the damage

I lost a good friend of mine to cancer recently. For the past couple of years, it was a battle that defined her, and it finally ceased on 30 June 2016. I'd learned a few days before that she was in a bad way, so the bad news just kept rolling.

I've been finding it difficult to come to terms with what a loss like this means to me, and to the wider world.  You see, she was quite a wonderful creature. A fiercely loyal friend, passionate, caring, protective and unafraid. She was the first real friend I had that used "fuck" a lot, and it delighted me.

She was the kind of person, who really wanted to know how you were going when she asked; she didn't waste words; she didn't cower away from her differences to make her life easier. She was courageous - even before the cancer. The world positively needs more people like her in it, as do I.

My grief has been tinged with the sourness of guilt.  We lived several hundred kilometres away - and since her diagnoses she would decline my haphazard requests for a catch up. I recognised that she probably didn't want me to see her, and while I respect that, I also wished I had tried harder. To add insult to injury, I couldn't attend her funeral.

M was one of those special people, you meet and you know instantly that you have found a member of your tribe.  I think, selfishly, what upsets me the most is that I won't have this wonderful spirit in my corner anymore (not physically at least). In this war called life, I have lost one of the most valuable members of my army.  I don't have a lot of people in my tribe, and M's absence is a massive void.

In a frantic letter I wrote to her before she passed, I told her that I see reminders of her everywhere.  In encounters with strangers, in bold reds, Greek reminders, moments of compassion and sharp witted folk. God, how I will miss her.

Years ago, we went to see Gotye together - the show was held in some amphitheatre in the bush.  There were so many rules - we had to abandon pillows and blankets, and we had to deal with pushy hipsters and assholes too.  At the end of the concert, as the line of cars abandoning the empty stage stretched the horizon, we parked, turned up the music - opened all the doors to the car and danced in the dark field until the cars went away. That was a very M thing to do.

The last time we saw each other in the flesh - we'd spent quite a few hours together, had a meal and a good chat, she dropped me back at my hotel, and before she left, she hugged me so hard. I was crying my eyes out, she said "I love you" and I told her I loved her back.  We held each other for such a long time.   It wasn't long after that, that she texted me with the news of her cancer.  I'm sure she knew that last time we met, I think she spared me, I think maybe she knew that was the last time we were going to see each other. I wish I'd known.

I don't know what happens to people when they die, but I refuse to believe they stop 'being'.  I hope they go somewhere nice, where they don't have any bad thoughts anymore; a place where they don't have to worry about pain, fear or loss. Where their spirit is free to flit and meander wherever it so desires. Perhaps as we live we leave invisible star dust trails woven in the people and places we encounter. I keep M in my heart, and there she shall stay for as long as I am waking.

Good bye beautiful M.

..No one's ever lost forever
When they die they go away
But they will visit you occasionally
Do not be afraid
No one's ever lost forever
They are caught inside your heart
If you garden them and water them
They make you what you are
No one's ever lost forever
When they die they go away
But they will visit you occasionally
Do not be afraid
No one's ever lost forever
They are caught inside your heart
If you garden them and water them
They make you what you are.
~ Amanda Palmer and The Grand Theft Orchestra

an empty cage

This morning we found one of our family pet birds dead on the floor of his cage. He arrived one Christmas Eve, some fifteen years ago - another of my Mother's infamous 'bird phases' - she was going to teach this long-billed Corella to talk. He would be called Jake. Some time later we would come to question Jake's gender - as Jake never really got the hang of the whole talking business.

The sight of a lifeless animal, head crashed to the floor is not a nice one.  It's a vague idea that might cross your mind briefly, whenever you are reminded of the special animals in your life, when you remember they won't be here forever - but in those moments you quickly shake the picture from your mind, to think about another day - some distance in the future. We don't know what happened to Jake - but he was supposed to outlive us all, we had heard they could live for 100 years, and supposedly he was to be my inheritance one day, when my parents would no longer be around to look after him.

