Archive | April, 2011

DAY 232: Learning Indian Head Massage

20 Apr

THERE are few things as whimper-worthy as an Indian head massage (not to be confused with a Chinese head massage, as I found out to my cost), so I buy a book that’ll coach me on the matter.

After a good peruse, I dim the lights, warm some towels in front of the fire, whip Old Dog’s shirt off and settle down to give his lymphatic drainage system what for (a nice treat before Day 233: Hogtying Someone).

  1. Cradle crown with hands.
  2. Cup palms over eyes.
  3. Rotate head on its stalk.
  4. Smooth almond oil onto hair, then stroke for ages.
  5. And ages.
  6. Tap your fingers around a bit to get those lymphs going crazy.
  7. ‘Iron’ the arms. (NB: Not with actual iron.)
  8. I made some stuff up with the ears – you can just go with the flow really.

Keeper? Yes. Every time a bloke offers to massage me it turns out to be a trick, but this just shows it can be a lovely experience.

DAY 231: Appearing in someone’s autobiography

19 Apr

ON page 168 of Dave Graney’s autobiography, I stumble upon myself, sliding spookily through the narrative like a dictaphone-wielding apparition.

In theory it’s a bit part, but since Graney hasn’t named many of his characters, not even his band mates – not even The Go-Betweens for goodness sakes – we’re all on equal billing.

“It’s not often you come across yourself,” I remark to Old Dog, trying to sound modest.

“Unless you’re a teenage boy,” he notes.

Keeper? Enjoyed that. Am available for appearances.

DAY 230: Getting a graffiti tag

18 Apr

The prototypes.

I BUY some hot pink spray paint from a model shop and come up with a HeyMan tag that only the most miniscule modicum of common sense prevents me from spraying all over the side of my house, once I run out of cardboard box.

Keeper? Yes. Fun.

These are rubbish by comparison.

DAY 229: Laughing boisterously at comedy

17 Apr

I DON’T like to be a party pooper, but nothing irritates me more than mass laughter. It’s not my fault – I’ve been raised to view the general public as a proletarian mob with a lowbrow sense of humour.

It makes comedy nights a problem – flinching every two seconds and looking around crossly – but if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, as they say.

I go along to Music, Mirth & Mayhem, part of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, with my similarly stoic friend Clare, on a mission of guffawing loudly throughout.

To my surprise, once I’ve forced a few laughs to Dave Hughes (I nearly lose my stroke when he wanders into road tolls territory), it becomes easier and easier. For much of it I’m standing next to Chrissie, the gutsy, titian-haired publicist. She gasps, cackles and nudges me, loving it. Clare even raises a wry chuckle.

I watch a sourpuss a few rows ahead get her knickers in a twist by the people talking at the bar. That could be me! But it’s not. Yes, this is much better than burning with some imagined insult or falling into brooding silence as I calculate how many drinks I can have before I will have to ask myself to leave. You masses, you’re onto something.

Keeper? Sure. Will attempt a good sing-along soon.

DAY 228: Bathing in minerals

16 Apr

THERE’S a particularly hoity-toity neck of my woods famed for its hot springs.

Unfortunately, they’re shut, so we wind up visiting an expensive mineral bath (read: swimming pool) that’s salty enough, but also full of chlorine.

People hang glumly on to the edge of the pool and gaze out of the water-spotted windows at the nice day outside. It’s mainly full of couples, and one couple have matching bathers on. If I ever try and make my fella come to a spa with me he has my permission to dump me.

More fun’s to be had out in the open – we have a picnic in a woodland glen and I go for a wander around the river, where strands of spider webs are hanging everywhere from the tops of the trees, right down to the ground, where they attach to my clothes.

Keeper: Mornington Peninsula hot springs are more exciting by all accounts – you even get to sit in a bucket.

DAY 227: Giving things a right roasting

15 Apr

Roasted.

A SNORESOME day, to be sure.

With the exception of the humble jacket potato, I am a roasting rookie, on account of I like to watch things cook – and in an urgent fashion.

Taking some advice from my Facebook pals I learn how to roast beetroot (wrap in foil, put in the oven) and eggplant (halve, salt, put in the oven). Magic.

