returning from the blogging self imposed blackban

Have been reading so many texts, journal articles, memoirs and fiction including play scripts and screen adaptations, films etc. All in one area and one only and that is representations of mental illness. This is the last five months of my PhD and my novel must be finished to examinable standard and my 'interrogation' of expert commentary academically rigorous within an area where the research, theory and hypotheses are highly contested with no definitive or empirical answers to my growing list of research questions surrounding writing fiction or even creative non-fiction on the topic of Bipolar Disorder.

Finally the time has come when it is safe academically to write within the bloggersphere about my own experiences with this Affective Disorder. I am using the very words of 'normal' or 'average' bipolar rather than perform literary post mortems on the deceased creative geniuses.

 We all have valid experiences most of which are not cushioned by financial stability and/or extended families and networks. The one thing my novel aims to do is tell these stories in a time when diagnoses were problematic or even under-diagnosed and the effect stigma and  lack of knowledge or understanding impacted the characters lives, without resorting to memoir technique of complete first person narration


the time has arrived when I must accept that I am the expert in this narrowed focus for my academic writings and public presentations. I am now a full-time advocate for those living in a state of denial about being mentally ill.My blogging must be restarted. It is a journal of my academic and creative processes of this formidable journey in 2013.


l have valid life  experiences that can empower and inform interested readers and hopefully Creative Writing professionals about those of us students who battle with liability of mood states.
by speaking at
International Conferences for clinicians, professional practitioners and researchers I can begin the most important work in my life to date.

Memoir of a single mum

Often it is good to revisit past places of happiness. I remember buying my son his first small yacht. It was slowly dissintegrating on a stand at a local yacht club. Under the tutorship of three wonderful older men, this boat was stripped, repainted, re-sealed, patched and readied for sailing, proudly carrying the sail number 123 on a faded pale blue sale. It was a minnow named White Knight after the confectionary and we left it so.

She had a magnificent old polished wood mast whilst other newer craft had aluminium ones and this made for ongoing maintenance issues for an eight year old and his non-sailor mother. Another kind male mentor found us a free second hand alumnium mast and my son set sail amongst the red group of the sail training fleet at Blairgowrie Yacht Squadron.

Each summer weekday, we would end school days here. Meeting at the school gate to collect him, rigging her up and him sailing happily until sunset. I set up and cooked the BBQ on the yacht club deck or lawns, whilst he showered and readied himself for home and night-time routine.

When we could not afford to purchase the next sized yacht, a Sabre (then $3,000, used and in need of TLC) we sold White Knight and my son never sailed from BYS again. They also changed membership fees at that time that I, as adult could not be a non-sailing social member without an adult sailing member. My son's annual junior sailing fees were worth every cent, just for the closeness we developed through these years.

The lack of sailing, the lack of access to a Sabre, then subsequently the lack of a Laser, meant a particular moment in mother son relationship was no longer able to be that special part of our shared family history. This is turn meant the reliance on cheaper , 'more macho' team sports which at least offered more male mentors... but from that moment on my son and I began the inevitable drift away from each other as he neared adolescence.A distance which remains today with even the hint of blame in my son's judgemental moments, the blame of being a non-working Mum with an income and being responsible for his infrequent visits from his father.

This brings me to the first year after my son had sold White Knight we strolled the lawns for old time's sake and he actually cried (not a young child) when he saw that the new owners had t-boned her and crashed her causing scratches and dents that remained unattended to as she sat on her rack, with the season drawing to a close. He and I could not cope with the lack of respect and love shown this craft that meant so much to us. We stopped going near BYS.

Late one recent Friday evening, I returned for the first time in over ten years. I found what I believe to be White Knight on a rack, still scratched, gunwall needing much TLC on under side. The proud BYS sticker and sail number no longer on her stern.

I felt tears welling up again. Money can buy kids anythings these days but it will buy back our days sailing White Knight (adults can but my son no longer wants anything to do with this rich person's hobby). Nor can I save White Knight. She is slowly rotting away and I am sad that I cannot buy her back, restore her again and keep her cocooned for any grandchildren I may (or indeed may not) ever have.

