EstherVonJohnson

Exciting news!

2007-04-17T18:06:00.001+10:00

The Private Press are going to publish one of my poems in an anthology of David Lynch inspired work. See, an Honours Degree in Creative Arts was good for something after all.

And thank you to Julia, for the heads-up about submitting to this thing in the first place. You rock.

My brain is useless

2007-04-11T13:35:00.000+10:00

Please help. I know I should be the one to remember this but I can't. For the life of me, I can't recall the name of a girl who was once my housemate for 3 months back in, oh, it must have been the end of 2003. And now that I realise I can't remember her name, it's bugging me. She was a geologist and was very sweet and had a tall boyfriend with curly hair named Dave (see, I remember his name). Then she got a 'proper' job and moved to Canberra. What was her name? Andrea? Renee? Jesus Christ, what?!

In other news. Chocolate. Yum. The end.

I love this little cat so much...

2007-03-27T22:35:00.000+10:00

This one was taken a few months back. In fact, last year. He's bigger now. But the point was: he's crazy...

...he likes water! Do you think he knows he's a cat?

(Drought? What drought? Tra la la. ... The photo was taken last year - before the water restrictions, I tells ya.)

What's not to love?

I blame the David Bowie Demons...

2007-03-21T12:52:00.000+11:00

Oh dude, it really is true that each year you are out of uni more of your brain cells desert you or die or relocate into grey hair. Not that I've noticed any grey hairs on myself yet, but I notice the lack of working brain cells.

Either that, or the David Bowie Demons (who live in the ceiling) had actually borrowed my copy of Perfume - which you recall I was seeking in my last entry - and had only recently returned it to my bookshelf. Because I swear I searched the bookshelf for it before I posted that, and now, only now, can see it there, nestled up against Isabel Allende's The Stories of Eva Luna. Buggerations. But at least I found my book!

In other news, thinking about the David Bowie Demons makes me recall that just such a phenomenon was mentioned in that thing I fondly, indulgently refer to as "my novel". Even my mother has now taken up saying that I'm "pretending" to be a writer while also being a slave to cheese. Of course, if I would actually write something, then maybe it would be different. Maybe I should make the last so-far-unwritten chunk of the "novel" a Supernatural-style hunt for David Bowie Demons by the main characters (you will recall the dwarf Sam and the train-wreck Lola, who make up the band The Satanic Mechanics). Whoever said plots have to make sense? Also, why don't the boys on Supernatural ever hunt David Bowie Demons? It's almost like such a thing only exists inside my brain-cell-reduced head.

an update, of sorts

2007-03-07T16:01:00.000+11:00

Geez, it's been a while since I updated here, hasn't it. Oops. Was never meant to be that long. I blame... ah, the cheese?

Anyway, first up, a question (or four): Did I lend my copy of the book Perfume by Patrick Süskind to you? Or was it to your partner? Or was it to my mum? Is that even how you spell Süskind? I don't know the answer to any of these questions. Please help.

Secondly, you need to know that t-shirts of awesomeness, Threadless are having a sale until March 12th. You may know them from such classics as Meat is Murder, Tasty tasty murder and Shakespeare hates your emo poems. My bank balance, of course, doesn't benefit at all from this knowledge. I have a new rule for myself: No black t-shirts (don't wear 'em) and no pale blue t-shirts (too many already). That should restrain me a little, eh? Damn that pretty 'Sea Foam' green one, now only $US10 plus shipping...

Thirdly, a picture of my darling Toby.

It's our one year 'anniversary' on Sunday. One year since I paid some money over and took him home in a cardboard box on the tram. I can't imagine life without him now. (No, that is not the cardboard box.)

He likes to keep his real identity a bit of a secret on the interwebs.

Coming soon, a picture of Toby, as Dalek.

Yay! A novel!

2006-11-30T17:00:00.000+11:00

Eep! I did it! I got to 50,000 words! In 30 insane days! I won! And it's also only a couple of chapters from the end of the damn thing. That is, depending on how neatly I was to wrap it all up or if I want to go with the idea I came up with today, which was: an alien spacecraft crashlands and kills all the characters. The End. No, it's not a scifi novel. Yes, I was watching Dr Who yesterday after I got to the 50K mark.

Right now I am so tired I want to gauge my eyes out with a spoon. And tomorrow I have to work my delightful 11 hour day at the shop, so no sleep marathons for me yet.

But it feels good to have written it. I've never written anything so big before, never stuck with characters for quite so long, never enjoyed them quite so much. I want to finish it, then print it out and start editing. Or at least, read it through to see how it reads. Because that's what I've not done much of: re-reading and editing. Slows down the writing process. And in Nanowrimo, it's all about speeeeeeed. So, no editing-as-you-go, which was my previous writing style. Damn slow, it was. Now I just write and move on. And when I happen to go back to check a name or a fact or something, I'm sometimes pleasantly surprised to read over bits of it. Did I write that? I think, I don't remember.

So I urge any of you who think you might one day like to write a novel, then do nanowrimo, next year, with me! It's such a rush. It's awesome. It really just makes you write. And isn't that what writing is all about? Who would have thought?!

Plus, I already have an idea for next year's novel: a group of survivors after a zombie apocalypse, a saviour figure rising from the dust: the Great Zombie Jesus! But is he (or she?) a zombie or a human bean? Half-half? And what if he (or she?) shags the Judas figure? Am I saying Jesus was a Great Big Man Loving Man Lover?

Yes, I think I am.

The Satanic Mechanics Will Rock You (if they ever exist)

2006-11-08T16:16:00.000+11:00

Yep, you caught me - I'm procrastinating. I should be novel writing, but instead I'm blog writing. These be words that do not count.

But that's ok, because I'm well on track with my 50,000 word target. In fact, it's going surprisingly, almost alarmingly well. I'm expecting it all to derail at some point, the delicate fictional world I've built up to come crashing down. Someone will say, "But aren't dwarves genetically predisposed not to be musical?" and that will be it. No more novel about a White-Stripes-ish band called The Satanic Mechanics, drummer/keyboard/songwriter: Sam (a Kiwi dwarf), singer/audience-seducer: Lola (a trainwreck). Mind you, Sam and Lola haven't even met yet, let alone formed the band. So who know? It could still go off in another direction entirely. I could still write that zombie novel that's in my heart! Or Sam and Mohammed could fall in love? I know there's something there - what dwarf just admires another man's eyelashes without it meaning something? Better try and keep them apart.

So, NaNoWriMo aside, nothing much to report. It's gone cold again, while in Mt Beauty where the parentals were for the weekend, it was 30+ºC. Ah, global warming. Thank you, Mr Howard.

News from the Tobster is this: He's become a bit of a burrower. Under carpets that is. To chase corks. Or to just get from one side of the rug to the other in the more difficult route possible. So now the big fugly brown rug that covers most of the floor in my room has a cork roughly somewhere near the middle that I can't get out. I keep sending Toby under there to get it, but he only ends up pushing it further in. I will have to pull the whole thing up in order to stop stubbing my toe on it. But I was thinking about doing that anyway - ripping it up and banishing it to under the house or in the garage - because it seriously is a FUGLY rug. And we all know what the word 'fugly' means. Yes, fucking ugly!

