Living in Carlton North

Carlton Love Story

2013-05-15T21:48:00.002+10:00

A girl has started seeing a new man called George. Initially he was a friend, but things turned sexy one night at a house party over mulled wine and cheese.

They kissed, and then passion subsumed their bodies into a mingled mist. This is called sex, and it is very fun, but it isn’t the true way to a woman’s heart. It is what happens the next morning that counts.

With sunrise, the veil of alcohol lifted to reveal frumpy realities of spicy-wine breath and sweat. At this point, some men run away like little foxes who are blinded by the light but not George.

When he awakened he curled his strong arms around his friend and settled into the patchy afterglow of the night before. Her mascara had dribbled down her cheeks a little, and the ringlets in her hair had spiralled into a mess, but George didn’t worry. He just rested his mind on her feminine curves and he felt grateful she had entered his life.

True Love is the morning after

Then the girl woke. On some cosmic level she recognised the gratitude glowing from George as an extension of her own. It was gratitude that she had him there beside her, so she hugged him back.

In bed, they spoke about travel and where to find the best coffee in Carlton North. She teased him for ordering lattes which she said were girly. He slapped her bottom playfully as a comeback. And that is where the true romance began.

They went out for their first of many French pastry and latte breakfasts. The girl had a rosy smile on her face that whole morning. Not because of the sex (which was fun, and much needed after a long drought) but because she knew this George character had a kind heart. In fact, she suspected that her feelings might just grow into a strong tree of love.

To show your love, click on an add - you never know what you might find ;)

Stalking Tom Hanks

2013-05-07T19:59:00.001+10:00

He isn’t a sexy man, but Hank has balls. He first stole my heart on screen as Forest Gump. Recently, he stole my heart in the flesh at his Broadway debut.

After a penetrating night at Birdland Jazz bar, mum and I were walking back to our hotel via the theatre district of New York. Above a particular theatre, there was a towering composition of Tom Hanks advertising a play called “Lucky Guy.” Down below at street level, swarms of people were beginning to buzz. Four elegant police horses clopped along, and an understated black 4WD was parked decisively outside the actors’ door. Clearly, Hanks was in the hood. I could practically smell his presence, but I was dead set on something more.

I threaded my camera around my neck, and ground my heels into the icy spring night air. The police began hording us like cattle. The horses formed a shimmering chain of strength, squeezing us onto the sidewalk and off the road. They shouted at us to keep back, but in some heat of craze I darted across the road with some other hardcores to establish contact with my famous lover. Me and the hardcores were like sperm drawn to the egg. It was all improbable chances and instinct, but there was no option but to bow to the force.

After all, I wasn’t asking the universe for much. I didn’t want to sleep with Hanks, or to have his children. I just wanted his eyes. A moment of unity with the flame.

There were false starts. The door of expectation would open just to spew out an anonymous back stager all dressed in black. These accidents would scuttle away like little cockroaches into the dark night.

The crowd was radiating like a PowerStation. I felt like a successful sperm because I had wiggled my way to the curb side near the car. But the mission wasn’t complete.

Finally, there were screams. The crowds near the door were going wild for a middle aged man. He diligently signed posters and programmes and he took his time. My heart throbbed like ocean crashing on the shore in a storm. Camera was up, lens cap off, I breathed and awaited my turn.

Eventually, the praised figure glided toward the black car. I assumed he was going to mount, but remarkably he veered an unexpected right and headed straight toward me. Delusions of grandeur penetrated my being. Against all odds, he locked eyes with me. For a brief second, all my struggles with the world vanished and all my dreams came true.

Except in our intimate exchange I realized that it wasn’t Tom Hanks. It was a sidekick feigning the Real McCoy.

Sometimes we can fall in love with a grand illusion of someone and it is larger than life. It is that kind of love that we might have for a movie star, or even an unrequited love for an unknowing acquaintance. My love for Hanks is free from all the grime of gritty life (there are no arguments over dishes), but ultimately it is unreal because Hanks never showed.*

Personally, I would prefer the real eye-gaze with the real sidekick any day.

*He probably would have appeared at some point, but mum and I were too freezing cold to wait and find out.

Despite not capturing his gaze that icy night, mum and I did later go and see the show. It was breathtaking. Stay tuned for a recap of the event.

Adopting a Cat in New York

2013-04-22T20:15:00.003+10:00

I travelled to New York with my mum to complete a circle. For years we had struggled over my fanatic interest in Buddhism and it was time to make peace.

Reconciliation started 3 years ago when she visited me in the rainy jungles of Sri Lanka. She came to see me with my monks in their maroon robes and shiny heads at RockhillHermitage and she saw the magic. For some reason, perhaps due to rebellious instinct, her visit reminded me of the heavy limits of a life spent on retreat. Isn’t life for living? I thought to myself. Can’t I soar to dizzying heights if I don’t lock myself away? And where better to soar than New York.

I was the sidekick to mum’s book launch. Her book, Cats and Daughters, which about our struggles with Buddhism and the healing power of cats, was hot off the press in New York bookstores. She was there to face up to the crowds.

A side of me was sceptical. Wasn’t New York just stuff on steroids? A glitzy plastic tower of success? There was a chance that the trip would confirm my darkest fears that people, ultimately, aspire to be more like rich Barbie dolls than beings of any substance. Wasn’t it safer to live in the bliss of ignorance than to see that truth smeared across Manhattan, the heart of western civilization, in a choking cloud? But remembering that Buddhists are trained to be brave, I found cheap tickets and I booked my flights.

We arrived to a whirlwind. It was a Wednesday night and the city was pulsing out life. We devoured some delicious BBQ chicken wings, and then we washed away the plane flight in a heavy hotel sleep.

Next day, we had to move. Mum’s publisher had arranged for us to foster a cat during our stay. Being an unashamed cat person, she thought it would be the perfect opportunity to raise awareness about pet shelters like Bideawee and cats in need. So to accommodate the request, we moved to a pet friendly apartment on the upper east side.

The cat they choose for us was named Bono because he was a rockstar cat. Naturally a long haired black Persian, his hair had been clipped everywhere other than his head, paws and the tip of his tale. He looked extremely hipster and ironic, like a baby black lion, but prospective adoptees at the shelter refused him every single time. Why? Because he had kidney failure and only an expected 3 years to live. They thought we could give him a holiday from the reality of life in a shelter. The workers had given up hope that he would ever find a permanent home.

