tea is for terrific

cultivating love

2011-02-14T22:15:00.008+10:00

I was giggling yesterday because the car smelled like horse and/or cow poo. It wasn’t particularly funny – it was a typical sticky summer day which only served to deliver the aroma to a very authentic, revolting level of freshness – but I was giggling out of sheer delight. I’d just decided, more or less on a whim, to purchase some herbs to grow, along with some potting mix and helping-poo-stuff and I was on my way home to put plan into action, to put plants into pots.

It occurred to me then that at exactly this time last year I undertook pretty much the same activity, all with the same fervour and associated hope: that my herbs will thrive and that following on from this (naturally) I will create fabulous, divine smelling-tasting meals forever more, host grateful, gushing friends to sophisticated, but in a totally green and alternative way, dinner parties, and of course that I will somehow meet just the right rugged salt-of-the-earth dude and be able to say with winning confidence that I GROW HERBS REALLY WELL in order that he fall promptly in love with me...

And then upon arrival at this final thought – the one connected to my ostensibly malcontent heart – it occurred to me that at exactly this time last year (as it is now) it was Valentine’s Day.

Of course, of course.

That would explain my sudden desire to nurture basil and coriander and sweet apple mint into blossoming, aromatic life as less sudden and whimsical and more as desperate consolation for my forlorn lack of something (okay, someone) to love.

And nor do I have someone to love me. No right rugged salt-of-the-earth dude to care for me, no.

Perhaps then my coddling of herbs, my will to have them rupture in natural splendour, is not about me caring for someone, because really, where's the joy in that, and is more about me enacting the way in which I ideally, romantically, ever so deliriously, would like to be regarded.

“You're the only girl I've seen for a long time that actually did look like something blooming...”

Need I describe the gymnastics of my heart when I read this line only a little over two days ago? Oh yes, Mr Fitzgerald, tender is the night.

Just not my night.

My nana asked me the other day, only after informing me how well my same-sex, same-age cousin was doing (you know, about to have her second child type of well), if I have a boyfriend yet.

No, I told her. Not yet.

And yet, I wanted to tell her, I have so much and so many to love already, I just really don’t think I’d be able to fit it (okay, him) in. What with coffee and the American Indie Season on SBS and all, the changing evening light, the seductive Mr Fitzgerald, and of course the smell of fresh basil and coriander and sweet apple mint...

Honestly, it really is the sweetest. I don't need a freaking boyfriend. Not yet.

a note of thanks

2010-08-13T12:15:00.003+10:00

Thank you to whoever invented irony and made it possible for me to write this post. I guess it really is possible to find something to be thankful for each day: http://thxthxthx.com/.

playing chess on the floor in the lounge

2010-07-12T13:24:00.000+10:00

this side of the footpath

2010-07-08T14:31:00.001+10:00

the invention of red

2010-07-07T15:26:00.001+10:00

notes left between the second and third palings sometime in June

2010-07-02T15:25:00.019+10:00

1.
Last Tuesday is the first time I saw you, I think, and then you disappeared. But you’ve been here every day this week. Are you new to the area, or have you only just entered a routine that involves the 7am train?

2.
You pull off that fuzzy-eyed, tussled-hair look well. I only hope you think the same of me. Or better.

3.
I forgot to mention, I like your sweater-vest. Usually not my style, but it’s winter and I can tell you want to keep warm.

4.
I thought you might have picked it up by now, but you haven’t. So, as a veteran commuter, I feel obliged to offer you some advice: Don’t stand so far down the platform. If the train suddenly pulls up on, say, Platform 3, you’ll never make it up the ramp and to the other side of the station in time. I’d hate for you to be late. Where is it that you go?

5.
I told you so. Welcome now to the Middle of the Platform.

6.
It was, I estimate, about 11 degrees this morning. I was eating toast as I walked to the station and it was cold before I even made it halfway through the first slice. You weren’t wearing your vest. I hope you were warm.

7.
Another chilly day. I was hidden under a beanie and a grey scarf that came right up to my bottom lip. I was just about breathing clouds, puffing out gorgeous wisps of white. I was going to write your name, so it would hover there in front of my face, but then I realised I don’t know it. Let me guess. Donovan? Sebastian? Christopher, perhaps with a K?

8.
Another sweater-vest! In green!

9.
You were sneezing this morning. Big, blustery sneezes. If I’d been standing any closer, I might have gotten a share of it myself. I guess that green vest’s just not up to the job. Bring back the blue.

10.
Would you like a tissue? I think it’s important that we know how to talk to strangers, to depend on our neighbours and live in a bubble bigger than our own heads. I’ll keep them in my bag and you just ask anytime, okay?

11.
I checked MX on the way home this evening, that column where people write in and shout to the object of their desire. I expected my heart to do a little tinkling, for a lightness to swell in my stomach and move to my head, make me dizzy, but there was no mention of a generous, raven-haired bunny on the 7.02. Do you think I’m more like a lamb?

12.
I was going to leave you a note about how Vitamin C will clear that dirty cold of yours right up, but I decided against it because I knew you wouldn’t listen anyway. Why waste all that effort and ink and tree? You’re not worth it and maybe you never will be. Still, I’ll see you Monday morning? This is your last chance, mister.

13.
I suppose you had a good weekend then. She’s pretty, that one, I’m glad for you. But, you know, she’ll probably break your heart. It’s in her hair. Good luck is all I can say. And maybe get a car. Girls like that, they like cars.

from the god of small things

2010-07-01T21:07:00.003+10:00

female, 22. please can i hate you?

