Toof-hurty

Last night saw the first of many early dark hours, and the evening seemed to have contracted to a pinhole of light by the time I lugged my heaviest ever instrument case up the stairs and into the inviting warmth of Ed’s tiny studio.

Ed’s lesson is a train I can hop anytime, regardless of how much I’ve practiced, and he’s intent on maintaining the pace so who am I to argue? We’ve put aside tablature and I’m learning primarily by ear now, which is the traditional manner by which banjoists learn. The doleful sweetness of an F chord nearly sent me over the edge but I’m good at keeping my cool.

There’s something antiquated about Ed and the way he sings. It’s a persona I imagine most young performers necessarily culture to preserve the old time feel of the medium, though it’s an eerie thing to witness - this sudden transformation from taciturn shyness to weather-beaten self-assurance.

By the time I got home, I’d forgotten large blocks of the new song puzzles and couldn’t decipher the sheet music. But I’m back to enthusiastic and that’s half the battle.

I swear I’m working with a bunch of Hobbits; this is the second time in two days I’ve overhead a conversation about appropriate mealtimes:

“Breakfast, brunch, lunch, tea, dinner, supper.”

“No, it’s: breakfast, lunch, dinner, supper.”

“I thought it was breakfast, dinner, lunch and tea!”

“That’s completely wrong.”

&etc.

But it’s a lovely fall day out there – bright and chilly – and everyone is in the same phenomenal mood for once.

Oh, and: Houston, we have a contract! I’m now a permanent employee here at Circus Central and even though things aren’t perfect, they are just what I need them to be at the moment.

Internal systems are all go as well. My arms are aching wonderfully from that stupid instrument case, I’ve had some warm soup and I’m looking forward to the weekend once again.

There is always so much to look forward to now and I can scarcely remember that time in my life when absolutely everything ground to a sickening halt.

Boo

Headless fingers open boxes, releasing musty ghosts and trapping them again between the pages of an infinite book - flipping fast so that the meaning can’t sink in and instead cuts the soles of its dancing feet on razor sharp edges.

When did I become so afraid of words?

Yes, teeth are certainly at the forefront of newsworthy interest these days. It seems a root canal is not the end of the world however – just a more invasive filling really – so if it must be done, it must be done. Though I wish that people with PHDs would just leave my cavities alone already!

It seems my deceased friend’s mum was quite intent on seeing me, at least according to my own mother (who I trust about as much as that guy over there whose name eludes me) and yet there’s been no response to my tentative rescheduling. And so it goes. But as I mentioned to Bruce, most of what took place after high school does not make for good conversation in polite society. A happy ending hastily tacked onto a tragic farce is probably not conducive to the kind of safe anecdotes one would request in that type of situation.

Last night Ariel and I had one of our marathon chitty chat sessions over Skype, though the first 45 minutes were dedicated to fussing around with our touchy mics. It felt very good to talk to her, and I’d been missing that close-girl-friend vibe thing that girls need more than once in a blue moon. Short of putting a frock on my husband and then squinting my eyes a bit as he pats my hand consolingly, there’s no real way to achieve that effect here.

I seem to be backsliding in this respect, as I’m braving a lunchtime stroll with my ex-walking partner when likely all she wants to do is grill me about my future dental plans and then tell me in urgent tones that I am making a big mistake. It’s not that I never learn so much as I tend to lose the lesson.

But I’m taking my first all-girl holiday with Bil in May (Iceland!) and then Lizzie has promised a visit at around this time as well. So do your worst, congested metropolis of repressed individuals! I can wait.

Leggo my ego

Any time I need a reality check about my work and where I’m at with things here, I just look at the new temp. She’s in her fifties for sure and has a kind of reticent self-assurance that’s almost convincing at a distance. But since I’ve moved desks I can now see straight through that ruse.

I was typing away the other morning and looked down to find her shuffling through personal items in my stand-alone desk drawers. Assuming she’d made the mistake of thinking I’d moved but the drawers associated with my new desk hadn’t, I told her that perhaps she was looking in the wrong place. She said, “No, I have this list of stationary items I need to buy but I thought I’d just go through people’s drawers until I found them instead.”

Sounds reasonable, I guess. If you’ve got foetal alcohol syndrome or something I mean.

So after that weird moment, I’ve noticed more and more that she’s either completely incompetent at what she’s doing or simply too scared to ask the appropriate people whatever she needs to ask in order to get things done. As far as I can tell, she’s spent the entire morning stressing out about it and refusing to make phone calls.

I don’t know what her circumstances are but I’m very glad it’s not me.

