Drowning the Dream

Have you ever harbored a dream? Not just had one, but kept it, hung on to it, stashed it away in the depths of your heart to be dusted off whenever the time for it was finally right?

As long as  I can remember (and my sister says it’s been at least 30 years), I’ve wanted to go to Australia. Not just GO, but EXPERIENCE. BE there. Perhaps not forever, but certainly fully, completely, for a while. At the same time, I cultivated the unfortunate attitude of rolling with the punches, because, self-help books and Internet memes tell us, things “will work out”. And they do, of course, but what the gurus don’t tell you is that you have absolutely no say in the how or when.

According to the Chinese zodiac, this is the Year of the Monkey. It’s an anything-goes kind of energy that can bring change when you least expect it. After the year we had in 2015, change was/is sorely needed, and as I strolled down a busy street in Fremantle last spring, the salty ocean air wafting up my nostrils, it felt for the first time in a very long time as if change might really come. Change for the better. It seemed positive.

That Schäfchen, our elderly guinea pig, died almost immediately after my return seemed to contradict that trend at first, but then I thought, now it’ll just be the two of us. Surely we can make things happen in our favor with one cat and two bunnies. DH’s dream is to return to Germany, to be with friends and write his bestseller that’s been on his desk for some time. I figured I might toodle off and follow my dream for a little while, killing two birds with one stone: I’d BE in Australia and make money, because after all, I am in one of those professions everyone claims to be looking for.

After initial reluctance to even consider this, DH and I sat down to look more closely at what would need to be done. Since we’ve just recently added two kittens to our family, he would have been more comfortable had I been able to take the rabbits with me, but alas, unless you’re coming from New Zealand, Australia won’t allow rodents (which makes perfect sense, since ours are desexed, indoor rabbits but hey, let’s not quibble). Anyway, he’d be stuck with cats and bunnies, but still asked me to investigate further.

I did. And what I found was Reality giving me a toothy grin and a big, fat Fuck You! In order to not screw up my visa application, it would be best to hire a migration agent. One returned a quote of $200 to make sure my paperwork was in order. That doesn’t seem so bad, does it? Then I must fork over $500 to the reviewing body in question so they can use my application stack to hold their desks down for three months, after which time they may approve me and may award me enough points to propel me to the next step in the visa process.

I’ve now spent $700 merely to get to apply for a visa! No clue how much that costs, as from here on, things get a bit murky. In any case, should Immigration and Border Control grant me a visa, I’ll have to get the obligatory health check, which back in the day I moved to the US was around $150 (for the US, 20+ years ago, if I remember correctly).

By now I’m out roughly a thousand dollars, after which I’ll have to find a job. The application process alone would eat up any and all savings I currently have, which is not an option for an unemployed person. In short, I can’t afford it.

Anita Goa writes on her blog that the Pisces moon brings release. I guess that means it’s time to use this dream to feed the fishes.

Now go back to the opening lines of this post. If you answered yes to my questions, you’ll know exactly how I’m feeling right now.

Perth’s a Bitch, and then you cry

See what I did there? Of course you did (NOT!)… it’s not quite so dramatic, really, but why don’t we just start at the beginning, if I can still get my head straight. Which, after 27 hours on various airplanes, is easier said than done.

I was pleasantly surprised by the entire Abu Dhabi leg of the trip. I had a lovely lady from Pakistan as my only neighbour in the row. We chatted, she shared some snacks with me, it was nice. Although I’m almost 100% certain this was not the extra legroom seat I had requested, it was comfortable and plenty roomy. The food was excellent. Which is a good thing, as the “light lunch” turned out to be the same thing as the vegetarian dinner option, just without cheese. I still enjoyed it the second time around.

Abu Dhabi’s airport is well organized and has lots of things you can do, mostly of course shop and eat. Also, shower (and for free), if you happen to have toiletries and a towel, which I did not and did not feel like purchasing. I might take them up on that on the return trip, though. Meanwhile I can report that the dry shampoo I ordered for tons of money is worth every penny and works like a charm.

