Love Sick

Dear hearts,

Love sick. I didn’t realise how serious it could be. Until now. Seriously.

The Concise Oxford describes Lovesick as languishing because of love. The symptoms are many and varied. Be conscious Dear hearts, in case the malady sneaks up on you. Should you feel apathy, inertia, find yourself swooning, forgetting to eat or wandering into a room not knowing why you are there, beware. These could all be indicators.

And these are just the benign symptoms. You are in real trouble when the butterflies that once heralded anticipation of an interaction with the object of your desire, suddenly turn into big bats with the intention of sweeping your feet out from under you and spinning you around so that you feel vertigo. Long sentence I know, forgive me Ms Morgan-King, but you get my drift.

Then there are the heart palpitations. And not in a good, be still my beating heart kind of way. This is more the I’m going to pass out if this doesn’t stop soon kind of way. It’s just not fair. It’s a bit like being hijacked by a drug that you didn’t plan on hosting, or having your drink spiked. A vast amount of energy and adrenalin coursing through your bloodstream. Your heart in your mouth and the inability to stay still. Dry of mouth and incapable of speech. But again I stress, not in a good way.

For me, a hard solid run, hit a few hundred golf balls, throw down a half a bottle of something fruity and hopefully I’ll pass out on the bed. It’s the only way out of it.

What is worse, Dear hearts, is the misery of one’s own company. I’m sick of myself. The whining “Oh if only it were like this…” “If only he would do that…”The flopping from chair to chair. (And believe me, I have plenty of chairs…) I’m like my own Country and Western ballad gone bad. I start with the would have, could haves and should have’s. I move on to wishing I had a dog and end up humming Dolly Parton ballads. Somebody shoot me and put me out of everyone’s misery. Miss Mellie and Miss Christine are so patient, but it will have an end to it. The click on the end of the line I suspect.

What to do to get out of this malaise? Exercise as I have written. Always a good tonic. A good mental shakedown and that eternal chestnut Discipline. There’s not much else I can think of Dear hearts, except time. Someone throw me a bone or cut me a deal. In the immortal words of Bob Dylan, There must be some kinda way out of here, said the Joker to the Thief, There’s too much confusion, I can’t get no relief.

The trouble is, I’m not sure who is the Joker and who is the Thief…

With the way I’m feeling, the joke seems to be on me and somebody just stole my heart. I don’t like this game at all Dear hearts. I don’t like it at all.

I’m starting to whine again, aren’t I?...

That’s it. Time to put on my runners and throw the driver and 7 iron in the car. If I’m lucky the liquor shop will still be open after I run as fast as I can to escape myself and hit enough golf balls to give myself blisters.

I will then come home, put a new scroll under the Buddha’s arm and bring in the New Year from the comfort of under my favourite pillow.

Enjoy New Years Eve.

With love
Miss Mich.

A little bit like a bad dream

Dear hearts,

I found this written on a scrunched up piece of paper dropped on the ground in the garden. If it is yours, let me know and I'll post it to you. If it is mine, then I am in trouble.

I am done with words. I have no use for the spoken word. I will sew my lips together to stop the words escaping. I will eat them up and swallow them before they get to my teeth. I will eat my self from the inside out. Making sure the howls and cries can never escape. I will bend myself in half and contort my stomach to keep the muscles from convulsing.

I will sew my eyelids shut as well. Just to be sure. Just to be sure the tears cannot escape and the looks of recrimination and betrayal stay trapped behind my retina. If I am lucky they will burn my retina's from the inside and stop the lightening strike of my stare. I will make sure all memory is sliced from my thighs with the sharpest of filleting knives. So sharp that I will not feel a thing. Just look down to see the sashimi slices of my muscle fall gracefully into pink layers at my feet.

I will take my head in my hands and pull at my hair until there are knots and nests that only wild birds would choose to roost in. They will peck at the back of my neck until they find the cord that runs down my back. The line that joins my head to my arse and up around to my cunt. They can suck away until there is no blood left. I have no use for these things now.

My hands. What to do with my hands? I will begin to bite at my nails. Tear at the strips of skin around my cuticles until there is blood, ragged and dirty. I will crack my knuckles until the arthritis begins to swell and the bones bulge. I don't want to see them again. I don't want to see them touching. Or tracing. Or holding. None of that matters now.

I am on my knees. Arranged into a shape that defies the contours of natural posture. I am twisted and broken. And happy to be so. I want everything that I am to be ugly and hidden. To be black and brown and smudged so that the shape cannot be seen.

No light. Just the absence of light.

No colour. Just the dirty drinkwater of storm filled puddles and the runoff of what might have been.

I am a howl. A rejection. A thing of small significance.

An indulgence.

Get up. Straighten up and open your eyes. Tear those stitches from your lids. Look in the mirror and face yourself.

Pull the threads from your lips and open your mouth wide. Suck in every last breath of opportunity and speak. Your truth.

Pull the birds from empty nests and shoo them away. Plug the holes and fill yourself from within. It won’t take long.

Crack your knuckles back into shape and articulate as you always have. Conduct your conversation. Skin grows back. Nails repair. The prints on your fingertips remain. Dip them in ink and remember.

Wipe that smudge from your face and pull discipline from your belly.

Shut up and start walking. Home.


Apologies Dear hearts.

I don’t know what came over me.

Miss Mich.

Miss Michs very own Stockholm Syndrome

Dear hearts,

At 1.00pm I stopped wallowing. And at 1.30pm I released. Nuri would have been proud.

The stone in my stomach became more manageable and I could taste the cup of tea.

The jangling zig zags of anxiety moths, moths as big as bats; flew out of my mouth and the nausea that lived in my throat was let loose.

I talk about choices all the time, but do I listen to myself?

To clear my head I emptied my pockets of all of the stuff that was leading me to Narcolepsy, inertia and intense fear. I put them on the table right here. This old oak farmhouse table. The one with the knife drawer. I was very careful to put the knives from my pockets and the drawer well out of reach.

Then I sorted all the stuff into piles so that I could see it all more clearly. It’s a bit like the junk drawer we all have in the kitchen. Although, unlike the junk drawer, I really do need to sort this stuff out.

When I looked at everything, it didn’t seem so bad. It was then I realised that I had begun to breathe again. Sometimes I forget and I have this big old weatherbeaten sigh sneak up on me and take my breath away, only in reverse.

I like to make lists and like the piles of unfinished business on the table, I need to look at things in order to understand. It’s like the different ways of learning. Apart from the Universe hitting me on the head with the same experiences repeated, I need to see what I have and what is missing. The gaping pieces from the jigsaw picture making it bleedingly obvious that it is the kitten’s ear or the orangey/red autumn leaf that is holding you back from completion.

Having somewhat identified first of all the pattern that I seem to be perpetuating, that of encouraging a certain uncertainty in my life, I could at least move on to what it is going to take to avoid this. Moving to Stockholm was my first thought. I don’t know why, I don’t like the cold. But I do love Stockholm. I fit in genetically. And I think it could suit me. I could learn to knit. Wrap myself up in long snakes of stripy woollen scarves. Trample through the cobblestones of the old city, Gamlestaan, and pretend I have always lived there. Wear matching woolly hats with pom poms and have my blonde braids sticking out of the bottom.

I do have a Viking fantasy. Being a Viking, I have told the Bright Young Things that when I die they must put my body on a raft, send me out to sea and shoot flaming arrows until I am nothing but fire on my way to Valhalla. That’s if Odin doesn’t get me first. I’m ok either way.

Other than moving to Stockholm, I may have to also consider staying here and actually doing something about these issues. As it’s late Autumn in the Northern hemisphere, I’m thinking to avoid the depths of a Nordic winter and all that snow, I might be better off embracing another wet season and just get on with it. You see, I told you no more wallowing.

With that in mind, I must clean up my mess, sharpen the knives (you never know when you are going to need them) and put everything back where it belongs.

Enjoy Sunday.

With love
Miss Mich

Antony Wickens

Dear hearts,

When I was little, maybe 7 or 8 or even 9, Antony Wickens was my best friend. He lived in the Duplex above my Grandparents in Premier St, Neutral Bay. I loved going to see Nana and Pa. I loved even more going to see Antony. Antony was English. Very English. He wore long shorts with a belt, had dinner at 5 o'clock every day and a mother who never really came outside. I used to think it was because she found the sun too bright. Because she was English. She had the same pale gold hair that Antony had. And the same pale gold skin.

Outside Antony's front door was a beautiful big Frangipani tree. Frangipani tree's grow into the most beautiful of shapes. They are like ballerina's in my mind. Their branches reach out like the extended arms of a ballerina. And the tufts of yellow flower clusters that grow out from the ends of those extended arms have always reminded me of tutu's and Swan Lake feathers. I don't really know why.

Antony and I would climb into the branches of that frangipani tree and sit and talk for hours. We thought we were terribly brave and clever for climbing so high (my father could look us in the eye when he came out to check on us). One summer afternoon after twirling frangipani blossoms between our fingers and sending them downwards in spirals into the garden from our great height, we made the startling and hilarious discovery of the word idiotic. We laughed for three hours. I still remember, and it still makes me laugh to think of us saying the word to each other. Over and over again. It was so ridiculous, so exotic and so, well, idiotic. We collapsed into giggles and into each other. We nearly fell out of that tree. Several times.

