Archive | February, 2011

DAY 171: The night of the shooting

18 Feb

“I’LL just let the boys know you’re not comfortable shooting roos,” the bush pirate says, as I try and tell him an actual hunting trip’s out of the question without sounding like a big wuss. “I’m sure they’ll compromise with some foxes and rabbits or something.” Eep.

By the time we get to the campsite it’s around 11pm and the rum is in full flow. I can’t understand any of the conversations around me as they’ve become 90% more vowelly than the usual country talk, thanks to Sir Bundy. Nod, smile. Nod, smile.

One bloke keeps spraying a can of Aerogard into the fire for an interesting pyro effect, while another, upon seeing us, grabs a giant surf-style fishing rod and takes us yomping off down to the black river to set it up, tripping over various dogs as we go. The second his back’s turned he gets a bite and reels in an eel, which gets chucked back in after a bit of yahooing.

We’re here to fire his rifle though, so we all pile on the quad bike and take off to a bit of paddock away from sleeping children and cows. I’ve fired guns before, but this one’s got a sniper’s sight, for that extra “holy shit!” factor. It’s the heaviest I’ve held, as well. It lets off a mighty kaboom, and I let off a shriek, and then we’re hurtling back to the camp again for a Bundy update.

Keeper? If I find myself in this situation again, sure.

DAY 170: The Day of a Thousand Fucks

17 Feb

Screaming next to the abyss.

“YOU get used to that,” the bush pirate says, every time I nearly break my neck, impale myself on a tree or have to grip on to some death-ute or other. “That’s what we do in the country.”

Today we’re doing some rainforest regeneration. This gully used to be a scramble of blackberry bushes, but now it’s home to tree ferns, ground ferns, myrtle beeches and satin boxes, with eucalypts on the ridges and spurs. And it’s ringing with urgent profanities.

“You start digging some holes down there,” the bush pirate points to a sheer drop with a stream audible somewhere at the bottom. I head off down it with my spade, and my boots send rocks tumbling endlessly down to the water, where there’s a distant splash. There are no discernable footholds and I keep sliding down the ravine, reaching out to grab handfuls of handy nettles and thistles. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

This must be some kind of rookie-nobbling joke, surely?

I manage to anchor myself long enough to plant six saplings, sit down to have a fag and spot the bloodthirsty leech sitting atop my fly. Nice.

My first leech.

Keeper? I’ll think about it.

DAY 169: Streaking in the rainforest

16 Feb

He didn't come skinny dipping, if you're wondering.

KINDA cool that I dreamt I was skinny dipping last week and now here I am, lolloping into a swimming hole at 2.30 in the morning.

On the way here, coming out of a seaside town, we see a koala sat in the middle of the road, having a breather. After escorting the furry fella away from the white lines, my cohort takes me to the top of the Otways to do some ‘pirating’. I’d thought this would involve treasure coves and jolly rogers, but instead we’re pulling up young myrtle beech trees that are due to be slashed for increased road access. These’ll then get replanted elsewhere in the bush pirate’s reforestation efforts.

Job done, we go for a ‘walk’ through the rainforest, which turns out to be a near-vertical trek up the ridge, hauling ourselves up on vines, tree ferns and dead branches: two steps forward, one giant arse-slide back, for the most part. En route we pass endless pockets of glow worms and hear bats and barn owls flying overhead. Then off for a nudey swim to wash off those leeches.

Keeper: Yes!

DAY 168: Kung Fu fighting

15 Feb

STAB with your fingers, smash with your palm, lunge with your front leg, keep your weight on the back leg, go “fft”, go “hngh!”… Every martial art I’ve tried so far tells me something different.

Today it’s, “Punch with your last two knuckles.” The instructor shows me how the bones leading up to the knuckles of the forefinger and middle finger slant at an angle into the arm and are thus more easily broken. By using the knuckles of the little finger and ring finger, you’re keeping everything dead straight.

The vibe in this Wing Chun school is quite mystical, and I’m not talking about the earnest men with ponytails and ornamental beards. You get them everywhere. No, there’s a pledge on the wall, curious, ancient-looking, human-sized wooden mug trees to slap, and lots of bowing.

