year plan" numbered list; I was going to tongue-in-cheek it and have a rant on hoverboards in manner of Seth Sentry...

However, I have actually been doing some reading and subsequent thinking on the topic of My Future and probably have a few stray thoughts to offer on the topic. Be warned though, no final conclusion shall occur. 

I honestly didn't think I'd get to 27 years of age and still have so many possibilities ahead of me, rather than plans and commitments. I actually expected the commitments to come first, providing some shape to the plans in the form of tangible limiting factors.

Funny how the limiting factors I've come across so far (each time, expecting them to stick and each time being wrong) have been the boys I've had relationships with. Each of them saw me making a physical move (either to be with, or to escape from... Or to wish for a time machine to go with that hoverboard so I could go back and stay put) and now, here I stand, sad and free.

My mistake, perhaps, for harbouring the misguided belief that you make such grandiose gestures and decisions for the one you love ... "And I poured my heart out/ it evaporated, see?"

My future may look any number of ways. As my friend Karin pointed out, I might meet a nice Swedish guy next year when I move to Sweden (that's where you find them, apparently). My mum would kill me. 

I'm starting to wonder if maybe my future might look a little different from how I expected. Every couple of months I seem to shift my world view, plans and ideologies slightly. 

I hope I continue along this road of brutal and honest self motivation though. I've been reading up on why 30 is not the new 20- more on this to follow- and while I'm sure I've got more realisations ahead, I'm already working on creating some momentum. Are you? 

I asked my friend Ellie over the weekend what she thought I was going to be when I grew up. She wasn't sure, so I put it to you, blogosphere: what do you think my future should look like?

secret: how to love someone from afar, or, celebrity crushes

Today I have become increasingly convinced that I'm in love with Matt Corby.

It's because I had a dream about him; we were getting married (my dream self skipped the part where we get together, possibly because it was entirely too implausible). He was all long haired, scruffy and sporting a nice hat. His eyelashes were even more fantastic in (dream) person, his eyes mesmerising, and in my dream, only for me. Our wedding cake was tiramisu. We had only a small ceremony which I don't remember. I do remember that he sang a song he'd written just for me. I was warm, held close and loved. I've never felt quite so content.

And then I woke up.

Me and Kate who I work with had a giggle that my idea of dream perfection was not sexy times with said gorgeous man. It was a wedding, some tiramisu and a nice hat. This amuses me, but it also makes me worry for my subconscious.

Given that nothing short of a crazy miracle will bring myself and Mr Corby to the point where we might marry in the presence of Italian dessert, I've spent the day with a lingering unfulfilled yearning for more Matt in my life. 

Skip to me purchasing his entire back catalogue on iTunes this afternoon (did you know how many EPs he has? Heaps), looking up his stats on wiki (age 22, seemingly single), lingering on google image searches (he has a tattoo on his upper left arm), reading his interviews (his stint on Australian Idol almost put him off performing forever! Gasp!) and joy of all joys, realising he has a tour coming up.

Perhaps my subconscious was just reminding me to buy tickets, and doesn't actually crave marriage and tiramisu.

I heart you Matt Corby. See you in October (even if you don't see me).

#30daychallenge day 6: 30 interesting facts about myself

1. my left foot is half a size bigger than my right foot. one time someone donated a pair of shoes in these exact sizes to the reuseit thrift store where i used to work. i had been eyeing off these shoes in a magazine. it was one of the best days ever.

2. i have had 4 different mobile phone numbers. my first one i had until my ex-boyfriend started texting me poetry at 4 in the morning, my second one i had until i moved to canada, my third one i had until i moved back to australia. the fourth one is current (until i move overseas again, or get another stalker).

3. i drive an 81 Mazda Explorer van called Maude. it makes me feel just a little bit awesome whenever i drive her, mainly because i'm higher up than everyone else, but a little bit because she is a very kick-arse vehicle and i feel kick-arse by association. i have many plans for fixing her up inside so she's all pretty: wallpaper, curtains, cushions and bunting are on the list.

4. i am really into french vanilla rose tea by Dilmah. addicted actually. it smells like turkish delight, and i have loved turkish delight ever since the white witch gave some to Edward in the lion, the witch and the wardrobe.

5. i've just started a Masters of Arts Management at UNE, which is also where i work. i'm doing 2 subjects a trimester; this trimester it's advertising & media, and accounting for managers. i have already fallen behind with my accounting, but i plan to catch up in the next 2 weeks. i'm not sure exactly what i'm going to do with this qualification but i do plan to graduate April 2015 and wear a gown and the whole bit, because i missed the grad for my BA back in 2008.

