But I Can't Trace Time

““Change in all things is sweet””

— Aristotle

I am going through some significant life changes at the moment, and as a result feel as though I am chasing my own tail half the time. You know what I mean - that headlong half-panicked, half-excited sensation combined with an 'oh hell, I have so much to do and no time in which to do it' tic in the back of your brain.

Is it weird to be grateful for that squirmy 'what the hell am I doing?' sensation in my stomach?

As I sit here in the Dread Pirate's seaward looking lair - which unfortunately is sans said Dread, who is busy buccaneering - I can't help but think of David Bowie's 'Changes'. I am trying to turn and face the strange, but at moments... well, I feel like facing the familiar and the known, even with the realisation that they are not what I want or need moving forward.

I think everyone experiences this at some stage when facing the unknown. Whether you are in a new job, new personal circumstances, a new town even - it's sometimes tempting to want to turn back the clock if only so that the uncertainties are removed.

But then - if you remove the uncertain, and stick with the safe, aren't you basically saying 'I know I wasn't happy with my life before, but it was the way things were, so I will just keep on going'?

This is a time for a leap of faith. Whether it is faith in your own abilities, faith in another person - it doesn't matter. What does matter is being brave enough to say OK, it may not work out - but if I don't try, I will never know.

Turn to face the strange. Be grateful for the unknown and the possibly precarious. You never know - time may have a treat in store for you.

Just this once.

The Peasants Are Revolting...Understandably

““I think that the older I get, the more I realise that the ultimate luxury is time””

— Michael Kors

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!

Strange Fruit

““For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.””

— Billie Holiday, Strange Fruit

This is going to seem like an odd kind of gratitude post at first. But it is to do with being grateful, so this is where it belongs.

I was in Sydney during the week for work, and most of the experience was ace. Also, awesome. I was not only productive, but I got to hang out with the woman I am rapidly beginning to think is going to take over the world within the next six months, and of course my dearest Hurricane Henry (more on this later).

However.

One thing really stood out for me in terms of how far we have to go - as Australians, and as a species.

I was walking down Pitt Street to my next meeting and was going across the pedestrian crossing, when a young girl of Asian descent stumbled and accidentally knocked into another - well, I'll use the word Causcasian - girl in her early 20s. She apologised profusely but the 'victim' was having none of it. Next thing, I actually heard the words which I honestly thought were a cliché - 'go back to your own country you effing gook, we're full up'.

I was appalled; not so much by the words, but by the venom behind them. It was real and it was obvious and it was frightening. What was almost more frightening was the other girl's reaction.

Resignation.

Having just come from holidays in South East Asia, where I was treated with kindness and respect and occasionally good-natured laughter at my language abilities, I was scared; both by the fact that someone in their twenties, who has grown up in mulitcultural Australia, not the world of the 50s or even the 70s, had this attitude - and also by the fact that the girl she attacked almost seemed to expect it.

Again, you may be questioning where the gratitude may be in this.

I am grateful that my parents raised me without prejudice. I am grateful for my friends of all nationalities, especially those who put up with me speaking their languages poorly whilst their English is amazing. I am grateful that I am, I would like to think, able to see past race to the person. And I am very, very grateful that despite the way this repulsive girl represented our country, in the main, Australians are seen as good eggs. Because most of us are good people, and I hope would still be horrified by such casual vindictiveness - not accepting of it.

I am also grateful to the young girl, whom I went up to and asked if she was alright.

'Yeah' she said in a very broad Aussie accent.

'I'm used to it. But thank you for asking. It means a lot. In fact, you've made my day'. And she grinned and we both went onwards.

Gratitude works both ways it seems.

Because she made my day too.

Dr Livingstone I Presume?

I woke up this morning, and it was a toss up between wishing I hadn't at all, and wishing I had woken up in a far off magical land where there may or may not be flying monkeys and little orange people and a yellow brick road. Because let me tell you, I would far prefer to put up with a few wicked witches than what I faced through bleary eyes when I took a look around my apartment.

Actually, I may well already be in Oz. Because quite honestly? It looks as though a farmhouse has fallen on my living room. Either that or a mess bomb has gone off very quietly.

