Tomorrow, when my Life Began

Ok, it's a 'borrowed' and adulterated title, but it means what I mean it to-
 I am the world's, no, the universe's worst procrastinator, and not only am I always avoiding the inevitability of situations, even good ones, but I seem to have 2, even 3 voices arguing about the pros and cons of doing just about anything.
 Having said that, here I am blogging- after having a couple of weeks worth of arguing about that, but hey, I'm doing it, and good for me...

Ok, today's topic is, well it was was going to be about 7 things, over the last week, but those late night musings that don't make it out of bed in that inspired moment are now, sadly... gone forever...

Let's just review the last month of exams and essays and revelations about life then...hang on, I'll put on some washing while I do that...
 Ok, it was a time, as it always seems to be, when I had to dig deep to find my inner strength, faith and fortitude... this time as I farewelled my eldest on his first foray overseas for a month, tackled numerous small and large assignments, confronted health issues, worked on the slow mending of the broken bridges with the youngest, quelled the screams of self-doubt self-loathing and even self aggrandisement in the midst of it all. I rediscovered my ego, my untapped desire for recognition and applause, as I received the rewards (in good marks), of delving into the subjects of Radical Freedom and Sartrean concepts of the self, and then the broader but equally compelling ideas of Foucault, in his challenging us to remain aware of our own power in the inevitable dependent state we exist in, in a world of bureaucratic systems of control.
The history I studied of the beginnings of Victoria, my home state, the place where I was born, brought home to me the sad sad truths about the violence in the patriarchal power-plays between the colonialists and the Kulin in the first century of colonial settlement, and made me profoundly ashamed. I cannot ever forget William Barak and his leadership of the people of the Coranderrk Reserve, which lasted through the shameful times of the Aboriginal Protection Board, and the despicable way that Barak and his people were treated by them.
 All this knowledge makes me a heady, intense and sad woman, and so it is good to stop.
 Good to visit the youngest, and sit at her local, drinking cider and enjoy she, her dad and I teasing each other over fish and chips;
 Good to welcome back the traveller, and feast on slow cooked lamb and wine with him, and laugh with him and his lovely girlfriend.
 Lovely to plan the prospect of a small journey to the holiday house, to go to movies, watch TV, read, and potter about in my garden,
 to enjoy 2 or 3 hour conversations on the phone just catching up with people, or sitting in a cafe or pub just eating, talking, and chilling with friends.
I wonder if I can get through the rest of my degree without the roller-coaster ride of self-discovery being quite so dramatic, but I know I can't possibly.
 And I look forward to the prospect of life beyond the degree, in 5 subjects' time...

So much to look forward to...and the downside of getting older...

     I'm having a ball right at the moment. There's this big international cycling event in my own home town. The streets have taken on a carnival atmosphere, and the presence of kilometre upon kilometre of fencing and barricading reminds us that our very own streets are the course for very EXPENSIVE young people in very EXPENSIVE clothing with EXPENSIVE bikes to race on, entertaining as well as slightly inconveniencing us all.
This is not a rant about the exclusiveness of cycling as a sport. Its obvious it is- but certainly no more so than any motor sport racing, nor any more than say, polo, or even golf.
     No, I am certainly a proponent of cycling, and love to watch the Tour de France every winter, propped up under the doona dreaming of the possibility of seeing it person one day. I actually am really enjoying the novelty of the gated community to the point where I am relishing the contact with my neighbours, and the opportunity to be an observer and a passive one at that. Oh, I yell out "go go go!" and the rider's name, and "Go USA!" "Go Kazakhstan!", "Go Switzerland!" (Go Fabian you big hunk!) and "Go Australia!" etc etc. But we eat our dried fruit and drink our thermos-cup Earl Grey and sit back down on our folding chairs and think this is really sweet. (I say 'we' as Johnny is there too. He unfortunately has injured his back, as he seems wont to do every time he takes holidays these days, and so he is not riding around the course seeing the sights and avoiding time with his wife, sadly for him.) (Oh, Johnny is my husband, in case you don't know.)
    What occurs to me, is that this is a taste of life in a Retirement village. Gated, secure, and we don't have any obvious responsibilities. Lovely, really. I could do this, every day if I had to, quite easily.
     And then, tonight, there was this piece on Current Affair (which I DON"T usually watch, honest!) and it was about couple's retreats for people whose kids have left home. That's us. well the people in it were about our age (late 40's and a bit more). Except we got our acts together and DID those marriage saver weekends as often as we could when our kids were young. So now we do a bit less of that stuff, 'cos we know who WE are. Anyway, the thing was, during that little story, (which we duly canned, 'cos we were so much better than the people in it, and it was Current Affair), we noticed that they were playing "Whole Lotta Love" by Led Zeppelin, and I had a horrible thought: "what if they don't play Led Zeppelin music in old age care facilities once WE get there???" How awful! How unthinkable!
 Waaahhhh- I don't wanna get old!!!!!