Perhaps it was due to my aesthetic hipster instincts, but I fell in love with Bono in a flash. Though I deal with human suffering on a daily basis at work, for some reason Bono’s story just melted my heart. Amazingly, he touched a global community as well. So many New Yorkers rallied in the quest to find Bono a loving home. Pet stores gave us discounts, and bloggers worldwide got behind the cause.

And in the opening of all those hearts from across the world I suddenly realized what cats are all about. Cats help us to meet the flickering transience of life with love and warmth. We open our hearts to them, though in all probabilities they will leave this world long before us. They inch us towards that near impossible universal truth – that truth of love that is injected with the wisdom of impending loss. It is that same place where Buddhist masters dwell, that burning meteor of the present moment.

So I left New York with the surprising knowledge that a pet friendly New York apartment isn’t that different from a forest monastery. I felt closer to mum, that I finally understood her message, and that we were finally on the same page.

New York Pilgrimage

2013-04-14T19:40:00.003+10:00

A good Muslim should pilgrim to Mecca at least once in their life, in order to replenish their faith and renew their vows. Same goes for hipsters and New York. The term ‘hipster’ itself was coined in smoky Big Apple jazz dens in the 1940s, and the life force of everything hip has pumped from this heart ever since. In an attempt to solidify my hipster identity once and for all, I tagged along with my mum’s recent book tour to worship the city that is my shrine.

My biggest concern was that authentic New York hipsters would be a little too cool for school. Melbourne hipsters, you see, are known to be arty and creative but they can sometimes forget to be nice as they scramble up the social pyramid of cool. I also worried about my accent. Would my Aussie vocals be ironic and underground, or just a dismissible and rural cute? I packed multiple pairs of black skinnies and tanned ankle boots, then zoomed across the pacific to find out.

On the plane from LA to New York, I was squeezed between two authentic looking locals and my heart pounded with trepidation with what was to come. One of my plane mates looked like an unkempt version of Usher and the other appeared more like an ageing movie star. The latter introduced himself as Robert and he was in fact a freelance cameraman so my instincts were close. He was flying home after facilitating his industry’s Los Angeles AGM.

When I explained that I was practically a New York virgin (bar a fleeting stopover at age 6), his face softened into a broad smile. “I love sharing my city with the world”, he exclaimed, and then he settled into a detailed interview of my interests and holiday plans.

The conversation then flowed with tailor designed jewels for me to collect on touch down: Century 21 for bargain designer shopping, and Lincoln Centre “hot seats” for first row A grade jazz performances clipped at near zero price tags. He drew maps indicating special events (like the Easter hat festival) and unexpected attractions. Weren’t big city people supposed to be glazed shut by the tsunami of human contact that they endured as a smelly side effect of life? Robert was not living up to my hard ass expectations.

I was beginning to think that New York might be quite different to the uber hip, aloof and bitchy Mecca that I had envisioned. Perhaps in the wake of disasters like 9/11 and hurricane Sandy, New Yorkers had opened their hearts and minds to the fragility of life, and therefore the precious nature of human relationship, in ways we Melbournites just don’t understand.

In any case, my official welcome to New York was an unexpected treat. But as we approached touchdown I wondered: was my friendly gatekeeper a symbol of what lay before me or simply an outlying mirage?

Silent Retreat

2013-03-22T08:47:00.002+11:00

The famous Buddhist teacher Jack Kornfield talks about Noble Silence, but what is so noble about shutting up and meditating for 10 days? I signed up for a retreat to find out.

It wasn’t the first time I had been tricked into attending a retreat. To my family’s disgust my heart has pulled me to Buddhist monasteries on countless occasions over the past 8 years. When I get there, I realize that there isn't much to do. You just establish a stable posture and then listen to the rhythms of the body and mind. It’s like this, minute after minute, hour after hour.

One thing it isn’t is relaxing. You meet hardship after hardship on retreat. This time, the monk leading the group spoke a great deal about meeting our mortality with a warm embrace.

Traditionally, monks are trained in mortality through meditating on the 32 constituent parts of the body, each of which is subject to smelliness and decay. But because I wasn’t able to remember the 32 parts of the body, my invented practice on mortality turned cannibalistic. Spontaneously, I saw myself frying my own flesh in my modern Carlton North kitchen to make bacon. Next I was cutting up my upper leg and popping it in the oven to make a crispy roast.

These images weren’t exactly happyland, because I don’t want to become a roast, but in some small way they had a special kind of power. With images of a burning body filling my mind, I was prompted to ask what’s important? What’s beneath the visceral veil?

And the answer? All I could come up with was a light-hearted love.

Grinder Dating

2013-03-14T20:31:00.002+11:00

In Melbourne, gays are allowed to use this miraculous iPhone application called Grinder. You just submit a photographic summary of yourself, and it enables you to have sex.

I was sitting next to a handsome man on the tram the other day using grinder. He was scrolling through snapshots of comparably attractive suitors. Their muscles were glistening out from the screen like succulent steaks, ripe to be devoured. The suitors' colour schemes varied from jet black to icy blond, but they were united in that all specimens were dazzlingly hot in that frustrating well-kept way that only gays can be.

In a parallel universe of deception, I would choose to have two at once if I could. They would be my sensual slaves in a sweaty paradise where I would squeeze their muscles to excess. But at that moment on the tram, I could just drool in the privacy of my rush hour, half awake thoughts.

A friend later told me that there is a special new iPhone app for straight people. Its called blender, but for some reason it lacks the crisp purity of the original. Perhaps its in the metaphor for once I prepared a blended meal (a BBQ) and that proved to be pretty shite...

Probably because of the poor choice of name, my single girlfirends have stayed clear of blender, but I have a cunning plan. On Grinder, they can disguise themselves as (strap on) gay men, and then revel in the sensual to their heart's content.

Penis Size Counts

2013-02-18T22:06:00.000+11:00

Some girls say that the size of a guy’s penis doesn't matter, but they are lying because a penis is an important constituent of any romantic relationship.

Of course, a guru might claim that relationships are all about compromise and embracing the ‘perfection in imperfection’, but there are some imperfections that just aren't acceptable. And penis imperfections fall into that category.

The realization may sing alarm bells down the spines of men across the world. Indeed, it may startle them into a stage fright with dire consequences for the future of mankind. But they can rest assured, because what is often missed in the discussion of penis architecture is the topic of compatibility.

The leaning tower of pisa is a world wonder, but it would look like a limp sardine if it were placed in Manhattan. Likewise, the empire state building would be a heaving intrusion in the rolling hills of Tuscany, puffing and sweating in a sad and lonely concrete mass.

