7. iso#2
It’s the epitome of the dark depths of winter isolation. Solid grey clouds, light rain, a fire, frost-killed grass, the quiz. I get tipsy on fruit and gin and I feel concentration in my cheeks. We devour the roast chicken and play Bananagrams. Were bad moods as common when we didn’t have to deal with auto correct?
—
If he were King, he’d be a fat King. A fat King who shows off his riches through obesity from 100% meat and processed shit, while the people starve and struggle. It’s not drugs or cancer or poverty that is most harmful to humans, it is greed.
—
I recall: sitting on the couch at Twelfth Street reading the early pages of a Babysitters Club. It’s talking about sweltering in 100 degree heat and lemonade. I flick to the end, read the last paragraph. “FINISHED,” I call to Mum.
I recall: Year nine girls camp at King’s Billabong. The May sunshine warmed us enough to lose our pants. I had my hair in plaits, my flanny tied in a knot at my waist, and grey boyleg underpants. “Spikes down South, Sarah,” Nicole Robbins advised.
When it’s a grey cloud morning and I’m feeling low—the middle of isolation, visualising my family and all that love + freedom—I go to Instagram to make me feel worse. Eventually I drink an anti-inflammatory calendula tea, which gives me indigestion with the ABC spread clogging my body. I join Paulo Coelho, do yoga with Adriene, plant the new seedlings, and have pumpkin soup for breakfast. Yesterday’s coffee + sunshine + morning company are forgotten.
Making my near-daily trip to the post office, collecting Lady Mother and mine’s love of purchasing, I see old eyes and a white beard poking out beyond a mask. The body is hobbling. “You know if the post office is staying open with all this bullshit,” the old eyes say to me.
“Surely. I don’t think they’ve ever been so busy,” I tell the white beard, working out how to smile more with my eyes. It’s my first outing since masks were mandatory in Victoria. There is great divide, but we’re all in this together.
—
On Mum and Andy’s thick mattress I sleep well. Before waking the final time, I dream vividly of Broome. Chinatown, friends, blue skies, comfort. The next day, this morning, before my final wake, I dream vividly of P. We’re down the surf coast together, not yet there but working through it.
—
Lady Mother (named with thanks to our watching series on the early English Monarchy) and I are eating another healthy dinner at the bench, chatting. Suddenly Mum’s on her phone, scrolling. “It’s rude,” I snap, like I’m the parent and she’s the child.
Can you judge a person by the supposed response of their birthday according to social media? That’s what I’ve been doing. Still now, it makes me want to cry. Then comes my next wonder: how long does it take to forgive someone.
—
I want someone else to edit and market.
—
A Facebook call with Rachel in Broome. She wants me to move in with her. She calls again later, saying I could go down as an ‘occupant’ in her house to help me move across. I take the smallest glimmer of hope and relish in it, even if it merely picks up my mood for the rest of the night.
—
Days roll by in the waiting game. At night I cook dinner and we watch Schitt’s Creek. It has been nearly a month of elimination and I crave stimulants.
On the phone to Denmark Mia, we dissect a range of topics. She’s telling me about how she listens to music; “I like to listen to songs a lot and learn all the lyrics, but then sometimes I can listen for too long and it no longer represents a time in my life. Like with The Lumineers album Cleopatra. It is about a girl—I don’t know who, a mum or a sister or girlfriend—and they’re running away. Then I think how I continue to listen to it, sing along, and play that narrative out in my head, but I no longer identify it. I need to stop listening to it.”
I also fall in love with songs when my soul beats to the music. It’s only later when I again hear the song do I realise how relevant the lyrics were for what was happening in my life.
“You would subconsciously be taking it in,” Mia says. “A part of your brain is working without you knowing.”
A 500-page Paulo Coelho book I didn’t quite finish; the story and religious quotes eventually had me mindlessly reading the words . Yet before this had come gentle reminders. Not just to the beautiful simplicity to be mastered in storytelling, but of the magic I once discovered and have since misplaced. The Power of Attraction. Of starting with your own good feelings and comfort within.
I have the power to choose my language and my path. I’m an arranger. The Power of Attraction. Feel good.
Spring’s coming and Spring marks rebirth. The main project is now the camper, so I can write.
“Life is too short not to become who we’re meant to be.”
For more than a week the weather has rolled around; rains and winds and sunshine passing through. On Saturday was the end of a rainbow at the bottom of the sheep’s paddock. On Sunday came a double rainbow in the same spot. This morning I could see condensation on the sheep’s breath. Later, a sun filled morning, a windy midday, and more portentous clouds giving a quick How ya goin rain in the afternoon.
—
I am drinking tea on the verandah with my guitar. I am wondering: where intention goes energy flows. First Adriene told me this, then days later it was the Secret. I think of my skin. Of the ongoing problems and the obsession making energy and anger flow there. I know this, I do. I can feel this. I’ll do yoga and further understand how important breath is. I’ll work on the van and Archie Roach will tell me that to dance you are wholly present.
I recall: living at Twelfth Street and believing I could fly. Alex, Jess and I jumped from the swing. If we believe enough we can do it, I told them.
I recall: as a teenager sometimes I would make my bed up the other end. Especially in summer, when I would leave my blind open to wake to the sun’s rise.
A yoga breakthrough is the courage to go off on my own and choose the moves that work and feel best for me.
If stuff were emojis, it’d be that face with eyes to the head next to the swearing face.
Mind is always going to something more. The next thing. It needs to fantasise that next place, that next better place.
24th of August. So completely and utterly at the end of winter tether. Flat. TOO SENSITIVE FOR COLD WEATHER.
Mum walks in on me cooking another lamb soup. The floors are cleaned, the lamps are on, there is classic music playing and incense burning. “Smells like curry,” she says.
Work out where to give your fucks.
