Elbow-deep in beautiful dirt

Some of the nicest things I've heard recently: "It really looks like your place, now" (from my lover) and "We love what you've done here! This is your work, isn't it?" (from the across-the-street neighbours, being wonderful & neighbourly during the black-out). Yes, my front yard is going really, really well. The italian lavender is producing masses of new flower-heads, the recently-tamed jasmine has started sending seeker-tendrils around the porch railing, the daisies and grevilleas my mum & I planted down the side are beginning to flower already, and my succulents are looking glossy & gorgeous in an assortment of re-purposed pots (old coffee tins and old boots and such). I've set up a 'nursery' of little pots along my window ledge, filled with the 'babies' (pups, technically) that spring off the bigger succulents, and all of them are growing well.

I get so much joy out of coming home and seeing my front garden & porch thriving. Finding treasures, like the completely random red flower growing on the white daisy bush, or noticing that the nasturtium seedlings are pushing up already. Checking on the progress of everything, my eyes filled with visions of what is still to come (I'm forming spring ambitions to do with tomatoes and hanging baskets). And deciding where to place a night-blooming jasmine, evicted from my lover's garden by an unsympathetic landlord- on the last free edge of the porch, I think.

The backyard is the ugly child now, the problem. I wander out there and stand with a faint scowl and a cup of tea, pondering how to fix it. How to get colour into the shade, how to even out the messy, stop-gap landscaping efforts, how to rescue the work of the last gardener who lived here (some time ago, by the state of things). I've lined up some glossy vines against the tumble-down fence, and the table is covered with potted plants waiting for some good structure to be displayed on. I think that there will be impatiens under the messy shrubs in the garden bed, and probably a japanese maple in a pot in the corner where the fences and walls don't quite meet up.

This is what fills up my brain when I'm stupidly busy with system administration training, with double shifts and long work weeks and networking like a corporate motherfucker. Suddenly I understand why all the full-time worker bees spend their Saturdays at Bunnings or at the flower shop- it's almost desperate, this need to have Home be a safe and beautiful place to sink time into. And all the effort, all the 'coming home from work and doing work' is worth it because this work creates something gorgeous, just to be enjoyed. I don't think I'll be able to give up the pleasure of this, ever again.

That Book (you know the one)

Q: What kind of a freak goes to all the effort of picking up a copy of That Book half an hour after it's worldwide release (surprisingly easy to lay hands on, really- the robe-and-pointy-hat crowd dispersed pretty fast) and then puts it in a bag to leave as a surprise present for her girlfriend? Without even buying a copy to read for herself, without even cracking the covers to take a quick peek?

A: One who is madly in love and wants to see her girlfriend smile (and is even willing to put up with being ignored for a few days while the book is consumed- she's committed, this freak!).

I had to be pretty firm on the fact that no, I didn't want a souvenir broomstick to go with my purchase. Thanks, though. Then when I went for a coffee with the book-shop bag still in my hand the baristas nearly leapt on me in their excitement, and when I said that it wasn't even for me (and no they couldn't have a look) I think they wanted to spit in my coffee. All this over a series of books that are, at best, only almost-as-good as the fan-fiction they inspire.

f***e as f***k

Funny thing, queer identities, the way they surge and recede, popularly and in the individual. There have been times in my life when being femme was probably the single greatest focus I had in regards to my appearance, engagement with the world, sexuality, self-identity, seeking out of community and so on. Kinky, too- have gone years where the first word that pops up in my head when I think of myself is 'kinky' (or submissive or pony or bloodslut or whatever happens to have taken my fancy at the time). But it's been a while, in either case. Not that I am no longer femme or kinky- I am both- but neither is the primary lense through which I view, receive and respond to the world the way they once were. Relaxing a lot about both (no longer feeling the need to be at every play party, no longer 'putting myself out there' actively for play, no longer marking myself against a mental check-list of femme fabulousness before I leave the house) has meant losing out on some opportunities but also, wonderfully, not having to deal with a lot of the bullshit that comes along with exclusive group-identification. It's been liberating.

Thinking back on my past involvements and deep investments in the leather and butch/femme communities I wonder if they shouldn't come with a label reading: "WARNING: MAY CAUSE YOUR LIFE TO INEXPLICABLY RESEMBLE HIGH-SCHOOL, YEARS AFTER THE FACT". Of course, as usual, the trick with taking what's good that's on offer in those communities (and there is lots) is not being too invested. Like that troublesome lover who you can only deal with by downgrading how much their approval or attention means to you, three steps backwards feels like the healthiest, sanest way to engage.

For me, right now, that is. Your mileage may vary.

Morning monster

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Ali Is Not A Morning Person. The world is not an acceptable place until the following conditions have been met: I've been awake for at least 30-60 minutes, there has been a cup of tea, and the hour is no earlier than 8am (10am is better). Lacking any one of these conditions, I am a fierce, foul beast of ferocious demeanour, ready to sacrifice small children, bunny rabbits, puppies and kittens on the altar of getting another hour's sleep.

