cloistered and cobwebby

Greetings. Yes, it's been a long time since my last post. This was not my active intention, but rather an intuitive withdrawal. cinders fire by Pienkowski from here

How complex the whole process is for 'recovering creatives' like myself. These questions and issues have been coming up recently:

What are the optimum conditions for unrestricted flow?
What role does/should the external gaze have in what is created?
Have I been playing into old patterns of seeking judgement and approval, shaping my words, myself into something more palatable for those around me?
Why have I let my time be sucked away from vital projects and activities through the blogging process, and through obligation/need-based dynamics that I've worked hard to protect myself from in real life?

With all that's been coming up with Artist's Way, recognising my blocks, my tricksy patterns of sabotage, my vulnerability to judgement, I somehow started withdrawing from blogland. I am the first to list all the positives of this medium, the value of feedback, connection, insight, community, and yet... I haven't felt safe. I'm not used to writing being such a struggle. My 'unfurling' creative voice is a tender little sproutling indeed. I've felt guilty, and compelled to post and dive into others' blogs, and yet, I just couldn't do it. And I couldn't work out why. I think in protecting myself I've clumsily overcompensated, like Lenny patting the rabbits. Pat, pat, pat, squash! Hence the long time in hermit-land. I didn't think it was fair to keep reading my favourite blogs, and commenting, if I wasn't up to fulfilling the other end of the bargain.

There's also the rebellion side of things. It's been a difficult 7 months adjusting to being on home soil, suddenly back in the seat of all my old patterns and comforts, and so accessible to kith and kin. It's been hard to breathe and keep the perspective that came so effortlessly with the demands and joys of travel. Somehow, I let myself feel pressured by the interwebby, foggy, guilty, time-poor, and never quite on top of things.

I've also been planning my wedding (Oct 31st). Lordy, what an emotional minefield for a recovering people-pleaser! What a grumpy, lacklustre bride I've been for the most part. The fun, exciting part is meant to start...when? I've had regular fantasies about jumping on a plane, eloping, and never coming back - an odd thought for a lass so enamoured of rites of passage, woven community etc.

Basically, I've been protecting my time, and fiercely guarding the barriers of the space in which I write. I'm not strong or practised enough yet, to quickly type up something clever and heartfelt, press publish post, and go about my day, without getting sucked into seeking comments/approval or regretting how exposed I let myself be.

OK, long story short. I didn't want to make this too much of an elaborate justification for not playing by the rules. I'm going private, so I can spread and dry my wings without distraction or self-censorship. I'll see how it goes for a while. Part of the reason I've procrastinated about this for so long is FOMO, as usual. Fear of missing out, of which mine is a rather chronic condition. Try not to have too much fun, y'hear? I have feared that I won't be welcome back, after my (continued) absence. It's a risk I have to take. Thanks, and huge hugs to those who've shared their warmth and wisdom. Blessed be. xx

Women and Desire

Philip Burne-Jones Le Vampire . The eternal allure of the vampire, and all the accompanying juicy, bloody issues of power, seduction, consumer-consumed, deliciously playing at the edges of mortality and morality.

Let’s talk about sex. I’ve been thinking about what I want my blog to become, and for it to be a truer reflection of me, it can’t just be about embroidery, books and food, as much as I adore them! I've been feeling the need to acknowledge all my edgier passions, facets, and beliefs, and I'm not as scared anymore about, *gasp*, finding that I have differing views to others. Time for some rants and reflections that could press some buttons.

Recently, there've been features in The Age and The New York Times about women’s sexuality, which I've followed with interest. The articles talk about tests that had been carried out by psychology professor with Queens University in Ontario, Meredith Chivers.

Chivers showed men and women risque footage, broken into categories as follows: woman-woman, woman-man, man-man, and ahem, ape-ape. Chivers resisted completing the sequence with the necessary woman-ape, and ape-man. I think this was wise. In addition, there were further visual delights: a buff guy walking naked along a beach, a naked woman doing calisthenics, a guy masturbating, and a woman masturbating (again, Chivers has sagely refrained from finishing the set with a self-spanking monkey).

The subjects were asked to describe their level of desire watching each piece of footage, and this was compared to the data that was collected recording their levels of physical response to the images, via devices ('plethysmographs') attached to their genitals!

Christ, you’d want to be paid well for that level of invasive testing! A bit more than a pat on the back for services to humanity, and a voucher for lunch in the Uni café.

I also find it kind of sweet that Chivers' idea of what gay/bi men and straight/bi women might find attractive is a muscly guy strolling along a beach, in the nuddy. Was it sunset, perhaps, tastefully and moodily shot? Did he have a brooding, CFM stare? Was he at half-mast, and would this have appeared slightly comical?

And the energetic woman industriously doing her calisthenics naked... If she was bosomy I would've been most distracted wishing someone would pass her a bra to avoid painful bouncing.

Nonetheless, the results were fascinating.

The men responded largely in "category specific" ways. Straight and gay men responded to the straight and gay images, and the former to lesbian footage as well. Neither showed or reported much response to the bonobo apes. The suggestion that seeing rutting primates might inspire some primal reaction in their manly hearts and groins was mistaken. Overall, the men's minds and genitals seemed to be in agreement.

All was different with the women.

• No matter what their self-proclaimed sexual orientation, they showed, on the whole, strong and swift genital arousal when the screen offered men with men, women with women and women with men.


• They responded objectively much more to the exercising woman than to the strolling man.


• Their blood flow rose quickly — and markedly, though to a lesser degree than during all the human scenes except the footage of the ambling, strapping man — as they watched the apes.


• And with the women, especially the straight women, mind and genitals seemed scarcely to belong to the same person. The readings from the plethysmograph and the keypad weren’t in much accord. During shots of lesbian coupling, heterosexual women reported less excitement than their vaginas indicated; watching gay men, they reported a great deal less; and viewing heterosexual intercourse, they reported much more.