Coles on a Sunday night looks like Christmas eve. Masked people with paranoid eyes cram into aisles, their trolleys forcing distance. At the self-serve checkouts there’s only one person allowed. I wait outside so Mum can pay. Trollies and masks roll by. I see packets of coke cans, donuts, white bread rolls, Doritos, chips, fat people. Mum comes toward me, her eyes smiling back to mine, the celery and bananas rolling loose at the front of the trolley, all the wholesome goodness packed into the bag. Prevention is stronger than cure.
I want to tell him: I miss you I want to kiss you. But I don’t because I want my family more than anything.
Talking on the phone, his voice calms me and excites me at the same time. It’s been three long months void of intimacy. We say when we get to see each other there’ll be the biggest hug in the whole wide world.
—
Luce today, talking about work and coronavirus unemployment and government bonuses. She comments on what Mia’s been doing. “Yeah but I don’t have a job either,” I remind her. “…not that I want a job, I’m good at unemployment.”
“Your job is the World,” Luce says.
—
The rejection: no stomach, no grief. A thoughtful email, ‘assured writing’ in sample chapters. I celebrate by making pumpkin soup and doing a twenty-minute vinyasa.
In the dark depth of isolation there’s no telling what mood will strike, even with sunshine. The bad days are chaptered by the good days. Today a bad mood was set when weighing myself at 62. I then ate early in the day and wanted to binge. I sent love to my face. Later Mum commented that my skin is worse, and I snapped at her to stop talking about it. I’ve eaten badly. I feel badly. What is there to look forward to? There is no end in sight.
I get Winter blues. I get Monday blues. Another week alone. No will for yoga straight up. I am Sarah: I don’t have routines, I have rituals. In the mornings I start with a drink dependent on mood and season. With my drink, I begin to read or write and be reflective. It takes Sarah a while for things to simmer, but time brings the path.
—
Spring blows in with the ongoing winds. I drink coffee and I’m active and I’m excited by whatever’s next. There’s a Willy Wagtail sitting on its nest in the naked grapevine. The afternoon flow takes me inside my top—downward dog—and I like the smell of my own sweat. That tangy Spring sweat.
I recall: it must have been year three—because in year four I was best friends with Sasha, who was pretty and independent and the year above me—that the three the boys chased me around the oval over near the tyres by Twelfth Street. They were shouting out that one of them liked me. I thought it was a joke. That they were making fun of me. Because how could anyone like me with my red hair? Then in year six came David, the only black guy I saw through that school. He had a massive crush on me, and I thought it a joke. I hated the attention; I saw it as ridicule.
I recall: always having secret crushes.
I recall: Rowse Court, a Mother’s Day. It was later teenage years, dealing with hang overs and a broken family. I remained in bed. I don’t know if I even remembered it was Mother’s Day when I woke. Mum went into a tizz. She huffed and puffed, upset that we hadn't made any effort. As an unloved teenager yearning for family connection, I didn’t understand her hurt or the silent sacrifices she made. I didn’t think she loved me.
Spring blooms. It’s that first weekend of t-shirts and gardening, beer for lunch. Mum pushes a wheelbarrow of weeds and I smile, finally. When I walk inside, I shiver. Mind always on the move, racing between, into the future, even what I’ll eat and drink and what I’ll do after yoga—because I musn’t tell people I do nothing and I’m unemployed. I must do stuff. Luckily, I don’t want to do nothing; I want to create. I want to settle off-grid with a family. I want to take trips toward the sun. So stop, Sarah, slow down and see what the world is offering. Finish the camper in Spring’s sunshine, finish your beer, indulge in the company.
—
The way Mum and Andy talk about people. “They’re dumb,” they say with a chuckle. “They’re not very smart.” Mum calls a lot of people dumb, like people choose their earlyhood intellect and influence. I must unlearn, reprogram, fight the habitual temptation of gluten.
In my middle room, on the wall next to Mum and Andy’s bathroom, there’s a big black and white oval picture of poppa as a child. He sits backwards on a chair, with the serious expression of old cameras. His life, his mother’s life, that day at the photography studio, is now dust. Generations before us gone, legacies combined. One day that’ll be me and my family too. And I like this idea, of life torpedoing, of it being over before I know it. But if life races by as quickly as I hope, I hope I remember to love fiercely and love deeply.
INCANDESCENT: intensely bright; brilliant; masterly; extraordinarily lucid; aglow with adore; purpose; etc.
Still untangling the chaos of contradictions, surveying the future, the money making and the career. Then there’s the new light. The mortgage-free and happy family in the way we can have each other while life continues in yings and yangs. Then I wonder, What will I create with my writing and photography?
Morning laps of the sheep paddock, games with Bert going through the gate I leave open. This morning’s YouTube yoga comes back; meditation on community and surrounding myself with people who too create their own rhythm. People who don’t think they’re doing me a favour in offering ideas on jobs and career. Because with this morning’s laps of the sheep paddock, I saw a theme through my interests. What I was creating when Mum would call me to dinner, how I dived into the Paspaley history, how I arrange my homes, how I create movies in my head.
Stories.
“Take the time to meditate on what you want and who you want to be.”
I started washing my hair again using shampoo bars. But it became greasier and I needed to wash it every second day.
Two days running I have seen a crow take flight from the chicken’s house with an egg in its mouth.
Remember, live the life I believe—the only truth. And write about this. Write about positivity and hope. Be the change. Don’t react to family’s obsession with ‘good jobs.’ There is no race. Maybe it’ll be another ten years, twenty years, fifty years ,never, that something can come from my thoughts and the stories I create with my thoughts.
Respond not react.
My paintbrush strokes back and forth back and forth, Clare Bowditch’s voice comes through my Marley speaker. She explains her awakening and the importance of the stories we tell ourselves. Your Own Kind of Girl gives the tale of becoming her own artist within. In her early struggle, Clare also had a life-altering experience with reading a book of similar context of changing your thoughts and changing your world.