This has been a point of some difficulty, as my darling lover is not exactly a morning person, but is forced by occupation to rise at somewhere between ungodly and demonic AM most mornings. Being that she is not much of a morning person, she does this by means of the world's most teeth-gratingly, apocalypse-inducing alarm known to humankind. Normally this is fine, as my love for extra sleep in the mornings gifts me with a generally miraculous ability to sleep through anything, or at most, to mumble a blurry "loveyoutoohoneyKbye" before sticking my head blissfully back under the covers. But even I have my limits.

"IT IS FIVE FIFTEEN AM. TIME TO GET UP. IT IS FIVE FIFTEEN AM. TIME TO GET UP. IT IS FIVE FIFTEEN AM. TIME TO GET UP". Round one I can cope with- same message over and over, five minutes worth, not a stir from the lover. Stick head under pillow and cope. Ten minutes later, same thing slightly adjusted, only for longer. Beginning to plot death & destruction. Third time around, wondering if she'd wake up if I threw her phone through the closed window. Fourth time, seriously beginning to question my commitment to sparkle motion. Fifth time (that's fifty minutes worth, for those of you counting at home) and gentle "honey- honey- wake up"s have turned into unsubtle Toenail Of Doom jabs in the leg. By round six I have a monologue going, a "Baby if you don't turn that fucking thing off I'm never having sex with you ever, ever again, I promise" sort of deal.

So there comes a point when my revenge fantasies against the robot-voice have become so elaborate that there's no point even pretending that I'm going to be able to get back to sleep. This is a heartbreaking realisation, and I have to take a moment to mourn it. But then I do something miraculous, something so completely unexpected that it wakes up the sleeping girl in a manner that the robot-voice has so far completely failed to do: I get up. I get up, put on my robe, stuff my feet in some unglamorous bed-socks, and go fetch my girl a glass of orange juice.

Proceed to spend the entire mad scramble as she's dashing around trying not to be late for work being calm, cheerful, helpful: panadol, honey? More juice? Some toast? Here, found your keys. Found your socks. Looking for your jacket? Over here.

She has no idea how to cope. This is not a situation that has ever arisen before. Ali doesn't DO mornings, and she certainly doesn't do them in a civilised, friendly fashion. Her total stunned surprise is almost, almost revenge for my morning of lost sleep, but mostly I'm right there with her: wondering where the hell this other personality came from, and when it's owner's going to want it back.

Something Fabulous

Lying in bed last night, unable to sleep for the hacking cough, but far too cold to get out of bed to try to do anything productive, I decided that what I desperately needed was to find something fun to do in winter. Something really big, something really fabulous & exciting, something to look forward to. Because this months-and-months of bleakness is getting old & tired, and making me feel old & tired. Summer has it all- non-stop festival-feeling, party-fever, the good food, the good times, sunshine, long hot nights. Christmas & New Years add an official holiday dimension, and the traditional annual trek up to Lismore is an exclamation-point of joy that gets better every year. And then- slump. Mardi Gras happens, we all come down with a sense of faint relief for a break in the fever-pitch. There's Inquisition, if you want to count the time party-to-party, followed by Sleaze (which is not such a big deal as to get too excited about), but nothing on the scale of the fun of summer. Before you know it, it's July, and life stretches bleak and bland in either direction, nothing on the horizon except the memory of last summer and the anticipation of the next.

This winter I'm stuck with playing catch-up, realising how down I am too late to do anything really fabulous to lift myself out of it. Desperate last-minute holiday plans are being scratched out not as something to look forward to but as a matter of survival (I can't cope much longer). But I can plan ahead for next year, and hopefully not get stuck so much in this stupid, sick, down, sad rut. Next year, I swear, I'm going to be planning & budgeting for Big Winter Good Times from the minute Mardi Gras winds down. I think a week or two of holiday somewhere hot ought to do it. Cairns? Darwin? Anyone else want to join me?

Gentle suggestions have been made that I ought to look forward to plans being made for September and October, but honestly- that's practically summer anyway! Those are not the months of direst need. June, July, August- these are the months of suck, the months that urgently need lightening up. If it takes giving up a whole winter of pub-going to be able to afford to carry myself off somewhere with enough sunlight to restore equilibrium, well, that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.

Missed

For all that I was scared of Saturday night to start with (too big, too tiring a week, not sure I could face the public grief in the very place where I most often connected with my friend) it wound up going well. Complicated and intense, of course (how do you mourn together without that?) but also cathartic, beautiful, and at some moments, completely unexpected fun. It was a relief to finally have, a few weeks after the fact, the chance to articulate what we've lost, to place it somewhere it can be better understood than the raw, abrupt shock it began as.

