Daytrips and Paddlesteamers

I've been working and living in a small town in Central Northern Victoria, right on the Murray River. The river forms most of the border between New South Wales and Victoria. It's part of a massive inland system, and used to be the highway for trade and transport. I remember watching a mini-series as a kid called All the Rivers Run. I loved the boats, and the scraggly dusty gum-tree Australian-ness of the Murray. It seemed harsh and tranquil all at the same time. I can't remember a damn thing about the plot of the series, but the main thing is that it left me with a desire to see the Murray, and a love for the Paddlesteamer - the main form of transport on this once mighty highway.



The town of Echuca was a busy port and crossing on the Murray - it's docks used to stretch for three quarters of a mile along the river banks. Only a small section remains, but there's quite a few paddlesteamers in operation as tourist boats from the dock area. Also, some are being restored for private use, as well as there being a few modern-day versions as private houseboats. Interestingly, some of the ones being restored were wrecks. As the industry died out, they were moored on the opposite side of the bank to docks, and abandoned. One by one they would have sunk. In the fairly recent drought times the river got to very low levels, and all these boats started emerging. They were preserved in the mud and water. Some got re-floated and restorations began.



That's the boat I wanted to go on, and did eventually. It's the PS Pevensey. She still has her original steam engine. Built in 1910 as a barge, she was turned into a paddlesteamer a year later, and carried cargo along the Murray. As trade died out, she was left to be a floating museum in the town of Mildura. But luck changed for this boat - she was restored to be the star of the series that made me fall in love with the Murray and paddlesteamers in the first place. She starred as the Philadelphia in All the Rivers Run. I had no idea that the steamer in the series was an original, let alone still operating.



This picture was taken while I was standing next to the loud and sweatingly hot muscle of the Pevensey's steam engine. I watched the man stoke it up, and was awed with the whole thing for a while. The paddlesteamer Etona, in the centre of the view, was and still is a missionary boat, a floating church. It still sports the cross above the wheelhouse to show what it is. On it they would perform things like christenings and marriages. I can just imagine it - hey hun, let's get married next time the boat comes past - whaddaya reckon?

I got one of my dreams - to be on a paddlesteamer on the Murray. I heard the steam whistles, I walked through what remained of the docks, felt my feet on the rickety planks and looked down through the cracks to the muddy water so far below. I stood in constant amazement of this river that is so totally different to the ones I had grown up on. Scraggly, muddy and dusty, in the bare shade of the river gums. This is the Australia I've dreamed about but have only seen in movies.



Yes, it's Vic on the bow of the PS Pevensey with a dumb grin on her face and a section of the Echuca docks in the background. Next is Vic also, still wearing dumb grin, on the upper deck after being in the wheelhouse with the captain.

Mailbox Monday

Dear Ladies, Gentlemen, Non-specifically gendered, Midgets, Dolphins and all other intelligent life-forms of blogville,

For years I have not written a personal letter. Application letters, yes. Plenty of those – my technique must be pretty shocking because I’m still writing them and not hearing back. But personal letters… I fell into that bottomless pit of “I’ll just call”. I think the same has happened to far too many people. In fact, Dive had a rant about it not long ago.

I’ve been getting a few letters lately, and I’d forgotten the happiness that holding a personal letter can bring. These pieces of paper become fragile to me. I hold them gently and with total wonder. I smell them. I keep them safe once I have read them, and look at them frequently. It is a gift I need to pay out more often.

So I’m brushing off the cobwebs on the letter-writing skills. Mostly, my letters consist of drawn-out prattle about daily goings on, and a few questions about health and happiness of the recipient. Am I going to bore this person? I don’t know. Sometimes I have given up on a letter for that reason, with a re-read and the decision of “Vic, you sound like a self-centred prat.”

In conclusion, I hope this letter finds you all in good health (and probably a state of mild bemusement at this post). All the best for whatever activities you may choose to fill your day.

Regards,
Vic

Half-Nekkid Thursday

Happy Hallmark Horrorday

The big Murray Cod at Tocumwal says Happy Hallmark Horrorday to all.



I really should have the last pic made up as a card.

Mailbox Monday

I've been driving around in the country the last couple of weekends, doing my normal thing of looking for weird and interesting stuff.

Something I've always taken for granted is the random letterbox. Occasionally I'll notice one and think hey cool that one's made of plough discs, but I've never put much more thought into it than that. The mailbox has become a little more symbolic for me lately. It represents home in a way. A fixed address. I have a somewhat lengthy temporary address, rather than none at all, but my mailbox is a fading green velvet pinboard in a dining room that I share with a hundred or so backpackers and travelling workers. If I receive something that cannot be pinned on the board, it is an announcement from the human bullhorn who is our camp caretaker for the entire workforce to know that I need to get my arse to the office before it closes, if I want to collect my parcel. The ritual of checking the mailbox has lost it's personal touch.

So... I've decided to start a Monday thing for mailboxes. The Monday Melee got old and face it, I'm over thinking that much about what I hate first thing on a Monday anyway. Mailbox Monday it is. I even came up with a logo just for shits and giggles. Feel free to join in - just drop me a link so I can go look at your box...

It seems that out in this area (somewhere along the middle of the border of New South Wales and Victoria) most of the mailboxes for properties are welding experiments. Pieces of old stuff from around the yard slapped together and welded solid. Slap some paint on it and it becomes a personal feature that marks the entrance to your property.

Wonders:

Seven wonders of the world according to Vic:

#1 - The chance to see a tiny birds nest in the top of a pear tree from my orchard ladder. Beauty on a such a small, delicate scale.

#2 - That only once have I created a sandwich in which the filling was my lower lip, and the outer comprised of my teeth on one side and an orchard ladder propelled by a branch in high wind being the other outer. While I like the taste of others' lips, I do not enjoy the taste of my own at all.

#3 - I've existed for approximately two weeks without seeing one hill. Not even a mound. I get excited when there's a bend in the road now.

#4 - I am completely in awe of the fact that I seem to be the only female in the workers' camp that knows how to change a toilet roll. More on that later.

#5 - There are roughly three thousand pears in a 430kg plastic bin. An average picker will pick between four and five bins a day. Twelve to fifteen thousand pears per person, per day. Working on an orchard with around a hundred other pickers, this rate of production blows me away.

