Ain't Nobody Gonna Steal This Can Awaayy...

I’ve had a little too much tea this evening and feel extremely excitable before bed, so I thought I’d blog about a memory which makes me giggle whenever I think of it. It's a quick one.

About six years ago I was on a United Airlines long-haul flight from L.A to Sydney. For those of you fortunate enough to never to have flown with United, its mediocre service earned it the reputation of being the cattle train of the skies.  I always associate it with big haired, fifty-something female flight attendants with mid-western accents and lined faces languidly enquiring, “Somethinna drink?” while pushing enormous carts of sugary spoil up and down the  aisle.

During this particular flight, in the dead of the night when all the lights were dimmed and seats tilted back, I opted to watch movie after movie and consume sugar until I shook. The economy cabin was completely silent  and the majority of passengers were asleep. Perhaps I was bored or simply finding myself drowsy, but in the silent, semi-darkness I decided I wanted another Pepsi.  I silently climbed over the snoring passenger on my right and landed in the aisle. I made my way to where the snacks and beverages had been left out and retrieved a Pepsi. I then tip-toed back to my row, carefully climbed over the sleeping passenger and dropped into my seat.

Actually, it didn’t go that smoothly. Around about the time when I dropped back into my seat, I also dropped the unopened can of Pepsi.

I still can’t believe this happened.

The can hit a metal bolt on the base of my chair and was pierced. It then made a hissing, spluttering noise and started spinning wildly under my seat.  A strong jet of Pepsi burst out from the hole like a fountain, and as the can madly spun in circles it soaked the feet and socks of every passenger within a 3 meter radius of my chair. It went on for about 20 seconds. It was as though someone had let a high-pressure hose filled with cold, sticky soft drink unattended. People started to wake up and register confusion when they realised their socks were covered in Pepsi. Some used precious blankets to wipe the stickiness from their feet, and then remained cold for the rest of the flight. Others slumbered on, unwittingly saving the surprise for later and letting the stickiness really sink in.  As if on cue, the the cabin temperature seemed to get a little colder, and made everything that  shade more uncomfortable.

I remained inconspicuous during the entire saga, sitting low in my seat and even gently shutting my eyes when the indignant questions began. After a respectful pause (of about an hour) I silently crept over the passenger next to me and retrieved another Pepsi.

So that’s the story of how nothing could keep me from Pepsi during a long-haul flight.

Life is a Train Whistle

Life is a strong and steady blow,

A distant sound,

Heard in backyards and dilapidated houses,

Moving at a tremendous pace

Wondered over in the night.

Clear in the cold, home to tramps

And vagabonds, travellers

And suits.

It is black, it is white,

It is cloaked in smoky haze,

It becomes clear again.

It is an old woman’s past,

A neat floral dress

And hair pinned with combs,

Then another trip to the corner shop.

It is found in a grainy photo,

Taken in this town and that,

Always on the move.

It is a road ahead of you,

A thrill solidified,

 Inky space, winking diamonds,

Winter, and trees with no leaves;

Snow and frozen breath.

It barrels, it barges, it brings you home.

It is a train whistle –

TOOT-TOOT!!!

What's in a Moment?

This is another illogical, rambling post with no real point to it. I blame the rainy weather – it makes me whimsical and sentimental. Anyway, here goes….

I can remember being humiliated and outraged as a child because my day-care mother had the effrontery to expect me to line up and use the potty along with the other kids.

This routine requirement both baffled and deeply offended me. Was she going to line up too and use the potty with us? Was it suddenly socially acceptable to strip off and take a crap in front of people? How dare she compel me to disregard modesty? Why would I want an audience watching me perform my ablutions?

So many unanswered questions.

I would beg her not to make me to publically debase myself in such tasteless, undignified act, and typically sulked for hours afterwards when she ignored my petition. *

I was a very modest three-year-old.

My earliest memories are not of events, but rather very strong feelings and emotions. Excitement as a two-year old watching my Nana receive a bicycle for her 60^th birthday. Disappointment and shame on my second birthday because I received a doll when I wanted money in a card, like my brothers. Terror as a four-year-old at Expo ‘88 watching the fireworks. Elation when we moved to the country and I received my first pair of blue gumboots. Rage when a boy in grade one sassed me. Inconsolable grief when I lost my first teddy bear.