• Among the lesbian volunteers, the two readings converged when women appeared on the screen. But when the films featured only men, the lesbians reported less engagement than the plethysmograph recorded.


• Whether straight or gay, the women claimed almost no arousal whatsoever while staring at the bonobos.
  

The above results and analysis can be found in the article What Do Women Want? by DANIEL BERGNER
Published: January 22, 2009 in the New York Times

A lass and her lascivious lute, from here.

Chivers postulated that female sexuality is "...divided between two truly separate, if inscrutably overlapping, systems, the physiological and the subjective". So, women’s physiological sexual response can sometimes be seen as separate to the experience of desire. It seems to have been more related to an evolutionary feature of our species where genital lubrication was stimulated:

“to reduce discomfort, and the possibility of injury, during vaginal penetration. . . Ancestral women who did not show an automatic vaginal response to sexual cues may have been more likely to experience injuries during unwanted vaginal penetration that resulted in illness, infertility or even death, and thus would be less likely to have passed on this trait to their offspring.”

Evolution’s legacy, according to this theory, is that women are prone to lubricate, if only protectively, to hints of sex in their surroundings. Thinking of her own data, Chivers speculated that bonobo coupling, or perhaps simply the sight of a male ape’s erection, stimulated this reaction because apes bear a resemblance to humans.

Bergner, NYTimes 2009

Desire as a protective mechanism. This can perhaps explain the findings in previous studies exploring many women's strong genital response to images or fantasies of forced sex. Of course, this is no indicator of consent. What fascinating, complex beings we are. All the issues of power, safety, exploration, being desired, feeling desirable interwoven. I think a lot of the time women can be forgiven for being confused about what really turns us on.

How does the evolutionary theory explain the women's response to seeing lesbian coupling? Chivers suggested that the protruding vulva might've taken the role of the male erection in the scene, and produced the lubricating reaction. I personally think it's much more complex than that, and has to do with the projected (and inherent?) eroticism and sensuality of the female form, in art, literature, film, the media. We have absorbed and appreciated thousands of images of female nudes from the carved tantric temples of Khajuraho to the men's mags at the convenience store. That's right kids, feast your eyes on melon-breasted, air brushed parodies of enticing womanhood, between the ice cream and the lolly sections. If we do have entrenched associations of the female form with beauty, what arbitrary standards there seem to be to judge this form as desirable.


Khajuraho temples, pic taken while I was in India, June 2008. The sensuality and tenderness of the carvings were breathtaking, and all this sacred art created in the 10-12th centuries! It is one of the only temple sites that wasn't completely destroyed by the early invading Muslims, as it was in the middle of nowhere and hard to get to (which I can heartily state is still true!) They were apparently depictions of life, of which sex was a valued part. Over the centuries they also acted as porn mags/instructional manuals for youths! This is one of the tamer panels.



The rant continues...


The articles got me thinking about taboos, (not just ape porn). Try and think of the most bizarre and unlikely thing, and there’s no doubt some group of sticky-fingered pervs getting off on it right now on the net. I read a bit of Nancy Friday’s Forbidden Flowers, and was a bit shocked. I do consider myself somewhat worldly about such matters, but I must admit there were eyebrows raised, and prudish, “Well, I nevers!” escaping my lips, as I read that book. Good thing the analysts with the wires were nowhere to be seen. It is a compilation of girls’ and women’s most private fantasies. Some were as mild as “then I kiss my female friend...or…that professor I fancied in college offers to give me higher grades if I dot dot dot.” Others pushed just about every taboo you can think of with extreme bondage, stuff with animals, family members, forced sex, reliving incest etc. Disturbing.

As I said, women’s sexuality is such a complex thing, that refuses to be neatly categorized, and I like that. So much mystery comes with genitals that are internal, combined with a heritage of men’s abuse of sex for domination and oppression, profit and pleasure. I would argue that power and the misuse of it has been strongly damaging to women’s developing sense of their own power, and connection to their bodies.

So many girls learn too early to associate their vaginas with sin, pain, shame and vulnerability: little girls’ hands are slapped away from the ‘naughty’ area, female circumcision is still rife in many parts of the world, pedophiles, rapists, and pedantic religious nuts of many creeds…it’s a bloody minefield. To the blood and rioting hormones of puberty. Everything’s so messy and difficult and intense being female! Then, perhaps if the conditions are right, can arrive a womanly experience of pleasure, with another woman, a man, or on her own. Very few of us get to develop and explore our sexuality at our own rate, in a place of safety, feeling beautiful and normal and precious.


is it a lovely flower? oh, yes. pic from here.

Then, wonder of wonders, maybe a baby tries to exit through the very same orifice! If vaginal birth does occur, there’s stretching, and possibly tearing, and the whole association of the vagina and breasts with pleasure tends to take a backseat, for a long time, as motherhood – with related demands on our time, energy and bodies takes precedence.

There’s a lot more affecting our sense of desire than our biology. There’s the Western media with a bewildering obsession with skinniness and youth=power and desirability, and we’re all expected to lose that baby belly in 10 days. That body that bears the warrior scars and curves of bringing new life into the world is undermined and undesirable unless it resembles a nubile teen. Sadly, women can be each other’s harshest critics, perpetuating each other’s sense of discomfort in our skin. There can often be misuse of power in our relationships. Women are used to putting our needs last.

Getting older, means becoming more invisible in society, even though our sense of sexual confidence and richness can be stronger and lustier than ever. Menopause, and the farewell to the Mother stage, loss but also the potential for more power and wisdom and confidence than ever.

Which parameters have been open to us through the ages? Eve = sin. Hymen = the highest quality stock for sale. Are we chaste martyrish Madonnas that will make good obedient wives, or whores with a porn star’s repertoire? So many women are shaping themselves in the image of what they think men find desirable, and I think a lot of the time, even men are pretty confused, though their anatomy is more external, their desire more apparent. Then there’s the sexualizing of children to the extent that primary school girls are giving bjs to the boys in the back seat of the school bus.