She did not deserve this after all the years of pleasure she gave the girl who owned her before my son (at RYC) nor now. I wish I had the money to buy her back. I know adults sail minnows but that is a part of my son's life he left behind when the reality of the Australian class system confronted him for the first time, face to face. I think I will post this thread on the BYS site... if they have a blog or at least link to it (which they do and I couldn't).

I felt the Board and Management needed to know how important a part this special place played in the youth of one small local boy and his full-time mother.

Happy St Patrick's Day to all touched by a bit of Blarney and are part of, or descendent from, the great diaspora.

Firstly, I would just love to say a huge Congratulations to darling Tony Sheldon and his cast in Priscilla on Broadway with the box office having joined the league of the million-dollar mega musicals, like Wicked.

As noted the infamous NY critics gave the show a luke warm reception when it opened but audiences have been flocking to see it. It is a joyous celebration of the true love, family and of course the Absurd.

But as with every Comedy the darker subtext exists, rascism, homophobia, isolation and red necks as well as a plea to not marginalise and vilify sub-cutures of society. Our hearts and souls have the same desires and dreams as each other, that remind us of the quintessential human condition.

Not that's what is crossing audience members minds as they sip their pink Priscilla cocktails, sing a long to Lauper's Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. It is a fun night out during tight economic times... exactly when the great musicals have always stepped up and had huge stage success with the public.

May Priscilla be Grand Dame of the Great White Way for months to come. Keep those high heels kicking Tony ;-)

One sigular sensation....

NB: I am also a stickler for citing sources so above image from Crickey Blog


I am always frustrated by the current crop of "theatre reviewers"; and whilst I love that the digital natives are ensuring that theatre lovers, and practitioners, have a digital archive to refer back to in years to come, I question how valid are reviews when the reviewers own credentials are not hyperlinked? ( Just out of curiousity of course... that should be easy Stage Whispers admins?)

This is my problem with the current 'review' of the Adelaide/Melbourne production of A Chorus Line, on the otherwise admirable, site Stage Whispers.

When I was a reviewer (and trained journalist) the first rule of thumb for 'light entertainment' reviewers was to not rely solely on the production company's marketing material and actual program notes. I would add to this "stop for Godsake using google as your primary research source"!

Too much of the current 'review' by Sara Bannister tells me more about Sara Bannister than the performance she saw.

Sure she can reel off the cast list and the show stoppers performed but does she critique them? Not in the slightest.

There are also inherent inconsisitencies in formal logic which comes from cutting and pasting between printed source material and one's own critique and actual experience of the evening.

Firstly, the question is not whether A Chorus Line (Tony/Pullitzer award winning musical) will work with 2012's audience who are fans of "So You THink You Can Dance" or "Dancing with the Stars"?

The leading thematic for the review of this production is how can a reproduction of a seventies musical, holds up under different audience expectations and changed perceptions about performing arts in general, as garnered second- hand and passively via TV screens?

My answer to this is that doesn't and notit is not the problem with A Chorus Line!

I have never sat amongst such a less giving Saturday night audience than at what was supposed to be Melbourne's closing night.

What we have in our audiences seem to me at least, be a generation of theatre goers so conditioned by reality television to pick winners early on that there is a loss in sructural dramatic tension as 'perceived' lesser lights and 'failures' are 'voted out'.

This in the seventies was rivetting material and dramatically absorbing; our hearts went out to each one; as we realised a career dream was being thwarted by the usual major theme of tragic theatre "vaulting ambition that o'er leaps itself'. Ms Bannister, describes "the boy in the headband, at this stage a number not even a name, at this satge of the plot, as the one "who can't take his eyes off his feet", thus missing the entire layers of humour built into the script surrounding notions of the 'cattle call', which is necessary for us audinece members to embrace the possible final line dancers... simply as a device to balance the dramatic tension. This is done exceptionally well in this production with the ensemble (presumably the swings... doing a great and un recognised performance each of them).