Whining and Dining in August...

         One may wonder what makes someone like me get all excited about my life , a suburban mother and why I have to write about it? Well that's completely for you, the reader to judge, meanwhile, I'm going to dig, delve, explore and share...

Writing is a great cathartic exercise for me, and having finished my last essay for Uni for the semester, (I've done approximately 50-60 of these now, have about 10 more and never feel over-confident of them) I need to write for me, and help myself unwind and reflect on recent events...

        During that frantic time of writing the last 2 essays, I went to 2 funerals, lost 3 other peers (of my own age group) to heart problems/alcoholism and moved my daughter out of home, (which required frequent trips up and down the Melbourne Rd). I also caught up with dear interstate friends on 3 separate occasions, including visits to Heide and NGV galleries, went to NZ for a quick trip, and all the while, managed to fritter away some of my precious hours just chattering, playing scrabble, and engaging in general procrastination. I also submitted two essays; and Lord knows how well I did, I was totally distracted the entire time.

         I've also enjoyed forays into Melbourne, where I've caught up with 2 school friends I hadn't seen in decades in Victoria street's Tho Tho, swooned over luscious croissant and cheesecake in funky Green on Sydney Rd, feasted on garlicky Turkish food and honey-soaked baklava from Alaysia, (also Sydney Rd) guiltily indulged in Stick and Grace's amazing forest mushroom Bread and Butter pud, and cooked like I haven't cooked in years- stews, soups, lasagnas, moussaka and a delicious apple dessert torte. (Many of these meals were portioned up and frozen to take up to the kids in Melbourne). In Wellington, my partner and I ate a delicious Turkish meal that left us groaning with the pangs of surfeit, and enjoyed a home killed mutton and pork feast after the funeral. We tried to walk as much of these meals off as we could, but then were feasted and pampered in our business class seats coming home, (we earned by being willing to be bumped off our flight the day before), and waddled off the plane slightly worse for wear, albeit very satisfied customers!

         Needless to say, especially in the light of the recent premature demise of people I will always think of with very fond memories, I need to embark on a heart health fitness regime, lose a bit of weight, and just say NO to too much indulgence. Notice I said too much and not all indulgence? 
        I do make sure I eat fresh fruit and vegetables every day, but this studying life-style, a rolled ankle, and my love of food have really gotten on-top of me lately, and I know I can do a lot better. I need to feel a lot more healthy than I do. To look after myself, to be a little bit disciplined, but to enjoy my life also, I feel is the best tribute I can express for my friends, who did not get to know how it will feel to head into the middle years, feeling vital and healthy. 
I sure hope I get to.

The Adventure begins...

It's high time I began this thing, this great dream of mine, and so shall it begin.

I will capitalise on the fact that I have just returned from an unscheduled visit to New Zealand,to Wellington and to Wanganui (or Whanganui, as it shall no doubt be called sometime in the fore-seeable future).
At the expense of my posture and the health of my neck muscles, I will proceed...
I was in New Zealand primarily to mourn the loss of a dear old friend and loved father of my Dad's niece (and it is a long story, of which you will be enlightened one of these days, just not now...). Jim was a good man, in that he adored his children, and had loved his wife, who had died 21 years before. He lived a good life, full of days on the land as a farmer, but his passion was for shooting, and fishing. His family of four children grew up eating pheasants,venison, home killed pork, lamb, beef, freshly caught lobster,paua,and river trout. The photos at the funeral that skimmed by all night long were a testament to what a prolific hunter he was, and I'm sure the wildlife in the North Island has picked up considerably since he got ill with cancer a year or so ago.

