edenland

From Four Cells To Five Years.

2013-05-21T12:29:00.004+10:00

The very first time I saw Rocco he was four cells old. Up on a monitor in an IVF clinic and BLIP he was shot into me like a cannon. I walked lightly out of the room, thinking, I could *totally* be pregnant right now.

I was, in the next few weeks I could feel strange tugging like a spider weaving its web up and down. It was Rocco, he took hold like a champ and did not let go. I had all my IVF posse bloggers back then, my Pam and Palemother and Tobacco and Lori and Mel and Louise and Nancy. And Vee. I miss those innocent days.

Rocco grew and grew.

He was born. He cried for about a year, and woke every few hours.

I only had eyes for Dave, who was really sick at the time.

"Mum, Crash Bandicoot is our brother too."

Everything I wanted, yet the universe plays tricks. I was strong for my boys because there was no choice.

Rocco and I went straight from maternity at Katoomba to oncology at Nepean. To visit dad. Not knowing what's going to happen to somebody you love is one of the hardest things to accept.

Dave came home a few weeks later and was on chemo for a long time.

We used to walk around the lake, a lot. And avoid people.

We didn't know back then that fights like this would happen in the future - that Rocco would beat up his dad while wearing a PULLUP. (Hon - looks like that lion is ripping out of your SKIN.)

Spring came, Dave got the all-clear, and five years later we all woke up and got to watch this guy open his presents with utter delight.

NEVER have I seen a person so excited about their birthday. He's been counting down for so long, and he's never really had a party so we went all out. Five just seems to be such a milestone. New bike, 20 kids, a jumping castle ... the works.

My beautiful friend Naomi has a cake-making business called Dough Re Mi. Rocco asked for "Rockman", who technically is called The Thing. The best chocolate cake I've ever tasted in my life - and I've tasted a few.

And the best party he's EVER had in his.

When everybody whacked the piñata they screamed like Beliebers. I was like an airline hostess for two hours, monitoring fights and toilet trips and games and general party mayhem.

"Excuse me .... you spelt my name wrong on my cup."

Rocco's older brother Tim was there, and Phoebe, and Max. When everybody sang happy birthday, he stuck one of his fingers under my hand for security, uncharacteristically shy.

Later I cuddled him so tightly before bed. I felt his heart beating, and marvelled at those four cells.

I love him. I love him.

Washing The Dishes.

2013-05-16T11:10:00.002+10:00

I had the idea for time-lapse Buddha ages ago. Saw the sun creeping slowly onto his face one morning and had the idea of making a Vine out of it, so it's all meaningful and shit and I get kudos for being so clever.

At last count, I've tried fourteen times to get it right. Either I miss the sun, or the phone would ring, or the phone would go flat, or I kept pressing the wrong button. I was filled with complete rages during this time. I just want to be clever why won't you behave Buddha I am trying to be all Spiritual.

Then it got funny. I don't even know that much about Buddhism. I just like how there's no angry, vengeful, catholic god. And also - how could all those chilled out orange-robed guys be wrong?

The very first rehab I went to, at the grand age of 24, I learned nothing. Because I was unteachable. An arrogant, smartarse dickhead. But I did have a torrid love affair with a guy named Eli.

Eli was washing all the twenty sets of dishes one night as I stood there all doey-eyed at him and he said:

"You know, when you wash the dishes .... you should just wash the dishes. Not reflect or think or worry or wander. Just - wash the dishes. That's it."

Eli remains the only person in my life to date to explain Buddhism to me. Being present. Mindfulness.

My therapist told me the other week to narrate what I'm doing in my head. So I have been.

"41 year old woman sits on a chair." "Drinks glass of water." "Sets table." It's so relieving, and has really helped in settling my anxiety down.

The irony of Buddha making me so furious was not lost on me. Even though I panic while saying good morning at the end ... I finally did what I set out to do.

PS Top left you can turn the sound on

He's the one sitting on his ledge, knowing all the secrets even though his eyes are shut. I'm the one being a scrambling lunatic.

How do you practice mindfulness?

The Riddle.

2013-05-15T09:41:00.000+10:00

Sometimes I stand at school assembly, look around at all the kids, and wonder which of them are gay, lesbian, transgender.

Maybe quite a few, filled with the terror and angst it takes to hide their true selves so that others won't find out. It'd be so, so hard. I can't imagine.

The National spokesperson for PFLAG, Shelley Argent, contacted me recently and asked if I would share this short video.

This Friday the 17th May is International Day Against Homophobia, Intersexphobia, and Transphobia. Hashtag is #IDAHOBIT and it starts at Martin Place at 6.30am til 2pm. There'll be photobooth fun, a roaming army, and lots of supportive attendees.

LGBT rights ... are human rights

I've heard it gets better.

But there's still a while to go.

Firestarter.

2013-05-14T12:37:00.000+10:00

I've been lighting fires, even when it's not that cold.

It just feels so good

I love having just the right amount of kindling and the bigger stuff. I like making it rage until everybody complains we're living in a sauna.

We did indeed go see mum for Mothers Day. I taught her the correct way to unwrap the aluminium foil on a chicken and blackbean burrito. Mum gave Rocco something he has been harping, hankering for, for months now.

MUM I GOT HULKY GLOVES NOW I CAN FIGHT ABOMINATION

We paid a mere twenty thousand dollars for our tickets and drinks to go to the movies and see Ironman III.

The drive home was long. Traffic backed up. It doesn't take much to freak me out these days, but I was as patient as could be. Max asked me if I could stop and buy him a box of TWENTY chicken nuggets from the golden arches.

"I promise I'll eat them mum. You watch ... I'm starving."

I thought about getting home late and preparing dinner - so the arches it was. We had to wait in the waiting bay while they cooked them. Lady came over, gave them to me. I handed them to Max who had a funny look on his face and said,

"Mum. You may want to ..... close your window."

I closed it, absentmindedly thinking he didn't like the breeze but then hang on - there is no breeze. I turned to look at him, holding his ginormous box, looking at me all worried. At that moment, I knew. I KNEW ... there was a huntsman spider on the car.

I have arachnophobia so badly that I weep. There's only one thing worse than having a huntsman spider on your car - it's not knowing if it's inside or outside the car.

HE'S CALLING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE.

Max said it's *probably* outside. He also said it was quite big. Things go a little hazy at this point. Max later tells me I said the words:

"NUP. No. I can't do this. No way."

And then climbed over on top of him to get out of the car, which was by now right in the middle of the drive thru traffic. Other cars had already started to bank up. I begged the woman in the white car behind me to please help me get the spider off the car. She ignored me. I went up to teenagers, a family, they all said and did nothing for the wildly panicked woman. Really, society?

Pleasehelpmethereisaspideronmycar.

My hands were sweaty and I was half-crying, until FINALLY a beautiful woman came up to me and told me it was ok, then shouted to her kids to go inside and get Uncle Terry. She took my clamster hand and told me that this happened to her one time too. And unfortunately she never found it. We both laughed a little maniacally ... she was SO lovely to me.

A McDonalds employee came out, wondering why there were about twenty cars blocked in all directions. He was all shitty and I said dude, there's a spider in my car. I'm not moving it anywhere.

