But for me his work has never been about the Eldorado cabaret posters of Bruant, or the cynical twisted grin of Mlle Weber as she enters a restaurant on the arm of her sister. It has always been about his fascination with the demi-monde and his - and I mean this - respect for the girls who made their living sleeping with men for money.
I realise that this is rapidly sounding like an ingratitude post but it isn't. I just need to state, for the record, that things aren't necessarily rosy.
Which is why it's all the more important to be grateful for the everyday bits of bliss.
It's the unguarded moments, the 'sneak up on you and hug you' good things that happen which we need to learn to appreciate more.
The best friends are the ones who give you a hard time when you talk rubbish. Who don't roll their eyes (too badly) when the 3 a.m. text comes through saying 'I need to talk to you now'. Who catch your eye at a social gathering when things are a bit tricky biscuit and make you bite down on the inside of your lip so that you don't snort with inappropriate laughter.
They are the ones who catch you when you fall. And fall hard.
I realise this may sound too twee for words, but seriously - we get so wrapped up in whether we ourselves are happy or unhappy that at times, we tend not to celebrate our friends and families' exciting moments in a way that does them justice. I am not talking about hiring a blimp or skywriting 'CONGRATULATIONS ON TURNING 38 AND THREE QUARTERS' across Sydney, mind you - I am just saying when there's something big going down, let them know how fantastic you think it is. Take time out from your own blather and bullshit for just a moment and say 'Squee!' Or, in the immortal words of Babe the Pig, 'la, la, la!'
“Writing about a writer’s block is better than not writing at all.”
Those who read this blog (thank you, all three of you. You know who you are, and I love you very much) may have noticed a fall off in the number of posts recently. There's a very simple reason for this.
I have been ill. Wretchedly, horribly ill.
It's a common malaise. Many people suffer from it. It's endemic to those who profess to put words on a page for a living, it is heartbreaking in its severity and can cause symptoms as wide ranging as glugging wine straight from the bottle, headbashing on desks, throwing laptops across rooms and screaming randomly 'sod THIS for a joke!' and storming out of the room.
I refer, of course (I don't even want to say the words) -
To Writer's Block.
Sometimes the muse deserts me. Hell, she doesn't just desert, she goes on a bender in Vegas, wins big at the tables, gets comped a suite at Wynn and next thing I know she's married Prince Harry and I never see her again.
For those who write, the need to put words on a page, or a screen, or on the back of an envelope is overwhelming. They need to get out of your brain somehow before it turns into the Woolworths parking lot on Christmas Eve. But that doesn't mean they are worth sharing with the world. And for me, the last little while has been a case of frosty wind making moan in my thoughts - every topic which has sprung to mind has ended up in the mental shredder.
Until last week, when thankfully, discussions with two witty and wise friends brought the neurons back into a semblance of cerebral celebration.
The relief at feeling words starting to flow again cannot be underestimated. And this is not about thinking 'maybe someone will enjoy reading this' - because quite frankly, I don't actually write for anyone but myself, and I think the day you do start concentrating primarily on what other people think, then the words will dry up for good. Nope, it was 'man, I am really loving just getting this out of my noggin'.
And that is why this is a gratitude post.
Gratitude for two people understanding that sometimes words - they don't come easy to me, to quote an old(ish) song; and even more gratitude that with a bit of verbal Drano, the blockage was no more.
Whether others will be grateful remains to be seen, but as for me...
Huzzah!
In an annoyingly loud voice.
Heh.
“Winter is nature’s way of saying ‘up yours’.”
I'm lying here in bed this Friday morn feeling very grumbly. Not only do I have the flu (and yes it is the flu, Mum, not just a bad cold, I'm not playing Hypochondriac Heaven) - but I've just read through the magic of Facestalk that juniper berries are being threatened with some weird disease. So not only am I sick, but there exists the possibility of NO MORE GIN.
EVER.
