Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
My dearly beloved reader,
i write again in a fit of despair. It has, i am aware, been many months since A Tale from Salpant, and now i return to my strange form of brain emptying antics, with a miserable and truely buggered heart.
Firstly the untimely dimise of daddypant hit me like a large daddy stealing machine. I wont go into details as i'm sure you understand, needless to say a horrific time for all and one which will take along time to come to terms with.
The second major life crap, however, i am able to talk about with free abundance.
Yes, my strangely inquisitive ones, tis true, the fairytale that was Sally and Ollie is over. Deceased, defunked, deflated etc etc....And so now my brief, fleeting, glimpse of true loving happiness can now rocoil back to the damp humble recess from once it came.
I am only just beginning to towel off after hoisting myself galently from my torrent of tears, when another wave of self doubt swoops in to knock me over board, kicking me in both the heart and head, as i tumble head over heels to the bottom of another wine bottle where i lie, like the preverbial tequilla worm, gibbering, missing, mourning.
The above paragraph, my well informed ones, has been the past month for me. A truly horrible time and one i hope never to revisit again, tho i am lovingly reassured that "you'll go thru plenty of these before the right one comes along...you're so young"....
Balls.
After testing my toes in the 'begging him on hands and knees to come back' waters, i decided to opt for the 'lets be friends' pool instead. After a few brief encounters at our local pub, swapping small talk and me remembering every single tiny detail of why i fell in love with him, i decided to ask him if he would come with me to scatter my dear daddys ashes. Of course he complied, and after a strangely calm afternoon spent at the Byron Bay lighthouse saying goodbye to daddy, and a rather cheap and cheerfull dinner that lacked taste but left the table clear for sintilating conversation, that got both our creative juices flowing, i felt sure that spending the entire night together could only be a good thing......?
Now, i hear you screaming obscenities at me now, but sadly the forward thinking, blog writing part of my brain had inexplicably turned to jelly at this point and obviously wasn't functioning too well. And so, as we snuggled up in bed together, just like the good ol' days, and as he reached over to click out the light, i swear i heard the faint crack of my heart breaking just that little bit more.
But now a happy note to end on......tho my life seems to have turned to bile, i have however moved into the quaintest, loveliest house right on the beach, with my own studio so that 'Sally by Sally, jewellery and curiosities', formerly 'Ollies Dolly', can flourish. I am surrounded by truely, understatedly, cool house mates, and i am within sneezing distance of work....hmm...not sure if thats a good thing or not! Oh well, its home for now and its great...(very tempted to end with something along the lines of; "shame Ollie doesn't want to be around to share it with me".....but i wont go there)
Till next time. X
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
poem i wrote on the train back to london heading for oz. For ollies daddy, Nick. x
The miss representation of a stereotype,
presuming the worst of the one who says 'like'.
An illness of sorts of a young generation,
confused by their verbs and illiteration.
"but, like, it isn't our fault" cry the simpering tots,
"we, like, learned it from rappers and dudes on the box".
As annoying to some as the noisiest eaters,
the giggly gigglers or the hair twirling twiddlers.
The blue collared boys who made it to Stowe,
to Oxford and Cambridge and Eaton they go,
to study their Shakespeare, Austin and Keats,
such vernacular variety they will never repeat.
Then the poor little buggers with bad education,
who stumble upon words that become revelations.
They pour over books and with gusto they write,
but still can't seem to shake that irreverent 'like'.
poem i wrote on train back to london before heading to oz. for mummy and daddy. x
The familiar sounds that make it my home,
my indelible nest, from where ever i roam.
To be able to tell whos coming up stairs,
encroaching in 1's or skipping up pairs.
8th step from the top has a tell tale squeak,
have to tread on the sides when at night time we'd creep.
The attic that acts as a time warp cocoon,
of photos and sketch books,
things dragged home from school.
Bad light fittings that once were a dazzling choice,
cassette tapes a filled with my buck toothed voice.
The heart wrenching moment as i pack up to leave,
that i realize what it is that my parents achieved.
To create a place for small offspring to grow,
to be safe and secure and always to know,
that what ever they do and where ever they roam,
this place will be there,
their indelible home.
Tuesday 13th october 2009 - Byron Bay
Here i sit, munching on almonds and drinking what i think may be contaminated water, in what can only be described at this point as Wwoofing hell.
Let me explain. After a short but satisfying holiday back to the greyish gloom they call England, we headed back to oz. London was lovely, staying with the infectiously insane Arabella (olivers stepmother) who always has a room, bed and chocolate biscuit cake with our name on it, ready as we swoop thru the door. My sisters wedding was wonderfully magical with plenty of old faces who came bearing tales of a younger version of said sibling and i persuading the local kiddy winks to swap explicably expensive toys, with our rather sad and bedraggled boot sale bargains, adding that the missing foot or wonky eye "added character and charm that cannot be bought". and of course not forgetting my old school chum Gemmas brilliantly brassy day of vow swapping, scotch eggs and a good ol knees up 'proper shropshire style' (said with deep country accent)
After scraping together just enough cash to perform, we hoped on a plane and jetted back to Byronshire.
After spending a hectic 3 days in Sydney trying to buy a van, we decided that 3 days is definitely not long enough. Alas, we did not back down but merely downgraded our expectations and decided to buy a station wagon (or 'shaggin wagon' as ollie so elliquently put it) instead. Upon purchasing our bright white fridge of a 1994 ford falcon station wagon, we packed up our worldly possessions and 'hauled ass' up the east coast eager to make it to our Wwoofing farm in 2 days time.
We then spent an amazing 2 days pottering along in the newly decorated and newly named wagon. As soon as we had gotten the beast home we had pounced upon 'Mr Australia '94' (the new name ingeniously conjured up from the number plate AU 94 MR) covering the seats with old curtains, sticking candles to the dashboard, coloured beads hung from the rear view mirror, attempting in a swift 5 mins to imitate the indian Dala dala, a success i felt.
So anyway after our glorious journey we hit Byron. Our town, our home.
Oh how good it felt to be back.
We grinned at each other as we sailed into town in our barge of a vehicle and headed straight for the beach. We met up with Renate, a good friend of ours who was also suitably pleased that we had returned with tales of weddings, exhibitions and new ideas for the next creative explosion.
We hot footed it over to 'Fundies' for freshly squeezed fruit juices with spiralina and a wheat grass shot to follow, the 'welcome home' of byron bay.
We dicided we should probably get going and head out of town up into the hills to our wwoofing farm where we would be spending the next 2 weeks. Woofing, or 'willing workers on organic farms' was an idea sold to us by 2 friends of ours who have been 'wwoofers' for the past year and loved it. Working thier way around australia spending very little money, and learning in the process how to farm and become self sufficient, an idea that my beloved boy and i are very much a fan of. i contacted one of these farms that sounded like a paradise for those wanting to learn.
oh how deceptive a website can be......
We arrived via, what i presume, was trying to disguise itslef as a road...badly. Car parked safely teetering on the edge of a crumbling crevice, we jumped out and made our way up to the main house, a beautifull old building built in the 1900's and apparently was one of the first settlers houses to be built. Children were running about giggling and screaming while thier parents sat happily smoking and chatting about that day spent planting new crops, weeding and what should be done tomorrow. An out door kitchen built into the trees showed signs of freshly baked bread, avocados plucked from the branch that day and half chopped herbs waiting to be kneaded or sprinkled, like the magic ingredient into some culinary potion. We introduced ourselves to Michael and his wife, and took a seat on the bench next to them as they explained how the farm works. A little overwhelmed but excited we followed them past the second beautifully bedraggled wooden house, down the field, past the compost toilet (a story for another day) to The Dome which is where we would be staying. The Dome is a building that is indescribable. The closest i can get is comparing it to some sort of 1970's shrine/ cult meeting hall, crossed with a wooden circus tent. The kind of place you can imagine mass suicides occuring. It is completely empty with a rope trapese hanging right in the middle from its glass domed roof. 3 bedrooms come off this main room that are equally as wierd. The room we plumped for has a double bed attatched to the wall and also wooden bunk beds, of which i live in fear of one day being told, are to be occupied by two new 'wwoofers' creating the mother of all awkward situations which may end in mass suicide.
Outside is an enornous fire surrounded by old car seats dug into the dirt, and about 1000 empty beer bottles rolling around in the dust. i must also tell you that while we are seeing this for the first time hardcore drum and bass music is blasting out of a laptop in the middle of the hall like room, and as we head out to the fire area we find two very unwashed guys and a girl slumped in the racing bucket seats, each smoking a rather enormous joint, beer in hand, and looking like they have just crawled out from under a stone. It took me a moment to realise that they were in actual fact the workers of this permaculture paradise, and not the residents.
I took a deep breath, swallowed the enormous lump of judgemental juice that filled me to my core, and plopped down in the seat next to the said ferrals, chirping 'Hi im sally nice to meet you". i was peered at by 3 beady sets of dilated pupils, looked up and down several times before one of the creatures offered me his mud caked paw to shake replying, "Joel."
After the longest 10 minutes of my life watching my beloved boy try to conjure up some sort of common ground with these crusty cretins, i suggested we retrieve our belongings from the car and unpack. Once safely in our hidey hole i ceremonially and predicatably burst into tears wailing "i dont want to be here" while my boy in a desperate bit to hush his gibbering girlie, ran about creating make shift curtains, whisking away dirty cups and finally announcing 'there much better...see".
After a night on our surprisingly comfy bed, listening to the rats in the wall completeing their mini marathons we woke at 6am an hour before work. Ollie kindly escorted and held my hand thru my first compost toilet experience which not surprisingly involved more tears and much squealing. we dressed, (without a shower) brushed teeth, and made our way to the communal kitchen ready to be informed of our impeding doom of work that day. After everyone had arrived and had at least two cups of tea with powdered milk, it was decided that ollie and i, along with 2 of the ferrals would be weeding the garlic paddock. a destinct groan from the ruffians told us this was not going to be glamourus. We made our way to the field and plonked ourselves down on upturned buckets, in between the rows of fat green sprouts and began "pulling out everything that isnt garlic".
"this is easy!" i thought, "i even kind of like this", but 5 hours later with red raw hands, horse flies permanently attached to every inch of bare skin, sun burnt and faint, i was about ready to leave.
And this is where you find me now dear readers, my only saviour has been an icey cold swim in the creek with my boy to cheer me up, and sooth my aching body. and so i bid you a deu as i lie down ready to sleep and dream of toilet paper, thermostatic showers and rat free walls.
x
Monday, September 14, 2009
my lovely sister finally got married to her man on saturday (yay!) here is the poem that i wrote for the day...blog of all events to follow soon....
He sat next to her, they met on a train,
that hustled and bustled through hammering rain.
They travelled together, through turbulent weather,
to big school in Wales,
to draw and drink ales.
The quaint little house on a terrible street,
was home to the two, for a year and a week.
We painted the artex and covered the cracks,
and transformed the terrace to palace, from shack.
He bought her a hamster, he was two tones of grey,
was kept in a sock drawer until her birthday.
A holiday was planned in a damp caravan,
“To Barmouth we’ll run for a few nights of fun.”
With ‘Richard the sand elf’, and ‘Sally the brave’,
decided to rebel and pierce her navel.
Mummy was shocked, and Daddy just laughed,
Kate took photos, and out Sally passed.
After bumbling home in the old CV6,
that struggled up hills, and tripped over sticks.
With the grace and finesse of a fine ballerina,
Richard ran back to his yellow Cortina.
He patched up ‘old yeller’, with the finest wall filler,
that crumbled away as the metal got thinner.