I received an email from my darling Ariel and something in it finally loosened this niggling sliver of uncertainty I’ve been having about my circumstances. The whole not being able to own my experiences, the feeling that I’m not really ‘here’ or anywhere for that matter – it all stems from the same place. (Drum roll please.) I seem to have lost my ego. And I don’t mean that obscure place inside that tells me I’m the most important person on the face of the planet, either. I mean that in the direct Freudian sense, the requests volleyed in turn by my Id and Superego seem to cross in the air over my Ego’s head, whilst it sits cross-legged between them with its fingers in its ears going “hmm hmm hmm hmm little star, how I wonder hmm hmm hmmmm!”
It’s a bit bizarre, really.

There’s some unknown something I’m in the midst of working out to be sure, but maybe it won’t ever become apparent, what that thing is. Maybe one day I’ll just wake up and realise I haven’t felt anxious or angry or envious or any of those other things a person shouldn’t feel on a day-to-day basis for a very long time. That is my hope. Here’s to hoping.

Last night I had a very funny dream wherein I was invited to be a stand-up comedian in an outdoors club. I haven’t been the centre of attention in my dreams since probably university. It was a nice dream too because I started off being really funny and everyone loved me! But then I sort of forgot what I was doing and everyone lost interest and started talking amongst themselves while I read my notes and you’re not really paying attention anymore either because this is a boring dream description so never mind.

My mother was going to send me a £300 note in the mail, which is a bad idea on more than one level so I’ve told her to hold off for now. We’re going to have a discussion tonight; about life, teeth and unnecessary surgery.

Also, the BBC seems to have tapped into my subconscious or something. The morning of my dentist appointment, I woke to a broadcast about how it’s very difficult to find a dentist that offers NHS care and how people are resorting to pulling their own teeth out rather than spending the money on private care (and thanks Stuart, for the inspirational link). This morning there was a report on how adult health in Britain was suffering due to too much alcohol consumption, directly following my decision to cut out alcohol entirely.

Do I control the BBC or sumink? Maybe tomorrow they will report that people who eat ham and cheese every day should switch to something different so that they don’t get bored and consider eating that communal packet of biscuits at work. Yeah maybe.

"You can relax with nitrous oxide"

"For those who are anxious about treatment we offer happy gas(sedation)which is extremely safe and a fantastic way to have a relaxing experience at the dentist.

DVD virtual reality glasses are also available so that you may watch a movie or documentary while undergoing treatment.We also have an hygenist available to ensure a clean and healthy mouth."

I'm scared

Lucky stars, vague charms

Last night, after a most awkward game of bowling on a broken lane, we went to see Control at Surrey Quays. Bleak, beautiful and with plenty of stunning moments, it’s a film I won’t soon forget.

There was something overly distancing about the story and character portrayals and so I felt very little for the characters except vague pity. I imagine this is what was mainly intended, unless of course you’re young (in which case inexperience causes you to romanticise and even misgauge tragedy) or, as Stuart intimated, totally into Joy Division.

When I got home, I found a terse email from my mother about her unreliable email service - her sentences cut short as though the perceived fickle nature of the email service itself had somehow infected her composition, preventing her even from typing a proper amount of words into the content field: Things go missing. We shall see. Looking forward to Christmas! My mother specializes in locating conspiracy in the most neutral of circumstances.

(Shhh)

Sometimes the “Don’t look down” maxim can apply widely, as occasionally I’ll see through the fog and think Good lord, am I really heading back to the lift in an office in London where I work? With ham and cheese on a rustic bap? Why do they call buns ‘baps’ here anyway? Oh whatever, whoopee, I’m…going to be sick. And then I snap out of it and go back to being the insensate automaton that I have to be in order to function here.

Straight after work, we’re going for charceuterie and then to some home buying seminar in Covent Garden. We’ve found a few nice prospects in Plumstead Commons and must now determine if we can sell our soul for a mortgage. All things in due course.

We’re going to have to start cinching our belts immediately, especially in the face of an upcoming dentist appointment that is going to clean me out of entertainment funds for a good long while. My toothache isn’t going away but because I’m a private patient, they’re charging me £50 for the initial visit and then additional charges for whatever it is that needs doing. Since it can only be a cavity, and cavities require ex-rays whether you’re going to fill them or not, I’m not sure why they want to break it out into two expensive and time-wasting trips.

