hong kong nights

Well, after a reasonably pleasant flight (considering I'm feeling horrendous with the flu), I've touched down in Hong Kong. It is absolutely boiling here, 32 degrees and 95% humidity.

It's now 5.50am Hong Kong time and I can't sleep. Forgive my disjointed sentences and poor prose, but what's a girl with the flu and a weird time zone induced delirium to do?

Last night, (I had to think for a minute, but yes, it was last night HK time) I wandered around the night markets of Kowloon and sampled the delicous street food. On my way back to the hotel I discovered a small pharmacy and it struck me that I best get some antibiotics to prevent this flu from turning in to a chest infection, which tends to happen when I get these things.

In my younger days, Asian pharmacies that dispensed drugs with abandon would send my heart soaring with joy! These over the counter goodies were bought with glee in Bangkok, Kathmandu, Delhi and various other Asian locales. However, it is a sign that I'm aging that when I got back to the hotel this evening, I sat myself at the computer and researched the brand name of the tablets of wellness that I was given and wondered if it was really a good idea. In the end, I decided, like the old saying goes, "whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger".

Onwards and upwards.

Ce n'est pas possible

Ahh, I have a fucking cold! This is hardly what I need when I am about to embark on a 24 hour flight. Well, I do have an overnight stop in Hong Kong, but still. Yuk.

M is behaving like a twat. Sigh.

On to a more positive subject. I am in love with this man.

See below, for French cultural instruction classes.

Final customer service
Uploaded by mickelino

homeward bound...

I've cashed in the frequent flyers, booked my flight, and will be back in Sydney on Wednesday morning.

I'm going home for 3 months to get my visa organised and earn some money.

Viva Australia.

4am (god bless european summer time)

I love the fact that I've been out all night dancing and can walk home at 4am and the birds are singing. The daylight is creeping up upon me and I'm welcoming back sobriety with a nice cup of tea by the window. There are only a few months of the year that you can enjoy this in London, and when you can...tis' great, it is.

I had such a great night. I went to a friend's 30th, someone who i'd not seen in years. I danced all night on the King's Road, in a horrible bar, filled with pretentious sloany wankers, but I had my friends around me and we danced and drank and feasted on a late night curry.

Due to aforesaid wankers in Chelsea, felt the need to start a socialist/class warrior/don't crack on to me you wanker revolution on the bus home. It sounds a lot more dramatic than it was. Really.

All in all, a fab, fab, fab night. I needed that.

last musical post of the day...

Last song of the day, but I love Israel Kamakawiwo'ole's fusion of Somewhere Over the Rainbow/It's a Wonderful World.

Enjoy.

chemical brothers feat beth orton

I am in love with www.radioblogclub.com.

I've only seen two concerts in my life. Beth Orton and Beck. Both of which were amazing. However,given that music is one of the central pillars of my existance, and I'm a wanna be guitarist, it's a bit of a piss poor effort really.



Ooh, I forgot, I saw the Brazilian diva, Ivete Sangalo, last year. So that's 3 then.

feist

I adore this song, I keep bounding about the house to it.

a poem, is a poem, is a poem

The Art of Poetry - Jorge Luis Borges

To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.

To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.

To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.

To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness--such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.

Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.

They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.

Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.


In memory of Audrey's Mum.

kickin' arse

After re-reading my last few posts I've been, quite literally, squirming in my chair. Whilst said posts were complete stream of consciousness ramblings, and I do want to write as honestly as I can about how I am feeling...yuk, it just made me feel self indulgent and melancholy. I wonder though, is it just because I fear that people will judge me that way, that I worry? Is that last sentence just an incredibly bad attempt to seek reassurance from those who read my little ol' blog? Do I think too much about things that really don't bear thinking about? Did Lily Allen really feel hurt by footballer's wife extroadinaire, Cheryl Tweedy's comments about her? Is it wrong to wonder about Lily Allen's state of mind?

Plus, when I look back at the sort of person I was when I was 28, I definitely want to think I was much more kick arse than falling prey to a fractured heart!

Oh, weird side thought, could we all re-write our own histories before they even happen? I know some stoner conspiracy theorists that would love to hypothesise that one.

Anyway, a bit of a rubbish day, but hey, we all have them. M is behaving like a royal prick towards me and I'm tired & sad. I have all but made up my mind that it is time to go home and get myself in to a more happy and positive state of mind.

If I am being really honest with myself, the writing has been on the wall for a really long time. He is not very nice to me. And, as much as I like to think that I'm stronger than to fall prey to my past, right now, that is exactly what I'm doing. My mother once said to me, "Your grandmother sat at the kitchen table every night wondering why your grandfather wanted to drink more than be with her, as did I with your father, don't let the same thing happen to you". Who know's, maybe at some point in the future he'll be different, but right now, that doesn't matter.