This show is not about who can dance 'the best'... it is as is oft repeated in the text... who can replicate the 'style required for a 1930's musical'.

Hence the subtlety, and the need for audiences to put aside their C21st aesthetics of contemporary music theatre dance, and say how perhaps the choreography didn't quite live up to expectations.

We do not go along to a production of Anything Goes and say "Gee they Don't tap like the Tap Dogs!"

Forget that a routine for Cassie in 2012 would have incorporated thecurrent theatre musicals' heritage) for exampleFossey musicals, Kander and Ebb, Sondheim and even ALW) and the changed physical demands on the dancers now whho also have to act and sing at equivalent levels of professionalism.

Cassie, (our leading lady's show stopper is a tour de force of energy and stamina given that she is also expected to sign brilliantly and emotionally throughout, without looking exerted as it was in the 70s. Look at how long she holds the stage alone?) However my problem is in this case, sadly, the casting.

By relying only on having seen this production, (again an assumption I am drwaing from the minimal amount of origianl writing and content subtext in Ms Bannister's review [as is inevitable with younger reviewers] often there neeeds to be some degree of objectivity.

The original production has been filmed since the days of videotape so don't tell me it isn't available on CD or download. Whilst I do not always recommend going into the original before coming fresh to the new production... perhaps a little 'comparison-shopping' post attendance and fingers to keyboard would be wise.

I would not be the person to say that Anita Louise Combe does not give us her all, as she has with many of her leading lady roles, she does. But, in this one... sorry, she just isn't Cassie.

Unfortunately for her there are other dancers from the line (with a hair dyed) who could have danced this Cassie into the shadows 9and perhaps might I suggest sing it better also even though she has an excellent leading lady voice), and whilst I can see the Director's decision to go with a small petite red head, reminiscent of Shirley Maclaine; this also is not Cassie . In the finale, Cassie MUST stand tall and strong (totally commanding the consistency of 'the line', centrestage alongside Zach (Josh Horner of TV fame).

Next issue, I have is that Mr Horner might be able to hold his own with the kids and here's the next but... (Firstly costumier get him proper fitting dance pants at least for the finale)... but I beg you, please somebody give some time and attention to voice and delivery as an actor for the major scene in the musical between he and Cassie. It just didn't get there for me, and might I say judging by the lolly unwrapping around me... for others either. Thus the raising narrative line sort of faulters instead of stings.

Also, again audience issues. Where were the virtual ovations for the set pieces that ensure our cast draw from the energy and give us even more?

Sure, Deborah Krizak (Sheila), Hayley Winch (Val), Karlee Misipeke (Diana), Leah Lim (Connie) and Kurt Douglas (Richie) were so solid both in ensemble and overall talent but Australian audiences used to be famous globally, for their open appreciation and generous applause so much so that it actually built the drama and tension, as off-stage voiced Zach would have to time his vocal re-entry perfectly. This was very luke warm in terms of music theatre responses the way it went last night (never the case at Production Company shows I may say and they aren't even fully staged). the only time there was a smattering of cheers was as some cast members were greeted with cheers as their family and friends in the audience responded to their individual bows. (I'm sure they also were there believing this to have been the closing night of the Melbourne Production).

In the same way that Australian theatre audiences appear to have changed for mujsic theatre over the years is my problem with the reviewer stating that some "stories" have "lost their impact over the decades", presumably she is referring to being openly gay, being an innocent Catholic boy unable to speak with a trusted source about his developing sexual maturity, or perhaps even the acceptability of professional drag performers. Stop right there Ms Bannister.

Have you actually travelled to Buffallo, Indiana, Missouri or any of the Bible-belt States even today in the USA in 2011-12?

Do you think just because in Australia we have come baby steps towards tolerance and inclusivity... these themes are dated?

