Patti and George

For whatever reason, I didn't hear any Beatles music properly until I was thirteen or fourteen years old. Like some people who hear them retrospectively, I went through a phase of listening to them intensely, and now only put on their records every now and then. This week a stumbled across a small English book on the Beatles, and quickly devoured it. One of my favourite parts was reading about Patti and George. I didn't know, but Patti took lots of photos during her time with the Beatles, which she has turned into her own book.  It's lovely to see a moment in time captured so intimately. They were such an awesome looking couple.

On failure

photo found here.

On the path to achieving ones goals it's important to remember than failure is very much a part of the process.  I know this, but for some silly reason I'd always imagined the pursuit of my dreams to be a shiny wonderful path of creation and eventual fulfillment, and then I'd be done, surrounded by people praising my talents.  

I'm in a pretty happy place right now, but like most people, I want more and I expect more of my self. Ambitions are scribbled secretly on pieces of paper that I'm too embarrassed to show anyone. Nonetheless there are goals and dreams in place and it keeps me going. I think Churchill was onto something good when he said 'success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm'. I don't take failure as well as some people, so I try hard to remember his words.

Looking back on some of the jobs I've had, there have been a lot of embarrassing moments and epic fails. Maybe the beauty of hindsight is a wonderful thing but I can't help but laugh at some of the failures I've endured. It seems as a general rule of the universe, embarrassing incidents magnetize towards my life. Birds shit freely on my skirt, occasionally I manage to lodge my head between closing bus doors and routinely I accomplish run, trip, fly, starfish falls across busy city intersections just as traffic lights turn green.

Below are probably my deepest moments of work shame.

Sandwich artiste

I got to wear a sexy forest green visor with pride and smile painfully at people while I packed their sandwiches full of gherkins, meatballs and swiss cheese all the while listening to Nelly, Kelly Rowland and Chingy on repeat. As a result of my job I always smelt like honey oat bread. Furious scrubbing in the shower didn't dissolve the smell, nor did perfume. Friends would sniff while in my company and rub their stomachs suggesting we get, perhaps, sandwiches for lunch? That was depressing. Depression spawned down to its darkest levels when two of my coworkers explained to me in the most awkward of fashions how they once did it in the office right by the sandwich counter. My supervisor was a power tripping maniac, and made me work my first 7am Sunday shift alone. I ran out of bread and had a mini meltdown while enraged customers repeatedly yelled at me 'NO I DO NOT WANT A WRAP'. 


Waitress

Being a waiter/waitress is the default job for many while at university. I foolishly took this path and learnt very important lessons. I lack basic coordination. I cannot carry more than two plates at a time. Tills are confusing. Chefs are going to get angry at you if you send out their meals and drop them on the way to the customers. Customers are going to get angry if you drop their meals on the way to their table. Despite these lessons I did not leave. This is because I was deliriously in love with the dishwasher/kitchen hand. He was one of those guys who was aloof and sexy and said no more than five words to you in a day, sending you over the edge. He sort of reminded me of Jordan Catalano from 'My So Called Life'. For whatever reason I exposed myself to daily public shame to be in his presence. I would foolishly obsess, dissecting the meaning of his words. Like, for example what did he really mean when he said 'hey' and then casually touched his hair, and if we went to the beach together was it a date? I eventually came to the realisation that I hated being a waitress and he was a massive douche bag thus cutting ties with waitressing forever.

Radio promotions bitch.

Hypothetically my job was supposed to be me driving around town playing 'onst onst' music, wearing some 'I be fly' over sized sunglasses and suggestively sizzling sausages at store openings, all the while liberally applying lip gloss and chugging Red Bull. That's not what happened. On my first day I was handed car keys. My palms broke into a cold sweat as I mumbled lame protests. The last time I had driven, I flew my car off a steep bank, rolling it three times, demolishing my car. Driving is not my strong suit. This I tried to explain, but my new boss glared impatiently. Down in the basement I was faced with, horror of horrors, a four wheel drive truck. It was a beast, a terrifying beast. I hadn't driven in years. Or in Wellington. Ever. Pulling out of the car park and I heard a terrible screeching. I had managed to jam the beast against the wall as I veered out, scrapping most of the paint off the left side. Approximately $2000 damage 15 minutes into the job. Check. Breathing deeply I ventured out onto the highway. I was heading to a nearby town for a store promotion, my boss driving in front. 'Fuuuuuuuuuuck' was the single all encapsulating thought that pulsated through my brain as I looked down at the cars, like tiny toys from the heights of the beast. Maybe I was following a little bit too closely because suddenly boss lady was right in front of me and the brakes weren't working. As I crashed into the back of the vehicle I saw her tight lipped face in the rear view mirror. Priceless. I shrugged. I had warned her. $6000 worth of damage in one day. Check.