Where are the menarche rituals that honour and celebrate a menstruating girl’s transition into young womanhood? Rites that help a girl see that her developing body is something precious and powerful. In some cultures, the young girl-woman dances for her community of elder women on this occasion, dancing the same dances that generations of women danced that tell ancient and enduring stories and prepare their bodies for sex and childbirth.* Why are there not widespread rites for women becoming mothers, then Elders? Why do so many societies, men and women, still not value and honour Womanhood?

There have been matriarchal societies, and cultures where women’s sexuality and reproductive power were exulted and worshipped as sacred and divine. Goddess/es were linked to fertility of the crops and the womb, and the cycles of life and death. Ahh, but I digress.



My average lazy Sunday with the girls... from here.


Desire. Being desired. Feeling desirable. What fascinating creatures we are, and what astoundingly powerful, beautiful bodies we have at every age. What goes on in women’s minds when they’re alone and randy? What do they choose to think about just before climax, alone or with a lover? Do they rely on fantasy or do they just relish the tactile sensual experience of their own unique bodies? Rhetorical and relative of course, but endlessly interesting to me.

And what of the role of men, testosterone, patriarchy? That’s a rant for another blog! Though apparently, trials that tested women when given testosterone showed that, yes, their libido increased, but so did the women’s who took the placebo! How vital the old grey matter is to sexual satisfaction.


cosmic energy from here. Tantra. To honour the god and the goddess in each other is a worthy pursuit indeed. To be present, to see what directed breath/energy and love can really do to your love-making...Wow.

I see all this womanly complexity in myself. I cherish the hand holding, intimacy, and 'ooh, isn't he sexy when he does the dishes?' value of my domestic hetero partnership, and yet there is so much more to me and what stokes the ol' fires. I love those bawdy, cackle-filled conversations with my women friends, where every little sexual detail is welcomed and dissected. I am also content with the extremes of my mysterious libido that adores hard, wild, raw, dirty sex as much as honouring my sacred self and my beloved with tantric ritual. Yet, there are times when I feel distanced and distracted from the lusts of the yoni, by the million and one demands on my time and energy. I miss that relaxed, sensual, Dionysian, in-the-moment space that I too rarely get (or make) the time to embrace.

In a very broad arena, this is my present area of interest: the link between sexuality and creativity. All that blocked energy of making our needs and pleasures an afterthought… Imagine what we could be creating if we set aside more time for pleasure. Imagine if every woman suddenly poured all that energy and focus about wanting to change this and that about themselves, into self-nourishment and embracing joy, and making positive change in the world, healing the environment… What a wonderful world. What do women want? How long do you have? Let's devote a lot more time to finding out the answer to that question for ourselves.

Ever the ranting optimist, going off on tangents, proudly spouting generalizations and lacking chunks of citation. This is the interwebby at its best! I welcome your thoughts. Merrily back to sewing and recipes next week. Maybe. x





* Taken from Belly Dancing by Rosina-Fawzia Al-Rawi.

literary meme

te he, image from here.

Thanks to the learned and lovely Holistic Mama for the idea.

What author do you own the most books by?
John Wyndham, Dickens, John Fowles, Wilde, Woolf, Dostoevsky, Shakespeare, Louis de Bernieres, Kate Forsyth, and Camus.

What book do you own the most copies of?
I think we have two copies of Jonathan Livingston
Seagull…by accident. I’m not one to get multiple copies of the same work.

Did it bother you that those questions ended with prepositions?
What would that bother me for?

Which fictional character are you secretly in love with?
Ok, I admit it, Aragorn from LOTR. It's all that orc-busting and sword-wielding, with a devoted and loving sensitive side.

Which books have you read the most times in your life?
For me, fiction has usually been driven by fierce curiosity and narrative momentum. Why would I read something repeatedly when I already know how it unfolds? My Mum constantly re-reads Pride and Prejudice.

What was your favourite book when you were ten years old?
I was a voracious reader at ten. I loved anything by Enid Blyton: The Magic Faraway Tree, Enchanted Wood, Famous Five etc, but most of all, I couldn't get enough of:

The adventures of Trixie Belden by Kathryn Kenny. Hardly anyone’s heard of her these days, but she was like Nancy Drew but more of a tomboy. In raptures, I
followed the whole series as her relationship with her ginger friend Jim Frayne
developed. (Ginger!! It’s all starting to make sense now).

And Ghosts and Bogles by Dinah Starkey
It had the most evocative illustrations, and folk/fairy tales from the British Isles.

The story I remember best was: Black Annis, a witch:
Her face was blue and her teeth were sharp and she ate people. She only came out at night and then you could hear her grinding her teeth when she was miles away.

Lock up your children! Black Annis, pic from here. Gotta love the shaping of a young mind.

What is the worst book you’ve read in the past year?
Ted Dekker’s Thr3e. A Christmas gift from the inlaws.Psychological thriller, say no more. Trashy in that ‘everything has to be spelt out for me because the author assumes I’m an effing moron’ way.

What is the best book you’ve read in the past year?
A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry. Brilliant. It’s set in India at the time of time of ‘the Emergency’in the 70s, and follows a widow, her tenant, and two tailors in their quest to find that fine balance between, well I suppose, hope and despair. This was Docwitchy’s recommendation, and I (perhaps stupidly) read it while I was in India. I felt so intensely the complex and overwhelming beauty and cruelty of that country, and this book will always be woven with my experience there. It was a hugely emotional and confronting time, without the buffer.

What book would you most like to see made into a movie?
I think some of Dorothy Parker’s short stories would make great movie vignettes.
Philippa Gregory’s The Little House would be deliciously chilling with a great script and cast.

Which book would you least like to see made into a movie?
Any book I love that would no doubt get sucked into the Hollywood machine, get all plastic and mainstream, and come out the other end barely recognisable.

What is the most low-brow book you’ve read as an adult?
Hmmm, I’m not afraid to admit to reading trash! When I was in Malaysia, I was desperate for something in English, and found a 'so fluffy if you threw it up in the air it would take ten minutes to come down' romantic girly fiction. Ugly duckling
starts work in showbiz, much backstabbing, betrayal and makeover later, handsome
rockstar falls for her etc etc.