Dated perhaps for educated, middle class white city theatre goers. But what of those from ethnic minorities where such 'life education' remains frowned upon and some of these chosen performing careers remain despised? Reflect for one minute on the scene in PPriscilla as they venuture deeper into the Australian outback via Coober Pedy. This scene, with drag queens and Asian brides, said more about our own nation's acceptance and rascism than anything in this musical to giev lie to my claim that the themes remain to this day of relevance to a large proportion of the Australian audiences.

Remember and foreground the setting in your contextualising your review. It is 1970s NYC with it's ethnic ghettos, migrant family aspirations, a Country where even in school creationism is taught and not Darwinism. The these are NOT dated... nor should the performances of these young men in these roles be so summarily dismissed.

Okay, so perhaps the 2012 production is not revisiting the same 1970s Australia, when this show blitzed the world but the actual dramatic structure of the book remains the same.
This is a review, not a marketing spiel. It opens a space for others to disagree and present alternate points of view... as should all good writing be it in print or online. Just listing cast members, making token references to ensemble show stoppers using hackneyed and cliched descriptors does nothing to re-create the lived experience for the many Melbourne theatre goers unable to purchase tickets.

And here is my big gripe with the Producer... how dare you...market and advertsie from first notification that this would be a strictly limited 35 performances run with no possible extension (this from TML productions major advertising media campaigns last December). Just a personal thankyou to Mr Lawson and team, I scheduled NZ flights home and hotels around the closing performance date, in the hope that we could gather some of the original line in the audience to bring a special frissom of excitement in the ovation and curtain calls.... what ovation or curtain calls? I was even prepared to use some of my frequent flyer points to bring some into Melbourne from other States... and I am not talking about the 90s revival... but the one's Mr Michael Bennett finally decided were good enough to be in HIS show.

And as for pre-reviewing research... how about a little investigation into the perception that in 1975 our own performers were not ethnic enought and Mr Bennett threatening to not bring the Production to Melbourne at all if he couldn't bring his chore NYC cast... a ploy that similarly the year before almost brought the West End theatres to blackness as the Actors Equity stood firm over there. Not so us Aussies... we had two openings... the imports and then the Aussie line, with the talented Raymond and Glenice Nok, Peta Toppano ,Tony Bartuccio, Geoffrey Unkavich and Ronnie Arnold. Funny how Australian Equity ensured that we were able to find talented enough performers who weren't totally WASP after that initial six weeks of so... and they were superb.

So now,the extension is in a week's time finishing with a matinee... oh please, the god almighty dollar reigns again over honesty in marketing. What ever happened to Return season by popular demand? Are these two seasons just "out of town tryouts" for the Asian market before coming back to Sydney?

Apart from the costly expenses incurred just to get to Her Majesty's last night, the remainder of this blog material is what I look for from reviews... the stories behind the stories (called the ANGLE) not the marketing material or total eccentricties of one (identified but possibly inexperienced) reviewer.

Oh by the way,as for credentilism, please allow me to lay mine uup front.
I was a member of Actors Equity from the age of 18 through until my late twenties, studied Performing Arts, Theatre Studies, Cinema Studies, and Australina Film and TV Production... all awarded through degrees, before I even ventured onto the professional airwaves at what was 3LO, 774 Melbourne's Sunday Show with Clive Stark (probably again before your time Ms Bannister). I have also worked front and backstage, in Australia and the West End, and taught professional acting from dressing, pit singing, asm, dsm, usherette, program seller, barmaid... you name it I've had a stint doing it. That was the way we learned and were trained in the old days... watching and learning at the feet of the greats that went before us.

Could I possible by just a whingeing old timer out of date? Sorry to disappoint you Ms Bannister, I am now an academic/researcher whose area of expertise is Creative Industries, Australian and Global. I present papers at colloquiums and nationally on this sector of our Industry and Economy.

Yet I buy my seats like every other punter and expect better from those who might happen upon a comp.

Leave me my safe spaces, please...

