Sometimes, when I'm walking home at night, I pass the glass of an enourmous shop window exhibiting colourful imported rugs and hand-painted cabinents, and I think about money. How I sometimes wish I could just have an unlimited supply whenever I saw something beautiful.
I would like to arrange this with someone, make some kind of bargain that I wouldn't really live any differently. I wouldn't buy an expensive car, or real estate, or shares. I would just like the money to buy beautiful dresses, meters of bright fabric and goat's cheese when the urge arises.
I would suprise Salva with vintage instruments tied up with red ribbon, and send cases of Ribera to my parents.
I wouldn't even worry about the vaccuum cleaner, new hot water system, storage furniture, and baby apparel that we need. Yesterday there was a double bed on that list and today it is sorted.
Those things always work themselves out, the indian rugs never do.
Monday, 18 October 2010
Thursday, 7 October 2010
Autumn is back. The days are getting crisp, and slightly shorter. The mornings are glorious.
The smell in the air is motivation. It happens to me every year. Something about the chill in the air reminds me to be busy.
So I'm back in the studio after many months. I'm cooking amazing meals, and freezing some. Tomorrow I'm going to my first pre-natal yoga class. And this week I taught 8 English classes. I was so good in about 4. I was like, a fantastic English teacher, and my students just couldn't believe it.
I'm alone, for the first time in many months. It's a glass of red wine in the bath kind of moment, but I don't know about the wine. I wonder if the baby would notice?
How I love this baby. My sources tell me it is the length of a banana this week. If that is true, then I'd like to know what it did with the rest of my organs.
If she is a girl, she has a name, and her photograph is imprinted in some part of my left brain, where everytime I imagine her, she comes up looking exactly the same.
If he's a boy, then he remains a complete mystery. But I do love boys.
Either way I'm going to make a mobile and some bedding from vintage sheets. Salva is going to make a bassinet. We're going to go to IKEA and take some measurements, steal some scandinavian design.
I met a woman yesterday named Purificación. Now that is an out-there name. She shortens it to Puri. I don't know if I would do that. Perhaps I'd claim a name like that.
Speaking of being back in Spain (after almost 3 months in Italy) I think we are happy. That might have something to do with the near 20 kgs of Italian products we brought home with us in the car. If we can have sun-dried tomatoes and real Parmesan while NOT living in Italy, well that's just grand. And things are calming down. Every day there is something less to organise, a few more minutes to reflect.
And reflecting I am. I told myself I wasn't going to buy any parenting books, maybe ever. But we got one, big one. Actually it's three books in one. It's by Carlos Gonzales, who is the (muffled?) Spanish voice on breastfeeding and attatchment parenting. Most of it is pretty convincing. Salva liked having the book until I started talking about it too earnestly, just last night.
Let's just see how it goes.
I suppose that's wisest.
The smell in the air is motivation. It happens to me every year. Something about the chill in the air reminds me to be busy.
So I'm back in the studio after many months. I'm cooking amazing meals, and freezing some. Tomorrow I'm going to my first pre-natal yoga class. And this week I taught 8 English classes. I was so good in about 4. I was like, a fantastic English teacher, and my students just couldn't believe it.
I'm alone, for the first time in many months. It's a glass of red wine in the bath kind of moment, but I don't know about the wine. I wonder if the baby would notice?
How I love this baby. My sources tell me it is the length of a banana this week. If that is true, then I'd like to know what it did with the rest of my organs.
If she is a girl, she has a name, and her photograph is imprinted in some part of my left brain, where everytime I imagine her, she comes up looking exactly the same.
If he's a boy, then he remains a complete mystery. But I do love boys.
Either way I'm going to make a mobile and some bedding from vintage sheets. Salva is going to make a bassinet. We're going to go to IKEA and take some measurements, steal some scandinavian design.
I met a woman yesterday named Purificación. Now that is an out-there name. She shortens it to Puri. I don't know if I would do that. Perhaps I'd claim a name like that.
Speaking of being back in Spain (after almost 3 months in Italy) I think we are happy. That might have something to do with the near 20 kgs of Italian products we brought home with us in the car. If we can have sun-dried tomatoes and real Parmesan while NOT living in Italy, well that's just grand. And things are calming down. Every day there is something less to organise, a few more minutes to reflect.