Likewise, when the penis is the wrong size, he peers into his burrow and disturbs all the peace. Generally, this type of imposter is swept out with the rubbish before too long. But sometimes, a penis becomes a perfect and accommodating guest, with a size that blossoms with all the perfection of a quivering lemon tart. He wouldn’t be perfect for everyone, but for some reason it’s a match. And finally, after his long trek as a backpacking nomad, the penis finds his home.

I will be on a silent meditation retreat so may not update for a couple of weeks. Back in March! XO

Hipster Icons

2013-02-10T15:53:00.002+11:00

I have become alarmed by the number of family bumper stick-figures on the road lately. Typically, the cute little characters ride freely on the back of family friendly 4WDs. Parents choose nice middle class activities for the characters, like skiing and soccer, and they are lined up against the back windowpane like happy hostages. I cringe because it is all just soooo un-hipster.

Even at the best of times, little bubbles of frustration boil to the surface of my psyche during an episode of rush hour driving. But when I am accompanied by little smiling figurines paying homage to family life from the car in front of me, irritation sweeps through me like the Niagara falls, eradicating everything else in sight. Its not that I am anti family. I have one of my own that I love very much. But frankly, the figurines belong on Pleasantville – they are all so normal and nice.

So I decided to fight back…

With a hipster bumper sticker, to say Fuck You to those looser family dudes. After some thought, I opted for a sticker of Alison, the wonderfully stylish cat. Boasting a warm purple shawl and intellectual glasses, Alison is both practical and elite. In bumper sticker territory, she radiates from a feline, underground class of her own.

The science journal Nature says that I shouldn't have used Alison as a pawn in my bumper sticker battle. Nature says that bumper stickers are the equivalent of cats spraying out their territory – a habit that is just a little bit lowbrow. The research found that owners of bumper stickers were more likely to speed, tailgate, beep and shout aggressive acts than neutral bumperless pacifists. But I just couldn’t help myself, I simply had to stand up for my hipster cause so I ordered an Alison off Ebay.

Alison now sits proudly on the back of my Subaru, peering out onto the highways as I drive. Actually, though she has only been in my life for about a week, she has become a close friend. Because even though its safer to be neutral, sometimes you just have to stand up and speak your voice.

I have decided to make Sunday afternoons/evenings my regular time for writing a new post. Thank-you for sharing the journey with me! X

Alpine Adventure

2013-02-02T07:23:00.001+11:00

The spirit of adventure is buried deep in the human psyche, though it manifests in different ways. In my early twenties, staying up till sunrise powered by tequila shots was the go, it filled my black hole need for adventure. But by my late twenties the hangovers had deteriorated to the point that I was obliged to seek out a different approach, the most recent episode of which was a mountainous climb in New Zealand’s Southern Alps.

I had booked to go alone, but secretly I knew I needed a companion for safety if I was to climb the scrambly rock faces that I craved. Fortunately, Mr. B booked a ticket to accompany me at the last minute, but I doubt if he knew what he was letting himself in for.

From Queenstown airport, we wove our baby hire car through crooked roads to reach Wanaka, a small tourist town that skirts the tip of the Mt. Aspiring National Park. The weather was treacherous, as if an oversized showerhead was hidden in the heavens above us, and was turned on to full blast. Mr. B responded by buying overpants, but my concerns were more emotional because it felt like were trespassers entering hostile territory.

The conservation office shattered our original plans. They said that a natural dam along the Gillespie Pass track was in dire danger of bursting, and that we would be mad to peruse it. They recommended we stay in Wanaka, but in the same breath advised us that all accommodation options were fully booked. My eyes darted to the topographical map and they rested on Mt Aspiring herself, gleaming in all her steep contoured beauty. Of course, a full ascent was out of the question without the mountaineering knowhow, but could we somehow get near?

My eyes raced down her contours to see a mountaineering hut perched part way up: French Ridge Hut, and then down further in the valley was another hut named Aspiring, placed tantalizingly close to a dirt access road. I pointed out my imagined route to the ranger.

“Does your car have a snorkel?” To my knowledge, snorkels were accessories reserved for tropical holidays. Of course our car had no snorkel. We shook our heads and he continued.

“Aspiring hut could be an option for tonight if you’re desperate to walk today, but the access road is blocked by rising water. Do you two have any experience with vehicle river crossings?”

Just as my heart was sinking in defeat, Mr. B came to the rescue with yet another unusual talent. He told the ranger he felt confident gauging a river’s height based on a foot crossing, and then determining the feasibility of driving through.

With that, the ranger gave us his reluctant blessings and we were off, hurtling down a dirt road toward Mt Aspiring – me as designated driver and Mr. B as designated flooded river inspector. Sure enough, about 15km from the final carpark, rivers arrived.

I managed to cross a few damp stones, but then a full-blown, fast flowing river greeted our path. My insides felt like pop-corn – all flaky and vulnerable – and I was desperate to turn back, but Mr. B was already barefoot and wading in, mapping the flooded terrain.

“It’s impossible, crossing this will flood the electrics.” With these golden words, my body melted in relief. But then he continued…. “We will have to park the car here and continue on by foot.”

I wanted to cry, Aspiring hut was over 20km away and the climate was vile. But I was the one who had convinced him to fly thousands of miles to visit this thundering destination. I couldn't possibly back out now, It might destroy our relationship. Silently, we gobbled down a late lunch in the car, and set off on our way.

With a hitchhike from a snorkel equip 4WD, who eventually hurled us to the final carpark, followed by hours of icy-wet-feet walking, we finally made it to Aspiring Hut. We squeezed out our puddled boots, and rushed to the stove to boil up 2 minute noodles. Soon after, we were tucked up like caterpillars in our sleeping bags repelling the cold.

Next morning, the mountains around us were coated in a white satin, shining in the morning sun like virgin brides. Overnight, snow had oozed forward like a fast growing infection, and it made for picture perfect viewing.

Mr. B and I eyed the contours that separated us from French Ridge Hut. They looked alarmingly close together hinting at steep climb ahead, but then again perhaps it was just the map’s scale.

We held hands and walked along pristine valleys, with a few rickety bridge crossings along the way. Then the warning came that steep terrain lay ahead. The path would have made a good indoor rock climbing wall, except that it was out doors, slippery, and wet. With roots as handholds, we scrambled our way up through endless forest, puffing like aspiring marathoners who had signed up for a race in a moment of craze.

Finally, when I was beginning to lose all hope, the trees thinned out and we met the bare-backed, windswept land that is alpine. And it sure was blowing a gale. We inched up like prisoners, held captive by our rock heavy packs. I would cling onto alpine grass above me, to help heave me a step further up the track.