6. i secretly believe that as a pedestrian i am not ever going to get hit by a car. my logic is that nobody wants to run me over, and so they won't, and i am safe.

7. i've been suckered into all manner of facebook games and apps; candy crush, farm heroes saga, pet rescue saga. i normally find a new one when i get to a level i can't pass. occasionally i actually pay money to pass a level, but my rule is that i have to have been stuck on a level for a week before i'm allowed, and i have to be sure i'm going to finish the level with the purchase. so it's all legit, really.

8. i religiously download the free track that iTunes offers up each week. i download it, forget to listen to it and then months later when making playlists i wonder what it's doing there.

9. probably 70% of the clothing i own is thrifted. i went thrifting in my lunchbreak this week.

10. i usually prefer to wait until a show is in its 3rd season before i get on board, even if there's a ridiculous amount of hype from folk whos opinions i value. only exception to this rule in recent history is suits. because it's awesome.

11. i recently deleted 700 photos off my phone, because i take duplicates of everything in order to get 'the best one' and then keep all of them anyway.

12. i am a feminist.

13. i am bad at changing into, and out of, second gear.

14. i'm not scared of germs. i don't go out and lick garbage bins or anything, but i scoff in the face of hand sanitiser. i'm aware that having admitted this, i will most likely get an ironic case of something awful (see, i don't even know what these scary diseases are called).

15. i crack myself up.

16. i never had the chicken pox. yes, i know this is bad.

17. i've watched the movie 'crazy, stupid love' probably more than 10 times, but less than 20. because i love ryan gosling, and emma stone, and also think julianne moore has the most lovely red hair i've ever seen. look, it's full of good bits- watch it and thank me later.

18. i kept all of the letters written to me in highschool, and found them in storage at mum's recently. oh boy, there are some chestnuts in there. i may even replicate some of them here (with the author's permission, of coursies). that angst and level of detailed analysis of a boy cannot be replicated. we may all remember what it's like to be a teenager, but i don't think any of us could be back there and be one now, knowing what we know.

19. i am clumsy, and most often have more than one bruise at some point between knee and hip, normally from running into something completely ordinary and part of my everyday life that has not unexpectedly moved, for example a desk chair, a normal chair, a desk corner, a door.

20. i'm in a book club which i encouraged ellie to start and have no yet made it to a meeting of said club. but this month is the book i picked, so i think i have to be there - particularly because it's at my house.

21. i have a crush on the Rock. Dwayne Johnson, i believe is his name. i normally tend to go for, let's say 'more artistic' types. but there is something about that guy. maybe it's his tattoos (tribal; everything i abhor in a tattoo), or maybe it's his biceps (bigger than ma head). i don't know why, but i have decided not to question it.

22. i love my iPhone more than a person who knows better should. this interesting fact is not so much interesting as it is factual.

23. i secretly fear you have stopped reading my list of 30 facts about myself.

24. i have 4 tattoos, but i have at least another 4 in mind. i've even planned for an impulse tattoo, which i am aware defies its very category, but you know, i don't play by anyone's rules... not even my own.

25. my favourite part of writing is that flicker of knowing, as you pause for a thought, that you're making something you're going to be happy to read again later.

26. i have a pet hate of people who manage to bring up that they've travelled extensively in every conversation, yet i'm guilty of it myself. which reminds of this one time in Canada...

27. in my life, i've kissed 11 boys. a few of them i kissed a lot of times; the others, only once or twice.

28. i'm quite pleased about the fact that all the significant injuries i had to list for my physio last week were snowboarding related. i am awesome and rad and hardcore. just don't ask me what silly things i was doing when said injuries occurred. 

29. i miss day-drinking in Canada with the cool kids. armidale folk just do not seem to understand the sheer joy to be found in being mildly intoxicated while it's still light outside. 

30. i have chosen to do many different things at an ok standard, instead of one thing really well. and that's ok with me; i have made peace with this fact. which is something i feel means i have made it into the adult world. i have arrived.