It was a summer of cicada's in the plum tree, big fat blood plums and too much sun. Antony and his pale mother and even paler father came to my parents house for an Australian barbeque. I wore my best dress. Pale pink stripes with puffed sleeves and a big bow that tied around my waist. My mother made me wear white tights and black patent leather shoes with little buckles. My best Mary Jane's. My hair was the same colour as Antony's only brighter because I was Australian. And my skin browner because I loved the sun.

The sun didn't love Antony. He had been to Balmoral Beach and on his back the skin was peeling. We played in my back garden on the swing. We couldn't climb the plum tree because it was too big and the branches too high. The singing of the cicadas became louder and louder as the sun went down and it felt like the absolute middle of the summer school holidays. We had a black labrador called Bear who wasn't very friendly. If he didn't like you he would sit and stare you down. If you came near him he would growl as he looked at you. Very quietly. Very deliberately. Sometimes I think Bear lives within me. Or I like to think so.

After our Australian barbeque and after it became very late, my mother put Antony and I top and tail into my single bed. Antony in his singlet and shorts and me in mine. We were quite inquisitive Antony and I. And we had known each for as long as we could remember. I peeled the skin from Antony's back in long strips that you could see in the streetlight that fell through the window. I was fascinated and he didn't move. He just lie there while I worked away at that deeper gold skin. Underneath, the new skin revealed itself the same pale gold as I had always known. The same pale gold of his hair and that of his mother's. My bright light hair and my brown Australian skin showed itself in the streetlight as well and I thought how similar and yet how different we both were.

Antony was very English and I was very Australian.

With love
Miss Mich

Do What I Want...

Dear hearts,

You think that when you become an adult – you can do what you want. The baby often says to me, after I admonish her for some infraction of etiquette...”Do what I want”. We both laugh knowing that she will find her manners, take her elbows off the table and find the correct grammer for the situation presently being discussed. I roll my eyes, but take heart that at least she knows the difference and can mix it in polite company with the best when she has to.

I am footloose and fancy free. The baby is in Melbourne celebrating her coming of age. Of sorts. As a very experienced holder of the fake ID, the child is no new comer to the nightclub, bar, pub et al. Having said this, it will be quite the novelty for her to “be legal”. I can see her swanning in to The Brunswick Green, ID held out like a badge, new brunette hair framing her beautiful face, daring any and all...to check her ID.

Miss Mich can remember herself, sneaking into The Charles hotel in Chatswood only to be horrified by her cousin finding her on the dance floor and making quite the scene over her “little” cousin sneaking into the pub. In those days, Dear hearts, it was easy. There really was no such thing as ID and if one had a decent cleavage that was all that was really required. Luckily Miss Mich ticked the booby box, had long blonde hair and had the place at her beck and call.

So, the question is...can you do what you want just because you are an adult?

Hmmm. Yes. And no.

There is no question that it actually gets harder to do what you want as you get older. It gets more complicated. There is the “relationship” (you know how much I loathe that word). The children. The mortgage. The credit cards and the “outgoings”. Not to mention the expectations and aspirations of your neighbours, work colleagues and extended family. And I haven't even started on the media, and social and cultural mores. It's quite scary once you realise how embedded we are into blindly working towards achieving these accepted levels of success.

Do what we want?...yes. As long as it conforms to what is expected. Personally, I have come a long way from the spoilt Eastern suburbs housewife who expected and had pretty much everything. Everything, as it turned out, except what I really really wanted. Spooky huh. It's all very well and good to have a big house, a European car and a country property, but seriously what good is all that when you do not have the warmth of another's belly. When you do not have someone you can lie with and speak with. Or not. When you do not have chest curls to curl up in, or another's breath that you can take as your own. Having had both Dear hearts, I say you can keep your big house, your European car and your country property. I will choose the Cottage and chest curls over any and all of that stuff.

Perhaps the key is to keep it simple. No new secret I know, but sometimes we need to be reminded that less is more and that simple is best. We really can do what what we want if we remain honest and true. And what we truly want may be tucked in behind all of that other stuff. The stuff of imposed expectation, social competitiveness and what everybody else is doing.

March to the beat of your own drums dear hearts. Find what it is that makes you truly happy.

And do what you want.

Enjoy yourself.

With love
Miss Mich

The Salty Sea Dog

Dear hearts,

The Salty Sea Dog.

I've been sitting on this one for a while. It's such a big story. He doesn't really qualify as a charm, due mostly to his impotence, God love him. I can say here and now, though, it was not for want of trying. Me trying...in the end I suspect he found me slightly trying...although terribly cute...obvi.

The marina at Rose Bay offers the best in luxury white boats, harbourside views and coffee. Miss Mich spent every morning gazing out across the prettiest boats to unbelievable real estate, catching up with her bestest girlfriends, Miss Mellie included naturally, and sneaking both the SMH crossword and sidelong glances at this interesting fellow. Contact was initially made with Betty Ford. She was very partial to a mixed berry muffin. She was terribly good looking and the constant companion of said interesting fellow. Competition I hear you ask? Betty Ford was intelligent, discerning (she liked both yours truly and mixed berry muffins) and the epitome of canine sobriety.

As a border collie Betty herself was quite the salty sea dog, living on the male version's beautifully restored 1960's 50' Halvorsen cruiser. Google for yourself if you are not familiar with these most stylish of wooden motor boats. Polished timber, white leather, loads of elegant deck space. This was quite the runabout. Each morning the “dog” would glide in on his ex army tender and run Betty along the beach for her morning ablution and exercise. That done, it was time to settle in for a couple of hours drying out (the alcohol) in the sun with the crossword and several coffees.

Over time Miss Mich came to share the crossword,coffee and some interesting experiences at the same table and aboard that stunning boat as both the dog and Betty. Most of these interesting times involved ridiculous amounts of alcohol, Miss Mich disgracing herself spectacularly and some of the best stories I have to offer. Consider this an introduction. Each act of indiscretion is a tete et tete in itself. In the two and half years that Miss Mich shared breakfast, she remained completely convinced that she was a great idea for the dog. In the two and a half years that the dog shared breakfast with Miss Mich, he remained completely resolute that she was not.

And yet....

There was something. He was witty, seriously bright, well built (rowed for England) and artistic (architect). He was also an alcoholic and had that other small imposition...killer combination.

Miss Mich would not take no for an answer. In the end it became the game. Each time we spent time, it was monumental. In the consumption of alcohol, the extreme events, the lengths Miss Mich went to convince the dog she was the one. His grand sweeping rejection. His unspoken acceptance of her around every day and the way he looked at her. It all spoke of an unspoken intimacy.

He did say one thing. Right at the end. Miss Mich is still trying to work it out. I am not sure whether it was a cryptic clue meant to stay under my skin (which it has) or just a throw away line...we'll never know. He was a bit like that. He was interesting, challenging, and the one that could have been.

Now Dear hearts, every time I see a border collie I get a little thirsty, have a hankering for the sea and just wonder what did he really mean?

Enjoy the clue.

With love
Miss Mich

Moving Forward

Dear hearts,

Following on from my previous tete et tete, it has been suggested I offer up a strategy for the future. Just because I had no grand plan when I was 18 doesn't mean I can't formulate one now. It's never too late. In the words of our fearless female leader and at the risk of aligning myself with a Ranga...”moving forward”... these are some of the things I would like to achieve.

I will start small.

A basketball backboard to play one on one and perfect my three pointers (I'm actually really good at them...)
A dog to walk and take to the beach
A bicycle to ride to coffee on the weekends
A family membership to the local tennis club so that all the little one's can hang out and hit balls
The opportunity to cook lavish meals of many courses and feed all the babies until they pop
To take you know who to see the Songbird perform
To have my darling boy live at home again, even if just for the summer holidays, so I can wash for him, cook for him and cuddle him
To be tucked in again. I didn't realise how precious that is until it happened for the first time, not very long ago

Next level

A boat would be nice. I miss the little fishy's. And I know they miss me
Travel. Anywhere. With you know who
The business that is in my head needs to be put on paper and then realised. Help with that would be good
Finish the book that is started and finish the rest of the stories, poetry and ideas that are currently bullet point word documents not unlike this
Time....

Top of the Pile

A garden
A house to go with it
The boy to go with that
L. Lots
A future of all of the above. A boy, all the babies and love.
Simplicity

This was easier than I thought Dear hearts. Simpler. Let's hope I can cross a few off the list and sit back in the afternoon and smile.

With love

Who'd have thought?...

Dear hearts,

I know I've gone on about this before, but I still can't believe what happens to me. How my life keeps unfolding.

I was contemplating in the shower, mystified as usual at the events that unfold daily, when it occurred to me...what did I actually expect from my life. I must confess to no grand plan beyond losing my virginity at 18 and a half...My biggest decision after leaving school was University or Virginity? It never occurred to me that I could do both concurrently.

So I deferred from Syd uni and moved to Kings Cross...obvi...

Talk about opening my eyes. My single bed had it's spot in the lounge room as both of the bedrooms were taken. One by my best friend with whom I went to school and the other by a beautiful bi sexual woman who worked for a large record company. Coming home at the end of a Saturday night out seeing live music when pubs still had stages and dance floors, it would be a bit of a lottery to see if my little bed was free or full of boys and girls.