I don't like mess. At all. But at the moment? It would take a whole party of explorers to hack their way with machetes through the wilderness that is Katetopia. It's a jungle in here.

I would love nothing more than to stick my head back under the covers, block my ears with the doona and not do a triage assessment of the site, but if I have any hope of sitting on my sofa in the next 24 hours then a clean up is going to have to happen.

Maybe one of the Oompa Loompas sabotaged me. I don't know. But somehow, between my return from swashbuckling with the Dread P and today, my usually neat and tidy abode has become a post-nuclear apocalyptic awfulness, and it just won't do.

So to the lifeboats! 

Or at least the vacuum cleaner and Mr Sheen.

Blech.

Is there a reward for cleaning your place up instead of doing fun stuff? Aside from not contracting bubonic plague that is.

Maybe (she says brightening) there could be some new shoes at the end of this grubby rainbow!

Suddenly things don't seem quite so grim...

Carpe Jugulum

““Opportunities multiply as they are seized””

— Sun Tzu

I wrote something on Facebook yesterday that I firmly believe in - and it definitely seemed to resonate with a lot of people. I didn't write it for any reason other than the need to express what a 'Don't Stop Believing' kind of day I was having, but it was interesting to see the response. Below is what I had to say:

Good things may come to those who wait. They also come to those who seize life by the throat and say 'I'm grabbing this while the opportunity exists'.

I know the importance of patience and forbearance, and realising that not everything can magically occur at once; but I also know from experience that usually the only way things happen for us is if we get off our backsides and make them happen.

Opportunities are just that - opportunities. They are not a gift, nor are they a right. They are a privilege, and they don't come around every day. Sitting back and expecting to have things handed to one on a silver platter, with added lollipops and rainbows, is not just unrealistic, it's lazy in body and mind.

There have been a lot of times over the past decade when my body hasn't wanted to co-operate with my mind in terms of taking up chances. For someone with a busy brain and a lot of ambition, this is possibly the ultimate frustration. So for me, at present, despite a few challenges to face in the short-term, I am determined to throttle the bejeebers out of every chance that comes my way.

And to be enormously grateful for what I am grabbing with both hands and holding onto tightly.

If you are lucky enough to be sound in body and spirit, and there is something out there you want, take a chance. You may well get knocked back. I have been. But you may also succeed beyond your wildest dreams; and if you're anything like me, said dreams will be pretty wild.

Carpe jugulum. Seize the throat. Grab your life and give it a massive shake up. Rattle that brain pan and find out what adventure ride in life you really want to be on - and then hop on board.

And be grateful that you have the energy, strength and ability to purchase a ticket to ride.

Straighten Up And Fly Right

““Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.”
”

— William Arthur Ward

Coming back from time on holiday can make it very hard to get focus and firmness of purpose to the forefront of the brain. I know that in theory I am back in business mode, but in practice? Let's just say that my mind may be wandering to a more exotic locale, where there may or may not be blue skies, even bluer pools and a swashbuckling pirate.

However - back to the grind it is. And I was thinking about this last night, when an excess of 'I don't want to be here' was flooding my frontal lobe.

I am massively, massively lucky that said 'grind' is doing something that I enjoy. I have written before about having the luck - and it is luck - of being able to work in a job that I actually like. But it's more than that.

This is about being grateful for the chances I have been given. I am well aware that I have been incredibly fortunate in the business connections that I have; but you know what? I am also fortunate in that I have a marketable skill. And I honestly think that part of having said skill, and being able to make a potential living from it, means one must give out more than one takes.

I am not saying that I am going to dress in sackcloth and ashes and run around suddenly preaching to birds and animals; what I am trying to say is that if someone you care for, or whom you know doesn't have the resources you have, asks for help, and it's in an area that you know something about - give it. Don't be grudging about it either.

For me, expressing gratitude for what I am given by others on a daily basis in terms of guidance and knowledge has become essential. And the way I can do that? By paying it forward.

A very schoolmistressy post this one.

But that's OK. Because sometimes saying how grateful I am is not easy, nor lighthearted.

