If I Had a Hammer...

Warning – the following blog post is a completely revealing insight into my human frailty and base sense of humour.

Lately, every conversation I have is about sex. I’m not really that surprised; I talk about it a lot anyway so go ahead and add months and months of suppressed sexual identity and no prospect of an “encounter” or relationship and you have a recipe for … well to be frank and fairly uncouth – whatever the female equivalent of “blue balls” might be.

Just today, I was skyping with a good friend and we were joking about the fact that I mentioned I was on a boat trip and while out on the ocean was contemplating life and what prospects I had in my near future for “getting a bit”. She said “I get it.. big blue ocean.. who can I fuck?” and I said yeah big blue ocean, who can I fuck?... tall tree who can I fuck?... red car, who can I fuck?... empty beer can, who can I fuck?.. Oh yes, the situation is terminal.

Terminal because I can’t escape it; what’s that old saying?.. For someone with a hammer, every problem looks like a nail. Well I’ve got a big old hammer and everything- all my memories, past relationships, current interactions, chance encounters – everything – looks like a nail that either fuels the fire or explains why I have no fire to fuel!

I’m thinking meditation is the only answer. But, you know, it’s not the ONLY answer. It’s just the answer to avoid what some other answers might be – because clearly I have poor judgement in this area; clearly my big old hammer has gotten me in some trouble in the past; clearly I cannot be trusted with the hammer and need to miraculously turn it into something far less forceful and energetic and much more zen, like a feather. OK, very bad analogy.

If only I would use my energy for good and not evil.

Perhaps I will go and do some yoga – yes that way whilst I am calming my mind and walking the middle path I am also training my body to be a pretzel. One never knows when that might come in handy…

Para Cantar Es Vivir

To sing is to live. And I’m singing again – so it follows that life seems a little richer.

There have been times in my life when I just couldn’t sing. When the act of making music brought too many emotions to the surface; when I would sit and stare at my guitar with longing but know that a single chord would make me weep.

One of my life’s deep ironies though is that the physical act of making music, singing and playing, is also the only thing that can sweep that emotion away; make it manageable; make it dissipate. Once you get through the initial fear of your own feelings and the first physical reaction to their surfacing – your strength comes back and rescues you.

It’s something that Tim Winton captured perfectly in Dirt Music; when Luther Fox first reconnects with music through that lone plucked fishing wire. He plays and plays it until all of his emotion has surfaced and he throbs some wild dance full of years of pent-up feeling.

I haven’t felt quite that bad this last year and I have been playing music for myself – but I recently found a group of people here in the Sols who play the sort of “Dirt Music” I like (anything you can sit on your verandah and play) – and more particularly anything you can find a harmony to blend with.

It’s magic. And better still, I have found someone to sing with whose voice seems to blend perfectly with mine; quite a rare thing in this world and something I have missed since my best singing buddy embarked on a career not quite so conducive to drinking and late-night backyard guitaring; motherhood.

There is something almost indescribable in the pure pleasure that accompanies singing in harmony. It’s what I imagine the cognitive process of flying feels like; an effortless soaring – your being in tune and resonating with everything around it. And sometimes you hit a sweet spot where you could just curl up and stay forever. For example, I discovered what I think is the sweetest spot in all the world when I was about 15 and encountered Vivaldi’s Choral piece “In Memoria Aeterna” for the first time. There’s a bit when the altos are mimicking cellos and singing sweeping chords to the words “erit – Justus – non ti – mebit “ and the sopranos mimic violins and sing melodic runs on top of that harmony to “Ab auditione mala non ti mebit.- non ti mebit- non ti mebit”. I know it doesn’t come across well in my description but trust me – it’s always felt for me like my feet are lifting of the ground. You can download it from itunes and you really should – but there’s nothing that compares to singing it. In fact, if any close friends who are reading this happen to be around when I pass from this life, please remember that I’d like that played at my funeral!

So yeah, the power may continue to go out regularly and the water turn off too. And it may be frustrating and challenging and far away from home (if not in actual distance then in every other way) but singing has made the world of difference. Again.

Unto Thyself Honesty

“Be anything but a coward, a pretender, an emotional crook, a whore: I’d rather have cancer than a dishonest heart.”

Holly Golightly – Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Honey I'm Still Free..

I hope loyal followers (and anyone else) find the following mildly amusing :-)

It’s Valentines Day and I am a sucker for all things romantic- so you’d think this would be my favourite day.. but its like being a fan of music and being deaf.. or being a fan of good food and wine and living in Honiara (!) right now there is no outlet for my romanticism. Valentines day is dead to me – and it’s a pity because in some ways I’d love to have someone to fill the bath for; spill rose petals on the beadspread for; make French toast and coffee for; drink champagne on the beach with; sing tortured love songs to; have an amazing mindfuck of a conversation with. Blah Blah Blah.

So this Valentine’s Day I’m loving me instead. Metaphorically – OF COURSE! All that good will has to have an outlet!