And then I met the John that I thought would do the trick for me and I would move on. In my mind, I would get the embarrassing business of breaking the hymen out of the way with a faceless body, develop a little technique and get out. Sadly and for some unknown reason, it took three years. All was not lost completely. I spent a year in south east Asia and India that changed me forever and celebrated my 21st birthday in the beautiful city of Mysore.

With some life experience, it was in the desert town of Pushka that I unlocked the mystery of the baby O, and considerable travel experience behind me I was able then to move on. We all know about the Sperm donor and the Charms and fear not Dear hearts, there are still a few good stories left to tell, before we find ourselves here in the far far north. All in good time.

I could have settled for the safe option of tradie and cottage in the suburbs. I could have taken myself to uni and who knows what. To be honest, I think I would have become insufferable, elitist and extremely uptight. Disappearing up my own academic arsehole. I doubt I would have discovered the little tricks I now have to play with or have had the compassion for you Dear hearts and empathy for the universe generally. But I could be wrong. See that's the thing...I'll never know.

I guess it doesn't matter. I can't change anything that has gone before. And I wouldn't. Those Bright Young Things for example. All I can do is make those darlings aware of the choices they can make. The potential they have to exercise and the opportunities available to them. They are so lucky.

And so am I. I have you, I have them and my own potential to explore and develop.

Enough contemplation. Here's to the future. Whatever it may be.

Enjoy the possibility.

With love
Miss Mich

What boys like

Dear hearts,

I want to make the disclaimer up front that what I am about to write is Academic. If I could live my life in words I would be a genius. A good looking, successful, funny, together, rich genius. Or maybe a fortune teller or turban wearing Guru. Maybe what I will do is have my bank account details at the bottom of this piece, and if my advice works for you, you can put money in my account…Just think, if I get good at this I may be able to retire from the pen world (it’s exhausting) and lie by the pool with laptop and cocktails dispensing advice and style tips…all the while listening to the electronic ca-ching…

Here we go.

What Boys Like or How to Win a Boys Love.

Ok stop laughing right now. I direct this comment to the Bright Young Things, Miss Mellie and Miss Christine. It may be true that I have not the best track record when it comes to these matters. But that does not preclude me, Dear hearts, from having good sound Academic Advice. (Please note the Capital letters…)

In theory, and let’s face it, that’s all I’ve got, …it’s not that difficult to put on paper what boys like or, how to win a boy’s love. I’m not suggesting you actually go out and have a crack, certainly not. What I am suggesting is that we look at the situation to try and understand (as girls), what makes those beautiful boys tick.

I do love them so. Well, some of them.

Paramount and top of list is:

You catch more bees with honey than lemon. The hair shirt doesn’t fit anybody well. You may think that by punishing them with silence or with holding yourself from them will whip them into shape, but here’s the tip, you are sorely mistaken. It will only drive them inward and lead ultimately to resentment and detachment. And it’s not good for you either. Who needs black in their heart.

They don’t like a nag. The more you berate, the more you go over old beaten ground, the more they will dig their heels in and withdraw. Horses, dogs or men…you do not want to see the white of their eyes.

Don’t be a Ball breaker. The days of breaking a horses spirit to make it do as you please are gone. Who wants a ride like that anyway. Don’t use guilt or coercion or threats. It says more about your inadequacies than it does the other.

DON’T SHOUT! Awful isn’t it? And so unseemly…A little decorum girls. One can make a far stronger point by lowering one’s voice and having a steely determination in one’s tone. Trust me, Dear hearts, at that one I am very good.

Mind Games. Don’t get involved in that shit. It does no one any good and will only end in tears. If you do it, I sincerely hope the tears are all yours.

That’s quite a few Don’ts. Shall we move on to some Do’s.

Do relax. Frankie said it best in the 80’s. And he is still on the money (shot)…Uptight, intense women are really scary. Enough said, I’m frightened just thinking of it..and as someone once said to me…just relax girl. I must confess to that making me a little bit horny, but that was a different dynamic…and it did make me relax.

Play. I have spoken of this before. Boys, no matter their age…are boys. It’s not difficult. It’s actually incredibly simple. Boys love to play. Word games, sex games, wrestling, cowboys and Indians…easy. And too much fun..It’s a win win situation.

Be generous. Listen to them. They may wish to spend 10 minutes explaining a diesel engine and the difference between torque and performance (or something like that..I wasn’t fully listening..) but it’s not going to kill you to appear interested and you may actually learn something.

Acknowledge their effort. They try really hard. They really do. Let’s be honest, we are hard arses. We set these standards, and I’m not suggesting they should be lowered. Noone has higher standards of manners and behavior than Miss Mich, but it is our responsibility to acknowledge when they make an effort. Often, they cannot fathom why it is so important to us that the table napkins be folded in a particular way, or that the toilet seat should always be down. Or that their dirty clothes actually go in a particular place and not where they fell from their beautiful olive skinned bodies. (mind you, to see that olive skinned naked body again, I would be happy to pick up discarded clothing from anywhere, but I digress). It is easier to direct them gently, with beautiful cock in hand, to where the appropriate table linen is kept.

Just love them. It doesn’t get any simpler or easier. This is the real key here Dear hearts. Just love them. That should be enough. That should be all.

I hope this helps. I welcome your feedback and comments.

Enjoy the lesson.

With love
Miss Mich

Letter to the Libertine

Dear heart,

You know I'm a great believer in the Universe. A great believer in the string that binds us and the songs that are sung along the invisible lines and ties that connect us. All of us.

For this reason we will always be connected. We will always be able to hear and feel each others vibration, tone and hum.

Breath will still be shared. It will make its way from lung to lung. Florence will remind us of that and the gentle sound of the exhalation as the breath heralds the coming will always be remembered.

Muscle has memory and and will live to serve that memory. Every stretch, every contraction, every flex will be testament to that which came before. It's important to keep moving. Always keep moving.

It's important to stay flexible. Don't give in to that sofa. Don't let the mind settle. Keep it moving as well. Open the mind, let the world in. Let every possibility have its say. It is your duty to share the world with the little ones as well. Give them alternatives. Make them think. Of other things.

For the gift that is you, I will always be grateful. How much have I been shown. I have seen within myself a kaleidescope of colours and textures and potential. How lucky am I.

I have so much to thank you for, but to do that I would have to open the box of sentimentality and its right at the back of the top shelf of you know which cupboard, so I'm just going to leave it there for now. I'm not good with glass as you know, and I don't think I could deal with another breakage just now.

So anyway...know that my energy will always be seeking out yours. They fit well and they really like each other.

And if you see Boy along the way, Piglet says tell him he's a really good root.

With love.

Is that monkey wearing a hat?

Dear hearts,

Idiocracy. New term. Capital letter. Capital idea.

All kudos for this little darling must go to the Baby.

There we were, swinging our way through the graceful curves to the beautiful Port Douglas and her markets. Laughing, teasing, blonde hair swirling. The songbird playing DJ, Mother of the year critiquing (with love) the comings and the goings of both sweet young things, when the Baby cries out…I can’t take this idiocracy any more! Such a statement silenced the happy trio, before the laughter flew out of us like helium filled conversation balloons and billowed out of the little bubble of a car. I’m surprised we didn’t lift off…

I’m embracing the term. I am determined to make it part of the Australian vernacular. Well, a part of mine, no less. It’s perfect. Forget idiocy. Idiocracy is a whole new territory. A new world if you like. With its own Government, its own parliament. Can you imagine the Upper House, the House of Idiot Lords? The house of Idiot Commons….In my mind I see all as very well dressed monkeys…in military uniform, with little caps on their heads. Something like the organ grinders monkey, something like Cheetah from the original Tarzan. Noble savage, noble idiot, idiot savant. Alright, I digress…

Then the Libertine speaks of mediocrity. Hmmm. Mediocrity frightens me. Always has. I hope it always will. The specter that is mediocrity was the wolf in sheep’s clothing that Miss Mich would reveal with a start(Boo!) when she told those darling Bright Young Things bedtime stories. Forget Twilight, Dear hearts. The vampire in my opinion is the aforementioned mediocrity. The one thing that terrifies me most, that keeps me awake at night is the fear of descending into the clammy arms of the ordinary. Of accepting things as sufficient. Of thinking, this will do…

And then of course there is The Principle of Mediocrity. Or if you want to sound terribly clever, the Copernican Principle. Throw that little darling in the mix when you wish to rise above the ordinaire, the mediocre. It all comes down to the Ms Morgan-King principle that we are not unique…she must have been channeling Copernicus over morning tea at her kitchen table. Spooky…

What is even spookier is the thought, if you take the Mediocrity Principle and run with it, that there are parallel universes throughout the cosmos, that are showing re runs of So you think you can Dance, Biggest Loser, Aussie Idol and that gem of lowest common denominator reality programming - Big Brother. All as we speak, and all in Clingon obvi…

Imagine all of those parallel life forms sitting down in front of enormous Clingon Plasma TV’s. Wondering who will be the next mediocre thing…

We all like to think we are different, but somehow the same. Take the Indonesian motto “Unity in Diversity”. Take the Benneton tag line “The United Colours of Benneton” (I loved that campaign). My new found favourite, however, is this little pearl just picked up on Brainy Quote:

“In essentials, unity; in differences, liberty; in all things, charity”

That my friends is the most meaningful 10 words out of the 556 I have just written. Apologies to have made you read this far to get to it…Congratulations to those who have persevered.