Keeper? Yes. My grandmother died when she set her tea towel on fire though, so this afternoon’s burny incident should be avoided in future.

DAY 226: Braving bongos

14 Apr

THERE are few sounds that instil a sense of dread in an urbane sophisticate like a bongo drum.

It rings nightly through the festival campsites and squat parties of one’s youth, as insistent as gurning teeth. It mocks your inability to sleep, and taunts you that somewhere – just out of thumping distance – lurks an earnest white uni drop-out with a drug stash bigger than yours, drawing in ever-increasing numbers of the sort of people you wouldn’t like, Lord of the Flies-style.

The horror, the horror.

I decide I need to face my fear head on.

The first thing I discover at this African drumming workshop is that not all hand drums are bongos; quite often it might have been a djembe chilling my blood. Bongos originate from Cuba and tend to huddle in twos, while djembes are from West Africa and sit singly on the floor between your legs.

The workshop’s equally split between men and women of all sorts of nationalities, and to my surprise, no one’s sporting a macramed hat, the colours of the Jamaican flag, or dreadlocks. In these hands the djembe takes on a less sinister slant. I think I’ve got drumming all wrong.

For the next hour, we work through four different rhythms, around 20 minutes on each. A couple of regulars get up to dance in the middle of the circle, which is quite awe-inspiring in the case of the dancer from West Africa, and a different matter entirely in the case of the bloke from Elsternwick.

I enjoy the challenge of sticking to my pattern throughout as other drummers go off on tangents, or coming up with my own solo in the middle (it’s okay, they ask me to). By the end of it my hands are on fire, and we should probably hug or something, but I slope out the door to get the tram.

Keeper? Wouldn’t mind trying the dancing. It’s the sort of dancing you usually do when no one’s looking, hence the challenge.

DAY 225: Tai Chi-ing commuters into a rage

13 Apr

“RIDICULE is nothing to be scared of,” said Adam Ant, who should know.

I’m in an extremely central Melbourne precinct with 10 softly-spoken pensioners in sweatshirts, pants and gloves, repulsing the monkey.

And a strange thing happens. Gentle, gentle, I’m feeling so gentle. I’m so used to bowling over pedestrians and skewering my hipbones on the edges of desks, I didn’t know I could feel like this. It’s as though I’m pushing and sculpting treacle instead of air. Warm, lovin’ treacle. I look over at my friend Lou and she’s similarly entranced.

Tai chi is an internal martial art that translates as ‘great extremes boxing’ (it involves ‘yielding and sticking’ to an incoming attack. Maybe this limpet-like tactic repels the attacker into shaking you off). Stay serious, reader – I’m working muscles I never even knew I had as I form magical tigers, snakes and storks with my body, and there’s not an ounce of fat, nor orthopedic shoe, on any of these elderly athletes.

We’re in the middle of a complex leg balancing sequence to a watery Mandarin rendition of Irene Cara’s ‘What A Feeling’ when some huffing bronco in a suit ploughs through the middle of us, scattering old people in his wake. Luckily, I have achieved great mental clarity, so I don’t mind.

Other commuters may smirk, but I know they’re jealous. I’m starting the day parting the wild horse’s mane and they’re … well … they’re not.

Keeper: Definitely going to do this lots. Feel all smooshy.

DAY 224: Getting a gong bath

12 Apr

BACK when I wrote for gentlemen’s mags, some wag in the art department took a break from Photoshopping out ingrown pubes and assigned us all with superhero nicknames. Mine was Nicotina Stains, a mantle I accepted with some resignation.

Times have changed; I’m an upwardly mobile woman in her thirties with new teeth and a born-again liver, and I need a persona more befitting of a gracious lady.

Meeting Kimilla, a kundalini yoga teacher who wafts into the room dressed head to toe in radiant white, just reinforces this notion. Having grown up with a hippy mother in Angourie (“heaven on earth”) outside Byron Bay, she’s practiced yoga from a young age and has gone on to learn from top yogis from across India. Unsurprisingly, she exudes calm.

Kundalini yoga was once the exclusive practice of royalty, before Yogi Bhajan (the master of ‘tantric energy’) brought it to the West in 1969. One of Kimilla’s specialties is gong healing, so she agrees to run me through an abbreviated session.

