I’m sitting here in my box-filled loungeroom at home, waiting for the water to cool in the kettle for a hot water bottle.

A move is happening – 18 days to a new home. Initial excitement has given way to melancholy; I’ve lived in this lovely old thing for nearly 4 years; a tenth of my lifetime in these walls. Three cats, three housemates, good times and bad within this home in Fitzroy North.

I feel a bit like I’m losing an old friend; slowly slipping from my grasp. I blame rising rent and a lack of light, but really, is that enough to part ways? It has been the first stable home I’ve known in over 10 years of moving here-and-there. To put another slant on it, I feel like I’m losing my Tardis.

But the deed is done. I’ve handed in notice, am packing boxes, signed a lease on a new light-filled-lower-rent home in Thornbury and it’s just a waiting and packing game now.

Feeling into the sadness, I find emotions aplenty; regret, loss to name but two. Will the soul of this lovely home miss me I wonder?

Life is not a box of chocolates. It’s not a bunch of roses either. Sometimes it’s like falling into a rosebush. Sure, you might be surrounded by the sweet smell of the flowers, but the thorns scratch you a bit and sometimes expose what’s underneath because they’ve ripped little holes in your clothing.

This is not necessarily a bad thing. Exposing what’s there and seeing what’s really being hurt is very good, because it allows you to learn something about yourself.

This is my life. Sometimes there’s the smell of roses (I’m using this loosely; I don’t mind the smell of roses, some of them are a bit overpowering, but I’ll ignore that for the purposes of this post), and sometimes there’s the thorns.

Sometimes I learn things I wish I hadn’t.

But then a little time passes and these things get the perspective they need and I can look at them clearly; I can see them for what they are and then make the choice to change, modify or ditch. That’s not possible immediately though. In the moment, it’s hard to learn something that’s painful or is causing pain. It’s even harder if you’re a person that expects perfection from themselves.

So, as I sit here, I must just breathe, I must chill. I must give this the time it needs to get the persepective I need.

Then I can make the decisions.

Mood: Crap (insert emoticon here)

Feeling quite bleh today. I woke tired and have continued to be so all day. I’m feeling a little sad too, but there’s nothing really that bad in my life. Perhaps I’m just feeling the effects of a far too busy “professional” life with not enough “personal”?

The next few weeks are, unfortunately, stuffed with Things to do. Which is particularly boring because of all the things, none of them include just being with my partner for a period of time that doesn’t include professional intrusions and other hassles.

I would gladly tip all these professional problems off a cliff right now. The amount of effort involved with all of them versus the positives that come out are getting difficult to balance. Some things that have been easy to set-up have involved so much negative behaviours, obsession and politics that I may as well not have done them in the first place.

So why do I persist?

Is it ego? God I hope not.

Is it for “the good of others”? Oh, certainly (though this in itself is assumption and arrogance); there are so many holes in services where I’m volunteering that it’s less of a sieve and more of a pit. The holes have joined up with one-another and there is very little actually happening. However, this is observational evidence only; the reasons for this state are complex and are worth a PhD student’s thesis. The reasons are also tempered by my own experience, and not a commentary on those who are out there trying to make a difference.

Do I presume to be a leader, to drag things kicking-and-screaming into a new paradigm, one where good things can happen without being torn down? Am I so arrogant?

Is it because I’m simply stupid and don’t know when I’m running up against a wall? Hah. Probably. The feeling of smacking my head against these bricks seems to have awakened a certain awareness in me that this sort of thing is ultimately futile. There is the idea of bashing my head against a wall to break through, and on the final pre-fatal thud, seeing out of the corner of my eye an open door. Yet I don’t see an open door right now. All I can see are bricks, and blood-stained ones at that.

All I know is that right now I’m feeling out of sorts; I’m trying hard to build something and the harder I try the harder it becomes. But standing back and letting things occur is what everyone does all the time, and nothing happens.

Am I truly fooling myself? Am I arrogant in my presumption that I can help change the community through actions rather than words? Am I simply a fool who should put all this down and concentrate instead on the things that TRULY matter: my relationship, my studies, my writing and my own happiness?

Has this situation finally have brought home how foolish I actually am? That I, Lisa Sinclair, have stomped into a room and tipped over the furniture in a rush to achieve… what exactly? Why am I in this community again?

I stepped away because I needed to find my own way. I saw the people in it, and saw the difficulties I would face. I kept away for 10 years. Then I came back, with a fateful telephone call. That call led me to my partner, and I found some very good friends. It led me on a new path, one I hadn’t considered before.

I’m at a junction. I’m broke. I’m a student in a course I have doubts about actually leading somewhere useful for future work. I run a support group that runs coffee and catchups and is expanding into events.

Yet all I want is to have a quiet, happy, creative life. I want to spend time with my partner that doesn’t include bringing up professional (support group) issues and challenges. I want to be creative. I don’t want politics and roadblocks. I don’t want to find myself as the meat in the sandwich between people. I don’t want to be a people manager, nor do I want to be hassling people. I want this to be simple. I want it to be easy. I want it to be fulfilling for everyone involved. And right now, it’s anything but.

This feels like work. And I don’t even have the satisfaction of knowing that despite how futile things might seem, at least I have a paycheque at the end of the week. That’s because it’s entirely unpaid. I’ve worked like a mad thing on this for 7 months and for what? A neat website, a bunch of coffee catchups and an event which has had severe criticism and politics heaped on it, and which hasn’t even happened.

This rant was brought to you by a Grande Soy Chai Latte with an extra pump, a fake ham and cheese roll and a feeling of unhappiness which will undoubtedly pass at some stage soon.

*sigh*

Back to my essay.