2010-06-27T17:45:00.011+10:00

Today marks one year since I was so violently shunned and forcibly made single. That may be a little melodramatic... maybe... but whatever modality I apply to the situation that was is irrelevant, because today I can say I am happy. This is momentous, but is not the point of this entry. Because, actually, despite being happy, the year is just about halfway through and I’m feeling something like buyer’s remorse. Have I been spending my time wisely? Am I purchasing worthwhile experiences?

I want to date. But specifically, and this is the key point I make when praying each night to that great compassionate being out there somewhere, I want to go on horrible, awkward dates.

I want to have to feign labour, as in mumble “Sorry, bout to have a baby” and rise hastily from my seat, throwing a fifty dollar note at the delinquent’s face as my swollen belly and I dash out the door, because obviously I’m an independent woman and I will pay my own way, mister. I want to challenge my sensibilities and be affronted by modern chauvinists and felonious racists, if only so I can slap them sideways and shave off their eyebrows. I want to have to call a friend in the bathroom and complain squeakily, my voice breaking from all the teenage hormones that have painfully resurfaced during the blitz of stilted conversation starters that have in fact failed to start a conversation. I want to have pasta sauce on my chin and realise only much later, after it has dried and formed a filthy crust. I want this to occur especially in the event that I am taken by the charming gentleman sitting opposite me, so that I can cry why and formulate some ridiculous ploy to rectify the crisis. And I want, of course, for the ploy to fail.

I know this is romantic. Not in the way of candles and city lights reflected fancifully across the river’s surface, but romantic in the way that television shows and movies make even the most horrible and awkward of dates seem appealing. Not only are they comic, and something to gush about afterwards with tittering friends, but they are what life is supposed to be like. It’s experience. And it’s experience that you must have if you are to know the ebb and flow that is love. It is only after a series of these horrible, awkward dates that you will know what it is, who it is, you are looking for. It is only after x many Mister or Missus Wrongs that you will have developed the capacity not only to love, but also to be loved. Whether this is because you lower your expectations, develop more patience, or because you are suddenly struck by the brevity of life and just want to get on with it, I don’t know... I’m just speculating here, and only vaguely so. In any case, horrible, awkward dates are on my ‘to do’ list.

So then, I turn to this blog now for some shameless self-advertising. But first, mostly to entertain you and secondly to properly credit the source from which I take inspiration, I mention my recent habit of looking at the ‘personals’ section in the London Review of Books. While I do not engage in this with even the slightest intention of finding someone to “connect” with (the real value – amusement – that I find in this activity will be self-evident if I post just a few of these here, which I will do, in just a moment), it did help me, as I pondered my current situation, to think what I could do about it. But before we get to my little experiment in self-advocacy, allow yourself to laugh:

I have let my lonely rage suckle angrily upon my teat too long. Self-published poet and experimental proctologist. M, 61.

I’d sooner indulge my dangerous hi-fibre diet obsession than contribute yet another churlish whimsy to this column. Yet I am alone, and need to smell a lady’s head. Man, 54.

My wife says I’m too big, and so she has a lover. She says I should too. Sex is important, but cultural empathy and (dare I say it?) love, are more so. Possible female equivalents, 50-75.

Gravy is my biggest weakness. M, 34.

And now, although not as brief, witty or as evocative as the above eloquent bites, here is my plea.

Hello sweet, fallible you. Explore this blog, gauge roughly who I am, and contact me if you think that we most probably, in all likelihood, will not, as they say, hit it off. If you think that you might provoke in me feelings of revulsion and abhorrence, not only towards you but towards the human race at large, please be in touch. I will settle also for something a little less extreme. If you can induce in me the urge to vomit, for instance, if your utterances will make me wince, or if you will cause me to lie, cheat and steal in order to get away from you, then you should please notify me of your splendid existence. But, if, on the other hand, you think that I could very potentially, in all likelihood, love, cherish and adore you, please do stay tuned to this blog and I’ll let you know when the apple is about to drop from the tree. You will then be most welcome to place your basket squarely beneath the branch and catch me as I fall.

the day i stole a tomato

2010-06-20T19:59:00.007+10:00

It is possible, I think, that I could go to prison for what happened this afternoon. But really, it wasn’t my fault. What happened was inevitable. The circumstances were conspiring. What I did this afternoon is what anyone, who is quite like me, would do.

I jumped off the train one station earlier so that I could take a walk and be alone with my thoughts, which I can tell you are not always good company. But given that today they were running along tracks not recently traipsed, I thought I should allow the opportunity for us to positively reconnect. I was then blessed, in the midst of all this winter, with a little sunshine, and I was able to flounce about in tights and a floral dress and feel only the weight of the sun’s rays on my shoulders. I was accompanied, too, by a whimsical, upbeat soundtrack, so it was no wonder that something glorious would not escape my attention. Specifically, that a thriving plantation of red goodness, only metres from the footpath and concealed barely by a flimsy, yet quaint, wire ensemble uncomplicated enough for any child or invalid to manipulate, would not escape my attention.

I don’t think timing a mere coincidence. For the last few weeks I have been grappling with a deficiency in drive. I have pinched myself purple, not knowing for certain whether I am really, truly alive. It seems the cold, amongst other things, had not only paralysed my kidneys and crippled my fingers and toes, ears and nose, but immobilised my spirit too. I consider perhaps that had today not happened as it did, this grappling might have gone on for another however many more weeks. I ask then is the sun and the unanticipated appearance of these red baubles not an example of divine intervention, with divine being all that is nature, all that is right there before us, but which we sometimes just don’t see?

So I offer my confession. I did it, yes. I have potentially jeopardised my future as a virtuous, upstanding, fretful citizen, teased up until now about my steadfast adherence to the law and my not unrelated paranoia of sirens and uniforms and middle-of-the-night knocks-on-the-door, but what would have been the alternative? To bypass the effervescent fruit and not capture its heat through my palms? To not remove the green crown with my teeth and to continue to feel stifled and much like a vegetable myself?