We celebrated his life (and passing) with a traditional afternoon tea spread of sandwiches, sausage rolls, pastries and lamingtons, cups of tea, and coffee.
Then,back at the wake, we drank beer, wine and soft-drink, bowls of chips were passed around, and later 25 people helped themselves to farm-killed pork and mutton, roasted for hours in the oven, accompanied with buttered rolls, potato gratin and salad. Plain but hearty fair- some genius had added a slow-cooked casserole of lamb to the spread, seasoned as a Moroccan tagine, (but I believe it was called "curry"). It was great. We ate and drank for hours, and finished with mighty chunks of a cream filled sponge sandwich of epic proportions- commercially made, but obviously creamed and jammed at home.

You might think this blog is just about food and eating- and, it actually is- but it is about eating in a context- and the context is the tradition, cuisine and eating habits of my fellow Australians and New Zealanders. I hope, in time to be able to tap into the way my other neighbours in the South Pacific Islands do it as well. I feel a strong affinity with all of these countries- I happen to be studying their combined and individual histories as nations, and am naturally curious to add to my superficial experience and knowledge by digging into their respective food cultures and traditions, as well as get to know them as people. Woo hoo. Should be fun I reckon.

I happen to be born of Kiwi parents, conceived in New Zealand, but born in Melbourne Australia. I have a romantic notion that I was conceived on One Tree Hill, after dad 'kidnapped' mum from the nurses home on his Indian,to spend a night of romantic passion on the hill... but it is more likely that it was some tryst in a house in Ponsonby. Anyway, whatever the case, they shouldn't have been doing it at all, he was engaged to his teenage sweetheart, and mum knew it, and ... well let's just say, it is quite amazing that I happen to know both of my parents, wasn't given up for adoption, and got to have a relationship with my Dad in my 30's.

The wonderful thing about being an Antipodean, (apart from that amazing fact of itself- My God we live in an amazing part of the world geographically, physically speaking- look at Wellington, perched on those ridges so precariously, in bright coloured cottages on the most beautiful harbour- in danger of earthquake and tsunami at any given moment)- is that the more I dig, the more I understand about the history of those Nations which I have come to feel are BOTH my home. And the more I learn about myself, about my origins, and about the origins of many of us, I kind of suspect, that there are not too many New Zealanders, nor Australians who can claim pure European descent, and I feel this makes us all the more interesting.

I was at this funeral the other day, and I looked around the room; at my cousin's husband's obviously strong Maori features, but then I saw myself in the camera, and saw the hint of Maori in my face also, and in the face of another woman there, and another...It filled me with a comforting feeling- and it was an awakening feeling too- so many of us are connected by the blood of the original inhabitants of this place. Wow. I have an inkling of how I came to have this smudge of Maori in me, (there are written anecdotes depicting a Maori woman, who married a man from Boston- it is all really fascinating, but many documents were destroyed either in a fire or a shipwreck or something)- and it is not something I can really begin to properly tap into, my iwi- it is not something I am worthy of- my knowledge is so sketchy, my connection so flimsy.

But I'd like to try to remember the heritage of my Grandpa, Patrick, who I loved dearly. His blue eyes and his strong features belied that he was even more closely connected to his Maori ancestry- and yet he was not culturally connected at all- and so it was never passed down to his descendents, of which I am one. I think this is sad, and I can't rectify it. But maybe I can be worthy of my Antipodean foundations, and I can learn and experience all that I can about my heritage as a Maori in a more general sense- as a New Zealand blooded person. And maybe I can do the same about my Australian heritage also, it is after all, the place of my birth, and my home.
Surely I could show respect to the Indigenous Australian people who cared for my country for all those millennium by finding out more, and enriching my own life in their history and culture. Why on earth not?
and so we begin...

