Get Your Motor Running

Imagine Dear hearts,

Imagine if you could say you are truly satisfied…that everything was in place and the planets aligned…there’s not many of us that can say that, are there?

I don’t think we are trying hard enough. No, I don’t.

The Libertine and I went for two walks yesterday. The first along the most beautiful stretch of beach here in the far far north. I can’t tell you where it is because it’s a secret. Our little secret. The second walk was later under the most perfect crescent moon. We could have been in Morocco, we could have been in India. Turns out we were in Paradise. Which makes me think of that classic 70’s chestnut and in my top ten …”I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me…” I want to wear Halston and hang out at Studio 54. I want to wear “Le Smoking” and speak French with Serge Gainsbourg. All on the beach here in paradise. All with the Libertine.

I am digressing, it’s true, but there is a point to my meanderings.

It doesn’t take much to feel good. Really good and satisfied. The Libertine satisfies me. Also makes me hungry for more, but that is a hunger that will never be satisfied. And I’m ok with that.

But I don’t understand what it is that holds most people back. Or maybe I do. Most of us make everything so bloody complicated. We have too much. Too much choice, too much opportunity to dwell on what we think we are missing out on. Too much aspiration. Too much exposure to too much of little value.

Just too much.

And then there’s not enough. Not enough money. Not enough time. Not enough Super. Not enough wine…(maybe I’m channelling Serge…)

I am going off and I don’t care. We are all too avaricious. Myself included. Case in point. Here I am with 20 handbags strewn about the Cottage, and I’m contemplating the next handbag purchase. Am I nuts?

I have a sunglass wardrobe. Did you hear what I said??... I am nuts.

Back to the classic…”I’ve been to Paradise…” Maybe it’s because we are too busy being told what we should be doing, eating, wearing, driving, reading, and thinking that we don’t have the opportunity to strip away all of the extraneous, clear our head space, lie back and day dream and let it come to us. Let the joy of a crescent moon wash over us. Let the thrill of cold water run over our feet. Feel the thrill of skin against skin when fingertips touch.

Are we too busy taking the photograph to see the view? Are we too intent on the next big thing that we miss the achievement of what is here and now. Are we simply marking time until the next Iphone is released and the next gen Ipad is available.

I am so sick of stuff. And people who covet it.

But I do have a hankering for the 70’s. I had a dragster bike in the 70’s. My little brother and I both had one. We would ride our bikes together in the street behind our house. I would leave my mother a note with a great flourish to say we have “gone riding…”out on the open road (albeit a sleepy little street) wind in our hair and the feeling of freedom. We thought we were daredevils. And we were 12 and 7 years old. We didn’t wear helmets and I had hot pants and a halter neck top. My little brother had a Batman cape and an attitude to match. We were Kings of the Road.

I am not going to let myself contemplate that 21st handbag. No I am not. In fact, I am going to donate handbags. And more than one Dear hearts. I am going to practise a little giving instead of acquiring. A little less rather than more.

What I am going to acquire is more crescent moons. More walks. More stars and more hunger for good loving. And maybe a new pair of hotpants and halter neck top….

Enjoy giving.

With love
Miss Mich

The Perfect Storm?

The Perfect Storm?

Dear hearts,

Was it the Perfect storm? I think perhaps it was. Because it missed hitting us head on. It was a little to the south, just enough to save us from the eye. The little sugar town of Tully (Pop approx 2500) took the force of that cyclonic stare and as a result every second home is no more. So as much as I breathe a sigh of relief for the Northern beaches of Cairns I say a little prayer and shed a little tear for the good folk of Tully.

It was my first cyclone and a Category 5 to boot. I would like to take you through the experience. The text messages from the State Disaster Coordination Centre started the morning of the whole affair. If that was not disconcerting enough, Anna Bligh was warning of our impending experience as “ a catastrophic weather event”

As the day progressed the hyperbole and warnings increased, but the weather remained calm. Which was confusing as our constant scanning of the BOM weather website showed an ever increasing angry swirl malevolently covering the coast of our fair state with its black and red heart. We were all getting a little bored to be honest and at 4pm began to wonder if the whole thing was going to be a no show. The text messages continued urging us to evacuate low lying areas and the urgent pleas of the Premier that the “window of opportunity to relocate was fast closing” made all feel uneasy and slightly put out that perhaps we were missing something.