Kate moved down south, to live in a Bath,
that ran hold and cold as the weeks slowly passed.
With out her boy, her friend, and her lover,
the water grew cold, she needed her plumber.
He couldn’t resist her, and from London he flew,
to be with his girly who came from the Shrew.
They brought a small house in Bailbrook Lane,
with a hairpin corner to challenge the brave.
They ripped put the 3 bar, and tiled the floor,
restored it to greatness, but still there came more….
The garden on a shoe string, that soon became fave,
the best blog around from the money they saved.
I can’t see them leaving their beautiful home,
with squirrels abundant, and black dial up phone.
With Stella the cat on the window sill perched,
to gaze down the road, to the rusted tin church.
After 10 years together, 10 years since that train,
that hustled and bustled through hammering rain,
we all come together to cheer and elate,
the wonderful wedding of Richard and Kate.
x
He sat next to her, they met on a train,
that hustled and bustled through hammering rain.
They travelled together, through turbulent weather,
to big school in Wales,
to draw and drink ales.
The quaint little house on a terrible street,
was home to the two, for a year and a week.
We painted the artex and covered the cracks,
and transformed the terrace to palace, from shack.
He bought her a hamster, he was two tones of grey,
was kept in a sock drawer until her birthday.
A holiday was planned in a damp caravan,
“To Barmouth we’ll run for a few nights of fun.”
With ‘Richard the sand elf’, and ‘Sally the brave’,
decided to rebel and pierce her navel.
Mummy was shocked, and Daddy just laughed,
Kate took photos, and out Sally passed.
After bumbling home in the old CV6,
that struggled up hills, and tripped over sticks.
With the grace and finesse of a fine ballerina,
Richard ran back to his yellow Cortina.
He patched up ‘old yeller’, with the finest wall filler,
that crumbled away as the metal got thinner.
Kate moved down south, to live in a Bath,
that ran hold and cold as the weeks slowly passed.
With out her boy, her friend, and her lover,
the water grew cold, she needed her plumber.
He couldn’t resist her, and from London he flew,
to be with his girly who came from the Shrew.
They brought a small house in Bailbrook Lane,
with a hairpin corner to challenge the brave.
They ripped put the 3 bar, and tiled the floor,
restored it to greatness, but still there came more….
The garden on a shoe string, that soon became fave,
the best blog around from the money they saved.
I can’t see them leaving their beautiful home,
with squirrels abundant, and black dial up phone.
With Stella the cat on the window sill perched,
to gaze down the road, to the rusted tin church.
After 10 years together, 10 years since that train,
that hustled and bustled through hammering rain,
we all come together to cheer and elate,
the wonderful wedding of Richard and Kate.
x
monday 14th september
new poem, sorry its been too long...
The boy of my dreams, his ridiculous feet,
the way he smells and the things that he eats.
All of the things that I truly despise,
become things that I love with rose tinted eyes.
He forgets to listen as I rabbit on in style,
when asked when and where, just his vague little smile,
just a shrug and a “hmm?” as he rejoins the room,
not the faintest idea of what and of whom.
In large groups of people he becomes at home,
cracking 2 year old jokes, that make people groan.
He skis like a dream, and can ping pong the best
he can bowl, he can skate not to mention the rest.
Pulls my ears in public and pinches my bum,
the bits that I hate his main source of fun.
Steals my showers, my toothbrush, barges in when I pee,
stinks out the bathroom and blames it on me.
Of all of the things that get under my skin,
none are as bad as this number one thing,
tho I love him forever it has to be said,
I curse him like hell to find toenails in bed.
The boy of my dreams, his ridiculous feet,
the way he smells and the things that he eats.
All of the things that I truly despise,
become things that I love with rose tinted eyes.
new poem, sorry its been too long...
The boy of my dreams, his ridiculous feet,
the way he smells and the things that he eats.
All of the things that I truly despise,
become things that I love with rose tinted eyes.
He forgets to listen as I rabbit on in style,
when asked when and where, just his vague little smile,
just a shrug and a “hmm?” as he rejoins the room,
not the faintest idea of what and of whom.
In large groups of people he becomes at home,
cracking 2 year old jokes, that make people groan.
He skis like a dream, and can ping pong the best
he can bowl, he can skate not to mention the rest.
Pulls my ears in public and pinches my bum,
the bits that I hate his main source of fun.
Steals my showers, my toothbrush, barges in when I pee,
stinks out the bathroom and blames it on me.
Of all of the things that get under my skin,
none are as bad as this number one thing,
tho I love him forever it has to be said,
I curse him like hell to find toenails in bed.
The boy of my dreams, his ridiculous feet,
the way he smells and the things that he eats.
All of the things that I truly despise,
become things that I love with rose tinted eyes.
backdated blog
Friday 13th June – Byron Bay.
I am afraid there is no excuse for my lack of attention paid dans la blog.
Not much has happened recently, well nothing interesting, funny or downright weird enough to write about.
Tho you are now reading The Tales of Gluten Free Salpant. I became totally fed up of post muesli belly bloat, so decided join the rest of the population of byron, and reduce my food cupboard by at least half, by removing all those nasty gluten ridden foods and a few secret harbourers too.
I have also returned to my beloved bikram yoga. I felt it was time to take up the 7 days for $20 offer, and return to the gloriously sweaty torture chamber that is the daily bikram yoga class. And needless to say I am loving every minute, the sick woman I am and have taken back to it, like a well greased duck to water.
I have now joined up for a month and have launched back into my old routine of attending class 5 times a week. 2 weeks in and I hurt like hell, the age old feeling that someone has booted me rather aggressively with a stiletto shoe in the middle of my spine…ah that old feeling, welcome back friend.
I am assured by Andrea my chirpy American teacher, that this is normal and will pass. Hmm…we shall see.
x
Friday 13th June – Byron Bay.
I am afraid there is no excuse for my lack of attention paid dans la blog.
Not much has happened recently, well nothing interesting, funny or downright weird enough to write about.
Tho you are now reading The Tales of Gluten Free Salpant. I became totally fed up of post muesli belly bloat, so decided join the rest of the population of byron, and reduce my food cupboard by at least half, by removing all those nasty gluten ridden foods and a few secret harbourers too.
I have also returned to my beloved bikram yoga. I felt it was time to take up the 7 days for $20 offer, and return to the gloriously sweaty torture chamber that is the daily bikram yoga class. And needless to say I am loving every minute, the sick woman I am and have taken back to it, like a well greased duck to water.
I have now joined up for a month and have launched back into my old routine of attending class 5 times a week. 2 weeks in and I hurt like hell, the age old feeling that someone has booted me rather aggressively with a stiletto shoe in the middle of my spine…ah that old feeling, welcome back friend.
I am assured by Andrea my chirpy American teacher, that this is normal and will pass. Hmm…we shall see.
x
backdated blog.
Sunday 24th may – Byron Bay
It had to happen at some point. My first hangover in 5 months.
I have just polished off my third piece of toast. The first was scrambled egg and tomato sauce which I managed to plan, prepare and carry all the way to our room before dropping it on the dusty yoga studio floor, then scooping it up with my hands, picking out a few bits of fluff, and scoffing the lot. Hangovers have no boundaries.
The second was the rather old school topping of banana, a simple but favoured choice and the third was the classic, my friend and yours, peanut butter and jam.
I woke up on the balcony trapped inside my beloved boys dressing gown. During the few hours I had slept, I had managed to entangle myself completely. The chord wrapped around my feet, wrists and tummy in an umbilical like fashion. After panicking slightly as I opened my eyes to see a wall of woollen gown encasing my body like some alcoholic butterfly in her cognac cocoon, I emerged and glanced down to find my self still dressed, tho not so fancy now, in grey leggings with a black and red lace swim suit over the top. Flash backs from the night before hit me like a wet fish. The dancing, the posing, the lecherous boys dressed as Hugh Heffner in dressing gowns and garish boxer shorts, the B grade bimbos dressed as play boy bunnies in stilettos and bowties, and me and Rachael as the outcast and renegade, Yoga Bunnies in our slapdash outfits and drawn on whiskers….there was alcohol, there was definatly alcohol that’s for sure…
I staggered into our bedroom and crawled into bed with my beloved bunny, who slept soundly whilst emitting bilious breaths of sour milk, home brew and cigarettes. He cuddled up and muttered “what time is it?” knowing full well he had to work as the infamous ‘dish pig’ by 9am. “7.30” I slurred back as my eyes dropped shut, my head hit the pillow, and my stomach lurched for the 4th time that morning.
I awoke again sometime later as the sunlight glinted thru the blind in a vein attempt to remind us that it was infact day time. I rolled over and dared to sneak a peek at the time, trying not to wake my still snoozing bush baby who was attached like a small chimp to my back. He must have felt my wriggling as his eyes snapped open “oh my god what time is it Sal?!” “Relax, its 9.20” “Oh Shit im supposed to be there at 9!” I have never seen anyone leap so gracefully yet so drunkenly out of bed. He shoved on clothes of some description, and dashed out of the door still reeking of debauchery after a quick peck on the cheek “see you later baby” I faintly heard, as I giggled and snuggled down for some more glorious bedtime safe in the knowledge that my only plans for the day were to make it thru in 1 piece.
I spent the rest of my day on the veranda watching movies, and drinking numerous jugs of Rooboos tea with too much honey. The highlight of my day had to be making it to the shower at 4.30pm to scrub my battered, and dance abused body and hair, rendering me just fresh enough to don a faded purple shirt of ollies, some clean underwear, and crawl back into my pit of chick flick films and muesli to await my hard working man who returned to my bedside with fresh falafels, ginger beer and scones.
True love I am sure.
x
Sunday 24th may – Byron Bay
It had to happen at some point. My first hangover in 5 months.
I have just polished off my third piece of toast. The first was scrambled egg and tomato sauce which I managed to plan, prepare and carry all the way to our room before dropping it on the dusty yoga studio floor, then scooping it up with my hands, picking out a few bits of fluff, and scoffing the lot. Hangovers have no boundaries.
The second was the rather old school topping of banana, a simple but favoured choice and the third was the classic, my friend and yours, peanut butter and jam.
I woke up on the balcony trapped inside my beloved boys dressing gown. During the few hours I had slept, I had managed to entangle myself completely. The chord wrapped around my feet, wrists and tummy in an umbilical like fashion. After panicking slightly as I opened my eyes to see a wall of woollen gown encasing my body like some alcoholic butterfly in her cognac cocoon, I emerged and glanced down to find my self still dressed, tho not so fancy now, in grey leggings with a black and red lace swim suit over the top. Flash backs from the night before hit me like a wet fish. The dancing, the posing, the lecherous boys dressed as Hugh Heffner in dressing gowns and garish boxer shorts, the B grade bimbos dressed as play boy bunnies in stilettos and bowties, and me and Rachael as the outcast and renegade, Yoga Bunnies in our slapdash outfits and drawn on whiskers….there was alcohol, there was definatly alcohol that’s for sure…
I staggered into our bedroom and crawled into bed with my beloved bunny, who slept soundly whilst emitting bilious breaths of sour milk, home brew and cigarettes. He cuddled up and muttered “what time is it?” knowing full well he had to work as the infamous ‘dish pig’ by 9am. “7.30” I slurred back as my eyes dropped shut, my head hit the pillow, and my stomach lurched for the 4th time that morning.