I think it was the strength of the emotions which made me remember the events at all. But then when I got a little older I started to remember things on the strength of the occurrences themselves.

I was nine years old and driving home from school with my mother one afternoon when, sitting at the traffic lights not two minutes from home, I made a fierce promise to myself always to remember that particular moment. Not because it was anything special - it was the most ordinary moment in the world, as we tiredly waited for the light to turn green in an old ’82 Ford Laser with no air conditioning and the afternoon sun in our eyes – but because I was suddenly aware that the majority of life’s happenings are made obsolete almost as soon as they occur; and what is pivotal one second is forgotten the next.  I pictured the innumerable thoughts and incidents surrounding billions of human beings for millennia - some extraordinary, some mundane – but all vanished into nothingness, quietly tucked away from view in the past. Where do all of these stories go to? Memories are proud.  Once forgotten, they rarely come back.

Not that I was able to reason it out like that at the time. But in some small way, I wanted to remember a moment forever, no because it was special or set apart by any strong emotion, but just so it wouldn’t be forgotten. That was the one I chose, and nearly twenty years later, it feels like a special one indeed.

And in another twenty years, what will I remember about today?

Today was a bleak, windy and rainy day in Peachester and, as far as days go, exceedingly ordinary. But there is one thing I’ll always remember about it, because at the time it seemed extraordinary.

There is an enormous window next to my bed which runs nearly the length of my room. When I woke up this morning I spent a few minutes staring out of the window at the new day. It was grey and drizzly and windy. It was very windy. The trees told me it was windy. The air was filled with leaf litter and crackling with life; bark and leaves were being buffered about, the leaves suspended in the air longest, twisting about madly in revolution after revolution, the wind yanking them this way and that, and the bark sinking heavily through the air and crashing to the ground, like old clothing carelessly discarded. The energy, the electricity from this elemental dance was thrilling. My window is suddenly a cinema screen, the day is a movie, and I am the tucked-up observer, wondering what will come next, what players will feature and how will they fare? Would any of those wild and gadding leaves fly down to my window, touch it, let me see up close how they spun and moved and make me feel as though I’d had a real-life encounter with celebrity?  Some fly some overhead (they will land on the roof), and others fall short and land in the garden. Their source, a soaring silver bark gum on a slope not twenty meters away, is the star of the movie, the one I cannot take my eyes off.

He is chattering – it couldn’t possibly be described as anything else – fiercely talking to every single leaf, shaking them all to attention, saying wildly, “Hold on for dear life, or the wind will have you!” The leaves are chattering with fear, exhilaration and because they are compelled to. The wind whips through them, laughing and howling, threatening to tear them away, swiping this way and that, orphaning them and laying them to rest on the earth. In twos and threes they are snapped from their source, at first surprised, wildly liberated for a few moments and then slowing down moments before they come to rest on the earth, a roof, a car, because they realise that the flight of freedom is brief, and the slumber of death forever. The settle themselves gently, comfortably and prepare for permanence, sighing in a final sort of way.

So I guess I will always remember that moment, because it was when I realised there are no ordinary moments, no unimportant things; that entire worlds and lives and dramas are in play all around us every second, consuming and life-altering to the players in them if only a brief, pleasant distraction from getting out of bed for me.

Although let's face it - for me, pretty much everything is a welcome distraction from getting out of bed.

Julie

* Mrs Johns was the perfect day-care mother in every other respect. I loved her cat Minty and she was the only person to indulge my partiality towards plain mayonnaise sandwiches.

Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon: A Plea

The darndest thing happened to me the other day.   

I was sitting on the train, minding my own business, when I was approached by Kevin Bacon, who said, "Hey Julie, why do you think it is no one wants to play my game anymore - Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon?"

Well, he really had me there, and I apologised to Kevin for not having an immediate response.

People, it's this simple: the game will not work with any other name. It can't be called Six Degrees of Lindsay Lohan, or Six Degrees of Dieter Brummer or anything else you might have in mind. It must be Kevin Bacon.