Time for a strategic retreat under the Doona of Destiny methinks. Unfortunately without a gin in hand, but eight o'clock in the morning would be pushing it.
This has not been a good week. It may be the Winter Solstice, but there will be no naked skylarking to celebrate this fact. It's too bloody cold, even in Golden Queensland. And sniffles and nude frolics don't really go together, so again doona downtime wins out.
What else can I grumble about? My hatred of telecommunications behemoths? Hmmmmm. Possibly not. That would take up more time and space than a dozen blog posts, reduce people to tears and/or yawns and make me so cross that I might get a bit vigilante-ish and end up in the news on Facestalk myself.
So maybe I will just say this.
Yesterday was a bloody awful day for a lot of people out there it seems. This week and in fact 2013 in general seem to not be on the money for many of my loved ones; and I'm buggered if I'm going to be the one saying 'turn that frown upside down' when their crises are real and significant.
For me, I know that my grumbles are (mainly) just that; grumbles. They are the product of feeling physically heinous and frustrated with said condition. This year could be dubbed 'The Year Of The Sick As A Dog' if the Chinese horoscope felt like breaking with tradition, and yes I'm fed up with it.
But I will stand tall - or lie tall, as I can't get out of bed without fainting - and be positive. Ish. When it comes down to the crunch, I am grateful for so many things. Not least of which is the fact that I have people to care for me when I am sick (grammatical pats don't really count Dread P, but I'll take what I can get) and that I have friends and loved ones to rely on when things are tough.
That's a privilege, not a right, and my gratitude for these people is very wide and deep.
So perhaps I shall stop whinging for a little while at least, and count my blessings instead. As a wise friend said just a few moments ago on the ever present Facestalk, Mother and Father to us all:
"When life hands you over-ripe bananas, make strawberry-orange-banana smoothies."
And maybe add a dollop of gin.
While you still can.
Cough.
“Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim.”
I am, I realise, more and more every day, a fortunate woman.
I am living where I wish to live.
I am, if not healthy, on the path to health.
I am able to do the work that I love.
And above all else, I am truly blessed in the amazing women that I am lucky enough to not only plot and scheme with on a professional level, but also call my friends. This has been very much brought home to me in the past few months, when times have not been so great, and the solidarity and support which they have shown me has been beyond description.
And the standout sister - for me, and I know for so many others - of these fabulous females, is having a birthday today!
Happy Birthday Janine.
When I thought about writing this post, and saying how grateful I was to JG, I thought "oh, this will be simple - I know how much she means to me, I'll just say it". But as it turns out I'm a little bit flummoxed. How do you express your gratitude to someone whom you have so much respect for without sounding cheesy? How do you say that their guidance, and enthusiasm, and simple passion for what they do manages to lift you up when things are really grim, without it being just words on a page?
I suppose I can only say what I feel, and hope Janine doesn't roll her eyes (not that she would, because she's far nicer than me), and understands the message behind the meanderings.
Janine, I don't think you understand the impact you have on so many, many people. And yes, especially women - of all walks of life. You give out absolutely everything, without expecting anything in return. I'm constantly floored by your energy and fire for making things better. It's extraordinary. You make me laugh like an absolute idiot (I'm so not going there with the stories), and you make business fun. You and your rock star hair!
I am grateful for your friendship. I am grateful for your grace. I am grateful for your strength. I am grateful you are you. You have taught me more about being a strong woman, without lecturing or bossiness, than anyone I have ever met before. The gratitude is ever present, and always will be.
If you are lucky enough to be a part of this extraordinary woman's life, don't undervalue her. And make sure you tell her how fab she is.
Because I guarantee she tells you on a regular basis.
Happy Birthday JG.
I hope it's been a good one.
““It’s not the load that breaks you down - it’s the way you carry it.””
There is no other way to put it; it's been an absolute bugger of a few days. Moving sucks. It sucks like a sucky thing that has been sucking sour stuff and is feeling really sucky.