And reflecting I am. I told myself I wasn't going to buy any parenting books, maybe ever. But we got one, big one. Actually it's three books in one. It's by Carlos Gonzales, who is the (muffled?) Spanish voice on breastfeeding and attatchment parenting. Most of it is pretty convincing. Salva liked having the book until I started talking about it too earnestly, just last night.
Let's just see how it goes.
I suppose that's wisest.
Friday, 1 October 2010
After 5 months
Writing and self-publishing was such a good excercise for me. I don't know why I stopped. I think it happened when I was made suddenly aware (by a psychologist, interviewing me for a place in a master of art therapy) that googling my name brought up a page that may not be filled with my innermost thoughts, but certainly contains alot of information about my personal life.
I suppose that was obvious... and it doesn't matter I suppose.
I need to write, now more than ever.
Because I live in a foreign country, no, make that 2 foreign countries. And that can be difficult, funny and always interesting. Need to soak it up. Documenting these experiences is almost a responsibility.
Because Salva and I have a place for dreaming, to call our very own.
and then there is that fact that enters into our every single conversation.
Yes, approaching 20 weeks of pregnancy, we are starting to act as though we are the first people ever to reproduce.
His words today: "I'm so excited, do you think everyone feels this way?"
If I can start writing again, perhaps I can make some space in my head for some other possible topics of conversation.
I suppose that was obvious... and it doesn't matter I suppose.
I need to write, now more than ever.
Because I live in a foreign country, no, make that 2 foreign countries. And that can be difficult, funny and always interesting. Need to soak it up. Documenting these experiences is almost a responsibility.
Because Salva and I have a place for dreaming, to call our very own.
and then there is that fact that enters into our every single conversation.
Yes, approaching 20 weeks of pregnancy, we are starting to act as though we are the first people ever to reproduce.
His words today: "I'm so excited, do you think everyone feels this way?"
If I can start writing again, perhaps I can make some space in my head for some other possible topics of conversation.
Sunday, 11 April 2010
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Waiting
The flight from Europe to Australia is a long one.. usually broken into a long leg of around 12 hours, a few hours in Asia or the Middle East, then another leg of 8 to 10 hours. The Asian airports are surreal. extremely interesting, yet so so boring. It is in Singapore that the reality of what I am doing hits home to me, whether I'm going away, or coming home. There is a moment when, after 20 months of hearing other languages in public places, somebody screams at their kid in Aussie, and the accent sounds bizarre, and you realise that you speak like that too, and you cringe inside.
Then, on the way back, the same thing happens in reverse. Somebody says something inane or ignorant in Italian or Spanish (usually Italian) and you cringe again, and you ask yourself where you belong... then you chide yourself for being such a wanker.
This is one aspect of travel that I love. I always do this trip alone. When you are high above the rest of the world, for such a long period of time you are alone with your semi-delirious thoughts. No-one expects you to answer your phone, your emails, or smell nice. How can they when you are so helplessly high. You are in limbo, in no particular place at all. What laws apply up there? -All of them, it would seem, if you listen to the QANTAS staff, but it seems kind of hard to believe doesn't it?
I am sometimes reserved, but mostly social and friendly in person. But on an international flight I don't want to speak to anyone really, because I don't want to break that no-expectations moment. It's a moment where being in-between is literal and right. So let's not talk about where I'm at when standing on the earth. I'll face that again when I touch down.
Now that I'm back I've had a big look at it. I'm waiting for responses from some masters programs. They might not accept me. One has already knocked me right back.
When S. got home, we spent a day wrapping ourselves up in huge sigh of relief. Then he started twitching, because I imagine the Buenos Aires/Valladolid transition was like someone interrupting the drum solo in Led Zeppelin's Moby Dick with Enya. I felt like I was the one who had changed the cd.
I spent a few days not knowing quite what to do with myself either. Then we left for Barcelona, now we(I) are(am) in love with the idea of living there. But I just feel like I'm waiting....
My horoscope says this:
You feel temporarily blocked now. Resistance and challenges from others or from outside situations suggest this is not a good time to try to force your will and desires onto the world, as friction is the only likely result.
So I'll keep waiting...
Then, on the way back, the same thing happens in reverse. Somebody says something inane or ignorant in Italian or Spanish (usually Italian) and you cringe again, and you ask yourself where you belong... then you chide yourself for being such a wanker.