Airport security consisted of a line-up of blokes who were really nice and even funny. Then again, I was there pretty early, which is always a good thing. No silly security scanner, no arguing that my deodorant is really NOT a can of Coke…

Boarding for Perth began on time. And then time stopped. Due to high traffic over Musqat, we sat on the runway for an hour. Which, you know, wouldn’t be a big deal if the seat was ok, but sadly, it was not. I had paid $150 for that whole legroom thing, which placed me in an emergency exit seat whose back did not recline and that, of course, had no storage in front (though I sneakily used my own seat to stuff things under). We ended up getting in with a delay of only 40 minutes but my back is shot and my arse sore as hell.

The food was ok. I had the fish biryani, mostly because the vegetarian choice was, oddly, garlicky mac and cheese, and I didn’t want to do that to my host, Ian, who was picking me up in Perth. In the middle of the night, we were served sliced apples as a snack. In the morning, they gave me neither breakfast nor something to drink. Fuck them.

Flying into Perth in daytime is quite something. You come in from Indonesia and get to see the entire WA coastline from about Port Hedland on down to Perth. The country up there is mostly just some bush and red dirt. LOTS of red dirt. A bit further south it begins to be divided up into large parcels which at least from the air still look like nothing more spectacular than red dirt, until even further south you start hitting farmland and getting more trees and bushland. Pretty cool, actually. I tried taking some photos for you guys but my camera ran out of juice before I got to the really good stuff.

They weren’t kidding when they said there’s been lots of construction at the airport, either. The new scan-your-passport-yourselves, you-silly-buggers stations are perhaps quite de rigeur but as I was an automaton, I ended up in the line for the real life border patrol agents, anyway. And you know, the sheep in the other line were no faster! You have to scan in your passport, answer security questions, then the machine spits out some kind of paper that you have to walk down to another machine 15 metres away. There, you insert the paper, have your noggin scanned, get the paper back, then take it and the passenger card, aka “you’re all dodgy people to us customs people”, down to Customs.

I nearly had a heart attack when I got there: the line doubled in on itself several times, then went behind a wall and performed another few doodles! See, we weren’t the only flight who didn’t come in ON time, but they all somehow ended up there AT THE SAME time! What a joke. The nice thing was, I handed the customs lady my questionable-suspect-card and she… sent me straight through! No scanner, no unpacking suitcases, not even a sniffer dog! And so I had time to visit the friendly folks at Vodaphone to get a new chip for my old mobile before my ride arrived.

Clearly, though, Perth is not nearly as excited about having me here as it was last time. When I finally had the internet up and successfully identified five of my Facebook friends (one of whom was ‘identified’ by a photo of Tony Abbott – rrrright) just to log in, I learned that the barbecue I was supposed to go tomorrow has been postponed. So, no welcome gig by the Spudniks, no burger with beetroot.

I am, however, freshly showered and have had a cup of tea. Now to put up the feet for a bit…

Vyv Does Oz: Cold Feet, Warm Hearts

My great-grandparents had on their wall a framed piece of embroidery with the lines “Wo man singt, da lass Dich ruhig nieder, /böse Menschen haben keine Lieder” (roughly: where there is singing, gladly rest your head /where evil dwells, no song is to be had). Taking this as my motto for the upcoming trip, I couldn’t be safer anywhere else. Most of my friends on the other side of the world are musos. Phew!

At least for a few days I’ll be staying at a fabulously beautiful place in Bassendean, nearly exactly opposite to my pad in Swanbourne. If you’d like to take a peek at Cook House yourself, feel free.

In order to provide you, my three-and-a-half readers, with the most bang for no buck, I have unearthed my old Flickr account where I will post trip pics as I go along.

