I’m a former radio copywriter who is also an avid music lover and reviewer, Twitter-obsessive, and writer of both fiction and poetry.
I’m currently spending my days doing my best to kick the arses of psychogenic non-epileptic seizures and depression, and trying to make some good stories out of it.
I’ve just arrived back in Canberra after a ten day holiday with my family: mum, dad and younger sister. Half of that was spent in Dubbo in my parents’ house, the rest with extended family in Milton on the South Coast of New South Wales. To be honest, this has been one of the few times I’ve come back to Canberra wishing I was somewhere else. It’s only been three-and-a-bit hours since I saw them last, but I am already missing my family incredibly.
I’m constantly reminded just how wonderful it is and how lucky I am to have such a close and loving family. The way we all came together to mourn the passing of my grandfather back in April, the unbelievable support they’ve given me with present and future living arrangements, the career advice, the emotional support through humps in my personal life, and so much more: I’m so lucky to have them to call on when I need to.
After 27 years of marriage, my parents are still together, complete with the tendency to still be stupidly cute. They are a pillar of stability in a life that has been full of wobbles, and I’m so grateful that they’ve been there for me, time and time again.
My sister and I have a curious relationship that rocks back and forth like the world’s biggest see-saw. Sometimes she’s all cuddles and cuteness (I am always all about the cuddles); other times she wants to tear my face off (I don’t want to return the favour quite as often, but I have my moments). We live in a peculiar truce-like situation, ready to spark into a spat at a moment’s notice, but I would still do anything for a hug from her. (Except stop asking for them – she gives wonderful hugs, partly because I have to work so hard for them.)
My extended family are spread right along the Eastern states, with my mum’s family, to whom I am particularly close, all living within 8 hours drive. Most of them are in one of two towns in Western NSW. Knowing that an aunt or uncle or cousin could drop by is a nice feeling, and being so far from them most of the year sucks, especially when things are rough at either end. As my Grannie gets older, I realise that it’s also important that I get back to see her more regularly, but as I only get back to Dubbo once every four to six months or so, that’s really tricky. Seeing family is one of the reasons why I want to get my licence this year – it’s near impossible to hurry back on a 10 hour bus trip that only runs on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.
One of the other things I’d like to do in the next year or so is live overseas. Friends of mine have gone to London, Thailand, New York and so many other wonderful places across the globe, and I want a piece of that.
But I keep coming back to one thing: how far away do I want to be from my family? Canberra is already a long way away – 5 hours by car, 5 hours and a couple of hundred dollars by plane and bus, and 10 hours by public transport. Do I really want to go any further afield? Can I even bear to be away that long, not knowing when I’ll get the chance to fly back and see them again?
Yes. I’m ready for the adventure of living in another country. But it’s all about baby steps: 7 hours of public transport to Sydney, then a 3 hour flight. I think I could do that. I’m ten hours commute away as it is, after all.
But the fact remains: it will be incredibly hard to be so far away from my family. That said, I’d be cheating myself if I didn’t go. They understand that.
And that’s another reason why I love them so bloody hard.
So every day, I count my blessings. This year, I resolve to call my family more often (I can already hear my mother whooping with joy), and write to them more, and do the best I can to spend more time in their company.
Because I have been blessed with falling into their mad lot, and you never know how long they’re going to be around for.
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Inspired by a card from Ask Me A Question: 50 cards to start a conversation, from kikki.K.
It’s such a rich colour, full of iron and platelets and life. We need it in our veins, in our hearts and brains, or it’s game over. When you think of all the symbolism, it makes sense to use it in my work. Portraits are, after all, a portrayal of life, committing something fleeting to something permanent. By using this as my paint, I infuse the canvas with life itself.
Mix it with water and you can get all kinds of lovely shades. I add aspirin to keep it from congealing on my brush, or to make a putty that I smear on with a small trowel when I want to add texture. It’s not dead like monochrome, but it leaves room for imagination in a way that full colour cannot. You get to decide whether his hair is brown or black. Are his eyes blue or green? As long as all the shapes and strokes are right, you can tell who it is or what they are thinking. You don’t need all those other details. They’re already in the paint.
He is going to make a fine subject. His long, black hair flops over his face so you can’t see his eyes. He laughs with friends in a way that makes me think of kestrels – he doesn’t screech like they do, it’s more that the sharp decline in pitch as he pulls out of the hoot reminds me of the sharp drop they make before they capture their prey. I wonder how I will integrate that sound into my painting. It seems so intrinsic to his personality that I feel a need to incorporate it somehow. Perhaps I will perch a bird of prey on his shoulder, wrapped in his dark locks.
I watch him as he leaves the bar. He stumbles on the step, despite the fact that he spends enough time here to know full well that it’s there, and it’s always been there. I can tell that he’s had quite a lot to drink. That should make painting him easier. Alcohol thins the blood remarkably well. I may not even have to knock him out.
But I do, just in case. I am so thankful that I live in a ground floor apartment, and so close to such a wonderful bar, full of beautiful people, coming and going at all hours of the night. It makes it so much easier to bring home supplies and subjects. The fact that it all comes in the one package helps too, I guess.
I work quickly, and he is drained by morning. But by god, the final product is incredible. When I was studying, my teachers told me that my style was unoriginal and lacked life; my technique was stale and my work would need something to stand out from the crowd. I guess I found it, huh.
Eventually the canvas starts to smell, so I have to throw them all away. Again, there is symmetry in this. I could seal them and keep that stale smell in, but instead I discard them like others have discarded me. The same way they discarded my talent and my originality.
Fuelled by the glee I take in proving them wrong, I have become hooked on this new, exciting artistic endeavour. I could have a harem on my walls, every colour, creed and gender represented, all with a limited lifespan, as they were when my supplies were flowing through them. They are short-lived, but they shine bright, and only for me.
If there’s one thing I’m certain about in the world of blogging, it’s that nobody likes posts about statistics. It’s pretty much the only thing that people hate more than posts about how you can be a better blogger – they’re self-aggrandising and kind of patronising and really only interesting to the person posting it.
But I have to confess, I love reading the WordPress yearly summaries. This is (I think) the third year they’ve done one up for me (the previous reports were for Cheaper Than Rubies, which is now defunct), and I actually find them really interesting, and good for my confidence when it comes to the year ahead. Not to mention, it’s a great kick up the arse to get writing again, to try and beat my current records and improve the bits and pieces that I’m putting together.