“You’ve built that narrative in your head,” Tony had told me. The cruelty in this statement was his presumption of the narrative I had created.
Clare recognises that other voice in your head telling you we aren’t good enough. Telling you that you’re kidding yourself, that you aren’t anything. Clare called him Frank and created FOF – Fuck off Frank. I have come to see my heart as wiser than my brain. That the voice from my head talks with defence and attitude. She is Sass. And when she’s loud I won’t tell her to Shut the fuck up. No, I’ll tickle her until she leaves my heart to talk with instinct.
Another health quest: losing the extra winter weight from inside days and lonely time. I thought with today being cooler (20 degrees) and with my period due next week, that I’d find myself moping and gorging. No. I’ve powered through yoga, buckwheat porridge, town errands (buying a $27 fish), cleaning floors, singing and strumming my guitar on the verandah, touching up paint, making salad, writing.
—
Andy and I take the camper for a drive. We park out the front, he checks under the bonnet to the loud noise when I use the air-conditioner. I go inside for the toilet. “SARAH DAN IS ON TV,” Mum shouts. I change routes to the couch. We watch on the edge of our seats; I’m confined to rural Victoria and will be able to see my Melbourne friends at the end of November at the earliest. The roadmap out is annoying but totally understandable.
Blanketed as Australia, Victoria will receive no federal aid. Brutal. Fuck I hate Scott.
A hot day for this time of year. 28 degrees. In the morning, walking from Lock 11 toward Apex, a long brown snake crossed my path. On the return walk, it was a stumpy tailed lizard. Now, at home, it’s the howling wind. The bare vine outside the window of my middle room sprouts green . Amongst the sprouting green, Wilma Wagtail sits on her nest. I stretch. The Willy Wagtail’s frantic chirping sees me running towards more of those evil birds who creep closer toward the nest.
New obsession: tiny house and alternative living videos on YouTube. I sense the future.
RN on the radio as I drive back from town. Population can be handled. We can live with 20 million in a smart, eco way. But if that were five million in our normalised Western selfish ways, then it isn’t going to work.
Anton and his extroverted passion. He calls himself an artist and God how he is an artist with all the work he produces. He “makes books” he says. Some are self-published and some are through a publisher.
Then the weekend comes and not much else is going on and so I eat (although I also bake the whole snapper and it’s bloody delicious).
Castlemaine also not the best place to write. I’m bored…wow haven’t heard that for a while.
The test of calm at Dad’s. The opinions of Sass with excess drinking.
Dad’s idea of having fruit is from a plastic container.
Spending spending, so often I’m spending spending. Purchasing at the Vintage Bazaar, making lists in my head of what more to buy—socks, skirt, bathers—before not having to spend besides necessities like quality food.
Guilt, in a sense. I want to please and feel at ease. I drink and eat food I had cut out. But it’s complicated to explain it to Dad.
Burping after gluten.
Dad continues to ‘hate’ a lot, grunting and swearing over small things. It’s smoother sailing when I commit the day to hanging out, jeopardising my writing and personal pursuits.
He is my Dad, but this is not my life. I don’t need to bend it to make it mine.
Change is showing up day after day, small failure after small failure, chipping away.
Melbourne’s going well with its cases. My friends can start seeing each other so soon. I remain on the outer—where I had already mentally placed myself—so eager to see them and feel them and laugh with them. But now, JobSeeker bonus goes down on Sunday and I am still not allowed out of the state. The government’s aim is to get everyone into jobs.
Ruth B-Ginsberg died. Mum and I watch a doco and note her smart execution. She’s described as an intense listener, then quietly (and so powerfully) using her skills for change.
In the plaza I see the fat kids and the fast fashion. There are sale signs and no sunlight. I feel like I’m floating. In the mall, in Burrows Jewellers, the back of a girl looks like Nayna Purchase. When collecting my watch, I give my surname. The girl turns around and gently walks to me; it’s Nayna Purchase. “Hi Sarah,” she says in the most delicate and sincere tone—the only tone I’ve ever known of Nayna Purchase. “Hello,” I say, questioning my memory. As we have a polite back and forth, I learn she’s taking a break from being a GP to do anaesthetics. When I tell her I do bits and pieces, my body grows tight and my throat gurgles. After, walking along the renovated riverfront, I ask Mum if she looks people in the eye as she talks. “If someone doesn’t give me eye contact I think it can signify that the person doesn’t trust what they’re saying,” Mum answers.
I hadn’t looked Nayna Purchase in the eye.
—
Pizza café box on my lap, the swiftness of the Kia, tilting my head to the back window. The pink jet trail blazes through the glowing full moon; pink dust floating in a topaz sky. Man’s conviction. Women’s suppression. Feminine energy. The true power we can release to better this world is only starting. I’ll keep practising self-love and compassion.
The stories we tell ourselves.
What I’ve enjoyed of Corona is not having the fear of missing out. I am grateful for this time of isolation, where I can have mornings sitting on the verandah practicing guitar and singing badly. Where I can do an hour of yoga without YouTube and make my breaths like the ocean. Where I can sit next to the sunshine and eat berries and quinoa and a green smoothie.
“Everything you think you become.”
At day’s break the bulging bright moon flickered through the grapevines and gumtrees. This year, the change of seasons has intensified. It is making me more alive. Yesterday was the first day over 30. There came no cold evening itch and I slept in a singlet with the fan on and the middle shutters open. It was the day before daylight savings began.
Beady eyes in an orange face leer above the mask. He is walking from a helicopter, waving, hunching over an unnaturally manicured White House lawn. He’s infected with coronavirus and greed. He’s talking more from his arse, a violent diarrhea on life as a rich white American male.
As his list of crimes against humanity grow, we can only hope Trump turns out as one of Hollywood’s biggest production.