The strange thing about being in the public eye... to a small extent is how often people read things you write that give no hint of the depressive side of the illness and assume you are "normal" again. What these people are ignorant of is that with BMD there is a conscious daily monitoring of mood scales and charting them on that -5 to + 5 scale and somewhere inside this scale is the range people call normal.

The other assumption is that if you are not dwelling in the depths of despair and writing about it, you can't be there when in actual fact the last thing you could find energy for at the -5 end is any time to string cohesive (or even non co-hesive) thoughts together as 'writing'. You are merely surviving of trying to disappear into the arms of Morpheus at every possible moment of that protracted period of illness. There is no today, tomorrow, later there is only this seemingly timeless 'now' that will never pass. One an only write this when you are rising out of the depth, and beginning to develop a degree of objectivity about the situation. The writing is innavriably about the past.

At the +5 end of the illness there is no time to write nor if there were would the writing be coherent or logical. Mania is also living in the now but with that added belief that there is a tomorrow and it will only be bigger, brighter and better. You thoughts race, you cannot type as fast as the thoughts occur and why would you? You can't sit still let alone 'capture' these moments of non-energetic motion.

Ah then there is the phase trying to reach that balance point, shall we say zero, instead of normalcy which is such a relative term. This is the point for me at least where I have pushed myself beyond what was a logical degree of pressure, attempting to overcome and surmount every obstacle thrown in my path, on all fronts. professional, personal, domestic and environmental. Words associated with mania and grandiosity are often attached to this phase.

My biggest problem is, like many manics I cannot and do not recognise this state in myself. To me I am not having grandiose plans and levels of attainment, I am simply pushing through to prove to somebody, usually myself that I can conquer everything the world throws at me, and not only conquer it do it bloody well. Just to prove to the world that those of us with mental illness can function at a very high level of productivity and intelligence. I carry the pressure of all BMD patients at this time. And that is grandiosity and delusion. It has been a very hard lesson to learn over the last few years.

Every time I begin a new job or work project I push myself ridiculously hard, and I even have enough self-insight tio know why. I will never be good enough for me... no matter how amny pieces of paper are framed on mhy walls, no matter how many times colleagues tell me how 'intelligent' I am. No-body gets it. I am not good enough for me.

And if you add to this a certain number of years being called lazy, work-shy (whilst plodding through studies as I cannot read fast and always feel stupid), unstable, irrational, over-emotional, irresponsible... those negative labels begin to take hold, especially if they are spoken with venon by people you live with, family or significant others. This is the damage thoughtless and ill-conceived words of criticism can have over a protracted period of time... on ANYBODY not just someone who is mentally ill.

These are the feelings of worthlessness that drive 'normal' people to plummet into unipolarity and hospitalisation. My gift is that I have bi-polarity and at times the excitement of riding the mania does allow me to produce good and valuable work... but not in toxic or negative environments. It's as if I am hyper-sensitive to dynamics between people and inside work places. I lose perpective on my own mental wellness states and lose complete capability for rational thought.

When something turns pearshape, my subconscous is screaming "get out... leave before it is too late", yet my bigger fear is returning home to condemnation and articulated words about "typical failure" or "incompetence". This being torn in both directions is what I have lived with for the last six years at least.

Yet, I know that by ignoring my inner self-awareness, mania will lead to the inevitable melt down, and then EVERYBODY around you has no time for the healing process. Apart from the medical teams and professionals who know the battle. I have just had one of he harshest 'talkings to' from my trusted General Practitioner who did not hold back. Knowing I had a virtually immediate appointment with my psychiatrist and knowing me better than I know myself... he told me stop pretending to myself that I am well or superwoman who could do it all... or not so much in those words but you get my drift.

He put in words what is actually my biggest fear, that I may be ill and not able to function under the levels of stress required in some jobs. For me that meant EVER AGAIN... yet as my Psychiatrist indicated, this was catastrophising and thus not a sensible framing of the future... again I am advised to live for the now and heal.