Okay, I know exactly why they’re doing it, but must they be so blatant about exploiting migrants? (Yes)

I feel a bit better about socialising since referencing my book on English customs and behaviour, though mostly it just confirmed what I already know/subscribe to. Like men complain about things out in the open whilst women make a special trip to the toilet to complain in private. And the weather – just agree with what everyone says about it, or at the very least acknowledge that a difference in opinion is just a charming quirk of yours. And never tell an acquaintance your name or ask them what they do, even if it seems prudent – people here prefer to guess! I guess.

Oh, here’s some more good news: I’ve moved desks. So I’m no longer the target of obnoxious banter and sexist commentary. All of that happens over yonder now. Lucky stars.

You can crush us, you can OWW NOT SO HARD!

I wonder when I’ll finally be able to look at something in my environment – some tunnel or cityscape or storefront – and feel a true sense of ownership/belonging. Because certainly it’s all familiar in that things I see every day no longer surprise me, but none of it resonates in that particular way of home.

Skittish is a good way to describe my handle on London. The cats, my colleagues, friends, high streets – if not terribly cuddly, at least these elements seem to have accepted my presence. Now I have to work on my charm because nothing and no one will do your bidding unless you’ve mastered this essential quality.

After getting horribly lost for a while yesterday, I took a more direct route to work this morning only to find that the front door was locked. This forced employees to use the rotating door instead, I guess for some statistical purpose that involved a headcount. But being channelled in this way only strengthened the illusion that I’m working in an ant farm.

I ate my lunch at 11:30 despite my philosophical quandary, which went something like this:

I’m hungry – I can’t eat cold fruit because I have a toothache – my sandwich is soft and not cold so my upper molar won’t suffer if I eat this - I can’t eat my sandwich now because I’ll be too hungry later – but the fruit is cold – and my tooth hurts – and I’m hungry

In the end, I ate the sandwich. Fuck consequences! Yeah, right in the *ss.

Um, so here’s some good news. I haven’t had a glass of wine in about four days, and after severe headaches and some deep, obscure hungry feelings, my mood has improved greatly. Tonight we’re meeting up with friends to bowl, have a few drinks and see Control, and I think I’m going to substitute beer with a coke or something. Because there’s really no point in destabilising my overall disposition for a single glass of wine or beer (which is about all I can stomach these days).

Does this make me a straightedge or what? I’m hoping my rampant atheism will somehow preserve my badass reputation, though I’m not holding my breath (that would be juvenile, which I’m ANYTHING BUT).

Last night I got sick and tired of sucking at banjo and decided to go for speed over accuracy. And you know, it doesn’t sound perfect or anything but it does sound like I’m playing banjo finally. I wonder if I can keep up the appearance of being able to play for long enough to convince my teacher that I’ve been practicing much. My next lesson is on the 18th, so we’ll see if I can accomplish a new trick by then.

Yesterday on the bus, I came up with an idea for a screenplay. Instead of letting it go, I wrote down a brief synopsis when I got home. Now I’m mentioning it here so that I have no more excuses not to follow through with an idea. Working in the film industry has given me a pretty good idea of what’s required to make a film, so if it’s any good, I plan to put together a development proposal and send it off to someone.

Someone like my writer friend, who isn’t really a friend if we no longer communicate or live in the same city, but what’s the point of superficial acquaintanceship with influential people if you can’t pester them with your latest Big Idea, hmm?

Next week is the Times BFI 51st London Film Festival. We’ve booked four films so far, though I somehow talked myself out of seeing the new Wes Anderson and instead am going to some dubious French flicks and an American remake of some other dubious French flick. But Bruce assures me there will be plenty of time and space to book the ones that float my boat, as expensive as this whole business can get.

Hey, watch this:



If you like what you see, have a look at his other bits.

Look that way. No, to your right. And up. Up a bit more. Right…there. Limmy.

Fright of the navigator

I’ve recently discovered (again) that my metabolism has a tight leash on my appetite, making it nearly impossible to eat unthinkingly unless I want to fill out like a schoolgirl with a bad donut habit.

It’s not that I make poor choices when I’m hungry or even that I eat past the feeling of fullness – it’s just that unless I’m eating the same sandwich day in and day out and feeling excruciatingly hungry and/or unfulfilled, I gain weight.

To be fair, I’ve been a bit more careless about food these days and haven’t been consistent in my walking either. So a few days ago, I walked to work for the first time in ages after Bruce dropped me off at an appointment (secret appointment!) located along my route. Now instead of walking up Bermondsey Street towards London Bridge, I head up Tabbard Street and turn right at Borough High Street, where I would end up anyway.

Then this morning, Bruce found a better and (in theory) easier route for me to follow and suggested I try it. I told him I might save that for another day, since I was likely to get lost. Ever patient, he didn’t push the issue and I started off to work as usual.