Meanwhile, I look in the mirror and notice I have stretch marks. How long have they been there? Has anyone noticed? Did I get that fat? Will my grandchildren’s lives be affected by this?
*Excessive watching of the news is dangerous because it paints such an ominous view for the world. Excessive consumption of social media and publications is dangerous because it paints an ominous view of self. “Oh, she was such a great person. Not a stretch mark or wrinkle on her whole body. She lived a life with no emotions.”
To find my tribe, my person, publication.
Fingers and lips blackened by mulberries.
To shed light on the madness of society.
Listen, but do not preach what you hear.
Time in trees.
What I need.
The rest stems from there.
Searching for: kindred spirit, editor and designer.
I go to sleep on a 35 degree night near naked, the fan gently spinning. I wake to rain, wind, and grey skies; it’s ten degrees outside. I know the secret to success. Being good at something is many many hours of practice and perseverance. The secret to smart and successful people is perseverance. Knowing they must consistently work to build a new skill. So I read, I read and I read. Because, like with my conversation with Mia about realising the lyrics of songs after thrashing it, my mind subconsciously absorbs information.
“Concentrate every minute like a Roman—on doing what’s in front of you with precise and genuine seriousness, tenderly. And on freeing yourself from other distractions,” Marcus Aureluis.
On the couch, all cosy with coffee and Sarah Wilson’s This One Wild and Precious Life, I’m in the chapter on possessions/consumption/waste. I think, with what I have now I shouldn’t have to buy anything for years. And I won’t. I’ll save for my family’s home and we can live an invaluable, beautiful, simple life surrounded by trees, water, bare feet, fresh food, a large wooden table to share meals with our community, lots of reading, and love. So much love.
“…an ode to getting lost. That is, lost in the sense of being deliberately open to the Unknown, to consciously join a society of strangers.”
“Heroes get a calling into the unknown, to leave the familiar and find out what they don’t yet know they don’t know. They question themselves, resist leaving familiar shores, but then they get bizarre help along the way that keeps them going. At some point in their journey they confront a mirror, unconditional love, and other challenges that demand they surrender. Eventually some sort of death happens and through this death, knowledge is finally obtained. The hero determines their own ending.”
The neighbour next door is spraying Round Up. The neighbour next door used to spend all his time spraying his grapevines. The neighbour next door had cancer the size of a football in his stomach. The neighbour next door sold his grapevines, and now he sprays Round Up.
I close my eyes and the dewy morning sun sears my face. When I open my eyes, the garden is dulled by a blue haze. I feel like I’ve smoked a million cigarettes despite smoking only one with three beers and a scotch. I close my eyes, his hand entwines with mine, our bodies give electricity and we breathe together. I open my eyes, the part that wants to be in Melbourne is Sass, she’s always thought that the more friends she has the more merit she has.
I’m starting to get little bumps on my once-smooth skin. And after years of really burnt legs, the slightest bit of sun sends them on fire.
Rediscovering old photos. Childhood to teens: my weight fluctuates, my mood fluctuates. I’m looking indifferent, I’m looking bossy. I’m vivacious. Before the days of trying to emulate or trying to pout, I’m naturally contemplative. My curls are tight.
Rediscovering primary school Sarah. My directedness, my unintentional questioning when something didn’t sit well. On an A3 piece of paper my classmates say I’m funny, good at sport, nice, a good friend, smart. But mostly funny. And to my surprise, my passion for writing was there:
On Sunday morning, down the river, we walk from Lock 11 to Apex, the water is a disco of sun rays, we say Good Morning to everyone. Well, nearly everyone.
A couple came towards us. She was short, holding a dog’s leash. He was a little taller than her, around my height. He wasn’t wearing a mask; his mustard shirt was my favourite colour. We pass. I look up, he’s aiming for my gaze. He has black hair and as he replies to the girl, I see gaps between his teeth. The recognition happens at the last moment. It’s Mick. The first guy I (thought I) loved as a blonde haired, fake tanned, 18 year old. Our relationship was built on song lyrics. I loved him for being him. But he had a family. And he broke my heart.
It’s that week of iso when everyone is over it and my cabin fever is real. I lounge at home in the heat and my underwear. It’s a Tuesday and we’re half pissed picking mulberries. I’m happiest up the mulberry tree.
Like with all my leaps, a foreboding sense of doubt plagues me in the before. Sass questions my ability, takes hold of my mind and paints a picture of being out there alone. But the heart knows there’s connection and community out there too. And it’s not physical space I seek, but a place within. My space, with my camper, water, trees and writing.
Another Dan Andrew’s announcement today. Two more cases. I just want to know when I can see my loves, but there’s no word on that.
—
Morning is bright, yoga is strong, rejection comes from a vintage job I didn’t want. Mood spoiled; I listen only to music on my walk as my legs sweat in trackpants. Sometimes it feels like the world is spinning and I’m in the centre of it. I’m watching myself walk the river track, reminiscing to my late teenage years, a time that has been brought to me to heal. The girl in Clove introduces herself. I want to curl up and eat lots of food, acknowledge my fickle relationship with rejection. I’m bored. I’m ready for more. I’m waiting on something.
“Wanderer, there is no path. The path is made by walking,” Antonio Machado.
In my dreams it falls into place. P comes to me, lays with me, tells me he loves me, but he can’t look at me. In another part is a reaction, an understanding: my creative soul. In agreement I dance, not giving the slightest fuck to how I look, what people think, what I should be doing. I was being me. Uniquely me. Returning to my instinctive creative ways before my teenage rebellion took hold.
These mornings. I sit in the sunshine on the verandah with my notebooks and book. Bert sits in a tree’s shadow and stares at me, his lower jaw in motion. There are the familiar birds of the garden; returned colourful parrots being chased by myna birds. I enact lifting a shotgun and doing the environment a favourite in killing then. If I came back in my next life as a myna bird, I hope someone would kill me.