Enjoy the same difference.

With love
Miss Mich

Doona Days

Dear hearts,

Miss Michs’ very good friend, the lovely Jules, has the perfect expression for those days when you need to hide. When you need to curl up into a teeny tiny ball and feel ridiculously sorry for yourself.

Doona Days. It of course qualifies for Capital letter worthy status.

It can be the sunniest of days. It can be the weekend or your birthday. It could be the day you finally get that pony. That doesn’t mean you are exempt. And it doesn’t mean it won’t happen to you.

Miss Mich and the lovely Jules have had our share of these days, speaking to each other from under protection of said doona, pretending the washing isn’t there, dinner doesn’t need to be made, children don’t need to be picked up from school…..woops…

All jokes aside, in Miss Mich’s former life there was the odd day when staying in bed sniffling was just the tonic. (Before the 6pm gin and tonic, obvi..). Miss Mich was new to this major disappointment business and still coming to terms with things never being the same again. The sperm donor was cavorting with the English rose in MM’s Eastern Suburbs back garden so to speak, making things altogether very unpleasant and difficult.

It’s a bit different now. I’m much more experienced with disappointment and have developed skills to deal with it that don’t involve losing the entire day, leaving one’s children at school or howling under the pillow.

There is of course my dear friend Discipline of whom we have spoken. There is exercise. The more one moves, the more one can feel one is moving away from the source of that disappointment. With exercise all you need to do is move your body. Move it enough and you won’t have to think, just concentrate on making muscles do their job. Simple.

That old and dependable chestnut aside, there is something MM has just discovered.

Surrender.

I’m giving it a stand alone par. Miss Mich’s newest and dearest, the beautiful and serene Miss Kerie is a devotee of all things spiritual and good. Even better, she practices what she preaches. It was Miss Kerie who has enlightened Miss Mich to the concept of surrender.

I must say here and now that initially the thought of just giving up to something completely went against the do or die fighter that lives within Miss Mich. How can one say bring it on without one’s fists in the ready position? How does one face the fury without the benefit of spear and warrior pose? I must admit to struggling with the concept. Faith is one thing, but letting the current take you with stones in your pockets is quite another thing. Just ask Virginia Woolf.

Miss Kerie gave me a passage to read. An open letter from her Guru to all. An invitation from him, (a funny looking guy with a kind eye, big afro and a sweeping Kaftan), to take on the burden of our worries. To pick us up and lead us, not in the direction that we may have chosen for ourselves, but ultimately arriving at the right place with the best outcome.

Challenging nest pas?

For days Miss Mich mulled this over and eventually came to the point of acceptance that surrender could be the way to go. Even though Miss Mich can now deal with things without the security blanket (read doona), the legacy of disappointment is the stone one carries around, not in one’s pocket, but in the stomach. This unhappy feeling in one’s belly is a terrible thing indeed, Dear hearts. And one that can render, and I speak for myself, one almost unable to go on. I’m sounding a little melodramatic and if I’m not careful I shall put myself under said doona and stay there until I get my emotional shit together (so to speak)

To avoid all of this, Miss Mich put a scroll under the Buddha’s arm surrendering to the will of the universe, lit some incense, had a robust glass of something fruity and put herself to bed.

How I have reconciled this surrender business, and a little clue for you Dear hearts, is that one can do one’s best to move towards the desired outcome, be as responsible for one’s self as is possible and hope for the best. Not exactly sitting back and not exactly surging forward. A compromise perhaps? A deal with whatever devil it may be? Or a collaboration between your own spirit and the omnipotent spirit that drives the universe.

Enjoy the compromise.

With love
Miss Mich

You are invited to a Play Date...

Dear hearts,

Miss Mich loves to play.

Now.

Whilst she was erstwhile Eastern Suburbs good wife and mother there was no time for play. She was too too busy staying abreast of the expectations of a competitive and avaricious little microcosm. It may have existed within a 3km radius, but let me tell you, the pressure was worldwide. One needed to have not only holidays overseas, but preferably homes in major cities just in case one happened to wish to ski in Aspen, hunt with the hounds in Dublin or have afternoon cocktails by one’s own pool in Bel Air.

It is with relief that the far far north is the new microcosm. Don’t misunderstand me, I am all for travel and hanging out in beautiful homes in beautiful places. Just not all the time, and certainly not with the Sperm donor.

Miss Mich now has the luxury of deciding which deserted beach to lie on and watch the turtles play and feed in the shallows. She has the cottage with all of its humble woven shit (said with love, obvi), handcrafted by folk who really know how to live. Butterflies and Sunbirds who hover over the little flowers just outside MM’s bedroom window whilst the Libertine strokes her back. Given the choice of her former life and this, I know where I would rather be.

But it is play I wish to speak of today. The Libertine loves to play. Perfect.

Psychologists will tell you that we are made up of different selves within the whole. Not in the Sybill sense so much, more that the child within is always within. Miss Mich was under the impression that as soon as one could fly the nest that was the end of said childhood. It appears not. As a result of Miss Mich being her Mother’s mother from the get go, Miss Mich kind of fast tracked the whole concept and put that child of hers in a box on the top shelf of you know which cupboard.

Where she stayed.

Until now. The Libertine loves a game. Miss Mich loves a challenge. Not that she’s competitive, oh no…just that she likes things her own way. And if that means winning, well then….look out. As a result, the cottage and that lovely cloud of a bed, vibrates to sounds of hooting, scuffling and wrestling. All in good fun obvi…

One can never laugh too much. Ever. One can never wrestle too much. Well, until one comes perilously close to popping one’s kneecap. Miss Mich types as we speak with said knee elevated, just to encourage the swelling to disperse. Sex wound aside, title courtesy of the Songbird…”ooh she says, I love a good sex wound…” Miss Mich is thrilled to be able, after so so long, to welcome the child within to come over to the Cottage for a play date with The Libertine. And if she’s lucky, she may stay for a sleepover. Here here I say. That kid makes me laugh. She makes me sneak up and surprise, she makes me feint and then go in for the tickle, she makes me see the world with a sense of pure wonder. All the while holding The Libertine’s hand.

He lets her tuck her head under his arm. He lets her rest her cheek on his chest curls. He puts his arms around her and spreads his hand across her back so that she feels the monsters will never get her. Holds her head and her face in his hands so that she will never be scared again.

Pretty good huh, Dear hearts.

I’m now quite evangelistic about embracing ones inner child and the concept of play itself. Life is so bloody serious. It is so easy to get caught up in the minutia and dross of money, position, appearance and one up manship. Bring on a good race around the garden. Bring on a good belly laugh. Bring on friends who make you feel like the dag you really are. Miss Mellie, Miss Christine. These girls make me laugh. The Libertine makes me laugh.

I want you, Dear hearts, to laugh, to be silly. Miss Mich, on her trip up to the beautiful Thursday Island, became a part of Team Silly. Oh yes, that team will be playing golf at the annual Chamber Golf Day, don’t you worry about that. And there will be laughter. There will be silliness. Of that you can be assured.

Enjoy Monday.

With love
Miss Mich

Who would have thought....?

Dear hearts,

Good news! Piglet has found another just like herself... I know. She is thrilled as well. It seems here was this Boy, just waiting to be found. And there was Piglet, not even really looking and Bam!

You can imagine what ensued...Last I heard, they were still indulging in each other, and to be honest, I don't think they're ever going to stop. How lovely. According to Piglet, Boy is just that. Big and full of Boyishness. An appetite as large and unrelenting as Piglets. An enthusiasm for all things sport to match Piglets. And as playful as a Piglet playing with a Boy. In mud...

There may be a little clashing of teeth and ripping of clothes, but this is the territory of love's true abandon. The beauty of this liaison is the honesty and sheer giving into the power of attraction. The abdication of inhibition, shame and convention.

For two Catholics, there is nothing Catholic about this union. And yet, there is something very religious in the epiphanies that are reached. This all according to Piglet, obvi.

Miss Mich was just talking to her first Love. The Artist. Reconnecting after nearly 30 years, it was as if not a day had passed. Spooky I know. He sounds the same and looks the same. I am thrilled. We were speaking about the need to reconnect with the past at a certain point. Is it to confirm the points of reference that have made us who we are? Is it to feel that bloom of youth once more? Miss Mich and the Artist were 17. MM still intact and the Artist with a little experience and a desire of his own. Tempered by the unfurled flower in Miss Mich's tie-dyed pants, her long blonde hair to her waist and her penchant for poetry and Neil Young, he never quite could wrestle her down to the ground. She hadn't found her Piglet and he was too sweet a Boy.

So unrequited it remains. And I think this may be for the best. The Artist agrees. Why spoil so pure a past, so sweet a memory. Miss Mich must confess, and to the Artist did in fact, that it is this ideal that has sustained her all these 30 years. A very particular corner of MM's heart set aside just for him.

And then The Libertine came along. To Miss Mich he is the realisation of the dream. The personification of the Ideal. Miss Mich has discussed at length, The Libertine with The Artist. And The Artist, with The Libertine. Miss Mich is confident that they will coexist very comfortably. It's true that separate states may assist, but more than that, they are similar souls. That is why there will always be that little corner for the Artist, whilst the lion's share is laid at the feet of that beautiful Libertine.