But coming up Tabbard Street, and having spotted one major landmark he’d mentioned, I had the sudden inkling that I might be able to do it after all. Those bloody inklings of mine.

I’m not sure what made me think I could follow a route I didn’t take much notice of map-wise in the first place because I’d never intended to follow it. But I did think this, and it wasn’t very long before my elated sense of accomplishment turned to dry-mouthed panic when my shitty sense of direction conceded with my fantastic sense of being lost that I was definitely not on the right track anymore.

Christ knows how, but I zipped along uncharted territory until I stumbled smack onto the street where I work. But I had no idea which direction would take me to the river and I was much too embarrassed to ask a stranger. So instead I called Bruce and used the familiar landmark of his voice to calmly point me in the right direction, which I eventually found, much to his mirth.

So I’ve had my sandwich and - with the extra fifteen minutes tacked onto my usual walk - I’m feeling confident that in another week the scale at home will begin to tip in my favour once more. I’m also confident that I will never again try to go anywhere I’ve never been without a map in my pocket or a local at my side.

Speaking of which, I am adapting horribly to the new content management system I’m required to use for another piece of work I’ve acquired. I’m also incredibly awkward about admitting defeat and just asking the team for help. This is okay though, because according to this book on British behaviour, my general disposition – awkwardness and all - fits right into their social code of ethics. Whoda thunk it?

Hey, so how about that photo? That was me, steering a small fishing vessel on the Adriatic moments before a look of panic registered on the otherwise impassive face of Bojana's father and he instructed her in hurried Serbo-Croatian to take over for f*ck's sake! (he probably didn't say this, though he said something to cut my piloting short).

Next door to the what?

Last night we saw a programme about a boy with a rare muscular disorder that will kill him before he turns 20. His body emaciated and failing, the kid nearly died from breathing in a grain of rice. When he couldn’t swallow food anymore, a team of specialists had to surgically implant a feeding tube in his stomach via his mouth without anaesthetics because even the sedatives could kill him. And this guy still managed to drag his ass to university.

So we made a pact never to complain about anything ever again.

Um. Hello. I’m at work right now. And.

Nothing.

All you turkeys

It becomes more impossible to pin anything down the longer past and present embrace like wet transparencies - the eternal Then stamped into photographs, typeface running the same line over and over again, jumbling the meaning, and dreams that pull through filiments of lives you have no business waking. A song you thought you knew gives your heart a brand new pair of concrete shoes and pushes it overboard - that waterlogged ticker you lost last summer still trite except now you know too. Everything fits together so suddenly, sweetly and painfully, as it pushes you from the frame to complete its circle.

Croatia's turned down the sheet, put out the lights; it sleeps in a twinkling shoebox beneath the bed. Bojana, BoJANA, BoYana, however you get it wrong, she belongs here. She chews food pensively, shakes her head in slow-motion, smiles disbelievingly - could food possibly taste this good? Every morsel of her native land rolls over her tongue with that same allegiance.

All eyes are on me all the time: yours and hers and theirs and theirs too. Everyone that ever lived and knew us is watching, their furtive glances eating up hours of our film and it's not my best angle. So many boxes in disperate basements to lift the lids off of, so many angles to shake the dust from and try on again.

I don't know how long this thread pays out, if it's even the same thread, or if all threads are pulled from a single dream coat that is never quite finished. Or something else entirely.

Regardless

This weekend we went to see Control except the guy sold us tickets to see The Kingdom and we didn't figure it out until we were already crazy glued to our seats and the film had started. I'd have never gone to see it otherwise, and I'd have been right.

Other little things here and there. Happy Thanksgiving, Canada.

Hold out central

I don’t know if it’s the product of being an insignificant one in a city of millions that has challenged my individuality. But more than ever now I find I’m unable to own experiences, always looking at myself from an outside perspective and thinking, “This could be happening to anyone, anyone at all.”

And for the longest time I guess I’d been feeling like a pair of training-wheels for the novice dater. Someone you can only go so far with before you have to trade up, or out. These are certainties I’m slowly learning to unlearn. It’s difficult to be a good wife and a productive member of society when you’re always disappearing on people.

Anyway, Bruce is expecting an entry on our evening and that’s just what I’m about to do, though there’s a sense of urgency in this office today that’s nearly impossible to ignore, even whilst on lunch and inside my headphones. We’ll give it a try though.

So last evening we met up at Embankment to have a relaxing few hours before the New Pornographers show. We’d already agreed on dinner and a drink but we hadn’t come up with the particulars of what or where. After a while of wandering, we decided on a restaurant chain that’s been very good to us in the past.