My schedule is beginning to be occupied with gigs and barbecues and theatre visits and coffee meets, all of which is certainly giving me the warm and fuzzy. And yet, the first bell that rang in my head when I woke up this morning sounded an awful lot like “Idontwannago, I dontwannago!” Considering there are still five days left until departure, this does not bode well. Not that the sudden case of cold feet is entirely unexpected; I suffer from a minor version every time I’m going anywhere, and if it’s just to a local event. Even if I’m really, really looking forward to it. Not sure why it gets that way, but there isn’t much I can do besides talk myself down and carry on with life.

Letting the Song Be Human

“Writing ‘February’ made me realize that breaking form is a way of letting the song be human.” Dar Williams

Photo: David McComb by Steven Whelan

You are missed.

Alone on the Beach with Dylan in a Playful Mood

Shall I compare thee to a summer peach?

Thou art as fuzzy but more succulent

I whisper prayers to your sun-warmed flesh,

my head in worship of your ripeness bent.

You laugh at me from underneath your blue-brimmed hat

That pearly laugh which I adore

That makes my heart grow wings and fly,

confounding seagulls in the azure February sky.

My stomach somersaults on summer’s salty rim

while lips meet lips and skin caresses moon-kissed skin.

The world, unlike myself, cannot intrude beneath this blue-brimmed hat,

and for that, I love you even more.

Putting Meat on the Bones

How lovely it would be to begin this post with “some of you have been wondering why I haven’t written since April.” It would be lovely, but it would also be a lie. In reality, nobody has given a shit about the blog gathering dust for nearly eight months. So why am I even here today? Because I’m tenacious, that’s why.

This year has pretty much been an endless shit parade from the beginning. Early on, we were told our beautiful, lovely, grumpy, talkative, kissy old dog Rufus was going to die. Soon. The reason he’d been coughing so frequently after a good romp was a tumor that had nestled in so close to his heart, it could not be removed. Rufi died at the end of April. Blogging seemed like frilly self-indulgence.

Two weeks later, our sweet, goofy, leany, toy squeaking snugglebug Mäxchen died suddenly and unexpectedly early on a Tuesday morning. Writing became meaningless. What could I possibly have to say to anyone?

In June, after weeks of trying to get the local vet to invest enough time to arrive at an actual and accurate diagnosis and sadly failing, my little Em died of kidney failure, no doubt in more pain and discomfort than any creature should have to endure. My brain turned off its reading function.

If by now you’re guessing that it’s been a shit year, congratulate yourself on your perceptiveness. Death has eaten well in our house.

There was a small break during an exhaustively disgusting summer which was so unsuitable for dogs, it kind of took the edge off the grief for a bit. Then came fall. DH’s aunt passed away, another sudden loss. The leaves turned, the temperatures declined, everything began to look like beautiful woods. Like home. Like places Rufi and Max and I would have walked. The year gave me a tight-lipped grin. Ain’t over yet, mate. All I wanted to do was to stay on my couch and stare off into space but husband and wife do not live on dust bunnies alone, and work wasn’t going to pay me for looking tragic.

Two days ago, it snowed. My grandmother called to let me know she was going to the hospital, “something with the kidneys.” Kidney failure, my sister says. My mother, her stubborn mother’s stubborn daughter, says she doesn’t care. I’d missed the call, and when I tried to ring back, I kept getting a message that the number was not available. Probably didn’t hang up the phone right.

DH and I are working on some holiday spirit. We have a tree. We have some candles. We did some mulled wine and grilled sausage last night on our new patio that DH had decorated with Christmas lights. It was just the two of us out there in the snowy dark, briefly joined by the cat who found it too chilly. We ate. We drank. We were smoked on by the fire. I cried.

The year ain’t done yet, mate.

Vyv Does NaPoMo

Or NaPoWriMo, depending on which websites you follow. Writer’s Digest calls their version PAD -poem a day. It all means the same thing: April is National Poetry Month. Some of us take up the challenge to write a poem a day, often to a given prompt. Although I am part of a writing group and also signed up with two websites, I pick and choose the prompts. After all, I do have three different ones every day!

