Friday, April 14, 2017

Some art for Good Friday

 'Wild Pony, Wales' by David Hurn

And this I do adore ... At MONA, there is an installation that sprays down jets of water in the shape of letters, lit into diamonds by strategic light. The words are whatever people are typing into search engines around the world at that very moment. The sound of the water and the crystalline words are mesmerising as well as a sense of connection to humanity. This, the day John Clarke died.

Friday, April 7, 2017

A strange day

It's been a weird day. You know when you have those weird days?
It's been a thwarted hot date for me, (I do love that word 'thwarted'. It's always reminded me of the thwarts that hold boats together, but also the situation of coitus interruptus.) Today was also a potential argument over money and love with my daughter, saved by our last minute phone call, and finally a woman turned up at the service station yesterday, under duress, looking for baby food. 'We are on the road,' she said, as her partner filled the car with fuel.

She came back again today and hung around, in a shop where baby food, sliced bread and veges are stupidly over-priced. She stayed at the counter, talking to me. She was dithery, moving over bank accounts on her phone to the one she kept kept forgetting her PIN for. 'He's gonna be wondering why I'm spending so much time in this shop,' she said, looking outside. 'He did this yesterday. I don't know him well. He asked if I'd like to come down south as a friend. But he's been getting really strange. I don't know what to do.'
'Do you feel safe?' I asked her.
'No.' she said. 'No. I don't know what to do.'
'Where are you camping tonight?'
'I'm not sure. Maybe Busselton?'

I've been in this situation. I remember forgetting my PIN because I've been so physically and emotionally stressed. I remember asking roadhouse staff for help. At the time they all blank-eyed me.

I gave her my card. I said, 'I'm working late. Here is a contact in the next town. You will go out of range in about fifteen minutes. Please ring and let me know how you travel. X Sarah.'

Monday, April 3, 2017

It gets better

So, it has been a bit awful, yes. However, here is my fur coat with some kale:

The fur coat was delicious!

Here are some clouds out at the inlet bar yesterday:

Spot the mare's tails and mackerel scales ... 

And here is the kangaroo skin my royalty cheque paid for.
Royalty cheque!
Royalty cheque!

Saturday, April 1, 2017

Seasonal Adjustment Disorder


I've been feeling so awful about my life over the last six months or so that I haven't wanted to blog about it. I just didn't want to spray my shit around. Even my high moments at the writers festivals and the etc began to feel like a total writers' tour that sounded so brittle and way too much like social media happiness. Please note here that I have not been feeling the social media happiness. I've been crying drunk and burning my hands every night trying to stuff too-big, shit-burning banksia logs into the fire.*
Best friends were dropping dead from things like liver cancer, hitting trees too fast on their motorbike. You know. The last king hit was an out-of-the-blue early morning stroke while she was walking her dog. Then another one. Grief is a street fighting beast. It just belts the fuck out of you.

'You'll get better at this,' said a good friend who'd lost a few.
'I never want to get better at this!' I wailed. 'I never want to feel anything less than this!'

Last weekend I went to a memorial. Actually, last weekend I went to two memorials. Saturday was for a young lad, a pig hunter who drowned at sea. 'It's a pig, the cigs or the sea that will kill me,' he'd said once upon a time. And Sunday was for a local matriarch who'd said, at 97 years of age, 'I think I'm going to have a little lie down.'

I think you can guess which one was the most joyous.

*Banksia wood burns slow and cold. Burn it, if you want to spend a winter crouched over a fire like a desperate, heartbroken beast.