#6 - My inability to remember a towel when going to the shower block is a source of constant amazement.

#7 - The final wonder on the list is that tomorrow I will continue to put my body through another week of rough treatment, ignoring the rash on my forearm and plastering my feet with band-aids - all in the name of personal growth.

Stolen from Terroni

Where is your cell phone? Underneath my pillow. It functions as my alarm clock (with a couple of hits of the snooze button…)

Vehicle? Under a stand of trees, being neglected and shat on by galahs and magpies.

Hair? Sonic the Hedgehog revisited.

Father? Not a welcome part of my life any more.

Your favorite thing? Kisses, along the line of my neck near my collarbone. Particularly on the left side.

Dream last night? Pears, picking pears with sweat rolling into my eyes.

Favorite drink? Cold water in the hot sun.

Room you are in? Bulk accommodation on an orchard. The rooms are concrete cells with a door that has a solid lower half and mesh or the upper half. It’s like a stable without the straw.

Your ex? Which one? The scary anti-bi drag king? The verbally abusive drunk idiot? Or the boxassed homewrecking child of the devil?

You are? Bored. What do you do in the middle of nowhere in a stable cell in the rain?

What do you want to be in ten years? A human.

Who did you hang out with today? The person I talked to most was the slow-arse tractor driver – in an attempt to make friends so that he would look after me and make sure he moved my produce bin a little faster. Oh and the gang boss, because she likes me enough not to bother checking my work too closely.

What you're not? I’m not impressed with the rotting dead snake smell from the bins across the road from my stable room.

Muffins? It’s been a while, but alright.

One of your wish list items? A bedside table. Any sort of table.

Where is the ____? Bottle shop.

The last thing you did? Looked up weatherzone to see when the hell the rain was going to end.

What are you wearing? Bare feet and a jumper.

Your pet(s)? A couple of bull ants in the shower. They are there to greet me daily.

Your computer? Can’t live without it. I have a coathanger wireless connection – a complex little arrangement where I winch my wireless card into the air and jerk it a little higher every time the connection cuts out.

Your life? Expect nothing: Experience everything.

Your mood? Bored.

Missing? Being curled on my girl’s lounge, watching the must see DVDs with her beside me.

What are you thinking about right now? The flock of galahs I can see outside my stable door.

Your shoes? Caked in mud from the orchard. They were near new a week ago, but they’ll be stuffed in another month.

Your work? Hard, sweaty, lonely.

Your summer? 82% humidity, 34 degrees celcius. What do you reckon?

Your favorite color? It depends on the mood. I think I like most colours. Except peach. And stupid fluffy faffy washed out pastel pink. Oh and also light green.

vs. Tree and Ladder combined...

---------------- Accident Report ----------------

Location: Big-arse orchard in the middle of nowhere

Parties involved: Vic, orchard ladder, pear tree and approximately 20kg of pears in the picking bag strapped to Vic's chest.

Description of events: Vic mounts second highest rung of ladder in attempt to get bitchy pear from top of tree.
Ladder makes a leisurely exit toward the right of the picker, Vic.
Vic extends arms toward branches to the left and right and attempts to coax the orchard ladder to stay upright for just a minute longer.
Ladder disagrees and makes for the ground.
Vic hangs by arms long enough to squeeze out two perfectly clear swear words - Shit! .... FUCK!
Vic realises the only way is down and loses her grip on the tree.
Picker Vic finishes the plummet on her back, surrounded by pears from the bag on her chest and quite a few that got raked down by her outstretched arms, contemplating adopting the raking as a new tree stripping technique because damn it got the fruit off quick
Vic was relatively unharmed by the incident, scratches but no bruises.


Conclusion: Vic wishes for gauntlets.

What Next?

I just finished reading The Bride Stripped Bare. It’s the type of book that I would call bumfodder. Bumfodder is toilet reading material. Nothing in depth, nothing intellectually challenging and no vast complexity to the plot. You could quite happily pick it up every time you went to shit and put it down and walk away after the event. Clive Cussler is master of producing bumfodder. That’s not to say that I don’t like this kind of reading. It’s easy. The words flow in and out again as quickly as you turn the pages. It is time spent as an ultimate sloth – not moving, not doing, not even thinking.

What I didn’t like with this novel is the main character. I couldn’t identify with her at all. She was weak, basically. I think that not liking a main character really effects my enjoyment of the novel. If they aren’t a character who I would want to spend time with in person, why would I want to spend time reading about them? This character in The Bride Stripped Bare was not someone I would essentially dislike, but not somebody I would crave knowing at all. A person I just would not bother with.

I’m presented with the dilemma of having packed all my books into storage (where I won’t see them for at least another six months) and having a hell of a lot more spare time on my hands. That means I’ve got more time to read, but no more going back to the old faithfuls in my collection. It is time for a new author. This is a horror prospect for me, the person who can be in a movie store and waste the same amount of time it would take to watch a movie just wandering around the store trying to select one.

So I need suggestions. I love Stephen King to pieces – not for the horror aspect, though. It’s because he can make me laugh out loud while reading. Katherine Kerr’s fantasy series is fantastic and she should be jailed until she finishes it. Bret Easton Ellis is brilliant even though the characters are arseholes. That’s his point – they’re meant to be. I look upon Mills and Boon with total disdain. I loved the Da Vinci Code until the ending, which I thought was total shit.

What do I read next? Suggestions, anyone?

Fucking Americans!

Today I was rudely ripped off by the good ol' yanks. I could have played the world's biggest playable guitar. But no. I got to play the biggest playable guitar in the southern hemishpere, because some yank went and built a bigger one. Typical.

It's 5.82 metres long (no, you can't have that in feet, yanks, you've already beaten it anyway), 2.019 metres wide and the length of the strings to the bridge is 3.98 metres. I think the people of Nerrandera, where it is kept, are a little embarrassed by it now, because they don't seem to care for it very well. The neck is propped up on a filing cabinet and it's chocked up by a couple of bricks at the back end. The poor thing is in dire need of tuning.

I had a go anyway.