As we’re not padding up and actually hitting each other today, I’m finding it impossible not to say “doof doof doof” when I throw punches, as though I’m eight years old and watching The A-Team, bouncing on the sofa and taking a flying leap over the coffee table.

 The enthusiasm’s a bit much, actually, as I get reprimanded for leaping nimbly around like a mountain goat when I’m supposed to be merely stepping aside. I might need a bell on my neck for next go, to warn me when I’m doing it.

Keeper? Yep – signed up for 10. Ask to see my clap and punch.

DAY 167: Talkin’ bout you and me and the Games People Play

14 Feb


FIRST published in 1964, Games People Play is one of the lasting texts on the ways in which we manipulate one other. My folks even used to have a copy lying around the house… which I shan’t pass comment on.*

In any given scenario you might act as child, adult or parent – these are your ego states – and it’s the child and parent personas that can be most misused. While the different interactions Dr Eric Berne identifies might all elicit a sheepish “aw, yeah” response in the reader, his refusal to be personable himself makes this a slightly patronising rumble through his various classifications.

I reckon if I’d gone to see him way back in the day, he’d have sat at his mahogany desk with leather inlay, fiddled with his fountain pen, cleared his throat a lot and looked distantly over my head before prescribing some Valium. His script would be inscrutable and his hands would smell of cigarettes, brandy and cologne, much like my father’s…

But anyway, I digress. I’m going to observe how many Berne-approved games I play in one day.

6.25am, on the train

There are no seats left, so a man and I are forced to lean in the corridor opposite each other. Even though I am concentrating on tapping this sentence into my iphone, I cannot help but notice through years of experience that he is glancing at me. Damn his eyes. I’d like a kraken to swoop down and peck them out of his skull. Without pause, I respond with a sweeping look that also manages to take in his shoes and fly. I think I only need to do that once.

Game: Second Degree Rapo, more colloquially known as Buzz Off, Buster. (I didn’t come up with these names, incidentally.)

Adult rationale: My fellow commuter has nowhere else to look and is probably feeling awkward, having not had the foresight to bring a book or his own form of entertainment. Alternatively, he might be playing a hand of Kick Me. I’ll give him a civil smile… oi, you fucking pervert, what are you looking at? Oh dear.

8.30am, at the coffee stand

It’s not that I’m needy, but I do find it odd that that the French bloke who serves me my coffee every morning not once gives me a flicker of interest or recognition. I mean, it’s not just that he’s French – he seems to actually lack the ordinary human impulses that make us ponder “yes, no, maybe” when interacting with a member of the opposite sex. I’m simply curious as to what personality disorder he might have, which is why I hold his gaze a fraction longer than is necessary.

Game: I’m Only Trying To Help You.

Adult rationale: He’s probably gay.

6.30pm, driving lesson

I’ve had heaps of trouble with instructors. They get a bit… clingy. This one’s not too bad but he always keeps his foot on the brake, so that I mysteriously slow down whenever taking a corner. This attention-seeking tactic provokes an indignant reaction from me, which thus allows him to apologise profusely, thereby making me feel bad, which then allows him to get away with further behaviour, like critiquing my parallel parking. Foul!

Game: Schlemiel.

Adult rationale: As soon as I pass I can go as fast as I like.

Eric went on to write 'Bodice of Love'.

Keeper? In troublesome situations, I intend to keep asking myself: “What would an adult do?” Deal me…

* This was a quick demonstration of Now Look What You Made Me Do.

DAY 165: Healing my embittered soul with song

12 Feb

OVER the years I’ve learned not to trust people who say “close your eyes and open your mouth”, but today at the joyful voice workshop I’m assured I’m in a safe environment.

This one-day course aims to help you heal yourself (your soul, rather than your gout) by the power of your own voice. Sometimes I’ll dream I’m singing, and it’s the most beautiful sound I ever heard. Something pure and unspoilt from years ago… You know… before the music DIED.

Anyway, in waking hours I’m in possession of a plaintive squawk with a blatant disregard for consonants, and my friend Esther is terrified of singing in public despite ordinarily being a gobshite, but with some gentle coaching (“gentle” is the operative word today), healer Chris gets all 15 of us here sounding like human panpipes.