In other words, it sucks a lot.
I have just worked out that this is Move Number 32 or something ridiculous. How on earth did that happen? More to the point, how did I collect so much china along the way? I have had to come to the realisation that I don't just have a shoe issue, I also have a kitchenware issue. And a bed linen issue.
At least when people stay over they will have nice sheets.
I have also had to come to a rather more serious realisation.
I am not very good at asking for help. I'm very, very good at telling other people what they should do and bossing them around - but when I need help myself?
Absolutely rubbish.
But lately - well, I have had to change that behaviour. Because I have needed help, and I have needed it quite badly. I have needed emotional support. I have needed to be able to talk things through. I've needed pure physical support in terms of moving heavy stuff. And as difficult as it has been for the proudest woman in the world to ask for said assistance - once I managed to ungraciously start to open up, then I realised it wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be.
Because when it comes down to it, if you are incredibly fortunate, as I know I am, you will have people who are always willing to assist.
I am massively grateful for the realisation - at 41 mind you - that to ask for a hand is not weakness.
I am even more grateful for those people who without fanfare or the need for recognition or reward have helped me.
Thank you.
Now back to the boxes. And possibly - well, possibly a garage sale.
““She asked where he lived. ‘Second to the right,’ said Peter, ‘and then straight on till morning.’””
This post really belongs in two sections. Hmmmmm... actually, three. Because there is a lot of gratitude, quite a bit about shoes, and it sits nicely in the 41 bucket list items for the year.
Multi-tasking!
What a woman.
How is it involved in the 41 Steps? I am glad you asked (even if you didn't). Step Number Five: Live Somewhere You Have Never Lived Before. So that I am. I am about to grace (they may disagree with that term) the fair shores of South East Queensland. To feel the sand between my currently broken toes on a daily basis, and to further my ambition of NEVER GOING THROUGH A CANBERRA WINTER EVER AGAIN.
EVER.
So off I head to the Land Of The Long Orange-Skinned Meter Maid. Where ugg boot and bikini combos are considered the height of fashion and my paleness is a weird attraction for Japanese tourists on the Main Beach at Surfers. Where people watching is more than a hobby, it's a way of life, and where the best coffee and pork belly in the Southern Hemisphere can be found if you don't think like a tourist.
If there was a bookshop closer than Coolangatta (sorry - Gold Coast) Airport, all would be for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Thank goodness for the interwebs.
As for the shoes - well, I am having to pack them. Which involves much effort. Much, much effort. And multiple pauses to appreciate just how lovely my shoesies are.
I am certain they will love their new home.
There are built in shoe racks in the wardrobes.
Mainly though, this post is about gratitude. Gratitude for those people who have made my time in the Can pretty damn amazing. Who have made me laugh until I've had to cross my legs and hope for the best; who have held my hand in some fairly spaztacular moments, several of them involving various hospital visits; who have cried with me, drank, eaten, cried, not cringed whilst I've sworn at the rugby and netty and AFL on TV, again when I've sworn at live rugby, cried some more; who have propped me up and been inspiring, irritating, huggable and horrible.
Who have loved me and been my friends.
Gratitude is not quite a strong enough word for the emotion I wish I could express for what you have given to me. But it will just have to do.
And as I set off on the reverse of the road trip that my gorgeous sister Oonagh and I made about six months ago, this time with a very suss Thelma to my Louise in tow (Thelma as far as I know didn't have a 5 o'clock shadow), I am happily aware that in a few days time, I will be crunching through said sand. And also, that not too far up the road from my new abode, a buccaneering boyo will soon be home from adventuring to help make my life well - interesting. To say the least. God help the Gold Coast.
I don't know why P. Pan was so keen on popping off the twig.
Life is a big enough adventure for this little duck.
And her several trillion pairs of shoes.
“Inigo Montoya: I donna suppose you could speed things up?