And it doesn't need to be. Being grateful is not always being happy; sometimes it is being realistic and simply saying what is in your heart.

And in this case, what is pumping around my chest is the message above.

Give back. And be grateful you are able to do so.

Exit The Dragon...

““Always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite and furthermore always carry a small snake.” ”

— W.C. Fields

Happy Chinese New Year! Having exited Asia at the same time as the Year of The Dragon, I feel quite invested in what the Year of The Snake has to bring.

Admittedly I know next to nothing about the Chinese Zodiac apart from the fact that apparently I am a Rat; but that makes as much sense as being an Aquarian and way more sense than most if not all of the major religions. As far as I know, there are no current wars being fought over whether or not one is an Ox or a Tiger. Although perhaps I should shut up in case I give any die-hard with a vengeance Roosters any ideas...

According to my meticulous (sort of) research, the Snake's place and its significance as a symbol of worship is far less than that of the Dragon.

It carries the meanings of malevolence, cattiness and mystery, as well as acumen, divination and the ability to distinguish herbs. In some places, people believe that a snake found in their court can bring delight.

I am not certain what most of this means, or how a snake can be catty, but they certainly are malevolent at times (but only when interfered with) and I do think they are mysterious. The herbs and the delight I will leave well alone.

My main hope, with Chinese New Year, just as it was with the 'western' start of 2013 and will be with Rosh Hashanah in September, is that it brings some kind of fulfillment to those who are celebrating it. Snake, Pig, Rat, Horse or Dragon, may you find yourself in uninteresting times - which is a blessing not many of us get in a lifetime, let alone in a year.

Now my next question... when is it Rat's turn again? Because we Rats are definitely the coolest dudes in the horoscope.

I think we deserve a double dip...

Forty-One Is The New... Oh Forget It

““Women like a man with a past, but they prefer a man with a present””

— Mae West

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?

Planes, Trains And Automobiles

Sitting here at Sydney International Airport, where the big jet engines roar (you probably have to be of a certain age bracket and geek level to get the reference to this song), I was of course tempted to title this entry 'Leaving On A Jet Plane'. But then of course I thought about the way Mr J Denver, singer/songwriter, met his end, and had a bit of a re-think.

Besides which, by the end of the day, I will have covered at least two of the above categories of transportation, so all's hopefully well that ends well.

I must admit I have impressed myself. I have managed to restrict my packing to one - count it - one - medium sized bag (not counting carry-on, which doesn't count in the count of counting bags anyway). I actually culled and put the kitchen sink back where it belonged - in the kitchen - and only brought ten tops that look the same instead of twenty.

I may quite possibly have an aneurysm.

Either that, or for once in my life I thought about what I will really wear, versus what I would wear were it 1932 and I had a lady's maid and the Dread and I were going cruising with the Duke of Westminster in the South of France - and changing for every possible social occasion known to man in the course of a 24 hour cycle. 

Quite like that idea. Binky and Bertie and Whoopsie throwing the pink gins back with abandon while I wear Chanel and swan around sneering at Wallis Simpson.

As it is, the pool awaits, the Dread is en route with a bit of luck and a following breeze, and I am massively grateful for both of those things.

Mainly the latter.

Not that I'd tell him that.

Planes, Trains And Automobiles

Sitting here at Sydney International Airport, where the big jet engines roar (you probably have to be of a certain age bracket and geek level to get the reference to this song), I was of course tempted to title this entry 'Leaving On A Jet Plane'. But then of course I thought about the way Mr J Denver, singer/songwriter, met his end, and had a bit of a re-think.

Besides which, by the end of the day, I will have covered at least two of the above categories of transportation, so all's hopefully well that ends well.

I must admit I have impressed myself. I have managed to restrict my packing to one - count it - one - medium sized bag (not counting carry-on, which doesn't count in the count of counting bags anyway). I actually culled and put the kitchen sink back where it belonged - in the kitchen - and only brought ten tops that look the same instead of twenty.

I may quite possibly have an aneurysm.

