Biting my nails

I just dropped of the Bunnies at the vet for their *snip snip* operation. My little boys are losing their manhood.
The last rabbit I took to the vet for this proceedure never came home.
I know it is important, as they have started fighting so much they are hurting each other.
But I still feel like the grim reaper.
Is 10am too early to start drinking?

Panic Stations

The definition of Post-Tramatic Stress Disorder:

A lapsed good Catholic girl waking up on Good Friday to the sound of nearby hammering and construction.... prompting flash-backs of Jesus being nailed to the cross during the yearly Stations of the Cross reinactment.



Even though I knew "Jesus" was just a scruffy-haired teenager (preferably with a beard) from the parish, shoved into a white terry-cloth bathrobe, and even though I knew he was holding the steel pegs ('nails') in his fist while some other kid used a mallet to "hammer" at them, it still gave me the willies every year.

Why do we complain about violent computer games? The bible stories are bad enough! And that's just the New Testament... the Old Testament is positively horrifying!!

Note: lets not even talk about the definition of cruelty- the fact that I am allergic to chocolate. Easter was never really much fun for me, now was it?

Serengeti

Another abstract painting I finished last week: I like to imagine the wild things hiding in the brush strokes (click on the painting to see a larger image)



"Serengeti", acrylic on canvas, 60cm x 150cm

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

— Wendell Berry 'The Peace of Wild Things'

Far too many people I know have died this year (at this point the tally is unbelievably up to 5 people as of the end of March).
At times I feel as though my heart has been ripped, still-beating, out of my chest. At times I am so filled with rage I could scream.
And at times I feel completely empty, dead inside.

This poem helps, in it's peace-filled beauty and simplicity.

A month ago Phil an I welcomed two gorgeous bunnies into our family:


Marcel


Francis

Marcel is about 1 week older than Francis, but as they had been together from such a young age we referred to them as brothers. Every night they would snuggle up together to sleep, and in typical brotherly fashion, Francis would follow his big brother around like a shaddow.

Yet I came across them last week, and realised that Marcel is having slightly more than "brotherly thoughts" towards Francis.

I know there are support groups out there for parents of gay children, but what does one do about gay pets??

Honestly, we knew this would probably happen, and knew that we would have to take them to the vet to be de-sexed eventually. If not, two adult male rabbits kept together tend to fight... perhaps fighting over the mirror or who gets to chew at the Barbara Streisand album first... But we thought they would have a month or so more of innocence before this happened.

I guess it's time to head off to the vet. My little boys have grown up.

holy s***

It has taken years of in-depth field analysis but I am finally ready to deliver to the world my scientific break though:

This research has entailed surviving food poisoning, giardia, cyclospora and dysentary infections in developing countries; house-training 5 rabbits and 3 dogs; and being a nanny for years, at one time looking after 10 week old twins and spending my days up to my armpits in dirty nappies.

I am finally ready to reveal that I have solid evidence of the relation between poo and sanity: i.e. personal sanity decreases in inverse proportion with the amount of faeces in any given environment.

Its a fact. Just ask any mother.

(now I am off to the pharmacy to try to buy some antibiotics for a giardiasis infection... usually when my chinese vocab runs out, I play charades, but I am not sure how to mime 'diarrhea' in polite company.)

Where did all the good people go?

I am standing in my nice hot shower and listening to Jack Johnson being pumped into the bathroom by the surround-sound speakers the landlord conveniently wired into this apartment. At the same time as the song "Where did all the good people go?" starts playing, I being pondering on the fact that ironically I have a better standard of living in China than I have ever had in my whole life.

How do I reconcile myself with this?

How does the girl who traipsed off to disaster ridden East Timor, with nothing but a backpack and a desire to do something good, reconcile herself with the fact that she now has a maid who comes 4 times a week to wash her dishes and clean her dirty clothes?

How does the girl who lived in a village in Nepal for a year, organising skills-training and income-generating programs for the poorest of the poor, reconcile herself with the fact that when she is hungry she can phone for a pizza that cost the monthly earnings of the 60 year old man begging outside her apartment for the box the pizza came in?

How does the girl who's worked for innumerable not-for-profit organisations reconcile herself with the fact that she can go to a bar and spend what it would cost to feed a family for a week, and then walk out the door and tell the mother begging on the street that she has no change?

How does the girl who recieved a Young Australian of the Year Award for the Blue Mountains area in 2001, now recieve a monthly income that far exceeds the average local wage?

Phil and I are far from living the rich expat life of many foreigners here, and even less so now that I have quit working full-time. Yet even though we are tightening our belts and sticking to a strict budget these days we can still afford to live a fairly luxurious life. I have tried to find some organisations to donate my time to, however finding a truly accountable NGO in Government-controlled Shanghai is no easy task. I know I could try harder in this quest, and am wary of making excuses for myself.

