Eat, Pray, Love and Get the Bleep Over It

I’m reading a book right now. At least I’m attempting to read it. It’s a book that’s been feted worldwide with not a negative heard about it. Its been made into a film with Julia Roberts with her endearing (yet unnervingly middle-aged) coltish ways trit-trotting across the northern hemisphere in a west-east direction. And I’m having trouble with this book.

Eat Pray Love is the story of one woman’s search for… actually I’m not quite sure what she’s searching for – something that’s a combination of God, Prince Charming and a shag (and I may be wrong but I’m only half way through the book so bear with me here if I’m wrong).

I’m not dissing the deep despair and emptiness she feels in her marriage that leads her to leave her husband, have a dysfunctional transitional relationship, then leave the US on a year of travels to find whatever it is. However maybe I’m just a tad impatient with the sheer indulgence of the exercise.

Throughout the entire half of the book I’ve read so far, there has been nothing to make me want to like her and I didn’t know what that was until yesterday. And that one thing is that she demonstrated care for no one or nothing other than that which could directly serve her.

Even in one episode where she is struggling the mantra her guru insists is said each morning at the Ashram in India, she finally finds a way of getting through it by concentrating with love on her nephew (who she apparently loves more than anything in the world but its taken half a book to mention him in passing). There seems to be a shaft of selfless light shining through for a moment but then it was all back to her when she finds a passage in a holy book that says how someone else, many years ago, got through the mantra by concentrating on her beloved nephew and so it therefore was God’s way of telling her she’s on the right path. And back we go to stage one.

I’m not criticising her for being carefree, I guess I’m just irked by her excess of indulgence, choice and money and the assumption that these are required to go on this holy quest.

Hundreds of thousands of women have done the journey before her (myself included), but without the necessity for a passport. They’ve done it in their own kitchen, their own backyard because responsibilities have curtailed physical movements.

And maybe that’s the nub of it. Maybe I’m simply jealous and that’s what’s colouring my view. I’m reaching an age where I’m slowly divesting myself of responsibilities. Since my teens I’ve had the responsibility of looking after my parents, and then having a child. Well the parents are now gone, and the child is growing fast, and I’m entering a time where I’m having more fun than ever before, and I’m blessed enough to have a partner who’s at the same stage and who’s with me on the fun quest.

Would I have taken myself off to Italy, India and Bali if I had the freedom and resources? Probably not.

When I picture her life as it was, it makes me feel quite panicky. There’s no reference point other than the self, no anchor. And that self is in freefall and at that stage not to be trusted for any judgement call. I wonder if she would have learned the same lesson by volunteering with homeless people or by devoting herself to some service to others? Probably, but it wouldn’t have the glamour of the world trip. Cynical? Moi?

I may finish the book loving it – I’ll let you know. But in the meantime I reckon it should be called “Eat,Pray Love and Get the Bleep over it”

Back to the Wall

Much as I love South Australia, there are a few things that puzzle me.
For instance, I almost always refuse to eat alfresco in cafes. I just don’t understand why they take their precious customers and put them in the most unpleasant place to eat and drink - right out at the kerbside.
Look at any European café, and its outdoor tables are huddled against the building, allowing pedestrians to walk on by in peace, allowing vehicles to park at the kerb if they want to and generally streamlining the process of either going where you want to go or sitting down and having a coffee.
Switch to SA and as a pedestrian you have to do a kind of Indiana Jones operation if you’re walking past a café, as you have to dodge the crossfire of waiting staff travelling to tables loaded with food or from tables loaded with used crockery. Just as restaurant owners would complain if someone built a pedestrian thoroughfare through their restaurant, its no fun wafting through the aromas of other people’s meals on the street just to get somewhere. Sometimes I’m so tempted to steal a chip as I fly past, just because I can.
Sometimes they kindly put bollards at the kerb, which I don’t find too reassuring because it implies that previously there was a risk of rogue vehicles ploughing into diners at some point. Plus you also get to suck in those lovely exhaust fumes that will add a certain je ne sais quoi to your Fettuccini puttanesca.
So, please, Councils and Restrauteurs, use whole of brain thinking when you’re planning your next alfresco project and take the diners back to the wall!

Show stuff and Dads' Day

Hello,

I haven't written a blog for a few weeks now. Suddenly I seemed to have dropped the habit of the weekly outpourings. Ah well, its best to go with the flow.
Its not that I haven't been writing at all - I have - just not the blog. The most important writing has been happening in aid of our upcoming Adelaide Fringe show, and what an experience that has been.
Some shows can seem like a struggle from the start, even if you can't pinpoint the exact cause. And others like this one seem to have a life of their own from the point of conception. I'm working with colleagues Kate Burr and Kehau Jackson on something that we think will tickle many fancies this coming Fringe season, and the show is writing itself.
We decided to move from straight standup to comedy cabaret. Of course with cabaret comes music, and as none of us are musicians it would seem that might be the first obstacle.
To date we've now written five songs - words and music to four of them and words to a traditional tune for the fifth. Like those bumble bees who fly because no-one has told them that they cannot according to the laws of physics, we couldn't see why we shouldn't write our own stuff. The main reason was to avoid the copyright palaver of using other peoples music, but its now taken on a life of its own - move over Carol King, Peter Allen and anyone else who's in the way. Wood Jackson and Burr are recreating the Brill Building here in Adelaide. Watch out for more info soon on a show you'll definitely want to see.

