If I were to ask you my question and you were to give me your answer, would it alleviate the craving I hold?
Or shall I sit in the not knowing and lose the thought of you disclosing, and leave the truths for the true tellers to unfold...
If I gave you some more of me and you snatched up too much of me, would I hesitate and walk away from this place?
Or would I bath in the mystery, give in to what was history, and drink up all uncertainty once faced...
If I relax in being closer and found a comfort in growing closer, would it desire me to bear more of my soul?
Wait, this is sounding tedious, I feel resistant to all neediness, this is moving away from my grasp of control...
If I were to unwind, be still and undefined, would I remember your body in lust?
Or would I retract any yearning thought, feel vigilant and overwrought, and throw myself back into regret and mistrust...
If I were to sit and deliver to you a tale, would it be an easeful fairy tale I’d produce?
Or will I write with conviction, shallow nonfiction, influenced by selfish addictions and misuse...
If I were to write anymore I would give away my questions my deepest of questioning that I seek.
So I no longer will enquire, will remain an indulgent liar, and stay content in the ambiguity you shall keep...
Monday, November 29, 2010
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Did I ever tell you my mother was a Jockey?
When I was a little girl I wanted to be a horse veterinarian. Little did I know I would end up a Sex Therapist.
I’m sure their was no singular doubt in my mind my destined path would be in the stables amongst stallions and horse feed. The life I was intending to lead as a horse vet was splendid, I’m sure I believed these monstrous pets needed me.
And at eight years of age I also believed in order to make friends I too, needed the horses, and was surely smug enough to know I also needed a leading part to my story.
Here in lies the bold and adventurous lie I created that my mother was a jockey.
With the self-assurance only an actress in the midst of a scandalous role would have, I tricked my amateur child like audience into not only believing my mother was famous but the owner of infamous horse ‘Phar-Lap’. My cockiness was as colourful as a car salesman, yet the payout was much more rewarding, I was reaping the benefits and swiftly making my way into the popular monkey bar crowd.
The more my story grew and attracted admirers, the more horses my family accumulated. Whilst my mother was at home sorting out sibling rivalry, I was concocting a story about a parent that no other class mate would ever match. Their folks had real careers, and nothing over me and my horse riding, prize winning and apparently 4 foot tall mother.
Being the proud owner of a celebrated racehorse was a true lifestyle. My imagination moved from my decadent mind into a school yard, filling the chatter and banter with stories of Phar-Lap and life as a kid that owned a true blue champion.
My elaborated story was running very smoothly for me, the Robb’s and our dear horse Phar-Lap, until a meddlesome mother copped on I was playing pinnochio in the playground . In a gentle and maternal manner, as loving mothers do, she caught me up one day when dropping off a fellow play date when she began enquiring the whereabouts of Phar-Lap. With sad eyes and pouting of the lip, I anxiously reported my mother had taken Phar-Lap over to the vet in the family Tarago wagon as he was feeling worse for wear . When she further enquired about our other horses, I replied quite smugly they went for moral support. My cover was blown, Phar-Lap went back in his grave and my parents were amazed that there little girl had won over girlfriends by so boldly telling a fib and maintaining it.
Pondering now, I wonder if my yearning for working with horses was dampened by this experience. In reflection I believe I got my karma later that year when at horse camp it became evident I was not the presumptuous horse whisperer I so believed I was, and found out i was actually the enemy. I was not only stepped on, but bitten, kicked and shat on by my old. Four legged friends.
My days and dreams of becoming a horse vet were fading and cabbage patch dolls, snotty boys and love of pen and paper were more becoming much more attractive.
I often wonder how I ventured into sex therapy. The girls that listened in awe to my wondrous adventures with Phar-Lap, I’m sure have the answer to this, as they still to this day pay attention to my stories, scandals and ambitions. God knows there is little similarity in the two career choices.
This tale is reminiscent to my love for childhood memories. My thoughts, dreams and blonde hair are still as dishevelled now as they were as a child. I hold the intention to preserve my authentic want to attract an audience amongst playful companions, and never grow old of being able to laugh at the ridicules and scandalous dramas that take place in the true innocence of wanting attention amongst loved ones.
I’m sure their was no singular doubt in my mind my destined path would be in the stables amongst stallions and horse feed. The life I was intending to lead as a horse vet was splendid, I’m sure I believed these monstrous pets needed me.