I awoke again sometime later as the sunlight glinted thru the blind in a vein attempt to remind us that it was infact day time. I rolled over and dared to sneak a peek at the time, trying not to wake my still snoozing bush baby who was attached like a small chimp to my back. He must have felt my wriggling as his eyes snapped open “oh my god what time is it Sal?!” “Relax, its 9.20” “Oh Shit im supposed to be there at 9!” I have never seen anyone leap so gracefully yet so drunkenly out of bed. He shoved on clothes of some description, and dashed out of the door still reeking of debauchery after a quick peck on the cheek “see you later baby” I faintly heard, as I giggled and snuggled down for some more glorious bedtime safe in the knowledge that my only plans for the day were to make it thru in 1 piece.
I spent the rest of my day on the veranda watching movies, and drinking numerous jugs of Rooboos tea with too much honey. The highlight of my day had to be making it to the shower at 4.30pm to scrub my battered, and dance abused body and hair, rendering me just fresh enough to don a faded purple shirt of ollies, some clean underwear, and crawl back into my pit of chick flick films and muesli to await my hard working man who returned to my bedside with fresh falafels, ginger beer and scones.
True love I am sure.
x
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Saturday 16th May – Byron Bay.
I awoke this morning after a nourishing nights sleep. One of the many perks of sharing a bed with another human bean is the shared body heat, meaning you can manage to snooze away, toastily oblivious to the arctic conditions whipping thru the room. My beloved boy and I seem to have developed this slightly odd habit of intertwining our limbs throughout the night, so that we wake up completely bound together in some sleepy time pretzel formation, face to face, but comfy and warm as monkeys, leaving you with the age old conundrum of who’s going to make the first move and burst the bedtime bubble.
My plan for this AM, was to hot foot it down the road to blast thru a quick ashtanga class with Laura, Sams replacement while he floats around India, on a cloud of incense, pranayama and the remnants of Delhi belly I suspect. My new found love of my previous torture, has to do somewhat with the fact that I have finally mastered the jump back. Oh yes dear ones, I can now, finally, fling myself, somewhat gracefully from Uttanasana to Kumbakasana with a style and panache all of my own, thus bestowing upon me a new found sense of confidence as I ceremonially remove my yogic stabilisers.
Alas, twas not to be. The reasons being:
1.) During all jump backs in class yesterday, I must have finally stimulated my enthusiasm gland or something, as I spent the rest of the day showing anyone who would stand still long enough my new party trick. This meant that upon attempting to leap energetically from my pit, I was hit slap bang in the abdominals with the karmic sledgehammer, followed by “ah, ah, ah, ah, ah” as I instantly realised and regretted my foolishness, and tried to return supine with out tensing a single shredded muscle.
2.) Upon opening the fridge, discovering a distinct lack of Soya milk and yoghurt for my fruit salad, and drawing the ever increasingly short straw, I made my way out of the house to ‘go fetch’. Yawning widely and attempting to scrape my greasy mop back into some sort of ‘doo’, as I picked my way thru the undergrowth of our front yard to collect my trusty 10 speed, only to find….what the f*%$! “OLLIE!!! MY BIKES GONE!”
Yes ladies and jellyspoons, it is true. For the second time in a month some cretin has taken it upon themselves to rid me of my adopted cycle in the middle of the night. I held back the tears, stifling them with a small yelp as I spotted the smashed combination lock next to my parking tree, (of course I instantly collected up the pieces to be turned into some decorative neckpiece later, but I digress…)
“I just don’t get it, why do they always take mine and not yours. Mines a shit bike!” I whined into my beloved boys shoulder as he did the thing he does best during these times of distress, he gave me a huge cuddle and offered me his bike, mainly because he was hungry and wanted me to get to the shop quick time.
After a lengthy autopsy of the nights events over breakfast and Charlie, the temporary landlord, lending me a cobweb covered mountain bike that had been adapted at some point, to fit a dwarf with a handbag, as the seat was 6 inches too low and it had a crappy basket wired to the front that threw the steering wildly off, adding an element of “steer or die” to the situation, we made our way down the road to, our local, Tallows beach to drown our sorrows, literally.
Just as I was yanking the hopelessly rusted handlebars to the left to avoid my untimely demise for the third time, I heard Ollie yell “Sal, hold up, I found something for you.”
I swerved to a stop beside my lover who had spotted, amongst a pile of rubbish left on the pavement….a bicycle! It was a rather funky little BMX that had obviously been left in a garage and forgotten about. We heaved it out to get a better look.
“hmm… bit tatty, needs a new tire but otherwise its in pretty good nick” confirmed my hero. “It would be perfect for you baby, you’d look so cool cruising round on that!”
Just as I was giving it a test run and checking out how much of my underwear was on show as my knees ended up somewhere around my ears as I pedalled, a lady came out of the house, presumably the owner, tho she didn’t look like a BMX trickster to me.
“Go ahead, take it.” she said.
I couldn’t believe my luck, karmas a funny old thing aint it?.
I wheeled it home to await its new shoe and decided that it definatly needs to painted electric blue with large flowers, to make it truly mine, and hopefully deter any future stealing.
I spent the rest of the morning with Oliver teaching me to boogie board. A highly terrifying if slightly enjoyable experience that left me with a nasty stinging rash on my tummy, what, im told, the kids these refer to as ‘hose nose’, and a huge sandy grin on my face.
x
I awoke this morning after a nourishing nights sleep. One of the many perks of sharing a bed with another human bean is the shared body heat, meaning you can manage to snooze away, toastily oblivious to the arctic conditions whipping thru the room. My beloved boy and I seem to have developed this slightly odd habit of intertwining our limbs throughout the night, so that we wake up completely bound together in some sleepy time pretzel formation, face to face, but comfy and warm as monkeys, leaving you with the age old conundrum of who’s going to make the first move and burst the bedtime bubble.
My plan for this AM, was to hot foot it down the road to blast thru a quick ashtanga class with Laura, Sams replacement while he floats around India, on a cloud of incense, pranayama and the remnants of Delhi belly I suspect. My new found love of my previous torture, has to do somewhat with the fact that I have finally mastered the jump back. Oh yes dear ones, I can now, finally, fling myself, somewhat gracefully from Uttanasana to Kumbakasana with a style and panache all of my own, thus bestowing upon me a new found sense of confidence as I ceremonially remove my yogic stabilisers.
Alas, twas not to be. The reasons being:
1.) During all jump backs in class yesterday, I must have finally stimulated my enthusiasm gland or something, as I spent the rest of the day showing anyone who would stand still long enough my new party trick. This meant that upon attempting to leap energetically from my pit, I was hit slap bang in the abdominals with the karmic sledgehammer, followed by “ah, ah, ah, ah, ah” as I instantly realised and regretted my foolishness, and tried to return supine with out tensing a single shredded muscle.
2.) Upon opening the fridge, discovering a distinct lack of Soya milk and yoghurt for my fruit salad, and drawing the ever increasingly short straw, I made my way out of the house to ‘go fetch’. Yawning widely and attempting to scrape my greasy mop back into some sort of ‘doo’, as I picked my way thru the undergrowth of our front yard to collect my trusty 10 speed, only to find….what the f*%$! “OLLIE!!! MY BIKES GONE!”
Yes ladies and jellyspoons, it is true. For the second time in a month some cretin has taken it upon themselves to rid me of my adopted cycle in the middle of the night. I held back the tears, stifling them with a small yelp as I spotted the smashed combination lock next to my parking tree, (of course I instantly collected up the pieces to be turned into some decorative neckpiece later, but I digress…)
“I just don’t get it, why do they always take mine and not yours. Mines a shit bike!” I whined into my beloved boys shoulder as he did the thing he does best during these times of distress, he gave me a huge cuddle and offered me his bike, mainly because he was hungry and wanted me to get to the shop quick time.
After a lengthy autopsy of the nights events over breakfast and Charlie, the temporary landlord, lending me a cobweb covered mountain bike that had been adapted at some point, to fit a dwarf with a handbag, as the seat was 6 inches too low and it had a crappy basket wired to the front that threw the steering wildly off, adding an element of “steer or die” to the situation, we made our way down the road to, our local, Tallows beach to drown our sorrows, literally.
Just as I was yanking the hopelessly rusted handlebars to the left to avoid my untimely demise for the third time, I heard Ollie yell “Sal, hold up, I found something for you.”
I swerved to a stop beside my lover who had spotted, amongst a pile of rubbish left on the pavement….a bicycle! It was a rather funky little BMX that had obviously been left in a garage and forgotten about. We heaved it out to get a better look.
“hmm… bit tatty, needs a new tire but otherwise its in pretty good nick” confirmed my hero. “It would be perfect for you baby, you’d look so cool cruising round on that!”
Just as I was giving it a test run and checking out how much of my underwear was on show as my knees ended up somewhere around my ears as I pedalled, a lady came out of the house, presumably the owner, tho she didn’t look like a BMX trickster to me.
“Go ahead, take it.” she said.
I couldn’t believe my luck, karmas a funny old thing aint it?.
I wheeled it home to await its new shoe and decided that it definatly needs to painted electric blue with large flowers, to make it truly mine, and hopefully deter any future stealing.
I spent the rest of the morning with Oliver teaching me to boogie board. A highly terrifying if slightly enjoyable experience that left me with a nasty stinging rash on my tummy, what, im told, the kids these refer to as ‘hose nose’, and a huge sandy grin on my face.
x
Friday 15th may – Byron Bay.
“I’ll be there in 10 darling…oh and order me the schnitzel!” she shrieked down the line before promptly hanging up on me. I hung up the phone and placed the order mentally so as not to forget.
That was the voice of Honu, the 64yr old Buddhist nun who I have befriended and been ‘hanging out’ with for the past 2 weeks.
She is infamous on the Byron social scene and refers to herself as an ‘action nun’ who prefers to make her mark on the community rather than simply prey for it, choosing to spend her early mornings at the local farmers market chatting up the young farmers rather than preying to the divine. There for, attempting to have a simple brunch with her is how I would imagine tea with mother Teresa. A constant stream of individuals “not wanting to interrupt” but doing so anyway, crouching by her side to whisper a word of thanks, or wanting to hold her hand, all while I sit across from her trying not to slurp my banana smoothie too loudly.
Over our lunch we discussed the project at hand.
Together we are attempting to start and run the first charity in Byron bay to feed the homeless and anyone who has a rumbly in their tumbly and no money to feed it, from the left over foods from supermarkets and donations from people that would other wise go in the bin and therefore, to waste.
An incredibly worth while cause in my book, and seeing as I have a distinct lack of work at the moment I am ploughing most of my time into helping out and have become ‘Honus second in command’ not the catchiest title I admit but one I am somehow proud to lavish upon the ears of anyone who will listen as it seems to have some sort of kudos within the realms of the community centre. Somewhat similar to being Madonna’s PA I like to think.
Along with such topics as ‘do backpackers deserve free goods?’ and ‘what to do if a violent hobo attacks you’, we also stumbled upon the topics of Ayer Vedic and macrobiotic eating. I know the basics of both of these rather lengthy subjects but have never really put them into practice other than what little food I consumed at yoga camp, which I am informed, was strictly Ayer Vedic. Honu regaled me with tales of how she came back from India ‘fat as a pig’ and thus underwent 2 years of strict Ayer Vedic eating, before announcing that she was officially ‘over it’ and threw herself in macro biotic eating before finally deciding she had had enough of it all and has since returned to her one true culinary love. Chicken schnitzel and chips followed by the odd sneaky muffin and a cappuccino to wash it down.
I love this woman.