Yes, I stole a tomato. And yes, I ate it greedily, biting firmly into it with the messy intention of having the juice spurt everywhere and the seeds stick to my clothes as a reminder that Good Things Grow. And yes, I’m sorry if I upset anyone, but also yes, and I apologise once more, I would do it again.

The fruit may have been forbidden, but it was acquired, adored and devoured with a gracelessness that can only be born out of the most sincere passion. I think, in this light, that a greater crime would have been for the juicy miracle to be picked by someone less receptive to its sensation. For it was not just a tomato, something to add to my salad or pasta. It was a vision. It was a reason to hope, a reason to strive. It was a cue to grow to be everything I might ever want to be. And it was freaking delicious.

it's starting to get cold but this might mean some hugs

2010-05-04T14:43:00.002+10:00

It’s a dripping feeling
Which forms
And is suspended
Then falls and forms again

What is sweet and sad
Is your dim-lit smile
Which I cannot tell
Is meant for me or the night

the beginning

2010-04-15T16:11:00.003+10:00

Have you ever flown?
In a plane? Well, yes. I went to Melbourne.
No, just you, in the air, in the sky. With your arms out, mouth open. Have you tasted cloud?
Well, no. How could I taste cloud?
Ever swallowed helium?
From a balloon, yes.
Did you float? Did you rise?
No. But my voice did change.
Well, what did you say?
I sang I’m a little teapot.
Did you do the actions?
No.
Maybe you should have.
It didn’t last very long. Maybe just a line or two.
Do you think you could you sing it now? The whole thing?
Well, yes. But I don’t know that I want to.
You don’t like to sing?
My voice is fine now, just normal. I don’t think it would be as amusing.
You could do the actions.
I don’t know you very well. I only just met you.
So you’ve got nothing to lose. It’s not like we’re friends. We’ll probably never see each other again.
It sounds quite sad when you put it like that.
It does, but that’s just life isn’t it?
Have you ever flown?
Yes. I have.
How was it?
I enjoyed it.
Do you think sometime you might like to take me?
We’ll see. But you'll have to be ready.
Okay.

attention please

2010-03-30T21:23:00.004+10:00

Words should be making their way here sometime soon. There were delays, confusions, a few minor scandals, but nothing so serious, nothing to get your pants in a jolly knot about. At one point it may have appeared that the words had disappeared, but it turns out they were just elsewhere, still being words, still doing wordy things, just on a different page.

In fact when I saw them in their swanky new home I asked them what in the world was going on, but they assured me they were still my words. We’re just having a little bit of fun, mixing it up, they said. Well, I couldn’t very well put a stop to that. Words are meant to have fun, to mix it up, and without question they are doing a spectacular job of it. (Go. Go now and have a look).

So, I put on my prettiest eyelashes and asked my words if we could maybe, please, perhaps cut a deal and could a few of them maybe, please, perhaps kindly return to the original page. And, thankfully, as swanky as their swanky new home is, a few of them (and not at all reluctantly) said yes, and so, as I said before, words should be making their way here (again) sometime soon.

But, in any case, you know now where you can find them if not here: http://teganandemma.wordpress.com/

Totally one of two places for words to be. This being the other place.

outfit friday - floral flourishes

2010-03-13T09:28:00.007+10:00

Combine a pretty, floral print...
... some sweet earrings...

... and suddenly you have a lady that knows how to twirl and curtsey.

Total number of items: 6

This includes a purple cardigan which you cannot see but does exist.

And the verdict, as ruled by Outfit Ombudsman - Emma....

How pretty! A lovely alternative to 'Casual Friday's' jeans and a work shirt. Your dress is a delightful, summery pattern of purpley, peachy, bluey colours. In fact you could call it summerrific! And while you've chosen the dress avenue you've still managed to reach an item count of 6. The purple cardigan complements the dress perfectly and the earrings and shoes cap the outfit off nicely and practically.

Looking back over the last week, it can be noted that much effort, creativity and thought has been put into each of your outfits and not only on the days you were in the office. I think you're well ready to embark on your solo fashion journey.

Congratulations, Tegan.

Yay.

outfit wednesday - urban play

2010-03-10T22:18:00.010+10:00

Today's outfit was about fun. What? Fun in black and white?
Well, yes, just look at the picture.

The aim was to create a certain casual playfulness, whilst still being appropriately suited-up for work.

Total number of items: 8
The beads on the shirt, the 'Romeo and Juliet' heart badge, and the ribbon bracelet (not pictured) also helped, I think, to create a degree of femininity, an understated sweetness.

And the verdict, as ruled by Outfit Ombudsman - Emma....

Thumbs up! Am really loving the look you have today.

Skirt is swapped for some black pants, while the trusty pointy black shoes remain, and you've got a cool trendy/urban street look happening. Number of clothes/accessories counted: 8! A splendid effort. The super cute new printed tee paired with a grey knit vest works a treat, and in this overall black and white based outfit there are lovely little splashes of red in a belt, hair band and ribbon bracelet. Small badge on the vest is noted too :) I can see much attention has been paid to the smaller details to bring this item count up - impressive for someone who was favouring no more than three items just weeks ago!

I'm not sure I can suggest much to improve on this outfit - a pair of red shoes would be cute or if time permits some nail polish would be a sweet little touch. For versatility, though, swap the shoes for some cute ballet flats or Cons and the pants for black jeans and boom you have a going-out outfit too!

Anyone else care to announce their opinion?

outfit monday - red and blue and ribbons

2010-03-08T20:05:00.009+10:00

Ribbons formed the crucial part of today's outfit.

The key idea was to unite brooch and ribbons in a lovely celebration of colour. This was best done against a stark backdrop of rich navy.