Sitting here watching an old James Bond movie for the sheer hell of it while faffing online and chatting with my fab partner.

It’s been a decent kind of day – lots of things done which is basically my measure of “good” when I’m on my own and it’s a weekday.  I have, however, kept going into the evening which is not according to plan. Certainly I’ve gotten a lot of neat things happening on a website I look after, but after a while it is gilding the lily; certainly things I’ve done tonight could have just as easily been done tomorrow.

After a while the internet pales into boredom – news sites hold no interest anymore other than odd articles of vague interest, other sites once held in high regard for interesting content have fallen into the less interesting and everywhere I browse these days seems terribly dull. I should just go to bed, but await… what?

It’s 10pm and well into time I should be either horizontal or close to it, sleeping or nodding off. I have sated an unexpected appetite with a toasted cheese sandwich with some tomato sauce and cracked pepper; hardly the snackfood of the healthy but certainly it has stopped the pangs of hunger.

Really, I should go to bed. I should grab my hot water bottle and retire to the West wing, or more accurately, the other side of the loungeroom wall. What is holding me here other than a hot processor and a heater, and my cat who dozes in front of the fire while his ears grow more and more pink from heat exposure.

I think it’s time to retire. This decision having been made now becomes hard to implement because of the pull of the computer screen upon which these words are being typed; a white display inside which the words unfold in an order being determined by the movement of fingers and the passing time.

This night must draw to a close however. I must go to bed. To sleep, perchance to suffer insomnia at 4am. Or perhaps not.

Night all!

… is still hanging around. So today I shall vanquish this dragon in the usual way.

What a week. What a couple of weeks. What a month.

M said when I called her about helping with the mentoring service she runs that I might get more than I bargained for. It’s been a hell of a ride so-far but on the positive side, does suggest the direction I’m taking my life — into counsellng — is going to actually work. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been told I’ll make a good counsellor.

Lucky then I’m not planning on training in the ballet then isn’t it?

But the creative stuff still has to happen. I need to write and that’s been suffering a little the last month. It’s been 2 weeks since the last writing update on this blog (I have updated daisydonnie.com though with a new homepage table of contents and a couple of additional tweaks to make it easier to use.)

I’m sitting here in the loungeroom at home and Cosmo Cosmolino’s “Streetsweeper” album has come on – I wrote 50,000 words to this album and it still inspires now. Dark, gypsy and complex music does that for me. Bright, pop anthems sung by 20 year olds with peroxide blonde hair who dress themselves by apparently throwing strips of fabric at their bodies and keeping what sticks don’t work however. Call me an old fogey (YOU:”You’re an old fogey!” ME:”Fuggoff!”).

So, keep your eyes peeled for the next updates and have a great day. Or don’t if you’re goth.

Fitzroy North

This is what happens when I go to bed at 3.30 in the morning: I lose things; I get vague. Then I get furious with myself because I’m going to have to pay money again for things I already owned. Money that would be better spent or saved on other things. It’s like a bloody rental agreement except I don’t actually know what was being rented. Suddenly something disappears — in this case, my cherished and very cool goggles ($35) and my earmuffs (second pair lost, $1.50 or $15.00 depending on where you buy them — I’ll be going to Sydney Road for mine, the cheaper option, not the rip-off bike shop in North Carlton).

What was I saying?

I get vague. That’s the one.

I also forgot my passport today. Normally this is not something that needs to feature in my life. I’m not crossing borders all that much these days, not getting onto planes bound for foreign lands and not being asked for ID by serious people with powers to search me outside and in. That last one has never happened, thankfully.

The passport was needed for enrollment at my new course, in order to prove my Australian credentials for the government fee paying scheme I’m taking advantage of; hell, I never went to university and am now looking forward to incurring some government debt just like the rest of the population!

So I have to return to Prahran tomorrow to show my passport to the people running the course so they can say “oo, arr, a passport, and oh what an ugly photograph — that looks nothing like you. Have you lost weight?”, for which I will thank them and allow them to take a photocopy for their records.

I simply don’t understand why I can’t just take an exam to prove my credentials, thus:

1. Who was Ned Kelly?

An irishman who fought the law and went down in local history because of this top-notch effort of Sticking It To The Man. He was hanged after being found guilty of a trumped-up charge of shooting two scumbag police officers.

2. Who was Phar Lap?

A dead racehorse that has gone down in Australian history as the best piece of taxidermy in the country, and is saluted, with tears in the eyes, by all gamblers nationwide as they lose their next month’s rent.

3. Who is Don Bradman?

John Howard’s wet dream

4. Who is the Prime Minister of Australia?

What day is it?

5. Who is the Premier of Victoria?

Who cares?

6. What is the second verse of “Advance Australia Fair”

There’s a second verse?

7. You are in a bar and someone offers you a drink. Do you order VB or Fosters?

VB. Fosters is an export drink reserved for sale in Australian bars, in a multitude of European and American cities, for consumption by homesick Australian travellers to remind them of what they’re really missing by buggering off somewhere else.

8. Pick the odd one out:

• Hills Hoist
• Flymo
• Holden
• Ford
• Collingwood

Collingwood

9. What is the most appropriate response to the following question: “Got a fag, mate?”

• I’m a hetrosexual you wanker!
• Fuck off you scab and buy some yourself
• Here’s a menthol and a light

Fuck off you scab… etc.

10. Pick the odd one out:

• AFL
• NFL
• POQ
• MCG

NFL – no Victorian follows the bloody Rugby.

11. What was the best thing about the Sydney Olympics?

It was held nearly 1000 kilometers away from Melbourne

12. What is appropriate behaviour for P-plate drivers on a Saturday night?

Drive your mums car to Chapel Street with the music up full bore and scream obscenities at anyone wearing a skirt.