Be careful what you wish for Dear hearts.

By nightfall the wind began to pick up and the intensity of the warnings were delivered at fever pitch. The Baby and I were lucky to be with seasoned Queenslanders. Salt of the earth die hards who were not too perturbed by the whole thing. It was decided we would all bunker down in the living room and just see what Yasi had to throw at us. We cooked dinner. We watched a movie. The wind increased and we continued to ignore it. The boys had their beers and the girls had their wine. Even the Spaniels lounged around.

Then the power went out.

You could hear the wind whipping those palm fronds into quite the frenzy. I took the super duper LED torch for a look outside and found those palms bent over trying to hide under a bush. The rain was chasing us from all angles and the noise was like nothing I had heard before. Intense is the only word I can think of.

We decided to stay in after that. We spent the night listening to ABC local. Weather updates on the hour and reminders on the half hour. In between the calls in from listeners all over the region describing their experiences. From Mossman to Cardwell and Atherton to Cairns City the story was similar but different. I lie on the sofa with my torch in one hand, my phone in the other. The Baby on the floor next to me. The puupies finding possies in between. The Boys snoring their beers.

I was alert and alarmed. But calm.

The camaraderie that came from the callers into ABC local made me feel like I was not alone. I was tense, tired and unsure of what was going to happen next. But so was everyone else. It was an extraordinary feeling of community Dear hearts. My hat is tipped to the ABC broadcasters. My heart is forever with those who endured and lost so much more than we.

The eye of the storm crossed at Mission Beach at 12am Wednesday February 2nd 2011. The Captain’s father lives on the hill overlooking South Mission Beach and out across to the beautiful Dunk Island. I haven’t heard if all is well and am praying that it is.

I was only afraid twice. When the wind moved up to an intensity I hadn’t felt or heard before and when there was no sound at all. But that is nothing compared to some.

Say your prayers Dear hearts, give some thought to those who have lost everything. This state is a cracker. All or nothing. We live in paradise, but there is a risk when one chooses to dance so close to perfection.

With love
Miss Mich

Calm Before the Storm

Dear hearts,

Four years in the far far north and it appears the Baby and I are to experience our first Large and Powerful Tropical Cyclone. I quote the BOM site, they even used caps all the way through, but I didn’t want to shout so loud and frighten you.

All jokes aside (just for the moment), Cyclone Yasi is a category 5 cyclone about to hit the coast of far north QLD at 10pm tonight.

The Low pressure system started out off the East coast as a Category 3 then moved quickly to a Cat 4. I started thinking about it like a delivery. I liken this impending event to my first delivery. My darling Boy was a whopper. No other description. And I’m only a little girl. God love him. After 24hrs of effort he ended up a Mid-forceps delivery. At Category 4, I decided this was going to be a Mid-forceps delivery of a Cyclone.

And then we had the upgrade to Category 5. I love the expression “Ignorance is Bliss”. That’s how I approached my first pregnancy. None of these Ante natal classes. I was not interested in lying around on yoga mats with a bunch of other first timers and their partners blowing rapidly in intervals and having my back rubbed in public. No birthing centres or underwater births for me. I had no plan, no soothing music or preference for support persons. And I certainly didn’t want my mother with me.

At the end of the day, I could have given birth on the street. In front of anyone and delivered by anyone. No drugs, just sheer force and energy.

A little bit like Cyclone Yasi. Although this time Dear hearts, I wish I had drugs to help me through. Thank God for wine.

Upon advice the Baby and I decided to decamp to safer ground. The Cottage lovely as it is, is tucked into the rainforest with enormous palms, enormous glass windows and facing right in to the head of the enormous storm. We did our best and moved the chairs into the corners, packed up the shells and the candles, grabbed the vino and headed to the safety of Brinsmead . Sweet little Cassie Conan Kemp and her family have taken us in like the strays we are.

I did manage to pack a few essentials before we evacuated. I am more than happy for you to keep this checklist as a reference for the next emergency you find yourselves confronted with. ..(holiday in Palm Beach, trip to Hawaii, in laws coming to stay.)