Total number of items: 6.
Note that a red cardigan was added once I had entered air-conditioning and that I was in fact wearing black, pointed shoes - certainly not special, but not inappropriate.

And the verdict, as ruled by Outfit Ombudsman - Emma....

Success. You are off to a flying start.

Most essentially, today's outfit involves more than three pieces (6-8 even, depending on the ribbon/headband debate). Taking into account the fairly traditional office attire worn at Aurecon, you have worked an appropriate amount of corporate tone into your outfit (the skirt and black pointy shoes). These are also nice neutral bases to choose the rest of your pieces around. The outfit has become an outfit with a lovely, slightly French-inspired flair – I think it's the blouse/brooch/headband combo. The navy, red, grey and hint of purple complement each other perfectly and make for a well-rounded, chic outfit. Well done!

Handy hints to improve or vary the outfit would be to work in earrings or a necklace. A thin belt could be added for additional colour or interest (red would be awesome), but this might have to be instead of the headband, so as to not overdo it. But your nice low, loose pony tail works a treat. In winter, the headband could even be substituted for a stylish beanie or beret.

So then. What's your verdict? Outfit or outcast?

project outfit

2010-03-07T22:00:00.005+10:00

I've never been one to put too much effort into what I wear. My clothes are always clean and I iron stuff, but I’ve never been one to receive comments – neither to praise nor to criticise – on my outfits. This is because, I have been told, I don’t actually wear outfits. I wear jeans and I wear a shirt. I put on a dress and I walk out the door.

Apparently, three items of clothing or less (not including underwear, but including shoes and accessories) does not constitute an outfit. Three items of clothing, even if the shirt is a decadent shade, even if the dress is flattering and features a particularly pretty print, means you are merely dressing to avoid crossing the street naked and getting frostbitten or roasted where you don’t really want to get frostbitten or roasted. And given that I have friends who dress impeccably and everyday look coordinated and stylish and adorable (and without effort it seems), the fact that I fail to do all of these things is somewhat a point of contention for me.

You see, I do care how I look. I understand appearance doesn’t wholly constitute my worth as one of the Earth’s precious inhabitants, but it does go a little way in making me feel like I am able to participate in the things I want to participate in. If I can make my hair curly rather than frizzy, if I can make my eyes look more awake and betray the utter exhaustion I am feeling, then I can, for instance, more confidently and not so self-consciously shake someone’s hand and enter into conversation about the weather.

And yet paradoxically, if I attempt to wear an outfit, say I pop a necklace over my head, I feel overly self-conscious. I am not inhibited from going out into the world and uttering a few sentences about the endless rain, but I do not feel comfortable and spend my day feeling instead that everyone is looking at me either because I look ridiculous or because they can see that I am a fraud. I recall one occasion when I wore earrings to work and was acutely aware that my boss when he was speaking to me was looking not at my eyes but at the tinkle-tinkle of the little glass balls. That same afternoon my then-boyfriend made some comment along the lines of the earrings being “weird”. Of course I got upset and of course he rectified the situation by saying that he liked me being “plain”.

Last week, however, I wore a scarf on my head. Now, I’ve worn this scarf many times before, mostly around my neck, and I’ve received a few compliments on it because the colours are deep and the pattern bold, but last week I received a compliment not on the scarf as its own individual entity, as something I was just fortunate to be in possession of, but on my outfit. And the compliment came from one of my annoyingly, always adorably dressed friends whose opinion on what is and what isn’t an outfit I highly trust. I then spent the day feeling like I had achieved something, not that I had set out to, and I spent the day feeling good about myself because I love my scarf and was more than pleased that it was working for me and that my exterior was matching my interior. If that makes sense.

So. This prompted an epiphany of sorts: I can do outfits. I may not be able to do big earrings and necklaces, but I can, for instance, do scarves. And maybe, just maybe, there are a few other bits and pieces that I can do. Hence, I introduce this coming week as Project Outfit.

I have three days left at work and each day I am going to attempt to wear an outfit that is a) actually an outfit, according to the more-than-three-items rule (although I suspect there’s more to an outfit than this – something intrinsic, something about just looking ‘complete’ or ‘finished’ or ‘polished’), and b) not in discord with who I am and how I feel. Emma, my stylish friend, will take on the role of Outfit Ombudsman and will declare my outfit attempt either a success or a failure, as well as provide critical feedback. Naturally, all of this will be recorded here – with as much flair and insight as ever – so stay tuned. I might even publish photographs.

today i made a terrible mistake

2010-03-05T19:26:00.010+10:00

I finish work at a nice time and am about to enter the weekend and maybe in my happiness I'm just not thinking because I choose to sit in the corner of the set of four seats on the train, and then I choose to cross my right leg over the left, and then I choose to place a bag of ten or twelve paperbacks, along with my handbag, on my lap. The carriage fills up and the set of four seats becomes occupied by me and three man-sized adults with various hairy features and sweat stains under their arms and what ensues is unbridled anxiety as I try to work out how I will, when it unavoidably comes to it, get off the freaking train.

We approach Central Station and I think, “My God, yes, people are going to get off the train. There will be a shift in dynamics in which I will be able to ease my right leg gently beside my left and prepare myself for imminent detraining”.

Wrong.

People get on the train. An inordinate amount of people get on the train. Perhaps because of the inclement weather, perhaps because it is a little earlier than when I normally catch the train. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Point is I do not manage to uncross my legs and by now the humidity has intensified and I can feel that there is something sweaty and generally unappealing going on where my knees are regrettably locked in place and panic strikes me in the way that I imagine it would if you were to wake up naked in a paddock with a cow and only a cow within any discernible proximity.