Suddenly, out comes Uncle Terry. I scream at him. UNCLE TERRY!! My car was still idling at this point. He gets in and goes to park it somewhere so the cars could pass. The woman next to me says, "Hey so, isn't your other child still in your car?"

FUCK.

I had completely forgotten about Rocco. I couldn't even rush over to see if he was ok when Uncle Terry parked because SPIDER. I was banking on him showing his toughness.

Uncle Terry and the woman (her name was Susan) helped look in and around and on my car for the huntsman. There is no way I could have driven home if we didn't find it. The logical conclusion would be to rescue Rocco, then pour petrol on it and light a match. FINALLY, Uncle Terry sees it. Flicks it off and stomps on it like the hero he is. I high-fived Uncle Terry and hugged Susan. I love them. I will love them forever.

"Thank you for helping people that you don't even know!"

We drove home, my adrenal gland SHOT, my body heat fogging up all the windows because SPIDER.

I lit the fire. Then we all put our pj's on without having a shower and watched TV together on the couch. I apologised to Rocco for leaving him in the car. His exact words:

"Pfffffft. I wasn't scared mum. I just wanted to see the spider."

::

PS I wrote about not caring about being an under-achiever over on Mix.FM HERE

PPS I keep thinking there's spiders on me. I'm scratching, flicking, on high-alert. I blame that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark - remember when he had spiders ALL over his back? YEAH.

The Nature Of Ambition.

2013-05-13T11:40:00.000+10:00

Grant Snider is from Incidental Comics.

Except Me. I'm Still Talking About The End Of The World.

2013-05-10T13:07:00.000+10:00

What's with all the bullshit about Mother's Day? Why do all the "things" ... like Christmas and Easter ... keep getting bigger each passing year? All my mum wants for Mother's Day is a burrito. And to come to the movies with me and the boys on Sunday to watch Ironman 3 with us because she watched Ironman 1 and 2 with Jim. We might even eat our burritos IN the cinema with lunch dessert on our laps. WHO EVEN KNOWS. Point is, we're spending some time with people we love. That's all. Does everything have to be marketed to the shithouse? I have my cranky pants on today.

I don't know so many things. It's exhilarating and quite frankly, relieving. You know what nine days out of a mental health ward feels like? Fucking terrifying is what it feels like. One day when I was in there, Dave visited with REAL coffee. We sat out on the tiny grass chatting like everything's fine. I was handling it all - my darkest thoughts, diagnosis, crap food, being held against my will.

Then Dave mentions that the budgie flew away.

I cried, like I'm crying now, and I cry everytime I think about the budgie. Who knows if he made it, out there in the Big Scary World. I had a connection with that budgie. Really grew to love him. Max let him out in his bedroom then Rocco left the front door open and now he's gone. If I'd have been here, it wouldn't have happened.

The thing about the budgie that always baffled me is that when I let him out, to fly and cruise around the house, he didn't want to. He'd always fly back to his cage and wait patiently, to be let back in.

::

About an hour ago, I'm sitting here on my couch in crazy-persons clothes, greasy, stinky, sad. There was a knock at the door and a courier delivered me these:

It's twelve bottles of wine from a PR agency - for Mothers Day.

As a recovering alcoholic I am not offended at all. This has made me laugh so, SO hard. For the first time in ages. So hard. (I can guarantee any alcohol company they do not want a product review from me ... unless it involves faeces, fornication, vomit, and raging despair.)

::

In the mail I also received a gift from two beautifuls, Magnetoboldtoo and Veggiemama.

"I tried to drown my sorrows but the damn things learned to swim."

It's a quote by Frida Kahlo, that U2 used in the song describing a conversation between Jesus and Judas, "The End of the World."

I was 21 at this concert. Thought I knew everything. (Maybe I did.)

::

It's Friday. Street Talk day. Can't do it. I'm barely functioning, on a shitload of medication that we're still "tweaking." Severe constipation, a urinary tract infection that has given me a fever, and a head that still wants to kill me. I've purposely stayed off this blog because no news is good news, right?

So because there's no rules to blogging I'm going to cheat at Street Talk today and tell you about somebody I met on the street approximately twenty years ago. You know that Dr Seuss book when the the north-going Zax meets the South-going Zax? In the Prairie of Pax?

Well that's exactly what happened to me and this guy one day walking through Hyde Park in Sydney. There was plenty of people around, but we were walking from opposite directions in exactly the same manner, got to each other, stopped, and looked.

And this dude goes,

"Well .... hi!"

And I said,

"Hi!"

Then we stood there for about twenty minutes, chatting. I can hardly remember the conversation - but I do remember that when he told me his name was Electric, he put his pointer finger on my arm and went ZZZZT and we both laughed.

We exchanged rings - I think I still have his, somewhere. It's big, never fit me, and made from metal. But I kept it. Never saw him again.

Once you talk to someone, they're not a stranger anymore. It's the darndest thing.

::

Friday Street Talk is an unfolding art project. I'm so grateful and blown away that people say yes to talking with me, trusting me with some snippets of who they are.
Previous Street talks:

1. Noelene the Young
2. Megan the Mouse
3. Harpal the Australian
4. Darren the Artist
5. Jo the Interesting
6. John the Telstra Guy
7. Michael the Photographer
8. Peg the Lady
9. Jeff the Preacher Man
10. Andres the Cobbler
11. Honey the Prostitute
12. Mark the Masseur
13. You the Blog Reader
14. Jo the Podiatrist
15. Casey the Uni Student
16. Dream the Horse and Carriage Driver
17. Tamas the Hungarian Accordionist

PS I'm seeing three professionals and doing all the right things and trying to just chill but man I completely understand why the budgie wanted to go back into his cage. I miss hospital.

PPS ALLIE BROSH CAME BACK.

PPPS Mum for Mothers Day you're getting a burrito AND twelve bottles of wine.

This Monday Mix.

2013-05-06T11:52:00.003+10:00

Our lemon tree overfloweth. Dave has taught all of the boys to wee on it, which causes me a bit of grief because WEE.

There's always about 50 lemons on the wee tree at any one time. My mum stayed all last week, shopping and cooking and minding. Then she was gone, leaving fresh washing, new books, and a few batches of lemon butter in her wake.

CAN'T EVEN.

I remember when I was a kid and someone at school would unwrap a lemon butter sandwich and I'd think how disgusting it sounded. Guess what? Not disgusting. So yum, and guilty and moreish.

I feel really exhausted. As weak as a jellyfish, waiting for my brain to catch up to everything.

The Sydney Writers Festival is looming, I just checked out the itinerary ... some people are incredible. In its honour, some of Sydney City's street cleaning trucks have been transformed with Sydney Writers' Festival curated poetry.

So you lucky people of Sydders get to see things like this:

Garbage and Art - Two Of My Favourite Things. Well done, Clover.

That particular poem is called "Walking Back From The Dam" by Australian poet Martin Harrison:

Back in New York, you could die in taxis.
Fame, too, was serious, personal, mythic:
an image captioned in the heart of things.
As if you lived, hovering, in the sun’s eye.
And when it was sunset, there was Rome and cocktails.
Everyone met everyone - stuck, anxious, suicidal.
Dreaming themselves, frantically, to death.