And holy crap, were there some records broken in this last year. I’m still reeling from some of the numbers that flashed up on my screen in the last six months. (Thank you, New Zealand, you beautiful bunch of bastards. I will definitely be seeing you again soon.)
For me however, the biggest takeaway from this report is that there is a massive problem with spam bots on WordPress. Like, huge. And I’m yet to understand exactly how to combat it, as opposed to this blog’s old place of residence on Blogger, where it was actually pretty easy to remove those blips from my stats. But hey, nobody wants to hear shop talk.
Is this report going to guide what I’m going to write and do in 2015? Absolutely not. I’ve got my own plans that are bubbling and brewing (including finally finishing my Blog Carnival roster from back in August), but most of those will be kept under wraps for the time being. I might try and impose some unspoken rules, but I’ll leave it up to you to work out what those are.
In 2014, I set out to “do things that scare me”. With my first solo international jaunt, many magnificent new friendships, 12 months of writing a regular music column, some terrifying (and awesome) performance-y things, and a number of significant personal confessions behind me, I think I can safely say that I achieved that goal. That is why it’s no longer a new year’s resolution; it’s more of a mantra I’m going to try and carry for the rest of my life. Hopefully, over the next year and beyond, you’ll see the fruits of that resolution on your screens, or maybe in your ears or your eyeballs.
Despite some setbacks, 2014 has been pretty damn brilliant. Now it’s time to make 2015 just as awesome. (Fuck it. Even more awesome than that.)
If you’re a bit of a stats nerd and you’ve been desperately wanting me to cut to the chase and show you the numbers, you can click here to see the complete report.
Happy New Year, one and all. Let’s make this one an absolute killer.
Back in August, I was invited by the wonderful Alexandra Neill to take part in her Blog Carnival project, along with a bunch of other writers who are much cleverer and more consistent with the whole writing thing than I am. That project was meant to last the whole month, and reach across five topics. I fell off the wagon after one, and now we’re in the back half of October and I’m writing the second one. Good work, me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t try to write it. I think I took four goes at it, knowing exactly what I wanted to talk about, but with no idea how to go about it. The topic was “Something That Scares Me”, and this thing left me so scared (and more importantly, ashamed) that I couldn’t bring myself to confess it.
It was such a stupid thing that I feel like a moron not being able to share it. It’s something I really struggle with, and I’m trying really hard to get over it, but things keep getting in the way: working full time, stress, exhaustion, procrastination, laziness, a total failing in terms of willpower, fear of the fear itself…
I am afraid of doing things, making things, being creative, having adventures. It’s such a stupid thing to be afraid of, especially when I consider the joy that comes from actually doing it, but the elements of the fear seem endless, and the excuses come in equal number. Yet at the same time, I am terrified of being ordinary, being boring, sacrificing my life to a day job and not doing and making the things my heart wants to. It’s a particularly uncomfortable position to be in.
A little over a week ago, I turned 25. For a number of reasons, that milestone held a lot of dread for me, especially as it crept closer and I realised just how few of the things I’d wanted to achieve had actually come to fruition. As I write, I realise that I’m even afraid to confess that they are things I want to do, but here are some of them:
I’ve never been published by a publication that will pay me for my work. I’ve left four novels unfinished, and never finished editing the only one that I did finish. I’ve never played in a band. I’m yet to live overseas. I’ve never made a short film that was any more than a glorified slideshow. I’ve not made any wonderful pottery,made a sculpture or fixed something mechanical, or learned how to ride a bike, or how to drive a car. I never got to be a radio announcer or program producer. I can’t do a handstand or a cartwheel or rock climb. I’ve never tried stand-up comedy. I’ve never learned how to swing dance or any of the Latin ballroom styles. I never learned to juggle. I’ve never acted in a role beyond the chorus, and I haven’t even done that since I was in high school. I’ve never organised a successful public event or gig. I’m painfully aware of all the things I want to do I haven’t done yet, and I feel like I am running out of time to do them.
That’s what scares me: all those things left undone. As I get older, I feel like my potential is ebbing away; any talent I may have is disintegrating like muscles atrophying, and every day that ticks by makes me more anxious about what I’m missing out on. I’m surrounded by wonderful, clever, driven, creative, fantastic, unbelievable people (some of whom I am lucky enough to call friends, some of whom have just been rad enough to let me hang in their presence) who inspire and intimidate me in equal measure. They are musicians, writers, filmmakers, event-organising magicians, public relations wizards, actors, models, photographers, poets, circus performers, artists and so much more. I could ask them for help, but I’m paralysed by the thought of revealing that I want to do what they can do because I know that I’m never going to be as good at it as they are. I feel that I’ve left it too late.
I’ve missed plenty of opportunities by not being brave enough to take them, and it’s only been in the last 12 months that I’ve actually started acting on some of them, like writing for BMA, getting stupidly obsessed about a movie and doing insane and wonderful things as a result, putting together a murder mystery party for my friends, sorting out my medication regime and preparing to get clearance to go and get my L’s. But there are so many more things that I’m shoving down and hiding, so many more things that I want to do. It’s not that I don’t have the time or the energy; it’s that I am just too lazy and too afraid of making the changes to my life that I need to in order to do them.
So I find excuses: I don’t have the equipment, I don’t have the time, I don’t have the brains or the creativity, I don’t have the energy. Excuses are easy, but they don’t bring me the rewards and peace I’m looking for.
Often I find the core reason for my apprehension is incredibly simple. I don’t know where to start. It’s hard to get the ball rolling at the best of times, and it’s even harder to ask people how to start. It feels like there’s this implication that starting is easy. You just do the thing! Simple! Make like Nike and just do it!
But it’s terrifying to start. I’m not brave. A friend of mine has a tendency to call people cowards in a comedic fashion during his shows, but every time I hear him say it, it hurts because in my case I know it to be absolutely true. And once you start, where do you go then? When you have no known end to the process, how do you go about stepping through it? I try to think about it and my brain struggles to comprehend it. Where is the reward when there is no set end?
