Those Autumn Leaves...

Image: Cliffano Subagio

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This time of year in Melbourne reminds me of a movie I like from the 'Golden Age of Hollyood' (Autumn Sonata and the piece September Song) It is very much a time of closing in, being mentally drawn inward and staying close to hearth and home. Typically I am drawn outside at the same time, to the beauty of the changing leaves and deciduous trees in our parks and gardens. It is my favourite time of year, one when I would trek home from Adelaide just to get my fix of misty mornings and crunching leaves underfoot. But as with everything in my life the beauty has a cost...

Yep, I know you are thinking emotionally and mentally - SAD (Seasonal Adjustment Disorder)... well yes, but not yet. The winter is not advanced enough. This time it is physical.

I went to Uni last Tuesday to attend another one of those tokenistic admin meetings, and not wanting to interrupt the groundsman sweeping the leaves from the path, I cut across the garden and into the buliding. Now that should have been fine, and I remember thinking "oh dear, he's getting rid of those beautiful colours, I guess messy isn't the issue but OH&S is the priority for management".

Ah Carol, thou art psychic!

Before revealing the denouement I need to take us down a short tangent...

... Having survived for years on an extremely tight budget as a sole-parent mum, and then student, I have never been able to comletely justifying blowing money on fashion items. Clothing was always necessity-driven since I put on massive weight. It was money I could not fritter away on myself as the outcome never did bring the desired effect of perceived beauty and self-esteem, merely a need driven purchase of new camoflage layers.

The same with shoes. I was once known for my hat and shoe obsession, yet now I buy barely buy one pair a season, and usually a 'homie peds' pair from the Pharmacy. In my head I know that cheap goods are false economy but given I never seem to have an available $100-150 for an item of footwear. I always chose an Ella Bache pampering session where I could FEEL THE EXPENDITURE if I am blowing that amount of cash on myself.

Last year I did the unthinkable and bought a cheap pair of black boots from Target. They made me feel feminine with their leather uppers and ruching, and pointed toes. My feet did not look like those belonging to a practical sensible woman. The wedge added a height and some elongation of my leg. I felt reasonably good despite knowing that it would be a sort-term solution, as the synthetic soul would inavriably lose it's tread.


Lose tread? I have been walking on 'bald tyres'! And to make matters worse the actual heel is beginning to show and like most cheap shoes it is made of white plastic where the leather has pulled away. It is like my kitchen chopping board, so there is no way I would waste money getting them re-soled.

On my 2010 winter clothes shopping list is new ankle boots. Along comes the TV ads for Rivers... all women's boots at $49, and I fall in love with a maroon leather pair of wedge boots. Carlo and I head directly to the store in Frankston... 95% boots sold out in one day.Only real 'westie type UGG styles left"!! No little feminine maroon boots.

Off to Myer department store and Carol falls for a bright red pair... yep, $289! No purchase. Then in Melbourne I fall for a pair in Chapel Street,again maroon leather and with sensible wedge from a reputable Company name. This time they are a more reasonable $149 and I decide to save for them.

...Back at Uni. I walk inside the building with wet soled-boots. You guessed it, on the non-carpetted floor I slip jarring my leg and hip. Knowing that it was the dear old autumn leave matter combined with plastic worn heels I promise a purchase of those Chapel Street boots as soon as possible and continue feeling grateful that I didn't fall flat on my face.

Then by the afternoon and evening tingling settles in all the way down my legs from rear of thigh to calf. Yet, I forget about it as I do the necessary domestic duties at home.

Meeting up with Glenice the next day I tell her I must have slept crookedly as my legs and back are stiff. I seem to have forgotten the intensity of the tingling and I have even forgotten the slip earlier in the week. So I sit with Glenice at Nunawading theatre and then decide to head back to Uni (again) to catch up on lapsed work. On arrival it is obvious that I cannot even get out of the car comfortably, let alone walk into the building, so I drive home in a great deal of discomfort.

Deciding on a hot shower, a massage of special peppermint balm and early to bed, I find I am unable to lie on my left side or totally on my back. Bugger! I wake feeling stiff but moving.

I am such a sucker for advertising campaigns... my subconscious really takes them onboard. With the challenge to "move it or lose it" resounding in my brain, I decide that this day (Friday) I would walk the stiffness out. I walk all over Frankston and Mornington, dodging in and out of rain showers and wet footpaths... still in those bloody black worn-down boots.

Last night arriving home, there is no more pretending that it is something minor. I have actually injured myself. I ring a local phsyio... yep, booked out for two weeks! Can Mr Rudd please train more medical and allied health professionals... I can never get in to see someone when I need them. It's as if the aged population down here schedule their doctors and medical appointments like they would a car... booking in advance and con-inciding with Pension dates.

One last phone call to Sorrento. Great, he could squeeze me in this morning (just) and he has the HICAPS system where my Health Insurance card is swiped through. Good sign and bad sign. Knowing Sorrento there will also be an out of pocket... but Louis owes me $40 towards Carlo's 21st present and I ...convince (co-erse would be more precise)... him to give me a cheque for the Physio instead. Could not sit up and even knit last night as pain too severe (hence no blog dated April 30!... forget the US default dates on this website...it is actually Saturday the 1st May, 12.44pm).

Happy May Day comrades!
I won't be marching in Melbourne tomorrow, obviously, despite best intentions and plans.

Anyway, armed with adequate funds I arrive at Physio's and find out that I have actually done a facia-plate injury. Short-term and no-longer of great concern given that the nerve damage appears to have subsided. But I never should have walked all day and each day since the accident... one doesn't move it during the chronic pain phase. DERR Carol, that makes sense.

So after a wonderful heat treatment and electronic pulse massage I am now home, sitting (temporarily), with two rotations of very gentle exercises to complete frequently throughout the day. I will be going to yoga Tuesday, even if I can only do the gentle stretches and breathing exercises. It is critical for me to keep healthy this week.

For those of you familiar with my personal domestic situation, you are aware that I have a major legal issue to deal with this coming Thursday and until that is resolved one way or the other, I cannot focus at all on any 'normal everyday' duties and commitments. I cannot reveal details as it is not my story to tell. I own my response to the unfolding events, not the actual events themselves. So...

Just to be topical... I have imposed my own suppression order!"

Ah, the Victoria legal system... now there's a blog for tomorrow!

Ah how calm it is...

Does anyone remember The Honeymooners? If so I would have started with that old Jackie Gleason catch phrase "How sweeet it is!"

Yep, today was another small step on my journey to full wellness. I had my first hypnotherapy session. It was fantastic. The best description is like a very calming guided meditation session. I can actually remember most of the salient points, and suggestions. The idea is that we (Dr Caroline Llyod and I) are attempting to bridge that gulf between the rational logical conscious mind, which knows everything I SHOULD be doing, and the unconscious mind, which seems controlled by impulsivity and instantaneous gratfication.

If this is successful it will be the nearest I can conceptualize to magic. No matter how much Cognitive Behavioural Therapy I attempt, and being able to identify the irrational thoughts, negative self-talk and highly charged emotions hidden beneath these words, I seem unable (unwilling?) to completely counter the negativity. It must be so safe in that space where sabotage can claim victory over success. Why else choose to dwell there?

We actually had to lay-out up front the whole bag of issues. I am/was fat because it deters the opposite sex from coming near me (which means I can't get hurt).

It also means that people have lower expectations of me. I am perceived as a lazy fat slob who gutses Maccas and chocolate every moment of the day. When people see that that isn't me, and whilst I can enjoy chocolate like most people, I do actually have a more savoury palate, leaning naturally towards fruit, vegetables and spices. My laziness is simply a complete lack of motivation and ability to fight the depressive episodes and self-destructive behaviours, not general 'who cares laziness'.

Also, when I first turned 50 I noticed that being fat rendered me invisible 'as a woman'. This was good. There was no pressure of expectations BUT along came the "obesity epidemic" and fat people were suddenly the new social outcasts, much in the same way smokers still are. It was suddenly deemed appropriate for total strangers to make comments on my body shape!

Bye, bye invisibility and anonymity.

So, today was also all about laying-out these root causes of my weight gain, and to look at the hypothetical situation (hopefully eventual) of me being thin and how that will impact on my behaviour, self-perception and my interpersonal relationships.

Just all of life's biggies, huh?

I reassured Dr Caroline that thinness will not be a magic bullet. I will be the same screwed up goofball, destined to repeat the same mistakes and problematic learned behaviours... just hopefully THIS TIME with my support crew (Caroline, Dr John, Dr Bill, Scottie, Julie, Felicity, Birgit, Angela and Dave) I can make actual progress like a 'normal' person. [See how many people are putting effort into me... and that's not counting my friends, and own self-commitment].