La Porchetta is probably best known for its wide, floppy pizzas of various fresh ingredients. Now we know it’s because everything else on their menu sucks.

Just to be different (and costly), I ordered the most expensive dish on the menu, which turned out to be two small fowls covered in tomato sauce and a side of rice swimming in the same. There was nothing particularly wrong with it (other than the fact that I could scarcely scrape off two full mouthfuls from those tiny birds) but it wasn’t dazzling either. And I’m fairly certain they water down their wine, which I sent back in exchange for a pint of beer (which also turned out to be watered down).

But the real kicker was an incident that took place shortly after we’d sat down. We were shown to our table by a host who greeted us with the kind of jovial banter that belied the service training he’d had back in 1955. A few minutes later, a pair of young women walked in and the host turned his attention to them, exclaiming with a flourish, “Table for three!”

The two girls laughed uncertainly and gave him an odd look.

”Why’s that?” one of them asked.

The waiter gazed beatifically at the larger of the two and said, “For the baby!”

And then the horror of the situation dawned as it became perfectly evident that the woman in question was not pregnant.

Gauging by her appearance, I still can’t think of a single reason why one would even make this assumption. She wasn’t disproportionately bigger in the midsection and she wasn’t even particularly overweight. If you make the assertion that somebody you don’t know is pregnant (never do this), you have to be pretty darn sure. And I was pretty darn sure this was the worst prediction in the entire history of mistaken pregnancies.

So the girls hemmed and hawed a bit about whether or not they should even sit down - deciding finally that they’d have their dinner anyway, to the discomfort of us all. The restaurant was now empty save for four of us: two scowling (them), one with a dislocated jaw (me) and one with pop-eyes, his sleeves clamped firmly over his mouth in utter disbelief of what he’d just witnessed (Bruce).

The New Pornographers were fantastic though. It could have been a bit more fantastic had Neko Case been there, but nobody complained. In fact, after crew had disassembled the complicated pipe organ used by a nameless band that sounded like Genesis but looked like they’d just won first place for hydraulics at the high school science fair, the crowd was in such hysterics that a few of them even deigned to make some spastic hand gestures at the stage.

This is how otherwise reticent Brits let loose at a good show – by spazzing out within the narrow confines of their standing room. Some even gathered in a huddle to jump straight up and down in time to the music. But mostly there was the awkward spastic hand gestures, which elicited smirks from a few band members.

Wow, this entry is suddenly way too long; I bet you’ve already forgotten where you are and who I am and if you’d promised to have lunch with your mother.

Whiskers on kittens

Our friend Jennifer managed to take some quality photos of our elusive cats recently. She’s in transit at the moment and camped out on our living room floor, so she’s had ample opportunity to engage with them. As much as you can engage with a pair of pea-brained trauma victims.

Meanwhile it’s just another day at Club Work. Conversations about ex girlfriends have gained steadily in self-indulgent elaboration to the point where I want to scream OH JUST SLEEP WITH HER ALREADY SO WE CAN FINALY MOVE ON! Except the point of ex girlfriends is that they taunt you from afar so that you have something to fantasise about on your lunch break or whilst you’re involved in a particularly tedious project. Or so I’m lead to believe.

So after spending all morning bearing witness to the cheating hearts of corporate Britannia, I was happily made aware of the fact that Sales Guy has been demoted by way of a completely separate promotion. This has nothing to do with anything except that maybe now he will work more and talk less and, well, that idea makes me extremely gay.

By the way, I’m re-appropriating the expression ‘gay,’ because why should the bi-/homosexuals have all the fun? They shouldn’t, that’s why! So today I am gay! GAY!GAY!GAY! Eat your heart out Julie Andrews!

Tonight we are making another brave attempt at the extradomesticular and will be seeing the New Pornographers on their Challengers tour. I am hoping against hope that Neko Case will be with them, though she has a busy schedule of her own.

And wouldn't you know it - so do I. G’bye!

Look out upon the myriad harbour

This day started off weakly, my mood a bit off, and then some minor detail in a news story we’re publishing caught my eye and drew me further into my funk. The story uncovered all the ways in which people avoid work, particularly on Mondays, and how businesses were suffering because of this initial lag.

I find this Dickensian outing of unmotivated staff really depressing. It’s not enough that a job eats up huge chunks of your week and most of every day in between; now they want to forcibly squeeze every last drop of productivity you can reasonably muster in that suffocating timeframe.