Faux nurse

While in university I applied for various receptionist jobs. I made a shitty waitress and figured being a receptionist might be a good alternative. I went for an interview at a hair replacement clinic and got the job, starting the next day. My new boss handed me something in a plastic bag and smiled. "What's this?" I asked. As it turns out, that plastic bag contained a uniform. The next day I left the house tentatively to be greeted by honking cars and winking men. My uniform you see, was evocative of a slutty nurse. Bright white, tight, collared and zip up, it looked like I was auditioning for a role with a pole. I hung my head in shame and scurried to my job. Boss man explained the duties. Filing, answering phones, checking emails, stock take. A relatively breezy walk in the park. Then I was thrown the curve ball. Massaging clients scalps with weird machines. In my ridiculous uniform I would shut men and women into a room, all the while making nervous conversation and touch their scalps throwing various potions to inspire hair growth. Some had dandruff, some were sweaty, some were alarmingly sexy with minor thinning and others were the kindest lovely people I'd ever met. All combinations made me flustered and horrified. Then, a few weeks in, I became sick with a flu to end all flu's which involved talking incoherently at night about bags of cash and Tina Turner. My body broke out in a nasty body rash, my mind settled into a swampy fog. Boss man insisted I come in as surely I wasn't that sick. While in the midst of deliriously massaging a scalp and seeing plaid spots on the wall, I spewed down my bright white uniform, just missing my patients scalp. Lovely.

Hair terror

I've always been afraid of hairdressers. This somewhat rational fear can blamed on my mother who assured me at age seven she was just going to give my hair a wee trim. Scissors poised in hand I'll never forget that fateful snip snip snip. I got up and walked calmly to the bathroom mirror to inspect the minor alteration. What reflected back at me was terrifying beyond words. A shorter than short pixie boy cut. Hair poked out at alarming and terrifying angles. 

Obviously in shock I ran around the house crying hysterically and deliriously yelling 'How could you?!?!' for half an hour.

The next six months were scarring to say the least. One day swimming at our local pool two eight year old slappers came up to me and asked 'Why are you wearing girls togs?' I cowered mumbling that I was in fact a girl but this was lost, drowned out by their catty laughter.

I've asked my mother in retrospect why she made me look like a mutant boy in fluro prints and floral pastels and she simply shrugs her shoulders and says 'low maintenance'. I now have long hair. Any thing too short and I am seized with fear that I look in fact, male. I lopped off my hair a few years back trying a cute bob only to be greeted by my (now ex) boyfriend at our front door who told me solemnly 'I don't like it' and then turned and shut himself in the lounge.

With my tragic and sorrow filled hair history I am now faced with a daunting challenge. I need a trim. I live in Japan. Most Japanese hairdressers do not speak english. Therefore I am quaking in my boots. I am not willing to revisit my boyhood. Wish me luck.

Science appreciation

I love scientific illustrations. There is such a wealth of drawings, garage sales are sometimes a gold mine. I was no good at science in school. My teacher was very brilliant but got frustrated when I couldn't understand something. She yelled a lot. After 16 I shunned any interest in science forever.

My boyfriends Dad is both a very interesting man and a scientist. He knows about krill and barnacles and things I didn't know even existed. He even named a crustacean after his wife.  What I like the most is how passionate he is about his work. It's quite inspirational and makes me wonder what on earth I am doing. I appreciate so many things but when I go to take a tentative step in one direction my efforts are shaky and I feel like scratching them out before I have even begun. I guess you just have to be brave and say 'yes this is what I'm doing and even if I fail I really love it so that's that. The end.'

Hmmm

Gavin Hurley, I love you. It's like peering down a telescope and looking at our colonial history except there is way more colour, paper cut outs, fun and imagination. New Zealand art history 101 for dreamers.

I'll eat your fingers, I'll eat your toes

One of my best friends James once got bitten on the face by an irate girlfriend who he was (thankfully) in the process of dumping. He had an amazing round bite mark on his cheek for weeks. It was weird and hilarious. The situation would been much worse (or better?) if he had been one of Giuseppe Archimboldo's characters.

I've never been able to get over how amazing he is at mashing a pile of food together to create simultaenously likeable, grotesque and comic works of wonder.

When I was little my school had the human fruit and vege competition where you shaped a person through the inventiveness of carrots, peas, artichoke or whatever your parents happened to have handy. I was never very good, producing a pile of non descript food and submitting it as an entry. My brother on the other hand was magnificent, carving characters through a fusion of melon, cauliflower and potato. Giuseppe Arcimboldo would have beaten my brother for sure. Look at those pear noses!

Kids

You say 50's and I think floral aprons, glamorous housewives and white collar working men. I think of grandparents on pedestals telling us they would never have behaved as illicitly as we do and that it was a 'different set of rules back then.'

The gang kids pictured above called themselves The Jokers. They to were a part of the 50's, albeit the slightly seedier side. Roaming Brooklyn streets they did most things society told them not to. Loitering, tattoos, public displays of affection, boozy excess consumption and lurid dancemoves all fit the bill. 