And at eight years of age I also believed in order to make friends I too, needed the horses, and was surely smug enough to know I also needed a leading part to my story.
Here in lies the bold and adventurous lie I created that my mother was a jockey.
With the self-assurance only an actress in the midst of a scandalous role would have, I tricked my amateur child like audience into not only believing my mother was famous but the owner of infamous horse ‘Phar-Lap’. My cockiness was as colourful as a car salesman, yet the payout was much more rewarding, I was reaping the benefits and swiftly making my way into the popular monkey bar crowd.
The more my story grew and attracted admirers, the more horses my family accumulated. Whilst my mother was at home sorting out sibling rivalry, I was concocting a story about a parent that no other class mate would ever match. Their folks had real careers, and nothing over me and my horse riding, prize winning and apparently 4 foot tall mother.
Being the proud owner of a celebrated racehorse was a true lifestyle. My imagination moved from my decadent mind into a school yard, filling the chatter and banter with stories of Phar-Lap and life as a kid that owned a true blue champion.
My elaborated story was running very smoothly for me, the Robb’s and our dear horse Phar-Lap, until a meddlesome mother copped on I was playing pinnochio in the playground . In a gentle and maternal manner, as loving mothers do, she caught me up one day when dropping off a fellow play date when she began enquiring the whereabouts of Phar-Lap. With sad eyes and pouting of the lip, I anxiously reported my mother had taken Phar-Lap over to the vet in the family Tarago wagon as he was feeling worse for wear . When she further enquired about our other horses, I replied quite smugly they went for moral support. My cover was blown, Phar-Lap went back in his grave and my parents were amazed that there little girl had won over girlfriends by so boldly telling a fib and maintaining it.
Pondering now, I wonder if my yearning for working with horses was dampened by this experience. In reflection I believe I got my karma later that year when at horse camp it became evident I was not the presumptuous horse whisperer I so believed I was, and found out i was actually the enemy. I was not only stepped on, but bitten, kicked and shat on by my old. Four legged friends.
My days and dreams of becoming a horse vet were fading and cabbage patch dolls, snotty boys and love of pen and paper were more becoming much more attractive.
I often wonder how I ventured into sex therapy. The girls that listened in awe to my wondrous adventures with Phar-Lap, I’m sure have the answer to this, as they still to this day pay attention to my stories, scandals and ambitions. God knows there is little similarity in the two career choices.
This tale is reminiscent to my love for childhood memories. My thoughts, dreams and blonde hair are still as dishevelled now as they were as a child. I hold the intention to preserve my authentic want to attract an audience amongst playful companions, and never grow old of being able to laugh at the ridicules and scandalous dramas that take place in the true innocence of wanting attention amongst loved ones.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Greenhouse Death...
When I was a little girl, I fondly remember the day death crept upon me and rattled my never-ever land. My Grandma and I were pondering in the greenhouse, Grandma attending to drooping plants, and myself getting in the way and kicking soil out of forgotten pots. I remember the soft chatter coming from the yard next door, our cockatoo squawking on his perch, and my Grandma occupying herself with one eye on her watering can and the other on her wayward Grandchild. What I don’t remember about this spring afternoon, is where in my young mind had I conjured up the idea of what life’s definite ending is. I only recall the birthing of control I experienced and to which I believed I needed, in order to survive it.
Fondly, I remember walking my pudgy legs up beside Grandma, harbouring a frown and a clear directive. “Grandma, I do not want to come and stay with you anymore on my own, in the school holidays”. With this outburst, and curiosity painted on her face, my Grandma questioned my sudden explosion, to which I replied, “Because I do not want to be the only one here when you drop dead.”
Being the age of six, adult reactions are harder to differentiate then your fellow playmates on the gym equipment. Five to six year olds wear there emotional responses on there bodies; anger means a small body erupting in a tantrum with limbs flying everywhere vibrating the earth underneath; sadness, is worn on a trembling body, drowning in frightened tears and crying for safety, usually found in the arms of a mother; and happiness means a careless and liberated body, dancing freely in the unknowns monsters of the world, where the kings are covered in ice-cream and the villains are avoid of play time.
