Can You Hear, Can You Hear The Thunder?

It's Australia Day. Or, more correctly, Austraya Day. Which means different things to different people admittedly - not all of them positive, not all of them with a 'celebration of a nation' spin. And that's fine. I personally don't feel the need to drive around with Austrayan flags pinned to my car and wearing fake Southern Cross tattoos, but each to their own. If it stays benign of course.

I'm not sure that I need a special day of the year to know that I am proud to be Austrayan. Because I just am. I honestly cannot think of another country on the planet I would rather be a citizen of (even Sweden, although if the SkarsGod was offering marriage, I'd accept dual passports, thanks Alexander). We still are the Lucky Country; despite seeing baboons attacking cars at Macca's drive-throughs with shovels and other primates attempting to wreck the Cenotaph, I do firmly believe this. And there are some very big reasons why I am grateful to this big sunburnt country of ours.

1. Vegemite. Seriously - what's not to love? You don't like the taste? It's made of yeast, people! Yeast is in beer, beer is good, therefore Vegemite must also be good. Q.E.D.
2. Our beaches. Nothing more needs to be said really. 
3. Our obsession with sport. Thank goodness.
4. Freedom of speech. I may not like what a lot of troglodytes out there have to say, but then again, they may not like what I have to say either. What I do like is the fact that we can all speak out without fear of being hurried away in an unmarked van - or in my case, as a woman, quite possibly shot on the spot.
   
5. Our sense of humour (or yewma, as Kath and Kim would say). We still take the pi... - uh, mickey out of ourselves better than most.
6. The way we stand up for our mates - whether that is over the back fence or across the world. I know we indulge in the occasional tall poppy cropping, but I still think that in terms of standing by our friends - Aussies are fairly amazing.
7. Our incredible food and vino. Yum.
8. Our amazingly talented actors, musicians, artists, writers, scientists - all of whom we send out into the world... and never see again. Ha! (see point 9 for the ha).
9. Our irreverence. Our mockery. Our sense of the ridiculous. Which thankfully has not yet been swallowed up by the almighty Bald Eagle. We may be on the road to the Hotel California - but we haven't checked in yet.
   
10. Our ability to see when as a nation we have stuffed up - and acknowledge it. Sometimes it may take us a few hundred years... however, we get there in the end.

Random reasons? Probably. My reasons? Absolutely. Which is part of being an Aussie - I get to have my reasons - not reasons that anyone else wants me to have.

Australia, my gratitude to you. You rock.

Or that should be, you Uluru.

Dye Another Day

““There is grey in your hair/Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath/When you are passing””

— W.B. Yeats, Broken Dreams

There is a terrible condition that many women my age seem to suffer from. It isn't strictly speaking medical, but there is definitely a psychological component attached to it. It can rule our lives on a daily basis - at least if we look in the mirror, and I am yet to know a woman who can get ready for the day without doing that.

I call it OCIHSMGH Syndrome.

What is this dreadful disease, I hear you cry? Is it terminal? Is there any relief to be had? Should I simply give up now and stay under the doona for the rest of my natural life?

The answers are respectively it isn't a disease, although it makes one want to take muscle relaxants (read: drink wine) on a regular basis; it's not terminal, although there is no comeback from it; there is definitely relief, although it's temporary... and as for the doona call?

It's tempting at times, but probably not. You would be missed.

So what exactly am I talking about?

Grey hairs.

WHY?

I have been going grey since my early 20s. If it was a nice, even, all over effort, I may even be tempted to just let it happen. But no - it's more like a piebald pony. Or a very strangely patched rabbit. So that means hair dye. Which means hairdressers. Because every time I do a home job, I stuff it up so comprehensively that I have to go to my lovely hairdresser to have her roll her eyes and fix up my mess.

What is particularly unfair is that guys the same age look great with the whole salt and pepper sprinkle going on. They don't spend zillions hiding the roots of all evil out of a need to look and feel like a normal human being rather than a 1,000 year old bog monster.

Silver fox indeed. Nobody ever says silver vixen.

And the worst part? I am weak. I like my hair looking nice. I willingly hide the damn grey, instead of embracing it. Much as I would love to say that I am prepared to totally give up and say 'sisters, rebel - we have nothing to lose but our peroxide', I know, for my sins, that tomorrow I will trot off to said hairdresser in anticipation of the rendezvous with the Dread Pirate and lustre up the locks.