As well as hanging out with religious royalty and feeding the local bums, I have been putting my yoga teaching in practice finally and running my own classes. They are private/miniature classes that I am running from my very own studio. My beloved boy convinced me to hold out for a little while longer in ‘the house that crack built’ until our lizard of a landlord had buggered off to Thailand to become a sex tourist. As soon as he had slithered away we skipped yogically into the enormous room and after completing a few celebratory laps we set about dividng it in half with bed sheets to create our long awaited love nest/yoga studio complete with altar, candles, incense and my precious teaching certificates pride of place for all to see.
In my very first week of opening mine studio aptly named ‘Honey House Yoga’ by Adam and Ollie in honour of the amount of the sickly sweet substance I manage to consume weekly, I have taught virtually every day. My classes are admittedly very small as my room can only accommodate 2 students (3 at a push) at a time, plus myself, tho I feel this is a good thing as they get a lot more personal instruction and we get to have a bit of a giggle too, plus they get to hang around for a cup of chai après class, on my rather voluptuous veranda whilst playing spot the possum in the enormous tree in our front garden that encroaches on our dear dwelling a little more each day.
x
“I’ll be there in 10 darling…oh and order me the schnitzel!” she shrieked down the line before promptly hanging up on me. I hung up the phone and placed the order mentally so as not to forget.
That was the voice of Honu, the 64yr old Buddhist nun who I have befriended and been ‘hanging out’ with for the past 2 weeks.
She is infamous on the Byron social scene and refers to herself as an ‘action nun’ who prefers to make her mark on the community rather than simply prey for it, choosing to spend her early mornings at the local farmers market chatting up the young farmers rather than preying to the divine. There for, attempting to have a simple brunch with her is how I would imagine tea with mother Teresa. A constant stream of individuals “not wanting to interrupt” but doing so anyway, crouching by her side to whisper a word of thanks, or wanting to hold her hand, all while I sit across from her trying not to slurp my banana smoothie too loudly.
Over our lunch we discussed the project at hand.
Together we are attempting to start and run the first charity in Byron bay to feed the homeless and anyone who has a rumbly in their tumbly and no money to feed it, from the left over foods from supermarkets and donations from people that would other wise go in the bin and therefore, to waste.
An incredibly worth while cause in my book, and seeing as I have a distinct lack of work at the moment I am ploughing most of my time into helping out and have become ‘Honus second in command’ not the catchiest title I admit but one I am somehow proud to lavish upon the ears of anyone who will listen as it seems to have some sort of kudos within the realms of the community centre. Somewhat similar to being Madonna’s PA I like to think.
Along with such topics as ‘do backpackers deserve free goods?’ and ‘what to do if a violent hobo attacks you’, we also stumbled upon the topics of Ayer Vedic and macrobiotic eating. I know the basics of both of these rather lengthy subjects but have never really put them into practice other than what little food I consumed at yoga camp, which I am informed, was strictly Ayer Vedic. Honu regaled me with tales of how she came back from India ‘fat as a pig’ and thus underwent 2 years of strict Ayer Vedic eating, before announcing that she was officially ‘over it’ and threw herself in macro biotic eating before finally deciding she had had enough of it all and has since returned to her one true culinary love. Chicken schnitzel and chips followed by the odd sneaky muffin and a cappuccino to wash it down.
I love this woman.
As well as hanging out with religious royalty and feeding the local bums, I have been putting my yoga teaching in practice finally and running my own classes. They are private/miniature classes that I am running from my very own studio. My beloved boy convinced me to hold out for a little while longer in ‘the house that crack built’ until our lizard of a landlord had buggered off to Thailand to become a sex tourist. As soon as he had slithered away we skipped yogically into the enormous room and after completing a few celebratory laps we set about dividng it in half with bed sheets to create our long awaited love nest/yoga studio complete with altar, candles, incense and my precious teaching certificates pride of place for all to see.
In my very first week of opening mine studio aptly named ‘Honey House Yoga’ by Adam and Ollie in honour of the amount of the sickly sweet substance I manage to consume weekly, I have taught virtually every day. My classes are admittedly very small as my room can only accommodate 2 students (3 at a push) at a time, plus myself, tho I feel this is a good thing as they get a lot more personal instruction and we get to have a bit of a giggle too, plus they get to hang around for a cup of chai après class, on my rather voluptuous veranda whilst playing spot the possum in the enormous tree in our front garden that encroaches on our dear dwelling a little more each day.
x
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Sunday 10th May – Byron Bay.
Spoke to my parentals this morning, tho I did manage to get the time completely wrong which meant a very sleepy daddy on the other end of the line reminding me sweetly that it was infact midnight in springy time England. I offered to call them back in the morning but my dearest daddy insisted that it was fine for me to be calling when the rest of the united kingdom were tucked up in sleepy time, and urged me to tell him all the latest news, which I am sad to report, was a little depressing.
After at least half and hour of filling papa in on my latest unemployment ventures, and giggling at my most unfortunate situation as only my daddy and I can, he passed the phone over to mother.
I must admit that upon hearing my mummys voice asking me sleepily how everything was going, I immediately found myself choking back a huge lump of homesickness and tears, rendering me unable to answer for a minute or two.
Somehow with just a magical word or two she manages to draw every last morsel of tangled truth out of me, even tho I try my hardest to keep it locked down inside, I find myself verbally vomiting my true feelings about any situation without a second thought. A handy, if not slightly annoying, talent that she has around me and one that I hope to bug the fruits of my loins with one day too.
So I told her all about my frustrations of the joblessness of Byron bay, and my sudden and shocking lack of inspiration and motivation that was, only a week or two ago, a fountain of energy and enthusiasm, that had me oozing a certain euphoria that I felt I could easily live on for ever, laughing at those who choose to drink and take drugs. Yet now I find my self sitting here eyeing up my beloved boys pouch of tobacco, reaching for yet another cup of caffeine filled chai, and wandering if I might someday have to change the name of my unsightly tome to ‘The Demise of Salpant’.
A change that has rendered me feeling lost, hopeless and I hate to use the word depressed as I feel it is ‘oh so overused’, yet my mental thesaurus that is usually lying back with gay abandon, its pages flopped open like some spaghetti western strumpet, ready to be thumbed thru at any given moment to stumble upon an underused and utterly brilliant word, to describe, explain and analyse my marvellous monkey mind, has decided to pack up its pages and remain firmly shut until the madness has stopped and normality has resumed.
Adam assures me that my cure is definatly surya namaskars at 9.30am with Sam, the ashtanga teacher who seems to be made of Play Doh, for another week. In my desperation to regain my yoga toned body that seems to have taken a fair old battering this week as I have given in to the full force of ‘womens time of the month’ and have had a whole 7 days of no exercise, and my sudden and unexpected cravings for chocolate have been granted for the one and only time in my life, I have agreed to return to the ashtanga ‘chamber’ for another week.
So dear devoted readers lets have fingers crossed that the next time I write, I will have untangled the ball of wool that resides in my head and calls itself my ‘mind’, have dropped at least 60 kilos, and taught a few pigs how to fly.
x
Spoke to my parentals this morning, tho I did manage to get the time completely wrong which meant a very sleepy daddy on the other end of the line reminding me sweetly that it was infact midnight in springy time England. I offered to call them back in the morning but my dearest daddy insisted that it was fine for me to be calling when the rest of the united kingdom were tucked up in sleepy time, and urged me to tell him all the latest news, which I am sad to report, was a little depressing.
After at least half and hour of filling papa in on my latest unemployment ventures, and giggling at my most unfortunate situation as only my daddy and I can, he passed the phone over to mother.
I must admit that upon hearing my mummys voice asking me sleepily how everything was going, I immediately found myself choking back a huge lump of homesickness and tears, rendering me unable to answer for a minute or two.
Somehow with just a magical word or two she manages to draw every last morsel of tangled truth out of me, even tho I try my hardest to keep it locked down inside, I find myself verbally vomiting my true feelings about any situation without a second thought. A handy, if not slightly annoying, talent that she has around me and one that I hope to bug the fruits of my loins with one day too.
So I told her all about my frustrations of the joblessness of Byron bay, and my sudden and shocking lack of inspiration and motivation that was, only a week or two ago, a fountain of energy and enthusiasm, that had me oozing a certain euphoria that I felt I could easily live on for ever, laughing at those who choose to drink and take drugs. Yet now I find my self sitting here eyeing up my beloved boys pouch of tobacco, reaching for yet another cup of caffeine filled chai, and wandering if I might someday have to change the name of my unsightly tome to ‘The Demise of Salpant’.
A change that has rendered me feeling lost, hopeless and I hate to use the word depressed as I feel it is ‘oh so overused’, yet my mental thesaurus that is usually lying back with gay abandon, its pages flopped open like some spaghetti western strumpet, ready to be thumbed thru at any given moment to stumble upon an underused and utterly brilliant word, to describe, explain and analyse my marvellous monkey mind, has decided to pack up its pages and remain firmly shut until the madness has stopped and normality has resumed.
Adam assures me that my cure is definatly surya namaskars at 9.30am with Sam, the ashtanga teacher who seems to be made of Play Doh, for another week. In my desperation to regain my yoga toned body that seems to have taken a fair old battering this week as I have given in to the full force of ‘womens time of the month’ and have had a whole 7 days of no exercise, and my sudden and unexpected cravings for chocolate have been granted for the one and only time in my life, I have agreed to return to the ashtanga ‘chamber’ for another week.
So dear devoted readers lets have fingers crossed that the next time I write, I will have untangled the ball of wool that resides in my head and calls itself my ‘mind’, have dropped at least 60 kilos, and taught a few pigs how to fly.
x
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday 27th April - Byron Bay.
I awoke this morn to the most brilliantly blue sky I have ever seen. The sun was definitely out and proud and, even at 9.15am, I could feel the potently pleasant rays beginning to gently microwave my back as I unlocked my bike from its tree.
It was a restless night for my beloved boy who could not stop his hamster wheel of a brain from churning over possible painting ideas, future bound to earn him his millions. He tossed and turned all night waking me from my ever increasingly deep slumber, now and then with a swift kick to the shin, or by getting up once again to open/close the window, fetch water from the kitchen, scrabble around trying to find more blankets, while I, having inherited my fathers sleeping patterns, simply rolled over, instantly found that sweet spot, and returned to dreaming. This one however, was not the best of dreams I admit. In it, I was teaching an incredibly amazing yoga class, swooshing around amongst my students, adjusting them subtly to the moans and groans of delight as they found new levels of flexibility and release, within their tension filled torsos. All was going well, until I launched into a demo of Padottanasana. Bending over, double and gazing thru my own legs, to notice I had no clothes on. Now, im not sure if I had always had no clothes on, or if they had inexplicably vamoosed at the sign of a highly embarrassing forward bend, but I distinctly remember desperately trying to explain my self to my perplexed, and slightly terrified beginners as I covered my modesty with a bolster.
I am not usually a great dreamer, but I think it may have had something to do with the copious amounts of bread and jam, me and my boy consumed whilst watching ‘2001: a space odyssey’ before bed. Never a good combination.
So this morning it was up at 8.30 for a quick shower, and a bite of an apple, before heading out the door to meet Adam at the bottom of the drive, ready to take me to the 5 days intensive ashtanga course he had signed me up for, on the aptly named Blackbutts road.
Do not be confused here dear reader, as just because I have recently completed my teacher training, spending each day for 7 weeks, waking up at 5am to physically abuse my body does not, in any way, prepare one for the perils of early morn ashtanga 5 days in a row. For there are no straps, blocks, bolsters or blankets to gently encourage the body to life, fooling it into a posture by making it slightly comfier. Here, it as all about getting your nose to your toes, full stop.