Either that, or for once in my life I thought about what I will really wear, versus what I would wear were it 1932 and I had a lady's maid and the Dread and I were going cruising with the Duke of Westminster in the South of France - and changing for every possible social occasion known to man in the course of a 24 hour cycle. 

Quite like that idea. Binky and Bertie and Whoopsie throwing the pink gins back with abandon while I wear Chanel and swan around sneering at Wallis Simpson.

As it is, the pool awaits, the Dread is en route with a bit of luck and a following breeze, and I am massively grateful for both of those things.

Mainly the latter.

Not that I'd tell him that.

Code Blue

““A lot of people don’t realize that depression is an illness. I don’t wish it on anyone, but if they would know how it feels, I swear they would think twice before they just shrug it.”

”

— Jonathan Davis

It's not very often that I write a post like this, but this is something that I feel very strongly towards. Because it brings together two things I care deeply about, although in very different ways - mental health, and sport. And not just any sport, but the sport of the season... yep, you guessed it - cricket.

Tomorrow is the Prime Minister's XI here in the Can. And obviously the PM is attending - and so is her partner, Tim Mathieson. And he is Patron of the match-day charity, and this is where for me, it gets very relevant, and extremely important. Because not only is it a local organisation, it is one that targets an often forgotten area in terms of societal need.

Its name? Menslink. Never heard of it? You wouldn't be alone. But for young guys aged 12-25, it's a light in the darkness.

Four out of five suicides in Australia are men. Today, five men will take their own lives. While we are traipsing into the game tomorrow, and yelling at the umpires - five more. Each year, more guys die by their own hand than our entire national road toll.

Am I depressing you? I hope so. Because there are so few organisations out there that aim to help young blokes in particular with the positive side of life, that to see one like Menslink getting exposure at a sporting event is, for me, too great an opportunity not to scream it from the rooftops.

Like most people my age, I have lost friends to suicide. Two of them were in my early twenties. One of them was my very first love. And I can't help but wonder - if he had had the support of an organisation like this, would he still be here? I know it's no use looking to the past, so instead I will be looking to the future tomorrow at the crickety and proudly doing what I can to support a group that supports blokey care.

ACTCricket are behind them. As are the Raiders and the Brumbies. So everyone in the ACT, do something amazing for sport and your species - at the match tomorrow, make a very simple gesture.

Wear blue. Just like the Pink Test, but for boys.

Because they matter too.

Go hard. Go cheer. Go think of your mates who may be not as smiley and happy as you think. Go and remember the friends you have lost because they had nobody to talk to.

Go Blue.

When We Were Very Young

““Piglet: How do you spell love?
Pooh: You don’t spell it, you feel it.””

— A.A. Milne, When We Were Very Young

I was thinking last night as I went to bed at an obscenely early hour (and actually went to sleeps, not just lay there and read until my eyeballs started to bleed) about innocence. It may seem like a strange thing to be thinking about, but it will make sense in a minute.

I was staying with a dear friend and work collaborator and her gorgeous family in Sydney last week. What strikes me each time about her children is how - well, child-like they are. And whilst this may sound like stating the obvious, in 2013, this is no mean feat. To keep kids from being, in the words of Noël Coward, 'jagged with sophistication', is damn hard. They are faced with so much that is adult in every direction. Things we never had to contend with.

The sheer amount of imagery alone. Then there is iEverything. And all of it is made so that species with non-opposable thumbs can operate it, let alone the most cunning and crafty creatures on the planet - anyone under the age of twelve.

I loved the fact that when they were watching a so-called 'kid-friendly' movie, her kidlets closed their eyes and ears until the scary bits were over. That they don't have every gadget under the sun. That they play outside as much as possible. It's the same with the Panda's beautiful girls, and in fact with all of my close friends' children - they are letting their kids be kids. Which is incredibly admirable, because my goodness, the peer group pressure must be enormous.

I am grateful to all the parents I know who are brave enough to let their children stay that way - child-like - as long as they can. Because every day I see a ten year old with a smart phone texting their friends that they don't ever want to talk to them again, or that they are fat, or something equally soul-destroying.

And they don't even spell it properly.

Generation C U L8R?

The mind boggles.