So, back to my other procrastinatey activities, like perusing the NaNoWriMo forums. Apparently some people have already written 50,000+ words. In 7 days. How? I don't understand. Is it called cheating?

NaNoWriMo

2006-10-29T14:05:00.000+11:00

I am now nanowrimoing - or going to be in November. That is: National Novel Writing Month. Which begins on Wednesday. It's scary. It's 50,000 words in 30 days. I can do it, I can, I can.

I've been planning. I have characters. I have possible-structures and maybe-plots. I have ways to break my 50K down into managable chunks, lumps I can chew off, bit by bit. I have potential tangents for if I run out of things to write. I have Roy Orbison wrapped in cling film.

I also have a "To Do Before November" list which is only getting longer and I still haven't crossed anything off it. It includes: Haircut, Clean desks (2), Buy Roo for Toby, Watch Velvet Goldmine (essential, obviously), Pay Bills. I just added: Buy chocolate and writing snacks. So I may come out of November 50K and 20kgs heavier!

And if I am an anti-social beast in November, please forgive me. *mutter, mutter, suffering-artist, etc, mutter...* But I will accept deliveries of food, alcohol and anything caffeine related. I am right now lurking in a Nanowrimo forum entitled: The "All My Filler Will Probably Be Porn" Thread.

So if anyone wants to join me in this madness-? Apart from the 50,000 or so already signed up on the website. Ah, it's nice to think of so many people going mad at the same time. Here's to collective insanity.

How I love you in ways I cannot express. Or: Please excuse my tardiness, I was washing my hair.

2006-10-20T18:28:00.000+10:00

Dear Friends, Enemies and Passing Ladybug Fanciers,

I haven't posted recently because my kitchen cupboard was on fire.

I am also engineering the downfall of the government and didn't want to alert suspicion. You see, I just can't help but talk/write about it, it's so damn exciting. Dang!

I burnt all my fingerprints off in a freak wetsuit-removing accident and now have to type with a toothpick held between my teeth. It is difficult and/or painful.

Slasher McTook gnawed the ends of all the leads and cords and wires and dooverwackies needed for the computer-internet thing to work and thus I was left only with my carrier pigeon, Freckles, as a means of communication. Freckles is an octogenarian in pigeon years, is colour blind and has very poor directional skills for a carrier pigeon.

During this time, my sweet Toby also became Radioactive Cat, via a small mishap with a pair of radioactive tweezers and thus I have had to spend many days sewing little lycra suits, but no capes. I am also attempting to compose a jingle and opening catch-cry. But nothing beats: "When Eric eats a banana..." I am at am impasse. Please send suggestions if not already copyrighted.

Please pass my regards onto your mother and tell her I think the apron looks lovely regardless of what Flora says. I can arrange a "little accident" if need be, tell her that.

As to your own question, I did not know you then and certainly had nothing to do with putting that hair in your mouth while you slept. Have you tried electrolysis?

Yours,

Bianca Jagger

The Mission

2006-08-16T15:01:00.000+10:00

The sweltering air conditioning pressed in on us. We were the lads and we were on the mission. There was Nix, DeeBee and me. Agent Nix as the Mormon, Agent DeeBee the scruffy Street Tom and me as the Dandy. We swaggered in, the convention centre already itching with people eager for cheese. We made our way to the first table, reverse-alphabetical-order-wise. We blended in like a bunch of Queensland’s finest, post-Larry, $20-a-kilo bananas in a box of last week’s grapes.

‘Start us off,’ said Nix to the lady behind the stall. She eyed us off for a second before smiling and offering us cheese on a small wafer of poppy seed crispbread. Here one called Le Jack stood out. It seemed significant to me: the name. Le Jack.

‘Mmm, goats cheese,’ Nix mused, ‘Is there anything I wouldn’t do for goats cheese?’

‘Would you do this?’ I asked him.

‘Ah, no. I wouldn’t do that for goats cheese. For Roquefort maybe. If my life depended on it.’

‘Ok, well, glad we got that settle then.’

DeeBee had edged off to get a glass of water. The next table we approached was empty of people. Here, knives were pointed at us, slivers of cheese attached to the end of them. Some nice, some ashed, some blue. As we were drifting away, the woman from behind the stall grabbed me by the arm and leaned in, whispering, urgent, into my ear: ‘Keet ist tot! Keet ist tot!’

I tried to fix her with my iciest green stare, to see through her, to understand what she meant by such a cryptic message. But suddenly she was away, serving a table full of people the Fibonacci sequence on crispbread. ‘A Shepherds’ Cheese,’ she was saying, not a trace of the German accent in her voice.

I caught up with Nix and DeeBee.

‘Did you see that? Did you see that lady?’ I was breathless; they were disinterested. They were eating Triple Cream Brie.

‘Here, try this,’ said DeeBee. The man behind this stall raised his head to look at me, then took a knife and fixed me a wafer of Triple Cream, handing it to me with great ceremony. When I brought it to my nose to smell it, I noticed something unusual. In the runny, creamy centre of the cheese was knifed a scrawling letter D. I glance up at the man, but, strangely, he was gone.

‘It’s surprisingly salty, don’t you think?’ Nix was saying. Triple Cream Brie never lasts long in my presence, so despite the presence of perhaps a significant clue in the form of the D, I ate it anyway. And yes, it was surprisingly salty, but creamy and rich.

The next table we went to contained no cheese, which was suspect in itself (this, of course, being a cheese show). Here I was given a piece of glacé fig with the letter A engraved in it. Which I ate.

By then, Nix, DeeBee and I had glasses of wine in our hands. The noise of the room was growing. A clump of function musicians were strangling jazz standards off to one side, as more and more people streamed in through the sea of pokies outside the door. I was unsure about the state of the mission. Everyone I looked at could potentially be a spy, aware of our status, following our every move. The clues were coming thick and fast and strange. By then I had collected and eaten a letter E, another D, an N, a U and an S. I was beginning to suspect that Nix and DeeBee were falling into a cheese trance. This was all part of the plot – the danger. We knew it. We had known it all along.

We came to a table were I found myself swooning over a goats camembert called Misty Valley (with an I scraped into it), while Nix was swooning over something called Merricks Mist. I could feel the cheese trance taking hold of my brain. The whole mission could be in danger. I made the covert signal to DeeBee and Nix that we needed to regroup and we withdrew to a quiet vestibule. We lay our cheese-filled bodies onto some luxurious couches and supped at our wine. As far as missions go, this surely was an enjoyable one, but would it be a successful one? Using our coded language in case we were being monitored, we discussed the progress of the mission.

‘One of us needs to get a car,’ (meaning: we need to snap out of it, keep our heads cool).

‘Yeah, then we could go away for a weekend somewhere. Visit cheeseries, wineries, go for walks,’ (meaning: when we go back in we need to keep our eyes and ears open and watch each other’s backs).

‘If I got out of work on a Monday, we could leave on Saturday and stay for two nights somewhere,’ (meaning: remember what HQ said, remember our instructions, remember our mission).