Maybe I’m not cut out to be a creative after all. Perhaps I peaked at sixteen, when I finally finished that shitty novel that now sits on my external hard drive, taunting me with its blatantly uninformed, teenaged angst-filled nonsense. Perhaps there was a catalyst that beat all the boldness out of me and made me so scared of what people think of me. Maybe I just got older and my brain stopped being malleable and free and I forgot how to just go with the flow. Maybe my brain never had the ability to process it in the first place.
Whatever it is, I need to shake it off. It’s not useful in any way. It’s just making me feel bad, and in the last few years I’ve come to be fed up with feeling bad. I want to feel good.
And that means that somehow I have to work out how to start. It means I need to figure out how to keep going.
I need to get to work.
Postscript: after I wrote this, I realised that my tagline for this blog is, “Let’s do the things that scare us.” I’m not sure if this is irony, or just completely appropriate. Either way, it’s worth noting, don’t you think?
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The theme of “Something That Scares Me” was also covered by the following Blog Carnival writers:
Then again, I can’t be sure of that. I don’t know what cloves smell like, but they were exactly what he reminded me of: cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger; all those other warm, comforting spices that go into mulled cider or chai. He smelled delicious and exotic and alluring. Most of all, he smelled warm.
When he came close, I inhaled deeply, trying to embed every nuance of his scent deep within my brain. I was incredibly conscious of whether or not I was breathing in too loudly; I didn’t want him to know just how much I loved dragging him deep into my lungs like cigarette smoke. He was my nicotine. He sent my heart racing. My breathing rate increased and my brain tingled with lust-filled sparks. He didn’t even need to touch me; he just had to be close enough to breathe in. It was intoxicating, sending sensations running through my body from my torso to my fingertips like a sound wave. I could physically feel the pleasure of his aroma rippling through me.
I can’t remember ever smelling him on my skin or on my clothes, only when he was in the room. Every other man I had lusted after or loved had left a trail behind him, but for some reason, he did not. This was probably a blessing. I could have lost hours in his perfume. To have it weave its way into my sheets would have been the end of me.
We still see each other, now and then. His face is still handsome, his conversation still engaging, his sense of humour as dry as when I first met him. He still cuts a canyon through my heart, but it would be deeper if we didn’t speak.
We don’t sit close to each other. There is always a table, a friend or an incense between us, stopping our pheromones from mingling in the air the way they used to. We sit together and talk, but I can no longer smell his warmth. My lungs miss his touch, my breath longs to entwine itself in his, but this is the way things are.
Sometimes when I walk through the spice aisle in the supermarket, I look at the packets on the shelves. I am looking for cloves, but I never buy them. I don’t pick them up, and I don’t let their scent register in my brain. Instead, I exhale hard through my nose, wondering if I was right. I wonder if they smell like him after all.
But I never check. The illusion is better than the reality, and the nostalgia tastes better than the present. In the same way spice preserves meat, protecting it from air and rot, I protect my memories by hiding them from the truth.
Last year, I took part in Potentially Problematic Opinion Month, which was in its second year. This August, PPOM is taking an extended break, and has been replaced with the Blog Carnival! There’s a bunch of really brilliant folks writing on a cool topic each week: Alexandra Neill (who came up with both PPOM and Blog Carnival, because she’s just that clever), Lizzy at Hum Drum Plum, Britt in Boots and Jess from What I Think About Books.
And you can join in too! For the full list of topics and deadlines (which are really just a rough guideline – this post is already a week late!), you can click here. Come on! It’ll be fun!
For the week commencing Sunday August 3, we were asked to write about something that makes us happy. This is mine.
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When I sat down to write about something that makes me happy, I went through a couple of ideas. Initially, I thought I’d write about the way certain smells make me feel wonderful, but instead of writing something for Blog Carnival, I ended up with something else that was good, but didn’t feel quite right for this project. I thought maybe I could write about music, but it felt too broad and too obvious. As the Sunday deadline came and went, I began to worry that I wouldn’t be able to write anything at all, not because there was nothing to be happy about, but because there was too much, and so many of the specific things were obvious, or I’d already crowed about them to the point of saturation. I really couldn’t tell which I should focus on.
So I’m going to tell you about something broad that is making me happy: the way I live now.
Before July last year, my life was an absolute shambles. I’d spent the better part of a year unemployed and living with my parents in Dubbo. My self-esteem was crushed; I had experienced a marked decrease in appetite, a constantly black mood and a severe reluctance to get out of bed before 4pm. I had spent most of my savings travelling to see friends in an attempt to put a little bit of light back into my daily existence. I was a wreck.
A little over a year on, everything is better. I’m living in Canberra again. I’ve thrown myself quite heavily into the arts scene here (as a punter), and have met tons of fantastic people as a result, who have inspired me to gradually increase my own creative output. I’ve had a number of magnificent adventures in a number of wonderful places with my amazing friends, and am planning many more. I have a job that is steady and I’m doing relatively well at, with work that I enjoy in my chosen field. I’m writing a regular local music column for BMA, I’m writing on my blog more often, and I’m practising things that I can show people that could end up being kind of cool. My favourite pub is open again and I have plans.
There are still plenty of hiccups to overcome: my financial situation isn’t that great (if there was a Spending Olympics, I would be at the top of the medal tally), I still struggle with my emotions and really horrible thoughts sometimes, and I’ve still got a few months to go seizure-free before I can go for my doctor’s clearance to learn to drive. My family and I are still grieving for my grandfather. My knees and ankles hurt sometimes, and my shoes wear through far too quickly. But these are all things that will heal with time and/or hard work. They are commas, not full stops. I will keep going.
A little over a year ago, none of this was conceivable to me, but here I am. I know that I have been incredibly lucky. I know that this luck could run out at any time. But I also know that I am going to enjoy every second of it while it lasts, and I will do my best to make these sun-filled days last as long as I can, because I have tasted their sweetness, I am hooked and I never want them to go away again.
I know I will keep going, because right now, I am happy.
*****
This week’s theme was also covered by the following wonderful human beings:
There’s been a common theme running through the last bunch of posts: my trip to Wellington back in June. This is the final entry in that series. You can find the rest here. Be prepared for a whole bunch of madness and joy, because even though it was just a week, it was everything a girl could wish for in a holiday.