::

As of today, I'm an official Mix FM blogger. Details HERE ... my two comrades are the smart, switched-on Marina Go, and the effervescent Julie Anne Longano. Watch this space .... we'll be covering a range of issues, people, places. I love how we're literally mixing up media - blogging, radio, interviews, writing. The opportunities and creativity are as ripe as the lemons.

I recently interviewed Sam Moran about his new Nick Jr show, Play Along With Sam. Every weekday morning at 10am, the ex-yellow Wiggle stars in his new musical show, designed to get toddlers and pre-schoolers up and moving. Sam isn't afraid of playing a ukelele while wearing the coolest safari suit in town. He was so lovely to talk to. (You can read my interview with him HERE.)

I'm excited. It feels good to feel excited. I hope it lasts a little bit.

(Because I didn't finish at 3 minutes and 10 seconds either.)

Street Talk: Tamas The Hungarian Accordionist.

2013-05-03T23:04:00.000+10:00

I'm in in Sydney tonight which is weird but everything's weird so may as well just go along with it.

Dave and I drove off the mountain to go spend some time together just us two. He is so cool to do Street Talk with .. he wants to talk to everybody, while I walk around in hand-wringing embarrassment.

About an hour ago we were walking in Circular Quay and heard an accordion and said man, wouldn't it be cool if that was an actual accordionist.

It was an actual accordionist.

Tamas was playing the same tune, over and over again. When I asked him his name, he just looked at me and laughed and laughed, eventually saying "Tamas." Not sure if Tamas really is his name or not but we'll just go along with that too I guess.

"What is that tune you're playing? It sounds familiar."

Tamas said it was from the Godfather and Dave and I both said YES. Pretty sure Godfather 2 is one of the few sequels better than the original.

Tamas had a well-worn cap perched on his head with brightly coloured letters spelling out SYDNEY. His fingers were a bit grubby. He doesn't earn much, these days. He doesn't miss Hungary and moved to Australia when he was 22 years old. Never married, no children. Just him, his worn cap, a small puppy and a spectacular accordion.

::

Friday Street Talk is an unfolding art project. I'm so grateful and blown away that people say yes to talking with me, trusting me with some snippets of who they are. THANK YOU to my sister Linda for getting the last three up here, while I was away.

Previous Street talks:

1. Noelene the Young
2. Megan the Mouse
3. Harpal the Australian
4. Darren the Artist
5. Jo the Interesting
6. John the Telstra Guy
7. Michael the Photographer
8. Peg the Lady
9. Jeff the Preacher Man
10. Andres the Cobbler
11. Honey the Prostitute
12. Mark the Masseur
13. You the Blog Reader
14. Jo the Podiatrist
15. Casey the Uni Student
16. Dream the Horse and Carriage Driver

(Am quite overwhelmed with the response to my last post. How did we all get here together? What happened for us all to meet? The words "thank you" doesn't even cover how I feel about your love and support for me and my family. But thank you, hugely, anyway. xxx)

I Shed My Skin And Put My Bones Into Everything.

2013-05-02T16:50:00.001+10:00

It's hard to start writing this.

I could start at the exact moment the woman with the long hair spat mashed potato onto my glasses. I could start when I fell into a deep psychosis while walking through New Yorks diamond district the week after my stepfather died in July last year. I could start the day Dave went to his cancer ward while I went to the newborn ward. So much to choose from!

I keep sweeping the shards of the story up into the middle of the room to dispose of them thoughtfully but they just keep coming.

How about I just start with the distinct feeling that I've never actually felt ok?

Almost a month ago I asked my sister Linda to drive up and be with my kids for a while so I could check myself into hospital and have a breakdown please? I was so polite.

She careened up .... and Like Doctors Without Borders, we coined the term "Sisters Without Pity."

I abhor pity.

I went into emergency and within half an hour was scheduled against my will into the hospital because I was a danger to myself. (Probably because I was a danger to myself.)

Talking about mental illness is a slippery eel. If I went into hospital almost a month ago because of a broken leg? Completely legit. But I went into hospital for a broken mind. A broken leg in my broken mind? A broken stigma on my stigmata? There was no bed ready so I had to wait for a day and a half in a small room with no window. I was a patient with no patience. Things turned ugly. I had to apologise to the security guys quite a few times. Everything was perspex so nothing would break and I was FURIOUS.

I trapped my own self in there. Dave came back and took the boys to the beach and my pitiless sister got on with her life. I wonder how people in developing countries get their mental needs met? They're probably too busy thinking about basic things like food and water and shelter.

A Lot Of Things Happened over the course of the past month. (For the record, none of this had anything to do with alcohol or drugs. Just my own head, out to get me. Again.)

I've never felt so scarily low, for such an extended period of time. I unravelled to the end of the string. It was such a relief to not pretend anymore. But then people in my community - both in the real world and online, found out where I was. Mortifying.

Apparently somebody left a comment here stating: "... those poor boys."

Those poor boys? Had the best school holidays. Playing on the beach with their dad and cousins, visiting both grandmothers, going to the park, going to the movies, eating sushi.

Their mum didn't end up hanging from a tree, so no. They're not poor boys at all.

Apparently I have Bipolar II. I read through the symptoms and cannot believe I got to forty-one years old without realising I may have something more seriously wrong with me than just "life being a bit tricky" at times. The words "high-functioning" have been explained to me by a lot of nurses, doctors, and psychiatrists. Probably why I can do things like interview the Prime Minister of Australia in the morning, a prostitute from Kings Cross in the afternoon, then end up on the Project that night talking about rape culture. Then feeling like the most worthless wreck of a human being the next day.

So.

I was officially discharged yesterday. Left my bed a little better than how I found it, with the *cutest* Frankie poster.

All of the people I was in there with ... wow. They're mostly just like you and me. Mostly just doing their best. You would never guess if you walked past them in the street. Life is hard, and for some, it's REALLY hard.

Living in a mental health ward is like living in a Richard Scarry book if he'd dropped some acid before writing it. The nurses all deserve a raise, a holiday, and a massage. They are unbelievable. I could not do what they do - thank GOD they do what they do.

I'm reeling. Realing. Dave is a taking it in his stride but it must have been hard for him. He made me a coffee with cream as soon as we got back home yesterday, while mum was filling the freezer with beautifully cooked food.

I've had a CAT scan, bloods, heart monitor. On a healthy dose of medications. I don't know what's going to happen next, because there's no such thing as happy endings. But there's always chocolate and sex and truth and nurses you adore and laughter. And music. Even in dark times.

This song was in my head the entire time I was in there. An anthem, of sorts. I really love it how you get to the trumpets and you think think the song has ended but it didn't, it kept going.

I shed my skin and put my bones into everything

At 3 minutes and 10 seconds, I coulda swore it was over. But it kept going.

It just kept going.

::

PS The woman spat mashed potato at my face in the mental health unit during dinner because she thought I was a Belgian spy. I was so fucked up I began to wonder if I actually WAS a Belgian spy? Maybe this wasn't my real life at all? WHO COULD EVER REALLY KNOW?

Street Talk: Dream The Horse And Carriage Driver.