Jake was an odd creature - a little damaged like the rest of the members of my family.  A plump body, about the size of an AFL football, covered in brilliant white waxy feathers; beady black eyes, surrounded by a circle palette of old-lady-blue-rinse coloured crinkly skin, and a blush of coral on his 'cheeks'. And gracing the top of his head, a scaly intimidating crest that would rise whenever he was mad, or rain-happy, or scared - and when it rose, the slightest salmon pink shade could be detected beneath the feathers of his crown.

Jake could be an unadulterated pain in the ass.  He and I had a strained relationship at times.  With his fiercely hooked long beak, I could never understand why he would be spooked by gentle doves and cockatoos that got too close to the border of his world - his cage. His squawk would resound in the tiny depths of your cavernous ears - he was bloody loud, and shall we say, generous with his voice.  Whenever my little nephew would get scared by Jake's noise, I would simply tell him "it's ok, Jake's just singing".

He disliked small quick children, people wearing sunglasses and aggressive folk who tried to make him 'sing', along with the aforementioned doves/magpies/crows and any other animals that might get too close; he didn't seem to like my big camera much either. He loved sunflower seeds, apple and spreading his wings in the rain; he was also quite partial to a head rub (from the right person).  It was moments when the summer rain would trickle down the front of his cage, Jake would cling to the wire - wings outstretched, feathers flapped, crest high and proud - I think doing some pre-programed ancestral dance of the Corellas - it was these moments, I liked him best.

"JAKE! Shutup Jake! SHUUUUT UPP!" We all screamed many, many times throughout his life.  I feel a little bad now, for cursing him so much. I loved to watch him waddle on the bottom of his cage, like something from a prehistoric age - he was clumsy and cute in his quiet moments.

Before having to leave for work this morning, I had a little cry and I tried to comfort my Mum, who would without doubt be feeling the loss more than me.  I would see my Mum, red faced, watery eyed, briefly rise to look through the kitchen window to see the cage Jake used to occupy, only to remember it was empty now, and she would weep again, recalling the loss.  My Dad left for work, sombre and stone faced; I had the impression he would hold it together, until reaching the confines of his car, or office, where he would be free to shed his tears, it's what I would do, if I were him.

He was just a bird, a noisy, funny little bundle of feathers and beak, but he was a part of the family.  Sometimes I think the larger the animal, the more space it takes up in your heart, and the bigger the shattering shock to your gut when you see them fallen and unmoving.  It's easy to forget the small parts that make up the stage setting of your life - the things, people, creatures, trees - most unnamed, go unnoticed until the day they aren't there anymore. They bring colour and shape to our existence, and leave holes of various sizes when they cease to be.  It hurts when things like this happen, the endings always so much more vivid than the journey - but they enrich our lives in untold ways, and I suppose in these moments of upset, that's what we need to focus on.

there is a kingdom

I found a real friend. I can't say how, because in truth, I do not know. I suspect it was one of those curiously normal days, when, in closet-to-Narnia style, I stumbled upon her world and adored what I found. Gods angels may well have been holding a neon sign directing me to this woman, a sign I could not see at the time.

On this, International Women's Day, I celebrate the arrival of this woman into my world - I look back and wonder where it all began? I shake my head at the utter ridiculousness, that two peoples life-lines could clash together so fantastically; separated by state lines and time zones - some might laugh at the suggestion that I found a best friend?

I speak so dramatically about this lovely person, perhaps because in my adulthood, I had resigned myself to the reality that my time for finding and making real friends was over.  For so long, not letting anyone in far enough to see the mess beneath - I figured I'd forgotten how to connect with people; maybe it was all too hard.

Sometimes life delivers beautiful and inspired surprises and on days like these, awe is the only appropriate response.

Today, I celebrate this person, because she is an inspiring, strong, courageous woman who encourages me to celebrate myself - in this day and age, who does that?

There is a kingdom, to which we belong, where we are princesses - bound not by blood - but by things far more magical - spirit, heart and other things unseen. The doll and the bird.

SB xx

shout out to paul

Paul Hewson (a.k.a Bono) was one of the original front men to capture my heart and imagination. Before his obscure fascination with rimless glasses, and wearing them, like, all the time - he was delightful!  If I could find myself a Bono-circa-1990-look like...I would be a very happy brown eyed girl to his blue eyed boy.