Sam, guides us thru the first series calmly and serenely, as he delicately flops himself into each of the posture with effortless grace and timing. Adam quickly follows suit, breathing like a true warrior as he kicks back into Kumbakasana, lowers down to Chaturanga Dandasana, flips over the toes to Urdvha Mukha Svanasana and pushes back into Adho Mukha Svanasana, still maintaining his perfectly audible Ujjayi breathing. In a bid to catch up I somehow forget all about my breathing, and suddenly, as I am about to collapse, realise I am holding my breath, a sin for any yogini. I continue to stumble thru my variation filled vinyasa, like frustrated 10 year old who is too old to play with the babies, but still too young to join the adults, trying my best to ignore my ego and stick with what I know. I return to my Ujjayi, wipe the stinging sweat out of my eye, and ‘try to be confident with the level I am at’ (a typical yoga teacher way of saying, “who you kidding mate!”) I turn as instructed, to gaze under my armpit, only to see Adam in his perfectly positioned Parvakonasana. Bugger.
After another hour of struggle, I actually start to enjoy myself and notice that I too am mimicking that intensely deep ujjayi breath, and it is working! I actually manage one or two, not quite so embarrassing, jump backs, and, with sams help, my nose ends up scarily close to the tops of my feet towards the end of the class.
At the end of 2 hours of serious stretching and a much needed savasana, we floated out of the door, a scene of serenity, collected our bikes and as we peddled up the road I smiled smugly to myself and a wave of virtuousness filled me as I giggled and peddled a little faster.
So now, here I sit, perched on the edge of my bed munching on a few too many multi grain ryvitas and a little too much fresh honey, ready to teach once again in an hour and a half. Note to self: must remember underwear.
x
I awoke this morn to the most brilliantly blue sky I have ever seen. The sun was definitely out and proud and, even at 9.15am, I could feel the potently pleasant rays beginning to gently microwave my back as I unlocked my bike from its tree.
It was a restless night for my beloved boy who could not stop his hamster wheel of a brain from churning over possible painting ideas, future bound to earn him his millions. He tossed and turned all night waking me from my ever increasingly deep slumber, now and then with a swift kick to the shin, or by getting up once again to open/close the window, fetch water from the kitchen, scrabble around trying to find more blankets, while I, having inherited my fathers sleeping patterns, simply rolled over, instantly found that sweet spot, and returned to dreaming. This one however, was not the best of dreams I admit. In it, I was teaching an incredibly amazing yoga class, swooshing around amongst my students, adjusting them subtly to the moans and groans of delight as they found new levels of flexibility and release, within their tension filled torsos. All was going well, until I launched into a demo of Padottanasana. Bending over, double and gazing thru my own legs, to notice I had no clothes on. Now, im not sure if I had always had no clothes on, or if they had inexplicably vamoosed at the sign of a highly embarrassing forward bend, but I distinctly remember desperately trying to explain my self to my perplexed, and slightly terrified beginners as I covered my modesty with a bolster.
I am not usually a great dreamer, but I think it may have had something to do with the copious amounts of bread and jam, me and my boy consumed whilst watching ‘2001: a space odyssey’ before bed. Never a good combination.
So this morning it was up at 8.30 for a quick shower, and a bite of an apple, before heading out the door to meet Adam at the bottom of the drive, ready to take me to the 5 days intensive ashtanga course he had signed me up for, on the aptly named Blackbutts road.
Do not be confused here dear reader, as just because I have recently completed my teacher training, spending each day for 7 weeks, waking up at 5am to physically abuse my body does not, in any way, prepare one for the perils of early morn ashtanga 5 days in a row. For there are no straps, blocks, bolsters or blankets to gently encourage the body to life, fooling it into a posture by making it slightly comfier. Here, it as all about getting your nose to your toes, full stop.
Sam, guides us thru the first series calmly and serenely, as he delicately flops himself into each of the posture with effortless grace and timing. Adam quickly follows suit, breathing like a true warrior as he kicks back into Kumbakasana, lowers down to Chaturanga Dandasana, flips over the toes to Urdvha Mukha Svanasana and pushes back into Adho Mukha Svanasana, still maintaining his perfectly audible Ujjayi breathing. In a bid to catch up I somehow forget all about my breathing, and suddenly, as I am about to collapse, realise I am holding my breath, a sin for any yogini. I continue to stumble thru my variation filled vinyasa, like frustrated 10 year old who is too old to play with the babies, but still too young to join the adults, trying my best to ignore my ego and stick with what I know. I return to my Ujjayi, wipe the stinging sweat out of my eye, and ‘try to be confident with the level I am at’ (a typical yoga teacher way of saying, “who you kidding mate!”) I turn as instructed, to gaze under my armpit, only to see Adam in his perfectly positioned Parvakonasana. Bugger.
After another hour of struggle, I actually start to enjoy myself and notice that I too am mimicking that intensely deep ujjayi breath, and it is working! I actually manage one or two, not quite so embarrassing, jump backs, and, with sams help, my nose ends up scarily close to the tops of my feet towards the end of the class.
At the end of 2 hours of serious stretching and a much needed savasana, we floated out of the door, a scene of serenity, collected our bikes and as we peddled up the road I smiled smugly to myself and a wave of virtuousness filled me as I giggled and peddled a little faster.
So now, here I sit, perched on the edge of my bed munching on a few too many multi grain ryvitas and a little too much fresh honey, ready to teach once again in an hour and a half. Note to self: must remember underwear.
x
Thursday, April 23, 2009
A poem, of sorts.
This girl puts on her bright shiny new façade for all to see.
It is polished to within an inch of its life, has been lightly buffed and lacquered to a fine finish, and all who gaze upon its ultimate perfect ness coo and craw at how beautiful it is.
She looks in the mirror and takes a moment to congratulate herself heartily on how marvellously fine it all worked out. All that fuss and bother from such a long time ago really came out well in the wash and look at what I am left with.
My bright shiny new façade.
Each morning she carefully brings it out. Delicately she washes, dries, and buffs it back to its former glory to bring out the shine and that special sparkle that everyone so loves to see.
It must be handled gingerly and with the up most care, only ever entrusted to one person.
For only she knows how keep it safe, her bright shiny new façade.
At the merest hint of bad weather, mad mood, or bad timing she whisks it away from public view so as not let it crack with the humidity or tension in the air.
Must protect it.
My bright shiny new façade.
She breaths a sigh of relief and marvels at how close she came to letting it slip, probably because of the weathered elastic that freys around the edges.
She makes a note with in her head ‘must buy new elastic, strong enough to keep it secure’
“Silly old thread” she giggles to herself as she strokes it tenderly.
Her bright shiny new façade.
This girl puts on her bright shiny new façade for all to see.
It is polished to within an inch of its life, has been lightly buffed and lacquered to a fine finish, and all who gaze upon its ultimate perfect ness coo and craw at how beautiful it is.
She looks in the mirror and takes a moment to congratulate herself heartily on how marvellously fine it all worked out. All that fuss and bother from such a long time ago really came out well in the wash and look at what I am left with.
My bright shiny new façade.
Each morning she carefully brings it out. Delicately she washes, dries, and buffs it back to its former glory to bring out the shine and that special sparkle that everyone so loves to see.
It must be handled gingerly and with the up most care, only ever entrusted to one person.
For only she knows how keep it safe, her bright shiny new façade.
At the merest hint of bad weather, mad mood, or bad timing she whisks it away from public view so as not let it crack with the humidity or tension in the air.
Must protect it.
My bright shiny new façade.
She breaths a sigh of relief and marvels at how close she came to letting it slip, probably because of the weathered elastic that freys around the edges.
She makes a note with in her head ‘must buy new elastic, strong enough to keep it secure’
“Silly old thread” she giggles to herself as she strokes it tenderly.
Her bright shiny new façade.
Random Ramblings - dont take too much notice of the second one, i was feeling particularly down and had eaten way too much muesli, can send one a little loopy.
23/4/09 – Byron Bay
Bits of string to small for anything.
I was born and then it came.
An overwhelming urge to collect as if I was half human, half magpie.
Old keys, toy soldiers mangled from too many wars, feathers, shells too stinky to ever be kept inside, beads of all shapes, sizes, colours and flavours, coins from faraway lands, old watches that had frozen at a certain time never to tick again. Freyed pieces of fabric collected merely for their soft strokeable pelt, or their rough unforgiving weave, ribbons that shone like shiny lollyies in their cellophane wrappers.
A small habit it begins my friends, but then ‘oh how it takes over.
Every second spent out of doors, eyes peeled for the telltale glint of sunlight upon the corner of something too good to leave behind.
The sun bleached, mud covered, bobble from a childs winter woolly that has been imbedded into the sandy, soily road surface, a treat to behold.
The strap from a fellow yoginis dress, that she had cast aside ready for the bin, swept up by moi and quickly turned around, into a fine foot decoration paraded around for the admiration of others.
Reincarnation of the Rank and Rebuffed.
A small but honest title that fits my flurries of fruitfulness, sprouted from the predicament of poverty, that has also lead to a whimsical and witty writing obsession that haunts my brain daily.
As I sit and contemplate the things I find and create from them, and the words I choose to explain myself in my day to day life, I wander what I shall be like in 20 years time. Will I be festooned with feathers, and wrapped in ribbons, spouting rivers of words that only just make sense, strung together like lyrical liquorice, keeping those who can stand to listen firmly on their toes, ears pricked for the next instalment. Or will I fade away into the background, another writer who could have been, another creator of pretty things who never got her moment to shine. Another drawer full of ‘bits of strings too small for anything’.
x
24/4/09 – Byron Bay.
Today is the day you realise the worst.
The big idea, the big plan that you tried your hardest to keep under wraps, just encase it didn’t materialise, but somehow found yourself spilling the intimate details to those who barely know you, has failed.
Not that this hasn’t happened to you before. Oh no dear reader do not feel sorry for me, for I am the ‘King of the Could Have Beens’, the ‘Queen of the Not Quite Theres’, the ‘Patriarch of It Just Didn’t Feel Right’.
Once again, I perch precariously on the edge of the weather beaten, moss covered fence of options, as I try to rack my brain and think of the next step. My endless chase of, what? I fall over my feet to be the first one to reach it, I set off a day before every one else to get, where? I cast others to the roadside for being to slow, or not commited enough to, what?
Fat, thin, blonde, brunette, single, attached, model, nanny, city, country, alcoholic, t- total. Each one of these weighty over coats has been draped around my shoulders at one time or another, to keep me warm and protect me from the consequences that fall around my ears like fat drops of rain, but still non of them seem to fit quite right. These always an annoying label inside the collar, or the sleeves are a little too long or it just smells like wet dog when ever it gets wet.
And so the search goes on, but my dear reader do not feel pitty for me, as I have learned from each one of these ‘Trenchcoats of Truth’ and so as I trudge forward on my journey, I have chosen to remove my overcoat and simply get wet.
x
23/4/09 – Byron Bay
Bits of string to small for anything.
I was born and then it came.
An overwhelming urge to collect as if I was half human, half magpie.
Old keys, toy soldiers mangled from too many wars, feathers, shells too stinky to ever be kept inside, beads of all shapes, sizes, colours and flavours, coins from faraway lands, old watches that had frozen at a certain time never to tick again. Freyed pieces of fabric collected merely for their soft strokeable pelt, or their rough unforgiving weave, ribbons that shone like shiny lollyies in their cellophane wrappers.
A small habit it begins my friends, but then ‘oh how it takes over.
Every second spent out of doors, eyes peeled for the telltale glint of sunlight upon the corner of something too good to leave behind.
The sun bleached, mud covered, bobble from a childs winter woolly that has been imbedded into the sandy, soily road surface, a treat to behold.