The Dish at Parkes

Part of yesterday's massive road trip saw me land at the Parkes Radio Telescope (aka big dish in a paddock). It was the focus of the Aussie classic film The Dish, which is historically inaccurate but brilliant regardless. According to the movie, Parkes was vital in recieving the television transmissions of the moon landing. Since the Parkes dish is a radio dish, it recieved the better quality transmission later, but the first pics were actually through a tracking telescope somewhere else in Australia.





I was standing there, looking at the immensity of it, and all I could really think of was a scene from the movie. I stood there thinking Sam Neill played cricket in that thing. Dammit, I want a go!

Wide Brown Land

Today saw me embark on an eleven hour drive that still did not get me to my destination. I was driving along, right foot cramping so much that I swapped and used the other foot for a while - when I realised something was different. What the hell is going on? I thought. The white line was still flashing by but something was very different. Holy shit - I'm ging uphill! There weren't many of those on the drive.


At a little place with about four houses and a railway crossing:




It appears the crossing may have taken a few casualties:



Look through the bug road toll on the windscreen and it seems that Dive's mates from Pommyland have come and influenced an entire shire with their cooking.



Yep. There really is bugger all out here.

On the Road Again

Two days ago my car Myrtle and I, loaded up with camping gear, a library of about two hundred CDs, and the absolutely essential laptop, embarked on the first leg of the adventure.

Where did I end up? Start laughing now...
Tamworth Country Music Festival.

Yep, they get 'em in nice an' young.

There were country hats everywhere. Leather ones, pink ones, sparkly ones with fluffy edges. You name it, some tryhard dickhead was wearing it.

The entire main street was closed off for buskers. You walk down the middle and it's an aural mixing pot of the lot of them all at once. I did it after hitting the town with a mate the night before, and hell was it a mistake. My head was already hurting, and then it was asaulted from all directions by 1/5 basslines and the occasional busrt of yodelling. How on earth does a child discover the talent for yodelling and succeed in being nurtured in the art, without being told to shut up and sing properly?

What I wanted to see was the people. I'll have to admit I've been to the festival before. It's a time where every single pub is open every night with bands on all through the day. I love that. If you don't like the music in one pub, you down your beer and walk on down to the next. I just love the fact that there is music everywhere. We'll skip on the quality of some of it, though...

But the people...

I have to admit to having a truly shit photography day. It may have been related to not being able to open my eyes to more than asian squint level. Or my pounding head. I wanted to sit around and take pictures of all the weirdness, but instead I just took it all in.

People carry camp chairs around to all the buskers, and if they like them, they set up camp and have a listen. It's all pretty laid back and easy going. There was a guy sitting on a swag, camp mug in had, reading poetry. Another, pictured here, was running a wood engraving market stall. He was nursing a guitar and on his head was a replica of a shed with a can of rum held onto it. On top of that was a chicken. A real one. He just went about his work engraving and ignored the bunch of people taking photos of him.

I spent some time sitting on a hay bale, listening to a family Jug Band. All the kids were involved and it was brilliant stuff. They were excellent performers. Then you move a little further down the street to find the Indian guy crooning along to a backing track... and walk a little faster, fearing for the safety of your ears.

Next on the list of experiences for music festivals is the East Coast Blues and Roots festival. Four days of absolutely everything. It costs an absolute fortune but I'm trying to get in as a volunteer. I hope to get there somehow, anyway.

Fuck it, it's a meme

Old Crone tagged me with a meme.

The rules of this meme are:

Link to the person that tagged you.
Post the rules on your blog.
Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.

So the deal is this:
I hate tagging others. Dive will probably have a go because the man can resist a meme as much as I can resist a beer.
Why do the things have to be unimportant? Fuck that. I can be a self-absorbed snot at times and I'm in the mood where everything about me is important.

1. The one thing I really am okay with about being a short little tyke is that breasts are at eye level for me. Oops. Sorry. You're up there.
2. Everything I know about nail care I learnt from men.
3. I lost all my sexual confidence when my girlfriend/fiance told me she'd rather cut her toenails than have sex with me.
4. My taste in ice-cream has changed. I am not so much a cookies and cream convert any more. Give me Rum and Raisin. Holy shit, am I turning into my mother?
5. I have not baked a cake, actually I don't think I've baked anything that isn't meat or vegetables since I was in primary school fo9llowing my mother's directions. It just doesn't interest me.
6. The best thing about doing the Monday Melee was that I could look up previous posts to figure out when my next period was due.

Letters to self

Maria has posted a letter - to her self as a seventeen year old. It's made me think, also. What advice would I give myself? If I could change anything, tell myself to snap out of anything, what would it be?

It's an interesting concept, but one I don't agree with. I have always been intrigued and ultimately confused by the concept of time travel and altering of the time line. It gets into the whole Star Trek concept of the Temporal Prime Directive:

"The Temporal Prime Directive is intended to prevent a time traveler from interfering in the natural development of a timeline. This can include altering events or informing those in the past prematurely to change an outcome."

It would be nice to change some things. It would be nice to realise that my ex is a box-assed life-sucking incarnation of the devil before I wasted my time on her...

BUT.

I am a product of my past experiences. We all are. Every single experience, good or bad, whether it is the break-up from hell or the out-of-date camembert experience that puts us in hospital, every single experience is a foundation for who we are right now, this very minute. I would not be in the place I am in, knowing the people I know now and being who I am without all these past experiences as a building block.

If I changed just one thing, that would all be different. A butterfly flaps it's wings in China and it rains in New York kind of effect. One small change and the echoes become increasingly larger. I don't want that.

Regret is pointless. I cannot change the events that have occurred in the past, and I believe that I should not be allowed to. The Temporal Prime Directive is about natural development - and that is what we all should experience. The only thing I have influence over is my own future.

So I choose to write a letter to myself, in the future:

Dear Vic,
Do not forget your experiences. Do not regret them.
Expect nothing. Experience everything.

What the fuck was the question?

Mediocrity

I sat down last night to practise some serious classical guitar. Practise of that type, for me, represents an intense need for escapism. I can potentially focus on technical work with a metronome for hours at a time. Although there is a gain involved, I do it for the total focus on that one task that closes the door to any other bullshit that may be going on.

I realised that I haven’t done practise like that for months, or with any regularity for years. Since the days of living with my boyfriend. I do a stint every now and then, but I my focus with respect to guitar seems to be circular. I go through a steel-string phase, then a jazz phase, then a song-writing phase, and whatever takes my fancy. Eventually my focus comes knocking back on the classical door.