Jan Buchczik: Untitled

#30daychallenge day 1: my current relationship/singledom

my current relationship is with myself. i've been single since feb 14 this year (if you're going to breakup, why not do it on valentine's day?) and have gradually eased back into the comfiness of singledom.

this time round, i know all about how it goes, this singledom. i know that i have a huge list of activities which tend to fall by the wayside when there's a boy on the scene; activities i love to do and get a lot out of. i know i have a pile of great friends with whom i can surround myself (or not) at will. i know how much i like my own company - whether reading, going to movies, writing or just sitting about, i'm happy and comfortable and in fact often prefer these things on my own. i also know i have awesome family close by, be it my mum who i see in the carpark almost every workday, or my cousin and his wife who i hadn't seen for 6 months (they'd in fact had a whole baby since i saw them last).

i am a lucky motherfucker.

there's been an interesting shift this time, and i don't know if it's my age, or the very fact of being beaten over the head by yet another incorrectly-placed stint of optimism and trust, but i am not going to be rushing into anything serious for no good reason, if there should come a time when someone has expressed an interest. broken down: i shall not be dating anymore boys. men, please.

that's not to say i won't happily be set up on a date or three, but you know, i'm not keen on wasting my time on time-wasters. ain't nobody got time for that.

and all the activities i can do now, as a single lady, are my favourites. activities! free time!

the world is open and full of possibility.

and next year, i'm going to sweden.

treasure: my granny, Patricia Taylor

One of my favourite bloggers, Pip from Meet me at Mike's, has suggested a blog-along about grandmothers today. You can read hers and be inspired maybe to write something of your own, as I am today.

I think often about my Granny, who it turns out has been a huge influence on many of us Taylor folk, one way or the other. The only thing I ever occasionally let myself feel sad about in relation to Granny is that I'd just love to sit down with her now, at 27, and have a good old chat about things. Now I understand a little more. Now I'm an adult. Now I've met more of the whole wide world, and consequently realised just how wonderful she was, not just as my Granny (for she was given instant 'wonderful' status ever since I can remember) but as a woman.

Of course, I never knew Granny as a mum, but from what I gather she managed 5 kids and a husband on a NSW sheep farm quite adequately, not to mention the governesses, the jackaroos, and the rest of the surrounding family. As a Granny, she was kind and strong, and somehow managed to make each of her 14 grandkids feel special to her. Until I was 10 or so, she lived just down the hill from us, so close that Mum was able to stand at the top of the hill and watch me toddle down to see me arrive safely in Granny's waiting arms. From there, she took me inside and I was fed shortbreads and hardbiscuits (a family recipe, an oat & golden syrup combination that are infamous), as well as allowed to help out with baking and making butter. I got sat on the edge of the kitchen bench while she went about this business, and was occasionally granted my very own little ball of new butter to put on toast, or eat then and there, delicious and creamy, popped straight into my little mouth.

It sounds a bit odd as a treat for a child, but I must say it was my absolute favourite thing. What I wonder about now is what her and I talked about, for I'm certain I would have chatted away happily with her for hours (genetic trait, the chatting- Granny was the best chatter I know) about all my secrets and thoughts. I imagine I may even have bored her with my chat, having since discovered that once kids figure out how to make themselves understood, they Do. Not. Shut. Up.

Growing past this rosy-cheeked child stage, I know I missed having Granny and Grandfather so close by when they moved into town. Our family moved into the homestead, and all the mystical places that had hidden secrets inside when Granny and Grandfather lived there were opened up and brought to light. Furniture was moved out and empty space left for our family to move on in. The 'good' lounge room stopped being a closed space in the dark, and Grandfather's dressing room stopped smelling of mystery and was instead painted blue, becoming a bedroom for my little brother Stuart.

Their new house in town became the place for Christmases and family get togethers, and while those were always special, it was the one-on-one times with Granny that I remember that house for. I cannot remember ever watching television there, instead we'd drink countless cups of tea and I'd read my book, or tell Granny about highschool, or whatever else I felt like chatting about. I can't remember ever trying out teenage rebellion on her; while I was a well-behaved girl, I had a truly awful temper with which I would constantly tear strips off my parents, but I'm pretty sure I never tried that out on Granny. One wouldn't.

As always with the passing of time and the gaining of maturity, on reflection I feel truly amazed by the legacy and impact Granny had upon me, and I don't doubt, all of the other Taylors I know. I think of her now as my conscience; when I act well, true to myself, when I help others or resist making an easy choice in favour of a better choice, I feel quietly proud of myself in the same way that I imagine Granny might. When I make a mistake, or a knowingly act in a way that I regret later, I shake my head, try not to beat myself up too much and instead think "Next time, I'll do better". That's what Granny has given me. I expect a lot of myself, which I know is a 'Taylor' trait with which we all have been blessed/cursed.

