Centennial Circuit

The blues are blasted, thank goodness, with a healthy dose of the big red heart, yes, Annie Lennox and Al whatshisname had a good thing going when they said 'Put a Little Love in Your Heart'. Love. It blossoms from unlikely quarters and wears snappy garters, twists around our ventricles and there it is, sorta, at home in the aorta.

She's cuddly, she's hot and she loved her birthday present, a striking implement of functional black design from Horseland (Fyshwick, Canberra, for all your equestrian needs.) I took over a bloody sunset red quince tart crossed with pastry lattice from the S. H. Patisserie where all Argentine goodness exudes. We needed little extra latino fevero though to fuel our reunion.

Sash has finally moved in with her, ahem, block your ears, Vanilla Beans ... Master*, after departing from a fine but fizzled out looooong relationship. While a great part of me would like to be the next loooooong relationship (yoohoo, donors!), it's an unforseeable outcome. She and He are entirely suited and mutually devoted, and I am fortunate to enjoy as I have been doing, significant visiting rights. Today was a marvellous reunion for the trifecta, he's a fantastic chap with virtually no competition from the flailing, ego-fuelled figjam* fools out there who are keen to view themselves as "Dominant" kinksters.

In their household of three hearts and three cats there is commitment, class, sass and supportive vibes aplenty. It's really a cup runneth over situation and I'm fortunate to share in the spoils. Life can be utterly wonderful when you let it.

I post about Centennial herewith, because FiMo and I will run a mini-marathon around the eponymous park at the end of the month. It's with Fi that I, with her converging inspiration, developed our version of The Tao of Love. It's a concept that's aconceptual, a practise that is impractical and always magical, it is, essential, guilt free loving that's mostly physical and perhaps accidentally spiritual. Accidental ascensions to ecstatic interpretations of the Tao? But how?

Do, be. Guilt, free. I think we must refer to Martika for now as only she and Prince (insert symbol) manged it in the nail-on-head manner:

"Love, they will be done."

*and his Partnerette - it's the new kind of working family, two doms, 1 slave, three cats!
*a figjam is 'fuck i'm good just ask me' - you recognise them as they ooooze figjam.

Cry one more time for you

That's the explosive first line of a Gram Parsons song. It's a rollicking great song with a horn section and a low-down bluesy refrain.

The panic combined with a pesky inner complaint resulted in the first flood of why-me-why-now tears. Although I have been technically unemployed for two teaching weeks, the panic is now making a dread sandwich to pack in a painkiller picnic basket.

In third grade we played a computer game about the Australian gold rush. It was a lovely old green digi-type on black screen as far as I recall. What I enjoyed most was the preparation before going on the diggings. Each digger was given a certain amount of money in pounds and then you had to acquire, thriftily, the necessary tools and equipment for the gold mines.

Whenever I eventually got to the diggings, bad luck would befall me. It would 'rain', I'd catch a cold and have to return to town. I secretly didn't mind as it meant I got another chance to do my gold-mining shopping (once I had recovered, of course.)

I'm feeling the sick calm of the 'lay-off season', the wierd limbo of preparation for the diggings. Instead of awkwardly pixelled pick and shovel of the late 80s computer screens I am buying office equipment.

It's a glum and low time and the first signs of The Dread are upon one. There is no singing, very little whistling, reluctance to present one's grim visage to the niecelet and a deeply strong aversion to the parental unit and also the sorority. One may pathologise to one's heartfelt content the way one punishes one's self for idleness and its aftermath (general failure in the adulthood department) but really, that's too easy.

Not even John Safran's "de-Jewing" and foreskin stretching on SBS tonight could drag me too far out of the cloud. He is terribly amusing though and a teller of my story (not the foreskin part of course.)

The most amazing thing is how happiness is entirely real, even when you draw it aside like a curtain to see the humbug at work, the humbug of humdrum who is always there, waiting to remind you that nothing is working in the Distraction department, Distraction that became an end in itself.

This is the awful stage, when I deny myself general enjoyment until I have conquered the molehill (it's never a mountain, only the quotidian.) The non-vital components shut-down, I am hunted into survival mode.

It is all pretty bleak except for the caremalised onion, roast pumpkin and fetta pie that I baked.

Meme, not Meem

I used to have this musical crush on the Sydney DJ, Meem. He was really good as was his mate Deepchild who I had a girl-crush on even though he's a devout Christian.

That's just a bit of free-associating to get me started on this fun little me-me-me meme as suggested by Ricardo.

I think I'm fulfiling most of my duty by taking the test and modelling by way of personal example. After reading through, have a turn. If you like blogging, you will like thinking about yourself with an eager readership over your shoulder.

Where is your cell phone? Night-table.

Your hair? washed.

Your mother? kitchen.

Your father? tired.

Your favorite food? vegemite.

Your dream last night? kinky.

Your favorite drink? sencha.

Your dream/goal? teach-Joyce

What room are you in? bedroom

Your hobby? writing

Your Fear? fallingfromGreatheights

Where do you want to be in 6 years? Maternity.