I am so weak.

But in this instance, I will embrace my weakness.

And just be grateful that it's 2013 - and that foils, colour shampoo and my darling hairdresser Rachael exist.

Otherwise it would be head under the doona time until I popped my clogs.

Or lots and lots of hats.

*OCIHSMGH stands for, not surprisingly, Oh Crap I Have So Much Grey Hair. But you probably worked that out for yourselves.

Listing Slightly To The Right

““He had a wonderful talent for packing thought close, and rendering it portable.”

”

— Thomas B Macaulay

So - next week I am off with the Dread Pirate on a swashbuckling adventure - well, as swashbuckling as one gets lolling around a pool slurping cocktails if one can be bothered picking up one's glass. I am so grateful that this IS only a week away that I think this post could possibly count as a month's worth of gratitude in one big hit.

Aside from my near hysteria at the fact that whilst I am away I will be turning a year older than my now perpetual 21 (that's certainly my mental age and even that is generous), and thus have a need to shovel into my hand luggage large amounts of Valium, I am currently faced with my usual conundrum;

What on earth will I pack?

I am an inveterate list maker. I love lists. They are ace. And what better time to whip out the pad and pen (or as it is now, the packing app) and get ready to rumble on the suitcase of style?

The trouble is though...

I quite often end up with enough stuff for fifteen said suitcases.

And two or three Lusitania standard First-Class steamer trunks.

Whoops.

It's just so hard! Boys have it easy - throw in some shorts, a few shirts, a pair of shoes and some yum aftershave to hide the boy smells and they're set. Because they know that anything else they need you will bring because you bring everything.

Hmmmm. They're not as stupid as they look.

And the trouble is, one never knows what may be needed! Yes, I could be headed for the tropics... but that doesn't mean there couldn't be a sudden sub-arctic spell. Who can tell these days? And I may definitely need that fifteenth top that looks exactly the same as the other fourteen, because look at the hem - it's totally different. It's got two rows of stitching, not one! And as for the shoes...

Even pirates know when not to argue. Ever wonder who came up with the first Jolly Roger? A very annoyed Mrs Dread P who had to leave her favourite shoes behind in a hurry and took it out on the nearest crew member, that's who.

So the list goes on. And on. And - well you get the picture.

Usually that is.

However, this time I am turning over a new leaf - or a new list, as the case may be. I am determined to be sleek, and streamlined, and encapsulated. I am going to embody the essence of holiday wardrobe wear and take only what I know I need, not what I think I want.

And I will be grateful for two things as a result.

One, that I do not have to bring ten cartloads of washing home with me afterwards; and two...

That for once, my bags won't weigh more than I do.

Probably.

Maybe.

I'll try...

You Can't Stop The Music

““One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.” ”

— Bob Marley

The Panda posted on Facebook this morning that he was listening to certain music, and it made me feel the need to immediately get my butt out of bed... if only to put some music on.

And then get back into bed and write this.

Admittedly now I look like I have St Vitus' Dance, as I resemble a spider doing some kind of weird headbanging mattress jump up and down to Chris Cornell, but still. The ambition to be incredibly rhythmic is there; sadly, it just doesn't translate very well.

Music is amazing. I know I have talked about the the songs or pieces of music that I am most grateful for previously, but this isn't about favourites, or even about genres.

It's simply about rhythm and melody.

Rhythm... and melody.

Who in their teenage years didn't dream of being in a band - come to think of it, who still holds fast to that dream somewhere deep down? I have no hesitation in admitting that somewhere, somehow, Kate S is about to appear in another sell out stadium - or appearing out of the blue in a small jazz club to sing 'My Baby Just Cares For Me' and disappear into the night leaving people to wonder 'was that who I think it was?'.

That's the power of the beat. Songs are insidious - they get into our psyche and if they get a grip on our emotions, it's a life long love affair. You will always remember that moment where or when you first heard that song.

And sometimes it's a case of never forgetting the person who first played it for you.

So today, throw on some music. Dag it up. Play what you love, not what you think you should be listening to. As long as it's not the Bieber, I am not Tuneist. Anything goes. Oh what the hell - it's your eardrums - play the little weasel if you want. Just dance, as they say, like nobody's watching. Sing into your hairbrush, or your rolled up magazine, or toss the vacuum cleaner around like it's a microphone stand and you are doing the Mick Jagger strut to Start Me Up.

