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.