Momentarily, there was a deafening silence shared between my Grandma and I, as I tried to read what all the wrinkles on her face and the colour of her eyes were saying. I realised I had my work cut out for me when, through my deciphering, my Grandma gently rolled back her head with her arms firm on her hips and began laughing. I could feel my frown creeping over my eyes and my little heart through my chest, as my child body became confused as to why laughter was the resolution. You see to me, I was under the impression that death was no laughing matter, nor was I willing to take place in any story that portrayed it. I had figured in my fickle little mind, after learning about prehistoric dinosaurs and cavemen, that Grandmas are of ancient ages and imminent endings, and I had made up my mind, I was not going to be the one left standing when my Grandma stood no more.
So, understandably I became baffled when my Grandma laughed lovingly in my request and cupped my little chin in her warm palm. There was always something so comforting about Grandmas touch, her hands smelt a potion of lavender talcum powder and oil of ulan, and her folds of skin were safe to hold on too. My Grandmas kind eyes matched mine, and with this she simply said, “I can’t wait to tell your father about this!” and walked up the stairs, out of the greenhouse and into the sunroom to share what I understand now, a timeless comment from an innocent child.
I recall, not really getting the joke, but sitting next to Grandma and laughing along with her anyway, as she shared with my father over the phone. I did wonder, if this meant my Grandmother was immortal and I have no death to fear, or if her death would be a humorous occasion featuring clowns, fairy floss and balloons. I was young enough to feel isolated from there adult reactions, but also loved enough to feel safe in there exchange at my expense. For different generational reasons, I was included in the passing of humour which did not feel like teasing, but a kindness a granddaughter feels in the presence of her elder.
I do not remember the conversation I imagine that followed reassuring my young creative soul about death and what it means to die, I guess this memory is the sole teaching in which I needed to be student too in order to slowly be introduced to the inevitable fates that awaits all of us.
The night my Grandma passed, I heard the phone call. Years later from that day in the greenhouse, her looming fate had come to an end, much like my never ever fantasy of permanence in living. Sadly my heart was rich enough to ache and sit in the heartbreak of grief, and my eyes were observant enough to witness the pain of loosing a mother my father endured. Darkness clouded the light in my family, and in the shadows no clowns appeared, and no balloons flew above.
As an adult who harbours many complexities around death, I wonder how I can return to that day when as a child, I believed I could instruct its presence in and out of my life. How simple to view death as an option, and by the rules of a six year old girl, an option non negotiable.
And then I think...
How beautiful, to own a moment in time between a Grandma and a Granddaughter such as this moment, and take from it what we both needed to continue expanding our openness to a fate that in our time, eventually for both of us closes forever.
Fondly, I remember walking my pudgy legs up beside Grandma, harbouring a frown and a clear directive. “Grandma, I do not want to come and stay with you anymore on my own, in the school holidays”. With this outburst, and curiosity painted on her face, my Grandma questioned my sudden explosion, to which I replied, “Because I do not want to be the only one here when you drop dead.”
Being the age of six, adult reactions are harder to differentiate then your fellow playmates on the gym equipment. Five to six year olds wear there emotional responses on there bodies; anger means a small body erupting in a tantrum with limbs flying everywhere vibrating the earth underneath; sadness, is worn on a trembling body, drowning in frightened tears and crying for safety, usually found in the arms of a mother; and happiness means a careless and liberated body, dancing freely in the unknowns monsters of the world, where the kings are covered in ice-cream and the villains are avoid of play time.
Momentarily, there was a deafening silence shared between my Grandma and I, as I tried to read what all the wrinkles on her face and the colour of her eyes were saying. I realised I had my work cut out for me when, through my deciphering, my Grandma gently rolled back her head with her arms firm on her hips and began laughing. I could feel my frown creeping over my eyes and my little heart through my chest, as my child body became confused as to why laughter was the resolution. You see to me, I was under the impression that death was no laughing matter, nor was I willing to take place in any story that portrayed it. I had figured in my fickle little mind, after learning about prehistoric dinosaurs and cavemen, that Grandmas are of ancient ages and imminent endings, and I had made up my mind, I was not going to be the one left standing when my Grandma stood no more.