I'm going to be kick arse.

The road to being kick arse requires some respite in the form of sitting on the sofa watching some bad tv. This evening's bad tv came in the form of Channel 4's, "Virgin School". Yes, it followed one man's journey to sexual emancipation with the help of an intimacy clinic in Amsterdam. I don't believe in censorship, and the program was interesting in a strange way, but that poor bastard is going to be completely bollocked by the less sensitive men and women of the British public, and that ain't cool.

and the band goes marching on...

It's a funny old world isn't it?

I posted yesterday about my relationship woes. When things start to go wrong, it's natural to start to think about the sort of life that you will start to carve out for yourself next. With the possibility that M and I will be no longer, I feel uneasy about the choices that lay ahead.

The sensible part of me knows that I could (and in all likelihood, would) go back home and create a lovely life for myself. I've never had any problem with finding employment, I have wonderful friends and adore the Australian lifestyle. The romantic and irrational side of me tells me that it would hurt like hell to be back home, so far away from the man I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with and under these circumstances. How can I leave our home of the last few years, head to airport and say goodbye forever? I feel like I've said so many goodbyes in my life that I simply can't imagine having to say another. Not like this.

Back to the sensible side: I detest that I sound like someone whose romantic life is the sole focus of my existence.

I bet I'll be bouncing off the walls happy tomorrow. Bloody typical.

daydream believer

It's late Saturday night, and after another rainy day, I'm wrapped up and cosy on the sofa with Parky's familar manner comforting me through through the satellite transmission.

I fear that my relationship is collapsing around me. I don't really feel ready to write much more than that at the moment other than to say that I'm okay.



Luckily for me, I can escape to my imagination when times get a little tough. Yesterday whilst listening to my ipod on the way to meet friends, the lush tones of Ella Fitzgerald transported me to a smokey bar, with an Ella like figure seranading the crowd from the stage. I would be wearing a figure hugging, floor length satin dress with my hair swept up and deep red lipstick. As I sip my champagne and smoke a cigarette, I'm gently disturbed from my reverie to be led to the dance floor. The music sweeps over me and I spend the rest of the evening being held tight in the arms of a man who loves me.

my baby sister and me

My baby sister, who is not such a baby anymore (she's 26), is getting married.

Lauren is one of the sweetest people to have ever graced the planet. She is kind, open and simply the best sister a girl could ask for.



Her wedding, which is to take place in September, will be a simple and intimate affair. Well, as simple as it can be with 7 step siblings, my mother's three ex husbands, my father, step mother and various other family members in attendance!

Despite all that, I can't wait. It will be a day time ceremony and reception (in an effort to keep the relies sober) and will take place in a beautiful garden and pavillion in the Sunshine Coast Hinterland.

A resourceful young thing, she's having a co-worker at the gallery where she works design her invitations and she has found a beautiful 1950's style, floor length Morrissey dress in off-white which she picked up for the bargain price of $250!

So now my search begins. I have to find a dress.

the magic faraway tree and how patrick swayze ruined my life

An odd heading? Perhaps.

As the years have passsed and I have meandered down the long path to adulthood, I've held on to a few things along the way. Yes, at 28 years of age, I still believe in fairytales. I like simplicity of the notion that good and evil are clearly defined and that the baddies always lose. Using this logic, it makes sense that one's lot in life will determined by whether or not you share your fairy bread and with how much fervour you can sing "sticks and stones may break my bones..." and really mean it.

Unfortunately, age and experience have exposed the harsh reality that the good guys do not always win, no matter how nice you are or how high above sea level you are perched on your moral ground. On the other hand, the changing lands of The Magic Faraway Tree, to me, seem reminicsent of travel. You can climb the tree (see. plane) and land in an ever changing land. Although, you don't get pissed on your way up the tree and I don't remember any reference to jetlag, spending beyond what you earn or struggling with a foreign language.



Anyway, the point is, I still believe!

Moving swiftly on to matters of the heart. It's true. Patrick Swayze ruined my life.

You see, due to inadequate parental supervision and lack of a stable male figure in my life, I learnt to define the roles of relationships from things other than family. That's right. The measuring stick of a proper, functioning relationship for me was that of Johnny & Baby in Dirty Dancing. I thought his bad temper, slick moves and soft on the inside centre were the epitomy of what a man should be. "Nobody puts baby in a corner". Damn right.




Of course, this has led to all sorts of romantic disasters. Briefly, Man 1: After 5 years together I decided he was in fact too nice and a little bit boring. Man 2: He was a little more Patrick Swayze like. Nearly 20 years older than me and a worldly and successful entrepreneur we enjoyed a fairytale start to our romance. Unfortunately, my romanatic illusions would come back to bite me on the arse 18 months later when he revealed himself as an alcoholic who would rather stare at his own reflection than engage in any form of conversation.

