Suzi

That's it. After two and a half joyous years together, my best friend and I have parted ways.

Suzi drove off into the September rain with her new owner today, and a little part of me has disappeared forever. Goodbye little princess, you shall not be forgotten xx

A tale from A Tale from the Gunbarrel...

After what seemed like a thousand set-backs, and many, many rehearsals and auditions at Northbrooke house, Josh finally got his actors and crew ready for the shoot yesterday.

And what a shoot it was. Arriving at 2pm, after hauling what felt like a neverending conga line of lights, cables, bags, stands, tripods and a very expensive camera into the car, we straight away got into unpacking and assembling the items we had so painstakingly stacked in the little Civic.

The shoot was at a place called the Chaise Lounge (which Josh consistently and incorrectly pronounces the 'chase lounge') which when I arrived was quiet, peaceful, warm and reminded me very much of Moulin Rouge. The bar is in a basement, decadently furnished with red velour chaise longues, regal looking armchairs, red walls adorned with baroque-style paintings and even slight early-twentieth-century-chinoisie-esque curtains and drapes. Textures, textures, textures... it was indeed an ideal setting for Josh's bizarre underworld film.

Time flew and before we knew it, it was 4.00pm and the actors were arriving. I was completely amazed and inspired by the way the whole thing ran - actors were completely focused (as I mentioned to Adam, very few boo-boos - nothing for the bloopers reel), our make-up artist (the beautiful and talented Liz) was so versatile, so sure of what she was doing and created a very creepy scar for Dale.

But most amazing of all were the two directors, Josh and Chris, who withstood 8 hours of holding boom mics, cameras, arranging lights, sets, directing and focusing... just for one scene.

Josh's fearless determination constantly amazes me, his undying creative vision is a force to be reckoned with. He wrote the screenplay, he auditioned the actors, he was the set director, director of photography, gaffer, boom holder and motivational speaker, all at the tender age of 22.

The pied piper of puds or, Token Insane Trophy Wife strikes again

I've already posted a post about my insurmountable levels of love that I have for everything, constantly bubbling under my skin, waiting to erupt in an earthquake of affection or compassion.

Yesterday I went for my walk again, no suprises there, everything completely normal.

As I neared the park, I noticed a white cat rubbing itself against the brick fence of a house on the corner of Wattletree Road and some other street. Being the animal obsessee that I am, I HAD to stope and give it a cuddle.

Well. Big mistake. HUGE mistake. The pud WOULD NOT LEAVE ME. IT WAS LIKE A DOG.

I tried dumping it back in its front yard a few times, only to have it RUN AFTER ME like a puppy! It didn't even slink cat-style, it actually trotted by my side. This started to bother me after a while, as its very upsetting to leave something so vulnerable. I even had to change the direction I was walking in to avoid the pud being hit by a Malvern 4 wheel drive (a likely fate for any of us, really).

So I sped off again, hoping the cat would forget me and stay back at its house, but it didn't.

Enter Insane Malvern Trophy Wife in 4 wheel drive, pulling into her driveway. She lowered her electric window and smiled at me. Understandably, I thought the pud must belong to her.

'Is this your cat?' I asked hopefully.
'Oh God no,' she replied, 'that cat's a horrible thing. Very vicious.'

I looked down at the cat rubbing its head lovingly against my legs, purring audibly.

'It seems to like you,' she said unhelpfully. 'Just throw it over a fence, it'll find its way home.' Her Trophy Children in obligatory private school uniforms with Camberwell-girl hair stared.

'Maybe I'll try the house one more time,' I said slowly, trying to end the pointless conversation. The cat darted towards the car, and I grabbed it quickly. It hissed, but still loved me.

'Puss!' I reprimanded lamely, 'you'll get run over!'

'Oh, oh oh,' chortled Insane Trophy Wife sadistically, 'go ahead! Put it under the wheel and I'll just squish it, miserable thing!'

'Mum!' squealed the Trophy Kids, as I smiled numbly and backed away with pud safe in my arms.

Insane bitch!

I don't have curly hair...