Who can say who you are going to find, or where Dear hearts? Who can say whether it is right or not? All one can do is trust in the wisdom of one’s heart and belly. And even if it takes 3o years or 30 minutes, you will know and you will have no choice but to capitulate.

Enjoy Surrender.

With love
Miss Mich

I'm Gaga for the Lady

Dear hearts,

There comes a time when one must just do it.

Embrace who we really are. Take Lady Gaga. I love her. It was about time someone took the mantle from Liza Minelli. Let’s face it, she is a little past it, God love her. However, having said that, no one, but no one will ever replace her as Sally Bowles in Cabaret. In Miss Mich’s Top ten. And how good was she with the Rat Pack?

Back to Lady Gaga. Burlesque. On the right side of Euro Trash. Goes where Madonna tried to go, but couldn’t quite get there. Just my opinion of course, but Lady G does it so naturally, so effortlessly. With Madonna, I always have the feeling that she’s trying just that little bit too hard to be outrageous and edgy. You know, one eye on the mirror with the question in her eye, Do I look sexy? Do I? Do I? If you have to ask Dear hearts…

In contrast, Lady Gaga wears the latex as a second skin very comfortably. Carries the teacup as the perfectly natural accessory. Writes on the Birkin with Nikko as if everyone should do it. Noone wears a Hello Kitty bag as merkin better than this New Yorker. Hilarious! And I won’t even start on the whole hermaphrodite controversy. To quote the artist’s words “It’s just a little bit of penis and really doesn’t interfere much with my life. I consider myself female. I’m sexy. I’m hot. I have a poon and a peener. Big deal.”

I couldn’t have put it better myself.

Posing on the cover of UK Q music magazine, the singer articulates the whole fuss perfectly when she says “I want to comment on that in a beautiful, artistic way” She did this by holding a latex gloved hand across her breasts, wearing spiked skin tight pants, with a strap on. Lovely.

She is who she is. And makes no apology. Publicly.

We should all take a leaf out of her individual, artistic look book. And to be honest, it doesn’t matter whether the whole thing is a beat up or not. What she has done is turn the whole gender question into an excuse for more self expression. She looks great, sounds good, so what.

Boy George had a bit of a go in the 80’s, but this chick has taken it so much further. I’m all for it obvi. Just think Dear hearts. If I could wear latex to work, do you think I would sell more pens? I’m not sure the far far north is quite ready for that kind of day wear sadly.

I guess what I’m getting at is the idea of having the conviction to stand up and say, this is me. You may not agree, you may not like me, but too bad. It took me 21 years to put colour into my manicure. For that long I had pale pink fingernails. Perfectly groomed, but invisible. The baby cannot remember ever seeing colour on my nails. I have stepped out from the shadow of pale and am typing as we speak with the chic-est of Chanel dark dark. I feel like a vamp, a vixen and sexier than usual. The Libertine loves it. I love watching my hands as they make the grooves down his back. The deep dark red of my nails matching the red lines of the scratch. Yummy.

And once one takes the first step, well then, who knows what will come next. I suspect the colour on the nails is just the beginning Dear hearts, of more conservative barriers to fall. Changing something as little as the colour of one’s nails has quite the effect. I feel bolder, more confident. Perhaps the compromise is to wear latex underwear? As opposed to outer wear…something to think about. And let’s face it, even thinking about it is liberating, even if one never acts on the thought.

At least the thought is there.

Enjoy Sunday and self expression.

With love
Miss Mich

There's Something Familiar about You...

Dear hearts,

It has been a little while between thoughts, and Miss Mich does apologise. It is not neglect, more the business of sorting things out “offline” if you will. Miss Mich assures you that things are working themselves out and going forward, the rest of the Capital letter worthy thoughts that present themselves in Miss Mich's pea will circulate more freely and find their way onto the screen before you. Before too long.

But today Dear hearts, Miss Mich has been thinking about what constitutes a family. I'm not talking about Mummy, Daddy and the babies. More about the eccentricities and rituals that make our families unique. That give us the memories, the opportunities to tease one another when we reminisce and the glue of shared experience that binds us. That makes us who we are.

The Baby and I were talking just this evening about this very topic. After a lovely hour and a half with Nuri, we floated out to the northern beaches listening to Angus and Julia Stone. Her choice. But how perfect. Exactly what I was thinking myself. All four of us have musical crossovers that make the Cottage vibrate with good vibes no matter who is the incumbent DJ.

Once the Sperm Donor left to concentrate on procreation with the English rose, we four banded together into a groove that was at the same time both comforting and liberating. I do love the idea that music provides for everyone, a timeline of significant events, even if it is just the Summer of 2004. (Christine Agulira and Justin Timberlake)

The sense of smell is the same. Miss Mich must confess to being very sensitive when it comes to smell. We all know, if someone doesn't smell right then.... I'm sorry.

My Darling boy, when seconded to the Scot's College country campus Glengarry for six months and two school terms of Outward Bound, cross country bike riding and dorm living, lamented that the thing he missed the most about living away from home, was the smell of his washing back from the laundry and not smelling like home. Miss Mich had tears in her eyes and a swollen heart at the thought of so significant a point of difference for the boy. This only inspired her more to subvert the the rules of no contraband (chocolate and sweets) to be sent to the boys via mail. Miss Mich went above and beyond and became the hero mother, by smuggling Furry Friends in CD covers, red licorice strips in packs of undies and blocks of Dairy Milk in her day pack for the Mother/ Son weekend trek. Nothing was too much trouble.

Family and Familiarity. Yes. Capital letters. There is nothing like feeling at home.

The girls and I wear blonde hairbands on our right wrists. We have for years. Long blonde hair swirls about the Cottage, has swirled about the Eastern suburbs for years. All the boys we have ever known are constantly extracting it from their clothes, their cars and their bodies.

Cuddles. The Songbird still hops on Miss Mich’s lap for a proper cuddle and often on a Sunday there would be many in the bed all snuggled up. My Darling boy will never be too tall or too manly for kisses or the greeting “Hello darling, it’s Mummy” on the end of the line. The Baby dissolves into giggles when we play the kisses that tickle on the neck game,ending up with us both screeching as she pretends she has had enough.

The Libertine is becoming more familiar with the ways of the Cottage. He loves my beautiful cloud of a bed and it loves him. His penchant for tomatoes and feta is impressive and the garden is responding well to his hand. His gentle energy is just what we like and his beautiful olive skin blends well with our aesthetics of beauty.

It’s time for a cup of tea Dear hearts. Twinings Orange Pekoe is the only way to go. I travel with it and promise you, I couldn’t live without it. None of us could. Sharing tea and conversation is just one of the familiar ways we share our love.

Enjoy tea and Sunday.

Love Miss Mich

Vroom Vroom

Dear hearts,

Miss Christine is quite the Minx. We all know that. This is part of her charm, and part of the reason she is Miss Mich's Muse.

We both have stories to tell. Not many of them polite, admittedly, but all of them scandalous, assuredly. If Miss Mich has her charms, then Miss C has hers too. And we both just love comparing notes.

So this, Dear hearts, hot off the press and with the gracious sanction of the lady herself.

Miss Mich and Miss Christine decided early on in the new year, that 2010 being the Year of the Tiger meant it was Bravery all round. Note the Capital letter.

Which can mean trying new things. Miss Mich as you know, is an all or nothing girl. I’m either in. Or out. Miss Christine, it must be said, is somewhat similar.

So in she dived. The online search for love is so very popular. What could, arguably, be safer than browsing for potential online..

With the Macedonian distracted and the Arab in Bali, Miss Christine found herself a little something to amuse herself. A distinguished David Niven look alike if you will. Similar charm, similar look and a bright red Ferrari in the garage.

Vroom Vroom.

And so terribly keen. A whirlwind week of dinners in the East, drinks in town and repeated requests for G/friend status kept Miss Christine’s interest piqued and her calendar full. Just what she needed. Between you and I, Dear hearts, she did have her own reservations and decided to put said Niven to the test. Promises of a country cabin and a long and leisurely lunch provided the ideal opportunity to see what he was made of. So with the wind in her hair and her skirt over her head, off they raced to the South Coast. Sadly, the whole affair began to go south from there as well.

3 dozen oysters could not shore up a flagging flag pole and the country cabin turned out to be just that. Visions of a Glen Murcutt overlooking the wild and woolly south coast vanished, along with said stamina. How sad. Miss Christine began to miss the Macedonian. Niven may have a Ferrari in the garage, but the Macedonian has one in his pants. (I know what I would rather).

It all began to fall into place. Niven thought he was a player. He didn’t realize just who he was playing with. Thinking his miss spelt text messages were as a result of haste and desire, she was disappointed to realize that not only could he not spell, he could not speak and had the vocabulary of a 12 yr old. Perhaps he thought she wouldn’t notice over the sound of that throbbing engine…

She did her best, and even though he thought he gave her the ride of her life, I do believe Miss Christine would have shown him a thing or two that would have had nothing to do with torque and everything to do with seeing where the top gear really is. (I do love a motoring theme)

Miss Christine’s beautiful athletic son, he of Sydney Uni Rugby, lamented that the Ferrari was not parked in the garage. Miss Christine had to inform said Rugby Adonis, that “ Your mother was too much for him Darling” and that was that.