We re-entered the Palladium re-invigorated and focussed. Between the three of us, we collected an H in a piece of fresh goats curd, a T in a soft washed rind, another I in a piece of Spiced Pear Paste, a difficult found E in the most delicious Discovery Ashed Blue (a cheese so runny, the E almost slipped away), and, after much searching, a K in a shaving of Heidi Farm Gruyere. Then the trailed dried up and so had our glasses. We refilled them and made our way back to the quiet vestibule, just in time to escape a drunk woman dancing – probably one of our enemy’s spies. Again we spoke in code.

‘Why do you think people go to the casino?’ (meaning: is that it? Do you think we should report back to HQ?).

‘I bet that sound of someone winning the pokies is just a recording to make people keep playing so that they think they’ll win,’ (meaning: what can all these letters mean? They don’t make any sense to me: D-A-E-D-N-U-S-I-H-T-I-E-K?’).

‘Isn’t that someone we went to uni with?’ (meaning: maybe it’s a code. Maybe we need to unscramble it).

‘Yeah, it is. But what’s her name? What is her name?’ (meaning: oh my god. It’s backwards! K-E-I-T-H-I-S-U-N-D-E-A-D! Keith-is-undead! That’s what it’s telling us!).

‘Yeah, what is her name?’ (meaning: oh my god, you’re right. Keith is undead. That’s freaky).

And so ends our specialist cheese show mission. We got the code, unscramble the message, completed the mission and escaped unharmed into the bright winter sunlight. The cheese trance was itching its way back up our spines. We walked down the river, away from the house of sin, away from dancing drunk spies and the cheese and the wine and the nameless eaters. But the clue, the strange message, was pulsing around our brains:

Keith is undead! Keith is undead! Keith is undead!

2006-08-01T21:19:00.000+10:00

Hiya all,

No fiction this time. Just me playing around. And a picture I found on one of my favourite websites, Found Magazine.

Kate's band are rehearsing right now in the basement downstairs (as opposed to that basement upstairs!). Toby is curled up asleep in my lap. The heater is on. My belly is full. All very, well, the word is 'nice'.

Would like to tell you another [hopefully] bizarre bit of fiction is on the way, but as yet, it isn't. I like writing for here. Gives me a reason to be doing it. Somewhere for it to go once it's finished. Which gives me motivation - which is surely what I lack the rest of the time. Got to work on that. Hmmm. Any suggestions?

[An afterthought: Should I be 'publishing'/posting a picture from another website without getting their permission first? But I have credited their website. Also, is it like double-copyright-infringement when they are publishing something without the original author/creator's permission, then I am re-publishing it without their permission??!]

A Clue and Some Strange or Sage Advice

2006-07-30T16:24:00.000+10:00

I was dreaming – at a park in Berlin and Milan Kundera walked up to me, kneeling in a ray of sunshine and said:

“Von Esther, Use Your Powers for Good – not Evil!”

I said, “But I don’t understand–”

He said, “What you write is little bits of fluff floating on the surface of water. And not grand oceans or mighty rivers. Puddles and washbasins of water.”

“You mean my writing is like, ah, fluff? Belly-button fluff or–?”

“Not like fluff,” he reprimanded me, “It is fluff. Floating on the surface of puddles.” He fixed me with a stern stare. “This is wrong. Use your powers for Good.”

I was at a loss for words. This was the last thing I expected in a park in Berlin. Maybe Lou Reed in a drug haze. Maybe Marlene on a good day. But Milan Kundera telling me off for crimes against – what? – literature? He was now frowning at me with his forehead.

“Your fluff is Roy Orbison Wrapped in Clingfilm. Billy Boyd, and any derivative of him, paired with any other man – or beast – who takes your fancy. You are worth more than this. You could use your powers for so much more!”

Right at that moment, when Milan was getting all worked up, Eugene Hütz, who had been leaning casually against a tree, eavesdropping, plopped himself down next to me. “Don’t listen to him,” he whispered to me. “There’s nothing wrong with writing the Billy Boyd love.”

Milan shot him a toxic glance, but Eugene continued unafraid, “Lots of people want to be carnal with me and Billy Boyd happens to be one of them. Of course, it is because I am such a premium lover, but someone has to write it, otherwise it will burn a hole in your head.”

Milan’s forehead scowled and Eugene pouted in his general direction.

I pondered, “But Eugene, how do I know that this you-and-Billy-Boyd thing you talk of isn’t just a product of my own imagination? That I imagined you up here because I don’t want to hear what Mr Kundera has to say?”

“Firstly, one,” said Eugene, “Why is he ‘Mr Kundera’, and I only ‘Eugene’? He has the respect because he is all severe and displaced ex-Czech living in Paris with that forehead, and I am but a Ukrainian New York gypsy punk? Eh?” He blew air out of his mouth upwards so that his strange black hair flipped away from his face.

He sighed, “But no matter. Secondly, two,” he counted on his fingers, “Two, ‘A’, to be more precise. If I were just a product of this head of yours,” he tapped a finger against my forehead, “Don’t you think you would conjure up a Billy Boyd too? Me, and not him? Not likely. Both of us maybe. But I am here in just as much right as he is,” He shot Milan a look.

“Two, ‘B’, my dear little lady, is proof that you could not have just conjured me. If you conjured me, would I not be eating something you eat, some cheese you sell at that cheese-selling job of yours, something that has seeped into your unconscious? And what is it you see me eating, eh?”

“Actually,” I said, “What is that?”

“This,” he said triumphantly, “Is beef jerky!”

I looked at Milan, whose face reflected the same bewilderment I felt.

“Ok,” I said, “Right.”

Eugene obviously felt he had proved his point and fell silent, gnawing at strips of his beef jerky and looking at me with big dark eyes. This sure was one weird park. What suburb was this anyway, Friedrichstein? I don’t remember how I navigated here or where it was I had come from.

A small Japanese-looking man approached our little party, glancing between the three of us. “May I?” he said, indicating at the patch of sunlight we were seating in.

“Of course, please.” I said. I thought that maybe he would turn out to be a bit more normal and a bit less quarrelsome than Milan and Eugene.

“If you don’t mind my saying, I couldn’t help but overhear what you were discussing.”

“Beef jerky,” Eugene nodded sagely, “Yes, it is a premium food group.”

“No. I mean Billy Boyd and Roy Orbison Wrapped in Cling Film.”

He knelt down on a patch of sunlight between Milan and Eugene. “Before I go on, please let me introduce myself,” he said. “My name is Haruki Murakami. Pleased to make your acquaintance Miss Von Johnson, Mr Kundera, Mr Hütz.” He nodded at each of us in turn.

“How does he know all our names?” Eugene murmured to me under his breath. I tried to shrug without Haruki noticing.

“I don’t know about this Billy Boyd you speak of,” Haruki said, smiling pleasantly, “But I just wanted to say that I think the points made by both Mr Kundera and Mr Hütz have value. You shouldn’t dismiss one because it disagrees with the other.” He looked at me earnestly and paused before continuing. “I think Roy Orbison Wrapped in Cling Film has a place in your writing. If not Roy and Cling Film, then someone else and something else. Wrapped or not. Do you see what I’m saying?”

I looked into Haruki’s encouraging eyes, which flitted with hazel sparks in the sunlight. I looked from him to Eugene, who was sucking on a piece of jerky and gazing at me with surprising seriousness. Then I turned to Milan who appeared slightly put-out but at the same time curious with what Haruki was saying.