It is huge journey and with the PhD alongside it is quite draining and energy sapping. I never knew how hard it would be just to become healthy... but I am past the give-up-stage FOREVER.

As you can tell I am still on the positive axis (+2... that seems well balanced) and as a reward Glenice and I went to see The Warf Review (Pennies from Kevin) at the Whitehorse Centre, matinee.

Wow! To think that the brilliant Phil Scott, Jonathon Biggins, Drew Forsythe have written their ninth Review for the STC.

How privileged I was to sit and watch it in Vic, although I do miss that magnificent vista from the Warf bar looking out over the darkened harbour. The other exceptioanlly talented satirist and vocalist was actor Virginia Gay (ex-All Saints). She was terrific, particularly her cruel caricature of Amanda Vanstone, and the decidedly different character Penny K.D.Wong in Constant Cave-ins and of course her delicious Hermione Gillard in Kevin Potter and the Lower Chamber of Secrets. Other stand outs... Biggin's Pope, and Dumblegough; Forsythe's House Elf - Godwyn Gretch and his Canberra's Got Talent Nick Xenophon. The same sketch was superb with Biggins Bob Brown and his version of "Tell It To-ooo-oo Ya"

Haven't laughed so much in ages. And how great to sit where the entire show requires intellect to 'get the gags' and not performers simply relying on cheap slapstick laughs (although the Michelle Obama Motown Medley was a tad too Priscilla for my liking).

The one thing I am learning is when University is placed in its rightful position as ONLY ONE element in my life and only 38 hours a week maximum, there are so many opportunities to stop and simply enjoy living.

And yes, Jackie "How Swee-eet It Is".

A need to stop procrastination...

It's a new day; and I have managed a morning reading the newspaper and listening to talk radio and the pc is now up and running. AND OFF FACEBOOK! I have also delayed doing the bloody email sorting.

I have had one of those breakthrough thoughs in the shower about my PhD progress or lack thereof. Every Monday night I have been watching the new Arts Channel on Foxtel which is allocated to books, literature and writing. Cumulatively, I realise that all the interviews listened to over the past Monday evenings have been percolating somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain. I have been reflecting on the whole creative process and how I go about learning and practicing the craft of novel writing.

And once again like a typical Libran, my thoughts and opinions (scales) counterbalance depending on who is speaking and how well they articulate their processes.

Looking back over the past many months of the PhD I realise I have vasillated between all approches spoken about:

Plot linear notes and plot chronology
Character bios and chronologies
Thematic foci
Scenic reconstructions
Dialogue driven story telling
Structural analysis of plot and story arcs
Character voice and narrative voice

So whilst attending to my personal ablutions I see that over the past three years I have actually done a lot of work! Not nothing as I had recently been feeling!

It's just not cohesive and completely pulled together in a one-piece typed document or manuscript.

I have sequences of false starts and grinding halts all documented and piled heaven-wards on my desk:

electronic file format (and retrievable)word documents,
old library-style system cards,
multi-coloured (and thematically determined(post-it notes,
pictutre images and visual motifs,
hand-written mind maps,
typed MS word flow charts (and other such project-management tools)...

Months and months of intellectual and creative processes on display, right at my fingertips. Ah, the very bones of the Exegesis I believe.

I have had a crack at every method articulated by the published authors from programs like Writers on Writing, The Book Show, and the various Writers' Festivals.

I have been actually working. I have been researching my own creative practice.

Derr, how dumb to see this all as time wasting?

The lows are obviously going to be a generative process also. I just needed to re-frame my own view of it all.

So what if there is only 150 or so pages of typed-novel-manuscript with huge gaps? I have on-hand my cards, memos, notes and dot points, ideas mapped, plots graphed all ready to fill those holes. The book is writing itself although not forthcoming whilst I am waging war on the theory piece editing.

This is the hard part, the sense of nothing being 'finished' as two coponents of the PhD seem at war with each other, like small children fighting for their mother's attention. The stress and feeling of being overwhelmed is immense and should not be underestimated. The impact of this tension cannot simply be ignored or seen as irrelevant. It isn't. It is the PhD process itself. How could I have been so blind?

See 'light bulb' moment of illumination (from earlier mentioned shower stall).

It is envy which has primarily influenced my emotional reactions in the past 24 hours. One author/biographer stated in his interview that he had spent 6 months simply rearranging his system cards until satisfied with the linearity, drama and logic of his text. He then began to write the story.

Envious of this time?
How strange?
That is exactly what I have had...
...time to re-arrange all my creative attempts and thoughts.

What he didn't have was the looming sense of an impending 'Sword of Damocles' that a PhD timeline imposes (over and above) . A knowledge production process which constantly re-iterates via progress reviews and publications a perceived lack of both.

The PhD is a pressure cooker environment. In one sense, it comes down to straight research organisational issues, as in traditional mode PhDs.

Where it differs however is the actual creative artefact production and process that makes it distinctive and unique.

By third year the analogy needs to shift from the realm of the Academy and literary.
It is now one of practice alone.
That the craft has been explored.
Experimentation has occured.
The ingredients laid out ready for the recipe.

Now, in the latter months of the PhD candidature it is like the "Master Chef Pressure Test" (UK version please) .... do it now.

Call it all up,
master your techniques,
hone the craft,
present in the time frame.

"Step back from your benches".

Just before the clock ticks over, stand back and take 'stock' (pardon the pun). What pieces of the dish are already sitting in place?

How about a 900 plus article file covering theoretical, methodologicald and practice discussions and arguments? How about pages of self-reflection in the writers' journal? And ALL the above artefact components?

Is not the success of the PhD down now to documenting the research findings and calling a halt to the research gathering?

So I am actually facing my ususal learned behgaviour pattern - facing down my personal demon; the 'fear of success'? I have all I need just not the motivation/inclination to lay myself on the line - or to 'walk the talk' (in common parlance).

Just take one baby step each day, Carol. Stop looking at the whole picture... it is paralysing.

The failure is not in the moving forward and writing poor quality work it is not writing at all.

Why do the finger nails have to go?

It should have been an OK day but of course that's not how it panned out. I had to leave home very early at 6.30am to ensure I beat the crazy traffic between Mornington and Frankston, and again at the Ringwood end. I still can't fathom how the shortest two distances can take double the time of the longest in the middle. Roll on Peninsula Link... sorry Baxter Township we need to bypass you to get across the sprawling burbs!

The announcement that Melbourne was set to become Australia's largest city by 2030 is scary. All the wonderful grazing pastures nestling between the outer suburbs and the Peninsula and Frankston region is disappearing behind square bland featureless boxes for home buyers, cramped on small allotments with 30 square floor plans! What about building in community spaces? Gardens, parks, playgrounds... let alone bus stops and TRAIN lines. Every bloody house needs at least two cars just to get to and from work and schools... How sustainable is that?

I know the livestock grazing at present contributes methane but surely it is balanced by the actual trees and grasslands?

Well I arrived some 45 minutes early but had I left 15 mintes later that would have been cut by 30 minutes or more. I am amused by these Committee meetings. The things on the Agenda fall under the responsibilities of Admin staff and our Middle level management yet there is a pretext that this is a consultation process. What a joke... it is top down decision-making where policy drives all and the deck chair arrangements are left to the rank and file at the work face. All the committees look good on paper but there is little scope for radical thinking or challenging hierarchical strategic or policy decision-making.

As for students (clients/customers) they are definitely seen as The Problem to be dealt with. They are the ones whose needs and requests require altering and adapting exixting procedures... what a pain. The main focus is how to document the changes and alterations within existing administrative models and recording rather than the pedagogical or equitable application effective education provision... despite the hollow rhetoric about Teaching and Innovation.

Given the various academics and academic group heads have little input, aside from being delegated tasks and deadlines, there is definitely no space for genuine student consultation and upwards information flows. The levels of bureaucracy ensure status quo rules at all times.

The priority is to wrap things up in under 2 hours rather than looking critically at the procedures (and underpinning policy imperatives). It is the worst kind of administrivia I have witnessed in the Higher Education sector over the past 30 years.

Is it any wonder I leave feeling stressed, despairing and my poor finger nails suffer from savage biting attacks? My head is saying "just think of the cash" but my ethics and heart is saying "do something". But what?

Home and of course all my energy is completely sapped. So much for another day of MY work! It takes all my efforts at present to get up, dressed, attend to my meals (and digestion of), my medications, stress levels, and mental health without attempting serious levels of protracted periods of concentration.

It's the whole Maslen's Hierarchy of Needs pyramid again. Worry nightly about the budget, fear the future but focus on the food/shelter/health issues fisrt and foremost. Intrinsic rewards and sense of academic progress/achievement seem so insignificant amongst the daily grind.