What is the most difficult book you’ve ever read?
American Psycho by Brett Easton Ellis was a horrible mix of bland, repetitive and atrocious violence against women. Yes, I got the satire, but I couldn't stop thinking about the perverts reading it for different reasons.

In a different way, The Price of Meat by Dr Danny Penman was intensely confronting, when you get a sense of what really happens in abattoirs, genetic engineering of animals, lab testing, and the horrid people that profit from mass slaughter of sentient beings. It is upsetting and vital reading.

What is the most obscure Shakespeare play you’ve seen?
I once played Hermia in A Midsummer Night’s Dream in High School. We were awful, and our drama teacher was a bit of a frustrated Mr G*, who tried to make it all over the top and topical. The worst part was that we performed it in front of the Bell Shakespeare Theatre Company. *Cringe, shudder*

Do you prefer the French or the Russians?
Too hard to choose! Ok, the French, if only to honour my young and passionate foray into Existentialism. Sartre’s Nausea and Huis clos/No exit had a huge impact.

Shakespeare, Milton or Chaucer?
Shakespeare

What is the biggest or most embarassing gap in your reading?
That could be a long list! I should read a lot more world history and politics.

What is your favourite novel?
100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

Poet?
Rumi.

Work of non-fiction?
My Mother Myself by Nancy Friday
The Consolations of Philosophy by Alain de Botton or
Birthing from Within by Pam England and Rob Horowitz.

What is the most influential novel you've read?
Definitely the Red Tent by Anita Diamant. It was one of those profoundly inspiring works that came just when I needed it, and there was such an exciting sense of recognition with everything to do with generations of wise powerful women, birthing, rites of passage etc.

Who is the most overrated writer alive today?
Anthony Robbins?

Which less widely read novel would you recommend?
Kate Forsyth’s Witches of Eileannan series.

What are you reading right now?
Siddhartha by Herman Hesse,
Monique and the Mango Rains by Kris Holloway,
the South American trilogy by Louis De Bernieres,
Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron.

* Here's the brilliant Chris Lilley as Mr G from Summer
Heights High.

She re-emerges from the cave, blinking and dazed...

The joys of stitchin'.

Interwebby and I tentatively sniff each other's unfamiliar bottoms, after what feels like an eternity offline. My apologies to all the wonderful bloggers I follow, whose myriad posts I have so neglected. I have much reading to relish.

Like Docwitchy, I survived the dreaded Week 4 of Artist's Way: no reading, no tv, no radio, NO FUN etc, and found it challenging, but surprisingly healing and inspiring. How quick we all are, to fill that quiet place inside with the distractions of noisy static (and the images and views of others). I rediscovered music with a passion. Ahh, what a balm good music is. And, much intense insight poured out in my Morning Pages, and at night in vivid dreaming.

From that, all creatively and emotionally raw and open, I went straight into a week with my mother. Such a thing would, in the past, have been the stuff of chills and horror. Mum and I have had a troubled relationship, but I was determined to use the week as an exercise in love and acceptance. She's living in Richmond, Tasmania at present, and what a stunning little town. I had no idea such wondrous beauty was lurking just over the Strait from my hometown!

Despite some moments of irritability and tension, mother and daughter had a ball. We travelled around, and talked and talked, and drank a lot of red wine, and started to heal some old wounds. I happily did my embroidery curled up on her couch, as we watched telly and just hung out in the evenings. When I finally got to my room, I was ravenous for time alone, and wrote feverishly well into the night. The Flow, is what I call that delicious feeling when each word offers itself up to you, with joy and ease. I found the Flow again many times, and reached a point of excitement and connection to all that is precious and possible in my post-travel life. Hoorah!

Photography was a big part of my week, and my expression. I realised just how much I'd let my perception of Gingerhobo's talent dwarf my own. It's always been easier and safer to focus on others' goals. We/he/she is easier than me. That quiet place, found wandering at sunrise, was a precious thing to find. Little by little, I realised just how much I'd undermined and underestimated my creative expression, and how cruel I've been to all my efforts. No wonder I have a lot of fear and blocks about this part of my life, if my vulnerable inner self was snarled at, and judged so harshly at each attempt.

From now on, more time dedicated to gentle nourishment of me and my gifts.

So, here 'tis, my week in Tassie in photos.

The famous Richmond bridge, the oldest bridge in Australia (and perhaps, after Sydney harbour, the most photographed by obnoxious tour groups). It was built by convicts, and has many interesting stories attached to it, such as convicts throwing themselves over the edge in despair, and a particularly cruel overseer named Grover being beaten, then thrown to his death by the convict workers. I prefer the latter tale. The ghosts still haunt the bridge, I'm told.

View from Richmond Bridge. Charming, non?

Autumnal splendour, Richmond.

Still in Richmond, this is the view from St Luke's Church of England.

St John's church, (and magnificent Eucalypt), Richmond. This is apparently the oldest Roman Catholic church in Australia, circa 1836. It was designed by the ex-convict architect, Frederick Thomas, and there is a sweet little headstone near the front doorway, where the infant son of Irish rebel leader Thomas Francis O' Meagher is buried. O'Meagher was quite a character, who was transported to Australia, but somehow managed to escape to America, where he became Governor of Montana!

Inside St. John's. Very peaceful. Catholics do like to decorate with a bit of macabre and bloody 'he suffered for our sins' art.

I was enchanted by this little cottage: the wisps of smoke coming out of the chimney, the loved and tended garden, chickens scratching about, surrounded by gorgeous rolling green hills and the vast expanse of uncluttered sky.

An end-of-the-worldish sunset, near Richmond.

Port Arthur, established in 1830, remnants of the penitentiary, barracks etc. It was all very quiet and pretty and charming, the opposite of what it really would have been like in its heyday.