2013-04-26T07:12:00.000+10:00

Today's Street Talk is brought to you by the gorgeous Twitchy from twitchy corner. She's an absolute gem of a lady with a heart of gold; a mum to two kids, she's doing her bit to spread autism awareness and acceptance. She translates that into 'wanting to see more laughter and kindness in the world'. Thanks Twitchy for today's post - I for one, loved it. Peace. Linda x

******************************************************************************

This Street Talk turned out to be a bit of an adventure. Dream was my second interview for the day as my first interview didn’t head down a road I could’ve predicted. I chanced upon an intriguing and receptive character at a tram stop in colourful St. Kilda. The chat began well enough to the point I just hopped on the tram to finish the interview. But it quickly morphed into an awesome partial expose on the seedy underbelly of the St. Kilda crime and drug-dealing scene! Informative as that was, my interviewee was identifiable; not apparently as savvy to the blog concept as first indicated. I had to do the right thing. As we parted ways, I found myself with an unusable interview but now in the Melbourne CBD.

From the Tram Window. This is all I can show you from Interview One.

This is how I discovered Dream, standing at her post opposite the Town Hall on the corner of Collins and Swanston, with her fairytale horse-drawn carriage.

How long have you been doing this and how did you get your start?

I’ve been working with the horses and carriages two years now. I used to work in retail nearby. There was a French girl who was doing this. I was interested so I met her and asked how she got the job. She said she used to work on farms in France and that she just walked up to the boss on the street asking for a position. That made me think and the more I thought about it, the more I really wanted to do it too! But I had no experience. None at all. It didn’t stop me. I still wanted it.

(A tourist interrupts to ask for directions to the nearest post office. Dream cheerily assists.)

I asked the boss and I was honest. He asked me if I had worked with, or ridden horses before. PFFFT! (She gestures with a swipe.) In Thailand, I rode elephants, not horses!! (She laughs.) I had his attention. I told him I will work hard, so please train me, I will do it for free. He agreed and said it would take five to six months. I kept my full time retail job and trained seven to eight hours every Saturday and Sunday, learning all parts of the job. I worked seven days a week the whole time! But I’m so happy I did.

Tell me about your work day.

A work day is about ten or eleven hours, up to thirteen on a weekend. I start at the yards to feed, clean, groom and harness the horses before coming here to take rides. (Rides are not charged per person, they are per carriage.)

I meet the boss who’s interested in what we are doing; I explain and thank him for Dream’s time. At this point a council officer issues a traffic infringement notice for Dream’s carriage. Being third in a row, it’s over the line. Dream’s boss is not happy. He leans over and says under his breath: ”Tell ‘em the Council’s trying to get rid of us.”

Do you have favourite horses and do you work with the same ones or rotate them? (I stroke one, her sides are surprisingly soft, more like felt than hair).

Yes, Laura is famous for her softness! We do rotate them, but I love Laura and Dougie here, they were the first pair I worked with.

Can you tell me a little bit more about yourself from your time before this job?

In Thailand I worked at a free tourist magazine for the Japanese, sourcing pictures. I came to Australia four years ago with my Australian partner. Unfortunately it did not work out. I hoped to find employment in similar Japanese work but here you have to be fluent and I am not. So I waitressed, worked at Crown Casino, then I got my retail job. I thought about going back to Thailand but I already had my permanent residency and I really wanted this job. If it hadn’t worked out I would’ve gone back. But two years later, here I am, and loving it!

As I take my shot, Laura ruffles her big, plumed head into her petite handler who laughs, obscured by pink horsefeathers. I take another shot, thank Dream and say goodbye.

Oh Horsefeathers!

Beautiful Dream. With Dougie and Laura

Friday Street Talk is an unfolding art project. I'm so grateful and blown away that people say yes to talking with me, trusting me with some snippets of who they are.

Previous Street talks:

1. Noelene the Young
2. Megan the Mouse
3. Harpal the Australian
4. Darren the Artist
5. Jo the Interesting
6. John the Telstra Guy
7. Michael the Photographer
8. Peg the Lady
9. Jeff the Preacher Man
10. Andres the Cobbler
11. Honey the Prostitute
12. Mark the Masseur
13. You the Blog Reader

14. Jo the Podiatrist

15. Casey the Uni Student

What Elton John's Passionate Piano Playing Teaches Us At The 2001 Grammies

2013-04-25T12:20:00.000+10:00

I hope you know I ripped ALL of your pictures off the wall.

I played Stan the other day and Max was all oh yeah, Stan, wait, who's that other guy?

So I had the pleasure of explaining how certain things can happen when true artists hold their egos in check and truly collaborate. When you get to a certain level you want to push more and see how high you get, how important it is to take lots of risks.

Max fully understood. I told hom to take risks. One of the best parenting moments I ever had.

Street Talk: Casey The Uni Student.

2013-04-19T08:22:00.000+10:00

Today's Street Talk is brought to you by the gorgeous Stacey from Veggie Mama. She's a beautiful woman; married to a super cool guy, they have two gorgeous baby girls, she's a vegetarian and such a soft soul. Thanks Stacey for today's post. Peace. Linda x

******************************************************************************

I've always found going up to strangers and talking to them really rather difficult. It was one of the things I struggled with the most as a journalist. It's no easy feat to find a random person and get them to open up to you, but the more I did it the more I realised people were friendlier than I gave them credit for. It never got any easier though, I just got better at ignoring the anxiety. For this Street Talk I seriously considered chickening out - finding someone I already knew and interviewing them. But that's just silly. Eden wouldn't chicken out.

Casey is 22 years old. I spot her sitting under the shade of the library as I make my way around looking for someone to chat to. Her smooth, unlined face was peering into a laptop screen and I knew it was her to whom I had to speak. I am surrounded by young people at my work, and I find them endlessly fascinating - they are right on that brink of adulthood before all the love, loss, mistakes, joy and heartbreak that await them. They're fired up, they're having fun, they're often hungover. They work hard and they play hard. They've got plans and goals and all the time in the world to achieve them. I was looking for the youngest face in the crowd.

I ask what she's studying and if she knows what she wants to do when she graduates. A Bachelor of Business she tells me, with a major in International Business. She doesn't know what she wants to do with that degree, what kind of job she wants to do.

"It's gotta be pretty useful though, lots of businesses are international now."

But when I tell her this interview is for a blog, her eyes light up. She herself has a blog, a Tumblr where she deconstructs the characters of television programs in her spare time. She has a small bunch of friends that she chats to about it online and she is passionate about delving into the psychology of characterisation and how that is portrayed on screen. I ask why she doesn't study in this area and she said she tried, but being graded took a lot of the shine off the joy she got from doing it purely out of interest. There's a difference between doing it, and doing it because you have to, she tells me.

Casey is going to take some time off after uni, and live in Canada for a year. She's working hard now to save enough money to go at the end of next semester. She said she and her best friend travelled to North America last year for six months, and when she stepped foot in Vancouver she knew she didn't want to leave. Travel is her number-one love and she tells me tales of where she's been and where she wants to go.

"Travel is like, my thing, you know? I want to revisit Europe, I want to go to Scotland and Ireland. I'm so fascinated by ancient history, it was the only thing in school that I was really interested in."