*****
It’s become customary these days to document holidays in an entirely electronic fashion. Photos on Facebook and Instagram, running commentary on Twitter, post-adventure blogging… Apart from the occasional physical souvenir, usually in the form of something bought from a dodgy street stall or a purchase from an incredibly kitschy tourist shop, most of our memories are stored solely in the cloud and in our heads.
I’m usually even worse than this. I rarely take photos at the best of times. The vast majority of photos of me from the last five or so years are highly posed, highly self-censored selfies taken on my Macbook in moments of boredom, vanity or intoxication.
This is in part due to a longing to just experience life rather than constantly stopping to remind myself to document it; I prefer to do things without the filter of a lens. I very rarely ask for photos to be taken of me, so I often don’t have images to remind me of the people I’ve met or proof of the places I’ve been. Many times I have become great friends with a person over a number of years and marvellous times, only to never have a photo with them to remind us of just how brilliant we were. This makes me quite sad; I’d love to have something a little more concrete than just memories to look back on.
Other times, my reluctance or inability to remember to take a few shots comes from the fact that I have an uncanny ability to be absolutely terrible at taking photos that aren’t underwhelming, grainy, poorly framed piles of crap. A lack of practice means it’s simply not top of mind, and when it is, I’m so underwhelmed that I tend to not bother the next time.
When I was preparing for my trip to Wellington, I knew it would be the week of a lifetime. I didn’t want to leave anything unremembered. I’ve already had a taste of how fragile memories can be: a major seizure in 2012 left me with significant short and long term memory issues for the better part of a year; I forgot what had happened at the previous Christmas, and still struggle to recall a lot of things that should be treasured personal memories from that time.
The logical progression from that was to simply post everything online as I went, but I didn’t really feel the need to fill people’s Facebook feeds with a progression of photographic updates, and reading back through old tweets is constantly being made more difficult by Twitter’s scrolling function and new profiles. On top of that, I wanted somewhere to put all the little things I inevitably pick up: bus tickets, interesting labels, flyers and the like.
So while I was waiting for a train in Sydney before heading off on my trip, I picked up an A5 size notebook and began to plan how I would document my trip. There was probably about 300 or so pages in it, but due to my tendency to forget to write in diaries, I figured I would be lucky to fill a third of that.
Instead, I got to the point where I had to pull out pages in order to avoid splitting the binding. With all my photos printed and pasted in, this is how fat my journal got:
Almost every night of my trip, I took at least an hour to write down all the wonderful things that had happened, planning where I would paste photos, bus tickets, email screenshots and newspaper clippings. I scribbled terrible stick-figure drawings and scrawled memories across unlined pages. It was a remarkably therapeutic process, allowing me the chance to run over just how much fun I was having, and to plan what I might do the next day.
I documented everything I could, and tried to make everything as colourful and fun as my experiences. I bought new pens and stickers and collected all the What We Do In The Shadows related bits and pieces I could find to make sure I could do it all justice.
I even grabbed a Te Papa flyer that was written in Italian just so I could stick in something with pictures of the general exhibits – all the ones in English were only for the special short-term exhibitions.
One of the things that I really enjoyed about the free-form manner of my scrapbook was when I got to draw stupid little bits and pieces to fill in spaces that I might have put photos that I had forgotten to take, or just for the hell of it.
Initially, I tried to keep all my bits and pieces in chronological order, but I quickly realised that there were photos and stories that I hadn’t accounted for while allocating space in the narrative. This is why there are two parts to my scrapbook: the initial narrative that I filled in while I was away, and a very sizeable appendix, which I have been working on ever since.
The appendix is a strange mish mash of written souvenirs and bits and pieces that didn’t necessarily fit into the story of my trip, but were memorable all the same. From the itinerary I wrote myself before leaving Canberra (which I left at home) to the map of Wellington my mum gave me before I left (which I kept in my suitcase the entire trip), there are a lot of quirky bits and pieces that I still needed to preserve, even if they didn’t make it into the first half.
There were a lot of bus tickets.
And some things that simply defied explanation.
When I got back, working on finalising my scrapbook really helped ease the post-trip blues.It gave me an excuse to relive my trip regularly, bringing a little light to each day, and keeping the fire in my belly for a return visit. I still flick through it every couple of days now it’s almost done, just as a kind of emotional safety blanket, and it definitely in my top three things I will take with me if there is ever a fire in my house.
As of yesterday, my scrapbook is officially finished. All of the spaces I had saved in the main story section have been filled, and there’s only a handful of photos left to put into the appendix (non-essential, but they’re going in because I just happen to have some printed copies). In a book I was sure I would get nowhere near filling, there are only eight pages left blank. Maybe one day I’ll ask Taika and Jemaine to pop their signatures on the last page. Either way, this little chapter has finally closed. I’m back in the real world again.
But with my little green book, I know I can go back to that wonderful, ridiculous week whenever I like. What a wonderful comfort that is.
You may have noticed that I went to Wellington a while ago, probably long enough ago that I should have stopped banging on about it by now. I’m almost done, I promise. But if you want to read about some of the magnificent things I did and have already written about, you can find them here.
This is the penultimate post in this series. I promise that it will be over soon and we can all go back to (ir)regular programming.
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This post was initially meant to be a part of my post about my favourite Wellington places, but when I was editing what was already a 2000-plus word post, I figured I should probably cut some of the things on my list. Unfortunately, there was nothing at all I wanted to cut.
After a while, I noticed that there were a number of places on my list that had something in common: they were places where one would eat or drink. Thus, this highly uneducated guide to Wellington’s feeding stations and watering holes was born.
I have to say, I really was impressed by the various eateries that the Kiwi Capital had to offer. I don’t think I had a single dud meal in the whole week I was there. Not only was the food absolutely delicious, the cafés themselves were something to behold as venues.
Here’s a little something about each of my favourites:
Mucho Mucho Cafe
On my first proper day in the city, I wandered and wandered looking for somewhere to have breakfast. Due to a highly questionable encounter with an “Eggs Benedic” in Newtown a few days before, I was keen to make sure that I was going to get the best possible start to my day and my trip.