Because I’ve wanted to learn more about poetic structure and forms of late, I have been taking a couple of online classes. One deals with short form verse, the other with the basics of haiku. So far, I have learned quite a bit from the former (I only started the haiku class today), including reaching beyond my comfort zone: I hate to bother with rhymes, but a lot of the short forms require rhyming, so in order to avoid getting stuck in cliche, I really have to think hard about what to write… and then, edit, edit, edit!

As much as I am enjoying this poetry challenge, I am looking forward to May already. May is all about short stories, which ought to be a good excuse to empty the proverbial drawer of the not-nearly-as-proverbial partial drafts. A friend of mine from Australia sent me a flyer for a short story competition I’d love to take part in, and I hope to use what I’ll learn in the haiku class to start writing flash fiction, as well.

Are you participating in NaPoMo? Leave me a comment!

International Poetry Day

I had no idea such a thing existed. I mean, it’s also National Forest Day, and next month – April- gets to be National Poetry Month, so this came as a surprise. Turns out, this day is sponsored by Julius Meinl Coffee, based in Vienna, but with cafes in 23 countries all over the world. If you choose to visit one of them, then today, March 21st, you can exchange a poem for a cup of coffee. That’s right: you write, they give you a free coffee. Unfortunately, the only Meinl Cafe is in Chicago, but I wrote you a ditty anyway. If you’d like to buy me a coffee sometime, let’s make a date. 😉

I know not why the cold wind blows
Or why the dog at five to six this morning rose
Instead of the agreed ‘pon hour
I know not why the cat sits in the shower
Or why this morning doesn’t feel like spring
Though outside loudly cardinals and juncos sing
I know not where the squirrel’s off to in the trees
As I observe from underneath my fleece
But even if the morning’s dull and gray
And the cardinal is actually a jay
(and doesn’t really sing as much as squawk,
while I believe the squirrel’s hiding from the hawk)
I’m staying comfy on my sofa bed
With dogs (one whining), husband and damp cat
And if you’re wondering why I had all this to say:
Well, it’s because
It’s International Poetry Day!

David and the Debt of Gratitude

I never met him. We were never friends, lovers, band mates, or even shopped in the same store at the same time. Every time our paths might have crossed, the universe had other plans. I didn’t even find out about his death until seven years after the fact. So what the hell could I possibly have to be grateful for?

It’s probably easiest to start with the most obvious: his music. His words. His voice. Whenever I’ve contemplated writing this down, Abba begin to sing in my head. “Thank You for the Music”, of course. Some people may think that I’m being too light-hearted here. Death is no laughing matter, even the person in question is Australian. To them I say, this isn’t about death. It is about pure, honest gratitude for something that has been my companion for over twenty years now and still means a lot to me. Meister Eckhart supposedly said, “if the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.” David deserves my thanks. Besides: I like Abba.

If I were truly afraid of sounding like a pretentious git, this is where I’d stop. But I can’t. Not all has been said. So I’ll just go ahead. And if you want to think of me as a pretentious git, you go ahead. Either way, we’ll both have taken a step forward. After a series of curious happenings, I was gifted something else: more music I had never considered listening to, books I had never considered reading before, and films I had never had any interest in seeing. A good number of them have spawned yet more books, music, films. New ideas. New places. An entire network of new experiences!

And yet, and yet… even this is not all. Amazingly, David has also shared you with me. His friends. His band mates. The people who shopped at the same store at the same time. And through you – you’ve guessed it – yet MORE music. Books. Films. Ideas. Places. I’ve never done a thing to deserve this much. If that is not a damn good reason to express gratitude!

So today I will light my little candle and say my little prayer for this great man whose generosity has bridged all barriers.

Thank you.

2014 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

That’s cool. And I’d like to thank you, my intermittent readers and rare commenters, for hanging out with me this year. Here’s to a successful 2015!

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,400 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 23 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.