Is it any wonder many of us long to escape to the magic of the 'footlights'. Fantasy sure beats reality, hands down.

And the winner is...

I guess we've all have those types of days when things just don't workout despite the best planning. With today being a public holiday and our streets teeming with tourists I had decided it was the perfect day to hibernate at home and catch up with the videotape of the Anzac Day game which Alan taped for me yesterday.

I had assiduously made sure that I had heard no news bulletins between the end of the Trades Hall show yesterday and not read or lookied at a newspaper (real or online). I even began to cook a 38-hour (yep no typo there) slow cooked Greek lamb dish at midnight last night whilst I blogged here.

Waking to the wonderful aroma of lamb, oregano, thyme and rosemary, I decided it would be a cooking day until the afternoon when I would sit down and catch up with The Game.

After preparing mushroom risotto, Tira Mi Su, some cookies and hummus (for the forthcoming week... not today's menu solely). I readied myself for the Bombers Pies Showdown.

Would you believe that this house has three VCRs (for three people of course).

The main lounge VCR had a tape wedged irretrievably inside which was not budging.

Take two. Move to my bedroom and my VCR. Yep, not working either. A simple matter of tuning in the VCR to the TV... a task that Panasonic always felt was a easy judging by their diagrams in the manual. Yep, simple for Einstein.

Take three. Calling (desperately) to my son, he stripped his wall unit and removed his VCR, bringing it to the lounge room and again I readied myself for The Match. Coffee, freshly cooked cookies, all the baked goodies stored, sealed and frozen, lamb basted and monitored.

Carlo's VCR dedided at this moment it wouldn't re-wind or fast forward. Oh well not so bad... until it decided it wouldn't stay playing either. The switch just randomly turned off without a person sitting on the floor finger pressed to said PLAY button. In frustration Carlo gave it one God-Almighty WHACK and the bloody thing behaved itself (enough to begin to watch the lead up commemorative ceremony).Then complete STOP.

Coffee in hand back to my bedroom VCR to begin the epic channel-tune-in excercise. SUCCESS AT LAST... only the videotape was "much loved" and the snow and tracking quite distracting. Never mind, it was great Alan took the time to tape it. I have watched worse broadcast images in my time, so I did my usual, cried over the Last Post, and the banner run-through by both teams and began to watch the drama.

I had told Glenice yesterday that judging by the faces of the Collingwood fans and the expression on the Essendon supporters I was sure we had lost. But the first quarter was amazing, for a PIES supporter, and even more so for me.

Travis Cloke (a player who frustrates me endlessly with his inaccuracy kicking for goal) absolutely shone and drilled FOUR! Even the tape was far enough in to be picture-perfect with the tracking and snow virtually non-existant.

Casting my mind back to Melbourne Central station and the train home yesterday... How could we have lost with such a HUGE LEAD? But, as every Magpie fan knows this is a team that can easily snare defeat from the jaws of victory.

Second quarter. Even scoring and the Bombers looked like they were getting their act together. On to the third... and the man-on-man tension intensified with mistakes and turn-overs from both sides.... AD BREAK....

With a fresh coffee I return to find the broadcast stopped. Yes, stopped. The tape had RUN OUT! Not a four hour tape as Alan had thought, a three hour tape!

It was just never meant to be. I had missed my first ANZAC day match ever, and to make matters worse I did not know the results. I had told Louis to take the papers with him, so I couldn't even read the post match coverage. Grabbing the Foxtel mag and the Green Guide I searched in vain for a replay of the BIG GAME!

ZILTCH

ZERO

NADA!

Carlo then told me we had actually won by 60 or so points but heck it's not the same. I don't even know who won the ANZAC DAY medal or why? How many did Cloke finish up with. Even Fraser kicked two before I stopped watching and Thomas had nailed one. (Yep, these are the fab trio I call Dumb, Dumber and Stick. They had actually done what I had never seen them do before... play with excitement and accuracy!). What a game to have missed TWICE).

And to think, I was supposed to happily go back to writing later in the day. Yeah sure, definitely in the mood for that (as you can see, I am still bitching). What a wasted day... but then again the highs and lows of supporting Collingwood just match today's mini-drama and seem so in sync.

The only positive to have come out of today (apart from copious food preparation) is that I now know who-the-bloody-hell Justin Bieber is. As George Negus said on 7pm Project... my life is complete!

Dear Reader

Dear Reader,

Today was another interesting day full of the usual highs and lows all clambouring for predominance. Glenice is writing an epistolary novel and we had arranged to attend the Trades Hall to see a Marieke Hardy 'production' where a number of famous/celebrity women read their letters to an audience. The first 'performance' was looking at the role of letter-writing in women's lives. Glenice had queued for ages but it sold out before she was even up the stairs. With recognition that this was indeed a popular event she had the foresight to pre-book for the second performance. Today. I was very much looking forward to accompanying her to the Sunday show... but hold on. TODAY???

Anzac Day. It was less the fact that it was ANZAC day and the commemorative aspects that disquieted me, but it would be the first time I had not spent the afternoon glued to the TV screen watching my beloved Collingwood FC meeting Essendon FC on the hallowed turf of the MCG. This day for me has all the theatricality and drama of an epic stage play. The veterans being driven around, the massive cheer squad banners listing the AFL players lost to wars, the last post and revelle played by the bugler in the catafalque party, the RAAF fly-overs. The most dramatic moment is the respectful silence from the 90 plus thousand spectators then the insane roar reverberating around the G at the siren and bounce. Pure theatre all the way... How would I cope without feeling a part of this special day?

Well, dear reader I coped remarkedly well. I didn't even rue the fact I did not have a small portable radio (or iphone with TV coverage) to get score updates throughout the readings and after. Driving up Eastbourne Road, Rosebud I did have a moment of regret as I saw the small groups of Peninsula Magpie Fans waiting for the McCrae bus to take them directly to their reserved seats in town.

But I am nothing if not resourceful. Knowing that Glenice's husband (Al) would be home I cheekily asked if he could record the match for me? The wonderful man said "yes". Next would be the hard part travelling to the city BY TRAIN amongst Collingwood and Essendon supporters and returning home (AGAIN ON PUBLIC TRANSPORT) after the game and trying to not discern the result and score.

So with my system in total shock that Glenice was against my driving to town, despite the torrential rain for at least 30 kilometres, I acquiessed to sit on the Frankston line train.... the express which skips all of three of the twenty-eight stations... WOW such speed and 'expressness'. Add to this the new PT operator has decided that the Frankston line patrons deserve the dirtiest, most graffitied, gloomy, run down train I have ever had the misfortune to use. This in the middle of the day with a crowded train headed off to a big occasion.

Gee do the Mount Waverly line people get trains like this? I think not.
Systemic discrimination?
Give the working class suburbs such shit PT because they'll trash it anyway.
Could it possibly be that if you give these same passengers a clean and comfortable modern train in bright colours, they might not feel the alienation and hostility and might just not WISH to trash the service?

Glenice could not understand how I could become so worked up over this perceived social slight and injustice. It got me onto my left-wing political hobby horse before even arriving at the Trades Hall.

Then I began to decry the fact that the AFL clubs had lost the pivotal role they played within their working class communities in the old days, and how the corporatisation and professionalism has taken something deeply spiritual and special away. I feel that we need more sociological studies into the role of the VFL teams in days gone by.

This brought me to my admiration for my colleague and fellow PhDer writing her artefact as autoethnography and exploring three generations of women and their relationship with their beloved footy team... yep, my team. Then I becme a tad sad that I no longer had such a passionate (and yes obsessive) realtionship with this team. I had once lived and breated from one Saturday to the next for the 'Pies... and here I was not paying my membership again this year, nor attending the games but watching from the comfort of my lounge room to delayed telecasts and terrible commercial network commentators. At least I do this with a glass of wine in hand.

Feeling like yet another part of my life was disconnected we arrived at the Trades Hall.

Typically, my mind swung in the opposite direction. Nothing but connections, from the days when I worked as a researcher at the Teacher's Federation of Victoria and was a member of the Kew East Labor branch.

It was comforting to sit on the (somewhat chilly) bluestone steps (finally)in the sunshine. Now if only they would open the doors so we could use the toilets! Silly me, why open the auditorium doors and sell heaps of alcohol when you can keep the audience outside with the hands in their pockets and not contributing to the day's takings? Only at Trades Hall would it be so slack in a business sense.

Well, the performance today was umbrella'd by the idea of letters to pin-ups. The oldest women reading was Age columnist, sometime ABC radio guest and stand-up, Catherine Deveney. (Oldest, gees... only in her forties). She was so honest and self-revelatory I knew we were in for a fun afternoon... but how would this work for Glenice's research?