Yikes! It's almost too much to take.

SB xx

the man, dan

An ode to the lovely Dan Sultan.  Few things in life, are as delicious as a dark haired man with sparkling blue eyes.  And best of all - this man has the voice of a roughened angel, who has been cast down from the clouds to spend his time swigging Jack Daniels in smoky bars, cradling a guitar like it is an extension of himself.  Ooo-ahhh.

So fine.

SB xx

Greetings From Hotel Di Shithouse

My absence from the land of blog was not self-imposed, but instead work related - which meant I was city bound and PC-less.  It was difficult losing access to that portion of 'me' and not being able to read the blogs of those that I follow and have come to adore.

It was a big week; one of learning that required tolerance, and involved nasty cab drivers, bad showers, reduced personal space, irrational bed-bug fears, minimal sleep and some spew for good measure.

My week was spent in the big city; home of the ipod society.  It never ceased to amaze me, just how many people would walk in the streets and in the shops with their ipods firmly implanted in their ears.  It surprises me that people in the city are so desperate to tune out of the 'right now' that they would choose to be permanently plugged into a soundtrack that overrides the sounds of everyday life. I. Don't. Get. It.

I went along with two other ladies from my work, and it proved challenging at times to say the least.  Both ladies, are fine company in small doses - but a five day stint was tough for me to bear.  I think perhaps I'm just the kind of gal that needs a little space, and less talking... much less wordiness.  The hotel we were staying in (and I use the term 'staying' very loosely) was a disaster.

It was the kind of place where one might expect to contract some form of hepatitis if you were to sit down... and we won't even mention the kitchen utensils.  There were the three of us, sharing one room, three beds, a very small TV, no windows, no escape. My favourite design element was the 'false' deadlock on the front door, but the winning item would have to be the bathroom.  Gross at day, but oh, at night when the light went on - a whole other dimension.  One of those thoughtful switches that combines the light and fan into one user friendly switch.  Said fan, had the auditory presence of a small aeroplane - an aeroplane, moments from crashing in flames that is.  And the shower head was a beast of misery - its performance could be likened to the feeling of being spat on by The BFG - in a generally random and unpleasant manner. Can't believe I survived it. Can't believe my room mates survived me surviving it.

The actual purpose of the trip was for training.  The training itself went well, although made my head hurt at times.  The facilitator was charming, interesting and motivational.  She was the kind of person, who just by the way she conducted herself, you knew her life was a series of fantastic moments and stories all stitched together into a fine thread of existence.

But, there could only be one truly golden moment, and that had to be on my flight to the city.  Sadly, I suffered a bout of travel sickness, right at the very end of the flight.  I was a good passenger and I used the paper bag provided for me by the airline.  I was exiting the plane, spew bag in hand - strangely saw no bins in the aisle as I completed my walk of shame.  I came to the door that led down the steps to my freedom, and Fernando the flight attendant stood there to say goodbye. He wore the stock-standard Qantas smile, until I asked him politely what I might do with the bag, as I shook the paper shame in his general direction - quick as a flash, the smile was gone, replaced with a scowl as he told me to leave the softening, warm bag of spew on the shelf next to him.  Really, I thought you want to leave 'that' to the influence of gravity? But, I did what he told me - whatever you say Fernando. I'm not going to argue with a man named Fernando, especially when he's in perfect position to push me down a flight of stairs.

And so, I leave you with a dedication. Enjoy...

SB xx

Ode to the Bad Photographer

Sadly many individuals in my family lack some basic photography skills - such as the ability to focus and frame their subjects - as well as general ill timing. Because of this, I tend to be the subject of many poor photos, and given that another Christmas has rolled around, with yet another hall of shame photo reel starring yours truly - here are some photos to celebrate the art of bad photography...

There's just no accounting for taste

I really do believe, with that plaid - it was destined to fail

She'll come to regret this someday

Who thought this was a good idea?

It's the beardless Santa hanging from his neck that lets this one down

Oh dear

This is going to end badly for someone

A little awkward

SB xx