I ask her what she would study if she was free to choose anything in the world. Straight up, she says: "English. Studying characterisation in books and on tv and in movies. I would love that." She then tells me that theatrical makeup is something she'd like to pursue, if it didn't have such a shallow pool of available jobs. She's into fantasy, both books and movies, and when I offer "like Lord of the Rings?" she doesn't laugh at my narrow knowledge, she just nods enthusiastically. She gets a lot of recommendations from her brother, who likes the genre, so she finds she reads a lot of books geared for a male audience.

Would she like to write a book? I ask. The short answer is no. The long answer is a recommendation - to read The Wheel of Time, a series of 15 epic fantasy novels by Robert Jordan. Her genuine thrill at the complexity and detail of the world created solely for a set of fiction books is contagious – I dutifully write down the title. But it’s also an explanation: if writing this deeply is what is required to publish a book, then she doesn’t have the time or the willpower.

Given she’s studying something she will easily find a job in, rather that what makes her heart sing, I asked her what is her definition of success.

“Just enjoying life. I wouldn’t base success on what you do, but how much you enjoy it. I feel that uni isn’t what people make it out to be, that if you don’t do it you’re stupid. I just want to be happy, I don’t think it’s important to be worried about reaching certain levels to become an adult.”

I ask if she feels like an adult yet and she half-grimaces, so I continue: “Still mostly feel like a kid?”

“Still a bit like a kid, yeah. I haven’t moved out of home, I mean I buy my own groceries, but even the groceries show how much of a kid I am. Last time I just bought celery, carrot sticks and a carton of Pepsi Max.”

But when she does feel adult enough she’d like a husband. Not too sure on children herself just yet, but she’d love a house full of pets.

“Yeah, lots of animals, dogs everywhere.”

I see her looking at her watch, she has a group meeting for an assignment in a couple of minutes and I don’t want to keep her any longer. Just as I’m about to leave, she tells me her dad hates travel.

“He thinks it’s such a waste of money, that I’m wasting my money going overseas. I mean, he’ll travel in Australia, but he won’t go anywhere else.

Last year he went to Bali and I was so surprised. I asked him why he went, and he just said because his friend wanted to go, but he wouldn’t go back.

I’m addicted, imagine not going to Rome and seeing the ancient architecture of it, the Colosseum? He just doesn’t understand the point of it.”

Her pretty face is earnestly confused. To her, travel is as necessary as breathing and she is mystified as to why anyone wouldn’t go if they had the chance. I nod, amused at her enthusiasm and tell her I agree. Old people can be so stuffy.

14. Jo the Podiatrist

There's a Buddha In There. And A Chair As Well.

2013-04-17T09:15:00.000+10:00

Hi all, Eden has asked me to post this up for her - it's her brilliance, not mine. She is feeling the love from you all - thank you everyone so much. Peace. Linda x

Years ago Dave and I found some gorgeous authentic green club chairs with a matching lounge, complete with wooden rim. Out of the whole of Australia, we discovered the setting was less than a ten minute drive away. Meant to be, obviously!

They suited our house so well, and so beautifully. Until our children came along, and then even more children, plus some unexpected ring-ins. We coped like we always do, tag-teamin!

Like locusts, however, the kids destroyed every good thing in their path. The club setting was not spared. Taking it in turns to hold onto the backs of the green and wooden chairs and sproinging up and down like a freaking trampoline. The springs buckled and they soon grew more uncomfortable to sit in.

Oh the fury of watching our shit get demolished. We soon gave up, and just identified daily with our captors.

Rocco is the kid who will 'accidentally' bash a hole in his bedroom wall to post devon and ham in there, in the middle of a muggy summer. NOM. He slowly destroyed one of the green club chairs. Lightly pulled and tugged the stuffing out of one of the arms. None of us ever saw him do it. But we all knew it was him. Dave was beyond furious. 'WE JUST CAN'T HAVE ANY GOOD THINGS FOR FUCK'S SAKE'.

Dave kept asking me where his iron-on transfer was that he bought in Mexico. Told him I had no idea and... wouldn't an iron-on Mexican transfer ruin the club-ness of the club chair? Dave said it was already ruined. Guess he had a point.

Dave did finally find his patch. Turns out it wasn't an iron-on patch though. Phoebe saw his frustration, "I've got an iron-on one dad!". Dave ironed it onto that once magnificent chair.

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Words cannot convey the mirth that I feel when I walk past and see that miss-matched Buddha patch on what was once a pristine green club lounge chair. It's hilarious, absurd, out-of-place. I'm sure it's symbolic of so many things but I always tend to laugh too hard to understand exactly what. To not take shit so seriously? To forget so much about favourite possessions? Or the fierce determination of a little boy who will always, always, push the envelope.

Heaven help us all when he becomes an adult.

Street Talk : Jo the Podiatrist.

2013-04-12T18:57:00.000+10:00

Eden has asked me to keep Street Talk going, it's a project that she holds very close to her heart. I hope I can do it justice. Peace. Linda

I walk into Jo's office, and I'm immediately struck by how young, bright and cheerful she is. Her bubbly personality just doesn't match the stereotype I had in my head for a 'Foot doctor'. She's 28, comes from the Central Coast, and has her own Podiatry practice, Rose Bay Podiatry. She's married, but has no kids yet, she says she's waiting to grow up herself first. Listening to her though, I reckon she's a very mature, determined and wise old soul...

So Jo, why feet?

Well I always wanted to get into the medical field, and Podiatry was a 4 year degree which meant I could study and then start working in the field much faster than training to become a doctor. I completed my degree in 2007 and I now have my own practice. I really love the diagnostic aspect of it. Podiatry is the end of the road for alot of patients as they may have been to a GP, a Physio and possibly had other treatments along the way.

What's the best part of the job?

It's hard to pick just one aspect, there's so many good things! I love being my own boss, I get to meet really inspiring people and I get great job satisfaction as I usually see the end results/outcome for my patients. People come back and say thanks and they are so grateful for the treatments I've provided - especially if they've been in alot of pain. I see all walks of life - such a variety of people come through the door. I also love helping people become more aware of their feet, and how they came to have the problems they presented to me with.

What's the worst part of the job?

Most of my patients are elderly, and I've seen many of them decline in their health over the years of me treating them. It's hard sometimes to see patients who were once quite lively, independent and relatively healthy gradually (or sometimes rapidly) decline health-wise and end up in nursing homes or pass away. Some patients I've treated for years, built up a lovely rapport with, end up forgetting who I am. It's a constant reality check really, I'm so young yet I spend alot of my working hours with elderly patients - I can get quite close to them.

Surely you must need a bad sense of smell in your line of field?

Oh it definitely helps to have NO sense of smell!. It's not a glamorous job, and there's a certain stigma attached to 'working with feet' but I don't care about that. You have to have a genuine love for it to do it, I think that most of the great Podiatrists out there are genuine people - you just couldn't do this job if you didn't love it.

She goes about her work with such efficiency, picking away at my stubborn 23 year old plantar wart whilst keeping up the banter. She's very good at keeping my mind off the discomfort I'm feeling during the treatment. I ask her what's the best piece of advice she's ever been given.