I can say that I recognised some of the 'reader-performers'. Along with Catherine, there was Claire Bowditchan, another [pop] singer (I should remember her name but can't), Age journo Anna Krien and editor of J mag, Jenny Valentish. Unfortunately, Marieke Hardy was not present due to being stuck in Iceland.... yep the very place causing such air traffic chaos!

The letters took me back to my own pre-pubescent self with crushes on pop singers, movie stars and the like. But at interval when we were able to reflect on what we had heard, Glenice and I felt that these letters were somehow different, more like journal entries.

They did speak to us audience members as 'dear reader' but mostly they spoke from the reader herself to her younger self... a reassuring touch, saying hey you were normal after all.

The difference also, was that there was no 'intention' that the letters would draw a response, in written form. These letters remained performative communication.

What was staggering was how easily a group of women suddenly felt comfortable with each other, including an audience of virtual strangers, and for the letters to verge on the confessional. No areas were 'no-go zones'. Oh I forgot there were a couple of halts to discussion when it was pointed out that the perforamce was being video'd which could bring the threat of defamation should excess sway the day!

It was like one great big sleep over. And yes, there were guys in the audience, but it remained a very feminised space and process.

Empowering? Perhaps.
Reassuring? Definitely.
Entertaining? Most certainly.

And at interval when we were encouraged to write to someone (they provided pens, paper, stamps and aerograms), I knew immediately I had to write to my dear friend Sue in her Mauritian jail cell. Another of those more introspective moods swung into motion again.

The whole day could be summed up as bitter sweet; swinging between highs and lows as my thoughts (rational and ranting) ebbed and flowed with the tempo of the city and people around me.

I assured Glenice that despite my shaking hands and re-entering the PT nigtmare home, it was really very good for me to face down my demons; that excess of emotion and sensory overload on all fronts.

How enjoyable also that on the train home were six effervescent 16-20 year olds full of all the vivacity of youth. After the show we had just attended I was swept back in time to my own youth. How exciting to have the world laid out ahead with all the possibilities on offer. These were the wonderful positive young people to make anyone proud. The taller older young men, wished elderly ladies "have a nice day" and generally radiated joie de vivre.

After soaking up their energy, I felt in party mode. Pity I always have to temper these reactions like a good grown up should rather than act like a typical DSP (deeply sensitive person)... but also how I miss the excesses, the raves and bright glowing highs a night in town could offer.

It's Miles Franklin Time.

I know I will be very happy when every office runs an Archibald, Booker and Franklin sweep just for fun. All shortlistees are deserving of their place and the various artists usually have a long and distinguished pedigree like fine blood stock.

I am putting my money on The Book of Emmett by Deborah Forster (a first novel from a Melbourne writer) for the Miles Franklin, but what a field.... Castro, Hartnett, Temple, Miller and Silvey. Craig Sivey's Jasper Jones would be in my Quinella, let's see how far off I am.

So as you can see, occasionally a talented unknowns emerge from the artistic ghettos and attics (in reality warehouses and garden shed throughout suburbia). That is why I was so pleased that Glenda Guest won last weeks Commonwealth Best First Novel Prize. It is an honour for her and a recognition that our Creative Writing higher degrees do not produce second-rate writing. It is just the sort of publicity our beseiged academics, like Glenda's supervisor and mentor, Nigel Krauth needs.

ERA points(Excellence in Research Australia)may be the focus of University proficiency measures of academic compentence, yet something like this (Prestigious Awards in the Creative Arts) comes along and the various University Media Units are straight onto the major dailies, attaching their pettard to the student's achievement. Yet is the Creative Work adequately recognised under the ERA. At least some Universities do... but sadly not ALL. One in that I am particularly familiar with is totally recalcitrant on this metric and denies themselves some Federal Government fiscal reward for ignoring these outputs.

The other issue is that the sheer quality of work produced by students such as Glenda, and Janine Carey (appointed Writer In Residence at Queensland's Great Keppel Island!) Add that to her shortlisting for the Callibre Prize, and her publication in the forthcoming Australian Review of Books for that work... part of her PhD artefact).
These students work are inspiring all of us to aim higher and keep pushing through the tough times in the PhD writing journey.

These just have to be indicators of teaching merit and proficiency surely? How hard can it be to find alternative ways to measure teaching other than quantitative anonymous student questionnaires which often attach the Course content criticisms to the actual lecturer (teacher). Somehow our Higher Education system's push for Quality Frameworks is revealed as totally inadequate (as is the case I would argue, in ALL organisations).

On this thought, Mark gave me a link to humourous (yet deadly true) article from the Campus Review. It's called What's in a name? By (psydonym) Henry Barnes... the whole issue of management decision making, accountability and transparency is opened up for much warranted scrutiny.

http://www.campusreview.com.au/pages/section/article.php?s=Comment&idArticle=15508

Can we have metrics to measure management efficieny as conditional upon Quality Measures recognition and Funding? Or is that just too far out there and upsetting for too many underperformers in high poistions of authority and power?

With that last tasty morsel I will retreat back to my washing machine and well spun load, having already completed the supportive mother/taxi driver priority on the day's schedule, and then having filed (and Endnoted) all my newly searched journal articles and references. I think I will take a screen break before getting down to writing my book chapter.

Yeah sure, I hear you say!

Well, that's my honest plan... at this stage, anyway.

It's Rainin' Again... and similar lyrics...

Pity I can't add that it's Raining Men, hallelujah... but thems the breaks.(Anyway given my history with men the pertinent descriptors would have to be drips or deluges). It was great to get up to the Lilydale Campus today. Looking at the colours of the Autumn leaves forming a carpet of colour walking through the LA building was special. I adore this time of year. It is one of my favourites. With the leaves (particularly the vivid crimsons)drawing my attention away from the leaden clouds I feel like a child. I just want to grab handfuls and throw them into the air or scrunch my way through the Elms leaves in Melbourne Streets. It is such a sensual overload... I can't help but feel upbeat and positive.

It is very strange however that once a person has witnessed the crash after a manic episode, any sign of general run of the mill happiness, pleasure or upbeat demeanour conjures up questions such as "Are you sure you are OK?". The question is asked from a total sense of concern and caring but hey guys lighten up... even the grey zone is alllowed some light relief. Maybe, it's just that my +3 on the mood state scale is a 'normal' persons +5. The degrees are a whole lot more intense for BiPolar people. What you fear as 'out of control' is actually a sense of happiness for us. Controlled and rational.

So the information for my dear concerned friends and colleagues is my grey scale ranges between -3 and +3. That's my NORMAL. Worry when the talking is simply TOO FAST with nary a space for a conversational pause or reply, the ideas are flowing seemingly non-stop, my energy levels would tire a 20 year old, I am drinking to excess, spending totally outrageously, and behaving as all 'bad girls' of Hollywood fame behave.

Worry also when you do not see or hear from me. I may be curled into a ball unable to get out of bed or leave the house. You can tell, as my thoughts and written word become so dark it is suffocating and menacing.

Hopefully, that will allay some fears.
I am doing quite well thank you, please allow me some fun just like you.

With a positive mental outlook on life I managed to pull together several of my deleted electronic files and documents... I think I can begin to successfully pick up all these 'dropped stitches' of my PhD. (Not a weaving metaphor Glen but a similarly gendered home spun one).

My head is getting back into the policy analysis space. I am ready to write again. Hopefully this weekend will be productive and not see me sitting in my study sulking as every tourist family deems it necessary to walk their child/ren (on bikes and razors) with their barking dogs along our streets, as they gaze into all the houses.

I suddenly feel like an animal at the Zoo from my study. (Perhaps I am... genus Penisularus?)

I could draw the curtains but hey, why should I shut the light out?

At least the gaze from the street meets my full wall bookcase and it is obvious that I BLOODY LIVE AND WORK DOWN HERE.

Why can't this lot head to the Mountains and snow? It is up there already isn't it? Oh that's right a house in Blairgowrie (that you can rent out you are nt using it and claim Tax offsets via negative gearing) is cheaper than a Mt Buller Chalet isn't it?

No more Christo's yoghurt or Coast coffees for a few days (not that I am thrilled to eat at Coast after yesterdays abomination).

LIGHT BULB MOMENT:
Must venture up the hills to wineries and choccky shop... that will be relaxing and THEY won't be there in huge numbers. Amazing how different the two sides of the Peninsula actually are and how there is a sanctuary for me in the middle amongst the gum trees.

More trees... isn't that how I began this blog?

Must be reconnecting with Gaia or something. Perhaps I am getting well.

Life shifts... plans change.

Well after leaving home yesterday to attend one of the briefing sessions at the Victorian Arts Centre about the $128.5 million Stage 1 of the Southbank Cultural Precinct Redevelopment) which is actually a refurbishment of Hamer Hall, I suddenly realisedd just how my mood state shifts up a gear once I head up the road towards the CBD! (More on this in a separate blog).