Frustratingly, my ear has improved continually over this time. My ability is far behind it and that session of practise was far less of a release than it should have been. So many times I berated myself for not being able to do what I could hear. If I did not value my instrument so highly I would have been wearing it around my knee.

Is this my fate? It seems that I cannot focus enough to achieve my full potential in any one area because there’s so much else to do, so much else to occupy my attention. Am I doomed to mediocrity because of my own diversity?

Taking a jump off the deep end.

I played percussion in a D-grade brass band up until the Christmas just gone. It was my local band, run by a good friend. Basically, I joined two years ago so I could have an excuse to spend more time with him, as our busy paths rarely got to cross. I fronted up with very little previous experience and the expectation of hell, it can’t be hard – I’ve just got to hit stuff. It represented a massive musical learning curve for me over those two years. The main player got sick and I went from taking shitty easy parts to being stuck on the kit most of the time. The only practice I got was at the two-hour rehearsal once a week, and mostly I coped.

From time to time people travelling through would front up to band. They were welcome to come and sit in and play during the rehearsals. When I left town with the aim of travelling I thought I’d do the same, front up to a band in whichever town I was in a the time and have a play. This would keep my skills up and boost my sightreading. It’s with the aim of having a personality building experience to learn to front up to a totally different situation and rely on my skills musically to get me through.

It would have been easy not to do. I looked for a band in town yesterday and got a phone number. They told me when rehearsals were. It would have still been easy not to go. But no, I was determined to put myself into this new situation, with people and music that I’d never seen before.

I get there and the people are nice. I introduce myself to a few and promptly forget all their names, as I’m prone to do. The parts are handed out for piece and I stare blankly. Holy shit. This is miles beyond my capability. Not just miles. Miles upon miles, upon miles, stretching out to a whole ocean away from my current ability. This is not a D-grade band that I have fronted to. It is not, as I was hoping, a C-grade band that would push me a little further. It was a fucking A-grade band, rehearsing for the National championships. Holy shit.

I stayed. At the very least it was a chance to listen to a fantastic professional brass band. I had a hit, and actually did okay for some of it. If I practised my arse off I believe I could do it. It was pure adrenaline for me and the funny thing is I love it. I get onto a high of concentration with adrenaline where I’m in the rhythm zone and it all makes sense.

Ah well, I thought. At least I gave it a go. It was a good experience.

They asked if I’d be back for the next rehearsal. Sometimes the world just blows me away.

Not the hand of death

I karate-chopped a cockroach today.

The little fucker's guts were smashed onto the counter and it still tried to drag itself away.

I employed the Thong of Death instead. Multiple times. The 'roach will not be coming back to life this time.

Health kick = temporary blindness.

I was a water child. Back in those glory days of being a kid my parents would get a family season ticket to the local pool. I could get to it in a minute and a half on my bike, and was always trying for a better time. My aim was for under a minute. I can remember that ride so well…

towel on the shoulder
down the drive out the gate through the big ditch in the spot where you won’t get bogged jump the gutter onto the footpath on the bridge and belt it down the other side
pick your timing through the traffic on the highway belt up the hill and ditch the bike at the top on the fly sending it skidding across the dark concrete that burns your feet into the corner of the walls
up the steps throw your towel to the left as you go through the gate and launch yourself at the water

I would do this every afternoon. Sometimes there would be nobody else but me and the lifeguard, but I could fuck about in the water for hours on end, doing the things that kids do. Making up games, trying to sit on the bottom for as long as I could, swimming lengths of the pool with my breath held. Once a week there was a swimming club for kids and we’d spend the afternoon doing laps. I was so at home in the water. Goggles? Like hell! I did everything in the chlorinated water with my eyes open and it didn’t hurt a bit. Goggles were for old people, or the weak who couldn’t handle it. Maybe the chlorine is a factor in the deterioration of my sight. I hadn’t discovered the need for glasses at the time – that was later into teenagerdom.

Despite the activity I was a lard of a kid, and as I got into highschool the typical peer teasing caused me to stop liking going to the pool. I just wasn’t strong enough in personality to say fuck you, I want to swim, not pose. I avoided swimming in sport as much as possible (difficult because the school was right next to the pool I described earlier, and the entire summer program was spent at the local pool doing lifesaving) and because the popular group were all beach bunnies I avoided being seen on the beach like the plague. I hated the idea of going there just in case they’d see me and say something.

It’s taken twenty-seven years to say fuck you, I want to swim and now I’m in search of it. Yesterday I went to an ocean baths to chuck on some laps – part of the getting fit and healthy attitude that tends to pair with summer and nice days. I don’t often spend much time in the water any more, but all those old growing up habits are right there. I pulled a few laps of the baths, getting more and more comfortable with my stroke and breathing patterns. Then I opened my eyes under the water.


That’s when I had the realisation that no, I am no longer a kid in that small town pool so close to my parents’ home.

This was an ocean baths, meaning salt water.
ouch, DAMMIT
Since the deterioration of my sight, I have been a habitual contact lens wearer.
Oh shit, I’m blurry on the right hand side. DAMMIT

It would have been a funny sight, this chick in a pool by the ocean tipping her head all angles, poking about the edges of her right eye trying to find if a lens got washed into the back of it. DAMMIT. I don’t carry glasses in the car with me – I try to ignore their existence as much as possible – so I had to drive away with double vision, blurry on one side.

It’s time to get old, and go buy some goggles.

In the blood

I left my town to get away from the stuff that I felt was bogging me down. People, bad decisions, work, everything. It was a culling of sorts. An effort to evict some of the crap from my life.

Are you still going to teach? was one of the most frequent questions I heard before leaving.

It’s funny that when I think about it I have been teaching since I left high school. I actually started teaching my friends while I was still at high school. But when I get asked where I work, for some reason I always default to saying Oh, I work in a veggie shop. Come to think of it, I’d even split it when telling the flatmates where I was off to. It was always I have to go to work for the veggie shop and I have to go teach when I was off to one of the schools. I never called that work, even though it was my main source of income.

Am I still going to teach? I’m mad not to, financially. It’s good money for doing something I love, and do well. Seeing my students achieve leaves me proud and happy. But I left my town to get away. To start off by having a holiday from all the things that defined my life previously.