In the end, I only have a few tangible objects which have come from Granny. One is a green glass bead necklace, another is her copy of "Alice in Wonderland" from back when she was a Fraser instead of a Taylor, and the last, a happy discovery of just this month, is that the curtains that hang in my beloved van Queen Maude are made from scraps of sailboat fabric that Mum was given by Granny. So I have a little piece of something of hers to travel about with every single day. That is truly lovely.

Another treasure is a rhyme that has stayed with me for many many years, and I'm sure all the Taylors are reciting it in their heads while reading this. This Mabel Lucie Attwell poem hung on a towel rail in Granny's bathroom from since way before I can remember, and it will always remind me of having baths at her place, having my little body rubbed dry with a towel by Granny in her more limber days on her knees by the bathtub; it will remind me of the countless times I read it when visiting the toilet, moving the hip-friendly toilet seat out of the way. In a way I guess it is Granny, through and through. Tidying up after yourself and thinking of others, meeting your responsibilities head on.

Sending all my love, not only to Granny, but to all of us who love and miss her - Patricia Taylor, you're one heck of a lady to live up to, but all of us, we're doing our best (which I'm sure is all you'd really expect of us anyway).

treasure: looking backwards while walking forwards.

so it's more than a year since i returned to the homeland. it's a bit of a bittersweet milestone; when i think of how i felt about coming back, all the mis-met expectations of the last 12 months, i do feel a little twinge of sad in my belly.

i was never meant to still be here, in armidale, by now. i was meant to have moved on to a bigger city; to have found a new favourite coffee shop and a new local where they knew my drink of choice. i was meant to have found a little group of trendy hipsters to befriend; i was meant to be taking over the world with a person by my side. i was meant to be moving to germany, learning the language pre-emptively, planning european road trips.

well i'll be damned if it didn't all fall to bits. it was those little things that made it ok to leave whistler, my life and my mountains and all the places that i loved (and still pine for). the person i was in whistler was mainly pretty kick-ass, and thinking back to my single days of before, i was pretty awesomely self-sufficient and satisfied by my own company.

i think it's true- at different times and places, we are different versions of ourselves. for me, my canadian adventure was emancipation. for so long, i attributed it to canada, but of course all along it was me. it's true that i'll never be quite as free as i felt in those 3 years, but i think at least now i can say, safely, that i know myself better. and perhaps it's ok not to be perpetuating quite so much damage to my liver any longer.

saying goodbye to canada was most heart-wrenching for the friends i had to leave. at the time, i felt bolstered up by love and a long-distance boyfriend, but more and more i realise it was my friends that got me through my stuff; the girls for the feelings n shit, the boys (and the girls) for the drinking and fun action adventure & activities. the hardest thing to do and the most precious thing i've realised i am capable of is to stay true to what i want and who i am. to put myself around the people who inspire me instead of those who still, even in the second part of their twenties, find it easier to be sarcastic, to shoot down those with dreams and goals, to feel no more than bitter in the face of other people's success and happiness. i've been that person, and she sucks. i'm not her anymore.

that's what hangs on from what whister gave me. the part that i miss is the family of whistler orphans, all snuggled together for pot luck dinners, birthdays and christmases, post-shred warmth and runny noses, all stoked on pow days and new boards and dropping things not previously dropped. we were all so happy, we were all so encouraging and full of heart and soul, breaths of mountain air and rosy cheeks from blood thumping through our veins.

i miss not having a commonality like that to share. i miss having some of my best friends living in the room next door (or downstairs). i continually wish that i'd spent more time with them, and ache desperately to see them all again - looking forwards, i'm being propelled along by the prospect of seeing them all again within the next 12 months; weddings, christmases, a move to europe... oh boy oh boy!! i wish it were right now.

there are little bits of my heart in all the places. whistler, vancouver, corvallis. sweden, norway, england, germany, prague. brisbane, sydney, melbourne, perth. all of them. big love from little armidale, right atcha.

xxx

secret: the start of the list

some things on my list- are they so much to ask?

someone who gets it

Someone who laughs at/with me

Someone who can read

Just what it says on the box

Someone who makes me laugh

Someone who makes creations for me, including paper flowers

Someone who's ok with their sensitive side/can knit scarves

Someone who makes my heart go all giddy and ridiculous

Someone who can Adventure

Someone who can make a bit of conversation

secret: all I ever wanted was a fucking mixtape

I've realised recently that I have always been the one who makes the mixtapes. Metaphorically and literally. Stay with me on this. 