Bruce Davidson followed the gang around and captured their lifestyle intimately. Famous for his significant images of the Civil Rights movement in the late 50s and 60s his smaller portfolios are starting to gain notoriety. Totally initimate and truthful, it's nice to know that kids can be kids, no matter what the era.

Interiors

In my 24 years I have lived on orchards with piglets and pet cows, in suburbia with clipped lawns and garden gnomes, and innercity apartments with unrelenting buskers and an interesting array of flatmates. My favourite residence to date, was when I lived in the middle of a forest up north, when I was just a wee thing. The sound of rustling trees, nearby streams and adventure for Africa was unbeatable. Our house was old and wooden with cane furniture, tapestry and impressive bookshelves.

 Dad took me to a neighboring forest one day and showed me a spot where a man had been killed and buried. The ground was sawdusty and there was a large mound which us kids took turns jumping over. The thought of a corpse beneath the ground scared me witless and excited me terribly.  The guy had been a drug dealer and had been murdered when a deal went wrong. Years later, I found out the man who killed him went crazy from the guilt and fear and comitted suicide as well.

Growing up, my parents had friends with cottages down long and winding paths. I thought they were all a bit mad with their herbal tea, musty books and dried flowers hanging from the rafters. Now I realise they weren't mad, they had imagination. (The last two pics are from my parents friends house).

Given that I have little pride im my personal space right now (I'm living out of a suitcase and a half at my boyfriends house before departure and we have let the room get ridiculously messy) all I seem to want to look at is beautiful, lust worthy interiors. There is so much inspiration and the way one interprets a space can be an incredible example of inventiveness, personal style and history.

A room, or a house to call ones very own is a truly wonderful thing.

Steinbeck

If you've never picked up a Steinbeck novel, I thoroughly recommend it. Although at first I thought they were 'boys tales' I quickly changed my mind and became totally engrossed with the characters laid out upon the pages. Winner of a Pulitzer prize and a Nobel prize for literature Steinbeck is a heavy weight in the world of fiction. When asked whether he felt his Nobel he replied "Frankly, no." I have to disagree.

Steinbeck on writing:

"The writer is delegated to declare and to celebrate man's proven capacity for greatness of heart and spirit—for gallantry in defeat, for courage, compassion and love. In the endless war against weakness and despair, these are the bright rally flags of hope and of emulation. I hold that a writer who does not believe in the perfectibility of man has no dedication nor any membership in literature."

Mothers day

In 1979 my mother and her sister were sitting in a milkshake bar in a small town called Ernakulam in Southern India. My father, a pig hunting, farm roaming salt of the earth type clapped eyes on her and that was that. My existence was a sealed deal. They were married within three months.

Bessy was supposed to have an arranged marriage and the communty was in uproar. The woman gossiped, sighed loudly and cursed the heavens (all the while secretely enjoying the juiciness of the scandal), the men smacked their foreheads in exasperation and indulged in heated debates accompanied by whiskey and late night cards. My stubborn mother stuck to her guns and gained the eventual support of her mother. This was all that mattered.

When they tied the knot a 1300 year old heritage was broken. In 700AD, 60 families from Syria made the voyage to India where they set up a new life. This community, called Canaanites, married strictly within the 60 families keeping the bloodline pure Syrian. Books were kept recording every birth, death and marriage and mum can track her lineage back 1300 years. My brother and I were wiped clean from the books and her heritage was snubbed out from the community forever.

After travelling through Europe mum moved to New Zealand with dad. With her family oceans away, unusual customs and climate and not a single friend but my father, it must have been lonely. She has built an amazing life for herself and the made the most of every opportunity given to her. Bess now has her MBA, manages a veternary and biomedical faculty at a university, cooks the best meals I have ever tasted and most importantly, leaves any boyfriend of mine quaking in their boots with her sassiness.

Happy mother day! x

Perve nation

    

I love Robert McGinnis and his pervy, sexy, OTT art work. It's all boobs, bikes, guns and the slightest hint of irony. He illustrated over 1200 paperback novels, mainly trashbaggery novels of foul play, mystery and seduction. His more famous works includes film posters for Breakfast at Tiffany's and Barberella

Orwell

Recently I was lucky enough to get my hands on an anthology of George Orwell's works. I'm still working my way though it and it's a struggle to put it down. My lunch breaks, bus rides and evenings have become lovingly devoted to Orwell. Tackling intense (and somewhat scary) themes such as social injustice, democratic socialism and his opposition to totalitarianism, Orwell's writing is clear, accesible and beautifully written. Never one to dress his words fancily or try to outwit his reader, his writing maps out questions about the society we live in and the moral and ethical codes we live by. Orwell lived through troubled times of turmoil, uprising and revolution as well as economic depression. World War two, the Spanish civil war and time in Burma provided him with material for insightful and somewhat bleak and honest novels about what power and corruption can do to human lives.