... cos I don't eat crusts. They're disgusting :(

This place...

This place terrifies, amazes and humbles me.

When I die I want to crumble into the earth, be pecked at by birds, be consumed by dirt and clay and return to life as grass and eucalyptus and shrill cicadas. I want to stare at the sky for all eternity and die and be reborn over and over til the day that there will only be night.

Tumbling

I've been to Queensland twice.

I live in Victoria, the sedimentary state. When I say sedimentary, I mean it is at the bottom of Australia - the safe centre of gravity of an incomprehensibly huge land. Victoria is small but sturdy.

Both times that I've journeyed to Queensland I've travelled via bus and car respectively.

And both times I've had this overwhelming sense of vertigo, that the vehicle I'm in will conk out and roll back down to Victoria, or that when I step out I will fall, tumbling down, down, down til I arrive dazed and damaged back in the bottom of Australia.

You know it really does have quite an effect.

People (well, boys and mean girls) often criticise girls who 'break nails'.

You always see on B and C grade movies some football jock/high school bully/peevish loser/bitter virginal male jeering at girls who are upset, teasing "what happened? Break a nail?"

Ugh. Sooooooo lame.

What people don't understand is that in the case of REAL nails breaking, it friggin' hurts.

In the case of FAKE nails breaking, the shrivelled, pale and weakened real nail underneath looks flaky and munted, not a pretty sight. And it's a massive annoyance cos you have to hide this munted nail under a bandaid while flashing around your other nine sexy porn-star nails.

Last night as I was drying myself after my shower, I felt this unnatural bend on my finger nail. My whole fakey was coming off!!

With a quick clip of the nail-clippers my middle left fingernail was revealed in all it's dishevelled glory.

'Check it out!' I yelled to my beloved, waving my nudey fingernail in his face. He was mildly fascinated, but I didn't get the reaction I wanted (or deserved).

It was truly amazing, and now I am completely divided whether or not to keep up the fakies or embrace my boring old naturals, and start doing the manis again!

What EVER will become of me!!! :)

I heart Anthony Burgess <3

"Well, well, well, well. If it isn't fat, stinking billygoat Billy-Boy in poison. How art thou, thy globby bottle of cheap, stinking chip-oil? Come and get one in the yarbles, if you have any yarbles, you eunuch jelly thou."

Genius!

Why am I not like Lisa?

My friend Lisa, a beautiful, talented girl, is stark raving mad about art and culture. She can't get enough of it. What's more, she's been clever enough to turn it into her career (I'm still working on that bit).

Lisa gets art. She KNOWS it. She can even TALK about it and hold 3+ minute conversations about it.

Now, I view myself as a pretty cluey kinda girl. Oh yeah, I'm switched on.

So why, WHY do I just NOT GET ART?

I don't mean like movies, music, theatre etc, oh I am WELL VERSED in those. I mean your actual pictures and whirls and dots and splashes and 'installations' (surely there's an easier to remember term for that!?).

An artist friend once attempted to take me to an art gallery in St Kilda. We wandered down Acland Street on a sultry early Autumn day, and in retrospect the only way I can desribe my then self is a naughty puppy. I was not focused, a little bit stubborn, didn't take it at all seriously, and more importantly, I was mostly fascinated by something that wasn't what I was meant to be fascinated by.

We approached the heavy green door, its paint flaking a little in shabby St Kilda chic style. On the frosted glass panel beside the door was a no-smoking sticker. Someone had written above the little cigarette in it's angry red circle with the bar through it "It's like..."

Hilarious. What wit!

I went inside, and can barely remember the art I saw. In fact, I can't remember it at all.

Words. That's pretty much what I do. My boyf said to me once, 'I think in pictures, and you think in words' and I have to agree.

But it would be so swell to know art so I could impress Lisa in a 3+ minute conversation.

I am petrified...

... of karma! I am SUCH a goose! What Good Girl needs to be scared of that? :)

I heart Auden

... lovers, approaching to kiss,
instinctively shut their eyes before their faces
can be reduced to
anatomical data.

(Taken from I am not a camera by WH Auden)