Man in Black: If you’re in such a hurry, you could lower a rope or a tree branch or find something useful to do.
Inigo Montoya: I could do that. I have some rope up here, but I do not think you would accept my help, since I am only waiting around to kill you.
Man in Black: That does put a damper on our relationship. ”
This may seem initially like a very depressing post, and nothing at all to do with gratitude, or even shoes for that matter (and when shoes aren't helping it means it's a bloody great beast of a black dog kind of day). And you would be right in some ways. It isn't a happy, marshmallow-filled, fluffy bunny kind of entry. But that's OK. Because sometimes, life just isn't like that - which is one of the reasons why I write about shoes some of the time (see Heel Thyself for background on that one).
I have been having what I tend to term a Long Dark Teatime of The Soul, or as I also call it, A Need To Give Myself A Good Slap Around The Head And Sort Myself Out. I am aware that the latter is not a technical psychiatric or psychological term, and quite possibly is actually frowned upon in said circles, but it tends to work for me most of the time. And one of the ways I deliver said Slap is to write down what is wrong - and also what is right. Having now done that, things are seeming to make a lot more sense.
Nobody can be happy one hundred percent of the time. That would make them robots. But sometimes - well, sometimes the happiness quotient slips below the acceptable mark to a point where it's hard to get the energy to come back to the median point on the table. And this is where the Slap is so important - and also hard to deliver when one is physically and emotionally tired.
Please be aware that I don't go around physically hitting myself in the head - I may be depressed but I am not masochistic (those who have witnessed me wearing shoes that are vastly uncomfortable but incredibly gorgeous please hold their tongues. Oh - I just mentioned shoes - see, writing things down does help!).
What I am talking about with the Slap is recognising that something is wrong; that you are perhaps caught in the UnderToad of Life and are being swept out from the shore. That the frantic hand gestures are not a sign of buggerising around in the waves and having a good time but are actually a gesture for help.
This is where the gratitude comes in. And it takes two forms.
I am grateful that I have incredible people around me who both are close enough and intuitive enough to recognise when I am in fact flailing and coughing up salt water. They are supportive and empathetic without being sooky-la-la (which they know I can't stand above all else) and they reach out to grab me without my having to reach for them first. They are all incredibly busy people - some in massively stressful situations or even outright dangerous occupations - but they support me, and in the right way. And secondly - I am grateful to myself. Which sounds supremely egotistical I know; but once upon a time I would not have had the strength to admit I was going under the water; and would instead have just let it take me out to sea and ended up who knows where for who knows how long.
So you see, this is about gratitude. As it turned out, it was also a little bit about shoes.
Mostly though, it's about not going under.
Because the School of the Slap doesn't believe in that.
““Most conversations are simply monologues delivered in the presence of a witness.”
”
To get it out of the way - yes, my real name is Katrina. Feel free to use it.
Once.
And now, moving on:
One of the best things about writing a blog is very simple.
It's a chance to talk without anyone interrupting.
I know, I know - that's incredibly selfish. But when it comes down to it, the chance to have a captive audience is incredibly rare. So even if only one person reads said blog, as they are scanning my words on the page - or on the screen - it means that for a moment in time, someone is paying complete attention to what I have to say.
Fabulous!
I try very hard to listen to my friends, and make sure that what they are expressing is not going in one ear and out the other. What they are feeling is important. What they are saying should never be discounted; and let's face it, the art of active listening is rapidly losing traction in the Age of Apathy. But come on - who doesn't love the opportunity to express their opinions about life, the universe and everything without interruption?
It's also mentally a very soothing thing to do. It allows at least a part of your psyche to relax a little - well, that's what it does for me anyway. It means I can do a re-file of my thoughts and let some fresh air in, and usually gives me a little bit of clarity to start my day with.
I am immensely grateful for the ability to string words into some semblance of prose. To be able to speak to people in a way that resonates - not perhaps on a very grand level, but on a level that connects just the same.