Interestingly, the first place I stopped and spent a length of time after the whole Christmas crap contained a boy who got a guitar for a present. Yeah, I’ll show you some things says Vic. Next thing he’s introducing me to his friends as his guitar teacher and I’m working with him almost daily. It seems that to teach is a part of me that I cannot ignore.

Getting back into the Groove

I came to Kate’s river to spend some time letting go of my past life in a town I essentially grew up in. To connect with myself again. I’ve been playing music, writing music and feeling music. I got my groove back. It’s been absent for quite a while – since I started to feel squashed by surroundings and for long periods before that as well.

The Groover is an integral part of my personality. If there’s music, I’m most likely grooving to it. That is, if I’m happy. Happy tends to be accompanied by an internal groove track that only I can hear– usually something similar to John Scofield’s Over Big Top or Hercules from Aaron Neville- and the groove defines the way I walk and move, because you might not be able to tell but I’m dancing. Watch my fingers and they’ll be moving. Watch my head. It will hint at a beat, or possibly my shoulders will. If my hands are not busy doing something, they will probably be drumming on my thighs. I won’t be standing still at all.

I don’t know which is better:
I’m grooving because I’m happy
or
I’m happy because I’m grooving

I think it’s a bit of both.

Personal Challenges

Beer. I love the stuff.

I've recently got into home brewing and it's been going pretty damn well. I haven't had any explosions or undrinkable brews. There was one that was close to being not very tasty - but to me that depends upon the level of desperation for the first drink. Once you're through the first few mouthfuls of the not-so-good one your tastebuds adjust anyway.

I don't discriminate too much. I've brewed from ginger beer (alcoholic of course) to stout. The stout I haven't tried yet, however I got a text message from a friend that I gave some to - she tried it last night and it gets an enthusiastic thumbs up. I love trying different things and when you can cut your beer tasting costs by at least a third by brewing your own it has to be a good thing.

That doesn't stop me from loving the pub scene though. I'm a beer whore. So when my sister's hubby Mike and I spot a Bavarian Bier Cafe on the seaside Manly wharf... We were up to have a go. They served it in steins! How could I say no?

Then there was the challenge...

You could get a one litre stein.

Again, how could I say no? Some people climb mountains because it is a personal challenge. This was my challenge.

Boots by the seaside

Yesterday I walked into the Beachside Sydney suburb Manly in jeans and steel-capped boots. It's summer, but I was headed for a job agency and wanting to look a little more like I wasn't on holiday. It was not a case of Where's Wally at all. I did not blend. I stuck out like a sore thumb.

This suburb has three main things - a wharf, a paved mall area, and a beach. Every half hour a ferry arrives and a shitload of people pile off it, and are then funneled through the mall area toward the beach. It's madness with sweaty bits. All with a uniform of board shorts and a tan.

But then there was Vic... Jeans and steel-capped boots.

It was an exercise in not caring of I fit in or not. I thought that being in the biggest city in this country, that I could wear what I want and feel no judgement from others about it. But no. I could imagine these people thinking what the hell are you doing at the beach in BOOTS, dyke bitch? in my mind and it was pretty damn annoying.

I'm being me, that's what.

And steel caps are pretty damn handy if anyone wants to get in my way.

Not heartless, but smart.

Apparently pop duo The Veronicas have refused to refund a booking deposit of $17500 for a charity do. And now they’re copping flack for it. Being made out to be heartless, with a headline in one newspaper – ”A pop betrayal”. The concert was being held to raise money for a boy battling a brain tumour, but got cancelled because they couldn’t sell enough tickets.

Oh what a sweet thing. A kid with a brain tumour. I had a mate in primary school who had a brain tumour and I didn’t see her getting any concert. There are so many charity concerts for different things now – but what makes a concert? Music. That’s your draw card. Crowd-pleasing music, from a live band. What organisers of these events don’t seem to realise is that musicians do it for a living. It is their occupation. Nobody else gets letters asking them to work for free for a week for some charity on a regular basis. The people organising these things seem to have stars in their eyes and no practicality any more. They’ve got their heads up in the do-good angelic clouds and expect everyone to throw money and free products at them because their cause is more deserving than the chosen causes of the rest of the do-good angelic cloud dwellers.

It happens all the time. About a third of the gigs I’ve played have been fundraisers of some description. And we got fucked over countless times, to the point where we usually asked for a booking fee up front. For reasons just like this one – the events were poorly organised and usually fell down on the advertising side. Heartless? No. Practical, yes. We knew where our wages were coming from. You have a booking for a charity do for months, and turn down fifteen better offers for that particular date and then the do gets cancelled because of lack of interest. Whose fault is that? Not the people who’ve donated and lose out. Not the people who need to make a living at the end of the day.

Why don’t we have a Doctor’s charity week? Where you can go see your doctor and they will donate their earnings for that week to charity instead. Or Plumber’s charity week? Get the blockage in your pipes fixed so we can fix the blockage in this kid’s head!.

Maybe there should be a charity for traumatised musicians who’ve done too many charity gigs.

Half-Nekkid Thursday

I've left so much behind. This photo was taken the morning after I hit the road for destination uncertain, armed with a tent and a swag and a few other bits. I hit the surf at dawn and it was a rough, cold awakening into my new world. I left me utterly shocked but eventually refreshed. Bring it on, I say.

Dyke with tent!!!

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Warning: Emotional Shit

I've packed all my gear into storage and left town. Headed for the ... "sanctity" ... of the parents' house.

Har-de-fricking-HA!

You'd think that your family could understand best that you need time to get your emotions under control after you've uprooted yourself from your familiar home of more than ten years and fucked off to an uncertain future. I don't want a shoulder to cry on, I'm quite used to doing that on my own anyway. I don't want support as such. I'd rather be stronger within myself than rely on the people who have been a source of emotional instability for so long to help me through the changes.

What I do need is to be treated as an adult, rather than a misfit child.

What I need is some space to hide out and reorganise my life into something more outgoing and postive - rather than small and scared and running away through necessity rather than choice.

Fuck you, my parents.

A small note to Devil's Advocate:
Please don't argue me on this one. It's a blurt - emotional shit that I needed to put on a page to get it out of my system. If I'm argued on it I think I'll just cry more.