To her credit, Miss Christine has moved on. She may not be travelling 0 – 100 in mere seconds, but she has her skirt back down around her knees ( until the Macedonian is free and the Arab is back from Bali) and her little foray into the world of online love has given her a spin in something red and throbbing, the satisfaction of knowing she can match oyster for oyster as long as you like and a new and amusing story to tell the girls.

As for the David Niven…you may see him driving slowly around town. He is the distinguished looking fellow in the red Ferrari wearing the red Ferrari cap, the red Ferrari Polo top and the red Ferrari jacket. Oh and he has a red Ferrari key ring, just in case you missed the other stuff.

Enjoy Saturday.

With a little racy love

Miss Mich

Could I have a word?

Dear hearts,

Miss Mich is always thinking. You know that. All the mysteries of the world swirling around MM's little pea.

This somewhat cool afternoon here in the far far north has turned Miss Mich inward to her thoughts. What is the thing, the indefinable something that draws us to another. The Libertine has been searching for a new word to describe the attraction, the essence if you will of what it is that makes one want another.

Biologists would argue pheromones to explain the physical. Miss Mich is herself extremely sensitive to personal odour and scent. It doesn't matter how clean one may be, the underlying scent of ourselves is all pervasive and if it clashes....there is nothing you can do. Miss Mich has been forced, regrettably, to end certain liaisons based on scent alone. In contrast, Miss Mich can attest to the scent of The Libertine driving Miss Mich wild, and, once mixed with her own scent, it's a little like the denouement of Patrick Suskind's Perfume. Feather and fur flying, and at the end, not much left of us both. Ah, but such sweet capitulation.

An innate Knowingness. I'm giving it a capital letter. This is your belly speaking. Think of your intuition as the Captain. And the Captain knows where you are going and how you are getting there. Let the Captain navigate. I have said this many times and cannot reiterate enough. As much as your nose knows, so too does your belly.

One does wonder at preferred body types. The Bright young things and I have discussed this. The Songbird prefers the tall, lean, dark and brooding musician. The Baby is attracted to the well muscled, masculine, good smelling and slightly metro sexual boy, and as for myself, a little of both. We here at the cottage, unanimously, are lovers of the olive skin.

Golden brown Dear hearts. Golden brown, texture like sun...lays me down...

So what else? Our largest sex organ. Our brain. Meeting of the minds, Dear hearts. If we cannot engage the brain, the body will not follow. Speaking for myself, I need a good looking brain with a more than healthy libido. Nothing less will do. Miss Mich must confess to a certain inclination towards a good bedtime story. And The Libertine tells the best. Enough said.

I have just spent 388 words attempting to find the 1 word that best describes the best feeling one can have for another. Love seems to fall short. It is overused and undervalued. I love tomatoes...do you see what I mean. Although having said that, I really, really do love tomatoes. But they aren't my reason d'etre. The Libertine did propose Adore. There is the French J'Adore. I quite like it. But is it possible I'm just beguiled by the exotic flavour of another language?

There is Miss Mich's last attempt. The intelligence of the heart. Miss Mich in fact wears a ring with the inscription that one should trust in the intelligence of the heart to distinguish between good and bad. Miss Mich's legal eagle scoffed at Miss Mich, attempting to correct her by saying that the expression is in fact a paradox. I beg to differ. The heart has its own intelligence, there is no doubt. And whilst the basis for this intelligence is very much rooted in the emotional, the heart is not always the fool. The heart has a depth the mind will never have. For does not compassion stem from the heart and temper the judgement of the mind? Does the heart not have the ear of the mind, a whisper of advice before the final thought is processed? All the great thinkers and philosophers have needed and relied on the intelligence of the heart to transcend and arrive at their individual conclusions. The heart has the common good at it's heart, and that is the difference.

Dear hearts, I have not succeeded in finding that one word. That one word to describe the swirliness in your belly, the warmth that radiates out from your middle Chakra. The word that covers a blush, a skip, a faster beat of the physical heart. The smile that blossoms without you realising it is there. The pull, the yearning, the demand and the need.

I don't think there is one, because it is too much for our little language to bear.

Perhaps it is a colour, Dear hearts. Perhaps it is light. Whatever it is, I do hope you get to feel it, to experience it, because it is all I have written and so much more.

Enjoy Sunday and the search.

With love
Miss Mich

Now where did I put that...

Dear hearts,

I know I bang on about the Universe and its infinite wisdom, but I promise you, it proves itself time and time again.

Just this morning I was awake at the somewhat early hour of 3 in the am, contemplating as one does. By 6 it was clear the night was over and there was tea to be made.

By 10 Miss Mich must confess to flagging a little. At that precise moment, Ms Morgan King sent a message. She of the generous, tea laden kitchen table in beautiful Bellevue Hill. She of Miss Mich’s favourite and oft quoted pearls: “take yourself out of the centre of the universe” and the cracker: “ you are not unique”. Darling Jules is one of MM’s nearest and dearest, and even though there may not be constant contact, what I love love love is that feeling of not having missed a beat when we do speak.

Which brings me to the Universe’s impeccable sense of timing. It seems Ms Morgan King had been beetling away in those same wee early hours, sending yours truly a heartfelt e at the very same time as MM’s quiet contemplation. About the very same subject on Miss Mich’s mind.

Loss. Letting go. Bereavement and grief. It seems these ghosts make themselves known in the shadow hours, the hours where they can’t help but be seen and more intensely felt. Where there is no escape from the bittersweet, the memory, the “what could have been”.

We shared and caught up and felt the pain of the other in the most empathetic way. The question at the end of this mutual therapy session was of course, how does one go on?

Discipline Dear hearts. Discipline.

If I could give it two Capital letters, I would. No doubt. Maybe I should accord it all caps. But then I would be shouting. And I don’t like to shout.

At its best, discipline is the quiet achiever. It is the long distance swimmer. The marathon runner. The stoic, erstwhile tenacious worker bee in the background. Discipline doesn’t go for guts and glory. Discipline just goes the distance. It is one characteristic Miss Mich values and admires most highly.

As we all know, with discipline you get results. Discipline is of course, closely aligned with consistency. They kind of tag team. And once one gets into a rhythm of both, the outcome is almost guaranteed.

It’s a bit like hitting tennis balls. Hit enough, say 3000, and according to Miss Mich’s tennis coach, you will achieve stroke correction. After say, another 3000 balls, you might just get into a more natural rhythm of your new stroke and after the third 3000, you will have erased the muscle memory of the original, flawed stroke altogether.

The heart works a little bit the same way.

If one doesn’t have the determination or resolve for hitting 9000 balls, there is always the cheats way out. The top shelf of the emotional linen press. We have spoken of this before when I misplaced my sentimentality. There is always room to pop another box up there, right at the back. Make sure the lid is sealed nice and tight, slide that little sucker in and close the door. Firmly.

After that little chore is done and dusted you are free to get on.

So it seems that Darling Jules is right again. We are not unique. She and I are just the same. After indulging ourselves emotionally for just a little while, we dusted ourselves off and took ourselves out of the centre of the universe. I encourage you Dear hearts, to do the same. Each and every unique one of you.

Enjoy Friday.

With love
Miss Mich

True North

Dear hearts,

It's Friday!

Miss Mich has a new player for you. The lovely Triple J, not to be confused with our favourite music station, obvi. Triple J has christened all Friday’s going forward as Fuck Off Friday. Miss Mich completely agrees. It seems in the pen world, things just go off towards the end of the week. Nothing a glass of something fruity after 5 can't diffuse. It's just a matter of surviving the hours leading up…

Miss Christine has been on the phone chasing Miss Mich up for more little pearls of wisdom. It seems she is in a very serene and calm place, happy with the current arrangements in place with the Macedonian and the Arab and generally taking things as they come. We should all be so lucky. I have decided Miss Christine is my Muse. She in turn, very generously refers to yours truly as the Oracle, so all in all, the perfectly complementary friendship.

The last few weeks have been a flurry of activity. Two weekends in Melbourne to visit the Songbird, living like a Uni student in her Bruswick digs. Trams, trains and more people than Miss Mich has seen in some time. Seconded in the far far north, Miss Mich has become accustomed to the laisses faire attitude towards time. Or TI time if you will…The Torres Strait operates on a much more elastic and flexible wavelength in regards to time. And if truth be told, Miss Mich rather likes this languid approach. This combined with the perpective that we are just selling pens, not curing cancer, ensures one keeps one’s stress levels down for the most part. Except for those aforementioned Fuck Off Fridays… obvi.

Back to the Muse. Miss Christine and I have been discussing her new state of serenity. Has acceptance of the way things are, rather than wishing for what could be or should be, led our dear Muse to this present state of calm in which she finds herself? Miss Mich has proposed that once one releases the desire to have things exactly as one wants, releases the idea of control, it seems that the Universe, in its infinite and inverse wisdom, gives us that which we may have wished for in the very first place.

I hate to be a retro-hippy-philosopher, but this situation brings to mind that classic 70’s pearl: “Set something free. If it comes back, it is yours. If it doesn’t, it never really was.” A little bit like “Love means never having to say you’re sorry”. I don’t want to lose you Dear hearts, so I promise not to go on.