Earlier on the journey in I realised just how much I actually missed performing on stage (not just behind a microphone on radio although that is exceptionally wonderful also). I had been spending a month or more prior to my hospital stint, re-learning and revisiting some songs that had been being put together for a small two hander (and for a younger me [prior to birth of my son]). As I increasingly approach the old me (in body size) the desire to perform is growing stronger with each kilo shed.
However, Fate steps in and a redeveloped plan to get this cabaret back on is cancelled due to my partner in crime having other irons to fry in London and not able to head home. Oh well, something always happens for a reason, even if I can't see that reason (as it unfolds for me).

Also another friend from days gone by (a person to whom I had become detached due to a clash of professional roles once in the late eighties) is now in rehearsal in Brisbane. This exceptionally talented performer has been absent from Australian stages for far too long (but again motherhood becomes the focus at certain stages in life). She was expressing the all-so-typical reheasal doubts and frustrations at this early stage of production, and I had to giggle. (Yet, part of me was just so envious).
So it is with all the theatrical buzz spinning through my increasingly active mind that I sit and objectively process all the Hamer Hall news at the Briefing. It was held in the ANZ Pavillion and for those who knew me in 'the old days", you can imagine the sense of deja vu, that accompanied this. I focused very well, took all the pertinent facts and key issues (no, not number of toilets and arrangement of stalls seating and legroom... more the fly tower, scenery dock, improved accoustics and the staggering fact that to refurbish the organ would cost $10m [a sum not budgeted for in this State Govt funding]). Now all I have to do is find the angle and pitch for the article and the correct outlet for publication of a series on the redevlopment over the coming three years.

I think I have the 'peg', now all I need to research is the market and write the piece. The old media/pr headspace is firing up again. And was I buzzing... just ask my friend and colleague, G (who came with me for company). No sooner had we left the Theatres Building do I suggest that we attempt to catch a show in town... yep with less than 10 minutes to most curtains.

We headed up to the Princess as neither of us had seen Jersey Boys. We were somewhat late but lock-out hadn't finished. We also managed with our concession cards to talk box office into C reserve (behind a pole)... It saved us each $50 on the ticket price, without which this little impulsive adventure would not have happened. And then looking at just how many sighing people (literally) would have to stand to let us get to our seats I opted to drag G to the back row. Much better idea. Still restricted viewing because of circle overhang but enough vision to see the main platforms and entryways. Also had a ball that we scraped together enough for a Jersey Boys cocktial at Interval with those really fun tacky light-up fluro plastic cocktail glasses!

What a show! We were lucky to have the main cast (without swings), and that's something given the length of time it has been playing and that they had done a matinee earlier. I never knew the backstory to the Four Seasons or indeed Frankie Valli himself. A true NY fable. The four-part harmonies were exceptional and spine tingling, and the band simply brilliant. It is a feel good musical in the best possible sense of the phrase. 100 times better than Mamma Mia (and that was very entertaining). This show deserves large sell-out audiences and seasons. The talent onstage made me feel proud of our young Aussie actors/singers. Yet, despite the youth I still left the theatre feeling like singing, dancing and going back to the spotlight myslef one day.

One magic moment was when the Four Seasons were upstage, backs to us (audience) performing to their audience and we sat under the glow of the spotlights. That magnificent warm blackness from where the lights shone down on the singers (and by extension us) made my night. It felt like being home, expecially the virtual white-out effect at the end. The wire mesh fancing conjured memories of Godspell. Sitting in the Prinny (where I had auditioned for Reg Livermore and the original Pirates) was a very special feeling. I remember fondly how Martin got down an accompaniment for Lady from LA (Billy Liar) from a sound recording of Andrew's and how stunned Livermore was to hear it sung in Melbourne.

Sitting there also took me back to seeing my first ever Opera, The Thripenny Opera. Again thanks Martin, even though we were in the Gods and I was having acrophobia. (I eventually got used to the 'nose-bleed seats' whilst on a student budget).

Life may have changed courses a number of times but I can now say I feel privileged to have seen some of the greatest performers on stage (here and in London). Just quickly coming to mind is Peter Brooke's Dream at the Maj, Derek Jacobi's Hamlet and Iago with the Old Vic here in Melbourne, Beckett Does Beckett at the Universal, Steven Berkpof's East, Burton in Equus and our own Stephen Oldfield in the MTC version, STC's Nicholas Nickleby ( a tour de force with Ruth Cracknell, John Howard and my dearest Tony Taylor amongst the stellar cast), Nimrod's Ventian Twins, the amazing Anna Volska, Ivor Kants, and Tony Sheldon in Much Ado About Nothing at the Space in Adelaide, Tony S again in Torch Song Trilogy at the Universal with the magnificent Debra Lee Furness, Mamma's Little Horror Show, most of Nigel Triffett's astounding works, attending the original APG, early La Mamma, Candide, Chicago (first season) and Nine at the Comedy theatre, Kennedy's Children at Russell Street, Jack Davis' No Sugar at Fitzroy Town Hall... the RSC and ESC. So many memorable and acclaimed productions have all gone into making me who I am, the arts lover and would-be regular patron.

All I want(need) is the cash (outside indulgent mania phases) to see Sir Ian MacKellan and the wonderful Roger Rees in Melbourne later this year, Marvin Hamlish and the MSO, Stephen Swartz in concert, and also William Hurt in Long Days Journey in Sydney. Ah, 2010 does look good through my 'theatrical goggles'.

If I could just get the writing and publication stuff under control. At least today I can honestly say that I am confident it will happen... slowly but successfully.

How's that for a positive on the scale... and in the normal range not amidst the delusions?

A belated blog for yesterday...

Am still on the plus scale of the mood state graph which is extraordinary considering I have been unable to implement a sensible and practical sleep routine lately. The lack of quality REM sleep catches up and my Nanna naps have been expanding and eroding all productive afternoon work time, with the house coming alive after 6.30 when everybody is home... not the best time for focused writing. I still have yet to save enough money to get a carpenter to come and fit a new sliding door between 'my section of house' (the garage) and the body of the house ( where the blokes live and fight!). Such a simple solution to create a quiet space yet something else of necessity always crops up or I move higher on the mania scale and impulse spend! (No justification except I feel like a normal person for those few minutes, for a change... someone out in the world with earning capacity and disposable earnings).

Luckily the previous day's yoga class was holding firm and my energy levels were good, even if my concentration not so. I am now in countdown for a somewaht difficult family crisis point, very early May. As my wonderful psychiatrist has reassured me... anybody would be anxious and similarly going through the emotional swings that accompany this not-so small matter. It is as if no days matter until this is over and the Anzac Day weekend signals the coming of THAT month. My son's 21st becomes secondary at this point and as for Mother'd Day... well forget it.

I am praying some good friends can wrangle 'a good old Aussie sickie' mid month, post-crisis to spend a day celebrating one of our birthdays and having totally indulgent 'me' time at Peninsula Hot Springs. As mothers dealing with a challenging year on the famly front we all deserve it!

Rewards and living in the moment is my only consolation and driving impetus at present... but hey, what ever works to keep going, has to be a good thing, surely.

The Yoga worked!

Again dragging my lumpen body out of bed after less than three hours sleep, I forced myself to drive to the hospital. And the Yoga class was just perfect. Suddenly most of my anxiety has evaporated, and I do in fact feel re-energised (as cliched as that sounds). Pity the old weight still plays a degree of havoc with the knees and no downward-facing dog for me. (I could make some smart quip about that having been the case for many years now, but I will refrain!).

In order for Health Fund coverage had to attend Group Therapy with a counsellor I had not met before. This is always fraught, although just walking through the Eliza Ward doors made me just want to ring home and get a suitcase delivered. I guess the outside world has taken quite a toll over the past couple of weeks. I definitely felt like seeking sanctuary. The session was a touch cerebral but given we were prodominantly strangers that's to be expected. Why is it after the formal stuff finishes everybody let's their hair down and shares all the interesting female-buddy confidences?

Great to see J looking so well, but her voice is shot to pieces. That would have pleased B during the last two Collingwood match broadcasts. (What was the word of the day J?)

Also good to see V on day out and B going home for a while. These people feel like family. This is a Tuesday appointment I simply must keep up.

Ah, Yoga. I feel so much better and my left side is beginning to stretch as comfortably as my right. Eva, I even manage to stand on tiptoes without falling over as I do the breathing exercises... can't actually spell the name of the pose.