I can’t really remember what made me turn into this cafe instead of any other, but I was immediately impressed. The room was vibrant, the music wasn’t too loud, and there were already a handful of locals in there breaking their fast. And by gosh, it was tiny, but that just added to its charm. Seriously, it was freakin’ adorable.
An interesting thing I noticed: table service isn’t that common in Wellington. Most of the places I ate, you had to order at the counter. It caught me off guard a couple of times, especially in this case, but it was no biggie.
I ordered French Toast with banana, bacon and maple syrup. I think it may have had a fancier name on the menu, but I’ve forgotten what it was. All you need to know is that it was DELICIOUS.
If you’re in Wellington’s CBD, turn down Taranaki Street and grab a bite here. Not only will you get a fantastic feed, it’s a great way to introduce yourself to the strange fascination that the city seems to have with Cuba… but more on that later.
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The General Practitioner
When you first see The General Practitioner on the corner of Willis and Boulcott Streets, it immediately commands your attention. Like so many parts of Wellington, it looks like it belongs in a fairy tale or a Disney movie. Straight away, I pulled out my iPod and took a photo, which led to the story on the left. The memory of that conversation still makes me chuckle.
The chairs out the front were how I worked out that it was some kind of eatery, but I think I would have walked in anyway, just out of curiosity. It was just so intriguing!
I ordered a fancy sounding fish and chips and a Tui, because their billboards are so incredibly wonderful/offensive/I saw them on the internet a bunch of times, that I simply had to try one to see whether the beer was worth all that advertising.
From the first bite, the meal was absolutely amazing: crisp, not too much salt, and the sauces alongside were brilliant as well. The fancy dish it was served in was a bit of a pain to negotiate, but everything else was so wonderful that it was easy to forgive. Thanks to some impeccable timing (I arrived just before the lunchtime rush), I even managed to get a seat near the window. Some would say that a view that consists mostly of an intersection is less than desirable, but I found it fascinating, with plenty of other interesting buildings to catch my eye, and lots of Wellingtonians buzzing around on the street below.
As for the Tui? Well, it was okay. Actually, it was entirely underwhelming. I finished it, but I can see why they advertise it so heavily – it’s not good enough that I would buy it off merit alone, especially since my trip led me to a much nicer example of what Kiwis can brew.
Either way, if you’re in Wellington, visiting The General Practitioner is definitely something I would prescribe. (Oh dear. That line was terrible. Sorry.)
Enigma Cafe
I ducked into Enigma Cafe on Courtenay Place at about 2pm on Thursday for a late lunch. I wasn’t expecting much, but when I walked in I found a brilliant space with dark walls and a feeling that this is where all the cool kids probably hang out. Thankfully, there was a good mixture of different kinds of folks, so I didn’t end up feeling too out of place.
I took a while to choose what I was going to order, but I finally decided on the gnocchi with mushroom and bacon.
AND OH MY GOD. IT WAS AMAZING.
Right across the week I spent there, Wellington constantly treated my taste buds with beautiful flavours and delightful places in which to consume and savour them. Everything was wonderful and delicious and just magnificent. So basically, if you’re in Wellington, don’t skimp on meals – you’ll have no idea what kind of joys you’re missing.
Now we move on from beautiful food to brilliant bars… And trust me, Wellington has plenty, but I’ve managed to whittle it down to the three (well, four) most notable.
I touched briefly on the wonder that is Boogie Wonderland in my What We Did At The Premiere post, but I need to mention it again because it really is a place that should not exist, but I’m very, very glad that it does. Mirror balls galore, a flashing dance floor, and excuse me while I put my radio voice on: all the best hits of the 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and Noughties!
Oh my. So much kitsch in one room. It made me very confused and very, very happy. Be sure to jump into this nonsensical retro indulgence if you’re ever in Wellington. It needs to be experienced to be believed, trust me.
But if you head out to the toilets, you will find another door to another bar. This is Alice, where the walls and shelves are adorned all kinds of bits and pieces from Lewis Carroll’s classic books, the music is eclectic (I honestly heard “Business Time” by Flight of the Conchords come over the speakers and I couldn’t hold in my giggles), and the cocktails are delicious and sometimes served in teapots.
Jane and I settled in for some “White Rabbits”. They were freaking delicious.
One Wonderland in Wellington would have been enough, but two right next door to each other? Well, that’s just spoiling me!
Havana
On the Friday night, I was on the hunt for some live music. At the exhibition launch where I started my evening, I met Vanessa (well, for the second time – we’d also met after the premiere), who told me that she was actually playing a set at a bar called Havana, just off Cuba Street. (Hmm, funny that.) I told her I was planning on doing some general wandering, but I’d see if I could make it.
The wandering was pretty uneventful, save for meeting this guy. I strolled up and down Cuba Street, stopping into a few little bars that seemed like my kind of place, but they were all pretty full, and not particularly appealing to the solo traveller. (My criteria were that there had to be somewhere I could sit without awkwardly jumping in on another group; decent music, live or otherwise; a reasonable drinks menu and preferably a friendly enough crowd to find folks who would adopt me into their fold.) There were plenty I would like to visit again (namely Laundry and The Rogue and Vagabond – I intend to spend more time in both on my next visit), but none of them seemed right for me at that moment.
This little shrine was set up in the hallway that led into the main bar.
So I kept walking up to the far end of the street, trying to remember Vanessa’s directions to Havana. I wandered down one dodgy-looking side street, then another, until I finally stumbled across this little house nestled in among some more modern, less friendly looking buildings. I walked up the passage to the front door and was let in my a lovely gentleman and was met by one of the most beautiful bars I have ever seen, and my gosh, it was busy.
It was at this point that I really began to come to realise just how much of an influence Cuban culture seems to have had on Wellington venues, most notably along… ahem, Cuba Street. From cafes like the aforementioned Mucho Mucho Cafe, right through to Laundry and (obviously) Havana Bar, there is a lot of iconography that harks back to that island in the Caribbean. It really is a little bit odd when you think about it, and incredibly kitschy, but it is also kind of nice and brings a lot of colour to those bars and cafes that choose to buy into it.