I must agree with Mark Epstein. We need to release ourselves from clinging to the ideals of how we would like things to be. We don’t really have that much control. The tighter we hold on, the less grip we have. Paradox nest pas? But if you think about it, it makes sense. We need to embrace the Zen approach. And as Epstein says, the essence of Zen is paradox. The less we obsess over something, the more insight we will have. Miss Mich must confess to feeling a little giddy when she concentrates too much on the matters of Zen wisdom. It’s a bit like meditation. If you are thinking consciously, Oh good, I am meditating, then clearly you are not. One just has to do it.

I prefer to think of it as navigating by instinct and intuition. Set your life’s GPS on auto. Enter in your nav points and set sail. Let your belly adjust your course and trust that it will negotiate the best possible route with the least possible upset. It is difficult to do Dear hearts, through her own experience, Miss Mich can attest, but the more we release, the easier it becomes.

Just ask our resident Muse…in her own lovely words…”it is beautiful and I am loving it”

Enjoy release and the weekend.


With love
Miss Mich

Namaste

Dear hearts,

Miss Mich sits here typing away with the most beautiful posture. Courtesy of the lovely Nuri, Miss Mich's serene and elegant yoga Guru. Nuri looks like a ballet dancer with limbs that extend and flow beyond that of mere mortals such as myself. The sweet little studio welcomes all with calm breaths of clove and musk and the soft whisper of candle light.

Yoga is one path to enlightenment. Miss Mich likes to balance this with her other most favourite path, that of the Tantra. For the hour and a half of the class Miss Mich enjoys the luxury of lengthening her muscles, breathing into the yoga poses and reflecting on all of the other lovely poses shared with The Libertine.

Yoga should be on everyone's Top Ten. Promise me Dear hearts, you will try a class at least once. Even Miss Mich's legal eagle has attempted. Perhaps he should take it to his colourful clients. There may end up peace on the streets and a feeling of well being and brotherhood between the “tribes”. This maybe a little naive, but such is the optimism that a good session imparts.

The class moves through its paces like a Sadhu on a pilgrimage. Concentrated, focused and meditative. The Warrior pose is most definitely one of Miss Mich's favourites. Leaning into the lunge, back straight, strong belly and legs, the only thing missing for MM is a spear. She will remember and use this pose going forward into the curly times ahead.

Miss Mich loves the contrast of stretching the muscle and then contracting the muscle. That lovely balance of Yin and Yang. The pose of the child gives rest to the muscles and allows one to curl up into oneself and retreat, if just for a moment.

The more classes Miss Mich has, the more she wants. This sounds like Piglet, I know, but in Yoga’s case, all is forgiven. Whilst perfecting the discipline of holding each pose, breathing into the stretch and having the time to think and reflect whilst one engages in this, a feeling of both accomplishment and serenity flow through me. It is as seductive as the thought of private time with The Libertine and is almost as rewarding.

Historically, Yoga is more aligned with Hinduism and the Bhagvad Gita, and if you follow the path through the chapters of the Bhagavad-Gita you will understand that Yoga is the science of the individual consciousness attaining communion with the Ultimate Consciousness. There are three paths Dear hearts, that of perfect actions, perfect devotion and perfect knowledge. Perfect!

Miss Mich loves the feeling of grounding herself and her sitting bones, of aligning her Chakra’s and quieting her centre. If this all sounds a bit new age, I suppose it is. But the bottom line is, Dear hearts, it works.

Miss Christine made the point recently that she needed to centre her sphincter and after much giggling about the possible ways to achieve this, Miss Mich suggested Adho Mukha Svansana or Downdward-facing Dog pose. That way any passing devotees or Dobermans could stop, have a sniff and help centre that lowest of the Chakra’s - the Root Chakra. Rather fitting really.

All jokes aside, Miss Mich can’t imagine not having at least two or three downward facing dogs in her classes, needs the Warrior pose to strengthen her resolve and looks inward for respite with the pose of the Child. The hour and a half flys by. Miss Mich slows her mind, deepens her breath and closes her eyes, letting her body take charge, her muscles speak for her.

With the generous spirit of Nuri having guided her through, Miss Mich floats out into the weekend stretched, relaxed and just that little bit more flexible, something both the Libertine and MM herself will use to gain enlightenment in the temple that is the Cottage Boudoir.

Enjoy the Prana of the Mid-week.

With love
Miss Mich

Pretty as a Picture

Dear hearts,

Ms LA has a wicked sense of humour. One of the reasons I love her so. Quite apart from her considerable skills as Aide de Camp to both the Big Kahuna and Churchill of the pen world and yours truly. She can whip up quotes, contracts and specifications quicker than press send...

What has Miss Mich giggling about here and now, is the challenge Ms LA has set me. A dissertation on the use, appropriateness and effectiveness of that controversial little word that is Cunt. The last time I can remember a public comment on the little darling is a particular episode of Sex and The City. The girls went to an art exhibition and if I remember correctly, there was Charlotte's in all it's oily, acrylic glory. The word was spoken freely in this ep with Samantha quite chuffed at the detail and prominence given to Charlotte's, well, ...cunt.

I must take the stand right here and now and say unequivocally that I love the word. It sits in my Top Ten, without doubt. Top Five...

Because, Dear hearts, think about what the word represents. For me, my own personal favourite body part. And possibly The Libertine's now that I think of it. I can speak for him confidently when I share with you that he himself uses the word with such love and sincerity it makes me go weak at the, ...well, I think you know where I'm going...Having said that, he can use the versatile little noun and make Miss Mich, in turn, a little wild and crazy...perhaps that is when he pronounces it with a capital K instead of a capital C....Hmmm. I like it. I like it a lot.

It is such a pretty thing. Did you know Dear hearts, there are inny's and outy's just like belly buttons! I know, cracks me up....Just so you know, Miss Mich has an inny. Very pretty according to The Libertine, and I do know that the mirror, in this case, does not lie. As for the camera...

Of course, it doesn't matter what one has. How lucky are we girls to have what the boys all want. As Miss Mich's legal eagle says “With one of those, you can have as many of these (read cock for the slow..)as you like” Having said that, the point must be made for the young Dear hearts reading, to strive for quality over quantity. But that is another tete et tete to come...

What really gets up my....nose...is the use of the word in a derogatory sense. I will not have it. For some of the male gender, it is the deepest insult they will trade. The strongest descriptor intended for vilification of their most lowly opponent. Poor competitors these, Dear hearts. Misogynists and clearly poorly educated. Shall we just refer to them as cockheads ever more?...No. Because cock is another of my Top Ten favourite words. And rightly so.

Here in The Cottage, the charming word that is Cunt will only ever be used with the utmost love and respect, and lets face it, Dear hearts, it's a far better word than vagina...

I think Miss Mich has said all she needs to on the matter. My case is clear. We are talking about such a pretty word that represents such a pretty thing. If you say the word Dear hearts, say it with love and like you mean it. Be confident that there is no finer compliment to bestow than “My, what a pretty cunt you have”

Enjoy the word of the Day.

With love
Miss Mich

The Windmills of MM's Mind....

Dear hearts,

Standing firm. Strength and Resolution. These are the topics floating around Miss Mich’s pea this lovely tropical afternoon.

Integrity. Just flew in. Purpose and Commitment. Checked their coats at the door. It’s getting very full in here. I may need to open the doors onto the terrace of Miss Mich’s mind..

Miss Mich has been dealing with a few curly issues as a working class woman. A certain chicken and the question of those very aforementioned attributes, presently making themselves cocktails at the bar in Miss Mich’s mind.

If one takes the spirit of the Buddha, everything should be very simple. And honest. Used as a starting point, along with love, one would assume, you couldn’t go wrong. I guess it depends at what rung one finds themselves positioned on the spiritual evolutionary ladder.

Miss Mich is taking her usual circuitous and meandering path to her point, which Dear hearts, I’m sure, you are becoming accustomed to. It’s all about the journey don’t forget. Enjoy the analogy, the metaphor, the cocktails, the alliteration and the artistic license when MM takes things that little too far…Be generous in your reading and kind in your critique. My heart is in the right place. And always remember, Dear hearts, Miss Mich has your best interests at her heart.

Enough of the justification for the readers validation..(good alliteration nest pas?)

What I’m really getting at, is Disappointment. I hate to give it a Capital letter, but it has made its way past the bouncer, the door bitch and through the door of Miss Mich’s mind. With fake ID, the promise of the cheque being in the mail and the promise not to come in your mouth, Disappointment has made its face known. Like that of a shonky used car salesman, con man and unscrupulous cad that it truly is.

Disappointment’s nemesis is arguably Honesty and Integrity. And probably a whole bunch of other good capital letter worthy concepts. I won’t go on, just use the two already mentioned as a snapshot to illustrate my point. A good friend of Miss Mich’s from her former life shared her philosophy in respect to how we treat each other. She says, and so does her very Irish mother, she would rather a thief than a liar. Miss Mich concurs. Absolutement. With a thief, all you have to do, is put a lock on the cocktail cabinet and hide away all temptation. A liar has too many faces and too many changing stories to know what to lock up and what to hide away.