“Your writing is leaning towards what it could be. You can feel it. You can almost touch it, almost taste it to write it.”

Milan shifted his legs. “And my point?” he piped up, “It doesn’t sound much like you agree with my point?”

“No,” said Haruki, turning to look at Milan. “I do agree with your point. Powers of any kind should be used for good and not evil. I would only disagree with your use of capital letters – I don’t believe in an ‘Evil’, capital ‘E’, any more than I believe in some universal force of ‘Good’, capital ‘G’.”

From the look on Milan’s face, I guessed he wasn’t quite sure how to take Haruki’s statement. It was like an editorial suggestion he knew he should adopt but which tasted sour in his mouth.

“And the Billy Boyd luuurve?” Eugene chimed in, snapping a piece of beef jerky as he did so. “There is nothing finer in this world, so what better thing to write about?”

“Yes and no.” Haruki said (to which Eugene rolled his eyes), “Love and sex are perhaps some of the best things in this life, and so of course she should write about them.”

“Ha-raar! Points to us!” Eugene exclaimed, slapping me on the leg as he did so.

“Mr Kundera, here, himself writes about love and sex. In fact, most of his books seemed to be preoccupied with the subject.” Eugene looked crestfallen and Milan suddenly more interested.

“It is not the subjects she should let go, but Billy Boyd.” Haruki was now looking straight at me. “I know you can do it,” he said quietly. He took my hands and in them he placed an object. I was vaguely aware of Eugene hitting his own head with the piece of jerky, and Milan looking at Haruki and me with something akin to – was it? – respect. I held Haruki’s gaze while he gently closed my fingers over the object. As I looked down towards my hands I felt the scene, the sunlight, the park in Berlin, all of them fading away. The last thing I remember was opening my hands to look at the object I held. It was a double adaptor.

In my own bed, Toby was snuggled up to me, deep in his own cat-dreams, a gentle Melbourne winter light filtering in through the cotton blind over my window.

“You know, he was wrong about the Billy Boyd,” a voice said next to me. I looked over to where the voice had come from and Eugene winked at me. “Don’t believe everything those writers tell you,” he said, tossing something onto the bed. “I’ve got to take a piss. I know you’re a lady, but I got to say – I’m going to piss like there’s no tomorrow.” He left the room and I looked at what it was he had thrown on the bed, what is was Toby had got up to investigate.

Of course. You guessed it.

A piece of beef jerky.

Roy and The Split Personality Cat

2006-07-24T14:53:00.000+10:00

It was a clear winter Monday, the sky a faraway blue, the sun a teasing promise. I had spent the morning enjoying friands and the fashionable addiction of the time, caffeine. It was twelve o’clock noon exactly when there was a knock at the door and I opened it to find Roy Orbison standing on my threshold. Bedecked in his trademark all black, black sunnies on his nose, he greeted me with a nod, saying, “I don’t go in for these newfangled technologies. Doorbells! What use be them to me?”

“Roy!” I said, “Do please come in!” And he did.

I was surprised, as you may be too, to find Roy Orbison a sudden visitor to my house. But from five months of living so close to Moonee Ponds, Zombie capital of Victoria, I was, by this time, used to all sorts of things rising from the grave and making surprise turns among the living. And Roy looked pretty spritely, I must say. There was no odour of rotting flesh, nor paleness of the pallor – in fact he didn’t look a day over 52, which, strangely enough, was the age he was when he died. Or so I thought.

We had seated ourselves in the living room and I had offered him a cup of tea and was just about to suggest the eating of some cheese. He was admiring the screen that covers our fireplace. I was hoping he wouldn’t notice the gaping hole in one side of it and point out the potential fire hazard. But I was prepared to counter with the newness of our smoke detectors, though I was not sure if Roy would know what smoke detectors were, if they had been around in ‘his time’ and even if it was insensitive to mention them at all. At the time I thought it was lucky that The Cat chose this moment to come bounding in – though, in precious hindsight, perhaps luck had nothing to do with it.

For The Cat who had come hurtling into the room was not Sweet Toby Johnson, as he is eighty-two-to-ninety percent of the time, but instead was his alter ego, the dangerous and deranged Slasher McTook. Roy could not even draw breath before Slasher started doing what his name dictated he does – he took one look at Roy and attacked him with a whirl of claws, yowling his Xena-warrior-cry and ripping shreds into the poor timeless crooner. Where there was flesh there became bloody flesh-strips, where there was black clothing there became shredded, bloodied black clothing, exposing yet more bloody and shredded flesh underneath. Roy’s glasses became askew and all he could say was “Oh!” as the tornado of stripes and claws wreaked its havoc.

It all happened so fast, that I could hardly call my own usually-dear animal off him, before it was over and Roy was left standing, bleeding by the fireplace. Slasher McTook withdrew to wherever it is he goes to think up his schemes of mayhem and violence, all the while listening to Beethoven, The Best of. Again Roy said “Oh!” and I was worried he was going to bleed on the carpet and we wouldn’t get our bond back. Then the more pressing concern came to mind that Roy Orbison would bleed to death and I would be responsible for the second death of a beloved icon. With that, I rushed into the kitchen and grabbed an industrial sized roll of cling wrap that I had been hiding under the sink, not quite sure why I had been treasuring it so, but knowing that one day my life would depend on it. And the day had come! It was today!

I hurried back into the lounge room and set to work on Roy, carefully wrapping layer after layer of cling wrap around him to stop the bleeding. I started at the feet and worked my way up. I stretched the cling wrap tight; as I was practised at doing at work when wrapping cheese, though never in my wildest cheese-dreams had I imagined I would one day do the same to Roy Orbison. The cling wrap formed a silky cocoon over the man in black and I could see the colour returning to his face – that is, before I wrapped his entire head in the life-saving plastic film. Of course, I left an airhole so that he could breathe! What do you take me for?

After a time, my work was done. Roy Orbison was completely wrapped in cling wrap. Crisis diverted! “You are now completely wrapped in cling wrap,” I told him. His black sunglasses gleamed at me from under all the cling wrap. I knew that now he felt safe.

He looked slightly unstable, so very carefully I lowered him into an armchair. Not that the cling-wrap cocoon allowed him to bend enough to be seated, he was more propped diagonally over the chair. But I think he appreciated my efforts. I then went into the kitchen to fetch some Prima Donna I had in the fridge, an aged Swiss-style cheese, with a delicious, slightly sweet, nutty flavour. I broke small pieces off and fed them to Roy through his mouth hole. I found my breathing and heart rate increasing, and it seemed like both Roy and I fell into some kind of cheese-trance and drifted away onto a higher plane of pure bliss.

I don’t know how much time had passed when I felt a small furry creature nuzzling my hand. The sky was now a twilit purple, Roy still in his cling wrap, and Sweet Toby Johnson looking up at me as though to tell me those approaching sirens had some mysterious thing to do with me.

“Ok, Roy,” I said, “It’s time.” I didn’t wait for his response. I quickly got him back onto his feet and spun him round and round to free him of his silken wrap. When all the cling wrap was just a sad pile of glittering silver on the floor, a slightly tottering Roy stood before me, looking down in alarm at the small tabby that was circling our feet.