**************************
Its Father's Day here in Australia, so I'd just like to give a shout out to all the good Dads.
Also, to the men who've been good fathers to me in one way or another:
To my own Dad John, who passed away two years ago, love you and miss you dad.
To my darling husband Steven, thankyou for being such a great dad for Michael and Andrew, and for David.
To my brother in law Dave, thankyou for being an alternative father figure throughout my life.
To David's grandad John, thankyou for being a great grandad and teaching him to enjoy fruit!
To my father in law David, thankyou for welcoming David and I into the family and being a lovely dad-in-law.
To Father John McL, thankyou for the love and spiritual guidance. I miss you and think of you often. I know you're still looking after me from wherever you are.
To Jim Martin, my best mate's dad who's done so much to help me - especially when I was at my lowest ebb.
To Arnold Halliday, who welcomed me to the Halliday family almost 20 years ago.

All fine men, all good men, and all should be proud of their abilities as dads.
Happy Fathers' Day!

The Novelty of Routine

It’s been a couple of weeks since the last blog. Partly due to recovery after All Shook Up finishing.
It’s been a funny time of slight dislocation. Almost like the dislocation you feel after being away from home. Have you noticed that after returning home even after a short trip, it’s like the perennially familiar is, for a time, unfamiliar? Could it be that while you were away the experiences you had, the people you met have changed you – even fractionally – so that when you return home some part of your psyche knows that you are not the same person who left? And so being home begins to be an exercise akin to putting on an old uniform that’s suddenly unfamiliar.
And speaking of uniform, you know you’ve been doing a show too long when you start to continually refer to work uniform as ‘costume’!
So, yeh, I’ve been getting into the hard work of re-assuming normal life, and life has actually been super-normal. Not going out more than one night per week, routine days, hardly seeing friends, and then copping this bloomin virus that started on Wednesday, floored me on Thursday and has kept me semi-conscious until this morning.
At least I’ve had the opportunity to explore the realms of daytime telly, which I never normally watch if I’m in the house during the day. It really is pretty awful. Insubstantial froth and advertising vehicles push the latest gadget that’ll find its way to the back of the cupboard pretty quickly. Anyone sensitive would soon become paranoid after watching these shows that their skin isn’t good enough, their weight isn’t right and their hair isn’t blonde enough.
If you’re looking for diversity of presenters, don’t go to daytime commercial telly. I sometimes just put on the BBC world news to see other examples of femininity than skinny, white and blonde.
I have discovered one show that has a morbid fascination for me. The Real Housewives of New York is a bunch of rich female Manhattanites who rarely display any positive qualities. These talon-ed and extension-ed real life Bratz dolls tear each other apart on-screen with all the finesse and etiquette of the year six playground. Why do I watch this negativity? I know it’s not good for me. Maybe it’s comforting to think that all the nastiness is contained to this one group of women. As long as they’re tearing each other apart, they’re leaving the rest of us alone.
Still, I’ve got to be better for this week. There’s a chance of making some headway at work with various things, a meeting with my girls Kehau and Kate to discuss our upcoming Adelaide Fringe show, and a first lesson with my new singing teacher after the wonderful David Gauci, my first teacher, gone and got himself a gig with the musical Hairspray, opening in Melbourne soon – enjoy, David!
Anyway, enough rambling – better go get some breakfast. Take care of yourselves and each other, and have a great week.

A New Scottish Anthem

Anyone who remembers the TV series Ally McBeal will also remember the urging of one of the characters to Ms McBeal to make sure she has a theme song for her life, a signature tune that sets the tone of her outlook on the world. Unfortunately, for her and her ticking fertility clock, the ‘ugachacka’ baby took prominence in this position, no matter what she tried.

However, it is a valid point. Not only can music affect our transient moods but sometimes that one song that underpins all you believe in can grab you when you’re having a bad day and remind you that life is, after all, good. I have two musical sources that do this for me: First is the entire soundtrack of the movie Local Hero, written by Mark Knopfler, and secondly the Queen song ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’. There’s no way I can feel anything but happy when I hear that.