Then, within the spiralling, whistling wind, a snowflake landed on my Gortex. And then another. As we ascended treacherous ridgelines in the wind and snow, fear was illuminating everywhere inside of me, with little space left for rational thought. I was all too aware that a misplaced step could have disastrous implications. Mr. B took the lead, and I tried to plod behind him like a mindless donkey, but thoughts slipped into dangerous crevasses with every step. Finally, seeing the hut is what I imagine viewing Mecca would be like to a Muslim – an ocean of respite and relief.

After the hike, I had the equivalent of a hangover because my body was throbbing with deep springs of pain. But unlike the cloudy aftermath of tequila, I was also left with an imprint of the wonder and awe of life.

The North-South Divide

2013-01-28T19:08:00.000+11:00

Berlin had its wall, but here in Melbourne it is the Yarra River that divides our race. It is a geographical nicety that separates the glamorous south sider - that shellac nail wearing, cocktail sipping blond - from the Northern, emaciated skinny-jeaned, Ray-ban wearing hipster. While both breeds are friendly for the most part, there are some things that we just don’t share. Like cafés.

One would rarely cross the river to visit a café unless you were visiting a relative or high-school friend from whom you have mainly drifted apart. It isn't snobbery, it is just the way things are, and the way things should always be. I had always vouched for segregation, but a rebellion is now gaining force at the very closest tip of my lane-way, a literal stone’s throw away from my home.

The cause of the tension is a south-side café called St. Ali. All the problems began when they decided to open up shop number two in Carlton North. The first sign of trouble was a suspicious acceleration in the number of prams I would spot on my morning walk, and they seemed to be pulsing from that new café.

You can view St Ali's delicacies here

Next, the once deserted playground began to bud with life. Something was up because hipsters are single and tattooed and beautiful and they certainly don’t have kids! I could smell it. These people were clear-cut south of the river visitors coming for their south-style cup of café latté. I felt like an artist of Montmartre, Paris, receiving a long hard boot from the incoming bourgeois.

Though I admit the new St. Ali place looked nice, and it was even feigning hipster with the vintage bikes parked endlessly out the front, I have actively avoided the place for the past two months. It felt like an enemy barracks that had somehow manifested deep within our frontline when we were distracted by indie music. But finally this morning, in part to celebrate the unity that is Australia day, and in part at the suggestion of my friend Ruth, I finally succumbed.

We arrived at 10:30 to a small crowd of trendy but wider than normal jeaned men, their cute sporty partners and a tittering of kids. They took down our name and ushered us to the shade of a leafy green parasol to wait our breakfast turn. Promptly, though, they sped us along to our seats.

I admit, the menu looked delicious. And the sweet delicacies in the cabinet were hovering like divine hummingbirds that might just take flight back to a higher realm where they belonged without warning. Reluctantly, I was beginning to warm to this idea of St. Ali…

Ruth ordered a honeyed pork terrine breakfast sandwich and I went for the 63 degree eggs – cooked at 63 degrees for 63 minutes in order to accentuate all natural flavours. Both arrived in a heartbeat and the flavours were crispy and rich as the waiters were cute.

Now, I am not a complete convert, because South side visitors could end up being problematic. Their mere presence could bubble up the house market, sweeping hipsters like me away to pioneering (and desolate) new territory. But for now, like a reluctant lover who can no longer refuse an infectiously warming treat, I have succumbed. I wave my white flag in peace.

Bungee

2013-01-09T09:12:00.002+11:00

Across history countless people have fallen from great heights. Think suiciders, acid trippers and accidental slips of mountain ridges. Mostly the falls end in a conclusive full stop of death, but might the fallers have experienced a window of expansive freedom before their lights went out? I decided to bungee jump in order to find out.

It was a blizzardly cold summer day in Queenstown, in New Zealand’s south Island and I was surrounded by Mr. B and my family for moral support. Branded with my weight and bungee number in bold red marker on my hands, I then joined the huddling queue of backpackers on a rainy red bridge 45m above Queenstown’s Shotover River.

Waiting in line, the blend of the icy wind and my fired nerves set my limbs into milkshake mode – all wobbly and curdled. Heights and exposed bridges had never really been my thing. Screaming bodies hurled off a platform in front of me into nothingness. I inched toward the head of the queue.

When I was finally beckoned into the strapping chamber my mind and body settled to be as still and clean as an alpine lake. My ankles were strapped tightly with ropes and towels and I hopped like a compressed sardine to the edge of the windy plank.

I waved across at my safe looking entourage and then stared down at the solitary journey that lay ahead.

“3, 2, 1… JUMP!”

My life collapsed into the open fall. Everything was behind me and all that was left was the falling. All fear wiped clean. Puzzlement subsumed the reigns of my mind because the experience was inconsistent with my knowledge of how life worked.

Unlike life, with its categories, causes and conditions, the falling was boundless. The wind rattled through me an expansiveness, beyond the small sense of self. Wide eyed and gobsmacked, all that was left was awe. Then with the jerking rebound I was jolted back to life.

Sometimes at the frontier, when we feel in danger of losing everything, something remarkable takes place. Even though it only lasted a second or two, the bungee opened me to a twinkling pinnacle of fun.

Buddhist Christmas

2012-12-21T09:55:00.002+11:00

Just because it is Christmas doesn't mean that you exude Christmas spirit. The roads are clogged like unhealthy arteries and shopping malls are busier than ant nests. Inside shopping malls at Christmas time, humans become hungry ghosts. We bombard the stores to fill the bottomless pit that is Christmas gifts. It is all about needing and wanting, from a mental space of lack.

Lately, I have been spending my lunch breaks being a hungry ghost. I would sign out from the office whiteboard and march through the Melbourne sunshine to the mall. In these missions, I have been like an efficient ant, collecting her bits of dirt to make her feel whole.

From a spiritual perspective, Christmas shopping seems like an evolutionary backtrack. As a Buddhist, I try to practice living with an open heart but my mind clouds with greed and dissatisfaction when I think about Christmas shopping. Sure, some people would say that it is the ultimate act of generosity, sacrificing your lunch-break and money to find your loved ones the perfect gift. But when I have looked into my heart during marching moments at the mall, I haven’t seen much glowing kindness, just mechanical frustration and stress.

For Buddhists, Christmas celebrates the birth of a Bodhisattava, a being who postpones the universal peace and thunderous wisdom of enlightenment in order to play in the rippling dramas of worldly life for a little longer. Sometimes, people find it a bit exhausting to bother being a Bodhisattava, but Mr. Christ roused the energy to talk about freedom the heart’s release to his friends. If he were here in Melbourne, I couldn't imagine Jesus marching like an ant on steroids to the mall to buy Mary and the 3 wise men cool gadgets to uphold his end of the bargain in the social exchange that is Christmas. I reckon he would do things a little differently.