When I arrived, Vanessa was up in a corner, serenading the crowd. (Holy dooley, the lady’s got pipes!) I waved, then grabbed a cocktail from the bar. It was delicious. Knowing there was nobody there for me to talk to, I squeezed through the crowd into the garden area out the back, found myself a seat and got to work on my scrapbook as I sipped my drink. A few people came over and chatted with me as I cut and pasted and scribbled, and it was just really nice. I’d love to head there with friends next time I’m in town; the vibe was lovely, with beautiful decor throughout. Havana Bar is definitely worth the detour.
Concrete
Jane and I hung out at Concrete on the Saturday night, and to be honest, it was quite underwhelming. But you know what? I simply have to share this with you.
This is their bathroom. Notice anything missing? Like, I don’t know… Taps?
It took me far too long to work out what how to get it to work. Initially, I thought it might be the silver things, so I tried pushing on them. Nope. Maybe it was a sensor under the top shelf? No, still too logical.
Let’s take a look at it from another angle, a little bit closer.
Nope. I’ve still got nothing.
Seriously, all I wanted to do was wash my hands. How on earth was I to go about it with no taps? Did I have to utter some kind of Lord of the Rings incantation? Sacrifice my first born? Telepathically compel the water to begin flowing? I was completely stumped.
Until I noticed the little round notches in the bench top. Here’s the same photo, except the “taps” are now circled in red.
Seriously…
Apparently, this incredibly stupid piece of “design” managed to win a ton of architectural awards, which is proof that architects are either completely insane, or have a terrible sense of humour.
*****
Ridiculous bathrooms aside, Wellington is full of interesting, unique, intriguing and delicious places to eat and drink. It’s definitely worth the time, money and effort involved in getting out there and sampling as many of them as you can. Ranging from the sublime to the silly, there’s certainly something for every taste.
Today’s derpy Noni photo is care of the What We Do In The Shadows Facebook page.
From Monday June 16 to Sunday June 22, I was in Wellington, New Zealand. And despite the strange (possibly a little bit intoxicated) look on my face in the photo above, I had enough of a ball that I have managed to write a few blogs about it, which can be found here.This is the biggest and most important of all of them. This post is about the reason why I rushed into my boss’ office and begged for leave, why I booked plane tickets as soon as it was granted, why my mother made multiple sighing noises at me as she gave me my passport, and one of the reasons why I’m still crapping on about it to anyone who is still listening.This post is about What We Did At The Premiere.
*****
It was Wednesday June 18, 2014. And it was one of the most amazing/bizarre/wonderful nights of my life.
A straight, start-to-finish, by-the-numbers blog entry was never going to be possible for this evening’s proceedings. Even my scrapbook pages from the night are tangled and flustered with excitement, even though I wrote them over 24 hours later. I committed myself to burning as much of it into my brain as possible, and I think I did a pretty good job, but if I ever tried to share it as a flowing chronological stream I think I would probably melt every neuron in my cerebrum with nostalgic joy.
In order to preserve the little brain function I have left, this blog will consist of chunks, each attached to a photo or gallery. Some of these photos are mine, but most were taken by others, and I’m incredibly grateful for that. The quality of some of the photos is… questionable. That said, I maintain that the spirit of the night shines through their grainy pixels.
Hopefully, when it’s all put together, it will give you an idea of the sheer delight I experienced on that wonderful Wellington Wednesday evening.
Getting Ready
I bought the dress especially. I love the tulle in the bottom, because it negates the need to pack a separate petticoat. It saved a lot of room in my bag.
Jane helped me put my just-that-little-bit-too-short hair into a bun and lent me her brooch. I wore bright red shoes. Somehow we had completely colour co-ordinated. She looked absolutely incredible in that dress, with her hair done up high. The dress code on the invitation had been “Dead But Delicious”. We certainly had the last bit right.
There’s no wine in the goblet I’m holding. It was purely for effect. Jane’s daughter mentioned that because it had skulls all over it, I should definitely be holding it in our “before the premiere” photo. So I did.
Arrival
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We took a cab into town. We had a few drinks at The Bangalore Polo Club. From there, we headed over to The Embassy Cinema. I was buzzing with excitement. I tried to take my time to soak it all up. My eyes must have been like saucers. No, like satellite dishes.
Every sound, every smell: I tried to drink it all in at once. A black hearse was parked out the front. We waited in line as a brass band played their way through the crowd. I yelled, “Yeah! Sousaphone!” because I am an idiot. My smile was so wide, it felt like the corners of my mouth were trying to run right off my face.
Inside, we were met by replicas of scenes from the film. The detail was impeccable. I’m sure I audibly gasped a number of times. Even the goblet on the side table still had drops of blood in it. I wondered briefly whether it had tasted like blackcurrant or fermented grape or cool metal.
Into The Cinema
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Chris spotted us in the crowd upstairs and said we should go in now if we wanted to get a good seat. In our hurry, we lost Theresa. I didn’t spot her again until the film was over.
I did see a number of familiar faces in the crowd, but of course, none knew me from a bar of soap. It was strange, but in a delightful way. It wasn’t like seeing Australian people-of-note; hell, that happens almost every time I visit Newtown. This was strange, because here I was in another country (which was strange enough), seeing these people in their home town. I don’t know. It’s hard to describe. It was strange, but nice.
We took our seats and watched the band play again. They were still incredibly wonderful. Jane and I chatted and I bopped in my seat and hooted and whistled when they were done.
There was a Māori version of Welcome To Country; at least that was how it seemed to an outsider like me. I wished that more events in Australia had an Indigenous Welcome To Country as their opening words. I felt sad that this is such a rare occurrence in my homeland.
Then Taika and Jemaine took to the stage and began to tell the story of how they came to make the film. It was like this video, which was taken by somebody at the Q&A screening a few days later, but at the premiere, they were far more snappily dressed.
They said that we had missed the opportunity to go to the toilet, as the movie was about to start. I suddenly got the urge to go to the toilet. This is not a good feeling to have before and during a film that is going to make you laugh a lot.
The Film Commences
It was just… great. Having waited two years for this movie to come out, I was afraid I would have built my expectations too high. But I didn’t. It was everything I had hoped for and more.
I’ll tell you more about it another time… Say, a little closer to the Australian release on September 4th. Or maybe next week. Don’t fret. It will be soon. I’ll let you know.
I will tell you this, though: when we got out, the first thing we did was go to the toilet. I met Wellington’s Mayor Celia Wade-Brown in the line for the ladies. She had a lovely dress on, and a magnificent pair of fangs. As I write this, I wonder if Katy Gallagher has ever worn fangs.