Today:

I have:

... hauled my overtired arse out of the swag I'm currently sleeping on (complete with a golf ball and two lighters - no wonder my ribs are sore) and got to work at 6am. An accomplishment considering I am dealing with a three day hangover.

... stuck my hand into a rotten sweet potato. They have an acidic stench that burns at your nostrils. I don't reccomend it.

... had four boxes of apples descend in the direction of, and connect with, my head. One after the other. Fourteen kilograms in each. That's like having four two year olds thrown at your head. With pointy bits.

... removed rotten potatoes from the contents of a 50kg bag. You can tell there's a rotter in there when the bag gets a wet spot on the outside. That's one wet spot that I don't find appetising at all. Open it up, tip it all into a shopping trolley and then you find the culprit/s. Ususlly the bastards sprog all over the other potatoes - it's a foul cum-like substance that stinks enough to induce vomiting. I was over cum before I worked in this part of the industry but hell, seeing this stuff and smelling it would make anybody think twice about swallowing a mouthful of it ever again.

... been called the same name by the same guy that comes in at the same time every day. It just happens to be the same time that I clean the floors. I fucking well hate being called Sadie. John Farnham fucked it up for everybody who has ever cleaned around customers as far as I'm concerned. No matter whether I try to get it done earlier or later, he still walks in and calls me that fucking name. The old prick must hang out to hear the sound of the vacuum before he comes in.

... merrily dug through a bag of onions to pull out a few for an order, thinking about other things, when by feel I came across a maggoty rotter. Yummy.

I would like to:

... recieve at least three comments telling me that I'm a whinger and to get over it.

... get some spam telling me how to make my dick bigger (yep, got a long way to go there).

... read twenty posts about politicians I don't know doing things I don't care about.

... be told that I'm fat because I ate all the leftover pizza in the fridge.

... find another redback spider in the outside stuff that I have to pack into storage.

I will:

... go back to bed, jerk off, and attempt to go to sleep.

PhotoHunt: Small

SMALL



NOT Small




I don't know if this happens all over the world, but it certainly does here in Australia. We take something that is a feature of a town, supersize it in a fascinatingly ugly way, and then we call it a tourist attraction. Tamworth claims the title of Country Music Capital, hosting an annual festival with a world's longest line dance record attempt. In general, a good place to stay away from.

A love letter

Dear Anonymous,

You're persistent in your misinterpretation of me, and I'm beginning to admire it. Perhaps the misinterpretation is mutual. Words are fickle things.

I wrote Is this the lesbian equivalent to girls saying that the guy they picked up couldn't get it up? and you responded, as you have every right to, in this public space. I'm a little disappointed that you will not put a name to your opinion, but that is your choice, as it is my choice to allow anonymous comments in this space.

My question does refer to erectile dysfunction in a way - an insinuation that I could not perform due to intoxication. It is also a way for the other party to cover up for rejection, as you mentioned also -

"To explain your question, there here are the standard reasons a woman would give that insult:

1) To justify sleeping with someone and regretting it
2) that they guy did in fact have erectile dysfunction
3) to cover up that she had been rejected by the guy and that he said no, which does happen"

So. I don't fall into category number one, because it didn't happen. But the other two? Yes. In an equivalent way. However, you say that it is not an equivalent. I'm intrigued. Why? A lot of the things I write about are generated from my feelings, and I was trying to find a simile to express the indignation and hurt I felt at hearing this rumour. I cannot say outright that the feeling IS that of a male being subjected to the he couldn't get it up rumour because I won't presume to know what it is like. I'm just looking for similarities here.

I keep going back to my inbox to read the last paragraph of your last comment:
"To answer your message to me on the next post, home is where the heart is and I hoped you enjoyed your sleep while reading this. I wish you all the luck in the world in finding where ever fortune my see you settle. As long as you are surrounded by people that appreciate you for being nothing but yourself, then you are home."

It's a truly gorgeous answer to my question, and I thank you for it. You might be a little cutting and opinionated at times, Anonymous, but I think I like you. Stick around, and I hope that someday we will be able to be on equal terms and address each other by name, as I'd like to thank you personally for those words.

Cheers,
Vic

What is home?

As I pack my life into boxes with labels, I'm losing my head. This is real.

I'm preparing to hit the road with a suitcase and a swag.

That means no daily idea of home, or not in the traditional I just want to get home to my own nice comfy bed sense.

It brings me to thinking... What is home anyway?* Define home.

*Dear Anonymous commenter from the previous post: I would appreciate your insight on this one too. In fact, why don't you write a lecture series on it? I'd be more than happy to fall asleep during it for you. Or maybe I should call that passing out - the difference appears to be a little unclear these days.

McSeediness revisited

Way way back in the beginning of the year...

It was a seedy friday night at the main drinking sludgefest pub of the time. I was picked up by a girl and went home with her. I'm pretty backward when it comes to these sort of things - it was the first and only time I've ever gone home with somebody to their place before on the first meeting. When I got there I thought, Vic, is this really what you want to do? Shag a random person you don't know? In their house? So I said sorry, I don't want to do this. And went to sleep.

Only now do I hear rumour that people were told that I passed out. Not that I said no thankyou.

Is this the lesbian equivalent to girls saying that the guy they picked up couldn't get it up?

Gaydar moments

Gayman has a theory that all dykes walk the same. They have a walk. I can't describe how it's different, but it is. Now, I didn't entirely agree. I still don't, but the idea has merit.

We were both out on a food gathering mission to the local supermarket, driving, when I spotted a girl on the footpath. My immediate thought was she walks like a dyke if ever I saw it... Checking out her face as I went past I confirmed that I knew her and yes indeed she's a dyke. Score one for Gayman.

Last Friday I was taking random roadside pictures of wool bales in another town, dressed in my usual jeans and collect-a-set sports top, when I heard a yell from a car - VIC!! My friend in the car pulled over and let me in on her thought process in idetifying me:

Well that's a dyke if ever I saw one.
That's a dyke with a camera.
I know a dyke with a camera, Vic's a dyke with a camera.
Hang on, that IS Vic.

As if I needed an excuse to go to the pub.