I am not saying presents are evil because I love getting new things. But Christmas, ultimately, is a celebration of heart. We postpone our bickering, and despite the impossible shortcomings of life, we bake some cake and kick back with a beer with our friends.

In the light of Christmas spirit, remember to click on an add from my blog post. Thanks :-)

Loud Sex

2012-12-16T13:11:00.001+11:00

Loud sex is the ultimate victory call. It’s a declaration that your passionate encounters are rippling, orgasmic and as worthy of note as childbirth. Pornstars have very loud sex cries I have noticed. They wail and moan like whales, with the message spreading like sonic waves in all directions, shrouding people in vicarious bliss.

The other night around midnight, I encountered a loud sex adventure except it wasn't a porn movie, it was real life. First, the moaning penetrated my dreams, and I wondered if perhaps my imagination was just running wild. But the sounds began to amplify and hasten in pace to the point that I knew this was no normal dream. I jolted awake. The feminine passion continued. I knew it wasn't a house-mate because we are all very courteous in that regard. Soon I realized that the sounds were coming from the depths below me. An awkward complication of high rise inner city living.

I would prefer to hear a neighbour’s sex than angry violent shouts. And Buddhists always state that we should rejoice in other people’s joy, so I tried to transform my irritation through sending them loving thoughts and reflecting on the wonders of sex with gratitude. But the meditation didn't go according to plan. Something felt amiss. I felt like an old man with no clothes on but a seedy trench coat. I hadn’t chosen to be a prier, but the role had been thrust upon me and I was unsure of how to shake it off.

And then my house-mate came to the rescue, with two unambiguous bangs of her office chair. The ensuing silence felt triumphant, and a little bit golden.

A South Australian couple were recently ordered to the police station because of their incessant loud sex, and were subsequently fined 4 thousand dollars. Now I am not planning to turn my neighbours in. I actually agree with them that sound effects can be sexy, but if you are not living on a farm then there needs to be limits.

Pre Menstrual Tension

2012-12-09T13:28:00.002+11:00

There are certain perks that come with having a boyfriend. These benefits patter down like a renewing rain to replenish various fields of your inner life.

A particular perk that’s widely overlooked in public discussion is the thawing out of social niceties. With friends, etiquite keeps us on the straight and narrow like a bobsled shute. We glide down conversational avenues with gusto, but there is a certain chilling frontier that keeps us safely away from barbarianism and offence. Sure, there may be an occasional prolific transgression, with potentially lethal consequences for the friendship, but for the most part, despite a range of turbulent conditions and unforeseen forces, in friendship, civilized order prevails.

Not so in relations with a boyfriend.

Last Sunday, the day before my period was due, I was celebrating my housemate’s birthday with sangria in a nearby Carlton North garden. The sun was as delicious as mango nectar, blanketing my body in a fuzzy light. To complicate matters though, my head was pulsing to the beginnings of a flu. Craftily, I hid this sick impostor under a psychic rock so that I could fully harvest the golden, precious moments with friends.

Things were good, but I wondered if life might crescendo to even greater heights if my boyfriend, Mr. B, might come and join in on the festivities. He responded in the affirmative, once ‘the session’ was over. At first I jealously thought he was watching the Helen Hunt sex therapist film without me, but he explained the session was musical. A jamming session with his european neighbors.

Image from www.stockfreeimages.com

I returned home from the park, and the sick impostor I had so maturely hidden behind an inner rock erupted out like King Kong, smashing my mental space to shreds. Shivering and somewhat delirious, I had regressed to childhood. I needed an omnipotent figure to wipe my brow and say that everything would be ok. I texted Mr. B again to see if the session was nearing completion, secretly hoping he might save me from myself. No Answer. And an hour later, no answer again.

The wildfire inside me now had an external target. It was somewhat irrational, but I was furious at his no response, and I made this fury clear over the ensuing days.

Later, we sorted out the miscommunication. The 'session' was actually a full blown public performance that he was a little too shy to invite me to as it was his public debut. He had left his phone at home and the proceedings rolled late into the night, hence the no response. Not ideal, but thanks to PMT and sickness I had blown things well out of scope.

It is my belief that boyfriends across the globe are the victims of their partner’s emotions. Women can externalise our hormones so we have someone else to blame. In normal life, we are masters of being polite and nice. We ride social bobsled shuts with fineness. But the frontiers melt under the heat of intimacy.

As a result, on occasion, the men end up locked in the doghouse without fully knowing why.

Despite these difficulties, I would choose to have the thawed, intimate summer of a relationship any day. And the glitches of the turbulence? These are ripe opportunities for honesty. We own up to our raw vulnerabilities, and fully face our childlike whims. In this way, in a relationship, we can communicate in ever deeper brave and adventurous ways.

The Races

2012-11-29T09:55:00.002+11:00

The Spring Racing Carnival is a Melbourne tradition. Ladies pretty themselves up like exotic birds and flaunt their sparkling figures on the fields. Men zip themselves up into tailored, blazered suits to become the pinnacle of stallion beauty. Even their colour scheme matches the horses, all browns and creams and understated blacks, while the women stand out like wildflowers breaking through the snow.

The races is sex personified. It comes as no surprise that new romance blooms on the Melbourne Cup fields because everyone is dressed to impress. And better still, the classes are strictly divided based on ticket type. Much like life on The Titanic, at the races punters brood with their own lot. In general admission this year, one hefty girl guzzled pints of sparkling wine and then stumbled into a punch up with a security guard. In the corporate marquees (whose interiors I have only admired from the safe distance of the newspaper social pages), the air is a little more refined. All Armini stilettos, diamonds and French champagne, the gentlefolk glide around like celestial stars.

My friends and I were in neither extreme. We had set up camp in the members’ car park. While a car park may conjure images of stained concrete and carcinogenic fumes, the members’ car park is a little more refined. For starters, an invitation requires social connections to the ‘right’ people because only members can reserve an $800 car park sized grassy slot.

On Spring Carnival days, wealthy Melbournites transform the members car park into a temporary refugee camp of luxury. Linen table cloths and wicker chairs are a given, to which is added elaborate displays of the finest roses, carved crystal champagne baths and glamorous, adorned, glowing humans.