And the beat goes on.

And I am grateful that I can hear it.

Break On Through To The Other Side

I have a bad habit of getting what I suppose could be termed tunnel vision. I focus on the positives in people, and put aside the so-called negatives of their personalities. This can mean that I dig myself a very, very big hole that I find hard to climb out of when they behave - well, as humans tend to, and as I certainly do myself - as a normal numpty with feet, legs and a torso of clay.

This is usually a bit unfair on them, and certainly on myself, because the person who is most affected in the long run is me. And this is wasted energy and emotion. And sometimes a whole box of Kleenex. 

I am trashing the planet through my inability to cope when people are less than nice to me.

What a sook!

I have written before about the fact that none of us is without flaws, and we should accept them. This is all well and good. But being who I am, the trouble is that sometimes I don't see the wood for the trees in terms of what is a true problem area in the psyche and what is simply a quirk of personality - and as a result go charging round with friend Napalm. 

Next thing you know there's a bright orange sunrise and everyone's feeling vaguely sunburnt and ill.

And there's a big cleared out patch where some very strong friendships used to be.

So what to do?

Lay off the Apocalypse Now references would probably be a good starting point.

After that, it's a matter of accepting that everyone is different. The whole 'you are unique' blarney isn't actually blarney - I know that I drive many, MANY people in my life bonkers and they put up with my ways with a grin. A somewhat forced grin, but a grin nonetheless. So I therefore need to look at someone as a real boy or girl, not as a Pinocchio-like wooden figure, from the start of any relationship - instead of trying to see just a part of them.

That way when I do drop down into what I think is a pit of despair, I will be grateful that it was actually not a hole at all.

It was just a covered pathway. Or even a tunnel of sorts.

And there is an end in sight.

Stand In The Place Where You Live; Now Face...

“Your feet are going to be on the ground/
Your head is there to move you around/
If wishes were trees, the trees would be falling/
Listen to reason/Season is calling”

— Stand, R.E.M.

Apart from the fact that I am in serious, SERIOUS countdown mode for a swashbuckling adventure - bikini buying traumas notwithstanding - I am actually doing some genuine contemplation on the whole 'next life scenario' schiznitz.

Well, attempting to anyway.

Visions of swimming pools and cocktails, and the two combined, keep running through my head and interrupting our regularly scheduled program.

For some reason a pirate swings in every so often too.

Where was I again?

Oh. Decisions.

Ugh.

I have been very guilty in the past - oh let's face it, I am guilty in the present - of putting off making decisions. I farnarkle about, I find other things to do, I help other people make brilliant life choices - while I procrastinate wildly and rearrange my shoes by colour and brand.

Which admittedly is important - they are shoes, people!! - but really doesn't get me anywhere near where I need to be in terms of the serious stuff.

This is changing.

I am making up my mind as to where I want to be, both physically and mentally. It has - and is - taking a lot of soul-searching, and quite a few pros and cons lists, but there is clarity coming from said note scrawling and a feeling of hopefulness and strength.

And that's where my gratitude stems from. Finally getting a bit of focus into my future.

Sometimes we need a push to make us stand on the rose of the compass and see which way the prevailing wind is blowing. Sometimes the wind is in a direction we may not have expected; sometimes the breeze may be fickle and we may need auxiliary power to supplement our sails.

But that's OK.

I always keep a set of oars about the place.

You never now when you might be becalmed.

Or conversely, need to hit marauding pirates for being naughty.

And I am back poolside.

Come On A Surfari With Me...

““We made the buttons on the screen look so good you’ll want to lick them.”
”

— Steve Jobs

Something was really brought home to me last night; it really is true what John Lennon sang in Beautiful Boy - 'life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans'.

We are often so caught up in the day to day, that we don't notice the momentous until we sit back for a breather, and realise how much things have either changed or progressed in a short period of time.

You may well ask what on earth John Lennon has got to do with a Beach Boys lyric and a Steve Jobs quote. Well, apart from the six degrees of separation issue (Ed Sullivan called The Beatles 'England's answer to The Beach Boys' and of course there was more than one Apple once upon a time) - not a hell of a lot. Aside from the fact that all of the above pieces of rubbish float around in my head where useful information could actually sit.

