Something good

Saturday, 31 July 2010

We solved many of the world’s problems, dreamt up a fabulous design concept for our flatmate’s WOW entry and started on how we’re going to approach filming a music video in our lounge room amongst other things last night, as I recall.

But only some of us have backed up this morning. Poking at remnant curling embers in the bottom of the firebox, coaxing them back to life before the dormant overpowers the dwindle… well perhaps this is forgivable.

You certainly are surrounded by artists, my visiting out-of-town friend remarks as I make mid-morning love to my life preserver, a.k.a my teapot. Yes. I’m not entirely sure how it happened, but I’m not complaining about this pleasantly awakening journey to somewhere new.

Guests just slot into the texture around here. Wolfing down phase one of a two-course breakfast cooked by said guest, I think this is a great thing.

The first time I’ve spent more than one night at home in some six weeks or more; I’ve missed this harmonic heart.
Invigorating piano notes resound about the house as a relaxing Saturday morning comes to life. What will today bring? Who knows. Who cares. Something good.


Thursday, 22 July 2010

The other week I was talking to a man I know at a party. He said something along the lines of – Anthea, writing a diary (i.e. this blog) is hardly the same thing as biting off a big chunk of whoopee and actually producing something properly to be sent out into the world.

Only he didn’t say it like that, cos he’s pretty old school and seems to look at me (at least the way I see it) disapprovingly whenever I blurt out inappropriate things. Which, let’s face it, is quite often, because I’m not always very good at engaging my brain before I open my mouth.

Anyway, his parting shot was that he looked forward to reading my first manuscript or whatever once I got it finished. Which was his way of saying: don’t just talk about it; do it. And ofcourse the old bugger is absolutely right.

So as I lie here nursing my lurgie in this little bedroom of a central Wellington flat reading the back of a drugs packet (and noting that it says I must only avoid alcohol with the night time pills; which by my interpretation means day time drinking is perfectly acceptable), I’m pondering upon this.

And on all the things I’ve written and read so far this week, from work related stuff to things I chose from my own volition. What I enjoyed writing/reading and what was harder to get into than a Scotsman’s wallet – because apart from the motivation of being paid to do it, held no real interest for me at all. Yeah, I’m struggling with some of that, but a girl’s gotta make a living eh.

These are the things that are swirling around my head as I surrender to exhaustion from pushing too hard and not looking after myself enough over the past month or so. My body has finally said ENOUGH! You will rest and you will do it now, I don’t care what’s on the agenda. And so I’m listening and thinking and pondering and sleeping instead.

Who's your daddy?

Saturday, 3 July 2010

I’ve sometimes wondered if I’m from a different gene pool to the rest of my family. But I know I’m not. I see too many physical similarities between us and I just can’t see my mother ever having taken Mr Pettigrew, our milkman back in the 70s, up on his offer.

Don’t get me wrong, I love all my siblings and my parents. But sometimes it feels like we live such different lives and don't really know each other, that I wonder how it is that we're related. Some families are just like that. In ours, I think we cottoned on pretty young that if you wanted stability and security, you had to go out and find it for yourself. That's always gonna have an impact on the nucleus.

They say that looking at a person’s relationship with their family gives clues as to what sort of spouse or parent they will be. So next time some guy comes out with the “Why are you still single?” question that I get asked all the time (a thinly veiled “What’s wrong with you?”), I’ll just point them straight to the old family photo albums. It should save a whole lot of time. I'm only being half serious; but it might explain my supposed commitment phobia, a
lthough I personally prefer to think of it as something else entirely :)

Ofcourse, the major advantage of not being born into the original cast of The Waltons is that you get to design your very own bespoke family; the kin of your wildest dreams. Never having lacked in the imagination department myself, over the years I have done just that. My designer family is cool, crazy, hails from all over the world and is very real. I have more sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews and godchildren in this world than most people would ever be lucky enough to lay claim to.

My family are the people I want to throw my arms around whenever I see them. The people I have enough incriminating evidence on to fill up several scandalous novels - and they me. The people I know who see the real me and all is still forgiven! The people I can call upon when shit really hits the fan, who I can also rely on to tell me to pull my head in when I need it and who hopefully feel the same way about me.
I think it's called unconditional love.

My family are the people I light palm trees on fire with just to celebrate being together - which all things considered, doesn’t happen often enough in life. So at the risk of being totally misunderstood - who’s your daddy?