And I am even more grateful that I get to do it without anyone interrupting me.
Because to enjoy one's own conversation may make us selfish - but it also makes us human.
And I defy anyone to say that they don't love the sound of their own voice...
““I think that the older I get, the more I realise that the ultimate luxury is time””
Those who know me well are very much aware of my love of luxury. After all, why turn right when you can turn left? But some make the mistake of thinking that luxury is necessarily about material things, when sometimes the truly decadent and divine things in life are intangible or indefinable.
Take my adoration of the shoe for example. Yes, I adore wearing expensive high heels because let's face it, Louboutins can make an Oompa Loompa's legs look like Miranda Kerr's; but it isn't about them being costly which makes them precious to me. It's simply because they are beautiful. There are a hell of a lot of pricey shoes out there which I wouldn't touch with a bargepole, because they are really, really ugly. There are some very inexpensive shoes which are similarly totally gorgeous and thus get a spot on the Shoe Racks of Sublimity.
But on a higher level (if possible) than staring worshipfully at wondrous footwear, there are very different luxuries that can't be found in a shop. And it's these that I am most grateful for.
Having the time to read a good book. To watch a trashy TV show. Making a really delicious meal, even if it's only for myself. Laughing at truly stupid things with close friends who get the joke without explanation. Working for myself. Feeling healthy. Being thoroughly spoiled by someone simply because they want to make you feel great. Having people who care deeply about me, even if some of them are a long way away physically.
How are these things not luxurious? Because there are millions and millions of people on the planet who cannot count them as things they get to enjoy. Which makes them both rare and a privilege which I do not discount.
I am filled with gratitude for the luxuries I have in my life; not a life in the sun in the way most people would think of it - but definitely one that is less cloudy than most.
That's not to say that a private jet would go unappreciated... or naturally...
More shoes!
““Women like a man with a past, but they prefer a man with a present””
So life is tough here in the tropics. Between eating, sleeping, swimming, drinking cocktails and - well, repeating the above - it's a hard knock life. I do have the small aggravation of the Dread Pirate's ability to tan in the space of a millisecond whilst I turn into the world's largest freckle to put up with, but these things are sent to try us. And I am enormously grateful for the amazing time I am having traversing South East Asia, with the opportunity to catch up with very old friends and really relax for the first time in a long time.
But the whole trip - there has been a certain something lurking. A shadowy spectre of doom. That phantom finger of uneasiness which caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up at odd moments, to feel as if the proverbial grave was being tangoed upon.
The clock has been a-ticking on the calendar of life. Specifically, on the days until February 6th. Which of course, came along yesterday...
And I officially got OLDER.
I know that there shouldn't be an emphasis on age, and I was pretty happy with the way I was doing for fuh-fuh-fuh...
Forty.
But then it had to click over to forty-one. Why? Can't I just stay perennially forty? Because it sounds so much cooler saying 'yep, I'm 40' than 'yep, I'm 41'. I don't know why. There is probably a thesis in there somewhere for some enterprising non-forty-one year old (read: young person) who has an inclination to explore this issue, and can manage it without the subjects of said thesis snarling at them like tigers; but something about the whole year '41' makes me feel all T.S. Eliot's 'J. Alfred Prufrock' and as though I am going to start wearing my trousers rolled and start going around groaning that I grow old, I grow old.
However. There is a solution. And it's a very simple and cost-effective one. In the words of the timeless and magnificent Mae West, you're only as old as the man that you feel.
I never, ever thought I would be grateful for a six month age difference.
As it turns out however, gratitude does come in mildly annoying but ever so slightly more youthful buccaneering packages.
With a light case of sunburn.
And a fair bit of cutlass wielding idiocy to take my mind off the approach of the Angel of Death.
Except of course when he is reminding me how much older I am than him.
Remind me why I am grateful again?