Where were you last night? subspace

Something that you aren’t? size-10

Muffins? fresh.

Wish list item? new-A.S-Byatt

Where did you grow up? Bondi

Last thing you did? boxing

What are you wearing? fisherman-pants

Your TV? sleeping

Your pets? photosynthesising

Your friends? beautiful-marry-me-all-now

Your life? finnegans-wake

Your mood? bit-champing

Missing someone? slightly

Vehicle? nannamobile

Something you’re not wearing? corset

Your favorite store? Made-590-South-Newtown

Your favorite color? green

When was the last time you laughed? 1:30pm

Last time you cried? 9pm(book-induced)

Your best friend? AJ(Totally.Amazing.Radical.Amazonienne + McFi/Lis) = thensome

One place that I go to over and over? Sister's

person who emails me regularly? Captain Ruckington.

Favorite place to eat? Nanna's. 

Now, you try it! 

Back in your box

For some five months I have gone without boxing. I mollified my inner pugilist with cake, chocolate alfajors and the occasional jog. Tonight I returned to the fabulous Glebe gym which is devoted to enlightenment through boxing. Last time I joined their classes, I did end up lighter not to mention fleeter of foot. I regret my wasted months of boxlessness. Tonight's hour-long class was so difficult my hands are still shaking.

But for my vanity, I would avoid such extreme measures to reduce my bulk. My bulk and I have grown fond of each other, but I knew there would always come a time when we would have to part. It is far easier in summer, as my fellow Tao of Love expert McFi attests, when you have more freshly lit hours of the day in which to caper about in sneakers.

There's a poetry in pugilism even Hemingway couldn't do without. As it says on the back of my favourite orange Ringside Fitness t-shirt, "My writing is nothing, my boxing is everything" - Hemingway. The satisfaction of landing a perfect combination, using our western style of jab-cross-hook, is a simple and perfect entwining of foot, thigh, hips, shoulders and fist, the last being the dot on the top of the punch's inverted exclamation mark.

The older trainer was happy to see me back, and the youngish munchkin-boy trainer was complimentary of my moves, even when I was near apoplexy from unfitness. Push through is the only way until I can get back to how it used to be, back when I managed the hour with smiles and conversation to top off a leisurely workout.

Doctor J, my talk-therapist, discussed with me my antics re: my Roving Assortment. We are non-judgementally and thoughtfully trying to work out whether there is any hypermania happening behind the scenes of what is becoming a very colourful cabaret.

The first test to apply in checking this is to observe whether the obsession or preoccupation (a gentler word) impinges upon the regular, must-do aspects of one's life. You must ask the question, "what are you not doing when you are shopping/drinking/gambling/crocheting?"

My day only started after noon upon the departure of Dr P. Then I fell into the well of wellspringing bootycalling sirens, my hunting grounds. My job application went like droopy corsetry laces, undone. The vitamin-rich and life-giving fruits and vegetables in my nearby market went unbought.

I will put today down as a lapse of responsibiility rather than reckless over-indulgence, though there was that. Laziness is also not to be sneezed at as a culprit, though it defies diagnosis and simply loafs around the deserted bar of one's mind waiting to be bought a drink.

Thus, as Scarlet O'Hara is my witness, I will stick to my calendar's commands as is written, and curtail my carnivalesque activities. In other words, I will not make any new dates in addition to the ones I have already scheduled, and I will not invite further imps of mischief into my troupe of merry men and menettes.

I'll have to fashion a smart 'no vacancy' sign and loop it over the mail-box.

Traceable Influences

Remember Tracey Emin? Outspoken, artistic tragicomic geekgirl of the Angry Young British art scene circa les 90s?

She's not at all an influence, until I realised what a fabulous imitator I must appear, awakening from a long, long weekend with a device-strewn divan. Not only devices, but the colourful apparatus of the playful person's perverted paraphernalia and the scent of waxy lemongrass candles lingering long after having accesorised the fact.

Readers of Fetlife may already know my new friend, known here and there as (drum roll) Dr Pervert. All tics and illnesses happily exacerbated, thanks, ahem.

The most marvellous opening to a modern novel is Samuel Beckett's "Murphy", in which our title hero has tied his own rope and affixed himself to a rocking chair. Much as I admire the book and Murphy himself utterly, I doubt I will ever reach such a level of dexterity, whether due to a lack of coordination or having arms that refuse to yogafy themselves into bendy pretzls. For this reason alone, a house call from the Dr is a necessary first step to become more distinctly ropeable.

Dr P (not to be confused with the sly Dr D for whom I wept but jettisoned some months ago) is a delightful and wombatesque addition to my roving assortment.

We too show no mercy

From my ethereal perch I know all and see all. With my oreo-shaped nose I smell out evil plots and thus do I send my henchsupials out to despatch with it unto the oblivious midst from whence it came. You mortals, to whom it is forbidden to hold me in New South Wales without a ranger's license, tremble, tremble, for with our overhwhelming cute and cuddliness we will, oh yes we will, prevail.