Beautiful Fuzz

Everything creative, everything fun, everything in my imagination is surrounded by a beautiful fuzz. It's out there all the time, and all I need to do to be happy is connect with it. Being silly helps me to connect. Making people laugh helps me to connect. Singing makes me at one with the fuzz, helps me dissolve into it, roll with it like waves breaking in the surf. And writing, well that does the most special thing of all, it helps me to articulate it. In minute detail. Helps me to express myself. Makes me feel whole, alive, worthwhile. Gives me a voice and a purpose. Even if only during the quiet times when it's just me, the pen and paper and my thoughts.

When I was a kid I could see auras. Well not that I knew that's what it was at the time. And I couldn't really physically see an actual colour surrounding the person. It was more that through their name, their face, their personality, I subconsciously connected with a colour. All my friends at primary school had a colour. I never told them and I never realised at the time that this was a bit unusual. By the time I reached high school this kind of disappeared but if I had to sit down now and match a colour to my friends and family, I don't think it would be that hard.

In my teenage years, my bedroom was my sanctuary. It was a room I could unleash my creative self in. I could paint extra eyes with makeup on my face, burn candles, listen to The Cure and fall asleep curled up in a ball over the ducted heating vent. I could write in my diary about all the boys at school who I had crushes on, but were too scared to tell my friends. I could listen to Prince and wonder whether a boy would ever do the things to me that Prince sang about in his songs. I could write poetry and cry for hours about how my new boyfriend didn't pay me enough attention. I could sing along to all my favourite music and dream about being a sexy jazz singer like Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys. I could sit on my dressing table and talk into the mirror, pretending to host my own TV show. I could dance in front of the mirror pretending to be a hot singer in a film clip. I could open the window, burn incense and smoke a cigarette, foolishly thinking that the incense would cover the smell of tobacco. I could ignore the rest of the family. I could ignore the dysfunction and the fighting. I could be in my own little peaceful nucleus, exist entirely in the beautiful fuzz of my own creativity. I could be whoever I wanted.

And now...I just need to find a way of transporting that freedom out into the world. I just need to find a way of carrying around a little piece of that beautiful fuzz, everywhere I go. I just need to find a way of doing something fulfilling with my life. And soon...

I highly recommend you DON'T get on a bus

Even though I love Frank Woodley and think that he is a comic genius, the Í highly recommend that you get on a bus campaign' that he starred in, really gave me the shits. Why? Well buses are actually the worst form of public transport. They are slow, have random routes and get stuck in traffic just like cars. They don't have their own private landscape like a train, or can ding ding a car into embarrassment, like a tram can, so it moves off the tracks. No buses are the worst of them all.

There's not a hell of a lot of mileage (ha!) I can get out of why buses are the worst mode of transport, but I felt it needed to be said. Over and out.

The Happy Coach

My friend and I recently went on a 3 week holiday up the east coast of Australia. We flew to Sydney for a couple of nights, then flew to Byron Bay. And of course, a stay in Byron Bay is not complete without the obligatory 'trip' to Nimbin.

Enter 'The Happy Coach'. We went to a tourist info centre that ran two tour buses to Nimbin, one 'conservative' bus took passengers to a candle factory and to look at native aboriginal stuff, the second, more 'radical' alternative was the Happy Coach. The lady in the shop wouldn't specify why it was radical, we were expected to fill in the blanks for ourselves.

We were picked up outside our amazing flashpackers (if you are ever in Byron looking for cheap, clean accommodation with all mod cons including plasma TV, I recommend Nomads) by a very dodgy looking dude. His name was Fred and he had the most intense stare of anybody I have ever met. I guess it was all part of his act, but first thing in the morning it was a little too much to take. He was wearing clothes that looked like he'd been sleeping in them for the last week; a saggy stained wifebeater, some kind of cutoff cargo pants, and a long mane of dirty dreadlocks down his back. He definitely fit the part of a seasoned stoner and I knew we were in for a bumpy ride.

After Fred had picked up all the passengers and we were suitably concerned by his dodgy demeanour, he proceeded to give us a rundown of what the journey to Nimbin would involve. He relayed his jokes with candour and put in a good effort, considering he has probably said those same words a million times over. Something along the lines of, if you don't like my driving close your eyes, and if you notice my eyes are closed, don't worry the road is in the same place it was yesterday. Typical Aussie dry wit - love it :)

The range of people on the bus was interesting, lots of young American/Canadians but also a few middle age Europeans and a local who was just hitching a ride. Fred blasted the stereo and surprisingly I was in love with the soundtrack. Every song was upbeat and 'who gives a fuck' in its mentality, stuff like Aussie hip hop band 'Butterfingers' and Bob Marley.

We stopped at Minyon falls and Nimbin Rocks on the way (yawn) but really the whole reason anybody was on this bus was to get to Nimbin and experience the hippy culture for themselves. Fred dropped us on the main street and gave us maps to navigate our way around. He told us in no uncertain terms that it was illegal to buy drugs in Nimbin. He told us to stay away from the police station. He told us where to eat in case we got the munchies.

