Going Domestic

Having just realised I'm going domestic, join me in a if you look to your left you'll see a wall closing in, and ladies and gents if you're quick and look to your right, just past the temper tantrum you'll see another wall closing in, we've just passed a wall closing in and up ahead, yes we're in luck, there's another one that it looks like someone is being driven up style safari complete with wild beasties and hairy men who will only wear shorts.

Saturday, February 05, 2005

Can't hear the forest for the trains.

Maybe this blog is only a tree falling in a forest, with no one to hear it(I love metaphors. Also euphemisms, if I was to have another child it might get lumped with Euphie as a name). Which would be fine. It's the falling bit that counts. Maybe. Crazybrave got me into the blog thing and rather than silently launch a blog I generally manage to gracelessly make it known that I've had another facetious crack at blogging.

I'm no writer but I certainly am a being who habitually spends (probably) too much time with my own thoughts. The introduction of children, more than two years ago, into this way of being was a rude shock. That it still feels like a pair of cement overshoes when I'm hearing the last boarding call for a train of thought is probably testament to something or other...makes me think of those train jumping beat types....some connection there about metaphors, writing, trains of thought, streams of consciousness, being apart from standard societal modes of communication and being unable to jump onto that train of thought through being so totally within a (doubleplus some) standard of society - motherhood. Bah.

My children are precious to me and I love them so, but that whole motherhood trip, ai-yai yai.

Friday, January 21, 2005

Fairy Tale Ending

One hairy faced boy and a bespectacled girl meet at art school, are friends for a bit, hook up after art school, say why not to having a baby.

They then enter the disenchanted forest, but don't know it yet until they have another baby and try to get him to sleep through, with the unpleasant controlled crying thing.

The bespectacled girl is unspeakably sad and can't see the trail of crumbs that she thought may have fallen out of her pockets from the biscuits half eaten by babies she stashed in the pockets cos putting the biscuits in the bin was too hard.

The hairy faced boy finally accepts that they are in the disenchanted forest, goes to see a movie, does some painting, makes some stencils, refuses to talk to the bespectacled girl about her sadness and lack of faith in their journey and drops their first born off at the fairy grandma's house for the day so that he can take their carriage to Namadgi and then Kosiouscko National Park for some art project research palaver.

The bespectacled girl thinks that due to the freakish hailstorm perhaps the hairy faced one may not be able to travel to the far away land in their modest carriage and might return to request that she have faith in the journey they are on, but alas alack, the hairy faced one is determined to neglect this opportunity as he needs time to clear his head after a particularly noxious altercation earlier in the week.

The bespectacled girl is awash with rage that her beau will not recognize the dire nature of the disenchanted forest post haste and gasps and weeps and bemoans their fate as he makes ready to depart. (Not surprisingly) this does not sway the hairy faced one and a cool bitterness rises like a foul tide in the bespectacled girl who has been up since 5.25 tending to the second born, and has had nary an opportunity to clear her own head for over two years.

The hairy faced one departs.

In the disenchanted forest all is silent save for the ill wind murmuring through the trees and the washing machine on spin.

Thursday, January 13, 2005

Holiday in Pambodia - I forgot to pack a wife.

Masses of internal confusion.
Internal obfuscation engine.
Delayed reactions/over reactions, not over reactions, just disproportionate.
Skillfully crafted inappropriate comparisons.
Outsider art comparisons also(more shells and papier mache).

Going domestic with no sense of direction.
Hope there's some flares in the liferaft. So slimming.

Wednesday, October 13, 2004


Having experienced an involuntary sisterectomy(coil, mortal) I was surprised (somewhat) to find myself desirous of an elective and immediate auditory procedure after the phone rang and I was wedged into the councilling crevice of an unscreened call.
While my babies were both asleep.
While Dr Phil was getting me excited about my life.
My penance for such uncharitable thoughts shall be to say ten Hello Janet's, I'm busy right now.

Thursday, October 07, 2004

Black and white vitriol for the progenitors (it's a really big river).

After my first child was born I would have little freakouts every so often that I was turning into my mother. In retrospect this was true only in my imagination. I'd superimposed the only parents that I knew onto the actual situation I was in. I was telling my graffiti and nature loving surfer/artist/teacher lizard catching date slice cooking shorts sewing slightly dodgy might be a bit of a hippie if hadn't of been such a cynic hairy faced fella, that he was being "just like" my maudlin institution worshipping security obsessed overly concerned with public service career importance never ever ever ever dodgy even once unless you include cutting down christmas trees from the forests in these parts when you still could do that and gee it was a nice smell in summer in the old ford even if the sap did collect an ungodly amount of crud in a short period dad.
That they are both big men who are into Australiana and who like to eat meat and who both love me is about the shortest bow I could draw.
For me to turn into my mother I would have to become someone I barely know. Have to not argue with my husbang. That isn't going to happen. I would also have to go back in time, not have a mother to speak of myself, be raised by a crazy methodist grandmother and let go of the chance to go to university - based on public transport timetables - even though I had a Commonwealth Scholarship.
And I would have to have another four children and stay at home for twelve years.
There's no way I could go that domestic.

Thursday, September 23, 2004

It's a river in Egypt.

Going because I'm fairly certain I'm not there yet.
In primary school I said that my mother wasn't domesticated. I didn't mean she was wild, shat where she pleased, could lick herself clean and that no man could ever tame her, I meant that she wasn't down with the whole housework thing - this through the eyes of an eight year old with five other siblings and limited cleanliness aspirations herself.
So do we become our mothers? I have become a mother, twice, and they are calling to me with their dulcet tones now...I would rather not become my mother.
Do we marry our fathers(assuming we're straight and of the female persuasion in the first place or in the place that counts if we're thinking about marrying our fathers which we really don't want to do even if we are the marrying kind)? I've thought of my dad as a motherfucker, and am very happy that my hairy husbang is one. Fortunately my husbang doesn't have model train issues and hasn't earned for himself the nickname The Fat Controller.
So I had better keep going domestic because although my two year old is saying wow in his cot at I don't know what, I think he means are we there yet.