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 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.

DAY 160: Leaving cryptic messages

7 Feb

One of my lovely missives.

THE English love cryptic messages, from Stonehenge, to Hawkwind, to Lewis Carroll, to backwards exhortings on Judas Priest records.

Yesterday I just kept coming across them, from a nonsensical egg-based riddle on the toilet door at work, to a giant rabbit up a tree in Collingwood (where a few streets away I saw a chap tip out the contents of a wrap onto the pavement and then attempt to snort it up) and a miniature fanzine on the tram.

If I subscribed to “everything happens for a reason”, I’d be buying gift subscriptions for all my friends.

Suitably inspired, today I decide to plaster my own confounding messages around town. At first I wrack my brains to think of some, but then I remember the fortunes from my fortune cookies. Four immediately go up in the toilet stalls at work. I listen intently when someone enters the cubicle next to me, but there comes no delighted “Oh!”

An hour later when I go in to check, all four fortunes have unfortunately been removed – presumably for health and safety reasons.

Keeper? Yes, enjoyed this – but got distracted from making it a more exhaustive mission.

This was stuck to the toilet door yesterday.

This was on the tram!

This was up a tree!!

DAY 159: Dancing go-go

6 Feb

“DANCE as though no one is watching you,” Alfred D’Souza once said. (He also said “life is a journey”, but I’ll let that one go.)

However, tonight there’s a whole saloon bar full of men watching, pressing their filthy noses up against the yellowed glass separating them from Anna’s Go-Go Academy class in the Bendigo Hotel. Still, let them wheeze into their schooners – us gals are having FUN.

These are nothing like my usual dance moves, I must say. We’re following a jerky routine of mashed patatas and James Brown-style gambits: thumbs up, knees out, knees in and bucking like the Duracell Bunny. Mine are a bit more… avant-garde. And injurious to third parties.

I’ve tried regulated dancing before; I’d occasionally swing dance in London pubs with grizzled rockabillies who were too cool to look at you, let alone catch you (wouldn’t want to spill their pints, would they?). Being unwieldly, I had a tendency to go bouncing off the walls when left unchecked, which, like I said, was most of the time.

Go-go’s all about the girls, though, and by the time our hour’s up, I’ve got it pegged. Basically, you have to act like a pony – swishing your ponytail, trotting with your hooves up and gurning for a sugar-lump – so all this horsemanship I’ve been plugging away at is going to pay off. Grouse!

Keeper? Sure. Great excuse to buy some white boots.

Check out retroroxy.wordpress.com for the story behind these way-out pics.

DAY 158: Nailing down my psyche

5 Feb

Do a Google image search for Jung and you get loads of girls in corsets. This is Jung, though.

THERE are all sorts of personality tests designed to pigeonhole you these days, and you’re liable to be pranged by them anywhere from job interviews to dating sites. They’re kind of fun, though, and slightly more technical than horoscopes.

These tests are all about asking you the same questions again and again in different tones of voices, in an attempt to confuse and trick you. They’ll generally take around 20-30 minutes, with hundreds of questions. They’re very blandly worded, but really they amount to things like: “Do you want to scream when someone accidentally brushes their elbow against you?” or “Would you like to crush everyone in your kingdom like little ants?”

I pack some sandwiches and sit down for a few hours of assessment.

The Myers-Briggs Type Indicator
Developed by a mother-daughter team in 1962 and based on Jungian theory (love a bit of Jung), this psychometric questionnaire identifies character types based on how people perceive the world and make decisions. I’m an INFP: Flexible (you should see my backbend) and laidback with aggressive outbursts, quick to take criticism (see aggressive outbursts), a talented writer (their words, but I won’t quibble) but an awkward verbalist, rubbish with hard logic, and “might go for long periods without noticing a stain on the carpet”. Spot on!

The Validity Indicator Profile
Designed as a tool to support psychological evaluation, the four response styles are Compliant, Inconsistent, Irrelevant, and Suppressed – which sounds like they’ve got a downer on the interviewee right from the start. This particular online test, however, focuses on your strengths. Mine make me sound suspiciously like a grinning imbecile – curiosity, appreciation of excellence, gratitude and energy – but at least they don’t come right out and say so.

eHarmony Compatability Test
The company behind the dating website has analysed different personality profiles that make up a successful marriage, and has designed questions to weed out those ‘good’ profiles (enter your own derisive descriptions of said profiles here). My psyche must be starting to shatter from psychological profiling fatigue, because over the course of a zillion questions I’m suddenly veering between personas: new and old, good and baaaaaad, what I should be saying and how I feel about myself in my darkest hour. I can’t stay consistent and might be politely profiled as a sociopathic liar. And doesn’t eHarmony know it.

“Unable to match you at this time,” comes the response. “One of the requirements for successful matching is that participants fall within certain defined profiles. Unfortunately, we are not able to make our profiles work for you.” 

Bap-baaaaaap. Never mind.

Keeper? With the exception of eHarmony’s typology, I find these labels quite comforting – slap em on, I say.

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