Note to all prospective organisers of small town Christmas Carol events:

If you feel the need to display a manger with live animals in it, make sure the fence is high enough that the goat cannot escape. Or forget about having a goat in the first place. Even better, forget the manger.

It is summer. Storms do not give warning in the morning that they will be approaching rapidly in the evening. Electricity and water mix extremely well, I've heard. Maybe a marquee of some description next year?

If you are going to bus an entire brass band from a town an hour's drive away and then cancel the second the band arrives, making them turn back the way they came, perhaps it would be good to suggest that the entire band travel together in order to avoid any jealousy issues. The two of us who got there by our own means had a brilliant time at the pub on the way home.

PhotoHunt: Long

The topic for this week's PhotoHunt is long, which I found incredibly difficult to ind a subject for. I like to do an opposite as well, which was much easier, since I seem to cop a lot of flack about being a short little tyke, or pixie as some like to refer to me.

LONG



My bass guitar - long neck and long strings to go with it.

NOT LONG (Vic)



A warped perspective shot with my tall friend Icepick.

Tradition

Every year I have spent Christmas with my parents in the house they have had for all of my life. Every year except for the last. We still had one, it was just postponed until later in January.

There can be a lot of comfort in the familiar. Every year there are the same ornaments we hung as children on the tree that seemed so huge back then. We each have our favourites, and mine have always been my grandmother's old teardrop glass balls. The silvering is spotting and fading in them now, and after a few unfortunate breakages I think there is only one surviving member of the set.

The tree itself is a classic. My parents have never believed in boxed, plastic Christmas trees. I can hear my mother now, with a tone of finality in her proper voice - "No, we'll have a real tree, thankyou." It's interesting to think about her definition of what a real tree is. They won't buy a farm-grown, brushy, filled out tree. No, that's too expensive where there's an alternative. Instead we help out Dad's golf game by going to the local golf course, selecting a prospectively threatening tree, and chopping it down on the sly. He'll come home after a round and say "Well, there's this one over on the eleventh that I've been keeping an eye on. When do you want the tree?" Problem is, they're scraggly bush-grown trees from a not particularly lush or well-watered course, so you get saggy needles and really thin branches. We have to tie the top to the architrave to keep the whole thing upright.

I helped out with the last few tree-fetching expeditions. Picture this: Vic sawing through the top half of a scraggly bush pine (it was a bit big to fit the whole thing in the loungeroom, but the top was a half-decent shape) until the satisfying crack! brings it crashing down. Crashing down, disturbing a wasp nest. Picture Vic, saw in hand, bounding in a frantic attempt at self-preservation through waist high grass and one extremely well-camouflaged drainage ditch toward the safety of the car. Eventually I had get my courage back enough to venture back to drag it over to the car, strap it on the roofracks and drive it home.

The day itself is usually bastard hot and humid so all you can do all day is sit around, feeling like you shouldn't have had so much fried ham and eggnog for breakfast, and wishing the sweat would stop rolling off your eyebrows into the corner of your eyes.

Every year. Same house, same traditions. I stated earlier that there can be comfort in the familiar. To a certain extent there is, but I feel like an outsider to my family now. I don't feel that I belong there any more, and the tradition has become oppressive. Since the family Christmas was postponed last year I had the opportunity to not go home, and spend the day with my friends instead. I felt free, liberated.

This year I will go home for I hope the last time. I am not a vagrant in my life who has to float back home for family support. I'll build my own Christmas traditions.

Half-Nekkid Thursday

I have a girly side. I just doesn't get out much.

After eighteen months of wearing chest-flattening crop top sports bras and men's shirts with ties, I bought a women's dress shirt. Which needed a bra to pull it off.

Then I bought a second one.

Scarily, I am coveting a sparly silver one as well. (Gayman said no when I showed it to him. I might buy it on the sly.)

I've been apathetic and not happy with myself lately. I go through cycles of apathy and usually at this stage of the cycle I realise what a major part of the problem is. My hair is too long and my eyebrows have not been waxed for a while. I do not feel in control of myself because outwardly I don't appear it.

Action time: I am hitting the salon today for colour, cut and wax.

There you have it. Vic is a girl sometimes. Happy?

Weekend Adventures: Take Two

I talked earlier today about going away beer wenching for some friends in a band on the past weekend. Beer wenching involves me being offical photographer for the band, giving me free roam of whatever function they're at... but mostly I zip about dragging fresh beer back for the guys in the brass section. Not to mention beer for myself in the process. Kind of a one for you, one for me deal.





I've been getting right into taking pictures of musicians. I know music, and I know these people. I've yet to have the opportunity to experiment with musicians that I don't know well - live music is rare in this town. But I will soon, when I leave.



Because the weekend held their last two gigs together, I set about trying to capture as much as I could. I was lying on the floor underneath the snare drum poking my lens up at the drummer for a while, I was hiding behind amps taking perspective shots, hell I was all over the place. I ended up resorting mainly to black and white shots because the colours in the lighting were shifting too quickly. Stupid autoflasher crap. Those things should be banned. Also there was no front lighting - which meant the night was great for silhouettes and profile shots, but not much else.

Weekend Adventures

I travelled away to Inverell with a covers band last weekend, not playing this time, but being a beer wench for my mates in the band as well as a photographer. I love the music they play (who could go past Long Train Running with a couple of brass players thrown into the mix?) and I always have a good time watching and knocking back a few beers with them. They're splitting, so the weekend just past held their last two gigs. Not a chance I would miss out on that, with my newly found love of photographing musicians. Okay... as well as indulging my long-standing love affair with beer.

That takes care of the nights. During the day I got a chance to wander around looking for weird stuff.

At a local carnival:



Oooh looky! It's a cheese grater crossed with a Dalek!

And then we have - from the same carnival - drumroll, please... The World's Strongest Plastic Chair!
(The guy owns the carnival, which explains a lot. Imagine far too many years on a diet of Pluto Pups and soggy hot chips.)



I came across a childcare centre's brilliant way to keep the kids out of the shed, and a really cool use for water towers - they were converted into office space for a business.







Oh, and somewhere along the way, I discovered the lure of religion.

And then, on an interesting quest down a side alley:



And yes, I plan to talk about the nights with the band tomorrow.

Messages:

I often write here about wanting a penis. Well it appears that I don't need one at all, because apparently I am one!!! It said so in the dew on my car windscreen. Aren't I lucky?