So if our signature tune can affect us individually, it’s also true for nations.
The Scots have unofficially adopted over the past 15 or so years the song ‘Flower of Scotland’ as an anthem. It’s been used at rugby matches and the Commonwealth Games, but if you’ve ever heard its sad tones, its not one that’s going to fire up a team with enthusiasm. Its lyrics celebrate the victory of the Scots over the English at the Battle of Bannockburn – way back in 1314! Hardly a recent occurrence.

So, I propose that Scotland adopts a new anthem, one that celebrates what we Scots do well, and that is have parties! One that will fire up a team and send its members out onto the field full of verve, bonhomie and confidence. And that is why the new Scottish National Anthem should be Shang-a-lang! This groundbreaking song by Scottish ‘70s group Bay City Rollers will get any crowd shaking their shoulders, and with the main lyrics incorporating the phrases ‘Shang-a-lang’ ‘ hey hey’, and ‘Do-wop-e-do-be-do-ay’ there’s ample opportunity for similarly minded foreigners to join in. Youtube them yourself if you don’t believe me!

I look forward to a brighter future for Scotland’s sports men and women as they lift their heads from the burden of the dirge to triumphantly punch the air singing “And we sang shang-a-lang and we ran with the gang doin do wop e do be do ay, we were all in the news with our blue suede shoes and our dancing the night away.”!

Equal in their Underwear

Strong dream last night.

If you ask anyone, especially my husband, he'll roll his eyes and tell you that yes I do dream often and can remember tiny details. Maybe that's why I'm so tired in the mornings if I'm living this other life during sleep time.

Anyway, sometimes the dreams are just like recreation, and some, like last night, quite pointedly tell me, remind me, of something important.

I won't bore you with the details but the whole thing led up to me talking to someone who was in strife, telling them the things I've discovered about the magic of life, about the stuff that works around manifesting and the relationship with that intelligence we call God, The Universe or whatever. This kind of tack was something that in real life this person has firmly rejected in favour of traditional religion, but their troubles had opened their mind somewhat.

After I explained it to her, she said 'with all this knowledge, if it works and you applied it, you could be rich and powerful, so why are you telling me this?', and my heated, passionate reply was 'Because there is nothing else but this' (meaning the knowledge, and that everything good and healthy springs from it).

The words didn't convey it but what I knew I meant was that excessive wealth, power, fame are merely backdrops, set, scenery and costumes to the real core of it all which is our relationships with ourselves and each other. That we don't have our origins in the trappings of the world, but that our worth is in our conduct, just as an actor's worth is not in his or her costumes, but in their performance.

I've always thought the analogy of the dressing room as a great leveller and perhaps a metaphor for the spirit world was useful. Shakespeare certainly got it right when he said that 'All the world's a stage...' In there, everyone's the same, crowded around trying to put on different costumes and characters to assume our parts on the stage. Kings and paupers sit shoulder to shoulder making up faces and sorting hairstyles, equal in their underwear, and its only on the stage that the differing roles and inequities become apparent.

Now, I'm not saying that I'm right about this other worldly stuff. I firmly believe that beliefs surrounding religion and faith are all simply stories we tell ourselves to make sense of this world, and we tend to adhere to those that work for us. No harm done as long as we're tolerant and kind to each other.

I'm grateful for the dream. For its ability to remind me of the big picture, about what's really important (to me) and how it's yanked me away from worrying about the small stuff.

Have a lovely week!

The Scribbles Go Rambly

Blog time!

We're a week into the run of All Shook Up and tonight (Monday) will be my last night off til next Sunday.

First thing to note is the mega fun this show is, both for us and so it seems, the audience who bop til they drop each night.

Other big news is that we're having an unexpected addition to the family. No, I'm not pregnant - too old for that. But we're having a little doggie come to join us. Her mum has to travel overseas and so she's coming to us. She came for a play date yesterday and while Jock the Westie (we have two other dogs - Jock and Scarlett the Australian Labradoodle)was a bit over energetic, he was whining for her when she left. She's such a pretty little girl - a maltese/lhasa apso cross - and very loving. We're very lucky.

The week's been a blur of work and theatre but has passed so quickly. So it goes when you're doing something that you love. Lost in the moment, the moment feels eternal, like a time out of time.

Feedback on the show has been great after a wobbly preview and it's improved exponentially as we all got into swing of it, and now we've got people booking already to come back and see it a second time plus a great review from the Advertiser and four stars from the Sunday Mail.

Exciting times. People at work going places, changing jobs and even continents. Movement internally (no, not that way!)discovering new ways of doing things, exploring new possible futures. There must be something in the stars. Apparently there was a powerful lunar eclipse this morning, the energy of which seems to be equivalent to catching a wave.

I'm aware this blog entry is a bit rambly, and I'm trying to think of a way to tie it all together, but actually I can't. It is what it is, like the times I'm experiencing right now. I'm in the middle of a time of change and movement and the conclusion and neatly tied ends have not yet come to pass. Sure will be interesting when they do!

Have a great week :o)