Sometimes the only way I feel like I can keep walking in the direction of work rather than turning on my heel and walking straight back into bed is the notion that everyone feels the same fatigued apprehension about turning themselves on for another eight hour slog. Or most people do anyway. The rest saunter into their £100,000 per annum seats at 11 a.m., juggle their gaseous strategies and then have a four-hour lunch meeting about it.

Then maybe they’ll read that bit of news and furrow their brow and wonder how they can determine who in their organisation might be trying to cheat them of precious revenue.

As always, though, the motivation to actually care about your job is self-driven, and the only thing it’s driven by is a slow climb up the hierarchy and a promotion. What on earth am I doing here?

Earlier on Friday Films

A production company was filming a crowd shot along the South Bank this morning. They were making use of pedestrians heading to their various offices, indicating by way of a large sign that we should avoid looking directly at the camera whilst they were filming.

So I negotiated the narrow passage between a park bench and the filming camera, taking great care to avoid looking at the director. Part of me liked the idea that all I had to do to ruin their shot was turn around like some dumb asshole and smile into the camera. But an even bigger part of me wants to see my pill-balled black tights and crumpled a-frame skirt on a screen one day so that I can say, “Hey, that’s me! Well, part of me anyway.”

Just now

I looked down at my shirt and noticed some soup there. I said a bit petulantly “Nobody told me I had soup on my shirt.” Some random someone apologised and handed me a wet wipe. I guess I’m still in a bad mood.

People to see

We had a very harrowing evening at the theatre this past Friday. The theatre is the very last place one would expect to be harrowed (unless you’ve been misfortunately cast in a Martin Amis novel) but on a Friday night in the west end of London anything is possible.

It was the second performance of David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross at the Apollo and as subdued theatregoers milled about with a modest glass of wine in hand, the swinging doors suddenly flung to and a gaggle of gassed up lads walked in bellowing WOAH, THIS PLACE IS JUMPING.

As sardonically observed, the place was perhaps not ‘jumping,’ though surely a few patrons jumped a bit at the unexpected commotion.

I guess it wasn’t much of a surprise when, after Bruce and I had settled into our seats, this obnoxious troupe took up residence in the row directly behind us. What did surprise me though was the interactive enjoyment these boys took in the script, which tickled their funny bone via the connecting ‘foul language’ and ‘racist commentary’ bones. It was a nightmare.

The play itself was alright, in spite of an actor appealing backstage for a forgotten line and a few lacklustre deliveries of some of my most fond filmic recollections of the play. The boys had done their homework too, though, and like a sonic boom they emitted catch phrases in Tourette-inspired helplessness minutes before the actors could voice them onstage.

All this annoyance was thankfully contained within a few rows towards the back, but the actors could certainly tell something was amiss due to the excessive shushing that filtered through.

Bruce has asked me to write a letter to the theatre in the hopes that they’ll give us free passes to see the play again. We think they should have attempted to do something to uphold convention, if only to show that it matters.

Anyway, we made up for it on Saturday by going to see Yella at the cinema, which I’d recommend to anyone looking for a subtle intellectual thrill. I also recommend watching Half Nelson if you haven’t already. Ryan Gosling does a very convincing performance of a cracked out school teacher and the soundtrack of well-known Broken Social Scene tracks scarcely pierces the invention.

Coming up tomorrow is Lightspeed Champion at the 100 Club and then New Pornographers on Thursday, which – between dinner parties and a houseguest - makes for a very full week indeed.

I heard somewhere that the power dynamic is always unequal between two people in a relationship, in the sense that one usually loves the other more. Not in the saccharine ‘no, I love YOU more’ way but in the tragic manner of a less enthralled lover who can only bear or take advantage of the overwhelming attentions of his/her counterpart. So I count myself very fortunate in that respect, since I’m almost certainly matched in love.

First impressions, Tribunj

My short-term memory plug can only withstand the pressure of fresh volumes for so long, and soon the new will push old vacation dreams down the drain.

For now, I’m winking back inside that first day, in and out as the sun runs its fingers across tree tops so tall I thought our bus might have slipped the space/time continuum to enter Northern Saskatchewan.

But if the Great Plains are a Monet then Croatia is certainly a Gauguin with its chunky, varied landscape of scrubby trees, blood-orange fists of stiff-leaved crops, green and red earth, the whole of it choked with rocks, rubble, and broad, spiny plants.

Broke back houses, kneeling or simply caved-in, are oddly interspersed with those that escaped the bombing but still bear signs of economical hardship. An unintentional communism seems to be at work in Croatia’s urban planning, as affluent facades of sunny balconies and vine-wound columns stand resolvedly beside the ghostly grey shapes of homes once whole and inhabited.