I think you'll agree with me that we owe it to Kevin to keep this game alive. Kevin brought us such memorable films as The River Wild, Apollo 13, Footloose and The Air Up There. It is his illustrious career and prolific body of work that makes this game possible at all.

For those of you unfamiliar with the game, it is based upon the premise that everyone in the world can  be traced back to Kevin Bacon via six degrees of seperation. It's most likely to work if you use celebrities though. So, you take a celebrity (Emma Bunton) and link her to Kevin Bacon.

Ok, Baby Spice with Meatloaf in Spiceworld, Meatloaf with Susan Sarandon in Rocky Horror Picture Show, Susan Sarandon with Natalie Portman in Anywhere But Here, Natalie Portman with Ewan McGregor in Star Wars Episode One, Ewan McGregor with Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge, Nicole Kidman with Meryl Streep in The Hours, Meryl Streep with Kevin Bacon in The River Wild.

Maybe that was seven degrees but I think you get the picture.

So folks, play, play, play!! Play like a five year old two minutes before bedtime! And hopefully if Kevin asks me this question again, I'll have some better news for him.

Really, it's the least we can do. AND it opens up your neural pathways - five years ago I could have smashed this in, like, three degrees.

Hmm, let's see.....

Nope, can't be done. Or can it?!

The challenge has been issued. May the true champion of Kevin Bacon win.

Julie

Falcor - Where Is He Now?

Over the years I've heard many, many people ask the following question:

Whatever happened to Falcor from The Neverending Story?

And really, this is a very good question. I mean, where can a Luckdragon go once he's had his fifteen minutes of fame? They don't exactly blend in. I'm sure he didn't want to stick around in Fantasia, not with that drip Bastian accidentally killing Atreyu in Part 2 and pronouncing Fantasia to be empty.

Little twerp.

People clearly want answers, and, unexpectedly, I am in a position to provide them. You see, it just so happens that I am a close, personal friend of Falcor's and can tell you the whole story.

Because Fantasia was becoming more and more prone to evil overlords wanting to destroy it and the Empress' passivity helped to enable this, Falcor decided to emigrate to earth where, unfortunately, he had to shrink quite a bit in order to blend in with local culture. He still retains the main features of a Luckdragon however, as illustrated below.

I give you.....Falcor Now!!

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

So, after providing indisputable evidence, everybody can relax now. Falcor didn't fade into complete obscurity. He is alive and well, living with me in Peachester, and goes by the alias of "Caffery." He likes to do normal, everyday things such as have his bottom patted, hump his giant teddy and visit the hydro bath.

He's not immune to the camera flash of lurking paparazzi either. I'll leave you with the following  pictures to be featured in Who Weekly next week. Ciao!

Julie

Falcor and his new squeeze, Teddy,
step out to Starbucks.

No Way to Treat a Teddy - Falcor is
spotted in a compromising position.

Thanks to his fame, Falcor can enjoy regular
spa treatments at exclusive resorts.

"I just want to live my life!" - Falcor's plea
to intrusive paparazzi.

Don't have a cow- no, wait....

Ummmm.....Ilikerawcowsmilk.

Sorry. *subtly clears throat.*

I like raw cows' milk.

Why? Because DAMN it tastes good! Who wants to drink that watered-down crappola from Woolworths?

But Julie, it hasn't been treated with a billion and one unnecessary processes to squeeze every last drop of awesomeness from it - you might get a disease or some sort of unpleasant bacterial infection, I hear you say. Well, I appreciate your concern, but I guess that's a risk I'm willing to take. Because that's me. I'm a risk taker. I jog without wearing socks in my runners and occasionally leave the door slightly ajar when I go to the loo.

Risssssssssssks. Hiss it out and tell me you don't feel bad ass.

Seriously - (although I was being...) Pauls and all the other Big Boy companies (it's been so long I literally can't remember their names) are holding their products hostage at one big, long, regrettable night out at the Milk Masquerade Ball, where no matter how crap your date is or how sick you get or how many times they play the Macarena or how many times a creep grabs your ass or how messy your makeup gets, you can never, never, never leave.

I understand the above paragraph doesn't make much sense. I don't care. It stays.

What supermarket supplied milk lacks (along with integrity) is the natural cream top which lasts for a third of the bottle and is basically like drinking pouring cream.