I’m kicking back with a glass of wine (gee can you tell?!) after a weekend of intense work and having had my first dinner party with guests invited under my own steam. It might have taken a year to get here – but I finally feel like I am part of this place – and that feels good. It doesn’t change my mind about wanting to leave when my time is up – but it does make me happy.

I once read somewhere that hiding your light under a bushel is the worst kind of pride you can display; who are any of us to decide that we are less worthy of life’s riches than those around us? So tonight I say.. Love me. Because I am great. I’m pretty smart, I’m creative, I’m funny (even if in a dad-joke kind of way!) and I’m brave and kind and just a little crazy and let’s face it, who doesn’t love that combination?!

So in the immortal words of Abba I’m just gonna put it out there - Honey I’m still free, take a chance on me!

Ps.. who ever you are kissing tonight, I hope they are half as good as me- because I kind of rock at that too. (now I hope all the people who are reading this who have kissed me are smiling and knowing its true!)

Happy Valentine’s Day x

fuck was i..

love love love these lyrics...

was watching season 2 of weeds and this song was played. Just 3 lines of it - but enough to hook me and make me look it up. When a song is right, it's so fucking right. Jenny Owen Young, you are a master of verse.

love grows in me like a tumor,
parasite bent on devouring its host
i'm developing my sense of humor
till i can laugh at my heart between your teeth
till i can laugh at my face beneath your feet

skillet on the stove,
it's such a temptation
maybe i'll be the lucky one
that doesn't get burnt
what the fuck was i thinking

love plows through me like a dozer
i've got more give than a bale of hay
& there's always a big mess left over
with the "what did you do?" and the "what did you say?"
"what did you do?" and the "what did you say?"

skillet on the stove,
it's such a temptation
maybe i'll be the special one
that doesn't get burned
what the fuck was i thinking
what the fuck was i thinking
what the fuck was i thinking
what the fuck was i thinking

love tears me up like a demon
opens the wounds and then fills them with lead
& i'm having some trouble just breathing
if we weren't such good friends, i think that i'd hate you
if we weren't such good friends, i'd wish you were dead

skillet on the stove,
it's such a temptation
maybe i'll be the lucky one
that doesn't get burned
what the fuck was i thinking
what the fuck was i thinking
what the fuck was i thinking

love is so embarrassing
i'm this awkward & uncomfortable thing
i'm running out of places to hide
what the fuck was i thinking?
(you know that i've got what you want)
what the fuck was i thinking?
(you know that i've got what you want)
what the fuck was i thinking?
(you know that i've got what you want)
what the fuck was i thinking?
(you know that i've got what you want

Intense

The only dead body I’ve ever touched was my Dad’s. Until today.

The treasurer of the Red Cross here in the Solomons died yesterday after a very brief illness. It was a shock to everyone. His death was so sudden that at almost the same moment he died in the hospital, I was a few streets away assigning him some tasks in a working group we were on together.

Bobby was a good man; he was dedicated to Red Cross and attended almost every training session I’ve given since I’ve been here. He was a great workshop participant and although much older than most of the guys in the sessions he loved mixing in with their curious participation combinations of drama, singing and just plain story telling. He was the most dedicated Board member here and he often stopped into the office for a chat. So today, when the Secretary General asked everyone to go to his house to pay respect, I went too.

Mourning might be culturally specific but grief looks the same wherever you go. I have been there, where his family were today; a family grieving a lost husband, father, Grandfather and the traditions were different but the tears and fears all too familiar.

When we arrived, Bobby’s Wantok, his wider family & clan were all gathered; sitting quietly in the shade of his garage. More family were inside, sitting with tears silently streaming. And there, in the lounge, was Bobby with his wife and three daughters. He was laid out in State covered by an Island print cloth for his body, and another for his head. As the leaders of our organisation crouched next to the coffin on the floor, his family removed the cloths and there he was.

My lovely grown men of Red Cross began to cry. His wife and daughters silently sobbed, and I was overcome.

After a short speech by the Chairman of the Board, The Sec Gen made it clear with just her eyes that each of us were to pay our respects individually. Each of the staff and volunteers knelt beside Bobby and silently, reverentially, made their prayer. The physical nature of their respect differed each according to their own cultural custom; some grabbed his forehead in their hands – the Polynesian boys bowed their heads to his chest. Most put their hand upon his now silent heart. So that’s what I did too. I knelt there and laid my hand on his chest and I tried not to think of that last silent chest I touched as I gave thanks for Bobby’s life and his work and I asked whatever higher power that drives this universe to allow his work to inspire mine and be half as dedicated.

And then we acknowledged his family and left the room.

As we reached the road, the wailing began and it’s a sound that’s been with me all day. The men and women of Red Cross got back to their work distributing flood relief items. Maybe it was just me who struggled, reflecting quietly on another time and another place. Maybe its just me who is struggling still with a sudden pain as raw as that first day ten years behind me, which mostly I can deal with, but which sometimes bites me in the arse.

Vale Bobby Kwomae – another good man gone too soon.

I heart Kristin Fontana!

"Destiny calls. This is your year for recognition"

Now there’s an astrological star cast I can live with!

see www.kristinfontana.com