After about an hour of cooing “ooooooooooooh” my head’s vibrating like I’m on a cheap pill, and this pulsing sensation starts travelling down my spine until all my cells expand and I feel like I’m going to fall over.

As soon as we’re all duly hypnotised, Chris whips out a synth and starts playing songs about angels and butterflies in minor keys. Eventually I feel a tear plop out down my cheek. This is supposed to happen.

“Was that just you feeling sorry for yourself, though?” Esther asks during snack break. I knew I shouldn’t have filled her in on the previous few days’ unbloggables. I persist that there’s something undeniably restorative about singing, especially when you’ve a tendency to hammer yourself into the ground. I mean, maybe some regular joyful song about angels’ wings could be the long sought-after antidote to drugs and booze.

“You might want to take up cutting,” Esther says. “Or bulimia.”

After the break we’re told to pair up with a complete stranger, take both their hands, stand about 2mm apart, and drone at each other until we’re both resonating like a bell and pulling off harmonics. This should be hideously excruciating, eyeball to eyeball as we are, but it’s just one of those rare situations where there’s no room for self-consciousness. And hey – everyone’s had the curry dip and poppadoms.

Next step is to become a human theremin, with one person leading – dipping and warbling over octaves and making bizarro shapes with their mouths. The other person, intuitively, is just a split second behind them. Third step, we mirror each other’s freaky arm waves while doing all the above. Fourth step, hugs.

After lunch and a giant coffee, I find my patience is tested. “I bet Chris comments on the coffee,” Esther says as we tromp back in with our haul – and certainly he does. He attests that the power of gentle breathin’ and lovin’ allows people to quit all sorts of substances cold turkey though, so we may as well have this last hurrah.

With another two hours of ultra-vague discussion about good vibes and negative energy, and lots of head-buzzy sing-songs around the synth, I find I’m fighting waves of violence, while Esther later admits she was muttering the serenity prayer to make it through.

“Why is it that people think spirituality always has to involve angels and butterflies?” she tuts as we sprint off to the car afterwards. “What’s wrong with being a human being?”

Keeper? Adapting to such in-your-face intimacy was quite an eye-opener, and I did like the singing as a way of, um – ugh – getting in touch with yourself. I was banned from singing sweet hymns in the car as a child (ask me for my rendition of Give Me Oil In My Lamp), but no one can stop me now.

DAY 164: Private post

11 Feb

Nothing to see here.

DAY 163: Rolling a fag

10 Feb

Cool.

I HAVE rolled a cigarette before, in my teens, but all the tobacco fell out one end. This is the first functional one. Then I went to bed and dreamt I was doing a skinny dip, but the person I gave my camera to took really unflattering pictures of my arse, so I couldn’t publish it. I think there’s a message in that.

Keeper? No.

DAY 162: Getting spooked sideways by the Castlemaine Theatre Royal

9 Feb

The latest incarnation. (These things have a habit of burning down.)

WHEN the Theatre Royal first opened in 1858, Castlemaine had a population of 20,000 to Melbourne’s 22,000; and bawdy folk would flock in for a knees-up and a knuckle sandwich from all over the Goldfields.

A second hey-day followed in the early 1900s when cinema hit its stride, but ever since then attendance has dwindled. Seven years back, the community (now population 8000) voted to turn it into a cooperative, but the money wasn’t stumped up and plans fell by the wayside.

David Stretch and Sarah Burdekin made the move from Melbourne to take the theatre over, against initial consternation from locals. They’ve faced a relentless battle to keep the place shipshape in the face of a water-logged roof, shoddy refurbs of the past and shabby paraphernalia bursting out of every nook, but by fitting a kitchen and PA, they’ve turned it into a cafe, cinema, b&b and venue.

Personally, I wonder what more you could want from a joint. I’ve been to a Mental As Anything disco, screenings of Razorback and Wake in Fright, and shows by Tex Perkins and hillbilly Charlie Parr. Today there’s a workshop for small business owners with Sunrise’s Kochie, and coming up there’s a ukulele extravaganza. Just last month, Cat Power played, with the temperamental artist ringing ahead and requesting that a puppy be on hand for her to pet. It was almost a throwback to the diva-ish behaviour of syphilitic showgirl Lola Montez, who graced the stage in the 1850s. Known for wearing no undies, her routine provoked a fight amongst the diggers, some of whom were questioning her honour, and some of whom were defending it, and by all accounts, there was a punch-on of epic proportions.