Alison is looking beautiful parked at an angle towards the corner of the verandah, the shadows cast over her square bonnet. She’s beckoning me forward; don’t be afraid.
The pull between my space and the road.
It’s half past midday. Quinoa, berries, coconut yoghurt, mad dashing, forgotten yoga. I come to the page and here I find peace.
Just want money toward my homespace.
When I start, ideas flow. Amongst all the muddle there is gold.
Taking time every day to work toward your dream.
Don’t be afraid to cross out, be wrong, own it.
With creating I accept the road bumps ahead. I accept that success comes with rejection.
I’m driven by endings and beginnings.
Denmark Mia on the phone: “I don’t want to sound like a hippy, but…”
The barking mad dog of next door is my 5:30 alarm. I don’t bother for more sleep; it’ll be a warm day. In the kitchen, making tea, doing dance slash ballet routines, Bert is in the front paddock looking toward my light. By the time I let the girls out, he’s by the pile of weeds, asking me for more food. “No, Bert. It’s brutal to butt a pregnant ewe out of the way. So, no, Bert…Bert, no...”
—
Another warm night, full on champagne and these weird meat ball things from Robyn Blackie’s. I woke to a nightmare and check the time: 2:55pm. The nightmare was about human interaction. I had been shunned by a more powerful female figure for writing used lyrics. When I pleaded my case, everyone stood back and watched. I was sure no one hated me, but no one did anything either.
Re-watch David Attenborough’s witness statement. The war on climate. The war with ourselves.
Re-wild the world.
The new releases in my e-book library are predominately on climate change. There is a growing urgency, particularly amongst in those who already know better.
What can I do? Where do I fit in?
To our selfish nature.
We need a deep fix. In a sense, we need our system to collapse. Not doomsday, but to be reminded of what we value and what we take for granted.
We in the West, we must reassess our priorities, reprogram our minds.
But I can’t preach, can’t blurt out my ideas as truth. They never are, never will be.
My intention and purpose.
Heal Yourself Heal the World.
But I won’t change the world. I’ll inspire other people to change it.
How do we change? Do we really have to wait for another government to be voted in? For the old to die out? People don’t want to know about all this heavy stuff going on with the world and climate. To give the message in subtle ways. For those who prefer the easy read.
To the feminine.
In the middle of the night, I confidently stumble through the darkness to the bathroom. The rain is the heaviest I’ve heard it on the tin roof. There’s a crash of thunder and a flash of lightning, I see the whole kitchen and living area. This home. Where I first lost myself, and where covid brought me back to rediscover myself. In hindsight, hormone imbalances have had a major impact on me. Puffy face, fatigue, moods, skin. And, I believe, a lot of this has been due to our modern diet and lifestyle.
It’s not hot, it’s not cold. There are clothes over our bodies. Mum shows Andy a house she’d been looking at earlier in the week. It’s in Muckleford, on an acre with four bedrooms. It’s perfect. “Of course I’ll live in it,” I say. “I mean, I’d turn it into the sort of sharehouse I want. But it’d be perfect because I could have a home base and pay rent to you while I save for my own.” In the time Mum messages the agents and waits to hear back, I paint a whole new world, a world of a home and people around me, a world I realise I want now.
But the house is sold.
Inflamed Monday morning, the 26th of October. From hot back to cold. I put on the jumper Mum knitted and my vege thread trackpants. I grind my coffee beans and take the cup I bought from The Mill into the middle room. The peridot candle dances to contemporary classical. Through the shutters is an abundantly green vine and rain. My stomach is rounded by yesterday’s bread and wine gorge. But I know by now. I know better. But I don’t hate myself. For I have come to cherish this relationship.
It’s dusk. Mum looks out to see if the pregnant ewe is still off alone. Instead, she notices one limping. She goes out. I change to my boots and follow. There’s a big piece of wire around her belly. The flock are startled, dramatically running around the first paddock as we try work what to do. We get them into the pens. Three are fenced in, the pregnant one being most panicked. The ewe with the wire is protected by the other two. We don’t have the strength between us. Mum goes for Kyle and Yvonne. It’s near-dark as I grab the wire and Kyle uses his testosterone to pin the ewe down. We cut her free and the three sheep dash back to the flock. Bert is there, calmly looking to us. When we stand and talk with Kyle and Yvonne, I feel alive in the burning cold of my cheeks. Spring came and now winter has returned with a vengeance.
Perplexity to the media: Dan delays restrictions and now he’s ‘under fire.’ We’re so fast moving, so demanding, so needing of someone to blame.
One point five weeks before period creative inspiration comes strong. Then the afternoon hits with craze. I’m eating, avoiding, daydreaming. I cut laps of the sheep paddock and Bert barely blinks an eyelid to me walking so close by him. On the last lap he’s by the gate and I tell him I’ll go get him some watermelon. Back outside, sheep bucket in hand, I stand at the gate and Bert walks right up to me. I stretch out my arm with a piece of watermelon and he takes it.
In the night there were two nightmares with bad feelings and bad impressions from other people. Getting close to a guy with a girlfriend. Staying up all night taking drugs. A pregnant Shev telling me I smell. I lay on my back gripping my sore stomach as I recall them. What could it be from? Bread over the weekend? Too many mulberries? My kimchi? I half-sleep until Mum leaves. I check my phone; 7:33am. I’m in a strange mood and worried on why Rachel stopped replying to me. But the new batch of Kimchi is working a treat, so much so that when I opened a jar it exploded everywhere.
Dark clouds trap the heat; a quaint sensation. I creep closer to my period and lose my zest, putting off yoga and clicking into internet sites. A blowfly jumps around my roof. I sit down to write, sipping my green and liquorice tea. I play Mogwai and switch to my Home diary. The change is becoming desperate. We need thoughtfulness and compassion.