Compared to the standard, our carpark was a little bit humble, as if it was standing in quite protest against the loud displays of showmanship blasting from its surrounds. We had organized quality fold out chairs and a clothed fold-out table. There was an abundance of sparkling wine and homemade delicacies for lunch. As we relaxed into our deck chairs after our busy working weeks, and placed a handful of unsuccessful gold coin bets, I sensed our unspoken commitment to the hipster.

Not exactly wealthy snobs, but not exactly security-guard-bashing-bogans, hipsters represent an underground class of their own. We are like tourists in life, circling many orbits, but not firmly committing to a single land. And our travels allow us a breath of fresh air.

At the races, I appreciated the crystal bathed aesthetics of our neighbours but I suspected a hint of oppression at their core. Conventional wealth, I have found, can breed a cold, hard humorlessness. Instead, I would choose the hipster any day.

Even though my friends and I didn’t really fit in, I hope that a trip to the Spring Racing Carnival will become an annual tradition. With its swirls of elegance and irony, champagne and sexy suited men, the Races is an oyster of possibility. Open it, and you might just find a pearl.

Domestic Goddess

2012-11-20T22:14:00.001+11:00

As much as we pretend to be ironic, the hipster world, at heart, is industrious. In part as an act of rebellion against our floating hippie parents, we value the cold, smooth stone of success.

I call it a stone because success is weighty. There’s no two ways about it, success is a quantifiable currency to communicate to the world.

Worldly success was once male territory, women just stayed home and baked cakes. These days, though, women have Zen gardens full of stony success to their name. Of course, this is a beautiful thing, but I wonder if we have shed a little feminine wisdom in our strivings?

Waking up on a Tuesday morning to fruit puree feedings and dirty nappies isn't exactly rocket science. We aren't really harvesting the intricate folds of our brain to create a masterpiece. We may even start to feel a little mundane and fruitless. Or should I say stoneless, in comparison to our complicated husbands doing complicated calculations in the workplace.

And then we fail at our simple task. The two year old tantrums in the café and we cannot quell his angst. Our frustration then swells to the size of the four great oceans, covering a pit in our stomach of dread. At this point (and I wouldn't blame them), some women pack it in. They bring in the nanny and join their husbands collecting stones of success for the Zen garden. Some call these women superwomen, but I wonder if they are just a little scared of the grimy, earthy reality of the feminine.

Buddhists say that it is the inner qualities that we cultivate in life that count. Our life is deemed a success by the extent to which we can grow patience where there once was frustration, and grow compassion where there was once grief. This inner growth is work of the heart. Like plants in nature, it happens silently and we just can’t quantify it in a wage.

A meditation student complained recently of the turmoil of waking up to her crying kids. Though understated by our society, this feat of waking up when exhausted to tend a crying child is the work of saints. Almost impossibly difficult to do night after night, and yet mothers sometimes feel guilty for not always feeling loving in the process. In her haphazard and bumbling sort of a way, a mother does her best. With a drought of praise, and just the inner chatter of self-criticism to keep her company, she patiently perseveres through the highs and the resounding lows.

In worldly triumphs we learn about pride and success. We come to understand the nuances of admiration, the humble glory of bringing home a healthy pay check, and the glee of adding a new stone (/BBQ/balcony) to the garden. A mother, on the other hand, learns all about humility and patience. She learns to love where there is vomit, and (not just with a kiss at bed time) she learns to open her heart. While a mother's work is humble, I think she holds a lesson or two that one day men will come to understand.

Disclaimer: If you are a female of reproductive age, the author is not necessarily advocating for you to become a mother at this point in time.

Limits of Lesbian

2012-11-15T14:21:00.002+11:00

Hanna Rosin, the famous feminist and mother of two, states that men are an endangered species. She says that women are now surpassing their male counterparts at work and at home. With engrained multitasking abilities, women seem able to rise sky-high in their professions by day and come home to be a loving domestic goddess by night. Men, Hanna explains, are different. They are getting sacked in the millions thanks to the recession and then they are stuck. Stuck, empty and hollow when their manly role as ‘provider’ has gone astray. She even goes so far as to say that we might be better off without them.

But Mrs. Rosin has overlooked a very important point, for imagine life without the wondrous penis. There is something otherworldly about the penis. It is different to all the other delights. As much as I love cocktails, strong lattés, and nights at the theatre, the penis holds a very special place in my heart. It is a class of its own.

The penis is like a friendly transformer. When he feels inspired, he grows up to his full height and he is ready for battle. Except, unlike scary battles in Afghanistan or Baghdad, the penis fights his war in a spectrum of delicious ways. He may choose a covert attack, entering new territory on the sly, or he may come cheerfully forward in broad daylight. Different from a bullet, the penis pulses with life. He is at the intersection of generations. He is majestic.

Gays and heterosexuals can enjoy the wonders of this friendly soldier, but sometimes I feel sorry for the lesbians. Sure, lesbians can use mechanical penises to tickle transcendental spots. These are warming, but just a little bit plastic. If a vibrator were a heater, than the penis would be a glowing golden fire.

I am sure that lesbians have other nectareous wonders to explore, but in my opinion the penis is a delight. Men are not an endangered species because they have a manly gift to deliver. It comes with many surprises, and it is the gift of life.

*Hanna Rosin's argument can be found here

Science of Life

2012-11-05T18:21:00.000+11:00

Living with an immunologist has its perks. For one, there is a rich supply of stimulating conversation. Recently, my housemate Lucie reflected back to me question that a workmate posed to her in the laboratory tearooms. If you were a human cell, which type would you be? The answer provides a window into the psyche.

Lucie said that she would be a stem cell. A stem cell is like a mirror of infinite possibility, pregnant with creative power. The stem cell is the Nirvana of human physiology. It is lucid, adaptable and not bound by any particular role or clockwork function. It represents perfection, and the promise of eternal health.

One scientist colleague of hers said he would choose to be a hepatic cell, born and bred of the liver. The liver cell is an altruist to the extreme. Like the Hindu deity Shiva, he burns toxins in his fire to maintain good health. I admit, the purification process can be ugly, and stench of bile. But forget social civility, the liver cell is willing to get his hands dirty for the sake of healing beyond himself. Given the difficulties of the scientific method, I imagine that many scientists may identify as being like a liver cell. Science is a truly noble profession.

Photo gracis a www.stockfreeimages.com

One friend said that he identified with fat cells. The fat cell is an oasis of oily warmth, an oil-well of resource, but it has the danger of being a little bit selfish. Fat doesn't give itself away very freely, it prefers to bunker down in storage. It only offers itself up in extreme and difficult circumstances.