The Separate Prison chapel, Port Arthur. The most horrible church I've ever been in. The Separate Prison was an experiment designed to 'reform' convict prisoners through more creative means than flogging.

"Each new arrival spent 4-12 months in the Separate
Prison, before being assigned to work outside on the settlement. Upon entering
the Prison, each man was allocated a number; his name was no longer spoken. He
was only to communicate with staff (through sign language). The corridors were
laid with mats and guards wore slippers so that they could hear his every sound.
They checked on him constantly through a peep hole in his cell
door.

Apart from chapel, cleaning duty and an hour's
exercise, he spent 23 hours of every day in his tiny cell in solitude and
silence... Outside his cell he was masked to prevent him from making contact
with other inmates. He also exercised alone.

In chapel, he stood screened from his fellows in an
individual booth, supervised by four armed guards...

[Misdemeanors were punished with time in the 'special
punishment cells'] where a man was locked in total darkness and silence for
between several hours and 30 days on bread and water"

Julia Clark. Your guide to Port
Arthur

I was fascinated and horrified by this place. It seemed as good an example as any of how cruel humanity can be to itself. The only book allowed in each cell was the Bible, and the only voice a man heard was from a priest in the chapel, preaching 'fire and brimstone' and constant beration of the inmate's lowly, sinful character.

I made sure to go and stand in one of those 'booths' in the chapel, with the door shut. Each was like an upright coffin, and looked out onto an elevated pulpit. I had a sudden overwhelming urge to scream and flail about, and had to get out of there. I was claustrophobic and distressed, but unlike all those poor men, I could open the door and leave.

Not learning from the experience, I was determined to enter the punishment cell too. Getting closer to it, I felt a ball of dread in my tummy. At the doorway, I could see that the room was pitch black. I couldn't go in. I felt a wall of what I can only describe as danger and despair. I don't know how much was my overactive imagination or sense of theatrics, but I really felt something dark and wrong there.

Can you imagine, in a tiny cell, pulling off your buttons and counting and arranging them again and again just to keep your mind active? Even though there aren't stats to back it up, (no studies were done at the time). I wouldn't be surprised if many inmates went straight from there to the asylum precinct. Broken.

Interestingly, modern adult and juvenile prisons in Australia are structured on the same deliberate principles as Port Arthur: "...classification, relentless survillance, discipline, reward and punishment etc". How effective and humane are they for prevention and rehabilitation? This is a question much on my mind, as I have several friends in prison. How glad I am that they're not in 19th C jails, but modern systems are still largely damaging, barbaric and limited in their rehabilitative scope.

Flowers left in the spot where one of the victims was gunned down in the Port Arthur massacre, 1996. The memorial was very tasteful, but I felt so moved and emotional to see that list of 30+ names, and to think of all those devastated by the actions of a madman. Don't look too closely at the photo. The impact of a sad rose laid in tribute is lessened by the awareness that it is next to some wallaby(?) poo.

St Luke's cemetery. I was drawn here on one of my sunrise wanderings. It was beautiful with its patches of sweet alyssum, big gums, and lovely old gravestones all tipping over at charming angles. I was happy, but quite melancholy here, reading all the stories, and imagining families crying graveside for their losses, in the very spots where I stood. I was drawn most to the stones dated in early to mid 1800s, of women in their early twenties, dead in childbirth, and so many small stones for infants who couldn't survive the harsh reality of Van Diemen's Land.

Thankfully, not all of my time was spent navel gazing about Australia's convict/colonial heritage. I spent time with my lovely Mum, driving about, walking along the docks of Hobart, and exploring markets. Mmmm, markets.

canine and human find cross-species intimacy via food, the docks, Hobart.

Lovely view of Hobart from the top of Mt Wellington. It were bloody chilly up there, it were! There were patches of snow and a nasty wind. Much perseverance and patience required to wait for the cloud to clear for promised view. Waiting doggedly with a few other photographers, and starting to see patches of blue through the white, I said, "Ok people, on the count of three ... BLOW!" which earned a few titters.

Could it be? The Cackle Club in puppet form?! I would definitely be the one with the baps out and the crazy gleam in the eye. Salamanca Market, Hobart.

Found object art, Salamanca market. I was intrigued and rather creeped out by most of this guy's work. There were a lot of barbie doll body parts fused together in creative ways, like three doll heads kissing, with bolts and pins through their cheeks... creative misogyny or inspired political statement?

Taswegian crafter, with delightful Tassie Devil hat and tea-cosie.

Tis good to be back.

XX

For the eyes...and the tummy.

1. El Sol y La Luna, 2. sexy stark, 3. Crying Sky(line) of Melbourne :: HDR, 4. Meeting the pregnant princess of the forest, 5. Salma 4, 6. Water sculpture, 7. Cappadocia, 8. Art Nouveau Wedding Cake Tower, 9. Sweethearts, 10. Ginger Hobo, 11. Luscious Red Rose, 12. 100 years of solitude

Above is my flickr mosaic, inspired by many posts I read a while back, with a couple of tweaks. Welcome to the weird world of my psyche in visual form!

For those of you who haven't done it before, it's quite fun, with some surprising results.

Flickr mosaic game

a. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.

b. Using only the first page, pick an image.

c. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into a mosaic maker.

1. Your blog name?
2. What is your favourite food?
3. Where were you born?
4. What is your favourite color?
5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. Favourite drink?
7. Dream vacation?
8. Favourite dessert?
9. What you want to be when you grow up?
10. What do you love most in life?
11. One Word to describe you.
12. Favourite novel?

The next, Photo Meme 2 inspired by The Awakened Heart.

The Omen (666):

Go to the 6th folder on your computer, open the 6th photo and blog about it. Then tag 6 more people to do the same, linking back to the person who tagged you.

Wild Mama and Baby monkey, by Gingerhobo, in Corbett's Tiger Reserve, Dhikala, India, June 2008.