Trubunj has the essence of a shanty town, barely disguised by constant renovations, though its Mediterranean charm is undeniable and one only needs to turn a corner or lift a leaf to discover some delectable gem, breathtaking in its visual or tactile potency.

The Adriatic sea along the coast of Dalmatia is one of the purest bodies of water in existence, a radiant and clear-eyed indigo hovering coldly above its own visible floor. In late September, the water is all teeth and claws, but if you grapple with it for a few minutes, you can swim comfortably for hours (well, someone could).

A daisy-chain of industry faces the coast - restaurants and cocktail bars and ice cream stands with themes like Cocomo, Nautica and Paradiso, poised festively along the water’s edge - and just inside, few shaded and winding passageways of climbing, stone apartments. Some of these will stand empty for decades, collecting dust and wind and cobwebs, due to unresolved legal disputes among family members after a deceased owner neglects to write a valid will.

Our host, Bojana, tells us her grandfather’s apartment has been abandoned this way for over a decade since her uncle claimed legal ownership and then permanently relocated to Australia. Her father can’t do much about this, but in any case owns a home topped with two private apartments on a quiet road further inland.

Bojana gives us the 15 minute tour of the fishing village she grew up in before we retire to our respective abodes for a nap. We meet up later for salty pizza and Ozuisko Pivo, a beer loved by travellers and locals alike. She will travel back to Sibenik later, a larger coastal village where she lives and works, located a half hour away by car. She will come in and out of our holiday like a well-timed angel, taking us to all the best restaurants, sites and expeditions.

More on that later.

Getting there

My relationship with flying is nearly synonymous with my perspective on life. Take-off feels unstable to a tooth-gritting, hair-pulling, get-me-the-hell-off-this-thing! extent. Then the plane evens out and if I can for a moment forget that it could all go pear-shaped, my enjoyment of the experience is sublime.

Such was my feeling as we hit cruising altitude (half an hour late, “thank you for your patience-y”) and I finally deigned to look over the edge of my window seat. Once the rutted shelf of antique-white cloud disappears, you can’t help but devour the whole of that divine shoebox diorama below.

Tiny rooftops pooled inside the graceful arms of mountain ranges, the coin-sized lakes twisting to capture the sun and glint it back in your eye, the fudgey green heads of trees belying the simplicity of a forest – you feel the insignificance of your own little contribution to that majesty even as you tower above it like an intoxicated deity (which seems fairly accurate, after all the wine).

Surely there’s a term to describe that visceral enjoyment you can only obtain from navigating a savage, inhospitable terrain. The way your breath quickens when you swim a bit too far out and aren’t really sure if the shadows at the bottom belong to you or to sea grass or something that could fit you inside its mouth in pieces. But you turn onto your back and look up at the inexhaustible blue sky and just wonder at your own body, and at these most basic of life’s components.

In that plane, sandwiched between cloud and earth, I imagined that crash victims would at least have this. What more should proceed one’s final moments than stunning elation and that rotating-telescopic sense of perspective? But then we reached our hotel in Zagreb and saw on the news that a plane had crashed in Phuket, all foreigners aboard, and this scenario seemed suddenly very unlikely. Not at all romantic.

And obviously there’s more, but I’m out of time for today.

It would be so nice

Wake up Friday.

Soz, I just entered the Matrix there for a moment. I'm on bighugelabs' writer, courtesy of flickr. You should try it. (Nobody paid me to say that. But would you? I could say it again!)

After buying my first swimming costume in six years (and unsuccessfully threatening a girl who swiped the last pair of my-sized swim bottoms by stalking her at an uncomfortable distance) and packing half our wardrobe into one modest case (and mumble something beer and television or other) it has finally dawned on me that we're going on holiday. To Croatia. Tomorrow.

I'm madly skimming a Time Out guide hastily purchased yesterday
to find out as much as I can about the place we're landing in (Zagreb!) and the remote location of our main stay (Tribunj?) while Bruce shoots me dirty looks from his spot in the bed because it's nearly midnight and really I should be asleep.

But I'm too excited and nervous now and I'm trying to determine if I've packed enough for one week. Having never been to Croatia, I want to be prepared for anything, which means I've packed everything, including some kind of topical ointment that Bruce used the other week. Because what if he needs it again!

Our location is so remote that it doesn't appear in our guidebook, but it's situated along the coast of the Adriatic and we have a lovely apartment all to ourselves there and lo, there is sand. So IF between ten books, five DVDs, two mp3 players and a couple of love-crazed newly weds there STILL isn't enough to do, there will always be the beach.