“What are you here for? What are you living for? We’re here to do something, and it starts from being able to listen to that little voice inside,” Nimala Nair.
Meditation comes again with the end of ‘Healing,’ which tells me it’s a combination of rituals—diet, support, being active, what thoughts you choose—which in turn are signals you tell your body. This morning I make a green/calendula tea, let the chooks out, pick some mulberries, and meditate for 7:22 minutes.
Meditation means
Become familiar with
Because we cannot give others
Something we do not have.
Fourth consecutive day of zero cases. It’s a hot morning; I’m barefoot and in short sleeves. Mum and I mulch, clean the front verandah, pick mulberries. I make banana and strawberry smoothies. As I was using the pressure hose, I thought again to the coming year’s dedication to working/savings. Unable to envision work, I think of the commitment to writing both for the sake of the world, and myself. “Close your eyes and visualise the actions for what you want.”
I can make money with writing.
I will return to Western Australia.
When I read that restrictions are lifting and Victoria will be whole again come 11:59pm 8th November, my eyes water in happiness and my mood lifts.
Andy and I attach the camper and go for a cruise. It feels good. It feels natural. We go to 27 Deakin for lunch. Eight months ago, we were there when I first returned from the West. Since life has been paused, re-evaluated.
US elections on the TV, radio and newspaper. Andy leaves for NSW and I step on a piece of glass. I have a shower with soap nuts and apple cider. I swing my hips singing and laughing. I step out with a change of song—Moby to Nick Cave. I grab my brown towel and that giant moth that had been on my denim jacket flutters out. When it comes to rest above the door, I revisit its eyes. Later, the tractor spraying in the night is haunting. Seeing the moon through the fly wire as I make a midnight toilet trip is uplifting.
Dad is generous and accommodating. He avidly reads the newspaper and does word games. Reading another old diary, Rachel had said my deep passion can come across as aggression. I think; like Dad. But I’m working on it. Simultaneously feeling my way through the lump that comes in my throat when dealing with others. Because if I get over myself, I can be articulate and make reason.
Programmed called! They should be able to get me a job. Now I’m buzzed and it’s a beaut day for a meander. Taking Cheryl for a walk, she wattles. Castlemaine people seem so friendly, so naturally open. I admire the same pink flowers Dad has in his garden.
Dad recounts telling Liz about the book he’s reading on the O’Loughlin history. “There’s thirty pages on horseracing and it’s boring,” he says.
A good editor would cut that down to six, Liz tells him.
Check the news check the news check the news. No new president.
Sunshine morning. Biden is over the line.
Excitement bursts as I follow the signs to Melbourne. There is lots of green, lots of blue skies, and few cars on the road. I cry with happiness.
—
I wake before six, having spent much of the night sleeping peacefully on my back. Before hoping out of bed I did seven minutes of meditation, topless in Melbourne’s warmth.
The radio is playing, the morning sun streams through the sunroom not yet full of plants but still so sweet. Josh sings in the shower, I make us chai.
The city skyline is so familiar as we ride to Ed Gardens. I take photos with me eyes.
Lying on the grass with Cass and Josh, full on falafel, it was like I was already watching my memories. The solid trees, the same birds as Mildura. When Annie came, she was so clear. I was happy to be there, until Josh and I smoked cigarettes out of habit and the ride home up St George’s inclination nearly killed me.
Another warm, overcast morning with the rumble of traffic and Josh in the shower. Melbourne has that Melb feeling, but most people are wearing masks and you can have only two friends over. The drive to Cass’s in Carlton made me vow to not drive there again—Lygon was clogged—although thankfully My Island Home played on Triple R and it had returned to perfect weather. At Cass’s, I turned my nose up to the stale sharehouse scent and the pokey kitchen. I’ve been seeing the same house in a different way for ten years. On the phone to Rachel, she tells me she might have breast cancer and water flushes. Cass's housemate comes out of the outdoor toilet. Cass and I eat egg on toast and I’m chatty and picky. We walk to Walkens, we drive to Warrandyte.
I wove through the streets from memory and came to the markets easily. The sky has been asphalt all morning. Locking my bike up, gone were the jittery, abrupt movements. I didn’t think about people looking at me or noticing me until some did a double take. I reached for the mask in my bag. There were old men sitting out the front of old coffee shops. In the over-priced organic store, I strolled, not caring on time. In the bustling fruit area, social distancing was hard to follow. An announcement came and trumpets began. Realising what it was, I stopped. Within seconds, the whole of Preston market had stopped. There were young and old, fat and skinny, tall and short, from nations and races all over. For the minute’s silence I watched a city emerging from Coronavirus lockdown, honouring the real sacrifices of those who brought us to where we are today.
I bounce between.
Jacqui has Chloe asleep against her chest as we walk in Royal Park. The rain washes the city grime from the air.
When I drive to Annie’s the light is like a rainbow and I wind down the back streets in a stream of cars. Dinner is delicious and cordial. We limit the wine and don’t smoke cigarettes anymore. When I leave, I impromptuly go to Sunshine.
P is chirpy with beers. We never stop talking, slowly edging towards each other. His hair is thick and speckled with grey and he’s one of the most handsome men I know. We’re both wearing ice blue underwear—always some way in sync. But we are tragic love hugging tight. In the morning he withdraws, plagued by the neighbour who is harassing him. We don’t go to the beach, don’t make breakfast. I return to Reservoir.
I bounce between.
Soph and Reahan live at Patty and Beth’s in Coburg now. At dinner, Humphrey’s tail dusts under the table as he begs for Mexican. There’s another couple there; he’s a writer. I sleep in the study, Beth’s books piled next to the spare bed. She works hard, she struggles. My tummy gurgles from too much rocky road.