Fuck, I don't even feel any different.

The person who decided to write this with their finger on my vehicle's windscreen was told to get off the property a month ago, otherwise I would get the Police involved. Zedmeister, I recognise your writing, and I find it particularly hilarious that you had to wait until I was away for the weekend to have the guts to trespass and essentially commit an act of vandalism.

And let's get to the other part, the bit that has had me laughing all day:

your a dick

Get back in the classroom, bitch.

Your is the possessive pronoun form. This form is used to express that something belongs to "you". For example, Your graffiti is shithouse.
You're is used as the contraction for you are. For example, You're going to be removed from the property if you ever set foot on it again.

Next time that you want to leave a message for me on my car, Zedmeister, I would advise that you use the correct form you are (or the contraction you're) if you want me to pay attention to your message. I've been a little distracted by the idiocy of it all to take it seriously.

Better luck next time.

Monday Melee

Dammit.
It's the Monday Melee.
I have to appear to be intelligent.
Dammit.
I'll have to pretend I haven't spent the entire weekend away, drinking, dancing and generally having a ball.
Dammit.



More about that tomorrow. Hell, possibly the entire week.

1. The Misanthtropic: Name something you absolutely hate.
My neck is a beetroot roasted centre of absolute torture.
The sun was actually out.
I was in it for a long time.
I forgot what that felt like.

2. The Meretricious: Expose something or someone that’s phony, fraudulent or bogus.
Forgive me father, for I have sinned.
I used stock photos from the beggining of the month for Saturday's PhotoHunt post.
I raise my beer in penance.

3. The Malcontent: Name something you’re unhappy with.
Have you ever opened up the cupboard where you've stored the fishing rods and discovered the fishing line has metamorphosed into the rats nest from hell? You know what it means when you discover it? You aren't going fishing this weekend. You give up on the idea with the complete shits.

4. The Meritorious: Give someone credit for something and name it if you can.
My golf buddy from Saturday for putting up with the fact that I hadn't played in over a year and I suck at the game anyway. He patiently watched me take twelve shots to evict myself from a bunker and didn't mind the swearing at all.

5. The Mirror: See something good about yourself and name it.
I don't wear rings unless I have a special meaning for them, and only ever wear one at a time - or none at all, as has been the case mostly.
I like the look of my left ring finger with the ring I bought on it.

6. The Make-Believe: Name something you wish for.
To get past Christmas, where I will be free.

PhotoHunt Take Two: Red Means Danger

There’s two danger stories I clearly remember from my childhood. Both of them are associated with red, in a way. I came across both on the same day a week ago, and had the opportunity to photograph them.

The first… I was four years old and we were visiting a friend of my parents’ in Sydney. They had a kind of basement area that we got to stay in, so it was dark and dingy and a little scary. On their fridge was a spider identification and warning poster. My sister and I were told very firmly to watch out for the Sydney Funnelweb, and were shown what it looked like on the poster. That’s not what caught my attention. All the spider drawings on the poster were black, except for the last one. It had a slash of red down the abdomen - the Redback spider of tacky Aussie bush song fame. According to the song, it likes toilet seats.

Somehow I associated the fear of being told to avoid the Funnelweb no matter what with the Redback instead. That fascinating and awful red stripe caught my fear and held it.

They still strike fear into me. Any other spider? It can meet a simple death with a flip of the shoe. Not a problem. The Redback? That fear and morbid fascination cause me to stare in horror and freeze.

We had a batch of local pumpkins delivered to the veggie shop I work in a while back. They were infested with Redbacks and I didn’t know about it. I busily gathered a bunch of these pumpkins in my arms and hauled them into the prep room to cut into wedges for the shop display. Only when I raised the knife to punch through the first one did I discover a happy little family of Redbacks gathered around the stem end. Oh shit.

Yes. My workmate at the time discovered that I have a terrifying weakness. The man thought he’d have some fun and get one of these spiders on the end of a knife, pointing it at me. I was backed into a corner and shaking with a mixture of terror and anger, yelling at him to get it away from me.

The second… Red-bellied Black snakes. My family lived on a river, in a somewhat rural setting. There were tall reeds on the riverbank, and plenty of tall grass in the paddock next to the house. Snakes were a given.

The house was a big old one with a wide verandah that went all the way around to near my bedroom. My sister had built a “cubby-house” right outside my bedroom window, which consisted of some sort of frame, and blankets – from what I can remember. One day she was playing out there with her friends when I heard a scream. I was outside, too, and I knew what that scream meant.

Snake!

There was a Red-bellied Black snake in the cubby-house. Right outside my bedroom window.

We all bailed, in a hilarious manoeuvre (hilarious with the benefit of hindsight, of course), to an island of hope. The septic tank.

After that I had trouble with the idea of sleeping, just in case something came into my bed to snuggle up with me. I settled with having the bedding tucked right up to my chin, with all limbs within the covers at all times. A little Vic cocoon. I still worried about my head, but there wasn’t much I could do about that.

Another Red-bellied Black incident I had was on the riverbank itself at the family home. We had goats tethered about the place as part of some inventive laziness scheme of my father’s never to have to mow the lawns again. He was good at inventive laziness. The ideas he had were brilliant in principle, but execution was always a different matter. The goats had to be tethered because there wasn’t proper fencing. They got a star picket hammered into the ground with a rope on it, giving them a radius to eat everything within. So instead of mown lawns, we got crop circles. Of course, in the parental tradition of child labour, we were contracted into making sure that the animals had food and water daily.

I was pretty young. I had - hold back the laughter - pink gumboots on. Not bright happy playful pink, but dusty prissy boring pink, with white soles. I was standing down on the lower part of the riverbank with a bucket in my hand, feeding one of the goats when a snake came out of the reeds. I think it was a combination of good teaching and fear reaction that caused me to freeze on the spot. The good teaching said you know what to do when you see a snake? Don’t move! I can hear my father’s voice saying it to me even now. The fear reaction? I think part of the reason I froze was also a bit of a deer in the headlights situation. I just stared and went into lockdown.

So I stood there, watching with horror and morbid fascination as a Red-bellied Black slithered out of the reeds, and directly over the tips of my little pink gumboots.