We pass through the Valley and Bowen Hills. My legs are not only clammy and suffocating, but my left calf is starting to seize up and I think of my magnesium supplement and urge it to start taking effect now please and then I remember that in my attempts to not give myself cancer I am starting to smell because my non-aluminium based deodorant is highly useless. My fretting increases. My sweating increases. My perceived smelling increases. And I don’t know whether it’s all in my head or not, but EVERYONE IS LOOKING AT ME.

Everyone is looking at me because we have arrived at Albion and my station is next and I have started to wriggle. I have started to try and surreptitiously prise my right leg off the left one. I am not successful. My knee jerks and knocks my handbag onto the man’s lap opposite me. He smirks at me and I praise someone out there that all surprises were safely zipped up. I arise, take my bag which is being offered up to me, and try to ignore the sweat trickling down my calves as I make myself and my baggage as small as possible and inch between three sets of man-sized knees so that I can get to the corridor.

I have made it past Stage One and I start to breathe again. Not sure if the breathing is abnormally loud, but I can see my station coming up and I’ve really got to hurry and I’m looking ahead at the doors and trying to work out where the button to open the door is because sometimes I get flustered and can’t find it and can’t open the door, and then I drop my MP3 player. Maybe I stand on it as well. I don’t even know. Someone picks it up. How they manage to with even standing space being so limited, I also don’t know, but I turn to thank them anyway and I knock another seated commuter in the head with my heavy bag of books. Shit, I say, I’m so sorry. I think I may have gotten away with the head-knocking but not the offensive utterance, so I scuttle towards the door as quickly as having a spasming leg and having to shuffle past three million people and say “Excuse me” every three seconds will allow me.

The train has stopped and luckily some people are also exiting so there is more space and the door is already open. Again, I thank someone out there, imagine the fresh air that is quietly within my reach and throw myself through the door. I stand on the platform and breathe a little, take a second to orient myself. I select a trashy song to make me feel instantly, superficially better, and start dragging my unyielding left leg towards home. Then it begins to rain and I wonder if it was worth getting off the train after all.

So then. Some things I want to share about catching Brisbane City trains, because I don't think it's necessary for everyone to personally undergo torture in order to learn something:

Stand when you have belongings galore and stand near the door. Never cross your legs, except maybe if it would be otherwise indecent not to, in which case perhaps reconsider your attire before leaving the house, you filthy little so-and-so. And remember that if it is easier to stay on board until the crowd has diminished substantially, thus making it possible for you to remove yourself from the carriage without drawing a ridiculous amount of attention to yourself, then you should most certainly do so because there will always be another service heading back the other way at some point, and even if you must wait an hour or so, you've got a whole bag of books to play with. Alternatively, finally bite the bullet and buy a car like all the other grown-ups or just accept that you should remain indoors for ever more.

autumn in new york in brisbane

2010-03-01T20:48:00.008+10:00

I am here but I am also there. If only we had leaves like this in Brisbane I might not have to spend so much time inside my head. Autumn, you are most certainly welcome.

today is sunday and tomorrow is monday and i can't tell where the week begins

2010-02-28T13:40:00.004+10:00

Sometimes it is better to read than to write for sometimes you stumble upon something that more eloquently expresses your vitality than the insipid complaints you have resorted to making in place of saying something meaningful and accurate. I turn now to Sylvia Plath:

I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.

Thank you, Sylvia, love. I don't know that this offers any answers or gives me a direction in which to leap, but still I feel much better. And I think that maybe the week never begins but always is.

the one thing i can put my finger on

2010-02-25T20:27:00.005+10:00

I printed out the picture. I put it in a frame. And every day I look at it and remember, but every day I remember things a little differently to the way I remembered them the day before. Of course I can tell stories. Of course I can say it was New Year’s Eve, that I was drinking wine, that I met some friends in a downtown bar and danced while some live band played terrible nineties covers. I can say I had a fabulous time. The music was bad, the haircuts awful, but still I can say I remember dancing and pulling you closer and posing for the shot with one arm flung fondly around your neck.

Of course I know what the photo is and of course I can explain this and that about who and what. But every day my memory is simultaneously more vivid and more vague. It obscures, and yet it simplifies. It exaggerates, but it forgets.

One day, after spending weeks stuck on the yellow of your shirt, the darker patches that developed under your arms the more we danced, I suddenly recall the velveteen of your ear lobe and the way you leaned forward and nodded when you should have been shaking your head, smiling when you should have been frowning, pretending to be able to hear me over the band.

Then this memory too melts.

I can create. And I can reject.

I deem it imagined, painted, dreamt up in a turn of longing. So I protest. I replace it with something solid, like the elephant sign above our heads – comical with its phallic tusks. I direct people to this object. I highlight its fluorescence, but I don’t try to hear your laugh. I don’t let it go that far.

That is for another day.

On Tuesday, I go to the store in bare feet. I buy ice-cream, eat it straight from the tub on the footpath, return to an empty house, and carry on with my otherwise dull afternoon – cleaning, washing, peeling vegetables – dancing to the music playing only in my head. On Wednesday, I nap blissfully. I nap too on Friday, but I am not content. Every day I remember, but every day I remember things a little differently.

valentine's day

2010-02-14T12:37:00.011+10:00

While some people were out having picnics and exchanging with their date vague sentiments about each other's apparently lovely and loved graces, I was trying to woo my poor, heartbroken and limping coriander and basil plants back to life with some sun and some water.

When I left for Toowoomba on Friday, I had bid the herbs goodbye and they seemed happy and well-kept enough, but I returned this afternoon to find them failing miserably at being green and upright. But just as one can drown in too much love and frivolity, I fear that I may have been overzealous in my attempts to revive my beloved, now-sopping herbs, and I have since spent the evening researching handy hints for amateur herb growers in the hope that I can rectify the situation and cease to feel like an idiot. Happy Valentine's Day to me.

