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.

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.

DAY 157: Putting my stamp on everything

4 Feb

IT’S now the year of the rabbit – my year – and while I don’t seem to possess any of the traditional characteristics of this noble beast, I’m still keen to celebrate appropriately.

I go to Chinatown and buy some red packets. If you’re married, you’re supposed to put money in them and give them to children or single people you feel sorry for. There’re no instructions I can find for if you’re technically married but not in any position to be encouraging others, and I’m not made of money, so I buy a packet of fortune cookies to fill the envelopes. That’s nice, isn’t it?

Then I head down to Southbank, where some celebrating is already going down, I pose awkwardly for a set of commemorative Valentish stamps… and end up looking like a jaundiced Sylvia Plath. Not a sign of things to come, one hopes.

Keeper? No, because I will be posting them out to people – and just affixing the stamps to lampposts.

DAY 156: Psychic and parma night

3 Feb

Get ready to rock that bottom.

“SO how long have you known you’re a white witch?” the psychic asks me over her shoulder as we hurry through the pub for my 10-minute sesh in a back room. As opening lines go I reckon it’s up there with “If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me”.

One archangel, a medieval past-life and a recommendation that I sit star-shaped in grass later, I’m moving on to the tarot reader. She bears an unnerving resemblance to Jacki Weaver in Animal Kingdom as she pins me with a stare and says: “You think you’ve reached rock bottom already, but you haven’t.”

Predicting a spell in rehab and a short-lived career selling drugs for bikers, she doesn’t pull her punches. What’s more, she seems to be almost imperceptibly vibrating her head as she cranes closer, giving off a weird strobe effect. Although my friends didn’t report the same.

“You’ve had two abortions … no … miscarriages … no … you can’t have children because of all the drugs …  no … you don’t WANT children!” she finishes triumphantly as I finally give a weary nod.

“You think men are only good for one minute; you tend to flip either way [for the record, I’m quite particular about only flipping one way] and you’re fed up of being told to just get over it.” She fixes me an extra beady one. “I hate the way the English treat their children; you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Jeez, when psychics see your tattoos they usually just deduce you’re “creative”. Someone’s been watching too much Underbelly, I’d wager. ‘Jacki’ did nail my upbringing with further detail, but then, I can immediately sniff out someone with a story like mine, too – you don’t have to be a psychic, or a grifter.

Keeper? I’m kicking myself for not asking the psychics what I picked off the menu. Dinner was nice though, and the combination of the coffee and being told I was soon to gorge myself on hard drugs left me buzzing.

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