Go Even Bloggier!

I would, in Japan, be known as Christmas cake. Left over after 25.
In my case not 25 December, but 25 years of age. A spinster, left on the shelf, an old maid. I never dreamed of being a bride, of being an utter princess for the day. Being the centre of attention for a whole day does nothing for me.
With a name that literally means ‘princess’ ‘beautiful’ in Hebrew and French respectively, you’d think my desire would be different.It’s not.

To Know. The One. Oj oj oj, such grand romantic notions people light up as they lecture on.

Contentment, is something I can’t put my finger on. If it’s suburban bliss then get me the hell outta there. Nothing brings panic on faster than being trapped in the dull fluoresent glow of mall and big backyard life. Give me an anonymous city with blinding lights and fast-fast.

Here’s to the other Christmas cake grrls. Big ups to Beppu’s hottest redhead, (and Miyazaki TV Star) Melbourne’s Cantonese Karaoke Queen (hell yeah to the hard hat and steel-caps honey) , both of Beijing’s born agains (Jesus loves us all ladies…sexuality makes no difference), and Star-Gazing Moopy (Try the spa, try the spa!). And more cake-ettes, Pale Sister Walking Filofax (Even-the-lightest-powder-is-still-too-dark-on-my-skin Twin), Here’s to being constantly distracted, living and loving in the shades of grey in between.Handing out wedding invites and then having to recall them, and you’ve even got the shoes.

Falling through the cracks.

On nights. Like this. When the world’s a bit….amiss.

Under pressure. I can see she’s dancing with him as if her heart will burst at any given second. His skin is hot and eyes pure intense Italian. Hands touching the back of his neck she has bored holes into with her eyes in class.

The hours and dark hours of waiting for this. Caution. Not burning it all up like a fircracker with far too many fuses. Only to be left with gunpowder burns and a dress I can’t even look at.

She’s catalogued his every last move in her mind for hundreds of days now. Reported them fervently, articulating her dreams as though if repeated often enough, they might evolve into reality.

At the cross roads of all consuming all cells screaming Love.

One heart is drenched in gin, vodka and bruised with stolen kisses and solemn declarations of Never Love You. Swear to god, head and heart just stopped working. Utterly ceased. Next to a dark washing line, looking back inwards. Had your back turned as you crushed.
“I hang myself with that every night” and that’s why there was love in the first place. One of the Good guys. Where to go, what glass is left to break in case of emergency?

The other heart waits. Marking days, minutes, heartbeats. Baby steps. Sideways glances. Mumbled offers of coffee. Caution is kept quiet and in a dark cardboard box, not thrown into the wind. Every conversation, lean in, and nuance logged carefully. A kiss on the cheek. A landmark. Quietly, quietly. Heart heavy and tired from waiting, yet intact.

At the cross roads. Great Love.

In a dark minute, all the world to actually stop at the crossing and miss being hit by the black freight train.

In terms of self -preservation I will stay guarded.

Sitting on the tarmac, in the heat. Construction sites of airport hangers and cranes rise up out of the murky “foggy” sky. China Eastern and other flights zoom past.

We wait.

Almost all Chinese around me sleep. The ever present big watch, pleated work pants, (both beige and grey popular), and various polo shirts. Quazi-business Typical Chinese Man look.

Apparently I can use the seat cushion for “Flotation” Flirtation perhaps? Wrench it off the seat and throw it at the bad carbon-copy of Hugh Grant in the emergency aisle? Isn’t that what you do when you like someone? Throw things at them until they notice you??

“Flutation”? Get a bit of a musical jamboree happening?
Chinese Mr Universe stunned me with bursting out into a hummed version of “More Than Words Can Say”. The one karaoke tune I belt out solo and sing as if my heart will crumble if I stop.

I lost my heart in Vanuatu.
I’m enamoured with Melbourne.
I am totally fascinated by China. Zhong guo.
Canberra is a warm doona.
Sweden like an ex I still hold in high regard.
But we’re not together anymore. Didn’t end badly.