The strap from a fellow yoginis dress, that she had cast aside ready for the bin, swept up by moi and quickly turned around, into a fine foot decoration paraded around for the admiration of others.
Reincarnation of the Rank and Rebuffed.
A small but honest title that fits my flurries of fruitfulness, sprouted from the predicament of poverty, that has also lead to a whimsical and witty writing obsession that haunts my brain daily.
As I sit and contemplate the things I find and create from them, and the words I choose to explain myself in my day to day life, I wander what I shall be like in 20 years time. Will I be festooned with feathers, and wrapped in ribbons, spouting rivers of words that only just make sense, strung together like lyrical liquorice, keeping those who can stand to listen firmly on their toes, ears pricked for the next instalment. Or will I fade away into the background, another writer who could have been, another creator of pretty things who never got her moment to shine. Another drawer full of ‘bits of strings too small for anything’.
x
24/4/09 – Byron Bay.
Today is the day you realise the worst.
The big idea, the big plan that you tried your hardest to keep under wraps, just encase it didn’t materialise, but somehow found yourself spilling the intimate details to those who barely know you, has failed.
Not that this hasn’t happened to you before. Oh no dear reader do not feel sorry for me, for I am the ‘King of the Could Have Beens’, the ‘Queen of the Not Quite Theres’, the ‘Patriarch of It Just Didn’t Feel Right’.
Once again, I perch precariously on the edge of the weather beaten, moss covered fence of options, as I try to rack my brain and think of the next step. My endless chase of, what? I fall over my feet to be the first one to reach it, I set off a day before every one else to get, where? I cast others to the roadside for being to slow, or not commited enough to, what?
Fat, thin, blonde, brunette, single, attached, model, nanny, city, country, alcoholic, t- total. Each one of these weighty over coats has been draped around my shoulders at one time or another, to keep me warm and protect me from the consequences that fall around my ears like fat drops of rain, but still non of them seem to fit quite right. These always an annoying label inside the collar, or the sleeves are a little too long or it just smells like wet dog when ever it gets wet.
And so the search goes on, but my dear reader do not feel pitty for me, as I have learned from each one of these ‘Trenchcoats of Truth’ and so as I trudge forward on my journey, I have chosen to remove my overcoat and simply get wet.
x
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Sunday 19th April 09 – Byron Bay.
My pile of dirty washing now equals the size of Mount Warning a reasonably large land mass close to our house. It is said to be one of the major points where all the earths’ energy channels meet, creating one giant earth chakra. Not too dissimilar to my pile of undulating undergarments as im sure there are a few energy channels running thru them by now, there’s definatly something running thru them as I have heard it scuttling about at night in the same vicinity.
Every morning for the past 4 days we have announced that today is the day we bundle up our, always surprisingly numerable amount of soiled vests, pants, socks and second hand towels that smell as if they have been kept in a damp loft for a week or two, into our one enormous bed sheet and cycle down to the YHA hostel to sneak in and use their laundry facilities, like some Bonnie and Clyde/ Dick Whittington on bicycles type affair.
We discovered this technique from Jess, a lovely if somewhat slightly odd girl form Adelaide, who was one of our fellow housemates until Mark, our equally odd landlord decided one day that he had had enough of her, and, as the cruel but kind mother bird lovingly but ruthlessly boots her young chick out of the nest, he not quite so lovingly booted her our of the house. For good. Im not too sure of the formalities but what I do know is Ollie and I helped her bundle all her belongings into her battered white transit in a flurry of tears, sweat and rain. This was during the week the sky fell in by the way. I had always thought she was fairly same until she started spilling horrific stories about our fearsome landlord and scared the leopard print yoga pants off of me. I think Ollie always had his doubts and they were firmly confirmed when he spied numerous jars of half nibbled anchovies shoved in the door of her vile van. A sure sign of insanity of ever I saw one.
So when every “when ever we can be bothered” comes around, we drag our ‘sack-o- socks’ down to said hostel, creep past the receptionist doing our best ‘ scruffy backpackers impression’ not too hard I admit, and make our way past the most depressing pool I have ever clapped eyes on. The sign on the gate optimistically states ‘No glass in the pool area at any time’ but it seems people would obviously prefer a stroll to the local bottle bank, by the looks of the greeny grey goop that seemed to be collecting and forming a thin carpet, over the once jazzy blue mermaid mosaic at the murky depths of the pool.
The laundry room is behind the glamorous Miami style pool area and to the right just next to the showers.
As soon as you walk in an overpowering cloud of dry heat hits you making you choke and break out into a sweat at the same time. Once you have acclimatised and your eyeballs have got the hang of blinking double time so as not to let your somewhat valuble eybulbs shrivel up amidst the flying towel fibres and washing powder flakes that fill the air, you must ‘sort your load’, according to the laminate plastered to the wall. So we crack open the bundle and sort.
Now heres and interesting fact that I only just found out, for an item of clothing to be considered ‘a white’ it only has to contain the slightest hint of white about its person, anywhere. Even if it’s the stitching. Every day is definatly a school day I tell you.
So, washing sorted we cram it into the impressively industrial machine that laughs at what we thought was a sizeable load. My beloved boy admitted that he has a certain fondness for any industrial machine that was obviously made to withstand earthquakes, hurricanes and the 6month old un washed under crackers of an unusually sweaty backpacker, and I must admit I agree with him. Washing in, we retrieve the small wrap of blue washing powder that the receptionist handed us, falling hook line and sinker for our uncanny resemblance to the paying residents, from ollies red back pack. The powder has been measured out by some poor sod into little polythene baggies so that every one gets the same stingy amount, like in prison. The result however is a slightly odd, slightly illegal looking bag of powder that one has to carry around in ones pocket and that automatically, makes you feel guilty when it happens to plop into the ground in the middle of Woolworths.
Powder in, and slam the door closed with a satisfying clunk, insert criminally small amount of coins, turn the dial and WHOOSH! We’re away.
For the next 35 mins we retire to the internet café where once again we fool the waitress into thinking we are paying customers but pulling out an apple I had hidden about my person for the very occasion, and munching away heartily as we tippy tap on our Toppols safe in the knowledge we have once again beaten the system.
Sufficed to say when we return after having popped back after 35 mins to remove squeaky clean items and dump them in the even heartier tumble dryer, we are greeted with a pile of washing so dry and warm and ferociously loaded with static electricity, you automatically want to a) climb inside b) fold each item more precisely than ever so a snot to waste all the hard work and c) rub each piece on your head and giggle as it sends each hair into a frenzy of static excitement.
So washing folded and bundled back into our swag bag, be retrieve our rusty cycles and pedal home with haste to ensure we make it back before the sky falls in again.
x
My pile of dirty washing now equals the size of Mount Warning a reasonably large land mass close to our house. It is said to be one of the major points where all the earths’ energy channels meet, creating one giant earth chakra. Not too dissimilar to my pile of undulating undergarments as im sure there are a few energy channels running thru them by now, there’s definatly something running thru them as I have heard it scuttling about at night in the same vicinity.
Every morning for the past 4 days we have announced that today is the day we bundle up our, always surprisingly numerable amount of soiled vests, pants, socks and second hand towels that smell as if they have been kept in a damp loft for a week or two, into our one enormous bed sheet and cycle down to the YHA hostel to sneak in and use their laundry facilities, like some Bonnie and Clyde/ Dick Whittington on bicycles type affair.
We discovered this technique from Jess, a lovely if somewhat slightly odd girl form Adelaide, who was one of our fellow housemates until Mark, our equally odd landlord decided one day that he had had enough of her, and, as the cruel but kind mother bird lovingly but ruthlessly boots her young chick out of the nest, he not quite so lovingly booted her our of the house. For good. Im not too sure of the formalities but what I do know is Ollie and I helped her bundle all her belongings into her battered white transit in a flurry of tears, sweat and rain. This was during the week the sky fell in by the way. I had always thought she was fairly same until she started spilling horrific stories about our fearsome landlord and scared the leopard print yoga pants off of me. I think Ollie always had his doubts and they were firmly confirmed when he spied numerous jars of half nibbled anchovies shoved in the door of her vile van. A sure sign of insanity of ever I saw one.
So when every “when ever we can be bothered” comes around, we drag our ‘sack-o- socks’ down to said hostel, creep past the receptionist doing our best ‘ scruffy backpackers impression’ not too hard I admit, and make our way past the most depressing pool I have ever clapped eyes on. The sign on the gate optimistically states ‘No glass in the pool area at any time’ but it seems people would obviously prefer a stroll to the local bottle bank, by the looks of the greeny grey goop that seemed to be collecting and forming a thin carpet, over the once jazzy blue mermaid mosaic at the murky depths of the pool.
The laundry room is behind the glamorous Miami style pool area and to the right just next to the showers.
As soon as you walk in an overpowering cloud of dry heat hits you making you choke and break out into a sweat at the same time. Once you have acclimatised and your eyeballs have got the hang of blinking double time so as not to let your somewhat valuble eybulbs shrivel up amidst the flying towel fibres and washing powder flakes that fill the air, you must ‘sort your load’, according to the laminate plastered to the wall. So we crack open the bundle and sort.
Now heres and interesting fact that I only just found out, for an item of clothing to be considered ‘a white’ it only has to contain the slightest hint of white about its person, anywhere. Even if it’s the stitching. Every day is definatly a school day I tell you.
So, washing sorted we cram it into the impressively industrial machine that laughs at what we thought was a sizeable load. My beloved boy admitted that he has a certain fondness for any industrial machine that was obviously made to withstand earthquakes, hurricanes and the 6month old un washed under crackers of an unusually sweaty backpacker, and I must admit I agree with him. Washing in, we retrieve the small wrap of blue washing powder that the receptionist handed us, falling hook line and sinker for our uncanny resemblance to the paying residents, from ollies red back pack. The powder has been measured out by some poor sod into little polythene baggies so that every one gets the same stingy amount, like in prison. The result however is a slightly odd, slightly illegal looking bag of powder that one has to carry around in ones pocket and that automatically, makes you feel guilty when it happens to plop into the ground in the middle of Woolworths.
Powder in, and slam the door closed with a satisfying clunk, insert criminally small amount of coins, turn the dial and WHOOSH! We’re away.
For the next 35 mins we retire to the internet café where once again we fool the waitress into thinking we are paying customers but pulling out an apple I had hidden about my person for the very occasion, and munching away heartily as we tippy tap on our Toppols safe in the knowledge we have once again beaten the system.
Sufficed to say when we return after having popped back after 35 mins to remove squeaky clean items and dump them in the even heartier tumble dryer, we are greeted with a pile of washing so dry and warm and ferociously loaded with static electricity, you automatically want to a) climb inside b) fold each item more precisely than ever so a snot to waste all the hard work and c) rub each piece on your head and giggle as it sends each hair into a frenzy of static excitement.
So washing folded and bundled back into our swag bag, be retrieve our rusty cycles and pedal home with haste to ensure we make it back before the sky falls in again.
x
Tuesday 14th April – Byron Bay.
The good doctors of Byron Bay have finally been able to figure out the mystery of my funky eye. Thats right ladies and gents you heard me, I feel like I have been given the key to Narnia where I can go and frolic with the good sited Mr Tumnus. Finally I have an answer other than “hmm….” and I am now back on the road to recovery. I wont bore you with the details, or the painfully long name, that I cannot for the life of me remember, only that it had the word ‘optics’ somewhere in there, which was how I knew she was talking to me.
Needless to say I have another combination of creams, and pills to take which I am promised will sort me out once and for all. This either means I finally have the right medication, or they have decided to put me out of my misery, unbeknownst to me and my shrivelled eyebulb. Fingers crossed for the first one.
