Old timer

Sunday, 25 April 2010

There’s a romance about old things that I adore. Time travel devices; I like to imagine what it was like to live way back whenever, as if it was one of my past lives spent in a different time and body.

Everyday this beautiful place I am lucky enough to now call home transports me back to times past. I lie in my bed admiring the ostentatious work-of-art fireplace that looks back at me, wondering who lived here nearly 100 years ago and what was their life.

That this house was built during WW1 might be why this year, for the first time in my entire 36 and half years of breathing in and out, I actually hauled my (sleep deprived and hungover) arse out of the trenches in the middle of the night to attend the ANZAC dawn service.

Yes, to acknowledge and show gratitude for what we have today that we mostly take for granted. But also to trip my mind back to back to periods where war ruled the day and indulge my senses in what it might have been like to live then.

That there’s been no major wars in this house I am sure. A harmony floats around here that cannot be ignored by anyone with even half a sense for energy. It’s just one of those delicious places – and lucky me to find myself living within its glorious old bones.

With a long history of attracting artistic dwellers (so I am told), I love that uncannily and by no conscious design, the tradition continues – today boasting a musician/artist, a fashion designer/seamstress and me.

And where my first thought was to add after that – “at my most optimistic, a writer and wannabe actress” – the enchantment of this lovely old lady suggests I need to get over being so pathetically self-depreciating and just get on with being it :)

So as this confirmed vintage magpie and long time admirer of antiquities unpacks all her old treasured things (that for once are residing in a place where they look like they actually belong), she smiles at the romance of timelessness, imagination and more than a little magic xx

Expression on the loose

Wednesday, 21 April 2010

This blog is very selfish. I write it purely for me. For self-expression (so the men in white coats don’t come and take me away) and to encourage myself to keep on writing (to get better at anything you have to do it more and actually put it out there).

That people actually read it still bemuses me, not that I’m complaining. But they do so at their own risk – as it’s not always pretty - because I’m not always pretty. I’m very human and very far from perfect. Sometimes life is distinctly challenging, but mostly I think it’s beautiful if approached with the right attitude. “Live like you mean it” is a slogan I cut from a magazine years ago that’s been stuck to my fridge ever since.

I want the world to see who I really am – warts, insecurities and all. If I can’t be authentic, I don’t want to be at all. I say what I think, but I try very hard to be open minded and consider all other points of view. I don’t believe in letting white elephants skulk around the room and I’m not half pie about anything much. I’m in or I’m out. I’m just that kinda girl.

So to the person who told me yesterday that I’m “scary” (which isn’t the first time I’ve been told that you can be sure) my response is: I’m upfront and honest to a fault and I treat others how I would like to be treated myself. I’m strong because life has taught me to be, but I’m also as soft as shite on the inside, as anyone close to me knows. All I want is for people to know the real me and love me (or not) for who I am.

And to the other person, who yesterday made reference to whether my last blog post was fair or deserving, my response is:
It wasn’t about anyone else apart from me. I didn’t cast aspersions on said boy's actions or character, as that is neither my outlook nor was ever my intention. I’m not sitting here putting pins into a voodoo doll or thinking black thoughts about anyone in particular - I have absolutely no reason to do so. The post was merely a colourful description of how I chose to approach drawing a line in the sand over something very personal going on inside my own head before it sent me barking.

So, carry on reading if you can put up with the madness of being inside my head. And if not, I’m sure there’s millions of other blogs out there that are far more interesting and insightful than mine.

Boy hangover

Sunday, 18 April 2010

Out with the rubbish
you are
. Kicked to the kerb
awaiting collection. Once
gripped firmly between
fair hands tantalising tongues
brushing tender urgent
lips. Head thrown back
sliding deliciously
down the back of my throat
To a bottle of beguiling
passion. That now lies
spent and dirty
at the bottom of the
recycle bin. A vessel
empty of any substance
Just another
inconsequence. Another
silly boy. See-through
just like all the other
empties glinting at me
in the sunshine. I am
again crushless.
Hallelujah for that.


Monday, 5 April 2010

I’ve always loved the theatre. I even love the word – the way it looks when written, how it sounds when rolling off the tongue and ofcourse because my name forms the main part of the word!

As a nipper, for special treats my Mum would take me to see shows that came to town - everything from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves to touring Irish dancing spectaculars. Okay, so the latter may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but there are actually worse things than bare-chested men prancing around in tights showing off their wares (or maybe that’s just me, teehee).

Checking out the Royal Wanganui Opera House website now, admittedly I do find it a little difficult to believe that the real Miley Cyrus ever performed in Wanganui. And I’m still smarting that I missed the Spanish horses (which also happened to me with the real thing in Vienna, so maybe I’m just doomed never to see them), but it’s nostalgic and a part of me likes that.

Years later in old London Town, I returned the favour by taking her (my Mum that is, not Miley Cyrus) to see Phantom of the Opera and other such productions. Live theatre was our thing. In fact, as I write this, it’s only just occurring to me that my love of theatre, books and writing have all come at least in part from my Mum. Mental note to thank her for that one day.

I’ve never thought of myself as dramatic (except perhaps at the wrong time of the month) or as having what I thought was the extrovert personality or confidence required to be a true stage performer. But thankfully I’m over that now - I will be whatever I bloody well want to be!

And with winter comes the annual re-invigoration of Wakefield Country Players and the fun, laughter and camaraderie of watching and being part of a stage production coming together – auditions, learning lines, rehearsals, costumes, sets, props, outlandish makeup, backstage pranks and after parties. I love it, it’s just so cool. If you live in Nelson and it sounds like you (and it's definitely not just for girls), come along and give it a go this year – backstage or front stage – from dramatic to comical to tragic and back again.

So the reason for this post? This morning I’ve been thinking about performances of all types and how fantastic they are. I’ve noted that the Theatre Royal Nelson is having a comeback and how cool it would be to perform on a “royal” stage one day (Prince Edward is the official patron for the Royal Wanganui Opera House don’t you know). I’ve been daydreaming about colour and glitter and getting all Moulin Rouge on it and am wondering how I can make that real...