It's actually a quote that someone told me once "Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people" Eleanor Roosevelt.

My treatment complete, Jo walks me out and I see an elderly gent stooped in a chair in the waiting room. She greets him warmly and asks him about his wife as she gently guides him into her room.

::

Antilamentation

2013-04-11T13:06:00.000+10:00

I'm posting this on Eden's behalf today. This poem was emailed to Eden recently by her beautiful friend Mary. Mary is an amazingly talented photographer and is pretty handy at the written word too; her blog and photography can be found here.

Thanks Mary.

Peace.

Linda x

Antilamentation

By Dorianne Laux

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook, not
the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication, not
the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the living room couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the window.
Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation.
Relax. Don’t bother remembering any of it. Let’s stop here,
under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

Why I Went On Meet The Press.

2013-04-04T11:47:00.001+11:00

I celebrated Easter Sunday last week by appearing on Meet the Press with fellow-blogger and good friend, Kim Berry from All Consuming.

The quality of the video is not great. I can't afford decent videotaping staff on my bloggers wage.

There's a few things at play here, concurrently. (See the exact moment I saw my double chin on the monitor at 1minute 23 seconds.)

The question I get asked a lot is, WHY would the Prime Minister reach out to people in the online space. (We're getting close to, actually - why would she NOT?)

I'm not a soft touch. I'm a swinging voter. The 2013 Federal Election will go down in history as one of the most polarising of all time. Who do you hate more, Gillard or Abbott? Both people provoke such emotion in people. Julia Gillard is loathed and admired at the same time. My toe dipped into the political water recently has made one thing very clear: people go CRAZY when it comes to politics. I never realised how many disenfranchised men out there had such huge mummy issues. I think it's incredibly unfair that Gillard gets routinely annihilated in the media. And where's Tony Abbott in all of this? Tony, you won't answer my calls ..... what do you mean when you say, "Abortions should be rare." Like a steak? What IS your stance on women's bodies? Will my body be my own, if you are elected in September? Enquiring minds need to know.

My grandfather Squizzy always said never talk politics or sport at the dinner table. He was also a complete Aussie larrakin. He fought for this country, and was a prisoner of war in a German camp TWICE because he escaped. He was traumatised when he came back from the war, and went on to have a big family with my grandmother. Six children, my mother the eldest, really hard times for them all. Australia is such a beautiful, lucky, amazing country. We don't know how good we have it - in India they don't have enough toilets. Armed men roam countries of Africa like it's the most normal thing in the world. And Syria, man ..... who gives a shit about Syria at this point?

I want good government. I want a leader that I can trust. Is that too much to ask? Why are we all so jaded? Could it be that Prime Minister Julia Gillard is changing and evolving as a leader, one who is making the right decisions for Australia on the world stage? I'm busy raising the next generation. I'm also worried about what recent Centrelink changes mean to single parents. I worry about climate change, my mental health, my kids schools, my husband staying in remission from cancer. I think a lot of politicians bank on the average Aussie being dumb and too busy wrapped up in their own lives to really care about who gets elected in September. I care. Plenty of people around me care. Rupert Murdoch is not playing fair and it feels like everything is staged and rigged. Fuck Rupert.

So that's why I went on Meet the Press .... to represent the online space, the bloggers, the mothers. Same with Kim. Seriously, Kim and I are actually two fruitcakes. But we are real, we care, we found ourselves in this weird position, so we just kept saying yes.

I got called stupid a lot as a kid so I have real issues around people thinking I am. I'm not stupid. Neither are tens, hundreds of thousands of Aussies out there.

So stop treating us like we are.

::

EDITED: "And this is why you shouldn't" (IF that is their real name) .... has left a brilliant comment below, in regards to why the PM has reached out to bloggers. Articulated stuff that I haven't. Would love to hear peoples views, disagreements, thoughts. (And I really hope people can stay civil!)

(Saying "Fuck Rupert" isn't very civil. I'm just cranky at the thought of tabloid newspapers ruining democracy.)

PS Also, I don't actually receive a bloggers wage. Neither does Kim.

My Son Was Sitting In His Classroom.

2013-04-01T20:08:00.000+11:00

I sat outside the classroom and watched my son. He's only eleven.

Millions of parents watch their kids every day. But I'm not millions I'm one and he's mine and the way the tendrils curl around his ears when his hair gets too long is so gorgeous that I want to punch something. What is that?

My son sat between his best mate Zac and a girl with long blonde hair. My son was wearing a bright green watch. Nobody in his class knew how that very morning he'd stood in the kitchen at home and announced that his watch was, in fact, waterproof.

"No. I mean, water resistant. Hang on - what's the difference again mum?"

I told him the difference between waterproof and water resistant like one day I hope to tell him the difference between sex and drugs, god and the devil; love and fear.

This world's gonna make sure he gets his heart broken and his hat tooken. In the meantime I watch him swing on his chair in class just like I used to swing on my chair in class.

With my bare mind I willed him to look up at me. Eleven years ago he brought forth sobriety and grace from the underworld. Lately I'm faltering but he still tells me his dreams. He ignores the blonde girl and looks straight up, straight through me. Threw me.

And laughs.

Later we walk through the autumn day and he picks me a purple flower, carefully arranges it in the dusty Jarritos bottle. Fills it to near overflowing and the excess water spills out onto the tablecloth.

I never did a thing to deserve such a flower. That's how grace works.

Street Talk: You, The Blog Reader.

2013-03-29T22:16:00.003+11:00

Street Talk couldn't be done today. Sorry.

I was wondering about you. If I met you on the street, say .... on an information superhighway. What would you say if I asked you some questions? Can I ask you some questions? How are you? How's life?

1) Do you have a nemesis?
2) Is suicide a bad thing?
3) Favourite live performance of a musical act? Why?
4) Earliest memory?
5) How will the world end?

You can answer anonymously in the comments if you feel like it.

::

Failed Derby Girl.

2013-03-26T12:43:00.000+11:00

Have you met Failed Derby Girl?

She joined a roller derby team at the age of forty but only lasted a few months before dropping out. Another failed thing. The call of children and homelife reeled her back.

She does her best writing for free. Her life is her art, just like everybody else's. Tappity-tap!

Failed Derby Girl has a lot of pining and aching for a life she will never lead. She's messy at everything. But just because she can't find Domesticity on a map, doesn't mean she can't bake a mean cupcake.

She's the only person in the entire house who knows how to get the bits of baked-on shit from under the rim of the toilets. (When everybody gets home at the end of the day, nobody ever thanks her but that's ok.)

Failed Derby Girl rails against the hellish crucifix of her youth but has a sensual penchant with the Buddha on her backdeck. She told God she doesn't believe in Him. God doesn't believe in Her, either.

Good.

She can interview the Prime Minister in the middle of a nervous breakdown. Her lack of motives and agenda confuses people. She likes to water weeds, for who's to say what will grow and what will not?

Failed Derby Girl has been with the same man for over thirteen years. The love is fierce and hardcore: he is the only one who has never tried to tame untameable her.

She bore two boys from her belly. She will never mother them "properly." Love conquered all. But then what?