Sunday morning rain on the high windows of Luce and Ahmed’s in Prahan. My back hurts. There had been a message from P cancelling our plans. I’m tired. Sass wants to pull me down. I fight my way back, unsure of what I will do.
Dear World, at the beach. Does someone exist to walk alongside, creating our own beat? Does someone want what I want? The wind and the waves. I want to dip, I want to leave. Something has zapped my good city vibes. The pull between the past and walking tall into the future. Still, even in my withdrawal, I laugh and smile more than I ever have in moments of rejection. "Talk soon,” he’d said. But maybe we’ll never talk again.
The day winds down much better than it wound up: eating my third lot of fish and chips for the week, watching my hat blow over the edge down to Jan Juc. We speed up and slow down amongst the hordes of people returning to Melb. It’s the first weekend since the ring of steel came down. I’m salty and I’m clean, constantly chatting, sometimes trying too hard to give stories that trump.
I sleep well on another grey couch. Lights come in from the commission blocks and streetlamps, and the room is clean and decorated in mid-century. Everyone seems to be leaving around Christmas and New Years. I don’t know what I will do, I don’t want a dirty night; I want a fresh morning.
The feeling of judgment—What does she do with her days? Why won’t she leave? —is waning. When I see myself edging toward insecurity and paranoia, I stop and make hummus, tidy all my things, prepare to leave. Nobody really cares what I do; they care what they do. I know what I’m doing.
The book I’m reading is based in Ethiopia in the olden days. I think the book won awards. I can see how it would win awards, literary awards. But there are a lot of words to describe little. I don’t want to write books for awards, for the judges, for that world. I want to write them for the people, for my people, my audience.
Turning into the Koorlong driveway, I don’t want to be here. In saying that, I feel this is where I’m meant to be. I will scan photos.
Despite eating too many of my date balls last night, which gave me a sore stomach and made me fart, I did the same today. I’m not in a great mood, I SCREAM at the flies.
I walk out into the misty heat calling Bert’s name. On the grass near the veggie garden is a pigeon’s feather.
It’s to be 41 today. I sleep through the night in my soft SUKU sheets and the air con pumping. The morning is cold from the air con. But we will let it be cold before heat haze steals the day. I visit the four new chicks and don’t recognise Bert with his new haircut. I’m scanning photos by 7am.
It took all day to really warm up, the car telling us 32 degrees as we drove to Bunnings at 2pm. Afternoon beers perked me up and then sent me crashing to an irritable mood with chicken drumsticks. There’s that foreboding sense, my thirst for space. Work hard, save for a home. Get it published.
The change was blown in with a storm. We stood on the verandah with dust in our eyes and those white fluffy things floating in the air. The wind made the onion weeds like waves in the sea. The storm was short and now it’s cooler. It’ll be back to the forties by the end of the week. It’s still November.
Yesterday, when we got out of the car at the Castlemaine nursery, the bird shit on the back of Dad’s car was “bullshit.”
Helping in the garden is my rent. Dad takes the lead in moving rocks but when it comes to the planting, that’s my realm.
Feel flustered because Dad’s drinking wine and wants me to join but I have stuff to organise.
Sitting at the dinner table, Dad and Angela indulge in good old fashioned pessimistic conversation. “How many hours do you usually work a week?” I ask Angela.
“Well, in lockdown I was doing about sixty to eighty.”
“Sixty, woah man, that’s crazy.”
“It can be, but I like working all the time. I don’t know what I’d do with myself otherwise,” she says.
“As you’d want to be,” Dad pipes in.
“Huh? Why would you want to be working that much,” I wonder.
I’ll never forget how hard Dad used to work, or how he hated his job, and how he had a stroke so young. When I go from my stretcher to the toilet, Dad has turned off the TV and is retreating to bed (it’s 8:30pm). He is sitting next to Cheryl on the couch, gently patting her and whispering sweet nothings. Walking back into my room from the toilet, I run straight into Dad placing Cheryl on the stretcher. This, this isn’t bullshit.
We hit the freeway; traffic is slow. “I haven’t read your story,” he says.
“Doesn’t matter.”
But it’s been four month and it does matter. I don’t have his support.
There were so many butterflies on the walk down to his surf spot.
On the drive home we were quieter. I thought I had got my period. He was choosing music. “That was you that we cruised around and listened to Julia Stone?” he says.
“No. That wasn’t me.”
In Sunshine he wanted to do his own thing and I was again left lost and trying too-hard. I was a burden.
Our last exchange was distant. When I left, there was no moon to look at. I cried and I cried. I can’t see him again. Because I love him and he doesn’t love me back.
In Coburg I bought wine and chocolate. Here, I give up on love. I’ll be in a relationship with myself, wine and chocolate.
How beautiful the world can seem. How easily I can switch and despise that beautiful world. I get angry, lose hope, and the negativity of the news makes it all the worse.
Our phones are listening to us. The songs I’ve been singing are now appearing in my Time Capsule on Spotify.
I created a Hinge profile but get nowhere. I look at my profile: is that even me? Lots of likes, but no bites.
Another new skin tag. Aging. Feeling flat. Most uninspired I’ve been in eons. There is much going through my mind, but I have no words. I am doubting the winery. I want to go back to WA. Maybe I just need to go with my heart.
Gemini full moon: let go of what no longer serves you.
Should I go or should I stay? It’s uneasy, this floating. It’s tiring, constantly moving. I want security, stability and Sarah space.
Started eating sugar again and lost it all—I am a sugar monster.
Age spots appearing by day.
Josh and I move the bar outside. It’s sunny in the sunroom. The mood is always jolly here. I adore Josh’s company, he has the best heart out of everyone I know. When he goes for breakfast, I’m left confused. Treading water, treading water. Last night in my dream I was barefoot in the North of Australia. If only I could take my friends with me, away from this city where I should always be doing something more.