Of course, that's not to say that in my other reality I wasn't somewhere classy. Perhaps outdoors – alfresco we might say. Maybe some ducks nearby, but not being too ducky and noisy. No mosquitoes. A candle.

Date: Why, Tegan, you are more beautiful than Rachel McAdams.
Me: Why, thank you. I’m going to have the steak. Maybe even two.
Date: Yes, my darling girl, you go ahead and fill out that marvellous dress you’re wearing. The one you look so smashing in.
Me: But perhaps you should settle for one (smiles wickedly). If you want this to go any further, that is.
Date: Oh ho! Tegan, love, don’t make any more jokes or I’ll never have time to breathe! Oh ho, you are as witty as Tina Fey.
Me: (Giggles shamelessly; pushes delicate, finger-waved fringe to side of face).
Date: My apologies, Tegan, I must confess I made a mistake. You are actually more akin to Maggie Gyllenhaal.
Me: Hmmm, they are equally appealing. Salad or vegetables?
Date: Why, Tegan, you could have both if you pleased. As well as some ice-cream and a fresh peach. Why I’d pick it for you myself, straight from the tree.
Me: But I do not wish to be greedy.
Date: Tegan, dear, do not concern yourself with such a thought! For you are as benevolent as the sun is with its rays on a mid-February’s day.
Me: Such as this one?
Date: Such as this one. The one that you get to share with me, Jake Gyllenhaal.
Me: But you don’t really think I look like your sister do you?
Date: No, of course not. You look like you.

And this is where the date promptly ended.

thursday, i don't care about you

2010-02-05T21:19:00.005+10:00

often we do not look up

2010-02-03T21:26:00.010+10:00

We walk quickly, we have somewhere to be.
We use headphones,  don’t notice the cracks in the cement.
We might look sideways at a swearing mother,
a shoeless man with fat wife.
But we do not look up and smile just because.  
We do not look up and stop.

And stop and take in the blue, green,
the stretch of a telegraph pole.
If we did, we might see someone we recognise,
we might slow down.
Or we might see balloons,
up, out of reach,
separate from it all and still so bright,
and maybe this would be enough. 
  

everything was closed at coney island

2010-02-02T21:57:00.006+10:00

when spring comes

2010-02-01T13:32:00.004+10:00

Always you disappear into her garden

Climb up into her trees

Sink into her dirt
Go down
Into
Vanish in her blossoms

lote

2010-01-20T19:55:00.006+10:00

There are moments in life when you realise exactly what it is you must do if you are to be a better person.

Some people decide they must eat vegetables. Some people get married. Some people come to the conclusion that they must burn their material possessions. Some people work in soup halls.

Today I realised that I must speak English as my second language.

Then I can say things like, "It is outmost important that we make deep interaction via telephone", or when I try to explain to someone that they are looking rather playful I can say, "No, it is not that your cheeks are fat, but you are looking clever for naughty things".

And then I will be impossibly cute and lovable. Which will make me, obviously, a better person.

stick it to your mama, charles dirk

2010-01-19T21:41:00.009+10:00

This morning was going okay. I put a favourite skirt to use, made the earlier train, enjoyed a delicious breakfast of yoghurt and muesli and fresh peach, breached my no-coffee rule and experienced a glorious kick-in-the-pants-kind-of-wake-up. I listened, for the first time, to an album of a local Brooklyn band that I happened upon in NYC and was quietly reliving that splendid week, all the whilst finding the motivation to actually do some work.

Life was yelling SUCCESS at Tegan. The pink sheen of happiness was slick across my cheeks, and my ponytail, I must tell you, was particularly curly and buoyant.

It was around Track 6, and I guess while I was being so motivated to work, that I discovered a blog entry on brisbanetimes on one of my favourite topics: names.

Swoon. Flip. Chuck. Do not give your child a name that happens to be a verb.

Good advice, Sam de Brito, very well observed.

Avoid, at all costs, sexually suggestive names like Randy, Pansy and Cherry.

Yes, de Brito, you are right on the mark.

Chardonnay? Moon Unit? Scatman?

I laughed and clapped my hands in glee. I forgot about my motivation to do work and scrolled eagerly onwards to read the comments about ridiculous, terrible names people have come across.

Someone once knew a person called Fanny Gravy. Hilarious.

There was a journalist named Paris Lord. Ludicrous.

And then there was one comment that really touched me – you know, right on my red centre.

“Crappy Aussie names,” it began, “such as Noleen, Narelle...” and I was scoffing and thinking of a particular girl from school and knowing all my friends would be laughing, and this is where the story climaxes, because right there beside Narelle – Narelle with the idiotic fringe - was "Tegan".

I experienced a moment of confusion and re-read the sentence. I was correct the first time.

So I continued on, furious and wounded, as this ill-thought-out comment went on to list more names reminding me of people whom I dislike and openly ridicule, and to proclaim listed names as “just so white trash”.

And just as I was getting all worked up and not feeling quite as successful as I was one bowl of muesli ago and feeling more and more like white trash with THAT'S MY NAME, BITCH repeating over and over in my head, I decided that I could do something about it. That I could respond with my own blog post.

But then after a few moments thinking about what exact words I would use to rip this fool to shreds, I realised that, no, given that I am “a little poet”, not to mention a “beautiful girl”, I need not feel so passionately disposed to pettily defend my name’s honour to a twat named Charles Dirk.

Pretentious git.

the tortoise and the hare

2010-01-15T14:09:00.004+10:00

You always think that you are faster than me. Every time we stand on that yellow line you say, See you at the finish, sucker. I'll be waiting.

And it's true. The whistle sounds, you get there before me, and you stand waiting with your arms folded across your chest and your lips folded into a silly grin and when I meet you, however much later, you tell me that you got there minutes, days, months ago.