Failed Derby Girl shares the secrets of the mothers of the superheroes, the givers of milk. (Dinosaurs disapprove the public latching on.)

There's more to everything, and worlds within worlds.

She sets herself on fire every morning and starts again.

Do you?

::

Photography by Mary Canning

Street Talk: Mark The Masseuse.

2013-03-22T20:08:00.002+11:00

Mark is a sports and remedial massage therapist. Based in Katoomba, he specialises in tradies and sportspeople.

"Yeah I really like it. Have lived in the mountains for years now - no matter how much I think about moving somewhere else, I just always stay."

I told Mark I know exactly how he feels. I ask him if I can pat his guide dog and he says no. Kye is a beautiful labrador and has worked for Mark for five years. He has five more years left.

"Guide dogs work for ten years, then they retire. I was just buying some fish from the fish shop and there was a lady basically sprawled on the floor next to Kye, patting him."

It must be so annoying. In the five minutes I chatted with Mark, two different people came up and asked if they could pat the dog. I told them no.

"People mean well ... but Kye has a job to do and he can get distracted. Sometimes it feels like I'm walking down the street with a 4-year old child. Don't touch this, don't lick that."

I told Mark that again, I know exactly how he feels.

The guys in front of the pub at the top of Katoomba Street watched our whole exchange and ended up talking to us too. It was pretty cool.

I didn't ask Mark about his sight, because it didn't really come up in conversation. I wished I'd asked him about the fish he bought, though. I'm always on the lookout for a new fish recipe.

Mark Tromp - Sports/Remedial Massage

::

Friday Street Talk is an unfolding art project. I'm so grateful and blown away that people say yes to talking with me, trusting me with some snippets of who they are.

Previous Street talks:

1. Noelene the Young
2. Megan the Mouse
3. Harpal the Australian
4. Darren the Artist
5. Jo the Interesting
6. John the Telstra Guy
7. Michael the Photographer
8. Peg the Lady
9. Jeff the Preacher Man
10. Andres the Cobbler
11. Honey the Prostitute

So This Blogger Walks Into Kirribilli House And Interviews The Prime Minister.

2013-03-20T12:50:00.000+11:00

The first thing I need to explain about this video is that my hair looks CRAP. A red Elvis cowlick, because I was so worried about people commenting on how closely the PM and I resemble each other with our red hair and glasses, that I threw it up in a not-very-well-coiffed ponytail. (Because obviously as soon as a woman gets any traction at all in the public space, her looks are up for discussion.)

I wondered whether to even interview her at all, given the torrential negativity and leadership de-stabilisation that's happening even to this very day. It's like when a person is getting bullied at school and you have nothing against them but you don't want to be seen with them because you might get bullied too.

Whatever. Bring it - I'm tired of reading garbage. For the record, it was a complete honour and privilege to be given the opportunity to ask the Prime Minister of Australia anything I wanted. It was fascinating and symbolic, of a lot of things.

When Dave and I finally watched it last night at the dinner table I said,

"Hon, she's actually really talking."

Of course she actually really talks, but the usual Joe Blow on the street only gets soundbites when the news is told to us at 6pm.

We live in one of the best countries on earth ... the Lucky Country. I've been to countries that have no sanitation, no running water, no toilets and no democracy. Australia has free schooling, free healthcare ... so much! (I was this >< close to thanking the PM for the free rehabs in my twenties.)

All I hear these days is whinging and whining and bullshit, and a lot of people need to shut the hell up.

Last week I went to buy some chicken schnitzel from my butcher Norm because he crumbs them all himself using his secret recipe and I hate crumbing. Ain't nobody got time for that! Norm asked me what I'd been up to lately, his shop was full of people, and my mouth just goes:

"Well, I went out to dinner with Jullia Gillard at Rooty Hill."

People laughed because it was just so random. I thought Norm would launch into some kind of diatribe but he just said:

"Eden you tell Jules that I think she's doing a bloody good job running the country. It can't be easy."

I'm really careful about anything that I write about here and wasn't sure if it even belonged on a personal blog.

But if writing online the past six years has taught me anything, it's that a personal blog is very, very political.

What do you think of the current state of politics and media and gender and everything? Where's your favourite places to consume your news?

Boys, Inc.

2013-03-18T13:25:00.001+11:00

One minute Max and Rocco are thick as thieves; the next they fight like crazy. Usually I umpire the arguments and tears, but I've hung up my whistle. I'm out. From now on when they come and dob, I'm just going to shrug like some other hardcore mums I see.

"Is there any blood? Then I don't want to hear it. Go."

Being at the same school has definitely changed the dynamic, but still they fight. You'd think six years difference would mean peace and understanding! No.

Last Friday seemed different. They tumbled in the house, whispering loudly, then shouted that they were "Just going outside to play on the trampoline mum."

We have one of those dangerous, old school trampolines that Dave found on the side of the road. The boys dragged it purposely out of my vision. Hilarity and hi-jinks ensued, for about twenty minutes. I KNEW they were doing something naughty. But they were just having so much fun.

I crept outside.

Max to Rocco: "When it starts to fall ..... RUN."

Barefoot, using wooden planks with nails sticking out of them, surrounded by bushland inhabited by killer snakes and spiders. They saw me and we all laughed so hard.

"DON'T TELL US WE CAN'T DO IT."

Later in the bath Rocco declared it: "The best fun we've ever, ever had."

This morning they jumped out of the car and Max ran off and Rocco whined at him to slow down because he has little legs and I shouted "Max, wait for your brother!"

My voice reverberated on the dashboard and they didn't hear me.

Hopefully they made it to school anyway.

::

Is anybody else really overwhelmed by this week and it's only Monday? I believe we're gonna need a bigger cake.

Street Talk: Honey The Prostitute.

2013-03-15T12:24:00.000+11:00

Honey has worked as a prostitute in Kings Cross for fifteen years. She's thirty years old. The very first thing she told me was that she came from a respectable home.

"I landed in the Cross young. And quickly met a much older guy. We split up now ... it was hard to get away from him. He's abusive. By the time I was twenty-two, we had three sons together."

Her face lights up when she talks of her boys, who live with one of her sisters in suburban north-western Sydney. She bought her eldest an iPad but he told her it got confiscated. I said it must be hard for her to have no say in their discipline and upbringing. She agreed.

"But I see them every few weeks. It's really good that they're all together."

Honey doesn't have a pimp, just works for herself. She's been beaten up, spat on, robbed. She charges extra for "heavy" stuff. She's addicted to heroin and cocaine and shoots up multiple times a day. We sat in McDonalds and she talked so openly, with not a trace of shame or fear. I asked if she thought she could ever get clean. She doesn't think so.

"I was once, for about three and a half-years while I was having my boys."

Honey wishes the Cross was more like how it used to be. She misses the camaraderie and community feel it used to have.

"These days girls just turn on each other. You do a client, walk down an alley and get robbed by 'em. It's bullshit."

Some streets are darker than others. As we walked outside together I tell her that it was a pleasure to meet her, that she's got a beautiful heart. And I'll be thinking about her for a long time. She smiled, and swished her long brown hair in time to the rhythm of her knee-high leopard-print boots.

"Plenty of girls have gone hard from doing this. I haven't. I never will."