Love is something you give up everything for, yet gives up on you in the end.

That’s it. Right there. That’s proof that money does NOT make you happy.

A woman sits here in Business Class, and cries and cries. Sobs. She cries as if her heart will break and never work again. My God, she is beautiful and slim, but listen to her and watch the absolute pain and heartbreak.

Money.

Does not mean your beloved will reciprocate your feelings, that you will fall pregnant when you will, that your husband will not cheat and f&*k other women. Or does not beat you. Does not mean that you have what you will in life. That you will have anyone. No promise of knowing the type of passion and friendship I have only seen but a few times. In those such fanastic cases the rules of money play absolutely no part.

age.beauty.Sex.power.Death.
Ah, goodness. Maybe I’ll just have a sleep.

The glossy in the seat pocket gravely tells me
“Time is a personal experience. Stay different”.

Gorgeous eyes. I thought they were blue. They’re green also. Such a smile. Running through the rain under my Astro Boy umbrella, dodging puddles on the cobbled street.Standing damp under soft red Chinese lanterns.

A shard of an evening. Lost out into the world, through Gorges and up mountains and then we meet, shy, standing in the sunshine, sweat droplets wet on my back. I like the way you touch your torso as you talk, so very unconsciously. I like that people swear you look at only me when I’m around. I liked your Tiger Balm on my hot, red, sundrenched skin. Feel my sunburn.

Here we all are, all post-karaoke glow. Such a fun night, and with newbies to break in. The staff were mopping the floors and trying to get out but some of new recruits just couldn’t get enough karaoke magic…

Crazy kids havin’ fun…yes, alcohol may have been a factor. I am lucky enough to have a green smudge for a face.

We’re singing Madonna. “Hung Up on You”. Never imagined I’d be belting out Madonna tunes with a straight guy but there you go.

Enthusiasm rather than talent counts in our karaoke world…thank goodness.
A safe bet would be Abba. “Honey, honey”, “Dancing Queen”, who can say…

As a stubborn little miss I once had a theory that for every knock-back, you try twice as hard, and be twice as forward. Interesting thoery I guess, it didn’t really work with the Summer Flood of Men (well, it’s either Flood or Famine, and for some bizarre reason, the dial just clicked over to “Flood” over the Christmas and New Year period…why, who can say…then it pretty much evaporated, just clicked back over to “Famine”…well…for the most part

So I’m not convinced it will work for the Winter of Shiny New Job, but at least throwing the proverbial hat in the ring (Which ring? What ye olde custom brings us this saying?) saves me from atrophy of the brain…gives me something to look forward to…emails saying “Thanks but no thanks” so far, but hey.

The list is impressive…far flung is the main criteria.

Paris. Morocco. Qatar.
All pending…waiting to hear back.

Sydney. Dream job. Music TV.
Tackade nej. Not even an interview. Sigh.
But the this knock-back has meant I’ve applied for more, under the fight back harder mantra.

Will do the rounds in Beijing, and in Norrkoeping. Oslo too.
So many places…so little time!

Time to leave this cavern of monitors and go home to some luscious blue cheese and a glass of red wine.

Couldn’t drag me away.

Hej daa saa laenge, gumman. God tur.

The girl with the amber eyes and beauty spot should’ve been in New York. Instead she’s in my house, El Casa Roxanna (…You don’t have to put on the Red Light…), the ‘I Love Porn’ badge on the top of her stocking peeping out from under the hem of her skirt as she lifts it to show me.

By rights she should’ve been on the Trip Of A Lifetime. Instead she’s in my kitchen, making me curry as I haven’t eaten properly for days. By rights, I should’ve been coping, or not coping, however you wish to view it, with medicinal vodka, gin, and to mix it up, head-spinning cider. (Thank-you Dublin)

Heart hurting, the Italian-Greek Pixie, always smiling, tells me to go. Put on that brand new damn sexy black lingerie and go anyway. Fiery Bravado I can spark up, but is gone within seconds. Worn thin. I suspected I would get my heart mulched, was just hoping I could do it privately.