I learned about making mixtapes from my mum. She used to make a new one nearly every month, and would name them as such- I seem to remember the mixtapes of '95-'96 being particularly good. Us kids had the good fortune to be indoctrinated by all manner of music, mostly the awesome stuff. 

I started to make my own mixtapes, the first of which I entitled "May '96". Straight from the books of Louise Taylor. Why mess with what works? They were a healthy mix of top 40 pop and actual music stolen from mum's CD collection, and they were all for me.

The first time I made a mixtape for someone else I was 17. Ben was my first serious boyfriend, and I thought he was way too good for me. He also thought he was too good for me. I made him a few mixes which were filled with not-so-secret messages of love. Each track was carefully chosen because it made me think of him. But then, I was 17 and in love for the first time- everything made me think of him. 

Needless to say that one didn't last.

Over the years there have been a few other mixtapes for a few other boys. I've made mixtapes for friends, and done my best to pick songs I think they'll like rather than my favourite songs, which is an easy direction to take. 

I've worked so hard on musical collections to show other people I love them with music far better than I could ever write. I've borrowed from many of the bands I know to leave not-so-secret messages of love out in the air to be heard.

That's what I mean about metaphorical mixtapes. All the effort put into trying to know someone and give them what they want without them having to get off their lazy butts to ask. 

My point, no matter how long-winded, is that I'd love a mixtape that someone had made for me with me in mind. And all the subtext that goes with that. 

For now, I'm making my own mixtapes/playlists. It goes alright- I know exactly what I like. I'll just keep quietly making them until a fresh new mix comes to rock my world.

For now, May 2013 is pretty fucking kickass.

treasure: one art, by elizabeth bishop

perhaps if losing is an art, then humankind is an artist.

I'll be perfectly honest with you- this poem is one I know from the movie 'In Her Shoes' starring Toni Colette and Cameron Diaz. Seeing as I only ever heard it in the scene when Cameron Diaz' character is learning to read, I have to say I didn't really take the poem in, as such. Possibly partly because I felt weirdly victorious about the fact that I could read, and this hot blonde leggy fictional character couldn't. Yeah, I get my kicks where I can.

I have been thinking quite a lot about this idea, that many things in life are intended to be lost, and that that's ok. It's hard not to get caught up in the fury of having lost something you felt was important, something you assumed you'd have for a long time.

So, poem, I'm not meant to expect or want to hold onto anything forever? Forever is, after all, a very long time, and my hands are only very small and not always strong enough for holding. If you clasp a peach too tightly with your pointy fingers, there will be bruised flesh, and the peach won't be so sweet. If you hold a hand too tight, or a whole person, eventually there's discomfort, and they have to wriggle away from you. It's not cool to be the one who holds on.

I've hated letting go of lots of things in my life, and I'm certain I've left some bruises where I clung too tightly, hoping and wishing for a repreive, a change of heart, another chance. I've been the one to escape, sometimes by leaving a whole country, sometimes by leaving silence when someone's demanding answers.

But then I think, loss is what makes us want to create; to create art, to refill our senses with something. To fill that gap left after a loss. I have all the time in the world at the moment. I have plentiful space to fill, lots of time stretching empty. I've been filling it with different things: whole seasons of Californication (because my bad decisions don't look so bad when compared with Duchovny's Hank Moody), letters to my friends all over the world (alternating between sugar-coated and brutally honest, optimistic and heartbroken), whisky (because), situpsandchinupsandsquatsandrowingandsweat (distraction with hidden benefits like fitting back into your pants), and here, this, writing.

I spent a few months struck silent, but I've decided that I do want things in my life that I could lose at any time. How else would there be any words to say? What would I write about?

I'd like to write a bit more about loss; in manner of Elizabeth Bishop, all those little things you lose throughout your life. Maybe I'll get to it; I'll add it to the list of things I want to say.

secret: all i want

it's true, really, if i break it down. in fact, i think it's the secret to humanity *cue brain exploding in glorious realisation*

i have some love and i have plenty of good music; new favourites and old.

all i'm missing at the moment is sleep. i want it, in my ears and eyes and all over my body and all up in my brain. a warm cocoon of peace and safety and happiness.

that's not all i want, but it would do, for now.