Yes, I say, that is how it would appear. But it's not because you are faster than me.

You look at me and blink. I won, you say. I won.

Uh huh, I nod. I cannot argue that logic. But, I tell you once more, it's not because you are faster than me.

It’s because of the grass and the trees and the pebbles.

Sometimes it's because of the mud. Often it’s because of the sky.

You just run and you see the end and your body takes you there before you know it.

I trip, you know. I lose sense of direction, get distracted. I am led astray by the wind and seated on a branch. Leaves scratch at my neck and while you are below me, moving swiftly, I am breathless and sitting quietly, dangling my legs.

I am thinking of a song.

I am drawing a picture.

I am picking out my favourite clouds, placing them in envelopes and sending them to you.

Let me know when you get them.

Be sure to sit, curl your legs under, I promise not to overtake you.

Really, I’m not in a hurry. Understand there’s a million things I can do.

Please. Enjoy.

And when you are ready, make your way to the yellow line. Wait for me. With your arms folded, with that silly grin if you like, and I’ll be there at some point, after you, but not because you are faster than me.

mum of the year

2010-01-08T20:31:00.001+10:00

Mum: Your face is lopsided.
Brother: Uh, thank you?
Mum: Why don't you have a beer?
Brother: No, I'm good.
Mum: I'm serious. Your face is lopsided.

i only talk to myself

2009-12-15T07:52:00.002+10:00

Me: Tegan, you've just arrived in San Francisco and it's early. You've got the whole day. What would you like to do?
Me: Get a coffee. And a bran muffin.
Me: But you've already had breakfast. You're not hungry.
Me: I know. But I love them. I must.
Me: Well, okay, it's your holiday, I guess. But you know you're getting unhealthier, slower, laaaaaazier by the minute.
Me: I know...
Sad face.
Me: But I'm so happy!
Happy face.
Me: Please don't take it away from me.
Me: Tegan, it's not the bran muffin that's making you happy.
Me: Maybe.
Thinks.
Me: But, at the very least, the bran muffin - with its berry sweetness, tempered by the warm, almost nutty oatiness, and the crunchy top, oh! - is a perfect representation of that happiness. Wouldn't you say?
Me: Well, when you put it like that...
Me: Look! There's a store there, just across the road!
Me: Excellent. We don't even have to walk far.

i am a real person

2009-12-03T15:03:00.009+10:00

It is not practical for a writer (perhaps) to not travel with her laptop. It is ill-conceived and really makes me wander (yes WANDER, for crying out loud, and I began writing this without the use of capital letters, would you believe) whether I had any intentions of writing at all whilst on the go.

Don't take it, they said. Don't risk it, they cried.

Oh, but I want to write, I replied, stricken. And I am going on an adventure, I said earnestly. How can I go on an adventure and not write? That is the point, after all, of why writers do anything. For the experience, for potentially having something to write about. One day. With the aid of a computer, of course.

And I am a writer. Aren't I?

But their arguments were compelling. That I'd get tired of carting it around, of undoing the case at airport security, of questioning the security at the indeed questionable hostels, of just generally having another bag to carry, given the size of the house I was to be carrying on my back.

So I didn't take it.

And now the blog has suffered.

And I apologise.

But.

Something wonderful happened today. I was lying on my bed, feeling maybe fifty percent melancholy and other parts tired, sick, claustrophobic and indifferent. I was listening to Sarah Blasko, which was only encouraging more negative feelings (of envy and inferiority, no less), when I started writing opening sentences in my head. For what, I don't know, but brilliant, I thought. If only I could remember that or if I had my laptop here, I would then write this and this and this, then that.

Anyway, being the simple person that I am, a more jazzy number came on and I immediately got distracted by Miss Blasko and forgot all about the great novel in my head and started listening, instead, to her lyrics. Now, without posting them here and without oversimplifying her lovely words, the song is about being down and out and then not being down and out. And this, because it got me thinking about a whole string of things, like a massive ancient Egyptian necklace of things, ended up getting me excited, thinking, 'I'm a real person and I'm doing real things and I feel real things', and then I just felt ridiculously real, like I got up and danced for a bit and saw my limbs moving in the mirror, and then the next thing I knew I was writing in someone else's notebook that I found on the bookshelf by my bed.

I wrote words, sentences, paragraphs. I finished one thought, ran a line underneath it, started another one, thought of something else halfway through and turned the page to jot that down and wrote for a couple of pages (a small notebook, by the way). Didn't finish the other thought, but it's there, started, and that is close to gold. Without the use of a word processor my writing was lazy and haphazard, unedited, not criticised. You could say careless. But maybe you could say free.

Whatever. It was fantastic. And now I have all these scraps of mediocre writings that I can play with like snow (since that is what I've been doing lately and thus know how to do well). I can keep these and come back to them. It's like cooking with raw ingredients. And that's the only way cooking should be done.

So I'm contented. I may have a less cohesive blog than I wanted, and I will most likely make efforts to record an entry for each place I've visited or for each experience I've, well, experienced (still haven't kicked that sometimes debilitating need for things to be complete, at least as much as possible), but this discovery (and perhaps it is even a rediscovery, a harking back, if you will, to when I was maybe eight or nine and starting to write overly long descriptions) has tickled me.