Milk should not taste watery. It should be thick, creamy and sweet. You should look forward to your daily glass of milk as a treat. Adding it to your hot beverage should be sweetness enough. Mixed with cocoa and boiled should send you to sleep where you sip.

I will no longer be supporting the enforced, ghastly, thin-lipped (you heard me) Milk Masquerade Ball. The tickets are too expensive and the guest list sucks.

My supplier of raw milk must remain nameless to ensure its continued *cough ILLEGAL* supply to its band of loyal followers. Yes, you heard my false cough - ILLEGAL. Guess that makes me an accessory to the crime now, don't it? Testify. Apparently you're not allowed to commercially sell unadulterated, awesome cow's milk. It's just too dangerous. BUT HERE KIDS, BUY A LITRE OF GUARANA AND SHARE IT WITH YOUR FRIENDS!!!

Thank goodness for food standards and safety regulations - where would we be without them?

Now I'm off to buy a No-Doze at my local corner store. Roll-up anyone? They go well with Coke - now THERE's a drink of champions with absolutely no health risks whatsoever associated with it. That must be why it's so popular - because it has the tick of approval from the government, and the population can enjoy a free-for-all with an easy conscience, knowing how vigilantly it is protected from dangerous consumables.

*Silence/crickets*

Ummm....yeah, I'm gonna go have a cup of hot cocoa now and then turn in for the evening....

*Silence/crickets*

Goodnight.

Uncool Runnings

I have never been a good runner.

This initially came to my attention when, at the age of five, I ran my first competitive race and came last. Sure, it was only a 20 meter race at my little Catholic primary school’s sports carnival, but it created an unease which has never quite left me.

You see, it was the first time I tried really, really hard at something and didn’t succeed.

You can’t bluff sports. There’s no room for sleight of hand or trick psychology or even to skilfully talk your way through. You either have the physical goods or you don’t.

I was shocked to come last, because, having two older brothers who had effectively hazed me into a state of rough-and-tumble boyhood with them, I assumed I would dominate in all things athletic. Wrong. The other misconception was that, as I was tall and thin, I must be fast and athletic. Unfortunately, this wasn’t true either. I was slow, weak, lacked stamina and was devoid of competitive genes. I grew to hate organised sport.

And so like watching a train crash in slow motion, any observer could see my athletic tragedies unfold pathetically throughout my primary and high school careers. At least my friends in high school were kind enough to find my weak attempts charming.

I will state for the record here: I came last in EVERY school race I ever ran in my life. Usually by a gap of at least ten meters. I was that person.

I enclose here a photo from my high school year book where I am attempting long jump at a sports carnival. I was in grade twelve. I tried really hard and really wanted to prove something. The faces of the girls behind me say it all (hi Spope!)

I thought it would look more like this:

 

You can imagine my absolute horror when, at age 19, as I decided to pledge myself to an Indian guru and immerse myself in a path of meditation, I discovered that his rules made it mandatory for his students to run for half an hour a day.

Well shit. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

It was about that time that I took out a gym membership. This was serious. I really needed to get into shape and couldn’t fake athleticism, particularly around the robust, glowing, health-oozing people I meditated with. There was a compulsory 2 mile race every Saturday morning which I used to loath with a passion usually reserved for bad re-makes of Jane Austen classics. So I started training at home. By training, I mean a couple of times I managed to coerce my ill-equipped carcass a few hundred meters down the road. Then, gasping, I would usually seek support from a telephone pole, and try to appear as though I wasn’t an immediate candidate for cardiac arrest. It was usually around this time that a couple of dogs would race out of their yards and chase me the few hundred meters back home, where it was assumed by all that I had spent an entire day in the sun.

And of course, I came last in every Saturday morning 2 mile race I ever ran.

I decided however, that I wasn’t going to let it beat me. So I started training in earnest, building up until I could run continuously for at least half an hour every day. Sometimes it was a little more. I tried to include hills in these sessions, which I actually prefer to flat running, which is incredibly boring. I even ran at night after whatever job it was I was working, so I could fit in my daily running, and actually grew to enjoy it.

This is the part where everyone expects me to say that I became a running sensation and starting winning the races.