Oh but I've just done a search online and came up with this:

"Among various summer entertainments [in] Tribunj a traditional donkey race should be pointed out as an action of preservation of this endangered animal."

Seems reasonable. A donkey isn't going to be eaten by a lion if it's running a big race that day, yeah? (Are there lions in Croatia?)

See you next week!

Pearson gives the Devil a run for his money

Seeing Josh Pearson live is (in spite of the over-eagerness of his fans) something of a mystical experience. His hand - a great, tickling spider that spins five strings to intimate an approaching storm in some lonely night time Nevada desert – works itself into such a spindly blur that you’d almost believe he owns several more fingers than his maker normally allows.

He’s both slight and savage in appearance, his long beard a bees-nest foaming about his collarbone, and it’s difficult to look him in the face as he sings about demons. Eyes wild, he bares his teeth in an expression so intimately pained you feel as though you’re looking in on the private execution of an outlaw.

Pearson’s harsh visions blow like tumbleweeds in the imagination, which is only enhanced by the basement rec room quality of the venue – a sleepover pillow stuffed into the kick-drum, amps balanced on milk crates, wood panelling and dark industrial carpet with all manner of plumbing and electricity exposed – this is a childhood place of potential.

Josh is sober now, which I hear is a good thing - from the performer himself and from anyone who’s ever watched him self-destruct onstage. Instead of burning up, he does something much more impressive, and walks slowly, barefooted across hot coals.

Reluctant renegade

Today the sales guy is getting the smack down, all because I waved the 'formal complaint' flag. I don’t even feel proud of myself – just worried that a real issue for all people working here will be turned into a personal issue that I’m having, albeit for very good reason.

I worry about this because the atmosphere of this corporation otherwise makes a blatant mockery of feminism. Thank you Women’s Studies 300, for opening my eyes to the chauvinism of the world and then giving me nothing but a feather pillow with which to fight it.

Now there is an irritated bustle of official importance and it’s all my fault.

All work and all play makes Friday a good girl

The longer I work here, the more I struggle to find reasons to stay. Even when I’m feeling my best, in terms of both productivity and sociability, I still don’t feel all that great.

In about a week I’ll be given a new, permanent contract. Except that this contract will not include a pay raise (not in the budget for this year) even though the role most certainly involves greater accountability.

Am I being bamboozled or what? (Don’t answer that, it’s rhetorical)

Evidently, I’ll be learning things that will give me greater experience and who knows where that will lead! The expression is something like “another bow on your ribbon” or “another tie on your bow” – either way it makes me feel like I’m a prize-winning canine on a podium. But the carrot is before me now and I have to decide if I want to give chase or not.

In better news, Bruce has survived the restructuring of his organisation and is in an even better place than he was beforehand. We’re going out to celebrate after work, though I’m not sure where. My two choices are a cultured evening of independent film and fine French food or a lowbrow horror movie and pizza. I can’t decide! Bruce says I’m not allowed to scream too loudly at the scary film if it’s the latter though.

I learned a new technique for the banjo last night called “pulling-off,” which sounds dirty and I guess the enjoyment I get from doing it would approximate that assessment. A mixture of “hammering-down” and “pulling-off” really gets a girl hot under the collar (but only in the safety of my own bedroom).

My teacher thinks I’ve done considerably well and can tell that I’ve been practicing, so the gold-star grubber in me wants to spin in circles until I vomit. But then he told me that I should also spend time improvising, and why don’t I try that right now?

And my fingers froze on the strings as a look of utter dismay surely crossed my face.

The thing about lessons is you learn just as much about yourself as the instrument you’re trying to play. For instance, I’ve learned that I’m actually quite repressed. I cling to tablature like a drowning man clings to a bit of driftwood amidst a sea of four-quarter notes. Ed calls it “playing by the dots” and gives me more tablature to ease my fear of possibly doing something spontaneous.

He suggested that whilst learning I should use specific fingers to hold down the strings. He said it wasn’t a strict rule or anything, more like a rule of thumb, and I said THAT’S OKAY, I LIKE RULES.

Ed furrowed his brow a bit and said, “Fair enough” and told me to hold down the string with my first finger. And I said OKAY as I put my second finger down on the string. Because rules are made to be adhered to but only if you’re capable of it!

I didn’t have time to practice my new technique because it takes about an hour to get home, by which point it’s tea and then a bit of television and then bed.

My next lesson won’t be for three weeks now because otherwise it would have fallen on our trip to Croatia. I’m contemplating taking my instrument with me on holiday though surely I’m not THAT much of a keener.

Am I? (Rhetorical!)