What Steve Jobs and surfing have to do with this post though - now there is a different story. Everything. For in their own ways they have been a part of the life that has happened to me recently, almost without any volition.                                                 

Because after a lot of what one, if one were honest with oneself, would call dithering, I have found what suits me in terms of work. How I work, what I do for work, and whom I work for. And the answers - to virtually (ha) all of those Jeopardy categories - finally come easily.

Most people can answer these 'what do I want to do when I grow up?' questions a lot earlier in life. They are extremely lucky. And they may not have had to deal with weird diseases hitting them at odd times and making them re-think their working ways.

So now I live in cyberspace to a large extent, and get to write, write, write. And then write some more. It may not be the type of surfing I envisaged as a 13 year old, but that doesn't make it any the less exciting.

And far better in the long run for my complexion. Because let's face it, my dreams of the freckles joining up to make a tan were fairly unrealistic to start with.

So today - I am grateful for the chance to weave an interweb. It turns out I am not too shabby at it. Considering my handicraft handicaps, it was a surprise to me as much as anyone.

Surf's up.

And I am very, very grateful.

Tears (And Laughter) On My Pillow

““Pleasing things: finding a large number of tales that one has not read before. Or acquiring the second volume of a tale whose first volume one has enjoyed. But often it is a disappointment.”
”

— Sei Shōnagon, The Pillow Book

The Pillow Book - well, the most famous one - was written by Sei Shōnagon, a lady of the Imperial Japanese court in the late 10th Century. It contains her daily thoughts, poetry, illustrations, opinions on others at court, the most amazing lists of her likes and dislikes - everything about her life.

It is a truly remarkable tome - yes, it is basically a diary, but it is so beautifully written and drawn that it transcends that into a work of art.

It is subversive. It is naughty. It is sublime.

I would do anything for the Lady Sei's turn of phrase - she was the year 1002's equivalent of Dorothy Parker. 

What a pillow book gives is clarity. A nightly - or daily - way to sort out the tangled jumble of thoughts that sit in a snarl in our craniums, blurring our capability to function and just keep going on a daily basis. For me, it's also a way to express my opinions on life, the universe and everything - whether anyone is reading them or not doesn't actually matter - it's getting them onto virtual paper that matters.

Because as anyone who writes knows, the compulsion to get the words out of one's head and through one's fingers is constant and unchanging.

Much of what I write is never seen by anyone. Because I do have a true Pillow Book. It may be an iPillow - but it is a Pillow Book nonetheless. There is snark, there are what I would like to think of as witticisms, there are dreams. There are photos. There are drawings.

There is a life.

And in the spirit of the original, maybe I do have one of my lists that is suitable for this post.

List 14.

Things For Which One Is Truly Grateful.

Sometimes gratitude is intangible.

And in this case it comes from the sometimes bitter and ugly - but always brutally honest - observations of a woman centuries before her time, who inspired a teenage girl to start putting pen to paper. For which she will be eternally grateful.

““List 71. Rare Things - Copying out a tale or a volume of poems without smearing any ink on the book you’re copying from. If you’re copying it from some beautiful bound book, you try to take immense care, but somehow you always manage to get ink on it.””

— The Pillow Book

Has Anyone Seen Ensign Jones?

““It’s life Jim, but not as we know it””

— Star Trekkin' Across The Universe

It's not just Star Trek, but each incarnation of that legendary Gene Rodenberry creation provides a perfect example of the throwaway character - poor old Ensign Jones/Smith/Flengman 12 who is given no lines, but is a part of the away party/boarding group/recovery team - and is therefore, blindingly obviously, not going to make it to the end of the episode.

They are either eaten by this week's space monster, the first to succumb to a mysterious space illness, or disappear into a new planet's weird atmospheric conditions never to be seen or heard of again.

Until they pop up in another show.

As the rookie partner of the world-weary cop who just can't catch a break, but needs to emote for an episode.

Hey there Detective There'll Be No Nickname Necessary, cos you ain't sticking around.