So off I go back to my PhD finding great solace and pleasure in writing and alone-ness and begin to chronicle this journey on the www. I am under the possibly mistaken belief that this blog will find readers who are in need of what I have to say about my experiences with BMD...

Yet what happens my ex-employers perceive the sudden onset of tranquility as a sign that I can function as a professional employee... even though I am an EX-employee, as they have a deadline and my melt-down did not help them, thus now that I seem better... can I just hunt through my computer files and find material I didn't provide them.

This from the woman who many friends knows does a complete hard drive reformatting EVERY time I come out of a crisis situtaion to give myself a metaphorical blank slate from which to begin life again... new day new life. I trash everything... reformatting all hard drives... I am now expected to find the old stuff (from where?) and get it to them asap as they paid out my holiday leave and sickness benefits so surely I must still be an employee open for contact.... Well no I am still very unwell and in the re-establishment of my health.

I am/was so unwell I couldn't even go on holiday relying so heavily on medical treatment at the moment.. . so i find the nearest place I can have a mental holiday (all less than 5 kms) from where I live but because I am seeking out places of beauty... I must be well and on holidays... When will I ever be strong enought to say... hey I like you guys personally but professionally FUCK off you are killing me (almost-literally).

Do not pollute my safe spaces with past toxicity... not from work, not from University, not from home... leave me heal.

Aloneness and serenity

Can there be such a thing as contented aloneness? And am I contented thanks to three (legal sized) serves of New Zealand Sqyeling Pig Sauv Blanc? I am even contented enough to forgive the cehf his use of re-c0nstituted dried figs on grilled saganaki IN FIG SEASON! Perhaps it is the mellowness of the wine relecting the mellowness of my mood for the first time in weeks.

Is it alcohol that fules my empathy for my dear friend who under time pressure returned home to be "domestically accountable" at precisely the "expected time" to perform her "anticpated wifely duties"? Yet again I sit pondering relationships, especially marrriage and the contraints and limitations that seem to flow towards one particular gender only. Surely the columnist speak of trust but is that trust only accountable one way? Is she (whichever married, ex-married or partnered acquaintance) trusted to have space.. some private alone time without explanation or justification? Where is that freedom to "just be"... not to do anything morally or ethically suspect or downright wrong or misguided just free to have a private space uncluttered with the demands and emotional baggage of significant others?

Am I too selfish? Is there such a thing when trust and negotiated boundaries are clearly articulated? can somebody tell me how simply "stopping and gazing across a marina revelling in the gentle sea breeze ruffling one's hair and the salty air wakening the nostrils to living nature" doing anything wrong or damaging to others?

And what of friends who share a common bond with an intricate understanding of what scholarly academic pressures are like throughout the simmering pressure cooker of a PhD. Only one who has been there has any possible inkling of what is necessary to simply 'get through it in one piece', mentally, emotionally, academically and even physically... RSI anyone?

I look out over the marina cove and I see it for what it is an unphotoshopped real estate marketing glossy in the shop windows. The water is not blue or turqoise or any other aestheically sounding hue of blue-ness. It is green, an not the most attractive shade of green, a green verging on military khaki.... or to be kind perhaps olive. This very olive tinge is a life giving force. It is from this water the brighter algae adheres to the concrete pilons and foundations of the hotel deck. I watch mesmerised as quite large dark grey/black fish quickly push through the surface with a tail swish whilst nibbling on the algae.

The green surface has the very slightest ripples from the onshore breeze interupted by samm clusters of airbubbles hinting at the teaming living world below. As I gaze acroos the many empty moorings I am tempted to anthropomorphise the small motor boats reminiscent of patinet domestic pets waiting the return of owners for daily excercise. Behind the few boats and the tidy coils of rope laying in waiting next to the bollards my eyes are drawn inevitably to perhaps the most offensive building aesthetically, the corrugated iron multi-level boat under-cover storage area. The one st St Kilda shows stach upon stack of glistening white and blue craft, this one has a small roller door offering only the tiniest peak inside to a dark space reminiscent of an industrial complex or aircaft hangar, and on one middle rack a single vessell is in full view as if the last unwanted item on a supermarket shelf.

