Just another site

Archive for the category “crazy”

The circus. Week 3. Blogging for survival

They always burnt the grass after the circus left town. Cauterising the ground. Erasing any evidence of them. Like a guilty, dirty little secret.  I remember. It was in the spare lot on the estate and my sister and I would go there. Later. After the heat was gone. Looking for coins. Or jewelry. Or any treasure that had fallen carelessly to the grassy floor of the big top. And remained. Through the matinees and evening performances, under the feet of the towns children and beyond the reach of the monkeys.

I found a sooty crucifix once. I kept it in my ballerina jewelry box. Feeling a small tingle when I touched it. It’s an old memory. So ancient that it is a relic of a primal and pagan past. A time when wild animals were tamed for our pleasure. Living and working in a relentless cycle of performing and travelling. Not like now. No animals are harmed in the making of the circus. In Australia. Anymore.

No, not anymore. We can watch the circus from the elevated position of our high moral ground. Safe in the knowledge that all is well.  For the animals. That are no longer caged. We can go to the zoo for that. Or the supermarket. Or MacDonalds. Well not caged exactly, vacuum packed really.

I eat chicken Parmigiana. I love it so much, I order it at any opportunity. But something is troubling me. I think it’s my cat. Who isn’t mine. Aside from her carnivorous tendency to predate on frogs, which is an exceptional and unnecessary burden placed daily on my ‘do no harm’ Zen. It’s about her feelings. She has many. 

A man who wrote his thesis on the rights of elephants in Sri Lanka once said ‘I started out writing about the rights of people, studying the loss of humanity during conflict and I gave up, I gave up on people. Now I choose to think about the dignity of animals instead’. Looking at my cat I’m wondering if I’m there. If I’m giving up on people too. I think I’m on a continuum between human rights activist and crazy cat lady, inching closer to crazy daily. Much closer.

So I’m back at the circus. Heading for the big top. The fairy floss. The bench seats. I hurry everyone along. My pagan past is snapping at my heels. I can feel the sooty crucifix and smell the unmistakable scent of caged animals. I nearly trip on my own desire. To feel the seduction of the exotic other. The lure of the time before knowing. Before the burden of awareness. 

As the lights dim and the music starts I glance at the faces of my companions. My family. Up and down the generations. In that dusky light I see them. Rapt. Expectant. Shivering with anticipation. And I smile.

Here we all are. Tamed for their pleasure.

Blogging for survival

Some things endure. Not because they are worthy. Because they are durable. Plastic bottles, bad movies, Speedos, Crocs, fear of others, Dictators, slavery, the smell of mouldy laundry, bad table manners, war and nuclear waste. You get the idea. It’s not a test of value. It’s an experiment in durability. Logic tells me then that some very valuable things have been lost over time, and some real shit has remained. Just saying.

I would like to survive. Even prosper and live a long and wonderful life. The odds? I’m not made of plastic, nor do I have aspirations for a Dictatorship. Not currently anyhow. I may have to add either some luck or some grunt into my chances of survival. For me to prosper I need to maintain my freedom. I also need to increase the chances for others to maintain theirs. So they can also enjoy wearing Speedos and seeing the world decimated by wars of attrition.

There must be a tipping point. When enough energy propels a thing into immortality. How much energy would this be? How much energy would it take to save the Warrup Forest? Or even one species that lived within its safe and loving ecosystem? How much energy would it take to free one single person from immigration detention? Just how much love to remake this world? Just how much grunt for this odyssey?

I think I’m going to have to pitch in. It’s not that the Dalai Lama isn’t fabulous. He is. I just feel I could add a bit of saffron minded support. I really love the colour. It’s the colour of the Australian outback. It’s the colour of ochre. It’s the colour of that fake orange cordial Mum used to let us have as a treat. You know the one that stains your mouth for 3 days? It’s the colour of energy.

It’s not lost on me that it’s New Years Eve. People can be real dicks about this time. Me included. There is little I can do in the way of a cure. I’m looking more at prevention here. So an undertaking is at hand. An energetic blood brotherhood, cross your heart type 99th hour promise. Blogging for survival. Commitment to stain my tongue, my heart and my world with my hope. That what survives 2013 isn’t just the shit.

Loving me crazy

After consulting my cat regarding three existential conundrums in the space of one day an idea of myself begins to unfurl. Persistent. Growing. Spreading gossamer wings and then hardening feathers for flight. Nameless but not shapeless.

Standing on the platform, waiting for the last train home, I scan my fellow travelers. To the left and to the right. Uniform black and grey merge with the dusky light of the night time tunnel abyss. I feel the prickle again. A small bead of sweaty knowing inside my neon robe.

It’s Mercury retrograde. The alma mater of fuck ups. So when computers crash and logic fails, it is with impeccable timing I say. What other explanation could there be? I ask. Rhetorically. To the thick air of skeptical indulgence.

The palm reader numerologist astrologer on the street in Yangon is unequivocal. I meet his steady gaze, slow blink dueling in the Burmese midday heat. Your lucky colour is colourful and you must not wear black. I have to steady myself. Wanting to teleport back to my bedroom closet. Scanning with my minds eye the entire contents of my wardrobe. OK. There is the requisite black dress, jacket and pants. The wardrobe of the dead and grieving for days when I must behave. Be invisible. Draw into the shadows. Maybe I keep those. For safety. For armour. For self defense.

Off and on. On and off. I’m having this conversation about crazy. Like I’m a theme park exhibit, an art installation. Life isn’t neutral. Living is a big and colourful thing to do. And brave. And beautiful. I’m talking it up to myself. Seriously. Can you be taken seriously? Calling on the deities, pulling a finger at the planets and not having a single, sensible thing to wear?  The black dress goes but the black jacket and pants stay. I wonder if I should paint the house beige and start to talk about Fifty Shades of Grey with my hairdresser. I can do serious.

Then I’m walking…..thinking about a black briefcase I might buy. And I see them. Oh no! Look away. Step back from the window. My friend says, ‘you’re loitering’ and I realise I’m staring. Standing close. Breathing heavy. Staring. Decidedly dodgy. Staring. In front of a sex shop.

It’s the Burmese palm readers influence. I want to feel lucky. All over. Particularly on my legs. I want to walk lucky. I want to dance lucky. I want to do the lucky Salsa. The colourful kind. Next I am inside the shop. My friends stand as sentinels either side of me so my gaze won’t drift. They shuffle me to the appropriate rack, guard me while I pay for my purchase and then shuffle me back onto the street. It sits inside my bag. During the evening I hear the crinkle of the cellophane wrapper. Lucky is calling to me. It’s a fabulous evening. I’m almost distracted by the great company and excellent theatre. On the train home I hear the crinkle again. L.U.C.K.Y.

It’s a cold Sunday morning. I’m lying in bed thinking about the day ahead. Conversations to have, meals to prepare, papers to read, cats to consult. I feel pretty excited. Today I drink champagne for breakfast and again for lunch and tea. I spend the day weaving in and out of my happiness. It’s partly the alcohol. Each encounter is prefaced by a flourish of my rainbow clad legs, designed for seduction, repurposed for happiness.

At one point in the day someone looks earnestly at me as I parade them for the hundredth time. And in genuine awe they say ‘You are so lucky’.

Yep, that’s me………L.U.C.K.Y.

Post Navigation