I was rapt that this was the 6th shot in the 6th folder. It is one of my favourites of Ging's many beautiful wildlife shots. I like to call it Madonna and Child, as it is so heart-wrenchingly evocative of all those iconic paintings. I love the baby's wise little face, the textures of the fur, the wincing ouchiness of the breast feeding, but most of all, that look on the Mama's face of exhaustion combined with pleasure, as another female grooms her. Gorgeous.


This shot also warms my heart as it was taken during a time of great excitement for my man. (Keep in mind, he is obsessed with the natural world, and can happily watch documentaries for several days straight, and retain every little detail!) In Corbett's, he was in wildlife heaven, and we had just seen a wild tiger (a rare and amazing honour), plus wild elephants at sunset, deer, unusual birds and so much more. His eyes were feverishly bright and he could barely sit still, even though it was about 46 degrees C! I loved seeing his passion and creativity emerge, and Corbett's really signalled the time when he started taking his art and skills more seriously.

Corbetts is something truly special, a thriving, green, protected natural ecosystem in northern India. For us, it was a desperately needed respite from the craziness and challenge of the rest of our travels, and we organised a jeep to take us right into the middle of the enormous park for three days. It was hell to organise, but well worth it. There wasn't much sleep to be had with all the cockroaches, heat and snoring, and no showers. The animals, though! Magnificent. Also, noteworthy, chatting with lovely Indian men (rarer than wild tigers up until that point!) whose courtesy and vocabulary seemed right out of a Jane Austen novel, a good reminder that we shouldn't judge a country's people by the predatory scum in the tourist trade.

The monkeys, were part of a very cheeky troupe who would sneak into the dorm and pilfer everything they could. They stole our American friends' bag of mangoes! Oh, there was feasting and celebration that night in the monkey camp!


When we were in Rishikesh, our hotel room looked out onto a big tree where the mother monkeys would gather at sunset, to chatter while their babies played and got up to mischief. It made me smile to think that there isn't too much difference between us at all.

I hereby tag anyone who would like to join in and share your pics.

With reckless disregard for segue...

To the joys of tahini. Mmm, tahini.

Our indoor picnic. Chevre cheese, semi-sundried tomatoes, dolmades and marinated kalamata olives. Yummmmmm. All around my hommus (Ging and Docwitchy's fave). Out of shot, chunks of warm turkish bread.

After much prompting, here is my recipe for:

Sol y luna's Hommus

2 cups boiled chickpeas (soaked overnight)

4 tbsp unhulled tahini

the juice of 1 lemon

3 cloves of garlic, crushed and briefly sauteed in olive oil

cumin, chilli, paprika, salt, pepper to taste

dash of apple cider vinegar

water to dilute

slurp of flaxseed oil

Directions
Blend and pour into bowl, drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with paprika and chopped fresh herbs like coriander. Great with crudites or fresh bread.


While on the sesame bandwagon, here's a brilliant tahini dressing/sauce that I found on postpunk kitchen, similar to the above, but without the chickpeas!

Isa's Tahini Dressing

2 tablespoons + 2 teaspoons olive oil

3 cloves garlic, chopped

1/2 cup tahini

2 teaspoons balsamic vinegar

1/2 tsp salt

fresh black pepper (a couple of dashes)

juice of 1 lemon

1/2 teaspoon paprika

1/4 cup lightly packed fresh parsley

1/2 cup cold water



Directions
Heat garlic in 2 tablespoons olive oil in a small saute pan over low heat for 2 minutes, just until it's fragrant.Add garlic and all ingredients except parsley to the food processor and blend until smooth. Add the parsley and pulse until parsley is very finely chopped but not blended in. Refrigerate at least an hour in an airtight container. Makes about 2 cups.

Fantastic mixed with roast vegies, or a beany broccoli salad, or poured over felafel.

Quite 'ungry now.

Nature boy: a story for B.

2 angels by Suzanne Schneider.

This is a hard post to write. A couple of weeks ago, an old friend and lover passed away. He killed himself.

It's hard to know where to start to explain my complex mix of numbness, then gut-wrenching sadness about this news. It's even harder, to attempt to express how I think got to that point, and do justice to all the beautiful parts of the B I knew, before addiction, schizophrenia and depression overtook him.

I mused for a long time whether I should write this, whether it was just another selfish, (and possibly predatory) act when he doesn't have control over how his life and his qualities are being painted. Which bits I put in and leave out will no doubt be centred around how I perceived everything ... What right do I have? Hmmm, overthink, much?

Yet, being so drawn to Mexico's Day of the Dead lately, this could be the perfect forum and opportunity to celebrate his life, in all its highs and lows, and gradually morph my melancholia into a sense of acceptance.

I met B at the end of 1994, just as I was finishing VCE, and trying to extricate myself from a toxic and extremely abusive relationship. I was 18, heady with the freedom of high school finally finished, and the prospect of a wild, and unshackled Summer. I was still so damaged, with lower-than-zero self-esteem, and my relationship with my Mum was in tatters, but I was starting to see how sparkly and expansive life could be.

That night I met him, I was set for a big one of celebration and debauchery. My girlfriend who happened to be extremely wild, 16, with her own flat (a recipe for hijinks), and I had purchased: one bottle of bubbles, one of Kahlua, and a carton of milk. Oh yeah! We wandered the neighbourhood at night, as drunk girls do, and headed to the street where most of the rebel kids hung out.

Soon, I heard boys calling to us, but I couldn't see where they were. Were the voices coming from...above?? Sure enough, there was a ramshackle treehouse above us, and I could just make out a boy silhouetted in candle light, leaning out one of the windows, beckoning to us to come up the ladder. I was introduced, but we declined the treehouse experience in favour of more drinks back at my friend's place.

A while later, I was dancing to Hole, and rather jolly, when there was a knock at the door. It was B, and he was all dressed up in what I later grew to recognise as his best woo-ing attire. He was a ball of excited boyish energy, and trying hard to impress. Consider me wooed!