I didn’t, and I still basically came last in every race I competed in.

However, a turning point came when I questioned further about the purpose of our running on this path of meditation. Was it just for physical fitness?  What in the name of Sam Hill did it have to do with meditation or spirituality?

Because it is a metaphor for our inner running, I was told. When we are committed to something inwardly (be it a spiritual path, a job, a partner) we are everyday inwardly running towards a goal – to gain a higher position, to be a better partner or to feel our meditation more deeply.

When we are committed to this, we are keeping inwardly fit. We are sprinting towards something high and lofty and true. Our outer running is an expression of this. We train the body to be physically fit and healthy, but at the same time we are training our minds to be patient, goal-focused and strong. Run for half an hour a day, every day. Make time for it. Convince your mind it wants to. Do it, I dare you! It’s not as easy as it sounds.

The answer was not what I expected. Nonetheless, I understood it. I came to see running as another form of meditation, and just as effective in quieting the mind.

Therefore, when the word “marathon” was introduced, I was relatively ok with that.

I won’t go into all the gory details of what my first marathon involved. Actually, I will. Basically, it was a small, in-house affair of roughly six people who opted to run a 1.1 km circuit at the University of Queensland something like 38 times.  A marathon is a distance of 42 kilometres.

Now, anyone who knows me well knows that I don’t and can’t do things by halves. It must be all or nothing. Therefore, my plan to “maybe see if I can run 10ks” was doomed from the start. We’d planned the event as a night marathon so as to avoid the heat, and started at 10pm at UQ. We had an aid station set up at the beginning of the loop with water, electrolyte mixture, chocolate, jelly beans, fruit, salts, Gatorade and practically everything else you could possible need when running a marathon.

I wasn’t quite as prepared. I hadn’t trained and didn’t even have proper running shoes (I was wearing  Converse sneakers). Nevertheless, I was as so enchanted by the possibility of conquering my doubting mind and uncooperative body, I brazenly opted to run 10km, which I secretly always knew would turn into an entire marathon.

Did I mention I have an enormous stubborn streak?

Ok, this is the point where I’ll skip the gory, weeping, blistering, pain-demented, hate-filled, heaving, gasping, lactic-acid-soaked details, but the whole thing basically took me 10 hours. To put that in perspective, a tremendous athlete could do it in under two, and an average one in maybe four or five hours.

IT TOOK ME MORE THAN TEN HOURS.

But I refused to give up. A quarter of the way into it, my shocked legs seized up and refused to bend. At all. So I basically walked peg-legged the remainder of the, oh, thirty kilometres. Surrender was simply not an option. Needless to say, I continued to walk peg-legged for the remainder of the week, much to the delight of the smut-loving chef I worked with at the time.

So, it wasn’t pretty.  There was no adoring crowd waitng to greet my at the end, only looks of repulsion. It was possibly the longest recorded time ever for a marathon. But I completed it in accordance with another important stricture: Never, EVER give up.

It conquered a mental barrier. In years to come, I would repeat this venture on an annual and sometimes biannual basis, many times in New York where my teacher lived. I didn’t dazzle anyone on any occasion (except when I exposed my pale legs), but I never repeated my ten hour maiden attempt. The best I ever did was 6:25, and I was ecstatic about it. I came to regard doing a marathon as normal, and never once dreaded it or doubted my ability to do it. After all, I’d already proven I could. I would rock up untrained, with snow white legs, and start half-heartedly limbering up in front of hundreds of doubtful, athletic- looking competitors. Oh yeah, they were scared.

All up, I’ve bumbled my way through eight marathons and continue to run on a daily basis.

I’m still not good. I get so tuckered out after a couple of minutes and I’m still really, really slow. However, I find the best trick to running is to simply be present – not anticipate the road ahead, nor imagine how wrecked you’re going to feel  in a few minutes time, and definitely don’t compare your running ability to anyone else – you only insult them and psych yourself out.

I’ve had a year of little exercise after getting glandular fever, but I’m back in training and plan to run a particularly beautiful, hilly 10km stretch of road up at Maleny called “Bald Knob Road” within the next few months. I’d love to be able to run it without stopping.

I’ll let you know how I go ;-)