Lastly, and by no means least, my current love M. Who told me last week, that it would be interesting when we had children because they would have his bad temper and my one big eye.* Awww.



All this leaves me undeterred.

I'll still keep building my castles in the sky. Patrick Swayze or not.


* I don't mean to come across all "thou does protest a little too loudly" but my eye is really not that much bigger in real life. It's just a weird angle or something!! Oh, also, my hair has not been that blonde for a very long time.

strength

The people that I have stumbled upon in this weird world of blogging are truly amazing.

Last night, I stumbled across the latest post of Audrey, a talented young writer from Australia. I cannot adequately form the words to express how her post moved me. Her ability to write so candidly about what is without a doubt one of the hardest things anyone could go through, is astonishing.

I don't have a god that I pray to, but if I did, I'd pray for her.

home is where the ..... is?

I guess after a few days of reflecting on bits of my past, it's only naturally to think a little about where my future is heading. I have been carrying around a feeling of being slightly unsettled for a few weeks and am fighting my instincts to look for greener pastures. Experience dictates that the grass is not greener on the other side, it's usually just a trick with the lighting.

I've lived in London for four years. I have a love/hate relationship with this town. It's exciting, alive and constantly challenges you. Sometimes though, I just want somewhere a little more, I don't know...relaxed. Paris, another big city, does not ever make me feel as anxious as London can. It's hard to be able to put the words together without seeming unnecessarily harsh toward my adopted city or overly idealistic about it's French cousin.

Plus, if home is where the heart is, then how do I leave here anyway? Tis funny. I love M. With all of my heart I do. However, he struggles with understanding the insecurities that I battle with from time to time and this worries me. I don't believe that anyone else will give me comfort within myself, but, by the same taken, I can't be something that I'm not.

I'm not always this neurotic. I promise!

So what do I feel like doing today? I feel like moving to New York, or moving back home to Sydney to set up my own little nest, or driving through the United States with no fixed plan (although trying all sorts of pies at roadside diners in the day and eating at places called "The Lobster Hut" during the evening would be necessary), or lastly, sitting in one of my favourite cafes in Oberkampf and watching the gray drizzly day turn to night.

melodies for a new day

After feeling a touch melancholic the last few days, today provided some respite. A good night sleep and a long walk allowed me to clear my head and music has always been my constant companion.

A bubble bath and my book will round today off for me. Quiet and calm is just what I need to bring me back to my sunny self.

is there a road out of here?

It's been one of those days. Ordinarily, I'm not one to quote lines from American movies, however, "I'm just a fucked up girl looking for my own piece of mind", is how I'm feeling today.

I sometimes wish that I could crawl out of my own head. I constantly analyse everything and panic that things are going to go wrong. Growing up with alcoholic parents, being on the street at 14 and an abusive and violent stepfather all wrapped up against a backdrop of middle class suburbia can do that to a girl I suppose. It's funny. Sort of.

When I first left home, I felt so streetwise. I moved in with a foreign exchange student from my school who lived with his brother, also an exchange student, who was attending University. It was the summer holidays, I was just about to turn 15 and I thought that I had the world under control. The brother's girlfriend,I'll call her Jane, a blonde of perhaps 21 or 22 took me under her wing and made sure that I ate properly and was okay.

A week or so later, I woke up to find Jane screaming on the driveway. Her boyfriend had beat her and she was dragging her stuff to her car. She grabbed me and off we went in her red convertible sports car. She rented a two bedroom serviced apartment in the City and told me that I should stay with her until I was on my feet. On one condition, I would need to be out during the evening as she would be working from home. That posed no problem to me. It was summer, I'd discovered the joys of passionpop and had appropriated a fake id. Unfortunately, after a particularly heavy evening on vodka, I managed to drink just enough to give me alcohol poisoning. There would be no going out for me for a few days. In fact I could barely manage to leave my room. Late in the evening, I craved water and stumbled out toward teh kitchen. Standing there, in the middle of the hall were two men and Jane. Naked.

She was a prostitute and I had absolutely no idea, I was so naive. I grew up quite a lot that day. (Not in the participation sense of learning I might add).

Now, don't get me wrong, I don't feel sorry for myself. I've gone to university, travelled and have wonderful friends. However, sometimes I wonder just how far I've really come. 90% of the time I'm fine. More than fine even. But there is still that 10% where I feel scared that I'll never be able to let go of all the bullshit.

Tomorrow's a new day and I'm sure I'll feel much better. Getting it out of my head and on to paper is has helped a little already.