“You must have been so relaxed”
“You must have been so relaxed”
It will be a month tomorrow. A month since I expelled the slimy purple grape alien that has since become the mostly-pink and somewhat-squishy blue-eyed humanoid dough ball.
I gave birth yesterday.
We’re late. Mostly due to my insistence on dinner before departure (I am a mean hungry person) and partly due to my inclination to consume such meals sans the restrictive confines of waistbands (not a heavily pregnant woman’s friend).
My mother, my sister and I have a thread on facebook. While the content is deeply uncontroversial, its existence remains a source angst for my sister who cannot handle the fact that two of us like to engage in back-and-forth conversations (rather than typed diatribes) which, combined with our propensity to chat early and hers to sleep late means her first contribution will often be, ‘109 messages? Srsly?’
It is only in the past three weeks or so that I’ve begun myself to feel pregnant. I now also look it. Obviously.
It’s been so long. I’d say too long but that would be both clichéd and ignoring the fact that it’s pretty true to (recent) form.
It’s just gone 8am on Sunday morning and I really should still be asleep but I had the misfortune of forgetting to turn my normal 6.30am alarm off and then the double affliction of being unable to find the ‘stop’ button instead of the just the ‘snooze’ and so after an hour of sleeping for 8 minute bursts I gave up and am now sitting nestled into the corner sofa at my mum’s new flat in Bronte.
I did not go to the recent Van Gogh show at the National Gallery of Victoria. I say that with a sigh of slight relief, as I think it’s finished now. I stayed away not through any Van Gogh aversion but rather due to my aversion to densely populated exhibitions (and indeed anything dense that isn’t cake).
This is a truly strange post to draft, not just because it’s done while serving middle-aged couples pints & pinot on a Sunday afternoon.
As I lie here, surrounded by tissues with that ever-appearing missive from Netflix – ‘are you still watching?’ - almost etched into my retinas, I realise this might not be the best time to pen a blog update.
Something that artisan-y people seem to do is visit other artisan-y people on their holidays. They even arrange their travels so as to do this - even to visit people they don’t actually know.
Benalla is not somewhere I’ve been before. Even with my recent enthusiasm for small town trippin’ - coinciding marvellously with my automobile acquisition - it’s somewhere I’ve always passed on by.
Last week I gave up coffee. I’ve given up many things intermittently (sugar, personal observations on others) and some things more consistently (wheat, bad romantic partners) but I’ve never given up caffeine.
I’ve been making a lot of late. As I make, I’ve been thinking both about the process of making and what that process means. These tangents are of course interrelated but also deeply divergent; the former running more from the practicalities of transmuting mud into magic while the latter rests on what it means to be the maker and who the maker is.