Nothing to see here.
DAY 124: Writing to people in the news
2 Jan
THIS might mark my card as a weirdo, but today I pick three people in the newspaper who I reckon would love a letter from me.
I write to:
* Somebody incarcerated in the local prison, in a there-but-the-grace-of-God situation.
* A couple whose mean neighbours are trying to close down their rabbit sanctuary (I’m offering assistance, violent or otherwise).
* The editor of the Herald Sun pets page, to immortalise Mr Thumpy.
Keeper? Not sure. Not if they write me weird letters back.
DAY 123: Sending the smokes up in smoke
1 Jan
I BEGIN today by chucking five cents in a wishing well and wishing great things for 2011, which I already know is going to be unbelievably good. The Lions Club might have wished for a larger donation, however.
Then, when I get home, I harvest any rogue packets of smokes I have hidden in drawers and burn them in my fire pit/open plan rumpus room, as I will not need them anymore. Mmmmm… the smell of burning tobacco…
The devil's candy.
Keeper? Only the feeling of piety.
DAY 122: Leading the zombie parade to death and/or glory
31 DecMY FACE is caked with black, red and white pan stick, my wig is yanked on, I’m in full marching 
band regalia… and then there’s a sharp pang of horror.
My eyeballs aren’t disguised! The world will surely know me, as I lead the NYE zombie parade through the Falls Festival, and thus my resolve will sociophobically shrivel and my baton will wilt mid-twirl. We’re all fucked, sorry about that.
This is no reflection on my spirited sisters from the Red Brigade or the shuffling undead behind us – rather it’s based on data collected from previous performances in my back catalogue of ill-advised public ventures:
2004: Playing surf bass in grass skirt, a lei and grimly set jaw. Are there firing squads in Waikiki? If so, I am authentically recreating the death-in-paradise vibe.
1998: “Fall to your knees in your guitar solo,” the singer hisses before we crank out our single. As if. Stare morbidly at the drummer, more like.
1982: Mid-recorder recital in assembly I suddenly can’t remember a single note of Morning Has Broken, and am forced to play air recorder. Still – good save.
The Red Brigade are girly militia led by Brandy Alexander, Stacey Starbright and Dr Randy Beaverson. They’ve sportingly let me join them for one night only, and I’ve had around 50 minutes to learn various marching formations (bicycle wheel, circle, cross…) and a few dance routines.
As we gather for the real thing in the campgrounds of Falls, we’re quickly surrounded by our very own cheer squad of shirtless toolbags, drinking beer and heckling. We’re not actually going to set off for an hour yet, but that’s okay – they’ve got all the time in the world. I suppose it’s good for me to learn what heckling feels like though, just as it was good to find out how it feels to have your lyrics critiqued. Yeah… don’t like it.
Meanwhile, information filters through the ranks that last year the parade was bottled.
“I’m scared,” I hear someone say.
“Me too,” someone else chips in, reassuringly.
As I sit down for a sec to contemplate the fact that I’ll be in the frontline, a searing pain hits my leg. I look down and it’s crawling with bull ants. Brilliant! Maybe I’ll need to get it amputated and I’ll miss the parade.
No such luck – we’re off. I quickly get “in character” – avoiding eye contact, not smiling, staggering a bit – hey, just another night down the pub. Unlike the layabouts in the campsite, whose jeers still ring in our ears, those in the main arena are totally amenable to having the undead walk among them. Only one guy comes up for a bit of a go, but then when his girlfriend screams at him, “Why would you DO that?” he’s not sure.
As I lead the pack through the festival grounds at a bit of a sprint, we’re attacked only by paparazzi. Admittedly I shirk on the dancing front a fair bit, but we’re going down a treat.
Keeper? Was pretty pumped after – this must be how Bono feels. But I’ll leave it to the professionals.
DAY 121: Going fishing
30 Dec
A DRIVER’S licence might be an elusive beast, but it turns out any chump can secure a fishing licence, so I do.
After buying a $6, 48-hour one from Lorne’s information centre, I hire a rod and bait, and listen intently to the complicated instructions from the chap, which go along the lines of “fner fner fner fner fner, fner fner fner, fner fner fner fner fner and be careful of the hooks.”
Luckily, fishing turns out to be a lot less hi-tech than expected, and Clare and I manage to just stick the bait, hooks and line together with guesswork and a lot of unhooking of hooks from fingers.
The actual fishing commences on Lorne pier, with a latte in one hand, handbag in the other, and rod balanced awkwardly between the knees. Every time the tide pulls the line taut, I reel it in and people flock over at all the excitement.
“You’re drawing a crowd and that’s not what you want,” mutters Clare as I reel in my sardine.
But it’s hard not to just keep taking a little look… Ye gods! There’s a bloody massive upside down crab the size of a dinner plate stuck to the end of my line, and it’s not looking happy. “I can’t get it up!” I yell to the pier (fishing is a fount of innuendo), and the crab smartens up and lets go before we can get any photographic evidence.
A nearby pro tips me off: “You need to come here at six in the morning, there’s nothing around these times. There’s a big calamari down here, but that’s about it.”
The thought of pulling up a big calamari: maximum squealage.
Keeper? Yep. Hooked.
A little number somebody left at the end of the pier.
DAY 120: Having breakfast with the ducks
29 Dec
They came from far and wide.