I said to Lucie that I would choose to be a red blood cell,primarily for its superior sense of style. Brilliant red, with a sensual rounded curve, the red blood cell is dressed to impress. Without her rational self (she has no nucleus), she can come across as being a little daft, but in her own playful and glamorous way she serves a worthy cause. Free from mind and powered by heart, she is an excited messenger, offering a breath of fresh air to the brain and bod.

So if you have a moment, ask a friend what cell type they would be. But be careful, you may unveil their deepest intentions. Are you ready to hear?

ps: remember to click on an add as a means to show you care :-)

Dr. Coffee

2012-11-04T14:03:00.000+11:00

My friend Richard has encouraged me to experiment with a four week break from all thinks alcoholic. It was purely by way of example. No active coercion was involved, but his clarifying tendencies had started to make me feel piggish. At dinner, he would order a carrot-ginger tonic while I ordered wine. I would proceed to drink my glass of wine at an unladylike pace, leaving me heady and sleepy for the main course. While wine can sometimes be a charming lover, a red velvet tickling down your throat to infuse your whole body with a melting softness, I decided to temporarily dump him. Instead, I have welcomed Dr. Coffee into my life.

Wikipedia says that moderate coffee consumption brings a whirlwind of benefits to protect good health. It sharpens memory and attention skills. It is also a masseuse in nurturing muscular recovery, and it finetunes liver and cardiovascular health. He is a dark and handsome personal trainer, he has the earthy scent of Italy, and he harmonizes baked delights with all the heavenly prowess of Teddy Tahu Rhodes.

Richard says that a holiday from alcohol brings to the forefront the human power of discipline. As we purely drink our iced water to wind down from a hot and bothered day, we are released from the magnetic power that the usual half-glass of wine holds over us.

But personally, my break from alcohol has been nothing about discipline. It has reignited a lost love. Coffee, you had become a familiar backdrop to my life, but now I remember that I love you. I love your magic replenishment of my mind in the morning, love your tantalizing smell. I promise I will never take you for granted, ever, ever again.

Why I Bake

2012-10-30T18:41:00.002+11:00

As a Taurean, I am enmeshed in the gustatory world. To me, strawberry tart glistens like a sweet rubie, beckoning my tongue with its shiny sweat.

Sweet delicacies arise in forms as varied as the human population. A favourite that I like to bake is the New Zealand speciality of Afghans. Afghans are black, coca filled biscuits with a fudgy surface and topped with the stylish hat of a half-walnut. They are handsome and elegant; an edible version of the finest specimen of the Afghani race.

When I talk about my baked Afghans in this way, though, my Melbourne friends cringe in disgust. They think it’s shocking New Zealanders have named a type of biscuit after a nationality. But actually, I think it is the highest compliment to the nation.

Far from being a German sausage, or a shrivelled up prune, the taste of an Afghan transports you to a wonder-world of bliss. Your teeth sink through its fudge top like quicksand, just to encounter the solid earth below. Except Afghan earth is like no worldly earth that I know. It is vanilla-buttery, with a slight grind in the texture from the cornflour. All of this, infused with deep coco, which leaves you wanting more.

Whenever I bake, it is in homage to people and in homage to life. Baking is angels manifest, it is Bach on a plate. But unlike Bach, baked creations provide the nutrients to sustain life. I bake to return to this sacred simplicity.

Boy’s Sex Guide

2012-10-25T18:58:00.002+11:00

I am friends with an aspiring sex therapist. Today he told me that men are in desperate need of advice on sex. If you are a guy, here are 2 pieces of advice to keep your woman happy.

1. Orgasms are just a pearl in an ocean.

Some men feel as if it is their duty to make their lover cum. But the truth is some women don’t. Studies estimate that 10-15% of women will never have an orgasm in their life. It is an anatomy thing. Women are just built differently to guys, and their orgasms aren’t required for survival of the species. Some people claim that these women are missing out, but I beg to differ. I haven’t tried heroin yet, I am sure it would be nice, but I don’t really feel jibbed. It is not the be all and end all for me.

My sex therapist friend was shocked at my revelation on this matter. I told him that a non-orgasming sexual encounter can be like a blossom filled garden, a sweet nectar haven from the stresses of life. Orgasm sex, in contrast, doesn’t always fit this picture. It might ripple like a volcano and erupt in a flash, leaving you tired and ready for bed. In this sense, I think of the orgasm as being like a single pearl in the ocean of possibilities of sex. In the right context, it is delicious with luminance. But it can also be cheap, indeed fake, or it might just get in the way.

So men, my advice is this: Relax about the cumming. Take a chill pill. Tune in and enjoy the ride.

2. Women don’t always know what they want.

A recent scientific study has shown that women have eclectic but sensitive tastes. Men, on the other hand, are straightforward.

The study screened an array of porn to men and women. They also connected the lucky participants to machines to measure arousal in the genitals. Men claimed to love the lesbian and hetro sex the most, and measurement from their genitals agreed. Women claimed to love hetro sex the most, but their bodies moistened to hetro, lesbian and gay erotica in equal proportions. Perhaps this demonstrates that women are more flexible than they claim.

Research also unequivocally demonstrates that men have a larger sex appetite at all stages in a relationship. Probably because of this hunger, the context of sex for a man is about as important as collecting receipts from McDonalds.

Women, on the other hand, take the context much more seriously, and they be can be frustratingly paradoxical about their sexual desires. It may sound like we are being manipulative when we demand an emptied dishwasher and glass of champagne as part of the foreplay, but it is biological. The on-again-off-again nature of our libido desires? Just nature’s way of keeping men on their guard.

Inked

2012-10-17T21:53:00.000+11:00

I was under the impression that tattoos were suppose to hurt. Tattoo people just look so badass with their spilling sleeves of colour. I thought they did it as a trophy to their victory over pain. I thought getting a tattoo would prepare me for childbirth. Thought it would be a concentrated Brazilian extract of deathly suffering… But I was wrong.

I arrived at Sideshow Tattoos at 6pm after a busy day of IQ testing. It was wild weather outside. The parlour was like a punky haven for the wicked. For the time being I was a fish out of water because everyone had tattoos. I asked to speak to Rob, my designated artist.

Internally, I felt as if my body was pulsating like a vibrator but I tried to act cool. I casually flicked through a demo folder of dragons and cross-bones and thorny roses while I waited for Rob to make the stencil.

Soon, decorated with a confetti of rain, my two accomplices blew in the door. I had recruited them to provide me with moral support.

My tattoo is a melting mix of past, present and future, and therefore it is timeless. The friend who I was in nappies with at age two, Thomas, has now graduated to from nappies to become a graphic designer and he created the shape. My closest friend since primary school Ozlem was one of my accomplices. She just blew in the door.