It was a magic Summer. I was in love, and happy, and with people who 'got' me. B's treehouse was the meetingplace for all the neighbourhood's black sheep kids. We wrote poetry on the walls and listened to too much Nirvana and the Cure, and sure, we may have inhaled. A lot. It was a time of joy and healing and acceptance, and boundaries pushed.

Gorgeous treehouse found here. *sigh* B's was a lot more Aussie-suburbia-bric-a-brac, but no less inviting.

B was a nature boy. He was never happier than when climbing trees, or riding his mountain bike in the wilderness or gardening/landscaping. He created not just the treehouse, but a luscious fern garden and rock pool at his landlord's house. A green oasis. He tended the goldfish and tadpoles like a proud father. B was also, strangely, a butcher at the local supermarket. This was something that I didn't think much about until I found myself frequently nauseated by the smell of animal fat coming out in his sweat, infused into the sheets on his bed. The bed I shared when at his place, and being a boy, he didn't change his sheets with much regularity! I still trace back the first seeds of my vegetarianism to that Summer ... Something about that animal fat or perhaps the animals' intestinal acids, used to eat great holes in his work boots too. Bizarre. I digress.

B had had a hard life. He only did well in Biology at school, and had far too much restless energy to do well scholastically. Like so many boys like him, he slipped through the cracks, and left without his certificate. He was plagued with terrible back pain his whole life, after being thrown into a wall during one of his step-father's rages, at the age of 3. Part of the reason he couldn't sit for long or concentrate. This was just another example of his long stream of spiralling bad luck/circumstance, and oh God, did he ever make some unfortunate decisions that exacerbated and created the 'Everyone's out to f*^k me over' mindset. B developed an addiction to his back pain medication, and everything else he could get his hands on; he even went to a club one night and happened to walk past the bar just as someone was swinging a baseball bat at someone else - and got his jaw shattered. Three months wired up, being fed soup through a straw. He got himself in a lot of debt when some organisation foolishly gave him a credit card. He tested people's charity and patience constantly, and got in a lot of trouble with the law. And he was lovely and gentle and kind, and heaps of fun to be with. We came from different worlds, and yet, we flowed beautifully together. We both were so ravenous for love and romance and acceptance, and found it in each other's arms.

Nature boy found here.

Then, I started at Uni, and things started to go wrong. We should have ended things as the Summer ended, but we tenaciously, needily, held on. I was intensely excited about all I was learning, and yearning to discuss it all with him when I got home, but my new world was one he couldn't be a part of. He felt threatened and dumb. I rebelled against the constraints of our relationship and his limitations, and I grew away from him. He was devastated. I stayed friends with B even after falling in love with Ging, and strangely B and Ging got on really well! They played chess and loved the same music. B was just happy to stay in my life.

Years passed, and Ging and I saw B grow increasingly unstable - his forays into psychedelics and amphetamines, and he shared his latest drawings and poems with us proudly and even, arrogantly. Strange, nature based poems, carved onto pieces of bark, and given as a gift. "The rain has come to replenish the earth!!" he would yell with a slightly crazed gleam in his eye. He was growing more and more out of touch with how he was affecting people. He couldn't hold down a job, and took off for a stretch to the Nimbin feral treehouse community, where he fathered a son with another lost spirit, then came home again. Given a different start, his passion would have found great expression in environmental activism, but he remained stifled and angry and saw door after door close to him. He would stay with us occasionally, and he stole from us. Yes, it was clear he was someone we should keep away from, but he was so lovable, and wounded, and didn't have anyone else in his life that was positive and, well, not f*^ked up. I was convinced I could help him.We talked him back from suicide a couple of times.

Then, it was too much. I got a disturbing, and vaguely threatening phone call from him one night. So much of his anger was finally coming out. I thought, I don't want this in my life now. I don't want Ging to get hurt trying to protect me. I don't want any kids I might have to be exposed to such an unpredictable and potentially violent person. I told B, I needed some time away from him. We moved and didn't tell him where we went. I still sent him a birthday card every year, apparently the only person who always remembered, but the barriers were up.

He was frequently in my thoughts, and I wondered if he'd managed to stay in rehab, found a nice woman, a job, was happy. Yet, I knew he hadn't, even without the confirmation.

The last time I was in contact with him was a couple of years ago. I sent my email address to him in the birthday card, and we exchanged a couple of messages. He was in rehab again, and feeling great. He was delighted to hear that Ging and I were finally travelling. A few months later, I tried emailing again, and the address was dead. He'd moved, and I didn't know where to send the next card.

Then, the phone call a couple of weeks ago, from that same girlfriend of mine, letting me know that he'd died. I was numb at first, then the days following saw extremely vivid memories of him popping back. His irrepressible excitement each time he'd come visit me; when he threw a handful of rose petals before me as I walked; certain times we'd made love. For some reason, even though it's been so many years, I remember the sex more than some of the rest. I can't get my head around the fact that that vitality and warmth and connection, is gone. Where does that energy go?

A lot of anger came up. My friend and I found out about B's death the day after the funeral. The one person who could have told us, chose not to, out of a long-held grudge toward him. Apparently, B's landlord/guardian gave the eulogy, and it was all about how trying B had been, and how this guy had given B so many chances. What a feckin Saint. I happen to know that this landlord's motivations weren't always so saintly. So, I'm angry that I didn't get a chance to grieve him, and stand up and speak for that precious boy, a man that was so much more than his so-called failures and limitations.

Just the other day, I went to visit that girlfriend of mine, who still lives in that same neighbourhood. It was surprisingly hard to make the journey, and sit on that tram going past the supermarket where he worked, the same streets we walked together. My heart was heavy, but it felt right to come back. She dropped me off at a train station at the end of the day, and I realised it was the one closest to his house. In a flash of urgent nostalgia, I sought out the same bench I had carved "I love B.B for ever!" on all those years ago, and it wasn't there. Replaced by a shiny new seat.