BREAKFAST was muesli. The only sound was weird grunting noises (them) and clanking of spoon.
Some cockatoos came over and started playing with rubbish, throwing it up in the air with their beaks, rolling it around with their creepy tongues, and wrestling it to the ground.
Keeper? Yes.
Sinister.
DAY 119: Confessing online
28 Dec
POST-a-confession websites have spread like herpes, which isn’t really surprising, since the internet’s taken over from the pub when it comes to blurting out inappropriate stuff.
Postsecret.com is the original, to which people send decorated postcards with unspoken secrets. It’s even spawned a book.
Then there’s grouphug.us where people approve your misdeed by pressing the ‘like’ button. On confessions4u.com, readers can respond to posts – although I notice the 20-year-old guy from Delhi who confesses he’s a good person that wants to make the world a better place receives no comments whatsoever.
By contrast, over on confessionhub.com, the 13-year-old girl who is cutting herself and implying her father is, at the very least, beating her, receives this from ‘Tom’: “I genuinely feel sorrow for your situation but I’m afraid I’m too much of a pervert to be of any help to you. I would only end up getting you involved in deplorable situations.”
Meanwhile, on unburdened.net, I find: “I have put a live octopus in my asshole and farted it out.”
I think this one is my spiritual home, so I decide to post. It takes me ages to think of something that’s bothering me that isn’t total garden variety, which is good, I guess. HOW times have changed.
Keeper? I chose a site without feedback options, so I get neither the approval I crave nor the disapproval I fear. Pointless.
DAY 118: Squalling in the surf
27 Dec
WELL, I guess I can kiss my eyelash extensions goodbye. Any hopes of not getting too pounded in the 8am surf are quickly thwarted by the first pulverising double waves here at Lorne Bay.
Our instructor, Sam, has a zinced nose and bouncy blond curls, like he’s just walked straight off the set of Home and Away. He runs us through the art of getting to one’s feet. Easy.
On the 9ft board I slide straight off the deck in kneeling position. These are slippery little buggers, aren’t they? On the 10ft board I get to my feet but the beast swings sideways in a rip and I fall off. Repeat x 100.
The pie and giant coffee I’ve just downed aren’t sitting too good, what with all this gasping and gulping. In an hour and 20 minutes I manage to stagger to my feet for all of three seconds; and that’s debatable. At best I’m stepping on and stepping off, really.
This leaves plenty of time to: get tangled in leg rope, get smashed repeatedly in the face, get slam dunked into my board. FUCK THIS SHIT.
Forty minutes early, I wade back to shore on ice block feet and throw in the towel. Wower, wowser, wowser.
“You English are useless at everything,” Sam quips as I wrestle myself out of my wetsuit, adding darkly: “Except cricket.”
Yeah, evs. Seriously, when it’s his time of month he can tell me that. And he can try and stay upright on his board with severely diminished motor skills, too. See, not so easy is it?
Keeper? I’ll be back. Not here; too embarrassing.
I KNOW you want to see how cold my foot was.
DAY 117: Overlord of the fire
26 Dec
PROUD day. I’ve had a stack of thorny bushes, pointy sticks and lacerating branches as big as a truck in my backyard, just waiting to ignite itself in bush fire season. After a few tentative forays into pissweak bonfires, today I vow: I’m going to finish this if it kills me.
Then I wonder if these will be the last fortuitous words the emergency services read in my iPhone Notes application.
Anyway, the tools: Work gloves, saw, twine, a hose with holes in it, cowboy boots for jumping on rogue flames.
I’ve got about six different kinds of dead tree here, and I get to know which ones like being burned which way. After the first hour, I stop watching the fire out of the corner of my eye like it’s holding a gun on me, and just feed the thing.
Three hours later I chuck the straggler branches on and truss up the last logs to stuff in the shed for another time. Or perhaps I’ll just never open that shed again. Also, sorry about all that green stuff at the end, Castlemaine.
Got wood.
Keeper? My arms looks like they’ve been through a cheese-grater, but needing to eat a horse is a good feeling.
DAY 116: Making a Sudanese feast
25 Dec
EVERY Boxing Day for the last four years, the East African Community of Castlemaine have put on a thank you feast for the local people who have helped them with things like English and maths tutoring, computer skills and driving lessons. This year’s event marks a particularly pertinent time, as the Southern Sudanese independence referendum is in 11 days time, affecting everyone preparing for the gathering in the Campbells Creek Community Centre tomorrow.
This evening, I head down to the council office kitchens to help some Sudanese women prepare the food.
Arob pulls up a chair for me and shows me how to dice the potatoes just so, for a mincemeat and vegetable dish. I’m thankful she’s got the job of peeling the potatoes so that I don’t show myself up… but then she examines my dicing technique critically and says, “We will try you with something else.”
Now I’ve got a box of okra to work through, which is way easier, particularly when Arob urges me to work at a more leisurely pace. “Last year we were still doing this at five the next morning,” she says, handing me a cup of tea and a biscuit.
We have a chat about the merits of Castlemaine over Melbourne and Arob’s husband pops in with some more food. Some pleasantries are exchanged, probably: “This girl’s nice enough, but she can’t even cut a potato.”
Keeper? Yes.
Author
Australia 2012. It's okay, we're friends.
Hey man, now you're really living 
You must be logged in to post a comment.