—
There’s so much love in the conversations. But Cass is anxious. We lay in my room and he kisses me. His kiss is soft. I stop him, tell him we shouldn’t. He lies back and I go to kiss him again. His kiss is soft. Cass, Josh, Alex and I sit in the sunroom. I notice the birds begin their chirping. It’s morning. The sun is with us as Josh and I are outside having our last cigarette. I look to the tomatoes; they’ve grown overnight.
—
By Friday I’m still sleeping until 8:30. But today the sun is shining, and I have more get up and go to organise…life…so then I can settle to write about the present instead of the future. In this present, Melbourne gives me that feeling of it being a Friday night and wanting to do something, be part of something, whatever that something is. But also, I’m happy to stay in and read and ignore my internal pressure.
The middle of December. An overcast, top of 18 day has me reading in bed until I make a coffee at ten. Last night’s mango daiquiri stirs. Small steps today, working towards simplicity. Have been finding myself making excuses on the camper. But I just need to finish it. I want it. I need that space. I know this already.
Quarter to eleven, still in bed. One of those times when money troubles build. Car. Phone. Rego. Manuscript assessment. Man it takes me so long just to write one email—talking with Denise, I think I’m a little embarrassed for the girl who wrote that story.
When I first open my eyes to the open window and warm air, the light is still tinged with night. There are high clouds in the sky that look like braids. It’s 6:20. Not getting to sleep until eleven, I haven’t quite had my eight hours. I close my eyes. I stir again, it’s 7:15.
The kitchen is cleaned and organised, my mustard card table still in the middle. Josh and his jellybeans are making a salad. We Namaste. Josh tells me how excited he is with his busy social calendar and work. I tell him that’s why he hasn’t been so hungry. Whereas for me, yesterday I kept eating because I was bored. Although I haven’t had a breakout in weeks. I think how comfortable I feel in this limbo, how calm I feel within. I make a calendula tea and take my sunburnt legs from yesterday’s ride to the mustard card table. I don’t know what’s ahead, I don’t know if I’m excited for it. But I need that income for my home.
Midday riding to Brunswick Street is windy and stuffy, heat radiates from the concrete and asphalt. Crossing Alexandra Parade the smell of fuel was dizzying. I yearn for the country. For the cool of the forest, for the sounds of the forest, for love in the forest, for shade in the forest.
Sydney Road on a Friday night, a vibrancy returned, Mia and I full on Tiba’s. Bars and restaurants spilling to the streets; the colour of the skyline is the colour of the people. Some shops wear masks, some shops don’t wear masks.
—
A night cap bike ride in shorts and t-shirt. Cruising down Gilbert with the dimming sky, the hot summer air soft on my skin, my Amsterdam racer smooth without need for peddling. The ice-cream from the ice-creamery in my old neighbourhood is creamy. I am full on a wholesome day; from the bike rides to breakfast, to the invigorating water of Warrandyte, quenching beers, and a sudden snooze on my back in a darkened spare room in Reservoir. There was no resentment, no yearning for more. There is so much love, even in a crowd who increasingly talk of botox.
When asking the Universe for something, I have too many things to ask for. And what I think I need most changes often. When it is not clear what you want, how can you get what you want? First, I need to get someone to help me on the camper. Cass would be good at this. Next, I need someone to drive to Denmark or Broome with. Next, I need income. And I think, for example, to spend, for example, six months exploring and six months working. Because I need the exploring to produce my work.
I want to ride to Naturally on High but from where I sit at my mustard card table in the cool of the kitchen, I can see the glare. There’s a serious bite to today’s sun. It’s predicted to rain and storm later. My poor skin.
IN MY CHILDHOOD I CAN’T REMEMBER THE SUN BEING SO SCORCHING. THERE WERE ALWAYS SUNBURNS BUT NOW IT SEEMS SO BRUTAL. IN MY CHILDHOOD I CAN’T REMEMBER THE HEAT BEING SO FIERCE, BECAUSE NOW I HAVE TO COVER UP UNTIL THE MOMENT THE SUN SETS.
That night, another redhead at the Wilson Street Christmas party agrees about the Sun. She feels it too. It’s harsher and harsher, our skin struggling to keep up with climate change. This was early in the night. When I was still in control of my sentences.
Later I closed my eyes and my world was spinning. Food and three bottles of Prosecco gurgling and gasping until it was in the bucket. I can’t remember passing out. I can’t remember waking. But my throat was a desert and there was a water jug beside me, and a cup on Mia’s desk. In my pumpkin g and nothing else, I reached for the cup. With only Mia, I didn’t care for my exposed body. I gulped the water. A hand tenderly caressed my arse. “How can I have some water babe?” I turned around and Bradley Cooper is in his black leaning up in bed. Mia is passed out between us. He climbed over and brought his body to mine. He was stale with cigarettes, alcohol and sweat. I’m sixteen again.
Give my weird freely and the right person will understand it; that someone to be wild and complicated with.
Once you see it you can’t unsee it. The strangeness of what we accept without question. These priorities, this perspective, our consumption, the misbelief of beauty from the outside in.
I go to look at Vege Thread shorts and get distracted by pants. I start imagining buying them and wearing them until I realise, I have ones like this.
Got Insta back on my phone now I click into it all the time.
I’m reading Dictionary of Lost Words. When she has a baby, I can feel what it’s like squeezing the round cheeks. In that moment I want my home. I want to care for people and help and share.
Five days before Christmas, my dreams go to the end. They finish, complete, and wind around to the beginning. It was about something I had written. A long story. A book. The chapters were significant, detailed, and with that final sentence it all made sense. It was a good story.
This day brings happiness of solo sunshine in Castlemaine. With space to create, I do a slow yoga, eat fresh food and take Ashley’s orange flavoured mushie choc. This year, the concept of time has never felt so important and yet so meaningless.
“Listen to your heart, it knows what to do next.”
