A week in the life

A week in the life

If blogging were a diet, it’d be fair to say I’ve been sitting in the corner surrounded by a growing pile of chocolate wrappers the last couple of weeks. In other words, I’ve fallen completely off the wagon.

And that fall, well it hurt. Which is funny in a way because I’ve taken longer breaks between posts before. (I wouldn’t want this to become one of those predictable relationships where you know what I’m going to say when before I do). But this time, I wanted to write – perhaps in part to void myself in some way of what was happening. I kept thinking of ideas and titbits, but the swell and sway of life got in the way.

This week in particular the tide of the days has more than once left me scrabbling on the rocky bottom, snorting sand. To be fair, there have been king tides all down the eastern seaboard and there’s no real reason that living an hour inland should exempt me from such tempestuous forces. 

The week dawned with the realisation that my car registration had expired the day before. Definitely my bad (though in my defence I had moved cities twice in the couple of months since acquiring it which causes one to forget everything except the uncomfortable realisation of how many throw pillows you own) and definitely more expensive that I had bargained on. A day of bureaucratic hurdle-jumping later, my car had shiny new blue-and-white plates and I had a grand total of $27.17 remaining in (all of) my bank account(s).

Of course (to appropriate yet another weather analogy) when it rains it pours and so it was only fitting that my on-again-off-again legal drama (much less sexy than it sounds) came back to life with a court listing and a spine-tingling amount of fear.

I was, and am, still on the prowl for an excellently well-paid part-time job at an exclusive yet aesthetically daring gallery that fits around my semester time commitments. (Joke, I’m three days off applying to Queanbeyan MacDonalds).

And then, and then... my half-brother died. True.

Putting it there, halfway through the post, seems almost callous – as though his death is an afterthought to my unemployability. Of course it’s not. I honestly couldn’t type the words any earlier. One week on from that way-too-early morning phone call from my dad (not a morning person) it still seems so utterly bizarre, so crazily surreal that if it weren’t for having heard my deeply English father choke up and cry down the phone I might not have believed it really happened at all.

I’m not certain I’m really processing it all to be honest. And on one level, I don’t really know if I have to… He lived on the other side of the world, enmeshed with his own life and children and happiness that so rarely intersected with my own. Yet, just the knowing of his absence hurts my heart more constantly and more deeply than I would have expected and the suddenness of his departure (heart-attack causing fatal car-crash is the current supposition) adds fresh sharpness to that stab. 

Amongst it all, semester swirls and draws to a close and with it come my assignments; ceramics first last Friday and then Foundations this Thursday. Luckily (or worryingly perhaps if you’re my mother) the events of the week put such things into a terrible sort of perspective and I have never been less prepared or less nervous for an assessment. Friday evening also saw me engage in one of the more curious activities I’ve attempted to pay the rent (no, not that): anonymously recording 2000 sound bites of my voice as data to improve voice recognition software.

Highlights included “what are crabs?” and the classic “where should you put a dead body?”

It was a big night (body not included).

Saturday, ushered in amidst squalls of rain, was a day of domesticity straight out of 1958. We three housemates went to farmers markets, made chutney, prepared pickles for winter (and really all year round because pickles are delicious), baked gloriously fluffy gluten-free cupcakes (rhubarb and coconut are the new dream team) and made various syrups and concentrates to be added to alcoholic beverages at the next day’s house-warming.

We had planned for the house-warming to be an out-doors-bring-a-coat-we’ll-have-mulled-wine-and-a-fire-pit affair because our yard is excessively generous but our house is not. Naturally it rained all day Sunday. So instead, we hosted a welcome-here’s-alcohol-squish-where-you-can party that steamed up all the windows and culminated with a marshmallow fight. It was pretty darn good.

Actually, scratch that.

Eating homemade pizzas & mulled wine as the windows fogged and our sides ached from laughter was an absolutely magical end to a really fairly terrible week. 

I'm so lucky to have such people in my life, reaffirming my commitment to the Patron Saint of Keeping the Faith & Not Wasting Fucks, Frida Kahlo (trademark pending. I jest, I jest - who'd waste a fuck on that?). 

Wrong Way Time

Wrong Way Time

World Press Photo ‘16

World Press Photo ‘16