After I returned from Nepal I was so overwhelmed emotionally and spiritually that I felt I needed a break from poverty and injustice. But when I strive to be an ethical citizen of the world, how long a break is too long? Have I become truly disillusioned with the development world? Or have I just become disillusioned with myself? In 3 years I have gone from "campaigning development worker" to "capitalist scum".

Where did the good me go?

scalpel, STAT!

I'm thinking of inserting a big fat ol' hypodermic through my eye socket and into my brain to relieve the inter-cranial pressure brought on by the simultaneous sinus headache and migraine I woke up with this morning.

"Coz the drugs don't work..."

Something tells me that the medical training I have recieved from watching A LOT of e.r. will not be sufficient for this proceedure.
I could always just slam my skull in the front door...

When Boredom meets Blogthings

Your Elf Name Is...

Spicy Tinsel Toes

What's Your Elf Name?

Check out Blogthings for all sorts of time wasting crap.
Yours,
Spicy Tinsel Toes.

Abstract

I finally have a website just for my art in the process of being made (thanks to Phil and John ...xxx). Stay tuned for the near future unveiling.
For now here is the latest piece, an abstract this time.


Acrylic on canvas, 80cm x 120cm.

Look this one up

Phil's new word of the day:

"Tall-less-ness n. The state of being un-tall."

even more disturbing...

I don't know if it is more disturbing than Phlegm Chunks, but now I am being found through google under the search term "squashed mouse".
Perhaps I should start writing more about "quality writing", "fabulous blogger", and "best blog", to start getting people to find me through better terms!

New Piece

In January I quit teaching full-time in order to concentrate on painting full-time. I am feeling really good about this, although it is incredibly scary.
Here is the piece I finished this week:


Acrylic on canvas, 1.3m x 1m

If you know anyone interested in buying original artwork send them my way...

RIP Pablo

At the risk of this blog seeming like an obituary column, I have to report the death this week of our beloved bunny Pablo.
I think I have had all the deaths I can take this year...


Pablo, September 2005- February 2006

Beep beep!

I did promise in January to post photos of my now not-so-brand-spanking-new electric scooter. I was thinking of posting just a snap-shot, but when your boyfriend is a professional photographer snap-shots don't come easy.
Me: "Honey could you take a quick photo of my bike for my blog please?"
Phil: "Oh sure... I'll take it into the studio, clean it up, set up a few lights, maybe some filters..." [EYES GLAZE OVER AS HE STARES UN-SEEINGLY INTO THE MIDDLE DISTANCE WHILE NOTICABLY SALIVATING]

So here is Dolly (so named because she is all plastic):





Photos by Philippe Roy

disturbing...

I find it highly disturbing that someone from New Jersey Googled "phlegm chunks" and found my site. On closer inspection I find it even more disturbing that my blog is listed third for this search.

Ahh, more evidence of the quality writing supplied by yours truly.

Must be love...

In honour of Valentine's day... ah, ew, no, even I can't fake that. The truth is I just thought of the following blog entry and tried to make some link with the date, but, to be honest I don't care at all about V day.

[As an aside: That last comment was really so predictable when I was single, or even in a relationship but separated by innumerous seas and borders. I honestly thought that I was only kidding myself with that attitude, you know, putting on a brave face while buried knee-deep in so many dozens of other girls' red roses. But it turns out that, even though this year I am not only in a relationship, but also in the same country as my boyfriend on Valentine's Day, I STILL don't care about the date. Sure it's a good excuse to get flowers, but if I have to buy something in return, we might as well order a pizza and call it even.]

So back to the entry:

It Must Be Love.
6 months of living together and I am reminded daily that love is not red roses or chocolates (especially not chocolates... I am allergic). But rather love is shown in all of the following:

Bringing me more toilet paper when the roll has run out.
Letting me drink from his beer when I'm too lazy to go to the fridge to get my own.
Coming running to hold my hand when I am watching old re-runs of the x-files and suddenly scream in terror: "Baby I need you!!"... (and yes, I am fully aware I am pathetic).
Explaining patiently to me time and time again how "the goddamned demon inside my computer" works.
Not grimacing too badly when asked to pass a box of tampons.
Ikea.
Patiently dragging me bodily out of bed every morning while I whine "But I don't wanna go to school today mum!". Yes, every morning.
Not freaking out when I absent-mindedly pick out "names for the children", while stuck in peak-hour traffic in the back of taxis.
Not getting too uncomfortable when I follow him into the toilet to continue a conversation, and sit on the sink watching him while talking about curtains/dinner/work/etc.
Eating vegetarian when I can't be bothered to cook meat for him.
Shouting indignantly on my behalf at waiters when they bring my dessert smothered in chocolate, even though I distinctly told them I was allergic to it (this happens more often than you'd think).
Always, ALWAYS saying my cooking tastes great.
Letting me proudly show people in public the little belly I have cultivated on his previously flat stomach. And reassuring me constantly about the little belly I have cultivated on myself.
Not pointing out when I haven't shaved my legs in two weeks.
Scratching my back on command.
Putting eye ointment into my eyes, despite turbulence, on an airoplane at 30000 feet, simple because my eyes are dry but I can't be bothered getting up myself to use the mirror in the toilet. (In my defence it is not drops, it's a little tube with a scarily pointy nozzle... one air pocket and I would have had an eyeball kebab! Of course I still could have got up to the toilet....)
Not complaining when I begin asking "are we there yet?" before we have even checked our bags.