“Don’t worry, Roy,” I told him, “That’s Sweet Toby Johnson. Slasher McTook, your attacker, is gone now. For the time being, at least. You have nothing to fear.” I smiled. I was amazed to discover that his slashed black clothing had mended itself under cling wrap, his terrorised skin also now perfectly healed.

But I didn’t let Roy show me his appreciation, or even admire my record collection – which included a number of his own albums. Instead I hurried him out the backdoor, down the back ramp and over the back fence. No point in ceremony, I thought.

“I’ll always remember you, Roy,” I whispered, as Toby and I watched his receding black figure disappear over the hockey grounds and into the creek. “What a day!” Toby blinked at me in agreement.

What a day indeed!

Too many good things, not enough rant space

2006-07-09T16:50:00.000+10:00

Good things:

1. Haruki Murakami. Why has it taken me so long to read any of his stuff? I now have to make up for lost time and read everything he has ever written. 'Jagger Unauthorized' will just have to wait.

2. Doctor Who. Of course, to me, a self-confessed Whovian, Doctor Who is always good. But the first episode of the new season, which aired last night, was *gooooooooooood*. Now I am all conflicted as to where my loyalties lie: with the 'scrawny-but-sexy' (as my mother put it) previous Doctor, Christopher Eccelston, or with the new Doc, David Tennant, who could be anything at this stage, but most of the things he promises to be are gooooood.

3. 4-cheese pizza. Or pizza de la fromage quatre, as we know it in more civilized circles. The cheeses in question were: English Applewood (that is, a delicious smoked cheese), Caprakaas Goat's Gouda (a mild, firm goat's cheese), Grana Padano (the younger, more mild of the 2 Italian parmesans we have at the shop) and Roquefort (and yes, eating it again made me travel back in time to the 60's, but that's another story for another time). So delicious. So good. So cheese.

4. Getting out of the shower or a bath and wrapping oneself in a warm towel that has been hanging over the heater for the duration of the shower/bath - anything from 7 minutes up to 1 hour, if the bath be hot and the reading be all talking cats and strange libraries (thank you, Murakami). I find, the longer the better the warmer the towel. Ah, to be wrinkly like a prune always.

5. Red Square. Sorry, this is another cheese one, but it is good and this is a list a good things. A light washed-rind, soft, ripe, just reading for eating. Slightly stronger flavour than a regular brie, as I tell my customers. This on a biscuit with a bit of quince paste and a nice cup of tea. This is good.

6. Talking to Erin on the phone, calling from Thailand. Crackly but good to hear her voice, possibly the least depressed she's sounded since the breakup with Julia - which might not sounds like much, but it is good.

7. Writing a list of good things, putting good things into words, black on white, squiggly little characters with dots and lines and funny things. There, solid, in existence. To remind oneself of these things. And that it doesn't matter that one's boss leaves a bit to be desired, that one hasn't even really begun the so-called novel one is meant to be writing this year, that the look of one's bank account means no serious travelling for me when most of my friends seem to be jetting off to exotic places - even housemate Kate is this weekend in Adelaide (yes, 'exotic', ha!) Because you don't have to go far to find good things and when you have them, you should notice them. You should say 'If this isn't nice, what is?' And sometimes that's enough.

8. Realising that should the novel one had planned to write this year take longer to lift off the ground than one had hoped, there's always National Novel Writing Month. Which is November. Why write something over 12 months, when you can cram it into 30 days!? And anyone can do it! So get thee to a nunnery. And go to their website on the way. This is my back-up plan. Nun, novel, November. Nun, novel, November. Good, no? I think so.

9. Eugene Hutz. Gogol Bordello. Gypsy Punks Underdog World Strike. I know most of you won't get the pure joy that this refers to. But it had to be said. Nothing rocks like crazy Eastern European drunk gypsy punks rock. As he puts it: In the old time, it was not a crime.

What does the fireman wear red brace? Or: A condition known as Red Braces Fever, a sufferer's account

2006-06-29T13:03:00.000+10:00

Internet Explorer could not cope with my search of the ABC website for 'Doctor Who'. I think it's trying to hide something and that thing I will bring out into the open in all his time-travelling glory. Speaking of which, during a fevered half-sleep the other night, I dreamt that by eating Roquefort, the previously illegal raw-milk cheese from France, one could travel back in time to the 60s. Then the bed was too hot and only cooled down to a sleepful temperature by Panamax, Panamax Co. and a small stripey cat.

Nix sent me this wonderful link, which I thus send onto all of you:
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2006/1/25budd.html
There! Go! Read!

I had another birthday, roughly 12 months since I had the last one. It was quite nice, despite doing what I never thought I'd do on a birthday, especially not my own, which is get up at 5:00 AM. But one must earn ones Roquefort somehow. Other birthday joys included: finishing work at 2:30 PM, eating spiced prawns and mahalabia at Zum Zum, sleeping, eating gorgonzola pizza at Bimbo, seeing film 'Wah-Wah', eating Tiramisu at Miller St, being given what may become "a companion in times of great joy and great sorrow" that is: a hip flask, also: much Murakami, socks and the DVD of the film with the best title ever, 'Faster Pussycat Kill Kill'. Thank you all for participating and lavishing me with love and presents! The birthday extends over many days and yet still promises Spanish donuts with chocolate dipping sauce. It's almost like I'm obsessed with food and/or eating. Almost. Did I mention Lychee Vodka? Yes, Lychee Vodka. Oh yes.

Yesterday, thought of a dark haired Finnish lass I know who goes by the name of Suski. I think now I understand. Went to the protest against our esteemed fuckarse prime minister's IR laws, along with to 80,000 to 150,000 others - how 70,000 people could be misplaced, I do not know. But the firemen! Suski had a mild obsession with firemen and this, now, I can totally see. All the primary colours! Their bright yellow pants and jackets, their dark blue shirts, and best of all, their red red braces. And all so tall! Like some children's performer crossed with a Village People person, it's that camp. But all the better because it's real, a ligitimised use of just primary colours in a serious workplace uniform on men who do a life saving job. Love! Is it wrong to start a fire just to see more of them?

Meanwhile, the ABC website has provided me with the information I crave and so far Internet Explorer has let me get away with it. So, as of Saturday, the 8th of July, no one invite me out on a Saturday night - at least not until after 8:30 PM. I will be in a state of nerd-bliss and geek-trance. 'Doctor Who' returns to our screens! The joy! The tardis! The Billie Piper! Only hitch in my never-go-out-on-a-Sat’day-night plan is that our ABC reception is so shite as to be non-existent. And snow will not do. Will have to fix that before 8th of July or may just die. I wonder, is that something a fireman could do something about?

Of cheese, fires & Satan, Or: One of those eternal dilemmas - what do I call my band?

2006-06-12T14:20:00.000+10:00

I should not be writing here, but instead writing fiction. The whole reason I became a lowly cheese-seller was so that I could be a-writing the fiction inbetween all the cheese. I did in fact finish a story last week, which made me happy for a good day and a half. But now all I can think of is English Applewood, Swedish Ambrosia, Boursin, Caprakaas, Strzelecki and Seal Bay triple cream. The contents of the cheese compartment in my fridge. Plus jimjams quince paste. And my aunty's quince brick. The Seal Bay won't see out the day.