It has been MMs unfortunate experience to live with the latter. Twice, no doubt. Miss Mich is self effacing enough to draw her attention, and yours Dear hearts, to the classic country ballad concept of (and I quote) “First time shame on you. Second time, shame on me”. And I’m not just talking about retro 80’s shoulder pads. Yes, they are back as we speak…

So the upshot is, the chicken disappointed the hen. What can you do? Certainly not lower your standards. And certainly not lose heart. It will never come to pass that Miss Mich loses her sense of optimism. There are too many examples, every day, if you look for them, to hearten one.

There is opportunity in every change of circumstance. For growth Dear hearts. Let’s hope that the chicken moves on to find whatever that may be. For Miss Mich, she is confident that this is the universe about to offer Miss Mich the next interesting challenge.

Enjoy Saturday.

With true love
Miss Mich

Gen Why?

Dear hearts,

It often seems that after discussion with The Libertine, Miss Mich is compelled to share some little morsels with you. Suffice to say, he makes her think. Among other things..

We were discussing family. Tricky business that's for sure. We all know Miss Mich is well across the comings and goings of the Bright Young Things. There is a closeness and understanding that extends beyond that of mother and child. For this Miss Mich is extremely grateful.

Moving up the generational ladder, things are not so easy. There has been an estrangement between Miss Mich and her mother for shall we say, 16 years. Yes. Quite the period of silence. This being the Year of the Tiger, Miss Mich decided to take that tiger by the tail and phoned her mother to wish her a happy birthday. Apart from the fact that Miss Mich's mother sounds spookily like Katherine Hepburn, the call although formal, went as well as could be expected.

It made Miss Mich acutely conscious of the vast difference between the two relationships. And the difference between parenting styles. In such a short time, one generation, the dynamics of parent/child interaction have changed so dramatically.

Growing up in the lovley harbourside suburb that is Mosman, Miss Mich visited both sets of grandparents almost every weekend. Miss Mich's father rowed at Mosman, her mother took MM to kindy in North Sydney and Balmoral Beach provided the entertainment for Miss Mich and her cousins, uncles and aunts. All of this in a three kilometer radius. Then Miss Mich grew up and flew the nest. The world became Miss Mich's entertainment and the beaches of choice extended from Thailand to the Med.

Culturally, this could not compare to the experience of Miss Mich's parents or her Grandparents.

The Bright Young Things on the other hand have all traveled extensively and rate along with Miss Mich the beaches in Monte Carlo (such as they are), the beaches in Tunisia and the summers spent in both the northern and southern hemispheres. Miss Mich has no doubt that her chicks will fly the nest and embrace their right to live anywhere in this global village. As well they should. And it certainly will not be onerous to stay in touch. Technology will see to that. Already Miss Mich and the Songbird speak via Skype. Facebook dishes the dirt on the baby and my darling boy sends his phonetically spelt text messages that sometimes take quite the time to decipher.

My point here, Dear hearts, is that we, in this generation, have the opportunity to stay relevant to our children. To stay connected in a way that will ensure we are a meaningful part of their lives.

After 16 years silence, and only four minutes of conversation on the phone, Miss Mich had run out of things to say to her mother. The distance had become too great. The gulf of respective experience seemed like two people speaking two languages to each other, that the other sadly could not understand. The silence was awkward, prompting Miss Mich's mother to say “I really don't know what to say”. And that kind of said it all.

The Bright Young Things on the other hand chatter away and say whatever it may be that comes into their sweet heads. We laugh, we tease, we challenge and we talk. About everything. It is an egalitarian rabble at the dinner table or wherever we may be. Yet, the silences that are also shared are never awkward, just comforting. And that kind of says it all as well.

Enjoy Sunday and conversation.

With love
Miss Mich

One Man's Folly is Another Man's Vision

Dear hearts,

I have always wanted to live in a chateau. Doesn’t everyone? All of those beautiful windows, those beautiful garden mazes. Miss Mich has fond memories of chasing the children (elegantly obvi..) around the gardens of Fountainbleu in the summer. This is not to say Miss Mich has slummed it in terms of accommodation. Certainly not. (Apart from Pandora’s Box upon which we will not dwell) In her former life there were several grand country homes, one in fact, with its own sunken rose maze complete with enormous ornate urns at either end so that one always had one’s bearings. There was the house on the top of beautiful Bellevue Hill overlooking Miss Mich’s eastern suburbs world – Bondi, Rose Bay to Watson’s Bay and finally across the harbour to the pier at Manly. The town house in Chelsea and the stunning mansion flat at 66 Eaton Place SW1. Is it churlish of me to hanker for more?

One should always be aspirational. I think it’s good for you. Please understand the difference between aspirational and consumerist. You may think wishing for a chateau somewhat consumerist or avaricious, but let’s be practical here, and honest, where am I going to actually find a chateau in the far far north? …Hmmm?

So we shall call this what it is. A folly. And I do love a good folly. I actually love the word itself. From the French folie – foolishness. I love what the English did with it architecturally in the 18th century, when landscape design was dominated by the tenets of Romanticism. English Lords had the big name architects of the day beetling around the back paddock designing whatever took their fancy; classical ruins, a medieval tower, bridge over the river Kwai…the big pineapple…

Miss Mich is realistic when it comes to what is truly achievable. And taking into consideration the aspect of The Cottage, the fact that it is home to not only herself and the Baby, but those lovely wobbalies, and the dear sweet couple of Bush fowl, various reptiles and bright young things who tear down the drive in their P plated utes and hatch backs, it seems to me scale is the thing to be considered here. It is with this in mind that Miss Mich has decided to create the Chateau of her dreams, to construct, with the able bodied help of The Libertine, the perfect doll house sized folly. To sit on the lawn and entertain the Ulysses butterflies. Miss Mich will make teeny tiny cutouts of herself and the lovely Libertine and live herself vicariously as Josephine to L’s Napoleon. A little Versailles in the heart of the Northern beaches. How much fun will that be?

As it is the baby laughs when she sees what constitutes the decoration of The Cottage now. Not the French antiques of our former life, the fine English porcelain and the Persian rugs. No, Dear hearts, now we have what she affectionately refers to as Miss Mich’s “woven shit”. The cane furniture, the baskets from New Guinea and the art of the Torres Strait. The shells collected like treasure and displayed with the reverence as jewels of the sea, which they are.

As she totters out for a night in town, she looks over her shoulder to say “Bon Nuit…and what is this gypsy incense wafting all over me?”

I remind her of her Mother’s folly. To create as serene a space as is possible. To bring the world and all the experiences to date, here, in this cottage that we call home. Miss Mich must confess to a hankering not only for a pint sized Chateau, but also the need to nest. To create a space that will welcome the future and the addition…

of more woven shit…

Enjoy nesting and Saturday.

With love
Miss Mich

Bodhisattva All

Dear hearts,

We can never really know what is going to be our future, our fate or our lot in life. I am still constantly amazed by the experiences I have, the people I meet and the net affect all of this has in shaping us, or me, as the case may be. Our evolution, our personal development and ultimately our success or otherwise, is all dependant on how we interpret this collective experience.

What am I really talking about I hear you ask...

I suppose it is the stopping for a moment, the pausing where one looks at where one is and where one has come from. I promise you Dear hearts, sometimes this just sneaks up on me and I find myself staring in the mirror saying to myself…well; how did that happen?

Here is Miss Mich, a working class woman, sharing the pen love, with two birds out of the nest and the other as successful a WCW as her mother. The Baby herself soon to fly, choices littered at her feet. Who would have thought in Miss Mich’s former life that any of this would ever have been possible. And this is not even taking into account the Charms, Miss Mich’s considerable bag of tricks and the fact that she may have fallen in love.

Spooky…

Back to the reflection..The Libertine has acquired an interest in Buddhism and sends Miss Mich words of wisdom from the man himself. Miss Mich herself has spent some time pondering the ways of the Buddha. A year in SE Asia, India and Nepal. Many chillums, temples and epiphanies let me tell you. A Buddhist ceremony to complement the official business of marrying the Sperm Donor was in no way a small affair. The birth times and dates of both parties scrutinized by the Monks in the know at the Golden Temple in Bangkok to determine the most auspicious date of ceremony and number of monks required to officiate the whole she bang. Seven monks later, a holy couple, one of whom was visited by the spirits when sharing a moment with yours truly. Speaking in tongues Dear hearts, holding Miss Mich in a certain way as to render MM immovable and keep her “safe” was quite the privilege (according to those in the know) and disconcerting at the same time. Sadly all of this was not enough to save the children’s’ father from himself and Miss Mich the same fate.

Having been through all this, Miss Mich maintains a fondness and affinity with the ways of The Buddha.

What Miss Mich loves about the whole concept is that of Self-Redemption. We all have the opportunity and ability to change our lives. Ourselves.

We have the choice to grow. Or not.

To love. Or not.

To share. Or Not.

To learn. Or not.

You get my drift. I think I might be a Zen Buddist. I like the idea of spontaneous enlightenment. Independent of concepts, rituals or techniques. I like the idea of finding your own way, your own path. Who knows what or whom, you may find along the way. That’s how Miss Mich found the Libertine. Just like that. Surprise! Or not. Perhaps it was meant to be. Perhaps the string that connects all things was just pulling both this way and that, drawing the energy to the point of meeting.

Enjoy Sunday and choice.

With love
Miss Mich