Yep, must be love.

so sad

I don,t know how to write this well. In fact I am not sure how to write it at all.
A week ago, my best friend in Shanghai, Miriam, was electrocuted and killed in her own appartment. The wiring in the old building was very badly done, and the building had no ground/earth wire.
So due to crappy chinese wiring, my beautiful friend was killed.
Her family in Italy have lost their daughter, sister, granddaughter and aunty. Her boyfriend has lost the love of his life. And I have lost a friend who I only knew for 6 months, and who I thought I had forever to get to know better.
I have never cried so much in my life, it is just so senseless.
Phil and I have now come to his home in Montreal, to get a break. At least here I don't see Miriam everywhere I go, remembering the last time we were there together. However, trudging through the snow, half a world away, I still see her in my mind. And cry. And cry. And cry.

Moving Up... or at least sideways

Phil and I decided a month or two ago that we needed a bigger place, as although this tiny one bedroom flat is enough room for one person, it is not comfortably enough room for two people, and a rabbit. It is especially uncomfortable when one of those people is a photographer with copious ammounts of photographic equipment, and the other is an artist with just as much art supplies cluttering up the place. The bedroom here is so small that one side (my side) of the bed is jammed up against the wall, and there is only a foot clearance on the other side. On top of that there are now four 1-2 metre canvases propped against the wall for want of anywhere better to store them. The 4x5m livingroom is also Phil's study, and my studio, and we have to move either the couch or my easel each time we want to open the balcony door. We are starting to feel like Alice in wonderland when she gets stuck inside the shrunken house. More so for Phil who is 6'2".
I have been teaching full-time since I came to Shanghai 5 months ago, however a bar near here has agreed to exhibit 6 of my paintings. It is time to quit teaching full-time (I'll still be going part-time) and get serious on the painting. Yet aside from having no room to paint, this apartment is sucking the creative juices right out of both of us.
So, last Sunday my fabulous friend M and I went apartment shopping. M has studied Chinese for years and astounds me with her knowledge of the language. Without her I would have been completely up the apartment-shopping creek without a paddle.
The temperature on Sunday was -3--4 degrees celcius. For future reference this is not a good day to be traipsing on foot around the city searching for a new home. ANY appartment looks good when it is -4 outside. Even the apartment that was stuffed so full of boxes we couldnt see the windows properly, and had two cats trapped in the wardrobe. Yes any apartment looks good compared to that temperature.
But the fourth place we saw was the winner. I expected to be hunting weekly for months before finding somewhere appropriate. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw this place. It was nothing fantastic, but it was suitable, cosy and not too costly. There are two bedrooms, the smaller one will be my studio, and one of the two living areas (really one long one separated by the dining table) and will be Phil's work area. The bed can be accessed from BOTH SIDES. At long last I will be able to get out of bed like a grown up, instead of scooting down to the end like a kid in her parents bed. The apartment has BATH! A Chinese-sized bath, but that is long enough for a shrimp like me. Phil still dreams of a bath that he can fit into, but for a giant like him, that's never going to happen in Asia. And like being in a hotel, there is a phone next to the toilet! I can see it's practical usage, but I just don't know how comfortable I am to talk on the phone to my grandmother while sitting on the toilet. The pis de resistance was when we walked into the kitchen and saw a tiny little dishwasher. I actually gasped and clapped my hand to my mouth. It is barely big enough to fit a dining plate into it, but it is there. Our current tiny little dishwasher (the new, and lovely maid) is going to love it.
In the mean time we have to pack up this place before Sunday, and again I ask the same question I ask myself every time I move:
HOW IN GOD'S NAME DID I COLLECT THIS MUCH JUNK!

Born to Ride

As of last Monday I am now the proud owner of a shiny electric scooter, just like this one:

Only mine is red... because that makes it go faster, you know (I'll post real photos soon).
While it looks pretty, it is actually made with more plastic than Dolly Parton and R2D2 combined. Yeah! Plastic Fantastic!
The manufacturers warranty is for 5 years, but at the rate of bicycle theft in this city, I'll be lucky if it lasts 5 weeks, even with a bloody great big lock strapped around the back wheel.
And as I rode down the streets of Shanghai at a dizzy 20km/hour, with the wind in my hair (well, just managing to lift a few strands) I felt like I had truly become a part of this mad city.

Oh, and it has a kick-arse horn.
(PS: Love and kisses to Phil/Santa for making my electric scooter dream a reality)