Fforde has done it again...

Last night I had to stay up late to finish Jasper Fforde's newest publication, "Shades of Grey". I couldn't put it down. And then it turned out to be one of those unfinished stories, but it was left so cleverly hanging in the balance that I was thrilled to get to the last page and find it so... it means MORE "Shades of Grey" to look forward to- Yay!
In his acknowledgments, Fforde explains his deviation from the themes of Literary detective, classics and Nursery rhymes we have come to know and love. "Shades of Grey" sounds like it was a labourious project and like the reading of it, you take a little while to warm up to this imaginatively rich parallel world, bound by the communistic regime of "Chromaticism", but once you catch on, it becomes all absorbing and wonderful. I hope the author found it so as he delved into it, (I suspect he probably did)and I thank him for his trouble : )
Fforde's protagonist, Eddie Russet, is a typically complex character; reluctant, fallible and the most bull-headed pedant to play the rebellious anti-hero I have read anywhere. His love-life is complicated and becomes more so throughout the book, largely due to the insertion of his accomplice in the violently disposed but attractive Jane. Jane, who is a Grey,(read Proletariat), and as the insider with all the know-how, chutzpah or 'plums,' inveigles Eddie (a Red, the lowest caste of the Chromatic community, one above Grey), who can't help but want to satisfy his curiosity in a strange town, where rules aren't adhered to and all previous values are challenged. The stakes are high; there are gruesome murders, apparitions, thefts of identity, forced marriages and hovering over all, creating a sense of foreboding, a malevolent atmosphere of totalitarianism.
Fforde uses humour in all his novels but his clever allusion to communistic regimes, for example, the periodic "Great Leap Backwards" and the empty library shock us into the reality of the cultural void such regimes create. His treatments of sex, marriage, and of human nature in general are always amusing and often accurate, but in this book, darkly so. His insertion of a contemporary well known "love-scene" movie excerpt as a piece of "ancient" archeology in a future context is laugh-out-loud hilarious, hilarious because we recognise it, and the silliness of the scene. He intersperses humour with the darker elements of the story successfully, keeping the narrative an adult read with belly laughs a plenty.
That Fforde has a message in his book is probably a reach too far, but there are many sharp insights and observances in "Shades of Grey". We can have a good laugh at ourselves when we read Fforde, as he lampoons humanity in all it's petty, politicised, sexist,racist glory in a context which allows us to observe from a safe distance, whilst at the same time having a rollicking great adventure.

I will take complicated over easy, anytime.

I saw "It's Complicated" with my husband a couple of weeks ago- and I'm glad I did- I still get a little smile on my face when I think about it.
I'm not a huge fan of the romantic comedy genre, in that I usually come away thinking, "well that was too post-modern/immoral/ air-headed /implausible for me"- and so I rarely choose to spend my money to see one, except on a rare occasion. But if I get to belly laughing, if I find myself thinking about the actors in their roles later on, and have good memories of the film- then that means I probably really engaged with it, and it must have had some degree of redeeming quality about it.

What can I tell you about "It's complicated"? It was a bit sexy, it was middle-agers having fun, it was 2 brilliant and mature actors being able to do comedy, it was a well -put together ensemble of supporting cast, who were collectively sympathetic and fit comfortably in the whole schema. It was a long movie, but it had a satisfying conclusion. I am now in love with that big grumpy buffoon of an actor Alec Baldwin. God knows he probably would be difficult to live with, we ALL know that- but hey- he's funny- and funny is sexy.(Just watch 30 Rock- he is HILARIOUS).

If you don't know the story line, it's about a divorced couple who find themselves alone together and surprised by their depth of attraction for each other after 10 years of being apart. They indulge in a clandestine affair to see if their relationship is a better alternative to Streep's abstinence and Baldwin's unhappy marriage to a much younger woman. To complicate things further, Meryl Streep's character also has a burgeoning relationship with her Architect, (Steve Martin, who does get the opportunity to be as funny as he likes- brilliant). The situation becomes more and more twisted, and crazy, until the ultimate crisis point, where reality sets in, and facts are faced.