My room is finally at a livable temperature. Damn delightful old-fashioned timber houses and their inability to hold warmth in winter or to stay cool in summer. Though my housemate's solution last summer, when the house was too hot to be in, was to take the TV out onto the balcony and watch films there at night. That I am looking forward to. But these days it is a matter of navigating the eddies of cold air as you move from one heat source to another. Toby agrees that the open fires in the evenings are lovely. I’ve started calling the fire Calcifer - after the fire demon in 'Howl's Moving Castle', which I just finished reading - which explains its sometimes moodiness and reluctance to catch. Though, of course, the real Calcifer does not go out, but instead feeds himself with logs and keeps the moving castle moving. If we were a moving castle, we could move away from the hockey field when the hockey players are getting too rowdy. We could move up the hill closer to the tram stop when I’m running late for work. We could move into a warmer part of the world while the rest of ascot vale freezes. We need to get us one of thems fire demons.

Kate’s band is looking for a new name. They are currently called 'Left of Crazy’, not 'Left of Catzy' as I just mistyped. They are a melancholy rock band comprising of a redheaded bassist and lead-singer, a longhaired Sri Lankan rockponce lead guitarist, a gay farm-boy drummer and a real cute vampire rhythm guitarist and backing vocalist (also, incidentally, a Doctor Who fan). The names they have so far rejected include:
Little Cat Z (‘too funk’)
Bruise Wheel, and/or Bruise Wheel of Death (‘too metal’)
Smit, Snot and Shpadoinkle (‘we're not like your band [read: we're a *serious* band]’ - bah!)
Sire Whipped (‘no one's no one's sire and none of us are sire whipped')
They are too picky, I say. But please, any suggestions you have, throw them my way and I’ll voice them to the manager. I’ll also add the 'of death' or 'of doom' on the end of them to make them that bit more classy.
Unfortunately for them, the most awesomist, best band name ever, Satan's Bunnies, has been taken. We bunnies of beelzebub should have done something to celebrate on June 6th = 6/06/06 = 666 = our dark lord (voldy)'s day! Do you have to like, rehearse and stuff to still be considered a band?

No mention of the Da Vinci Code here

2006-06-02T19:26:00.000+10:00

Damn. Why oh why must Hampstead Heath and its crepes be so far away?! Marnie has gone and reminded me - her going to London for a weekend in a bit. As you do. When you are in Europe. And she is going to seek out crepes on my rant-ahem-recommendation and now I am all jealous, I want crepes and I want them NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! (Yes, that was a Xena war cry you heard!) I will have to live vicariously...

Also, you might like to hear that me and nix/rachel/jonathan are still friends and we have the smiles to prove it. So don't you worry your pretty little head about all the cyber-shite that has gone down in the last week or so. I mean, not shite, but deep intellectual dialogue. no one threw chairs. it was not Jerry Springer. (alas).

And so, because I have not really all that much to say, I thought I'd share with you some more shite in the form of a couple of poems wot I writ semi-recently. Not about cheese (sorry). The first is kind-of half a response to a poem wot Grant Caldwell (remember him?) had in the Sat'day Age recently, and the second is my response to the first poem. You are missing some formatting, italics etc, so just squint a bit when you read 'em and imagine it in there. Skip or enjoy, whatever is your predilection when it comes to pottery, i mean, poetry. So, here goes:

Your News

I see you do (this
in a poem in the paper
and (I wonder what it means
an endless opening (perhaps
something almost (vaginal
—shuddering unsatisfied, I was
these sudden downpours
these days (I used to
—and you were surprised
the news made me (this sudden nightfall
and the downpour (perfect for this
—well, you didn’t know
so, so—(I wonder how
this can ever close (and yet,
you—

And the afterimage

—made it, closed it, finished it) these things I wonder)—that surprised me, or maybe you were just talking—this, this mood, around us all, dark, sodden, you know? You know. You must know) it was all too—) The word was ‘sad’, I can’t pretend to use any other,) are dark, they say, these days are—) that one I didn’t need to open. Or almost there) chinese boxes, babushka dolls, a mirror and a mirror, facing each other across the—) I wouldn’t usually call you ‘you’, others yes, but not you, and then, please understand, the ‘you’ changes, all the time, well once here. Once. Does this close it? this? —this? —this?) This?

A many-splintered thing

2006-05-31T12:47:00.000+10:00

Could this internet connection be any slower? Quite possibly, yes. All I'm asking for is pictures of my latest, newest, maybe one of my weirdest celebrity crushes: Jim Schembri. Have you seen what he looks like? He's cute! Not that I agree with his film reviews, but I do find his column piss-funny. So, time to initiate Operation Stalk Schembri.

Unrelated to OSS, I feel a quote is in order:

'To write or speak is almost inevitably to lie a little. It is an attempt to clothe an intangible in a tangible form; to compress an immeasurable into a mold. And in the act of compression, how Truth is mangles and torn!'
—Anne Morrow Lindberg, American writer.

Not that I believe in the concept of one truth, let alone truth with a capital 'T'. I'm far too postmodern, too much a creative arts student for that. But I feel it's relevant to my last post and nix's reaction to it – a reaction which I was quite hurt by. Part of it was that s/he made me feel like I'd inflicted some great amount of pain and damage, however unintentionally; that I was a bad friend, stupid, blundering, thoughtless. Another part of it made me feel like I was not trusted, not given the benefit of the doubt, that I was being misread in the worst possible way. That I was only writing the post because finally I had *seen*; that – to quote nix – '‘belief’ becomes tangible, visible, ‘real’ [and thus] comment-upon-able'. Rather than the real reason, which was that I thought you'd all like a change from Toby stories. (cue canned laughter).

Maybe nix just gave me a theoretical going-over, which I should have very well expected (damn post-graduate students!). In my defence, I would like to say that I wrote it as I saw it and as I had heard it and as nix had told it to me. Not even that: but as I saw it – on that one day. I was not saying this is all there is to the issue or to nix. I was not positing some Truth, or even truth, small 't'. Identity is a many-splintered thing. And doesn't being trans and all the inherent problems with language (most particularly pronouns), with how you come across to other people versus how you see yourself, etc; doesn't all this just make evident what are fissures in the very nature of identity itself? That most of us put a label on ourselves – at the most basic level: 'he' or 'she' or even just our names – and this label comes to stand for something/someone as though that thing is a unified whole, one single, easily definable thing, an inner truth. Oh whoa, flashbacks to writing essay on 'Orlando'!

Anyway, nix has apologised and I have apologised, so maybe I shouldn't even be posting this. I guess I just want to say what's on my mind, even though now I'm more wary of this whole blog thing and, well, of writing about nix, which makes me sad. Next time: less angst, less theoretical ramblings and more stories about cheese and Toby. Or reader interaction: vote as to whether I should: a.) take OSS to a whole new level, b.) shut down this blog and/or c.) become a hermit and only communicate via carrier pigeon...
“Dear Mr. Schembri, Meet Speckles, my feathery messenger friend who is kind enough to convey my highest regards to your good self...”