Emergency Packing List

Trench coat. Obvi. - I have three to choose from but decided to narrow it down to just one. It was a difficult choice. The snow white Burberry seemed a little too formal for cowering under mattresses and the black silk evening trench was just all wrong despite the cyclone crossing the coast after 5. This left me with the practical all purpose Max Mara. The trench I travel with, that does the hard yards and gets me through customs, along Chapel St and through the antique markets of Clingancourt Paris. The logical and stylish choice for a Cat 5 event.

My Collette Dinnigan LBD. Again, obvi. After the whole shebang calms down I am going to want to go out for dinner. Stat. And this little number can take me anywhere. I can even wear it with jewelled flip flops. How I love love love Collette. A little sophistication in the midst of chaos.

Books. A selection of Stieg Larsson, DBC Pierre and Anais Nin. Something for every mood. Failing that we have the checkout fodder of Cosmo and Who Weekly.

My Jewels. The sum total of my entire net worth. My fortune moves with me. Such as it is.

My Child. Obvi.

Photos of the two Bright Young Things who are only with me in spirit. How I love them so.

My Rosary beads. Or as the Baby says, my Rosemary beads. I am currently sporting the yellow crystal beads that my darling Grandmother had blessed for me by the Archbishop of the Northern Rivers. Novena’s will begin at 9pm me thinks. Say a little prayer for me…

Everything else is only what is necessary to survive the next three days.

Oh and wine.

Unfortunately I couldn’t pack the Libertine. I would have put him in my bag first if I could have. But there you go.

I believe this will be an experience that will be good for me. It will test me and show me a little of what the universe is truly capable of. I look forward to sharing my thoughts post storm with you.

Here’s to survival of the fittest.

Enjoy the calm before the storm.

With love
Miss Mich.

Sweep, Sweep

Dear hearts,

New Year. New Broom.

That’s the motto for 2011.

At the risk of repeating myself, no more pussy footing around. That’s not to say the pussy won’t be fooling around. With you know who, obvi.

What it does mean is this the year for action. Sweeping away the detritus of the previous year and Dear hearts, one only has to take a glance back to the musings of Miss Mich Circa 2010 to see that I have so much to sweep…I’m using an industrial sized broom.

According to Moonslipper this is the year of the Rabbit. I’m giving my furry friend a capital letter, more for what the Chinese believe it represents than the mammal itself. Although points must be awarded for “maillot d’lapin”…soo soft and yummy….

Back to Moonslipper (what a divine name..), the year of the Rabbit should be quiet, positive and inspiring. Just what we need after the trials of the year of the Tiger. It was tough being a tiger in the year of the Tiger, let me tell you. I am somewhat glad to be released from those jaws and paws. Much better a year of consideration, virtue and wisdom. That Tiger year was a bit of a roller coaster.

Over the festive break, Miss Mich had opportunity to reflect and revise her game plan. Not so much to devise New Year resolutions, more determinations. The Libertine and I were discussing the NY Resolution. It turns out he is not a fan. And rightly so. One can put a scroll under the Buddha’s arm no matter the time of year, but a contrived promise is no promise at all.

These determinations I hear you ask. Some are for now and some for later. In broad terms for you Dear hearts, Miss Mich is getting her shit together. Before you raise your eyebrows…you may think you have heard it all before. But. The Trinity of heart, head and pocket are all the focus. Quality is the key and Miss Mich is determined that heart and head will benefit from stringent quality control. The pocket is an unpleasant necessity and one Miss Mich would rather not talk about at all. Growing up it was considered impolite to discuss the indelicate dollar. Sadly now that it is all former life stuff, and Miss Mich has to pay the bills. Somehow. Ho hum…

It all probably sounds a bit airy fairy…I promise more details as the details come to hand…

I n this year of the rabbit, Dear hearts, I am very determined to keep calm, stay on topic and choose my battles wisely. Too much time was spent last year agonising over things I couldn’t change. We can only change ourselves. I will also learn to trust more. Trust that the Universe really is looking out for One’s best interests and if the desire is truly worthy and one is truly virtuous, then one will be rewarded. Before you start laughing and saying God Save the Queen, I promise not to use “One” again. Even this “One” is finding it tiresome…

So there you have it. A quiet year of head down, tail up (one of Miss Mich’s very favourite’s). Perhaps this year is going to be like an iceberg. On the surface, it may appear that there is not much going on, or floating by as the case may be. But below the surface….it’s going to be Big.

Until I have more to share with you…

Enjoy Friday and some furry love.

Love
Miss Mich

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