This is one aspect of travel that I love. I always do this trip alone. When you are high above the rest of the world, for such a long period of time you are alone with your semi-delirious thoughts. No-one expects you to answer your phone, your emails, or smell nice. How can they when you are so helplessly high. You are in limbo, in no particular place at all. What laws apply up there? -All of them, it would seem, if you listen to the QANTAS staff, but it seems kind of hard to believe doesn't it?
I am sometimes reserved, but mostly social and friendly in person. But on an international flight I don't want to speak to anyone really, because I don't want to break that no-expectations moment. It's a moment where being in-between is literal and right. So let's not talk about where I'm at when standing on the earth. I'll face that again when I touch down.
Now that I'm back I've had a big look at it. I'm waiting for responses from some masters programs. They might not accept me. One has already knocked me right back.
When S. got home, we spent a day wrapping ourselves up in huge sigh of relief. Then he started twitching, because I imagine the Buenos Aires/Valladolid transition was like someone interrupting the drum solo in Led Zeppelin's Moby Dick with Enya. I felt like I was the one who had changed the cd.
I spent a few days not knowing quite what to do with myself either. Then we left for Barcelona, now we(I) are(am) in love with the idea of living there. But I just feel like I'm waiting....
My horoscope says this:
You feel temporarily blocked now. Resistance and challenges from others or from outside situations suggest this is not a good time to try to force your will and desires onto the world, as friction is the only likely result.
So I'll keep waiting...
Thursday, 25 March 2010
Awake
7am is alright. So why does it feel so wrong? What time is it in Australia? No, that is not good maths to do. I should think about time in SPAIN, because that is where I am. Hmmm.
40 hours is a short time for say, a weekend in Paris, but a very LONG time to spend in aeroplanes, airports and buses.
40 hours is also a long time to wait, finally in the quiet peacefulness of your house for the person who makes it home. Longer when it's already been 6 weeks of waiting.
A month is not much time to spend in your home country with the family you came from after 20 months of emails and phone calls. It sure is a long time to stay away from your fun-loving, music-playing soul friend.
9 months is quite long to wait for family joking and perhaps a second round of trivial pursuit, but perhaps not quite enough time to study all the questions in the latest edition.
It's a tough one.
I will put photos up soon, I don't know how long that will take, only that it will be a long time.
40 hours is a short time for say, a weekend in Paris, but a very LONG time to spend in aeroplanes, airports and buses.
40 hours is also a long time to wait, finally in the quiet peacefulness of your house for the person who makes it home. Longer when it's already been 6 weeks of waiting.
A month is not much time to spend in your home country with the family you came from after 20 months of emails and phone calls. It sure is a long time to stay away from your fun-loving, music-playing soul friend.
9 months is quite long to wait for family joking and perhaps a second round of trivial pursuit, but perhaps not quite enough time to study all the questions in the latest edition.
It's a tough one.
I will put photos up soon, I don't know how long that will take, only that it will be a long time.
Sunday, 7 March 2010
Here
1. The sound of the ocean all through the night, through the day, whenever you start listening.
2. Walks with Dad over the headland. Glimpses of water so big that you almost have to look away...Because not only is it too beautiful, but just too big.
3. Short and sweet phonecalls with Salva. Hearing the bustle of Buenos Aires from the calm of Coffs Harbour. When I hang up the phone I can hear the contrasting, exaggerated silence.
4. Lots of laughs with my little brother.
5. Trivial Pursuit with all 4 family members. I get the easiest questions wrong and provoke incredulous laughter. My brother gets everything right. If he doesn't know the answer he makes an educated guess based on other knowledge. He won two games. I continue to imagine Salva playing with us and the fun we'd have if he were here.
6. Going through family photos for the first time ever. Not baby albums, but a suitcase filled with rolls and rolls of film developed, with their negatives. There are photos of me as a baby. Good ones, that look like me, except as a baby. There are some black and white portraits of my parents taken in 1984. Dad asked me to take a 26-years-later shot in black and white today. The differences aren't as dramatic as he thinks, which was nice.