To one side of this monstrosity blocking any possible visat across the marina to the riverfrontage units on the opposing side, resides a large metal skeletal structure with angular thrusting beams and trusses. I pray this is not an extension for the ubiquitous neon-dominated 'pokies area' just visible past the bar and servery. Enough. Too many elderly players resorting to these inanimate voracious machines gulping coins, notes and point of sale e-cards.

Pokies and thrusting architecture... so Melbourne circa 1980. What is it with this 'aspirational heavenward reach'... forgive the sinners lord they know not what they do? Or forgive the finacier-predators for they truly believe in the economic 'trickle-down' effect whilst churches and welfare agencies deal with the familial collateral damage?

Neither neon-lit machines or monolithic outdated architecture suits the locale. Nothing compliments the gentle curves of a once natural watercourse, or artificial islands and curving boardwalks lined with palm trees, serviced by monopoly supermarket and fuel outlets to facilitate the needs of city-bound comuters attempting to find their small piece of seachange whilst daily battling the gridlock of the freeways.

Yet despite the somewhat incongruous waterfront villa 'stacks' each complete with mooring, jetty and balcony I still feel calm and tranquil. I guess it is because the place is so vacant of activity, no nodding passers b y happily walking Fido, carrying the environmentally sound fabric shopping bags and all the time in the world for a kind word or two as encountered at Yarra's End in Melbourne. This vacant environment is ghostly with a sense of expectation... something will happen eventually even though it isn't Saturday or Sunday afternoon.

"Little boxes, little boxes and they're all made of ticky tacky, little boxes on the hillside and they look just the same". These have no hillside. Yet they are exactly the same. Each balcony showcases the ubiquitous multiburner BBQ, weather-proofed woven outdoor settings with reinforced glass tables and the obviously compulsory 'mop top' planters. Each apartment or unit is stacked one on top of another with a minimalist dividing wall. Obviously communication between neighbours is frowned upon and despite a raked and stepped design no conversation is possible between upstairs occupants with their donstairs counterparts. Yet I can hear in my imagination the same sizzling steaks and seafood sounds, the murmurs of conversations, wine bottles being opened and corks popping. The same communal relaxation noises without the Community.

Suddenly my reverie is interrupted as I realise the community buzz is in fact real and emanating from a sectioned of part of the L-shaped deck of the hotel where a work function is taking place. You can tell the deeper rumble and throatey guffaws of the men with the lighter pitched women's voices in counterpoint as alcohol and party atmosphere lifts normal vocal pitches even higher. I look at the group and realise I do not want to be with them. I do not want to be over there listening to the same mundane workplace gossip and inanities with forced smile and party face. I am content, alone, here across the water. I am calmly observing the world going about its business.

At a table for two just down from my seat there is an animated conversation taking place between what appears to be late twenties best friends of each gender. She is defensive of him and her pecerception of how a particular female acquaitance is abusing his good nature. He nods and replies with the obligatory 'umms' to give the impression gthat this is actually a conversation when in fact it is a very bad therapy session replete with self-help cliches being hurled in his direction from his "bestie". Oh no back to relationships again... the afternoon is turning full circle as the sun lowers in the sky, the seabirds head noisily home for the evening.

I am fighting the urge to stand up and scream to everyone in earshot, the party, the couple the pokies players... "Just shut up and listen. Listen to the sounds of paradise"... the softly discernable whoosh of wind on water, the falpping of the duck wings coming in for landing, the gentle thuds of the boats bumping against the rubber floatation hammocks, and the sounds of the seagulls across the marina through the one green treed pathway between inlets.

It is then I notice them, the family. One man, one woman a young girl in blue print school dress walking their fluffy white puppy. She skips along the boardwalk opposite, the man and woman holding hands. Ah possibly the ad agency picture perfect photo... quick pass my camera for THAT real estate agency advertising shot.