So, understandably I became baffled when my Grandma laughed lovingly in my request and cupped my little chin in her warm palm. There was always something so comforting about Grandmas touch, her hands smelt a potion of lavender talcum powder and oil of ulan, and her folds of skin were safe to hold on too. My Grandmas kind eyes matched mine, and with this she simply said, “I can’t wait to tell your father about this!” and walked up the stairs, out of the greenhouse and into the sunroom to share what I understand now, a timeless comment from an innocent child.
I recall, not really getting the joke, but sitting next to Grandma and laughing along with her anyway, as she shared with my father over the phone. I did wonder, if this meant my Grandmother was immortal and I have no death to fear, or if her death would be a humorous occasion featuring clowns, fairy floss and balloons. I was young enough to feel isolated from there adult reactions, but also loved enough to feel safe in there exchange at my expense. For different generational reasons, I was included in the passing of humour which did not feel like teasing, but a kindness a granddaughter feels in the presence of her elder.
I do not remember the conversation I imagine that followed reassuring my young creative soul about death and what it means to die, I guess this memory is the sole teaching in which I needed to be student too in order to slowly be introduced to the inevitable fates that awaits all of us.
The night my Grandma passed, I heard the phone call. Years later from that day in the greenhouse, her looming fate had come to an end, much like my never ever fantasy of permanence in living. Sadly my heart was rich enough to ache and sit in the heartbreak of grief, and my eyes were observant enough to witness the pain of loosing a mother my father endured. Darkness clouded the light in my family, and in the shadows no clowns appeared, and no balloons flew above.
As an adult who harbours many complexities around death, I wonder how I can return to that day when as a child, I believed I could instruct its presence in and out of my life. How simple to view death as an option, and by the rules of a six year old girl, an option non negotiable.
And then I think...
How beautiful, to own a moment in time between a Grandma and a Granddaughter such as this moment, and take from it what we both needed to continue expanding our openness to a fate that in our time, eventually for both of us closes forever.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Platform choices...
There is something dangerously liberating about standing past the yellow line at a train station platform. Shoulders arched, framing your core to balance, whilst your toes are sneaking over the edge, arms hanging loosely by your side, coupled by fingers twitching and tapping, anticipating the dry air that follows behind a train passing.
There is something dangerously fierce about leaning foreword and feeling for a second, like you could fall. Almost reminiscent of a careless act, it reflects on the power of choice and how in a second the choices we make can change not only our lives but everyone’s around us. A reminder, that life is as we know it is ours to decipher if that next step will plunge us into extremity or land us on balanced ground.
There is something dangerously fast with these choices we make. Do we follow them up short of breath and quick of heart beat, or with a foundation of readiness and responsibility? Do we illuminate the repercussions that, which disallow us the enjoyment of the choices we make, or do we sit back, smile and feel safe in the power to choose?
It is inevitable at times to fuck up and pick the latter, and follow it through with a displeased resolution. At times, we may even consciously choose the wrong road in order to challenge ourselves, work harder or focus on feeling like we have failed for awhile in attempt to self criticise and reflect on our insecurities. But from here, we make the choice to move through what we need too and make a new choice, to manifest change. We set the intention to overcome, recondition and fine tune the latter, and recreate what will inevitably make us once again feel like we accomplished the right choice for ourselves.
The ideation of choice is ours to create. The consequences are also ours to define. But the opportunity to choose again to suit a better purpose is inevitable.
Reading this, I’m wondering what has eventuated in my life to ponder over a topic such as this. I am the kind of person to have both of my feet firmly pressed to the ground, so I can lean over the edge, concentrate on the weight of my body over the platform, to then bring it back safely to re-enter my body. For me, this dangerous feeling feeds the euphoric side in me, and elates the idea that I have options. It also gives me permission to switch off from searching the ‘why’s’ and sit quietly in the unknown and know, when I’m ready, I can pick up my bags, move away from the platform, and momentarily forget that my life is in my hands.
Sometimes the choice to surrender all liability and get lost in a shared laugh, look, touch or space becomes the most powerful choice of all.
There is something dangerously fierce about leaning foreword and feeling for a second, like you could fall. Almost reminiscent of a careless act, it reflects on the power of choice and how in a second the choices we make can change not only our lives but everyone’s around us. A reminder, that life is as we know it is ours to decipher if that next step will plunge us into extremity or land us on balanced ground.