What I think we fail to consider sometimes is how many people there are in our own lives whom we perhaps give an Ensign Jones role to - without recognising that in point of fact they are often a leading character whom we can't do without. And when they suddenly exit stage left - well, we suddenly realise that it is in fact Scotty or even Mr Spock who is missing in action.

So perhaps, just occasionally, take a look around you - and make sure that the quiet people in the corners who perhaps don't say much, but always have your back, don't get ready to beam out unexpectedly.

And express your gratitude to them.

Perhaps you could start by asking them about their day.

Maybe they actually defeated a space monster this week on your behalf.

That would be something to be grateful for.

They Say It's Your Birthday!

Today is - or would be, since he no longer walks among us (or does he?) - the King's birthday. That's right. The Man from Memphis. The swivel hipped, curled-lipped all shook up black soul voice in a very white boy's body.

Uh-huh-huh yeah.

But today is also, to me far more importantly and personally, my Bailey's birthday. Now, I am aware that she is not my biological daughter, much as we may joke around - and yes we do look scarily alike; but she has wonderful parents who love her very, very much and do everything for her, and I don't want to belittle that in any way.

However, she is as close as to me as any daughter may be, and I am proud and grateful to be her Mama Kato. Therefore my B, on the occasion of your 17th big day, a few words from mother to daughter. Feel free to laugh. Or even snort.

Advice To My Daughter On Her 17th Birthday

1. Be grateful that this is your 17th birthday, and celebrate accordingly. Think of your Mama, who in exactly a month's time will be hiding her head under the covers and breathing into a brown paper bag as she turns 41.

2. Be grateful that you have so many people in your life who love you. This has been a very rough year my B - but we got through it. And 17 is going to rock, because you learned so much from 16. Windowlickers unite!

3. Your education in the finer things in life - shoes - will only deepen. This is a promise.

4. Dystonia sucks like a sucky thing. But try to be grateful for the people it has brought to you, and the support you receive - and pass on that support to those who aren't as fortunate as you.

5. Don't waste a minute of 17. Even though you are going to have really craptacular days - because Dysto is not going to magically disappear as a birthday treat - live your life to the fullest my B. Carpe jugulum - seize life by the throat.

I am grateful for you. I am grateful to have a snarky, funny, feisty redhead who calls me Mama and whom I will scream 'Happy Birthday' at later on today when it is actually your birthday in Tennessee time.

Oh - and don't do an Elvis and start hoeing into the deep fried sarnies and double cheeseburgers.

Otherwise you won't fit into your white sparkly birthday jumpsuit!

Hmmmm... maybe I should have told you that was your present.

Oops.

A Spark Of Hellish Fire

Yesterday was such a strange contrast. I happily sat at the SCG, watching people dig deep for breast cancer research - seeing big, boofy blokes wear their very pink bandannas, without hesitation, was nothing short of a refreshing bath in human kindness. The 'Pink Test' is a wonderful thing for sport because it makes everyday blokes focus on a disease which has often been seen as women-only and which is sadly not the case.

Yet at the same time, to know that a place where only the day before I had also been happy was in a state of bewildering and sudden destruction - it was hard to make sense of it all.

Hobart was on fire. My brother, my beloved Panda - both were out trying to save their homes. The photos that the Panda sent through, and which I am, totally without telling him, putting on this post, were horrifying. My parents were on their way last night to help my brother and his family try to either save their house or get to safety. The Panda rang me late last night to say that the police had told him to evacuate and that is the last I have heard.

A strange contrast in hope for a cause - and a cure - and inexplicable hopeless destruction.

This is particularly painful when it is highly possible that at least some of the bushfires in Tasmania are the result of arson. Deliberate, sheer, wanton malice.

So despite heartbreak at the insanity of possible loss of life, and definite loss of property and in some cases livelihoods, I have to somehow reach down deep and find some gratitude for what has gone before in the last 24 hours.

I am grateful for the generosity shown by the Australian cricket community to a cause in which I have a very personal stake. I am grateful you are willing to give.

I am, more than ever, grateful for buccaneers who despite working like scurvy dogs on their swashbuckling adventures, make the time to ensure that I am OK and are concerned about not only my health and happiness, but that of those whom I love.

And of course I am enduringly grateful that both my brother and his wife and the Hughbot, and my Panda and his cubs are safe.

Walls can easily be rebuilt.

People, however, cannot easily be replaced.

Remember that today.