Came home determined to do some work but the lack of sleep caught up with me. I have been fighting off the need for a Nanna nap again as I know it will wreak havoc on my sleeping patterns and undo all the good I did today. At least doing an online newspaper read (away from the Carl Williams soap-opera) brought me some exciting news. Another dear theatre pal, Tony Sheldon is having a well-earned break from Priscilla (on the West End) and is finally going to play Bernadette when the show opens on Broadway next March. (Tattslotto ticket needed now). I am so thrilled that his Green Card issues have been overcome and that his contract negotiations similarly worked out. To think after extensive auditioning in the Big Apple he could not be matched in versatility. I am so proud of you Tony. Hope you get home and we can share a bottle of classy champagne before the year ends.

Maybe I should take a leaf out of your book and get my backside into gear and finish my PhD, then we can both celebrate our mid fifties in style, having reached career landmarks. I do indeed feel inspired to pick up the pieces and scramble on.

The early hours of the new day.

I dont actualy recall how time was so mucked up today (yesterday). The day began with the usual lack of motivation to rise, despite a respite on the positive axis on Sunday. I didn't even rush to turn on the computer. I did check my emails and not having found the response I had expected from my current book editor, was as if someone had removed the plug and all the air was being sucked out and I was deflating. And what do I do when I am feeling like crap? I do a koad of washing... gee that sure motivates a person...NOT. Coming back into my study I realised that I have noy doen what I promised myse;f upon leaving hospital. I have not decluttered my desk space or created an 'inspiration wall' in front of me. The excuse as usual no spare cash. What for I hear you ask? Well how about a large hopper outside for trash, a tin of paint and a few new plastic boxes large enough to take A4 lever arch files. Add to my shopping list a wall of square pigeon holes and shelves behind me to move my actual hard copy articles and work from my Post Grad studies, let alone my much desired shopping spree to the wonderful storage solution stores for colourful archive boxes, pencil cups,stationery organisers etc... Ah simple dreams, no designer dresses for me at present.

Feeling decidely poverty stricken (unable to afford a double shot soy latte at Coast should I have somehow been able to summon up the energy to walk there) I began to notice all the cobwebs and dust having gathered during my time away. This simply made me feel even more of a failure and a slattern, hence no productive work mood at all.

Money.. yep solution to all problems (please just let me try it for once). On the emails was the latest update for the ASAL (Association for the Study of Australian Literature) July Conference at UNSW. There was the offer of relatively cheap accommodation that needed to be booked already. Well I am expected to be attending given I am the PostGrad rep for the organisation. I always look forward to this Conference.

Thought I should check out the closing dates for papers.. yep you guessed it whilst I was in total meltdown and new hospital admission. There goes that one. Bugger I really wanted to present a good postgrad paper in my last (hopefully) year. Damn, so much for the $1000 prize. Not even in the running.

Desperately turned to Beyond Blue to see if their grants were listed (as I had been previously advised... it's still April after all). No sign of anything remotely encouraging. My Oxford paper is looking decidedly unlikely at this stage. I noticed on the site a link to a Swinburne Opinio survey on Depression, anxiety, eating disorders and obsessive compulsivity. I thought at least I could fill it out and help my research colleagues.

Answering the questions was exhausting, like a full-on new patient interview. I was also very aware of how answers are validated by being phrased differently throughout the survey as a check on earlier responses, and I became quite anxious that my answers differed on the same questions in the different sections and my responses would invalidate my survey. This ridiculous level of anxiety and dare i say it, obsession drained any last vestiges of energy I could muster. How tiring to constantly revisit one's attitudes to self, relationships, parents attiudes and interactions, together with honesty about self-esteem, self-image and percieved character flaws. Also how confonting to even tick boxes anonymously online when not trying to deceive oneself or the researchers. I am definitely feeling like a basket case today after that little activity.

I noticed how when whipper snipping began (again) outside I felt anxious and a need to draw the curtains and hide from view. Every car, every dog bark made my nerves jangle. Even the sunlight when checking the washing was too bright and my hands began trembling (even more than usual). If I had had a box of chocolates, or tub of ice-cream it would have been demolished. Again I was equating food with emotional comfort.

Back to the emails... try to work. Get mind focused. There was THE email. My much anticipated praise for Sunday's new take on the book chapter again 'off the mark'. I re-read my earlier ideas (one way of the mark and one of some merit I suppose). Why does the editor think I can write this material? I am so rusty and so out of the loop. The whole of 2009 seems a lifetime away and everything has changed. My writing seemd very outdated now in 2010. An O/S publisher would surely agree with my sentiments on this... It's all getting too hard again.

Next came the complete exhausted collapse even when I had promised myself a relaxing regenerative 'nanna nap'. I only just woke before my son arrived home from TAFE and was able to put on the 'normal' mask for a few hours, Now everyone is in bed except me. I can't turn off my brain. I have tried guided relaxation tapes, lavender essential oils, a warm shower, 3MBS, PBS and Classic FM. No good. Reading is definitely out as I cannot concentrate or recall sentences recently read. I just want to walk along the ocean beach listening to the waves crashing on the rocks but am too frightened to even contemplate this alone. Nor can I summon the energy to drive to the front beach and just enjoy the moonlight and occasional ship passing in the channel.

And if all of this seems an over-reaction, there are many contributing fators to this state at present. My problem is, as Glenice and I often joke, that LIFE interrupts the smooth progress of PhD studies sometimes. I would love to lay out all the factors here but there are events and issues in life that one is not free to write about or record in blogs. They are other people's stories, trials and tribulations and not mine to share (or plum for self-justifications). Friends who know me well will understand what I am speaking of and those who know me a bit less will undersyamd if I say it is yet another crisis to be surmounted. There are also those who note (quite rightly) that my life has more dramatic plot twists than any episode of Neighbours. Life is definitely stranger than fiction and one person can live through everything I have encountered and endured through my adult life.

Suffice to say, I need yoga tomorrow. And thank you Mark for your phone call wishing me well and expressing your concern. It was very much appreciated. I must remember when things are blackest, I really am a glass half-full person. Every day I have been lucky to have had reassuring texts, emails and calls from friends and colleagues. I am truly blessed and not journeying alone... You would think sleep may come more easily now that I have 'downloaded' my brain's RAM?

Must be something in the air today...

After yesterday's whinge-fest here I am again. I have decided to conquer the entire blogosphere! (Yep, a definite swing towards the plus scale on the y-axis... hopefully not too far towards +5 excessive grandiosity?) The reality is, of course more prosaic. I have made a comment on the Age-online comments section with respect to the lack of female voices on Talk Radio in Melbourne. For those of you who have known me in my previous incarnation as a trainee broadcaster and theatre reviewer, you will know the spiel. (Same old I hear you say and too right!). It is another of my personal political campaigns.

As my beloved Producer Clive DeHesselle was known to say, it's all about aural balance and timbre of voice. This is not an accent thing... it's about performance and pitch. The ability to use part of the vocal spectrum that allows for maximum light and shade of inflection without the sound engineers having to constantly twiddle knobs. Who in commercial radio (or more correctly which station) has such specialist people in the control booth as the ABC sound engineers and producers. Isn't it more like an air trafic control tower, fielding phone callers, popping in CDs and promos or is that also done by the on-air "Talent"? A sheer matter of numbers and dollars of course or in business speak cost-efficiency. Lack of qulaity control is symptomatic of cost-cutting and results in a disrespect for the customer/listener/viewer).

The commercials do not pay attention to the professionalism of the craft, just the ratings generated by the ranting (a totally different focus on the term professionalism!) [Shakespearan side: Golly I love exclamation points with text as they pick up where pitch and inflection are neglected.

And yep, middle aged white males do it well, rant that is, think the UK's Grumpy Old Men, how much funnier Clarkson and Co were to [I hate to say it... my beloved] Germaine and Company. Its Clarkson and co that bring the female viewers to Top Gear also (or is that just me... I do lust after sports cars?)

The secret I feel to successful on air broadcasting on talk radio is that the presenters are first and foremost journalists (not celebrities).Journalists are professional opinion seekers and makers. They are intelligent and reflect on the effects their words produce. On radio, this of course involves the best and most effective manner in which to communicate, and I include vocal presentation in this category.

Too few of our radio presenters worry about technique. They are just being 'Mr or Ms Identifiable' with the Aussie 'Mr & Mrs Averages'. Watch out for polished speech and pronunciation it smacks of elitism! Watch out for informed discussion and debate it smacks of intellectuliam and education! (Yet this in a culture where so many families send their children to Priavte Schools).

Whilst I have finally gotten over my total alienation by Tracey Bartram's broad Aussie accent (I still cannnot forgive constant incorrect time calls), I still pine for the acerbic wit of Red Symons when he is on leave. I am longing for the return of Virginia Triolli and journalists of her skill to mainstream broadcasting ,not just the specialist frequencies and programs.