7. Reading The Slap which took me back to Melbourne for an overdue immaginary visit.
8. The best chocolate biscuits money can buy.
9. The temporary relaxation of my low-caffeine policy.
10. Lots of sleep, for most of the sunless hours.
2. Walks with Dad over the headland. Glimpses of water so big that you almost have to look away...Because not only is it too beautiful, but just too big.
3. Short and sweet phonecalls with Salva. Hearing the bustle of Buenos Aires from the calm of Coffs Harbour. When I hang up the phone I can hear the contrasting, exaggerated silence.
4. Lots of laughs with my little brother.
5. Trivial Pursuit with all 4 family members. I get the easiest questions wrong and provoke incredulous laughter. My brother gets everything right. If he doesn't know the answer he makes an educated guess based on other knowledge. He won two games. I continue to imagine Salva playing with us and the fun we'd have if he were here.
6. Going through family photos for the first time ever. Not baby albums, but a suitcase filled with rolls and rolls of film developed, with their negatives. There are photos of me as a baby. Good ones, that look like me, except as a baby. There are some black and white portraits of my parents taken in 1984. Dad asked me to take a 26-years-later shot in black and white today. The differences aren't as dramatic as he thinks, which was nice.
7. Reading The Slap which took me back to Melbourne for an overdue immaginary visit.
8. The best chocolate biscuits money can buy.
9. The temporary relaxation of my low-caffeine policy.
10. Lots of sleep, for most of the sunless hours.
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
Change
A week ago I was alone, curled up in the fetal position on my bed in Valladolid, scribbling a story onto sheets of brown paper. It was one of those sunny wintry days that doesn't bring me much joy by the end of February, when I'm dreaming about the sensation of air on uncovered skin.
Today I am alone in my parent's house in Coffs Harbour, it's been raining pretty much since I got here, but the temperature is in the mid 20's and each breath of air is like a long drink of water.The humidity. My hair is like fairy floss in a messy bun. I'm still thinking about the same story, and trying to get around to editing it.
This is not any of the rural settings I grew up in. It's the realisation of my Mother's dream: a beachfront town house. Really clean and simple, white on white.
Me and my brother don't live here and you can tell, but it's not like an empty nest. They were never going to suffer from that kind of syndrome, probably because we've never stayed still long enough to get attached to any particular place, or associate any particular walls with the togetherness of this family. That's something that just happens wherever, whenever possible now. It's good.
Mum is at uni. She is a uni student, and I am not, right now. There is something strange about that.
My Dad has a new office in a new side of town. We've been walking over the headland together of a morning, and he goes to work later now.
There are 3 health shops in a 200m radius in Coffs' cbd. They have every type of essential oil you could want, and they don't even have to order them in. They just have them there in the shop. The supermarkets are also really, really full, of every ingredient ever cited in a cookbook. I can't remember if I ever used to cook the same thing 2 days in a row when I lived in Australia.
People are warm and relaxed. They talk to me and ask me where I live, if it comes up. People smile widely and say "That's great!" Although they probably usually havn't been there. They just think it's great that I don't live here. So do I, I suppose. Though it sure is nice to visit.
Today I am alone in my parent's house in Coffs Harbour, it's been raining pretty much since I got here, but the temperature is in the mid 20's and each breath of air is like a long drink of water.The humidity. My hair is like fairy floss in a messy bun. I'm still thinking about the same story, and trying to get around to editing it.
This is not any of the rural settings I grew up in. It's the realisation of my Mother's dream: a beachfront town house. Really clean and simple, white on white.
Me and my brother don't live here and you can tell, but it's not like an empty nest. They were never going to suffer from that kind of syndrome, probably because we've never stayed still long enough to get attached to any particular place, or associate any particular walls with the togetherness of this family. That's something that just happens wherever, whenever possible now. It's good.
Mum is at uni. She is a uni student, and I am not, right now. There is something strange about that.
My Dad has a new office in a new side of town. We've been walking over the headland together of a morning, and he goes to work later now.
There are 3 health shops in a 200m radius in Coffs' cbd. They have every type of essential oil you could want, and they don't even have to order them in. They just have them there in the shop. The supermarkets are also really, really full, of every ingredient ever cited in a cookbook. I can't remember if I ever used to cook the same thing 2 days in a row when I lived in Australia.