The present is manifested in Mr. B, my second accomplice who I am currently dating. I know. It isn't a very sexy activity for a date, watching your supposed partner getting inked, but he is very patient with my whimsical ways.

And how does my tattoo tell the future? The future is in the symbolism. The image I chose is of the heart charkra, a Hindu symbol representing a universally open heart. It Represents the radiance to inspire all the years I have left to live.

Before I knew it, I was laying down on the antisepticed bed. The pulsing nerves I had hidden so convincingly in the waiting room erupted like a volcano over my face. The fear was primal but I hadn’t yet felt my first prick. I attempted to breathe.

“It’ll only take 15 minutes, just chillax” Friendly Rob reassured. And then the needle hit.

It was a high pitched pain, like a soprano singer, but a good soprano singer who had class. She didn’t choose to dominate; she just sounded out her notes in good time. Rob, the perfectionist conductor, didn’t miss a beat. My friends said he held a mangelic calm across the initiation. It wasn’t a sexy calm, instead it looked loving and wise.

And so in this way, my tattoo was born into the world. I am now the tattooed lady. I am dived in and wet and there is no going back.

Ps: Rob the tattoo artist's email is rob.t.h.ting@gmail.com if you have questions about tattoos. Also, feel free to click on an add from time to time as a small way to support this blog.

Macbeth

2012-10-14T15:05:00.000+11:00

Shakespeare was a genius because he had a wise, dark mind. This dawned on me yesterday when I watched my sister perform in a university play as Lady Macbeth.

Shakespeare understood the fusion of masculine and feminine power. Men embody their power through worldly actions, be they in boardrooms or battlefields or bed. Their strength is on the outer, acting as a thick shield to cover a certain vulnerability which stems from the knowledge that they are not complete without the feminine.

A woman’s power is so subtle, she can diffuse through male shields. With her sweet voice, she can tickle her man into action. In this way, a woman is like a 3D petridish, which nurtures male projects into life. And the quality of the end result? Well, it all depends on the trace bacteria that was there to begin with.

Macbeth was a good man who had a few dirty seeds of ambition in his desire to be king. It started with women – three witches who prophesied his triumph. He believed them, and then there was further nurturance in his Scar*esque plans from the petridish of his wife.

In addition to gendered power, Shakespeare understood karma despite the fact he was not a meditating monk. Karma is the idea that our life is webbed together through a series of decisions and interactions, and that our actions today shift the outcomes of tomorrow in a perfectly powerful way. In his plays, Shakespeare could manifest a misunderstanding of karma, and show the ensuing chaos which lies in its wake. After her husband’s murder of the king, Lady Macbeth declared that the bloody evidence would wash away with a little water, as if you can wipe clean the past in a flash. But actually, the mind remembers these things. Actions imprint on many layers of consciousnesses, only some of which we understand. They did not sleep. Macbeth and wife went mad.

Finally, Shakespeare understood the futility of life. After the suicide of his wife near the end of the play, Macbeth states his beautiful and famous soliloquy: Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. The short speech is about the Buddhist idea of samsara. The idea that so long as we live within the construct of time, our life will be “but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage” making mistake after mistake after mistake.

Shakespeare transcended his character and so could clearly share through his plays the broad perspective of life. He enacted how people become caught up in their ambition, and tied down to their deeds. Shakespeare wasn't afraid to touch the darkest caves of humanity, and through this honesty he became free. Free to share universal stories about human nature, and all the folds of evanescent beauty and dusty darkness this entails.

Watching The University of Melbourne Shakespeare Company's performance of Macbeth was a real treat. I loved its zen like simplicity, streamlined quality acting and rich character development in every scene. And most importantly, it brought to life Shakespeare's lyrical wisdom, something I had never appreciated before.

*The Lionking is based on Macbeth

Intimate Porn?

2012-10-12T14:59:00.002+11:00

Lots of men love porn. Those girls look so sexy dancing with their poles, ponies and tight pussies that the men drool in lust. The porn girls love anal and oral as much as they love their porn girl friends. It is fun, because the blond and brunette girls strut in a dripping haze of loud sextacy together. What man could possibly want more?

I would suggest that what is missing in porn is the human. The throbbing natural warmth of human intimacy.

Strap ons dildos are sometimes used in porn videos

In all honesty, I would like to say that intimacy is overrated, and that vibrators offer higher odds of orgasm than the natural tool in any case. I would like to tell you that you should be self-sufficient, take full responsibility, and avoid placing those delicate seeds of your happiness in the careless hands of another. I would like to remind you that those warm hands of your lover might one day grow hyperthermically cold...

Intimacy doesn't always involve a playland for sexploration, it is actually quite mundane. Intimacy is telling your lover how nervous you really were when driving down the free-way on empty. Intimacy is texting an array of boring stories about your day. These stories could probably be avoided, to be replaced with more exciting things...

But here is the truth. Behind those webs of seemingly replaceable conversations, a gentle force grows. It’s invisible, so at first you might mistake it for a vacant emptiness, but it is actually ripe with potential. A potential for healing and growing and daring to be yourself.

Golden Mistakes

2012-10-09T19:27:00.002+11:00

Melbourne's Ferris Wheel was a Mistake

We all know that the world isn't perfect, and that people do stupid things. People fuck up because they are carried away in a whirlwind of passion, while the real rational world has slipped into an abyss. Sometimes, the force can be as strong as a bushfire, causing Black Saturday devastation.

When you hear of such stupidity, there is an opening of the heart. Something cold and hard in the chest opens with sadness. It is like a blue, soft cloud that permeates the body, rippling you with a damp feeling.

There is a universal quality to hearing about someone’s mistake. The mind ticks back to infinite moments of stupidity when men weren't thinking straight, and then acted out their confusion. Strangely, this thought brings me to a place of hovering peace.Peaceful, because there is no space left to judge. You see the truth. That your friend was only acting out a thorn of pain from inside her, in an attempt to exorcise her wound.

And so the transformation takes place. In or outside of work, we hear devastating stories, and then the heart melts. It might start out as an angry flame of injustice, but with time this cools in the knowledge that life can never be truly fair. Then we are left with a foggy sadness, perhaps even with a hint of futility, in an inkling that there is nothing left to do…

And it is true. There is nothing left to do, except one thing. There is nothing left to do but hold everything with the open heart. It burns a little, with the pain of the world coupled with the certainty that you can’t fight it into line... And then the burning rips through everything, melting away everything you stood for and everything you ever thought was true.

And then there is nothing left but a wild, flaming love.