I feel a bit more creative. Liberated. Something has returned. And I see myself not being able to not write. Whether it's on here, in a stolen little notebook, or in a bestselling novel that y'all gonna buy.

a very happy halloween, as promised

2009-11-07T01:48:00.003+10:00

happy halloween, douchebags

2009-11-03T11:04:00.005+10:00

And now we're going back a few days, but all I'm going to say is just you effing wait until I find a computer that will let me stick my card in its slot. Because BOY HAVE I GOT SOME AWESOME PICTURES TO SHOW YOU. Think Grid Iron and sex-shop costumes, lit pumpkins and fluorescent words against a tie-dye sky, and Disney-Lego-Banana Split dreams. It was the all-American experience that one may expect to have in Orlando, Florida, and it was BRILLIANT. And then if you're lucky, I'll go further back in time and also post wonderful pictures of more trees and mountains, J.K. Rowling's thinking chair, lakes and waterfalls, bottles of whisky, stone beaches and maybe some pastel yachts. I'm currently in New York and I have intentions of getting this blog up to date soon, but honestly, it's just so awesome here, with so many things I want to do, that I may not opt to plant myself in front of the page (at a cost of $10/hour... or thereabouts) and click through the ridiculous thousands of pictures that I've snapped. So. Until next time... ex oh, ex oh.

the things i've lost - in no particular order because i've also lost any sense of chronology

2009-11-03T10:01:00.006+10:00

1. Towel. Actually. Two towels.
2. Umbrella. It served a solid for purpose for 15 minutes. Then it didn't, because I was inside getting coffee and the umbrella was somewhere getting gone.
3. Make-up. All of it. Clinique. I could have listed each individual item, but that would have been tedious for you, the reader. Please pay me sympathy. I now have to look like a paled cabbage leaf.
4. Tweezers. These are listed separately to the general make-up loss because their disappearance was a separate instance and one, in fact, that I remember quite clearly. Outside of my window the Swiss mountains in the distance were putting on their snow caps and getting ready for what was going to be a very clear day. The sun was shining. This was different to the previous day. Inside of my window I was hitting my snooze button and avoiding the first lunge into what was going to be a very hungover day. The phone vibrated and I slapped my arm about, out of the covers, into the centrally-heated air, and across the bedside table. The phone stopped, something fell onto the ground - clink - and I made a mental note to pick whatever it was up later. But like the mountains whose snow caps sometimes become one with the clouds and thus invisible, so too did my note form just a fleeting, useless moment in my sleep and disappear in the waking hour. What? The point? They were really good tweezers.
5. Inability, to a pretty satisfactory extent, to not sweat the small stuff. (and it's all small stuff). I include this because I wish to express that I am not solely focused on material possessions, but I also hesitate because I believe that this loss is actually, really, when you think about it, a gain. For me personally. Maybe not for you.
6. Social awkwardness. In general. A little bit. At least. It helps when you suddenly have an accent and are automatically endearing.
7. Boot straps. Only one got lost along the way one fun night as I ambled about, but given that you can't go around with one strapped boot and one unstrapped boot, I had to discard the remaining one. Is that what they do with twins?
8. I'm sure there is more, but I'm certain that by now I've lost track.

i heart books

2009-10-28T21:52:00.004+10:00

coffee, food and thinking of some words

2009-10-22T22:40:00.004+10:00

on bus

2009-10-22T22:33:00.004+10:00

bridge into the sky

2009-10-19T06:49:00.003+10:00

a reminder of giant times

2009-10-19T06:39:00.001+10:00

just up around this bend

2009-10-19T06:28:00.003+10:00

in the grass

2009-10-19T06:14:00.004+10:00

cows and berries along the way

2009-10-19T05:53:00.008+10:00

This day involved a 14 mile bicycle ride along the coast and a climb up the side of the mountain to see a 3000-year-old ring fort perched on the side of a 300 foot cliff. The ocean shimmered beneath us. It was silver and uninterrupted by land. It did not look like water, but something waxy and soft and should you drink it you may just inherit magical powers or at least absorb some vitamin awesome. This day ought to have a pie named after it.

don't step inside the ring

2009-10-19T05:23:00.003+10:00

thirty minutes of childhood

2009-10-14T05:28:00.004+10:00

dingle(berry) peninsula

2009-10-14T04:50:00.008+10:00

The first stop of the day involved a faerie tapping me on the shoulder and saying, 'Woo, Tegan. Look at where you are. Green and lakes. Oh and a horse over there.' I sat on the fence. I only just noticed that large gap in the fence. And to think I could have clambered through and ran into the wild to live with the faeries forever. But the lining, as always, is silver. It was really freaking cold and I left my jacket on the bus. I was relieved to leave the faeries to dance in the wind alone and move on to beachier (and yet still green) pastures, followed by a market lunch involving mushrooms and garlic and coffee.

shamrocker

2009-10-14T04:43:00.004+10:00

Yes. I did. I went on an organised tour. Hold your grimaces and your mocking laughs for just a moment though; the entries that are to follow are intended to sum up what was one of the best weeks of my life. The people, the places were, if not perfect, justly awesome. Ireland is spectacular and because my photography does not do it justice I ask you to put on your shimmer-tinted glasses and apply an emerald sheen to all shades of green that my shoddy lighting did not pick up.

let's start at the beginning

2009-10-11T02:40:00.012+10:00

Some things I encountered in Dublin apart from dancing by myself in bathrooms and jumping in parks included many bridges, a famous university known as Trinity College, which educated the likes of Oscar Wilde and the equally talented Damian Leith, an awesome bagel shop and avoiding 'knackers' and people wearing too much Adidas.

I spent hours in parks.
I looked in people's windows. Saw couches, fridges, naked people.

I pretended to be a student. This is where I played Quidditch.

I went to a castle. I liked the castle's sky.

I stayed in a filthy hostel on an awesome street.

I didn't go swimming.

The real highlight, however, was the Dublin Zoo, where I befriended a baby chimpanzee. If anyone or thing can pull off yellow eyeshadow it's this little critter. It likes branches and swinging and hanging out with other chimps, especially fat ones. I gathered this from observation. Chimps can't talk.

I would put up more photos but a giraffe ate my camera. Well, the batteries.