Vampires Come Out To Play
Photo by Jane – @powderkeig
After the film, the vampires and some of the werewolves came out to answer any questions their audience/dinner might have. I wish I could have thought of something a little more clever than, “Where are the lady werewolves?” But I was high on endorphins. Getting through an entire sentence was an achievement at that stage.
Once we had taken our aforementioned loo break from the previous chapter, we began to move back out into the upstairs foyer. We had a few drinks and mingled with friends Jane had spotted in the crowd, but I had one thing on my mind: I wanted photos with the vampires.
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I always feel like a mug when I ask people for photographs, but they were all incredibly kind. The only pre-cursor was a brief introduction from Jane, which was missed by most, followed by a request for a photo, the pose, the snap, a smile and then moving on.
The exception was Viago. Jane mentioned that I was Noni, and he immediately recognised me. “Noni Doll!” he exclaimed. “You made it!” It was odd, like I was meeting up with an old friend, as opposed to a fictional 300-year old vampire. I wanted to hug him and sit down and chat, but the room was full and loud and there were others who wanted their chance to interview a vampire.
Getting the photo with Nick (or was he just Cori?) was the most awkward of the set. I tapped him on the shoulder as he swept through the crowd towards the bar, and with a mixture of sudden boldness and sheer mortification, asked if I could have a photo. For some reason, Jane couldn’t get the camera to work, so we were stuck in that terrible position of, “I don’t know you, but I have definitely had my arm around you for far too long and now it’s a bit weird.” Bless.
Deacon and Petyr were incredibly naughty. The former was being an absolute bossy-pants, and I was immediately taken aback at his lack of manners. After the photo, I mentioned to Petyr that his sire’s behaviour was thoroughly ungentlemanly. Petyr simply responded: “I don’t give a crap.” What a pair of charmers.
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More displays were set around the upstairs area, with finalists from the poster design competition scattered along the walls. Vampiric art was scattered around another coffin. I would have taken a picture of myself in it, but I feared I was too wide for it and wouldn’t be able to get out, even if I managed to squeeze in.
Jane, Theresa and I got our photo taken in the photo booth, which was made up to look like the hall of the vampire’s abode. We all looked absolutely gorgeous. (Say otherwise and I may have to send some undead messengers to… have a discussion with you.)
The End of the Evening
Anna gave me directions to the after party. Jane went home, and Theresa came with me.
I took no photographs, because this was time for fun and nothing else. This was something to live, not document. So I did just that.
But I will tell you this:
Boogie Wonderland is a place that I believe should not exist. Novelty bars that play the hits of the 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and 00’s are things that only exist in movies and British sit-coms, not in real life.
Niko Ne Zna played Balkan brass on a flashing dance floor under more mirror balls than could ever be necessary. This was more amazing than you can imagine.
I danced through a doorway traffic jam with Rhys Darby.
I spent a lot of time avoiding eye contact with Bret McKenzie, because he constantly looked like he was in the middle of a really serious conversation. Also, he wasn’t even in the movie, so he wasn’t even really worth my time, y’know?
I abruptly ended a chat with Taika Waititi by smashing a glass with an overzealous gesture.
Anna introduced me to Jemaine Clement in a barely decipherable dance floor conversation. The one thing I remember him saying was that I’d been on TV all over New Zealand, to which I responded that this was definitely a thing we were not talking about and will never speak of ever again.
I drank a lot of Delicious Neck beer. It was indeed delicious.
I went home at 3am, but the party was still kicking. Perhaps they were vampires after all…
That night, I dreamed about hanging out in dark bars with Vladislav, Viago and Deacon, drinking red wine until the early hours and talking about how Canberra is also a pretty good place for vampires to live. I dreamed that I had asked Jemaine and Taika to sign my scrapbook like I’d planned instead of just plain forgetting. I revisited the Boogie Wonderland dance floor over and over in my subconscious. It took all night for my brain to come anywhere near processing what had happened. In doing so, it prolonged just how wonderful the real thing had been.
A month later, and that night is still my ultimate happy place when things go awry. I often get out my scrapbook and thumb through the photos and remember stupid things that happened and laugh to myself at how gloriously ridiculous life can be, but only when you step out and grab every opportunity with both hands.
Speaking of opportunities, did I mention I’m going to Melbourne to see What We Do In The Shadows again next month?
(I am running out of location-based selfies at an alarming rate.)
It’s been a little over a month since I touched down for a week of wonder in Wellington, and I’m still raving about it. This post is one in a series where I tell you how bloody great it was, from the brilliant buses to the incredible individuals I met, and plenty of other stuff that was absolutely positively delightful.
Most of the time I had in Wellington was spent sleeping, mathematically speaking. But a significant proportion of my waking hours were spent wandering up and down the streets of the city without a guidebook, seeing where the roads would take me… you know, all the clichés writers use when they’re talking about visiting a new place. I did them all.
It wasn’t really my intention to head to the usual tourist stops, but somehow I ended up doing it anyway; they’re just so delightfully accessible that I ended up running into one after the other. The list below is nowhere near exhaustive as to things you should see in Wellington, nor are they the full list of things that I saw on my trip, they’re just the first ones that spring to mind for a myriad of reasons.
WARNING: do not do what I did and try to get around this beautiful place in half a day. Unlike the National Museum of Australia, doing a quick whip around of this incredible museum is absolutely impossible. Be sure to wear comfortable shoes and make sure you’re well rested before you start – there’s a lot of ground to cover, and my feet were screaming at me by the end of the day.
When I say Te Papa is incredible, I bloody well mean it. The scale of some of the exhibits is absolutely breathtaking, and the sheer amount of stuff I learned was amazing. (This includes discovering that the kakapo is adorable and being brought back from the brink of extinction by some awesome people, some of the ways you can reduce damage from earthquakes, and that New Zealand is home to Georgina Beyer, the world’s first transexual MP.) There is no doubt that when I eventually head back to Wellington, I’m jumping in for a second visit, and I’ll be far more prepared this time!
Although if this happens again, I don’t know how I’ll cope:
Hey, Te Papa. You’re pretty damn great. Keep on being awesome.