I've struggled with the notion that I don't have the right to mourn him, with so much time passed, and the barriers I put between us. I made the choice to protect myself and move to more of a place of joy and potential and healing, and he couldn't come. I do feel at peace, though, with these decisions. Someone wise once said to me that guilt is self-indulgent, and hinders moving forward. I agree. I will always cherish that Summer, and wonder at the healing that can come from love. God, that sounds cliched.

I think I see myself as a bit of a self-appointed, slightly maternal and very fierce guardian of that part of him that noone else really got to see and appreciate. I will try to track down his son in a few years, and share this side of his Dad with him.

Why do these sudden tears sting so much?

Sweet boy, I will miss you.

A patch of joie de vivre (in vivid colour)

The soul of a rose by John William Waterhouse. Love this piece. One man who got rose rapture.

Why does my yoga mat smell like dog? Everything's so intense at the moment.

I've received some upsetting news, but feel the urge to post about something else first. I'm popping in a 'light n breezy' for some breathing space amidst my tendency to spew out heavy-duty-emotionally-raw posts.

Yes, roses, creativity, fabric, cooking, planting. A subtle but vital shift, opening to the moment, lifting that veil to suck up the wonder all around me.

I've been relishing a vivid and passionate connection to flowers the last coupla weeks. Even weighed down with groceries, I can't stop myself from pausing to drink in the colour and perfection of a loved and well-tended garden. Perhaps my beauty senses are more honed since that scrumptious full moon, and inaugural weekend with the Cackle Club. I've especially been in raptures over dark red fragrant roses. It's as though everything else blurs and slows down, a fuzzy frame around this burst of loveliness. And food. At a brilliant Lebanese restaurant the other night, I was just a couple of notches away from "I'll have what she's having."

Perhaps integral to the birthing of this stage, I found myself walking around the Stitches and Craft Show with the Awakened Heart and Docwitchy, our eyes bright with feverish fabric lust the other week. I experienced a peculiar and quite overwhelming sense of restlessness; a tickling, hot, building energy in my arms, legs and belly. I had this feeling a few times on the trip, and grew to associate it as a flag to growth, or a tap on the shoulder to "pay attention, this is important." I had to consciously breathe with it, as it could be processed as anxiety, and something I wanted to push down and control. Flow with it. Flow and open. I realised that feeling was heralding a big fat period of creative flourishing and if I let myself be receptive to it, and be kind and patient and learn new skills, there can be so much I can achieve and enjoy. I loved breathing in all the passion and energy around me that day. All those people focused on creating with so much courage and hard work, the surprisingly political edge, all combined to be a heady and inspiring mix for someone rather sensitive, and on the lookout for messages and ways to honour my gifts more, like me.

The Sunday was the same, though not as potent. More like a happy nudge in the right direction. I took myself off on my 'Artist Date', one of the requirements of the Artist's Way course. It is a block of time to take one's self out and do/see/absorb inspiring and creative things. Stimuli and receptivity, after the release and healing of the other AW activities. Anyroadhome, I braved a rainy Melbourne day to go to WornWild, an alternative designers market in the city.

It was quite amazing. Everyone had put oodles of time into their outfit to attend said market. Except me. I was surrounded by elaborate corsets and ruffles and hair pieces and scarily high lace-up boots, and lovely boys in full gothic makeup. I felt a bit like the peahen, but was quite content. I don't feel compelled to wear the alternative 'uniform' anymore. Is it just me or does that make no sense? "I'm so incredibly unique, with all the right bits and pieces, that I look exactly like everyone else here." I do like that aesthetic, and am rather passionate about corsetry, but I've been drawn more and more to earthier greens and browns of late. I couldn't resist picking up a few intriguing accessories I was drawn to, though. Like the rose cameo, above, and the little skull bow clip and peacocky comb.

Brief aside. Many years ago, I used to regularly go to an 'outdoor alternative life-style festival' called ConFest over New Year's Eve. You know the kind - camping, pit toilets, volunteer workshops run by flaky guys with bad breath... Yes, I'm being cheeky, but I loved it, especially the fire twirling, life drawing, and most of all, the drumming and bellydancing around a huge bonfire. I used to volunteer in the massage tent, but grew rather tired of massaging naked old guys with 'alternative life-style' erections. The reason I'm following this tangent, ConFest was teeming with tanned young hippies wearing their best Ishka stuff, and surreptitiously judging everyone else's serenity and authenticity. It was mildly irritating, but kind of sweet, but I remember going one year with a friend who defied all convention. He dressed for comfort, and happily wore his baggy grey trackies, runners, and some kind of brand name tshirt, and a baseball cap with another brand name on it. I was delighted. Here was the true rebel in a sea of hemp, rainbows, and Thai fisherman pants..

I have also thrown myself upon a new passion, that's kind of an old one... When I was about 13 I went to the States with my Dad, and we had a brief trip over the border into Me-h-ico. It was my first taste of international non-English speaking travel, and I was enthralled. Everything about that trip, the colour and intensity, the Mexican aesthetic got under my skin. Of course, there's only so much fun you can have in Tijuana when you're with your Dad and you're 13, but I sensed the possibilities! All these years later, I've found that passion reignited with all things Dia de los Muertos.

Some of Alexander Henry's gorgeous folklorico collection. I must have it, and somehow absorb the skills to do something with it.

At this point, I'd like to let the Universe know that every little bit of me would like to manifest a way to get to Mexico in a November as soon as possible, preferably this November. Ok? Bueno. The Day of the Dead is calling... Anyone who'd like to join me for a tequila-soaked fiesta is most welcome!

Other joys and pleasures to note: planting my green babies with Docwitchy on Sunday: Baby cos, mixed salad leaves, yellow and purple violas, oregano, coriander and Italian parsley, mini broccoli, chrysanthemums, and a passion fruit vine. Lovely. Each morning and evening I visit with them, and I feel such contentment to have their little green healthy arms reaching up. Luscious colour in a sea of concrete and plumbing.

Perhaps I've just had a spike in serotonin levels due to god knows what, but I'm not questioning it. Despite so much going on that tugs at the heart and tenses the neck, I am loving life.