There is something dangerously fast with these choices we make. Do we follow them up short of breath and quick of heart beat, or with a foundation of readiness and responsibility? Do we illuminate the repercussions that, which disallow us the enjoyment of the choices we make, or do we sit back, smile and feel safe in the power to choose?
It is inevitable at times to fuck up and pick the latter, and follow it through with a displeased resolution. At times, we may even consciously choose the wrong road in order to challenge ourselves, work harder or focus on feeling like we have failed for awhile in attempt to self criticise and reflect on our insecurities. But from here, we make the choice to move through what we need too and make a new choice, to manifest change. We set the intention to overcome, recondition and fine tune the latter, and recreate what will inevitably make us once again feel like we accomplished the right choice for ourselves.
The ideation of choice is ours to create. The consequences are also ours to define. But the opportunity to choose again to suit a better purpose is inevitable.
Reading this, I’m wondering what has eventuated in my life to ponder over a topic such as this. I am the kind of person to have both of my feet firmly pressed to the ground, so I can lean over the edge, concentrate on the weight of my body over the platform, to then bring it back safely to re-enter my body. For me, this dangerous feeling feeds the euphoric side in me, and elates the idea that I have options. It also gives me permission to switch off from searching the ‘why’s’ and sit quietly in the unknown and know, when I’m ready, I can pick up my bags, move away from the platform, and momentarily forget that my life is in my hands.
Sometimes the choice to surrender all liability and get lost in a shared laugh, look, touch or space becomes the most powerful choice of all.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Then I woke up...
Then I woke up, and life happened.
We have annual leave, holiday leave, carers, study and sick leave. We have moving leave, religious leave cultural and traditional leave. We take leave for public holidays and special occasions. We thrive in a world where the consensus to stop, breathe and be present falls into the selection criteria of an 'assigned holiday'.
How often do we give ourselves permission to stop, breathe, and make the choice to leave what we have become, in order to move through and beyond? When do we give ourselves permission to mentally filter through the thoughts, what if’s, pressures and goals, to re-evaluate, surrender and momentarily sit in the shit of what do we need, in order to honour what we deserve, or merely reassess if we are living how we would be living if we knew tomorrow we would not?
So I’m a therapist, sexologist and aspiring novelist. In other news, I can communicate laughably through a mouthful of water, I go weak at the knees to G & T’s and I often ponder on returning to music journalism just to ascertain if I’d be happy living out the ‘Almost Famous’ idea of endless noise, skinny sex and liquid breakfasts.
I’m also a junkie for present living.
And I am currently nursing a tired and wounded brain.
Recently my brain felt like it had been in a hit and run. I was resourcing empathy like I was a ‘feelings factory’. My body would still entertain the idea of a jog through Glebe, a night on the booze and an hour or two of boxing, yet my brain was a murky and forgotten puddle on the path. There was no reflective ray of warmth from the sky, no reflective prospect of a dog walking through following his tail, not even a curious shadow to dance with.
And then I woke up, and life happened...
We have annual leave, holiday leave, carers, study and sick leave. We have moving leave, religious leave cultural and traditional leave. We take leave for public holidays and special occasions. We thrive in a world where the consensus to stop, breathe and be present falls into the selection criteria of an 'assigned holiday'.
How often do we give ourselves permission to stop, breathe, and make the choice to leave what we have become, in order to move through and beyond? When do we give ourselves permission to mentally filter through the thoughts, what if’s, pressures and goals, to re-evaluate, surrender and momentarily sit in the shit of what do we need, in order to honour what we deserve, or merely reassess if we are living how we would be living if we knew tomorrow we would not?
So I’m a therapist, sexologist and aspiring novelist. In other news, I can communicate laughably through a mouthful of water, I go weak at the knees to G & T’s and I often ponder on returning to music journalism just to ascertain if I’d be happy living out the ‘Almost Famous’ idea of endless noise, skinny sex and liquid breakfasts.
I’m also a junkie for present living.
And I am currently nursing a tired and wounded brain.
Recently my brain felt like it had been in a hit and run. I was resourcing empathy like I was a ‘feelings factory’. My body would still entertain the idea of a jog through Glebe, a night on the booze and an hour or two of boxing, yet my brain was a murky and forgotten puddle on the path. There was no reflective ray of warmth from the sky, no reflective prospect of a dog walking through following his tail, not even a curious shadow to dance with.
And then I woke up, and life happened...
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