We sit in the lotus position while Kimilla talks me through some breathing and meditation, asking that I consider what my intention is. I’m supposed to focus on this intention throughout the gong bath, but I’m put on the spot, so I come up with the epically lame “to be good”.

That sorted, I lie flat on my back under a sheet while Kimilla stands at my feet and rhythmically bongs a 28-inch symphonic gong so that the sound waves shimmer and recede like the surf. It’s incredibly loud; I find myself worrying about the neighbours. The gong, Kimilla tells me, aligns both the planets and the chakras and is infused with the spirit of the elephant god, Lord Ganesha – the remover of obstacles. I’m unsure, even after an explanation, of how the planets are aligning as a result of the activity in this room on Brunswick Street (I hope I’m not fucking anything up for the rest of you), but my chakras are feeling ace, so I let it through to the keeper.

I remember my intention, and try to imagine a bunch of typically vexed people in my life looking delighted with me. Kimilla tells me to rub first my hands and then feet together, to stimulate the nerve endings, and cup the base of my palms over my eyes sockets. She stands in front of me and crowns her hands on my head, asking me to imagine a gold sphere inside me, and shimmering gold around me. And then we’re done, and I’m feeling good. I’ve always had a thing for hands on heads, though – I used to have a terrible crush on the vicar.

In yoga classes I always find that my head says deliberately outrageous things to wind me up (I can’t even repeat them) when I’m supposed to be focused, but there are plenty of others – others with sinewy limbs and an omnipresent serenity – who credit yoga with changing their lives. So why isn’t it like that for everyone?

“It’s a living philosophy,” Kimilla concludes. “The ‘yoga class’ isn’t at all what yoga is about. It’s about living in alignment with your truth, fulfilling your destiny, living in love and happiness.”

In other words, you get out what you put in.

Read more of Kimilla’s philosophies here: www.kimilla.blogspot.com

DAY 223: Pampering the shit out of my face

11 Apr

Now 90 per cent more pink.

CONTINUING my quest to become a real girl, I clatter off to a random make-up artist in Myer and bid her to do as she will.

Suzi eagerly sets about turning my face into an approximation of hers, layering on primer, foundation, concealer, three or four eye shadows, tinted eyebrow wax, mascara, bronzer, blush, lip pencil, pink lipstick and lipgloss. I do wear make-up every day, but that’s 10 products and 30 minutes more than I’m accustomed to.

A French artiste called André (actually, I can’t remember his name, but that’ll do) hovers the whole time, giving a running commentary on what Suzi’s doing and snatching brushes out of her tiny hands, replacing them with what he’d use if he was her. He laments my eyebrows, which are admittedly in need of a bit of a trim, practically wringing his hands in agitation.

I manage to block him out when Suzi does my eyes, as it’s very soothing. I get to pondering the word ‘pamper’ and how it’s become a ‘you deserve it’ kind of marketing tool aimed at the privileged. Golden goddess pamper pack. Pamper yourself stupid this pampering Pamperday. It’s a curious sounding word, so I look it up when I regain the use of my iPhone hand:

‘Pampe’ can be traced back to ancient religious manuscripts. As in: ‘Thus the devil fareth with men and wommen; First, he stirith hem to pappe and pampe her fleisch, desyrynge delicous metis and drynkis.’

Steady thyself!

Then there’s the Bavarian word, ‘pampfen’, meaning ‘to cram oneself with pap or broth’.

Mmm.

“Are you Dutch?” André interrupts my reverie. “You have very Dutch features: dark skin and green eyes.”

I’m unable to enquire as to whether he’s had a recent knock to the head with his hair straighteners, as Suzi is slicking something like Dunkin’ Donuts glaze on my mouth.

Now all I need to do is write a crime novel called Midnight’s Daughter and this can be the author photo on the jacket.

Glacial pink gloss, I venture as I peer in the mirror, is not appropriate for a 36-year-old woman. Suzi disagrees, and André gasps that it’s perfectly acceptable for a “woman of your age”. In fact, he reckons, I might even try mature modelling work.

“What, in a catalogue?” I quip.

“Yes,” he agrees earnestly. “Cheap catalogues are where the money is.”

Picture me flouncing out of Myer, spitting hair out of my lip gloss.

Keeper? Secretly enjoyed it.

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