It seems that whenever Melbourne has a strong, opinionated female broadcaster who can hold the pollies to account, in the same way Jon Faine does (and can irritate as many in the same manner) we lose her to the National market (Sydney-centric of course). So it can't be as Tracey suggests in her response in The Age, that 'we' audiences and managements hate/fear strong women. Look at the popularity of Jana Wendt so many years after leaving the box.

I am sounding like the older boomers when I say... is this reverse cultural cringe?

Is this the same effect (only in reverse) that sent us all scurrying across the oceans towards the "Old Country" in the 60s and 70s?

This time around, anything that smacks of imperialism (British particularly) needs to be avoided at all costs! Valuing the English language, went out of vogue in my education history (and I rue the day I never learned grammar!) Liberal arts, philosophy, debate and rational-thinking are definitely not marketable commodities in todays 'fast-byte' consumer culture.,, or at least the global corporations are out to ensure these traits are not marketed or valued. Ideology at work here with total political imperatives tied to the almighty dollar.

Whilst I will be the first to stand up and scream for gender equity in all walks of life, I think the media presenters/broadcasters/journalist issue is symptomatic of a broader malaise; backlash politics combining with class war-fare.

I am the very person to want the blogosphere to contribute to and enhance the democratisation of the WWW, in order to avoid commercial and political bias and to counter the saturationthe global media empire dominance brings with media convergence. What pains me most is this very democratisation seems to co-incide with a 'dumbing down' the cultural discourse. This is surely playing right into the hands of the media magnates?

How many times do you want to know some of your FB friend are playing Mafia Wars? Are my 'causes'on FB any better? Is this a class thing also? Do I use FB as an extension of my public persona? Don't we all? Are we careful about what we allow to be published and disseminated via Social Media? Is it as much a fashion and image statement as anything else? And how do I reconcile my love of idiotic quizzes, my Tarot readings, daily horoscopes with my political activism on the web? Is it just that they are shells that I like to project to the outside world whilst sitting on my backside on a computer instead of out volunteering for these organisations? Is this my own buy-in to class warfare; and I am not brave enough to admit it?

Or is it this very minutiae that preoccupies us so we feel we have some degree of control over our world and world view? I guess I hate the fact that my opinions are that, mine... and I am seeking some sort of public validation that I am not alone in these views and attitudes. Funny thing to choose an open access WWW, isn't it? Fear to stand up and be held accontable in public CAC? Watch out Jon Faine, I'm hot on your heels!

Ah, I am just full of..... contradictions! So you see I'm not after total global dominance, or even National, just Melbourne. So I can't be at fully +5 (yet).

A sunny day and a daily whinge...

If only I could quote Barry Humphries... but who knows what a BEX is these days? My good lie downs happen for far too many hours overnight recently. I seem to be falling into the sanctuary of sleep and never want to emerge. I guess that locates my mood state still on the negative y-axis ( It is the y-one, the vertical one isn't it?) God, too long since I have done Maths. But hey, I must need this prolonged state of protection still rather than jump into the day firing on all cyclinders.

Today began around 11 after a long session of old-single-white-woman (I like OSWW better than WASP) patting furry cat (no smart arsed comments here people) for hours rather than getting up. Very much reminded of the scene in the Douglas Sirk melodrama All that Heaven Allows, when adult children present recently widowed mother with a television as a suitable companion for her age. ... She preferred the younger gardener (who wouldn't?), Rock Husdon! Nice idea, but gee her gaydar was as off as mine used to be! Ah, Hollywood and fantasy.

But at least I can reassure myself with the fact that the sexy blonde (I call her) young detective in Cold Case goes home alone to her pet cat and has been seen snuggling together in bed... so that old cliche must be losing power, surely?

Anyway, I am as slow to get to the point in type as I was to get up.

Waking in a somewhat fuzzy state (without the aid of a night on the town last night) I successfully managed to merge both April and May in my mind. I rang a dear friend apologising for missing her birthday (yet it would have been today had if it in fact been May), then confused the Anzac Day weekend, and had a total whinge about why I can't go for a walk in the sun (because I would get pissed off with all the tourists doing exactly that). When it was pointed out that Anzac day was in fact a week away I still managed to dredge up the excuse that the buggers would be down to PREPARE their holiday houses, lawns and pantries for their Anzac weekend guest hosting. GRRR.

See I can find a way out of all excercise even when I need it MOST! I am going to YOGA this Tuesday come hell or high water... I need to become addicted to the excercise endorphins.

Next, I have begun with my usual procrastination. First emails, second FB, now this one. These can change in order but always form the basis of my justification that it is now time for a break from the screen! See how good I am at playing games with myself?

So the point of today's blog is to get my mind into gear. I am now playing with ideas from my general whinge session from the phone call to my friend. So many things in my life scream of the words serendipity and convergence. On a good day this is a positive and generative force, on others it is paralysing.

Whereas last week I was grieving for a past (the performing arts and media), today it is for me possibly a way back to normalcy (in the safe grey zone so relax all).

Having felt decidedly disconnected and alienated at Swinburne last Thursday (mostly through some careless humour and everyone trying to not speak about the bleeding obvious... my breakdown) I felt on the outer and decidedly unwelcome back. I was THAT problem person. Didn't even manage a cuppa with the most level headed of all, Sandra. Missed that one very much.

Attending Swinburne was supposed to be my baby steps back. The first day off Medical Certificate. Earlier, that morning I had told the psychiatrist I didn't want another one from the 15th as I had to emerge from my self-imposed exile.(Even should I need to reach for a settling Valium) Oh good call again, CAC, you were supposed to hasten slowly!

Well, at Swinburne suddenly, I have been forced to acknowledge that I (electronically trashed my PhD work... yep all three years worth) completely in a fit of pique (yep Christine you are correct the word rage is far more apt). For me to recover everything will cost around $300 for a software program. The freeware version has brought back MOST of the files, some 52,000 but all in numbered folders 1-670, and inside are files similarly numbered! At least they carry the suffixes .doc, .jpeg, .pdf etc... so I have a small electronic trail to follow but unfortunately not the TIME to do it in my usual hyper-organised obsessive compulsive manner. This stresses me too.

This would be less of a problem had I not been working towards finishing a collaborative journal article for TEXT (now the October edition not April... thanks Jen), and now I am to write a book chapter that I had already trashed late last year just prior to or marking the beginning of total meltdown. I got shitty that my work on this wasn't deemed up to standard so I did a "Mark" ( ;-)and I still love you Mark), and took my whole bat and ball and went home. I removed my chapter from the book submission and my bio. Now my supervisor has asked if I could write it now? Well, yes of course. It is the perfect time to look back and reconstruct a more cohesive piece of text, one that allows for the convergences from my past.

I can look at creativity/deviance, Higher Ed reforms and policy, corporatisation and marketisation of education (Hi, Jane), markets and critical discourse (thanks Janet), and even Branding with Capital 'B' (thanks PR boys) as it all plays out in the Creative Industries discourses. This finds a place for my frustrations as a PhD candidate sitting through middle management level meetings (discussions in camera of course) which allow me insight into Corporate University thinking. I can now bring in and mobilise critically, terms such as strategic, operational, branding, niche marketing and contrast these with terms such as pedagogy, equity, access, innovation, public good, human capital and above all the YARTZ!

My last 30 years may not have been wasted journies down professional cul de sacs after all. Hey guys, perhaps everything old is new again (thanks PA R.I.P.). This is supposed to be 'baby steps' back... heaven help me if I get busy or employed (which is a whole other category of blog/whinge)... let alone the self-esteem blog.

Talk tomorrow.

GAIA strikes back....

Today's news is full of catastrophic natural disasters. Firstly we have read about the earthquake in China (???) and next the volcanic eruption in Iceland. Yet despite the global reach of the Internet and media corporations political imperatives still impact on the disemination of news. Did any of you know that the Chinese earthquake was actually in Tibet?

Why have I missed this news from TV and radio today? Is Christine Nixon still more newsworthy or Brendan Fevola's gambling addiction and debts? Thank goodness for the online coverage on the Internet.

A FB friend, Kalsang Tensing, a Tibetan refugee told me from his relative safety outisde his home Country, and sure enough the good old Oz reported it as a Tibetan quake.


This certainly gives perspective to all our personal traumas and worries. They plae into insignificance alongside such mass devastation and loss of life. Could I ask any readers of this blog to be on the lookout for humanitarian aid efforts and fundraising drives to assist the Tibetans affected?

Thank you all.

When will mankind heed the warnings from "mother earth"?