That said, scoring drugs in Nimbin was a piece of cake...hash cake that is...or so I've heard ;)

There were so many dodgy characters walking around the streets it wasn't funny. They could smell a tourist a mile off, actually they probably just sit and watch for the Happy Coach to pull into town. Most people you walked passed were hissing an offer at you, it reminded me of Amsterdam.

We chatted to some Canadians who were on our bus and one guy had managed to get totally duped by a dealer. He bought some green play dough that was meant to be a cookie but smelt and tasted exactly like play dough. Disgusting.

Anyway, the tour was well worth the $25 we paid. It was the wackiest, zaniest bus ride I've ever had and although the bus was old and filthy, I sat deep in my seat and enjoyed the mellow vibes man...

Sugar Ray

Some might say I'm trying to blow my own trumpet again, but really I'm not.

Yesterday I helped an amply sized blind man cross the street. I was standing at Flinders St station waiting for the pedestrian lights to go green, when a blind guy nearly tripped over another dude who dropped his change. The blind guy, let's call him Ray, then proceeded to shout out ''Can someone help me cross the road?"

Well at least I think this is what he said, cos I did have my iPod on full blast at the time. Everybody standing around him looked down at their feet...duh people, he can't see! Avoiding his gaze makes no difference! I walked over to him and offered him my arm. Well I wasn't gonna hold his hand, he was clutching onto a McDonalds bag and I really couldn't deal with the grease. (See previous blog about touching ANYTHING that isn't myself...ahem)

So the lights changed and we walked over to the tram stop, to catch a tram up St Kilda Road. He said he needed the Glen Iris tram and I said I would take him to the conductor, to make sure they helped him board the correct tram. That kind of got me off the hook of having to wait for his tram, cos I can catch most trams going up St Kilda Rd. I digress boringly...

Anyway the strangest part of helping this young chap was when he started singing along to some cheesy loud music. I thought that was cute. This guy was kinda funny.

Then this morning walking along by myself to the tram stop, I heard the same music again. Gee that's weird I thought, there must be someone playing music this time every morning. Can't they invest in an iPod like everyone else? Then I realised that it was Kate Ceberano's 'Bedroom Eyes' and the music was coming from a scary advertisement featuring Kate in control briefs. Scary leopard print control briefs.




















And at that point, I envied the blind dude...if only for a second.

Can't touch this

I was raised to be paranoid about germs. By both parents. It hasn't just affected me but my siblings too. We are the type of family who cannot touch anything in public and open doors with a kerchief. Which poses a particular problem when riding on public transport.

Luckily for the rest of my family they avoid PT like the plague and work in locations that are reasonably accessible by car. But little ol' me, rides to work each day with an anxiety bordering on obsessive compulsive disorder.

I would love to say that I have rock hard abs, and I probably do under my thick layer of belly blubber, as I have almost mastered the art of adopting an anti-falling stance on PT, with a "look Mum, no hands!" approach. I say almost, as although I don my tram legs (similar to sea legs, you get the drift), on some trips I am forced to grab hold of the nearest greasy handle to save my own life and those around me. This fills me with deep regret and I feel tainted for the rest of the trip until I can get into work and wash my hands. I make a point of remembering which is my 'dirty' hand, and make sure that I do not use this hand for clean things, like holding my takeaway coffee cup or scratching my face...

So if you see a crazy chick, with red goggles, wild brown hair, legs akimbo, concentrating hard not to hold on and muttering curse words under her breath, that's me or one of the other million germaphobic people catching a tram to work. Hey, that handle slime can't be good for you...

Random poetry interjected between lame public transport rhetoric

Yep...a 'state the obvious' title.

Apologies peeps, I've been away for a while. Prepaid internet will get you every time you are down and out. Oh well, it's better than signing up to stupid limitless technology like an Iphone plan with...oh yeah I promised myself I wouldn't name people or pick on companies in this blog...

I don't give a fuck (Malades du travail)

It's a curious affliction,
That affects my diction
and reduces me to a puddle of fuck.

I would love to say that I sweat and I toil,
But the reality is I foil
wrap everything in sight.

If it's hidden,
Then I'm smitten
with delusions of peace and calm.

I feel like shrieking and shouting,
I'm alive, I'm here, don't discount me,
But to do so would be to be labelled a freak
and I'm not going back down that road.

Platform 14

Amazingly enough, I don't just catch trams...I catch trains too! Most of the time this is an okay thing except for when the Epping line stops on platform 14 at Flinders St station. Platform 14 is the nasty continuation of platform 1. It's dark, dank and orange lit, almost like Amsterdam's sex district but without the sex or red lighting.

When the train pulls up to this platform, you can almost hear the audible groan as passengers push their way out of the carriages and power walk up the platform to the light of day. What commences is a surreal wave of people floating but at the same time bobbing jerkily like they are on a conveyor belt at an airport or running a 10km fun run. Everybody wants to be the first person off the platform and up the stairs to civilisation. People scoot between pillars and find whatever rabbit warren available to push their way to the front. It almost reminds me of the invisible platform in the Harry Potter films that the muggles don't know about.

Platform 14 sux...