And she walked away.

EDITED: My friend Kit just asked me if I told Honey it was possible to get clean. I did ... I absolutely did, but didn't want to sit there sounding preachy. I believe that anybody addicted to drugs or alcohol can get clean. (It doesn't mean they will. And it doesn't mean it's easy.)

Friday Street Talk is an unfolding art project. I'm so grateful and blown away that people say yes to talking with me, trusting me with some snippets of who they are.

Previous Street talks:

1. Noelene the Young
2. Megan the Mouse
3. Harpal the Australian
4. Darren the Artist
5. Jo the Interesting
6. John the Telstra Guy
7. Michael the Photographer
8. Peg the Lady
9. Jeff the Preacher Man
10. Andres the Cobbler

In Praise Of The Men.

2013-03-13T12:30:00.001+11:00

This week a guy called Mick emailed me saying he saw my photo in the newspaper ... and was I the Eden Barrie he took to his Year 12 formal?

I was. Barrie was my maiden name and I couldn't wait to get rid of it, because I needed a fresh start but mostly because my real father was so pissed off I was a girl that when I was born he disappeared to the pub for two days and didn't even visit.

Mick and I emailed a little bit. I apologised profusely for ditching him at his formal. I was drunk and chasing some other boy. He told me not to worry about it, then he reminded me of all the times we used to sit in Camden oval on Thursdays before Antioch and eat hot chips together.

"Eden, as a dad now it breaks my heart to think of how badly you must have been struggling inside back then. It makes me almost cry to think about it, as all I can see is a little girl hurting and me as a dad wishing he could go back and do something. I am so sorry that you were left fending for yourself."

I read those words and had to sit down. Rocco came in from making a lemonade stand outside and asked me what was wrong, over and over.

I remember sitting there with Mick, all those years ago before I completely soiled myself in a decade-long bender, and we were reading the newspaper together. There was an article about how many people had committed suicide in 1988 (the previous year.) It took ages for me to work up the guts to say out loud:

"My stepdad was one of those people."

It was so hard for me to acknowledge. Nobody ever talked about shit back then. He was my stepdad for eleven years and when he died he seemed to drag all of us down .... it's not mums fault I was left fending for myself. So was she. She was left with four children from two dead men and had to go back to work for the first time in twenty years. It was awful, wicked, and unspoken.

Mick ended up having three children, who he clearly loves with a fierceness and protection that is so beautiful. I love seeing guys with their kids. Men are capable of wanting to be there, to nurture and love?

I'm raising a few men of my own. I want them to be the kinds of guys who would put a drunk girl in a cab and pay the driver to take her home. I want them to know how fierce and strong women are, as they themselves are. I want them to be capable of loving others, especially their own family if they choose to have one. I look at the culture and consciousness they are growing up in and I worry. My eleven-year old said the word "porn" the other day and it shocked me, the way it rolled off his tongue like any other word.

I asked him does he know what porn is. Of course he does.

"But I haven't seen any of it mum I SWEAR."

I told him that he's going to see porn, in his life. And that it was like the World Wide Wrestling Championships ... kind of all for show, a spectacle, and actually pretty fake.

"Real people have real sex, mate. It's pretty awesome, and it's meant to be awesome. I hope you learn to know that."

I'm trying so hard to raise all my kids right, to make them think, to ask us anything, and to know right from wrong. My first two dads failed my family in spectacular ways. It doesn't mean all men do. My husband Dave, and my old friend Mick ... random dads I see at the park pushing their daughters on the swings. All of them out there, actually doing the right thing.

The Prime Minister And The Mummybloggers.

2013-03-11T12:35:00.000+11:00

Last Friday I interviewed Prime Minister Julia Gillard for twenty minutes at Kirribilli House. My husband Dave came with me, in his actual blue collar shirt.

He gave the PM a wooden breadboard with a Riley Renovators plaque on it. I've heard him say in his phone quite a few times now,

"Actually, pretty good ... she spoke like a normal person!"

The interview will be played at the third annual Digital Parents Conference in north-western Sydney on the 20th March. DPCON is Australia's largest online community for blogging parents. My questions to the PM centred around the digital space, being worried about my children accessing hardcore porn with the click of a button, how the word "mummyblogger" is currently being used, and the rising chorus of women's voices in the online world.

The Australian blogging industry is booming. Fashion, food, tech, lifestyle, political, parenting, health, nutrition, fertility, craft, artist bloggers ... we're everywhere. There's as many different blogs as there are different people. It's hard to make a crust online, yet some of us do it and do it well. I suggested that next time she meets with bloggers, it can be a much bigger function with a whole host of people, including some smart and interesting men.

Last Monday night I had dinner with the PM with some other bloggers - Kim Berry, Fiona Purcell, Beth Macdonald, and Mrs Woog. It looked pretty bad that we were all in a private dining room. I really wish someone had suggested we go sit in the bistro for a bit, because the conversation was smart, intelligent, fascinating.

The topics my fellow-bloggers and I cover in our blogs on any given day: Disability, mental health, step-parenting, mothering, education, cancer, addiction, lifestyle, linen cupboards, boys wearing skirts, alcoholism, suicide, fashion, career choices, giving birth to a deaf baby, the media, and pork belly.

Not a crumb for the locals? Or the waiting media?

I asked her about asylum seekers, because seeing the same tragedy being playing out again and again is horrific and wrong. Children shouldn't be in detention. We all spoke loudly and on top of one another. About the NDIS, Centrelink payments, how to fold a fitted sheet, the unpaid contributions of females in society, being married, the politics of blogging.

I got to tell the PM exactly what it felt like to be in an African refugee camp. After the main and before dessert I read out a text from Joy Toose at World Vision Australia, petitioning her government to not cut foreign aid.

We spoke about women having it all ... I think nobody can really have it all. Motherhood has simultaneously given and taken away so much from me. I asked the PM where else was she going in western Sydney that week. I love western Sydney, I remember Penrith Plaza before it was Westfields, and used to work as a barmaid at the Red Cow.

I'm big on social justice, equality, fairness, feminism. I talk from the heart where Julia Gillard talks with intellect and knowledge and education. I thought long and hard about accepting any offer from her office about anything - because how would that make me look? What would people think? Am I being used as a political puppet, or is it an honour to meet with the current Prime Minister of my country, regardless of what political party they represent? (And who knew so many people out there can't stand to see a woman in power?)

I ended the day last Friday talking on The Project about the proposal to introduce women-only train carriages at night.

I wholeheartedly disagreed. You can't fix appalling statistics of violence towards women with a tin of pink paint. Why should we sequester ourselves away? I vote zero-tolerance.

It's my birthday today. I'm 41. In the past year I've done more things than I ever felt I could be capable of doing. And I've blogged all of it. This strange business of blogging has given me so much, and I will always be indebted to it. (Even though I can't stand to read my old posts.)

So you can call me a political puppet, a bitch, a whore. A dog, a mummyblogger, a nothing. You can even call me a cunt, for all I care. (Just don't call me a dumb one.) If life has taught me anything, it's that once you know who you are and what you stand for, you can be bold and hold your truth. Because there's nothing to hide from.

Not even your shadow.