The reality bit is quite bearable, because the director has obviously indulged her own need to see the plot portrayed with enough sympathy, and enough time to be plausible. I like this. What I hate about most about romantic comedies is the time factor, which is of course linked to the script and the editing, (I have no idea what goes on in between- how many scenes are actually filmed). The implausible love stories are not only ridiculous in their premise- but then the magical/fantastic comes into play as well, and you may as well forget it. Fairy stories are great, if that's what you have paid to see.

We all LOVED Hugh Grant in "3 Weddings and a Funeral", but that had one of the most implausible plot lines in history. The settings, the cast, all impeccable; Hugh, clumsy and gorgeous declares his LOVE for his fling after one drunken night of very badly acted sex, and we are all supposed to believe this? My "Best Friend's Wedding"- another bomb in my books.- We ALL gave up trying to rescue Julia's man back from the brink of a fatal mistake an hour before Julia did- so why the hell did it go on so long? Her obsession became nigh pathological, and I questioned my own sanity in sitting through it, (thankfully it was a video).

I could name 50 terribly conceived plots in movies; a few of these may have been redeemed by the quality of the acting or the comedy, but rarely does one tick all the right boxes. "It's Complicated" thankfully ticked all mine. My husband even liked it, and he's an Charles Bronson/Bruce Willis/ Rambo sort of movie goer.
If you're not sure, see it just for the party scene : ).

It's a Bran Nu Dae... or is it?

I saw Bran Nu Dae the other day. I had no idea what to expect, and so was in turn surprised, delighted and occasionally a bit disappointed.
Between the sizzling on-scene presence of the main aboriginal characters, the bawdy, self depreciating humour, and the ridiculous story line I really wasn't sure whether to loath or to like this movie.
I realised that to be sitting in a theatre watching it performed live would have been the optimum way to see Bran Nu Dae. The atmosphere would have been wonderful; one might have been swept along in the romance of the road-trip and the music.In the coolish, dark and half empty Readings theatre on a Monday afternoon, I almost was.

I adore Dan Sultan- a black Elvis to be sure- and Jessica Mauboy is hot, hot, hot. Rocky McKenzie, as the lead boy, made love to the camera- and I hope he keeps his 'old-worldly' good looks, as he is just gorgeous. Ernie Dingo was quite wonderful as the errant Uncle Steven (Tadpole) Johnson. Geoffry Rush was the epitome of the creepy German Priest. Deborah Mailman was saucy and sultry as the drunk and over-sexed Roxanne.
Somehow, though, I felt some of the cast might have been playing to the camera, and others to the live audience. Such is the problem of the stage musical adapted for cinema.

I guess I didn't expect the movie to be the same as say, a Baz Lerhman production, or subtle and charming like other out-back stories we have come to love. Bran Nu Dae never tried to be a Samson and Delilah. You are supposed to laugh. I'm sure of that.
I just wish it had been bigger, fuller, more rounded, and with the finishing touches to make it a 'proper' movie because the level of talent was second to none. A more professionally padded and better edited package would have done them proud.

And yet it will no doubt exist as a cult classic and possibly become very popular in the future as a video. People will say that it's lack of polish improves it. You can't take away from the excellent treatment of the songs and the beauty of the scenery and the players. And the humour- totally culturally relevant and legitimate. I for one, felt slightly alientated in the way it positioned me, a white Australian- was I really allowed to laugh at the homeless alcoholic Aborigines? The drunken slut? The buffoonery of the young indigenous men? Well I did, but not unselfconsciously. There was a somewhat tokenistic treatment of the Aboriginal death in custody issue inserted into the plot, which sat awkwardly for me.
There was feel good ending, in the mad tradition of HMAS Pinafore, where everyone is related to each other, and it's all OK. But only onstage can this kind of insane premise work. Am I making my point clear?

At least the beautiful Mauboy and Sultan voices, the soft brown eyes of the main protagonist, the charm and surprise of the tuneful Ernie Dingo and the magnificent colours of the beautiful WA coastline will linger in my thoughts and bring cheerful memories to mind....