It was an unexpectedly saucy night. I haven't had 'those eyes' on for a long time, but they were out big-time on Saturday (was it the edge of desperation, or the need to honour her with the sort of antics she loved, or just the need to physically follow through on the emotional release?). It's been months since the last time I felt comfortable reaching for my friends to give & take the sexy side of comfort (this is how I am with my friends, sometimes: perched on knees, arms wrapped around, cheek on chests, good-night pecks that turn into long pashes, getting a hand with outfit adjustment that turns into a heavy-breathing impact interlude. These are friends I love as much at a sex party as across the table at a tea party). It's also been months since the last time my eyes landed bright on strangers and I felt any sort of pull to pursuit- longer still since that pull turned into an active chase, with full confident stride and an exchange-of-numbers-and-kisses finish line. I'm the girl who insists on openness in a relationship but rarely acts on it (except in above-described friendly ways)- it's always a bit of a surprise to find myself going there.

We keep using the present tense when we talk about her. I wonder how long that takes to fade, or if it ever will.

Evidence of life

1. Should you happen to pick up the Sydney Morning Herald today, and happen to glance through the "Essential" lift-out, you might very well find yourself reading an article about DIY fashions. It has a hot photo of a foxy furry on one side and a group photo of me plus two other DIY costume-creators on the other side. I look incredibly out of place, all black-buckled and strapped next their flowing gowns, but to the extent that I can bring myself to care, I'm reasonably pleased with the whole thing.
2. Last night I went over the succulent lover's house in anticipation of her return this morning- on the porch was a box labelled TO: ALI FROM: (a rocking lass I've recently become friendly with). Inside was a wild, bright treasure trove of crafty items, all of them begging to be played with and spun into projects right this very minute. I restrained myself from spreading bright, sequinned mess from one end of my girlfriend's house to the other, but still, random, unexpected packages are a complete delight.
3. In a surreally 21st century moment today, I got an SMS suggesting I try to get a particular photo printed to a particular item in time for someone's party tomorrow night. Sceptical of the likelihood of this, I nonetheless went to the first photo shop I saw when I got off the bus, got confirmation that they could do it, pulled my laptop out and blue-toothed them the image, paid, and had my laptop back in my bag ten minutes after I got the SMS. I pick up the item tomorrow. I'm sure the novelty of this stuff will fade quickly, but right now, it fills me with glee.

Good bits: the "it's been a bad time" edition

The funny thing about writing posts like the ones below is how immediately I feel the need to go "no, actually, it's not that bad. Lots of it is pretty good, actually". And so, the good things:

The Laptop: It is shiny, perfect & new, lightyears faster & prettier than the venerable old desktop that has been chugging along patiently for me since early 2001. My favourite thing about it is that I haven't paid for it- kind of what happened was that I looked deeply sceptical of the terms that one of my employers was offering for my new work contract, and in response they went "hey look! We have this new equipment! Why don't you, uh, take this one, and, uh, use it to... work from home." Given that the laptop is essentially mine-all-mine to do with as I please until I part ways with the organisation, and that I have all of two work-from-home hours per week in my new contract, I'm choosing to view it as a please don't leave us bribe. One I've quite cheerfully accepted. The market value of my soul is unfettered personal access to high-end new computer equipment.

The House: The worst of the stress seems to have resolved itself, and really, I love it. It's so much bigger than the old place, and feels so much less like it's about to fall down around our ears. Although my room is still mostly an arrangement of cardboard boxes, I have a beautiful vision of how it will look in a few weeks time. Having space & opportunity to garden has been amazing.

Succulent Lover: God she's awesome. Sometimes life is just life, and lacks any particularly fun gloss, but sometimes it lights up with this blinding, exhilirating brilliance, and to a degree that my cynical (scared) heart resists, that happens with her. More and more. Brighter and deeper.

The Shortbus Soundtrack: I can't even describe in words how perfect this music has been the past week or so, how I'll be walking down the street grinning to myself like a maniac because it's carried me away somewhere beautiful. I want to burn copies for everyone I know, but I'm scared they won't love it as much as I do. I think I love this music even more than I loved the movie.

Who the hell is this chick anyway?

I don't recognise myself anymore. I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing. Could be I place too high a value on navel-gazing, but I've always felt more comfortable with myself if I know my limits, my boundaries and my talents pretty well. I don't know who this chick is, with her grown up girlfriend, salary-package-workplace-negotiations, career plans, shiny new laptop/please-accept-this-bribe-and-don't-leave, with all her wierd new interests in things that have never previously crossed her mind (things like 'watching the footy' and 'planning a garden' and 'fishing'- where did they come from? How did they arrive in my brain?).

July has been better, much better, but everything is not immediately sunshine & joy. Grief & stress do not dissipate immediately with the turning of the calender page.

And with this feeling of distance from myself, or too-deep immersion in the too-fast currents of everything that Needs To Keep Moving Or I'll Drown, I'm doing some things that I'd normally flinch away from scared: like contacting people out of the blue because they crossed my mind. As well as other things that are less brave and less good, like clamping my lips shut over the bare truth when I'm talking to people who are supposed to love me enough to hear it. I think it's easier to want to be with people who don't know me as well right now, or who are distant from the details of my life.