People are warm and relaxed. They talk to me and ask me where I live, if it comes up. People smile widely and say "That's great!" Although they probably usually havn't been there. They just think it's great that I don't live here. So do I, I suppose. Though it sure is nice to visit.
Monday, 15 February 2010
Quiet
In my blog.
In my house.
In my heart.
Lots of quiet here lately.
I was temporarily abandoned in the name of sunnier climates and field research about a week ago. I'm leaving too (for somewhere else) in about a week, which will be so overdue and really nice. But in the meantime... All I can think of is this :(
A Colon and an open bracket are summing me up right now.
When he left the temperature dropped about 10 degrees. And we didn't have many degrees to play around with, I'm telling you.
I keep complaining about the cold to excuse myself for feeling so sad, because it doesn't feel right to just feel sad because he is working away for 6 weeks.
But maybe it is... He is my bestest friend in the whole wide world.
In my house.
In my heart.
Lots of quiet here lately.
I was temporarily abandoned in the name of sunnier climates and field research about a week ago. I'm leaving too (for somewhere else) in about a week, which will be so overdue and really nice. But in the meantime... All I can think of is this :(
A Colon and an open bracket are summing me up right now.
When he left the temperature dropped about 10 degrees. And we didn't have many degrees to play around with, I'm telling you.
I keep complaining about the cold to excuse myself for feeling so sad, because it doesn't feel right to just feel sad because he is working away for 6 weeks.
But maybe it is... He is my bestest friend in the whole wide world.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
More on Masters.
When I was at Uni I would dread every semester thinking that it was all going to be so hard... and that this was the semester that everyone would see through me, and I would endure harsh punishment, humiliation and just general public criticism for not dedicating 10 hours per week per subject.
Once I'd get into the swing of things, however, everything usually panned out more than ok. I got really good results for most of my subjects, but I still don't know how much I deserved them.
My degree was in Linguistics and Italian Studies. The first comes so freakishly naturally to me it's not funny, and I'm not bragging, because being gifted in Linguistics gives you little to talk about with anyone.
Most people don't quite understand what it is. They say "What languages?" and then you need to explain what applied linguistics is, and you are usually left standing alone in a room at the dinner party, with one or two bored polite people if you're lucky. If you're unlucky, you find a fellow enthusiast, and we are similar to trekkies or those people who learn elvish which is the language Tolkein invented for fictional purposes. Not that there is anything wrong with these people, we all have our interests. It's just that it's isolating, you know?
Another problem with a degree in the way we use words is that it never leaves you. The observations are endless. Odds are, if you know someone who's a bit weird, but you just can't put your finger on it, I can tell you what the problem is. Then it'll annoy you too.
The second major was taught in a language I learnt onsite while still a teenager, so I feel like a bit of a cheat.
Now I'm looking into masters. In fine arts this time, and there is no hiding behind anything there. I'm determined to find my place in all of this.. but I have to say, I'm feeling quite vulnerable and out of my depth about it. Don't know how I'm going to fudge my way through this one, even if someone does accept me, somewhere...
Once I'd get into the swing of things, however, everything usually panned out more than ok. I got really good results for most of my subjects, but I still don't know how much I deserved them.
My degree was in Linguistics and Italian Studies. The first comes so freakishly naturally to me it's not funny, and I'm not bragging, because being gifted in Linguistics gives you little to talk about with anyone.
Most people don't quite understand what it is. They say "What languages?" and then you need to explain what applied linguistics is, and you are usually left standing alone in a room at the dinner party, with one or two bored polite people if you're lucky. If you're unlucky, you find a fellow enthusiast, and we are similar to trekkies or those people who learn elvish which is the language Tolkein invented for fictional purposes. Not that there is anything wrong with these people, we all have our interests. It's just that it's isolating, you know?
Another problem with a degree in the way we use words is that it never leaves you. The observations are endless. Odds are, if you know someone who's a bit weird, but you just can't put your finger on it, I can tell you what the problem is. Then it'll annoy you too.
The second major was taught in a language I learnt onsite while still a teenager, so I feel like a bit of a cheat.
Now I'm looking into masters. In fine arts this time, and there is no hiding behind anything there. I'm determined to find my place in all of this.. but I have to say, I'm feeling quite vulnerable and out of my depth about it. Don't know how I'm going to fudge my way through this one, even if someone does accept me, somewhere...
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