Ill keep you posted, naturally.
1 week and 4 days since I gained my new status as yoga teach, yet still I sit here in our damp ant filled (as I have discovered most places in byron bay are) room, at our ‘not quite as wobbly as before’ desk tippy tapping away, waiting to hear back from one of the hand picked ‘places I would like to work’. I have thrust my freshly printed Curriculam vitae into the hands of many managers with my best ‘hire me, im reliable’ smile plastered across my face whilst trying not to show off my weird eye, and now comes the painfull, laborious wait.
In the Top 5 at the moment is a hairdressing salon Manik, that one of my fellow house mates works at. Sonia is a very sweet but heavily footed, German girl who shares the bedroom next door to ours. She is a fellow hairdresser and is leaving in 1 week. She encouraged me to “give it a go” tho I am a little sheepish as I haven’t worked in an official salon for quite a few years, I think it would be a fun challenge for me tho and quite like the idea of sharpening my skills again. Fingers crossed then and wish me luck.
Mine biciclet has been thoughtfully and slyly stolen from right under my nose. Bastards.
I had chained my beloved 1980’s mountain bike to our tree (a big fat tree too, not a skinny one by any means) outside our house and when I awoke, as i pottered bleary eyed, scratching my head and yawning widely, into the bathroom and peeked out of the window to see if the rain was ever going to stop, I noticed that the tree was bear. Bugger.
The suitably lovely bike man at the shop where I purchased my dream machine took pity on me. Hamish is, as my beloved boy has just reminded me “a guy I dont want to ever forget” and how could we? He is perfectly adorable and is completely ageless, as any facial tell tale signs are covered by his luscious thicket of a beard that converges somewhere around his ears with his equally healthy main of dark curly locks. He rides an old postmans bike with a matching red helmet and always sports humorously bicycley themed tshirts with verses such as “ride it like you stole it” printed across the chest. Anyway, Hamish came to my rescue and leant me a beautiful bike that he called “scraping the barrel with this one” but I as usual fell in love with the rusty, red 10 speed with its padded black leather seat that was miles to low for my 34” legs, but still I took it and now ride it with pride. I have a feeling I may have to purchase it now as I have become severely attached, and have even picked out the ultramarine blue plastic flowers I am planning on strapping to the handle bars. I think its fate.
x
The good doctors of Byron Bay have finally been able to figure out the mystery of my funky eye. Thats right ladies and gents you heard me, I feel like I have been given the key to Narnia where I can go and frolic with the good sited Mr Tumnus. Finally I have an answer other than “hmm….” and I am now back on the road to recovery. I wont bore you with the details, or the painfully long name, that I cannot for the life of me remember, only that it had the word ‘optics’ somewhere in there, which was how I knew she was talking to me.
Needless to say I have another combination of creams, and pills to take which I am promised will sort me out once and for all. This either means I finally have the right medication, or they have decided to put me out of my misery, unbeknownst to me and my shrivelled eyebulb. Fingers crossed for the first one.
Ill keep you posted, naturally.
1 week and 4 days since I gained my new status as yoga teach, yet still I sit here in our damp ant filled (as I have discovered most places in byron bay are) room, at our ‘not quite as wobbly as before’ desk tippy tapping away, waiting to hear back from one of the hand picked ‘places I would like to work’. I have thrust my freshly printed Curriculam vitae into the hands of many managers with my best ‘hire me, im reliable’ smile plastered across my face whilst trying not to show off my weird eye, and now comes the painfull, laborious wait.
In the Top 5 at the moment is a hairdressing salon Manik, that one of my fellow house mates works at. Sonia is a very sweet but heavily footed, German girl who shares the bedroom next door to ours. She is a fellow hairdresser and is leaving in 1 week. She encouraged me to “give it a go” tho I am a little sheepish as I haven’t worked in an official salon for quite a few years, I think it would be a fun challenge for me tho and quite like the idea of sharpening my skills again. Fingers crossed then and wish me luck.
Mine biciclet has been thoughtfully and slyly stolen from right under my nose. Bastards.
I had chained my beloved 1980’s mountain bike to our tree (a big fat tree too, not a skinny one by any means) outside our house and when I awoke, as i pottered bleary eyed, scratching my head and yawning widely, into the bathroom and peeked out of the window to see if the rain was ever going to stop, I noticed that the tree was bear. Bugger.
The suitably lovely bike man at the shop where I purchased my dream machine took pity on me. Hamish is, as my beloved boy has just reminded me “a guy I dont want to ever forget” and how could we? He is perfectly adorable and is completely ageless, as any facial tell tale signs are covered by his luscious thicket of a beard that converges somewhere around his ears with his equally healthy main of dark curly locks. He rides an old postmans bike with a matching red helmet and always sports humorously bicycley themed tshirts with verses such as “ride it like you stole it” printed across the chest. Anyway, Hamish came to my rescue and leant me a beautiful bike that he called “scraping the barrel with this one” but I as usual fell in love with the rusty, red 10 speed with its padded black leather seat that was miles to low for my 34” legs, but still I took it and now ride it with pride. I have a feeling I may have to purchase it now as I have become severely attached, and have even picked out the ultramarine blue plastic flowers I am planning on strapping to the handle bars. I think its fate.
x
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Wednesday 8th April 09 – Byron Bay.
I sit here at a wobbly legged, one drawered desk, with a faded 1970’s map of the world lacquered onto the top, munching on an almost comically sized carrot and a fresh pot of Promite. I have just finished and enormous mug of hot chai tea with soy milk and honey, that I pilfered off of one of our new house mates, promising myself as I poured the gloopy white milk substitute from its cardboard container, that I would replace it when I next have the money to afford such luxuries.
Our new abode, for the time being, is a large crumbly, 1960’s, guesthouse. It has mahogany coloured floor boards, an enormous veranda and kitchen taps that make me want to call them “faucets”.
Mark, the owner of this ‘Sesame Street’ house, reminds me somewhat of a Vietnam war veteran. Short back and sides, slightly crinkled and frayed around the edges, permanently on edge, with a soft Californian drawl. He seems nice enough tho and likes to keep himself to himself which works for me. The ‘big room’ was the one we originally fell in love with here. It is enormous with two floor to ceiling shuttered doors that lead out into the similarly gargantuously proportioned balcony. We pictured this room as our dream studio, come bedroom, come living room, come yoga studio as it is easily big enough for all this, and a few impromptu dinner soireys to boot. However, as is typical this time of year, being Easter, and the yearly awaited Bluesfest, any landlord worth his salt hikes up his prices, and has a tendency to squish as many poor willing fools into one room as possible, and charge them thru the roof for the privilege. Mark, being the seasoned pro he is, had this firmly in mind as he point blankly informed us “ do you know how many people I can get in that room man? And at least another 2 on the balcony. You guys take the small room.”
So here we are in the ‘small room’ that is to be fair, more than adequate for 2 people if a little stark. We have fashioned a wardrobe from a piece of rope strung between two hooks in the corner, we have a rickety double bed with four double sheets but no pillows and a desk with no chair. But, I sigh, at least we have a place that is slightly more within our price range to lay low until the pot smoking, blues loving, Easter bunny has hopped off out of town and we can return to our search for the dream house. We are also waiting to hear back from a friendly English couple who are selling their bright yellow, ex florists van, which they converted into a camper. They have just lowered the asking price again form 3500 dollars, to 2500, as it seems they are desperate to get rid as they leave Byron at the end of the week. We decided to stand firm with our measly offer of 1000 dollars and see just how desperate they are by Friday. Fingers crossed.
We have already sniffed out and claimed a few friends here, that seem to have that same universal wit that Ollie and I are drawn to, and so we have spent the last few nights at our friend Adams house as I think he felt sorry for us.
Last night we clambered into his ute and he drove us to the Yurt (don’t get confused here) up on the hill. The Yurt is incredible. It is exactly what it sounds like. A 10 metre round mongolian yurt, that is filled with the most delicious old Indian rugs, cushions and Tibetan prayer flags that turn it into the cosiest, womb like structure I have ever seen. It is used for yoga classes, meditations and, I found out that you can hire it for your wedding. Cue a few inconspicuous nudge nudge, wink wink moments in my beloved boys direction.
Any way back to the story, we tiptoed up the path to the intricately carved crimson door, removed our shoes and stooped down thru the door way into the technicouloured tent. We each recieved a round cushion and took up a cross legged seat on the floor. Thus followed a 45 minute silent meditation which I am very impressed to say the boys handled like pros and I think they even enjoyed it, numb bums and all. Rebecca and I fell straight back into the old routine of our daily meditation classes from yoga camp, and I actually felt a lot calmer and a little less disjointed as I had before. When we were all fully meditationed out, we hopped back in the shiny white ute and headed back to Adams beautiful house, to feast on homemade sweet potato and cashew dip, with vegetable squewers, followed by roasted banana, soy ice cream and homemade flap jacks.
I have developed a serious case of post yoga camp munchies so this went down a little too well. Diet starts tomorrow.
x
I sit here at a wobbly legged, one drawered desk, with a faded 1970’s map of the world lacquered onto the top, munching on an almost comically sized carrot and a fresh pot of Promite. I have just finished and enormous mug of hot chai tea with soy milk and honey, that I pilfered off of one of our new house mates, promising myself as I poured the gloopy white milk substitute from its cardboard container, that I would replace it when I next have the money to afford such luxuries.
Our new abode, for the time being, is a large crumbly, 1960’s, guesthouse. It has mahogany coloured floor boards, an enormous veranda and kitchen taps that make me want to call them “faucets”.
Mark, the owner of this ‘Sesame Street’ house, reminds me somewhat of a Vietnam war veteran. Short back and sides, slightly crinkled and frayed around the edges, permanently on edge, with a soft Californian drawl. He seems nice enough tho and likes to keep himself to himself which works for me. The ‘big room’ was the one we originally fell in love with here. It is enormous with two floor to ceiling shuttered doors that lead out into the similarly gargantuously proportioned balcony. We pictured this room as our dream studio, come bedroom, come living room, come yoga studio as it is easily big enough for all this, and a few impromptu dinner soireys to boot. However, as is typical this time of year, being Easter, and the yearly awaited Bluesfest, any landlord worth his salt hikes up his prices, and has a tendency to squish as many poor willing fools into one room as possible, and charge them thru the roof for the privilege. Mark, being the seasoned pro he is, had this firmly in mind as he point blankly informed us “ do you know how many people I can get in that room man? And at least another 2 on the balcony. You guys take the small room.”
So here we are in the ‘small room’ that is to be fair, more than adequate for 2 people if a little stark. We have fashioned a wardrobe from a piece of rope strung between two hooks in the corner, we have a rickety double bed with four double sheets but no pillows and a desk with no chair. But, I sigh, at least we have a place that is slightly more within our price range to lay low until the pot smoking, blues loving, Easter bunny has hopped off out of town and we can return to our search for the dream house. We are also waiting to hear back from a friendly English couple who are selling their bright yellow, ex florists van, which they converted into a camper. They have just lowered the asking price again form 3500 dollars, to 2500, as it seems they are desperate to get rid as they leave Byron at the end of the week. We decided to stand firm with our measly offer of 1000 dollars and see just how desperate they are by Friday. Fingers crossed.
We have already sniffed out and claimed a few friends here, that seem to have that same universal wit that Ollie and I are drawn to, and so we have spent the last few nights at our friend Adams house as I think he felt sorry for us.