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

2006-05-24T12:46:00.000+10:00

Paid rent today. Feel poor. But not 'poo' as I just mistyped. Feel like having a cup of tea. Earl Grey or English Breakfast? Have you heard the news: I seem to be becoming an English Breakfast drinker. After years of just Earl Grey. Weird or weird?

But it seems to be the year of changes: E & J breaking up. R & D buying an apartment. R discovering she's transgendered. RB changing her hair from the standard black bob - no, hold on, that was last year. Me moving here, swapping jobs, getting Toby and drinking English Breakfast. All major life changing things.

I don't think I've ever talked here about nix/rachel/jonathan and her realising some months back that she is transgendered, that is, that she identifies as neither female nor male. I guess it's a kinda big thing - I wanted to do it and her justice. And yes, it is big, but at the same time, when she told me, I was not exactly surprised - it makes sense with her. And since discovering this, she seems to be more at peace within herself; so I am happy. Though at the same time it does open up a whole new kettle of fish: which toilets/pronoun/name to use, etc, not to mention 'coming out'. And in an effort to be less-gender-specific on the outside, so as to reflect who she identifies with internally, she is becoming more 'manly' in appearance, mannerism, laugh, etc. (Yes, 'manly'. As in, 'Men men men men, MANLY men, men meeeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnnnn!' - the classic theme song for that clARSEy sitcom 'Three and a half Men'. Yes, she is now more Charlie Sheen!) Her man-laugh is a good, joyless, deep, slow 'ho ho ho'. Very convincing. Her man-dance makes up both giggle like 12 year old girls. It's all in the pelvic thrust. But her latest man-hair is what I like the most. A bit hippy, a bit hare-Krishna: shaved (nothing new there) but shaved real short except for a tuft (that is, man-tuft) sticking up on the crown of her head. And seeing her with this hairdo, in her new man-clothes: shirt, vest, jeans, runners - all in sober man-colours (gone are the days of orange), I can now really *see* it. I mean, her. The her I think she wants us to see. Not that I didn't 'believe' it before, I did; I believed it and I knew she meant it. But now I can *see* it. Her and Dan looked like a couple of blokes, and that made me the only girl/lass/woman/chick/sheila of our little group as we went into the cinema, as we are wont to do on a Monday. And so forgive me using all these female pronouns. We refer to her as Rachel and/or Jonathan now, but still seem to use the female pronouns more than male - she says she doesn't mind and it would be nice to occasionally use male pronouns, but it's not like 'Rachel' is gone and entirely replaced by Jonathan. She is still the same person; man-laugh, man-dance, man-clothes, man-hair and all. And terrible movie suggestions: because of her, we saw The Da Vinci Code!

So click on the Bowie lyrics (entry title) to go to her excellent blog which deals with the subject. Of being trans, not of making terrible movie suggestions. That's an entirely different blog. Or at least, it should be.

Being messenger

2006-05-15T13:11:00.000+10:00

On the weekend I had some sad news which I then had to impart onto some of our friends. Ah, the blessed joys of being messenger. I think we all gave the same response of 'oh my god'. The news was that two of our friends have broken up after 5 something years together. It is very sad and makes me want to just curl up in a chair watching season 4 of Buffy (the ones where Willow and Tara get together) with a cat in my lap. Or that could be my head cold talking. They are very far away at the moment, which makes it all the more difficult to digest. But if you are reading, guys, then know you are in my heart and thoughts, and I miss you both.

Now, where's my chocolate?

Toby & his rock'n'roll lifestyle: fights, bites, other cats & drugs

2006-05-11T12:35:00.000+10:00

Bit of drama here at Ronemeda on Monday: Toby got himself into what I imagine was a one-sided fight with another cat, a big meanie-poo who picks on little 4 month old moggies. So I come home from the cinema and discover the previously playful kitty in a fit of what could almost be teenage angst, but was probably just miserable pain. When I patted him along the back he yelped like I'd poked him with a red-hot poker and then ran and hid under the bed. So I called on my kind-of-local cat courier service (also, strangely enough, my mother - it's a small world) and gots us to the vet. Who fixed him up good and proper - shaved a bit of fur off his side, where there was a puncture wound from that nasty cat's tooth. Gave him a shot of something in his leg. Fixed us up with some green pills. He also ran his hands repeatedly over the poor cat's sore back to try and find if there was another puncture wound that would need shaving and closer investigation. This Toby did not like one bit, and me neither - he was crying something terrible and I felt so guilty, having been at the cinema enjoying a life of leisure while my baby was getting mugged and molested by some bully-cat equivalent of Phillip Ruddock. Just because Toby is a delicate flower/future-librarian/David-Bowie-loving-nerd! But he's fighting the good fight against the armies of corks which are invading our house - slightly less scary than orcs but still after the one true feathered mouse to rule them all. (Ok, so maybe I need to get out of the house a little more...)

But don't fret, he's back in form now and proved it by purring lots and also pouncing on my face while I tried to sleep. At least it was not as bad as Martin's diagnosis: that he'd been bitten by a zombie duck from down the creek/drain and was going to turn into undead poultry and you know, 28-Days-Later us all to death. Because he did keep making these quaking-type noises when we tried to touch him on the back. But the vet said we'd all be dead by now if that had been the case. Dead or undead. And can the undead write blogs? This be proof to the contrary or incriminating evidence.

Today's crisis is how I can make the less than 1cm of milk left in the carton last for the day's worth of cups of tea. Because of course I can't just go out and buy more. That would involve leaving the house.

Me, productive?

2006-05-04T17:32:00.000+10:00

Somehow not having to get up at 5am (as I do 3 days a week in order to get to the Market for work by 6:30) means that I instead sleep uptil 9:45am or until Toby bites my hand/s off (like Face/Off: Nick Cage style) and I have to get up and feed him with my bloody stumps. Don't worry, they grow back by 11 or so. Then I eat my brekkie of yummyyummyyumyum blueberry bagels that make me think of Marnie stocking up on them in London before going back to the edible-food-free-zone that was Finland (Hi, Marnie, are you ever here?). Then I have a bath and read my book. So good. Damn Ali Smith. She's gone and written it. What am I meant to write now? (Said book is Hotel World, btw. Thanks Erin&Jules for the rec! I loved it!) Meanwhile, Toby fell in the bath while trying to catch one of those ever elusive corks, which at that point was floating in the water, however did it get there? It was bound to happen sooner or later - poor little soaking wet cat. But has he learnt? Probably not. Cheese for brains.

I did decipher a Tom Waits lyric which had always passed me by: "The large print giveth, the small print taketh away."

Then I did some painting, which SUCKED. Well, most of it. I don't think any of it will make it out of the studio, but I guess making it out of the paint tubes is a step up in the world for the paint itself. Maybe I should stick to little bits of ripped paper stuck together in a pretty fashion? Also international travel tickets. Hmm...

THEN lunch happened and with lunch, some all-important Buffy viewing. Which included an episode with some palpable chemistry between Oz and Xander. I love Oz - but not Xander so much. So therefore know that I AM NOT projecting. If I were projecting, I would project chemistry onto Oz and Spike, would I not?! But anyway, in said ep (from Season 4), Buffy knocks Oz and Xander unconscious and they end up lying in each other's arms! So sweet. Then later, Xander's hand is protectively on Oz's shoulder. Well, who wouldn't want to fondle cute little Seth Green?! Etc. And more. Off-screen stuff. You know how these boys are. *ahem*

So, all in all, a well used day off. At this rate I will ... ah ... achieve something ... create something ... you know?