Lola’s immortalised by a mural in the courtyard and her presence haunts the guest house bathroom in the form of a painting above the bath tub (and something keeps turning the basin taps on and off).

When I enquire about the ghosts the theatre’s known for, David brushes me off as though it’s nothing, but he gets a haunted look on a number of occasions (most markedly when describing the period in the 1970s when the stalls were ripped out and the theatre was turned into a disco, with the ceiling plastered with egg cartons and the walls painted black. There was still blood under the carpet when David ripped it up).

Eventually, he gives in and gives me the paranormal tour. Popular legend has it that some time in the 1800s, a pickled Aboriginal chap galloped up the stairs to the dress circle on his horse and plummeted over the balcony to his death, which must have been all shades of gruesome. A few years back, Channel 31 brought a team of ghostbusters to the theatre, with a medium in tow. As the spods set up their infrared cameras, heat detectors and mics, the medium – who had not been informed of where he was being taken – spoke of long-gone landscapes that were painted on the walls, and described an auctioneer banging a gavel, harking back to the earliest days when the theatre doubled as an auction room.

A banging was heard from the stage as the medium was identifying a ‘hotspot’ in the dressing-room, and a motley crew of ghosts were spotted “enjoying the entertainment” up in the gallery… but the most unnerving moment came when the crew came across ‘Annie’s room’. As we approach, David tells me he never goes there alone any more – then promptly disappears to get the key, leaving me to scan the gallery uneasily.

‘Annie’s room’ turns out to be a box room these days, and I’m thankful that there are no rocking chairs or mirrors to start doing sinister things. “She’s locked in and she’s screaming she’s going to die in here,” the medium had said, before grabbing David’s arm. “You’re all right, mate,” he said, “she’s just in you at the moment.” David had tears streaming down his face, and he hadn’t even realised.

By now, I’ve got goosebumps and my own eyes start pricking… oh stop it, you big girls blouse. “I wasn’t a believer in the supernatural, but it did give me a new appreciation,” says David, shutting the door. Same here.

Keeper? David and family are selling up soon. I’m torn between encouraging people to buy this with me or The Big Lobster, which is apparently also for sale.

Lola Montez in the bathroom.

The 35mm projectors.

DAY 161: Pulling a complex trapeze move

8 Feb

Nearly.

THE bad news is that Mum and I haven’t spoken since our snarky email exchange about whether or not I have a legitimate fear of heights (if you were me, would you have blurted out that someone who has a Condition Red panic attack at the sight of a slightly enclosed space ought to be less scathing? I think you would); the good news is I’ve mastered a new twisty move on the trapeze.

After piking on the last two lessons, I turn up to today’s class with dragging feet and a face like a smacked arse.

Always keen to cash in on my own misfortune, last week I interviewed a specialist about the best and worst way to tackle phobias for a newspaper article. The worst, he said, is ‘flooding’ – essentially throwing yourself in at the deep end, like taking a trapeze course. Armed with this knowledge, I just know today’s going to be a shocker.

“Only focus on the clips,” the instructor says when I explain I’m liable to faceplant the floor if I have to look down and fit the harness. His permanently benign expression helps a bit.

Weirdly, this time around atop the platform I’m not sweaty and dizzy, and can concentrate on what I’m doing, even though there’s always a death grip involved. I pull off the usual swings and then decide to go for a new one, launching off with crossed arms, spinning around, swapping hands and trying to avoid smacking back into the platform. There’s a bit of a shriek when I let go at the wrong time and go swimming across the crash pad, but the next time I land on my feet, and the next. Wahoo!

Whatever it was I had, I’m hoping it’s peaked.

Keeper? Seeing that I was hanging onto a pole at the top of the platform at the time, I’m not sure if the instructor’s advice to wee on your hands to heal blisters was a joke or not. Better safe than sorry.

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