Today is the start of the rest of my lfe (again)

Yep a new day with a late start. I decided a lesiurely morning reading the papers in bed was the perfect way to begin and become motivated to actually rise for the day. It was a good call. After yesterday I remain emotionally drained. And for once my first section of the Wednesday paper to open WASN'T the Higher Education Supplement. It is as if I am still feeling alienated and detached from this career or pursuit. I feel totally justified in feeling bereft of a life goal after having discussed with a fellow PhD journeyer that yet another PhDer was bragging about her ability to complete the PhD in under a year. Yet another one accepted into the PhD course at my institution with a completed novel under her belt before begining the course. Less than a month ago it was a male PhDer claiming much the same thing. He would be completing in "a few weeks" after all the exegesis is only 20 - 30,000 words! Where do these two people get off? How can the University supervisors deem this is an acceptable length of scholarship towards a three year full-time doctoral degree by research? I would not argue the veracity of this doctorate being awarded if it was a Professional Doctorate recognising expertise and excellence within the profession... but hold on, neither of these PhD candidates are a Gary Crew, Liz Byrski, Nikki Gemmel etc. Neither of them are actually mainstream published authors! How it devalues the work and academic reading their fellow PhDers have done over the years. Where is the demonstrable synthesis of grappling with the practice/theory dichotomy, the justification for and search to locate epistemological founding for the exgesis, grappling with research methods, looking at literary and genre theories or even demonstration of currently reading widely within field WHILST writing and the impact this has on the Artefact? The bloody thing is completed before the academic quest for knowledge has even begun. And whilst I would be the last to state that there is no research behind a creative output, I would have assumed that a Creative Writing doctorate requires a process of indepth analysis of both practice and methodology. With this in mind how can I feel vindicated to complete my own PhD at an Institution that seems to be tacitly allow this type of 'get the HE students through irrespective of input' to degree program as measure of academic 'output'. Am I still that naive?

Perhaps this explains my detachment from my course and choice of career endeavour. Whilst practitioners within the Creative Industries treat the practice with such disrespect how can we expect to be taken seriously be other professions within and external to the University?

After such negative thoughts and angst (which I pray one day) will become part of the fabric for my own Exegeis)thank goodness I began the daily reading with the body of the Australian newspaper, a very seldom read for me of a Wednesday! Yet today, I was drawn in by the front page feature article on the debate surrounding the Wynne prize. With radio in background and an illuminating discussion between ABC radio's Virginia Triolli (who has actually seen the winning canvas) and an Art Gellery of NSW trustee, the discussion seemed suddenly so pertinent. Virginia's angle was that wgilst copying a master can demonstrate technique it is only when referencing the old work in a postmodern econstructed manner does it become an original composition in totality. It is this re-interpretation of what has come before that makes art a 'great piece of art', it brings something new for the viewer. Quite an interesting juxtaposition of concepts given my earlier raging paragraphs huh?

Then on to more Arts news; and featured right there was an academic I have the highest regard for, Nigel Krauth. Nigel was speaking of one of his doctoral students, Glenda Guest who at age 60 has won the 2010 Commonwealth Writers Prize for Best First Book, Siddon Rock. Congratulations to both Glenda (and "mentor" Nigel). Is the fact that Nigel and his colleagues are encourgaing older beginner novelists into and through the PhD a consolation for me, a reason to keep pushing ahead... not for prizes but to prove to myself (again)that I can complete the Course and that sometimes it is a true reflection of scholarship and craft rather than simply 'numbers and game playing' with little regard for academic process. Well done Gold Coast Campus of Griffth. I take my hat off to you all.

And a personal note to Glenda, glad to hear the second book is on the way. Will watch that all important marketing and advertising by Random House. The Australian p.3 is a hell of a good start.

After a day's leave of absence... Vale Billy.

Today began well with looking forward to a trip to Avenue Clinic to see doctors and discuss current shaking hands and anxiety attacks. Was a bit disappointed that the appointment clashed with yoga class at Beleura but relieved at the same time that my Swinburne Faculty meeting had been cancelled (due to overwhelming excitement!). Was sitting with knitting in hand in waiting room and decided a newspaper was a better option given my tendency to drop stitches. Well from that moment my day took a change of direction... a sweet/sad turn.

An old friend, (most recently an acquaintance due to my lack of contact) died last NY's Eve. I had no bloody idea! I thought I had been reading the dailies cover to cover from January AND throughout my hospital stay. I guess I did have a few days off Xmas and New Year as I was battling with oncoming emotional crash and this is how I must have missed the news. Not only did I not hear that William (Billy) had died but I had also missed his funeral at St. Pats. I guess I am getting towards the age when we start reading the obits and the death notices (but hey so soon?) Seeing the news today that there was to be a memorial/tribute at the Maj this afternoon it was obvious I had to attend.

I guess the trip last week to the Maj was in readiness for this return visit. Whereas last week I revelled in being "just an audience member", today I truly grieved at being an outsider. Unlike most people there who had filled the cathedral, I had not had time to come to terms with the loss of Billy May. Australia (and the theatre world) has lost a great producer and luminous presence, and now say farewell to my lost adolescent dreams.

You promised me the world dearest Billy, and believed that I could be a star when no-one else had that faith. If only I had trusted and listened to your wisdom and was prepared to take that leap of faith into the unknown, but hey I was 18 and you my dear, only 21. Such big plans... too big for my small mind to comprehend.

As was often recalled today, "nothing was ever impossible for you... you made the dreams come true." Thank you for sharing a very special dream with me, and for bringing magic into my son's life. He adored The Hobbit and Narnia. I guess, my son grew up as your career grew and hence the distance between us. I was no longer of the theatre and you were at your dazzling best, here and overseas.

I cried today for the years I lost not keeping in contact, and for the youth we both shared. Malcolm you have a legacy that will see you through the tough times and may Dinosaurs roam the globe for years to come.

To sit and solemnly reflect on the Industry with John Michael in the bar today, and seeing the stayers rising for the standing ovation was part of a closure in my life. JMH you pieced together so many lost threads for me from my years on the outside, and your advice and wisdom I acknowledge humbly.I promise you I have learned my lesson before it is too late.

I also thank you Simon G for a magnificent tribute to end "the show", however together with the images you left me a blubbering heap (despite the wry smile at the white baby grand on stage). Just as Billy knew how to pitch... you can still sell a song buddy!

To see footage from the Broadway season of Marilyn: An American Fable and the West End production of Always was a privilege for those of us who didn't soar near the sun.

Vale my dearest Billy. You were always more than a "wedding singer" to me.

The new week begins

Today is the end of my second week medical certificate. By now I am supposed to be more centred and under control. In terms of mood swings that is defintely the case. However, my anxiety level remains high with my hands very shaky. Today I spent a quiet Sunday afternoon just weaving a scarf (pattern kit/craft kid, not 'real weaving'). It was all I could do to finish it, but I did and am prepared to wear the result. That says something at least.

Next step attempting to finish two craft tasks from hospital. And as a solution to a design issue to give the feel of a completed item (on one) good old pom poms... with waivering hands! I am getting there.

My stomach is tight thus affecting my aility to eat well with my lap band which tells me that I am very uptight/stressed about returning to study this coming week. But like every challenge in my life, I just have to face it head on and dig deep for emotional strength. The great news is I have decided that there is no way I am going to fail at this PhD, even if it takes longer than the system recommends/encourages or likes.

I must remember what it means to me (intrinically) now that I am no longer focused on picking up my career. The (extrinsic) rewards for a PhD in Arts/Humanities is not that great and does not assure less competition for jobs. If anything there seems to be a glut of HASS PhDers allowing the Universities to keep exploitative work practices and low salary scales. If I had brains and common sense I would run a mile from this profession.

The issue for me is 'stickability'. I joked last week with a dear friend that I have managed to quit at least one career a decade. That's right, a career, not a job. If I add job terminations and sackings I hate to tally them. Career-wise, the 70s saw me abandon primary teaching, and begin m aborted attempt at professional musicals and acting, then in the mid to late eighties was Union and Social Justice research, then in the nineties it was the end of my radio broadcasting career, and roll on full time sole parenting. Next was my carer phase (mother/daughter/sister) whilst ceasing employment at the Unis, and trying to up-skill in readiness to regain a stable career. The nineties saw me quit Secondary and TAFE teaching, in preference for re-establishing my academic career. What a joke. Again I am a very competent teacher and strong researcher but have found that the management structure ruling our mass higher education system is unjust. It encourages (and even rewards) lesser skilled academics whose career stability is governed by tenure, at the expense of new emerging academics being used as metaphorical 'cannon fodder'. These academics are expected to build their research profiles (competitively), maintain positive student evaluations (despite quality of course/units/modules being tutored) and accept insecurity of sessional or contract positions.

So which direction now in the new decade. Research would enable me to bring together my disparate discipline areas and bring a cohesion to work within the cutural/arts sectors but where? I guess I would like to be a public intellectual. is it too late to begin again... journalism anyone or is it freelance writing? Hmmm. Too early for a definitive decision at this stage.