Cinnamon gelati on Lygon, Giggling like a naughty Japanese School-girl. Laughing, laughing more, quite the stand out scene from the cardboard cut-out Lygon Street Princesses. “God they look so bored” as they sit smoking to stay thin and being out only to be seen. Silliness and laughter, this week.

Phone box / in a bed with 11 (”Eleven??!” Straight in the eye. “Eleven”) other people / Illustrated Kama Sutra…fascination.
My previous judgement gone. I know I have more compassion these days. Life is every conceivable shade of grey, but rarely black and white.

Adore spicy food, I make great Mexican to trade for a curry… Gorgeous food, great company and Priceless Limited Edition grappa. The kind that you can only be given.

Or maybe it was the Empress of India, I can’t remember. Out to see a band that I never saw, had to leave before they started as I had to be up at 6am for the early shift…does wonders for the social scene that shift but hey, my wallet, oh, yeah, and my liver, is appreciating it! So I’ve finally gone to the dark side of having a phone that does it all, all those classes on 3G, oh, and THAT paper, must have slowly brainwashed me to having a phone with a ridiculous number of features. Including email. And, as the picture shows, a camera.

8 days a week full up with stuff at the moment, film during week and then TV fun on weekends. But then I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Vanuatu, such a land of contrasts. Resorts to tin sheds, in just a few easy steps. Visiting some really special people doing some great work.
As I wrote on the 21st Oct.
1AM. Now writing this by low kerosene lamplight in my bed in our bungalow, no running water and no electricity, but, oh! The stars. How they are spread out in magnificence. Back of an open truck/ute on dirt dusty roads then by boat to get here. Nguna. Went snorkelling, uh, WOW. Amazing, once I sorted my mask I broke straight away, and then learnt how to breathe. After snorkelling-kava bar, to try kava for the first time. Definitely got a numb tongue and a bit fuzzy headed. Ah this is truly just bliss.

Yeah, the snorkelling, the pikinnis, the honeymooners everywhere I look, the clear water, the kava…
One experience which just rocked was…
I taught kids who had never touched a camera how to take some photos, and took their photo, and the look of absolute delight when the flash went off, they were estatic. These girls probably don’t have any photos of themselves, except for maybe the odd class photo. I’m going to send some prints over to them, to the school as they don’t have street addresses. These were the most beautiful kids, one in particular, Geraldine, took a real shine to me, and even gave me a present on my last day. She was so shy and ran up to me and thrust the bag into my hands before covering her face and clinging onto me, her face buried in my side, the other kids laughing excitedly. “What is it? Is this for me??” I wasn’t sure what was going on. She tried to whisper into my ear but I couldn’t make it out. “It’s for me?” She nodded imploringly at me. “Oh, should I open it?” A shake of the head as she looked at me with gorgeous brown eyes and some white paint in her dark hair. “Oh, I’ll open it later…Thank-you, thank-you!”

Later, I opened the plastic shopping bag and inside 2 other plastic bags was a bright pink flower chain to go around my neck, complete with bells, and her Gideons bible, inscribed with her 9 year old’s handwriting ‘This book blong to me Geraldine Toara’.

Such a special place and great kids. The girls braided my hair island style, with bougainvillea throughout. I kept it in, and even went into town. A few days later they attempted ‘rasta’ on my hair, but not matter how small they plaited, my hair wouldn’t stay in without elastic bands, as the girls aren’t used to needing them, having such curly hair. halfway through the rasta mission, I aborted it as I realized it was just not going to work despite having about 4 year 3 girls playing, sorry, plaiting, my hair. So I ended up with half a head of rasta, which I had to keep in until I left the school, so as to not offend anyone. Anyway, I will put up pics on my blog when I get them! Ale! Lookimyu!