The Embassy Theatre and The Roxy Cinema
The Roxy Cinema, Miramar.
It seems Wellington has a thing for having really goddamn beautiful movie theatres.
I initially thought it was just a one-off when I went to The Embassy Theatre for the What We Do In The Shadows premiere, but then Jane recommended that I head to The Roxy Cinema in Miramar for my second viewing the Saturday before I left.
Walking into both is like wandering back into the Golden Age of film. I am very glad that both times I was wearing a nice-ish frock, because otherwise I would have felt thoroughly underdressed. Everything about them was absolutely gorgeous. The seats were comfy, the sound and vision was remarkable… I think I’ll have to travel a long way to find a city lucky enough to have one cinema this beautiful, let alone two.
Inside The Embassy. (We sat in the row before the railing and walkway.) Source: Specialty Cinema
It’s a bit tricky trying to remember the things about The Embassy that weren’t completely intertwined with the premiere, but I do remember the sweeping staircases in the foyer absolutely taking my breath away, and being absolutely lost for words at the detail in the bathrooms! (And sure, the chances that you’ll run into Wellington’s mayor in the loos is quite slim, but somehow that happened to me? She had a lovely dress on.) That was before we even got into the cinema itself, which is also phenomenally beautiful. Even in the closer seats, we had a fantastic view of the film.
The most notable features of The Roxy were easily the art deco statues and decor that ran through the interior, but I couldn’t help being tickled by some of the little things, like how lollies come in little paper bags just like the old days, and how cute the little ticket office is. It seemed like more of a community hub, and is easily the fanciest building in the area for a fair stroll, like a grand and glamourous matriarch looking over her little ones.
It may seem strange to spend a couple of hours of your holiday watching a movie you might have been able to see at home, but trust me, this is a Wellingtonian experience you have to have.
The Cable Car-Garden-Parliamentary Stroll
Okay, so that isn’t an official title, but it is really easy to run these different attractions into each other, because that’s exactly how I did it, mostly by accident.
If you would like to replicate my experience of this Thursday afternoon walk, follow these simple steps:
Aaaaah-mazing.
1. Take the Wellington Cable Car from Lambton Quay to the Kelburn lookout and the Cable Car Museum. If it’s winter, be a little bit grumpy that the nearby café is closed because you’re really bloody hungry and it’s quite chilly up here. Marvel at the incredible view from the lookout, and take a photo.
2. Head into the Cable Car Museum. It’s full of really interesting exhibits, like models, refurbished old cable cars, documentaries about the history of cable cars and how some Wellington residents even have their own private ones on their properties (!). Be confused as how you’re meant to respond to the mannequins scattered through the museum, as some of them are sitting quite close to the Uncanny Valley. Get freaked out by the one downstairs because the lighting and angle made you think it was a real person for a second. (Just a second.)
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3. Once you’re done with the Cable Car Museum and its “inhabitants”, spot a sign that points to the Wellington Botanical Gardens and to Parliament House and decide, “Hey, that sounds like a great way to wash the image of those mannequins off my eyeballs! I think I’ll do that.”
4. Wander through the Wellington Botanical Gardens and reflect on how New Zealand is about as close as one can get to being in an actual fairytale. Take lots of photos, because you’re pretty sure nobody back home will believe you if you try to tell them how magical it was.
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5. Buy a necklace with a Tui on it from the Gift Shop. You will wear this almost every day until you write this blog, and possibly beyond. Also, buy some postcards that you will keep in your bag for the rest of the trip and forget to send, and souvenirs for family members you won’t see for weeks.
If this was where my dentist worked, I would have the best teeth in the world.
6. Start to walk down Tinakori Road. Marvel at the beautiful old houses and shops that line it. Wonder what it would be like to walk this street with a handsome young man. Wonder what it would be like to kiss him in front of these houses. Giggle and smile to yourself at these silly romantic daydreams. Silently wish they weren’t just daydreams.
7. Be far too engrossed in the architecture around you and your ridiculous imaginings to take anymore than one photo of this beautiful street. (See right.)
8. When the buildings around you become more modern-looking, start looking at your phone to work out how far away you are from Parliament House. You are not that far away, but you have been going the wrong way for a number of blocks.
9. After tracking back and putting yourself on the right road with the help of a whole lot of Google Maps, find a whole lot of official looking buildings. Keep walking, past the gum tree, until you can see the roof of Parliament House between the buildings.
10. Arrive on the lawn out the front of The Beehive, and feel thoroughly underwhelmed (see image at the top of this post). Mutter to yourself that the Australian Parliament House is much prettier and try to ignore the really nice old buildings that are right next to The Beehive which are arguably nicer than anything within the Canberra city limits. Find a pile of stones at the foot of a statue and come to the conclusion that it was a delightfully weird discovery to make.
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11. Sit down and rest your feet before heading for the bus home. You should have left time for a tour of Parliament House. Silly you.
Like Te Papa, I really should have allowed more time for this part of my trip, but since it took me by surprise, I didn’t really get the chance. Again, definitely going to take another look and draw it out so I can really soak it all up next time I’m in town.
The Waterfront
I went down to the Waterfront in the last hours of the afternoon. I sat at the top of a hill and looked down across the water. The colours were clear and crisp and comforting. The water looked cleaner and clearer than any Sydney Harbour could ever provide. The winds were light, but I could smell no salt on the air. I sat and I watched the ocean, then wandered to its edge and wished I had worn something I could climb rocks in.
I found a piano and sang the lyrics to the songs I played, but only I could hear the words washing around in my head. I walked away and watched a six year old boy perform classical pieces, the notes rattling out from their prison of keys and out-of-tune strings.
I read the stories of those who had come to the city on boats, written on walls. I felt a bitter taste rising in my mouth as I remembered how the government at home was treating people like these in our own time.
I walked down to the waterfront and drank deeply, not with lips but with eyes and ears and soul. The afternoon was a tiny wave of joy lapping at my bare feet. I felt light and soft and cool as I let my mind wander with the breeze out to sea.
As for the Tui? Well, it was okay. Actually, it was entirely underwhelming. I finished it, but I can see why they advertise it so heavily – it’s not good enough that I would buy it off merit alone, especially since my trip led me to 
Noni Doll 