Blue Orchid

2006-04-23T18:14:00.000+10:00

I have a new love in my life. Met and tasted only yesterday and already a fixation in my dreams last night. That is, Blue Orchid - the most exquisite creamy blue cheese I have ever tasted. In fact, my new favourite cheese. Nay, my new favourite food stuff. Nay, my new favourite - love. Oh my.

So I started my new job at the cheese shop on Tuesday and by Saturday was starting to enjoy it. Working with another Esther is fun (one more for the collection!). But it's busy and kinda full on and I've never done the food-handling-being-on-your-feet-all-day thing. Well, let's just say it took me a while to feel the love.

I started with the Havati. Danish, creamy, quite nice. Kate (housemate) loved it. Then I tried some tasties/cheddars: Victorian Vintage (nice and sharp) and a club cheddar, Tilba (nuttier flavour, I prefered the Vic Vintage). Then before my shift on Saturday, Martin (other housemate) put in a request in for some blue cheeses, gave me $10 to go blue crazy. And all day long all I heard was people raving about the Blue Orchid. I even gave a couple of customers a sample of it (this being before I myself had tried some) and they swooned, the man saying all he needed was this cheese and a bottle of shiraz and he'd be set. So it's blue; I had Martin's money burning a hole in, well, my wallet; so I think, ok, Blue Orchid - I'll try some. And to 'compare and contrast': some King Island Roaring Fourties Blue. Plus staff discount. Nicey nicey, all set to rock, as they say, n'roll.

Some of you may have heard me speak of the pillar of my existance, the things that hold me up, keep me going when times are rough, shine light on the darkness of being young and free in Australia in the 21st century. You might have heard me say brie was one pillar, cheese (in general) another pillar, tiramisu a third... But all these are null and void now. I have only one pillar and it is Blue Orchid. Only one addiction. Only one vice. Only one obsession (sorry, Mr Bowie). Can I survive until my next shift on the small piece I got yesterday? Can I spend all my money on just this one cheese? Can the colour blue ever mean anything else? I tell you, I am a changed woman.

So, youse'all should come down to the Vic Market, shop's called Curds and Whey, and I'll fix you up with some too.

last night, I dreamed I was dreaming of you...

2006-04-16T16:22:00.000+10:00

...or say Tom Waits tells me. I love Tom Waits.

I also love Martha Wainwright, who I saw perform on Thursday night. Her competition was only The Rolling Stones who were performing across the road that same night. I love the Rolling Stones, but their tickets were something like $250 a pop, so I think I made the right choice on the night (or so my bank balance tells me). Plus Martha has a number of things going for her that the Stones do not: she is young and HOT (though Mick IS a sex god), her music is fresh and unsentimental, she is female, and she had merchandise including undies with the words "Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole" written on the bum of them (after her classic song which she teased us she would not sing, but then sung it all the same). At least, as far as I know, the Stones were not selling something similar - correct me if I'm wrong. She sure knows how to sing. Oh wow, I love her voice. If only I could sing a fraction as well as she does. She even did a Stones song: Street Fighting Man. I'm sure no one can prance and pout like Mick Jagger, and I do have a slight Mick-and-Keith inspired shrine in the kitchen and sure, as far as I know Martha is not a Time Lord (like Mick is), nor is she an undead immortal vampire-type (like Keith), but she is GREAT! *sigh* So, who wants to come with me to see her at Manchester Lane on 24th April?!?

So, what else? Toby has discovered the great outdoors. Or rather, he has been allowed to discover it and he enjoys it very much. All that space! All those new smells! All that stuff to explore! But right now he is sleeping in my lap - too much of a good thing can be quite tiring for a small cat.

Speaking of Time Lords (Mick, not Toby), I saw 28 Days Later last night, while drinking wine and toasting marshmallows on an open fire. My favourite Time Lord (sorry Mick), Christopher Eccleston (the Doctor - as in - Who) was in it, as an evvvvvvvvvvvil army man. No sonic screwdriver here. They had dyed his hair a kind of gingerish-red colour to signify his evvvvvvvilness. I could tell he was secretly missing Billie Piper. Ah, Billie... Anyway *cough* where was I? Oh yes - I want me a Cillian Murphy for the house. And not just because I fear for a zombie attack here in Ascot Vale. But I tell you, the other day I went to Puckle St, Moonee Ponds - which is the local 'strip' - and it was scary. Bogans galore. And zombies too, no doubt. AND I had no luck trying to source me some Ali Smith to read. There needs to be a Readings there, and a Cinema Nova, and a Vina Bar, and a Brunettis, and a King and Godfreys, and you might as well chuck in a Tiamo 2 while you're there. Or just move all the best bits of Lygon St, so that they're 5 mins away from me again. Not that I'm missing being so close to all of that, no, nothing of the sort...

So, go forth and listen to Tom Waits. And Martha Wainwright. And eat chocolate. Happy Egg Day, everyone!

A new season, a new beginning

2006-04-05T16:35:00.000+10:00

It's raining and just starting to be cold - well, colder than summer, but not cold compared with Europe winter or even autumn. But luckily I have a number of warming things: freshly baked hot cross buns, chicken soup (cure for the common cold), dressing gown, a furry lap warmer who gets bigger day by day, and the music of Draco and the Malfoys (warms the cockles of my heart). So all in all, not too bad. But I'm still cold!

ALSO - I quit my job! Yay, no more unhappiness there! No more abusive callers! Hopefully no more call centres for me! I see out the week (most of which has been spent in bed or on the couch watching Buffy, drinking chicken soup and trying to get over said common cold). Then I have one week holiday/unemployment (however you choose to see it). Then I start my new job at a cheese/deli shop, Curds and Whey, at the Vic Market. Which will give me better hours (ie. less - more conducive to being, as they say, 'artistic') and less money (but does that make you - ie. me - happy? Answer: no.) So no more trips to Europe for me in the near future, but hopefully less depression/job-related-dissatisfaction with life in general/being an alcoholic (ha ha). Also probably less boot and/or shoe buying and I may have to put off buying box set of the new series of Doctor Who (hint: birthday/June). But I hope my life can be more what I want it to be, and me more the person I want to be - which, in general, is a happier one.

Toby would like to report that his research into the kitchen sink and the properties of water are going well, as is his exploration of new and exciting cupboards of the house. His obsession with food continues to grow as does his belly and body in general. My neck and shoulders are becoming more scratched as his sharp little claws have to hold up more weight when he settles himself on my shoulders. Mental note to self: wear cat-protective clothing any time when in the house.

Launched (like a rocket) new band with four sevenths of the original members of the Northcote Military Tatu of Death. New band, until we decide otherwise, is called Satan's Bunnies. Hopefully we will rock. On a regular basis. In the music room or basement of my house. Maybe not always with a kitten on my shoulder, pouncing on my fingers as I try to play the cello. Amusing, but not very practical.