Last night we clambered into his ute and he drove us to the Yurt (don’t get confused here) up on the hill. The Yurt is incredible. It is exactly what it sounds like. A 10 metre round mongolian yurt, that is filled with the most delicious old Indian rugs, cushions and Tibetan prayer flags that turn it into the cosiest, womb like structure I have ever seen. It is used for yoga classes, meditations and, I found out that you can hire it for your wedding. Cue a few inconspicuous nudge nudge, wink wink moments in my beloved boys direction.
Any way back to the story, we tiptoed up the path to the intricately carved crimson door, removed our shoes and stooped down thru the door way into the technicouloured tent. We each recieved a round cushion and took up a cross legged seat on the floor. Thus followed a 45 minute silent meditation which I am very impressed to say the boys handled like pros and I think they even enjoyed it, numb bums and all. Rebecca and I fell straight back into the old routine of our daily meditation classes from yoga camp, and I actually felt a lot calmer and a little less disjointed as I had before. When we were all fully meditationed out, we hopped back in the shiny white ute and headed back to Adams beautiful house, to feast on homemade sweet potato and cashew dip, with vegetable squewers, followed by roasted banana, soy ice cream and homemade flap jacks.
I have developed a serious case of post yoga camp munchies so this went down a little too well. Diet starts tomorrow.
x
Saturday 4th April 09 – Byron Bay.
Its raining. Again.
I have just finished a another gourmet meal of corn thins, Promite, avocado and a huge carrot, as normal, but, as my beloved boy has now touched down, we splashed out and added broccoli, houmous, feta cheese and some Turkish bread, his choice, to our eclectic shopping trolley.
It is beautiful to be back together, ‘team Saliver’, and he is dealing well with my sudden stressful outbursts as my institutionalised brain gets used to being back in a world of taxis, pizzas, pelican crossings, and bad movies.
I have ceremonially left the ashram and am now in the wooden egg box that is the Belongil Beach house.
We stayed here when my boy came to visit, so Michael the friendly guy at reception remembered us and greeted us warmly as old friends, asking me how the course went and congratulating me on my newly acquired teaching status. Because of our ‘contact’ we managed to swindle one of the better rooms for 1 night.
We dragged our bags, heavier than ever, up the wooden staircase and along the outdoor walkway to our room, number 23. Inset into the door was a beautiful stained glass window of a pelican, always a sign of class in my book. We opened the door, dumped out stuff and needless to say enjoyed our palatial room with gay abandon until 10am this morn when our bubble was brutally burst and we had to downgrade to the more shoebox like room in which we now reside.
Today began with a run on the beach, followed by a generous stab at some yoga by Ollie and a test of my teaching skills. Then a quick bowl of muesli, strawberry yoghurt, and a banana each and we were off on our bicycles in search of a place to call our own.
To cut a very long day short, we didn’t find our dream home. We cycled out to Suffolk park to have a look a few places on the rentals list, handed to us by Alison the blonde real estate agent, but they were either too big, too expensive, or had been photographed in a very good light, on a very good day and, I suspect, had a generous dash of Adobe Photoshop lavished upon them.
So now here I sit, perched on the edge of our creaky metallic bed, staring at the fire drill laminate on the wall and wandering if we will ever find our hinterland hideaway, and where, exactly is it hiding?
x
Its raining. Again.
I have just finished a another gourmet meal of corn thins, Promite, avocado and a huge carrot, as normal, but, as my beloved boy has now touched down, we splashed out and added broccoli, houmous, feta cheese and some Turkish bread, his choice, to our eclectic shopping trolley.
It is beautiful to be back together, ‘team Saliver’, and he is dealing well with my sudden stressful outbursts as my institutionalised brain gets used to being back in a world of taxis, pizzas, pelican crossings, and bad movies.
I have ceremonially left the ashram and am now in the wooden egg box that is the Belongil Beach house.
We stayed here when my boy came to visit, so Michael the friendly guy at reception remembered us and greeted us warmly as old friends, asking me how the course went and congratulating me on my newly acquired teaching status. Because of our ‘contact’ we managed to swindle one of the better rooms for 1 night.
We dragged our bags, heavier than ever, up the wooden staircase and along the outdoor walkway to our room, number 23. Inset into the door was a beautiful stained glass window of a pelican, always a sign of class in my book. We opened the door, dumped out stuff and needless to say enjoyed our palatial room with gay abandon until 10am this morn when our bubble was brutally burst and we had to downgrade to the more shoebox like room in which we now reside.
Today began with a run on the beach, followed by a generous stab at some yoga by Ollie and a test of my teaching skills. Then a quick bowl of muesli, strawberry yoghurt, and a banana each and we were off on our bicycles in search of a place to call our own.
To cut a very long day short, we didn’t find our dream home. We cycled out to Suffolk park to have a look a few places on the rentals list, handed to us by Alison the blonde real estate agent, but they were either too big, too expensive, or had been photographed in a very good light, on a very good day and, I suspect, had a generous dash of Adobe Photoshop lavished upon them.
So now here I sit, perched on the edge of our creaky metallic bed, staring at the fire drill laminate on the wall and wandering if we will ever find our hinterland hideaway, and where, exactly is it hiding?
x
Monday, March 30, 2009
Monday 30th March 09 – Byron Bay.
Oh how the rain poured in buckets and shovels, and how the mean sea wind whipped thru the streets of Byron, turning the rain from heavy cumbersome drops, into bullets that could blind you if you happened to be cycling the wrong way.
But still, she taught on.
RAT A TAT TAT on the roof top like machine guns, and SWOOOSH as the cars dove headfirst into the gulleys of water collected in the road, sending fans of cascading water into the air.
But still she taught on.
I woke at 6am this morn to sound of the sky falling in. Over night god had forgotten to pull the bath plug, and the grimy bath water of the almighty overflowed on Byron bay. And it didn’t stop.
This is when you realise how much time you actually spend outside and with no shoes on. When you find yourself gazing out of the window thinking “how badly do I really need to pee/ get a drink/ food/go to class” etc.
“Morning!” I shrieked as I scuttled past my blonde bedraggled surfer mate this morn whilst trying to dodge the frolicking frogs and incredibly slippery patches of the boardwalk, and trying to get the studio both in one piece, and as dry as possible.
I threw myself thru the door into the sudden serenity that awaited. After wringing out my hair and vest, I squelched over the cd player. Someone had left a cd in there which made me smile, as this always lightens my mood at 6am in the morn to have a few Tibetan monks chanting at you while you cajole the tired, stiff body back to life. I lit the candles on the altar and a few incense sticks to get my yogic juices flowing.
I rolled out my mat and as I stood there with my eyes closed waiting for track 1 to click into action, I felt a pang of sadness. I suddenly realised how much I love it here. I will truly miss my early mornings of dodging frogs and other beasties on my way to the studio, swatting mosquitoes while trying to meditate, finding someone has stolen my yoghurts at breakfast time, watching the sun rise on the beach while giggling with Becky about “that dude that farted in my class yesterday”.
The worst part is that this place will always be here but my fellow trainees that are now firm friends and my surrogate family, will not.
At 3pm I climbed on my soggy saddled bicycle and peddled into town looking like I had just escaped from a wet t-shirt competition in seconds. I arrived at our second studio and rushed to the bathroom to get changed before any one of my prospective students could catch a glimpse of me in my unbelievably see thru attire. Dry and changed I set up my mat in front of the 15 pairs of eyes, smiled sweetly and told everyone to “lie back, relax and come to focus on the breath” a yogic time filler that works a treat. I toddled off to the front door just as Ethan and Sarah, the two other poor souls who were to be judged and have their teaching future determined with me, arrived. We all grinned nervously at each other and wished each other the best of luck as Sarah strode in and began the class. Ethan taught the second part and I was left to bring up the rear with part 3. The cool down.
I felt confident and launched into my lesson plan with my sugary sweet English accent that everyone seems to love here. As the rain got heavier I was forced to put on my best ‘ordering a drink in a crowded bar’ voice, that I have been practicing and perfecting for many years. After my 25 mins were up I lay my freshly stretched students back into savasana, the resting part of the class, and grinned from ear to ear as Ethan silently high fived me. We had done it. Our final assessment, the build up of the whole 7 weeks was over.
And to cut a long story slightly shorter, I passed. We all passed.
Which is why I sit here in my cabin, pleased as punch and with a belly full of liquorice, my number 1 treat of choice, listening to the water pouring out side and wandering why god doesn’t have an overflow.
x
Oh how the rain poured in buckets and shovels, and how the mean sea wind whipped thru the streets of Byron, turning the rain from heavy cumbersome drops, into bullets that could blind you if you happened to be cycling the wrong way.
But still, she taught on.
RAT A TAT TAT on the roof top like machine guns, and SWOOOSH as the cars dove headfirst into the gulleys of water collected in the road, sending fans of cascading water into the air.
But still she taught on.
I woke at 6am this morn to sound of the sky falling in. Over night god had forgotten to pull the bath plug, and the grimy bath water of the almighty overflowed on Byron bay. And it didn’t stop.
This is when you realise how much time you actually spend outside and with no shoes on. When you find yourself gazing out of the window thinking “how badly do I really need to pee/ get a drink/ food/go to class” etc.
“Morning!” I shrieked as I scuttled past my blonde bedraggled surfer mate this morn whilst trying to dodge the frolicking frogs and incredibly slippery patches of the boardwalk, and trying to get the studio both in one piece, and as dry as possible.
I threw myself thru the door into the sudden serenity that awaited. After wringing out my hair and vest, I squelched over the cd player. Someone had left a cd in there which made me smile, as this always lightens my mood at 6am in the morn to have a few Tibetan monks chanting at you while you cajole the tired, stiff body back to life. I lit the candles on the altar and a few incense sticks to get my yogic juices flowing.
I rolled out my mat and as I stood there with my eyes closed waiting for track 1 to click into action, I felt a pang of sadness. I suddenly realised how much I love it here. I will truly miss my early mornings of dodging frogs and other beasties on my way to the studio, swatting mosquitoes while trying to meditate, finding someone has stolen my yoghurts at breakfast time, watching the sun rise on the beach while giggling with Becky about “that dude that farted in my class yesterday”.
The worst part is that this place will always be here but my fellow trainees that are now firm friends and my surrogate family, will not.
At 3pm I climbed on my soggy saddled bicycle and peddled into town looking like I had just escaped from a wet t-shirt competition in seconds. I arrived at our second studio and rushed to the bathroom to get changed before any one of my prospective students could catch a glimpse of me in my unbelievably see thru attire. Dry and changed I set up my mat in front of the 15 pairs of eyes, smiled sweetly and told everyone to “lie back, relax and come to focus on the breath” a yogic time filler that works a treat. I toddled off to the front door just as Ethan and Sarah, the two other poor souls who were to be judged and have their teaching future determined with me, arrived. We all grinned nervously at each other and wished each other the best of luck as Sarah strode in and began the class. Ethan taught the second part and I was left to bring up the rear with part 3. The cool down.
I felt confident and launched into my lesson plan with my sugary sweet English accent that everyone seems to love here. As the rain got heavier I was forced to put on my best ‘ordering a drink in a crowded bar’ voice, that I have been practicing and perfecting for many years. After my 25 mins were up I lay my freshly stretched students back into savasana, the resting part of the class, and grinned from ear to ear as Ethan silently high fived me. We had done it. Our final assessment, the build up of the whole 7 weeks was over.
And to cut a long story slightly shorter, I passed. We all passed.
Which is why I sit here in my cabin, pleased as punch and with a belly full of liquorice, my number 1 treat of choice, listening to the water pouring out side and wandering why god doesn’t have an overflow.
x
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