I've Got That Holiday Feeling

Well. I’ve been greatly slack in regards to blogging lately. I haven’t even got a note from my Mum – I’m tardy with no viable reason. I’d say that there are not enough hours in the day, but surely if I cut down to about 4 hours of sleep a night, I’d be able to get things done. Don’t worry – I’m working on it.

In the past couple of weeks, I have worked, attended meetings (see how official I sound?), embarrassed myself in front of the Minister for Tourism, and been back to Sydney to catch up with my friends and family. I’d have to say that the holiday was the highlight, although proving myself as a noob in front of a politician runs a close second.

The trip, as always, was hectic and fun. I managed to squeeze in a lot of socialising, a bit of shopping, some soapbox moments, and some fabulous café meals. Some of the highlights included:

+ A System of a Down sing-along with my friend Jake. We used to have these every time we were in the car together, but now that we're living on different islands it makes it a bit difficult. We're obviously getting older though - Jake ran out of breath halfway through a song and had to take a minute to regroup. Sigh. Getting older is a bitch.

+ Dinner with my Mum, Uncle, Aunty and her partner. And Jake. The funniest moment (albeit possibly traumatising for Jake) was when my Aunt licked her finger, touched herself, and then made a sizzling noise. Yeah, I come from hot stock, people.

+ Dropping a wad of cash at a shop in Springwood, and having a chat with the chick behind the counter. We got into a discussion about Burnie (as you do) and she was telling me about how she'd been to the Makers Workshop, and spoken to this lovely artist there. You might have heard of her. It was none other than Jaci Poke.

+ Watching TV with Tibby, Elyse and John. There were bad shows, bad jokes, and elbow wrestling matches (accompanied by suitable dramatic music).

+ Spending time with one of my favourite little families. Amie, James and Lucian are always on my list of people to catch up with. The little dude Lucian is turning one tomorrow (!), and Amie is carrying the next little bundle addition to their family. Always a pleasure, always funny, and more often than not includes reggae music and bad dancing (on my behalf). I also managed to get slapped in the face with the skin that had formed on my hot drink. I can't even begin to describe the gag-worthy effects of this.

+ A night at the pub in Penriff. My friend Amee came up with a new religion that I just KNOW is going to take off. We planned the promotional posters and everything. We also regaled each other with stories from days of old, and tried unsuccessfully to deflect the attentions of a highly inebriated young Navy boy. It's an oxymoron, isn't it? We were as surprised as anyone else.

I was fairly knackered by the time I left. Especially when you count in travel time, and everything else. On the flight home, I started dozing. It was quite restful, sitting there curled underneath my coat, listening to the murmur of other people talking, and the rustling of page turning. For the duration of the trip I zoned in and out of consciousness, and eventually fell into a sinking, deep sleep.

Then we landed. I snorted awake, realised that my mouth had been open, and I'd therefore possibly been drooling. I reassured myself that I didn't know anybody on the plane, and stepped back onto Tasmanian soil.

Hello home.

The Creative Mind

After some thorough (questionable), thought-provoking (REALLY questionable) self-analysis (narcissism), I have come to the conclusion that the creative mind (or this one, at least) has a few different easily-distinguishable stages that it goes through on a regular basis. There are gray, in-between areas, but these are the more common moments.

Now, get comfy people. Dr Trixie is here to help.

Stage 1: Unmotivated, and guilty. This stage involves a lot of self-recrimination, because you have TIME to do things. A valuable commodity, time can be rare. And having time to do something, well. That's about as frequent as the whole blue moon, pig-flying phenomenon. But you don't feel like doing anything. Either you just can't be bothered, or your head is emptier than... something really empty. Cue the guilt.

Stage 2: Over-motivated. You have ideas. You have hundreds of ideas. And ALL OF THEM WILL BE AWESOME. But there comes the problem - what do you do first? You may go to start one project, and then realise that something else would be more timely to make. So you start that. And think about the other equally timely project you could be working on. And you work yourself into a state of stillness and confusion, simply because there are so many things to start, and you are only one person. Is the world really ready for that much awesomeness?

Stage 3: Creative on crack. This is the most productive of the three stages, because the ideas are there. The motivation is there. You might even have time to get things done. Everything somehow magically aligns, and you are fuelling yourself with caffeine (or your addiction of choice) and crafting like a person possessed.

After a few weeks of swinging between Stage 1 and Stage 2, I hit Stage 3 the other day. And it was good. So good.

I'm going back to Sydney in a week, and I had a list of projects that I wanted to get finished before I went. I had my doubts as to whether I'd even finish the first project I was working on before I went.

After seeing a rad scarf in Frankie magazine, I thought, I can make that. So I picked up a crochet hook, pretended that I knew what I was doing, and started a scarf.

Then the crack stage kicked in. I finished the scarf. I altered a dress. I made a new handbag. I altered another dress. I bought wool to start making another scarf. I drank a lot of coffee.

And soon, I was sitting amidst the debris of fabric scraps, stray pieces of cotton, and machinery, looking at my broken overlocker needle, and dizzily wondering what the hell had just happened.

Stage 3, my friends. She is a hard but fair task-mistress.

Junk Mail Junkie

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I love junk mail. I do. I eagerly await every new week of fresh new publications for my perusal. I get a feeling of giddy glee when I hear the pitter patter of the feet of the junk mail fairy (heavy, thudding footsteps, interspersed with some dragging, of the lady who is married to our gardener, Tony. We call her Mrs. Tony) delivering my beloved catalogues right to our door.

There is a frenzy when I first get them in the house, to discern the value of each catalogue, and how many in the pile are worth looking at. I know no disappointment like that of finding only Coles and Woolworths catalogues. Food? FOOD?!? I care not for this rubbish that you wish to force upon me. How am I supposed to daydream about lamb? I want to daydream about cowl necks, and envision myself in a room with THAT lamp in it. I want to imagine having an unlimited supply of money, and being able to buy everything that I want from the catalogue. I want.... well, everything really.

Yes, I'm aware that I am enforcing a culture of consumerism. Yes, I know that the paper used to create such publications hurts the environment and baby Jesus, and that I will more than likely burn in hell (on top of a pile of Coles catalogues).

I just don't care. It's an addiction. It somehow always knows what it is that my heart truly desires, and it delivers. It just gets me.

Like this week's offering from the altar of cut-price goods...

Isn't that amazing? Here I was thinking, just the other day, about how my life was lacking because I didn't yet own my very own Solar Powered Mini Topiary Tree TM. A Box Hedge - sure.  I've had one for years. But that shit's old hat. Topiary is the way of the future.

Junk mail, I love you so.