Hanging Out the Shingle

Perhaps if I were as committed to personal relationships as I find myself to my business, I would be in a very different place.  However, pontificating about what may be is about as useful as a bumblebee with slippers.  All I know is as I go about the daily task of setting up printers, deciding if I need a fax line, meetings to find opportunities, that I have never felt as deeply determined, excited and focused about a relationship, as I do about giving my business everything I've got to get it on its feet and making progress forward.

I wonder about where my business could take me, and occassionally consider the sad realisation that yes, it might fail, but at least I won't die wondering if there's a market for my skills in the 'back blocks' of SA, as my friend Jill calls the Far North. It doesn't escape me that starting a business consulting business in Quorn sounds a little crazy. There is something about 'contrasts' that work for me in a creative way - the peace  and nature of this area contrasts beautfully with the busy - ness in my head, the needs of industry across the region especially in the next 12 months as BHP Olympic Dam expansion gets going and trades and contractors position for their own growth.

I haven't found that big cities are full of opportunity and friendly people. I haven't found that regional areas are empty and desolate and full of nothing. I think back to the beautiful poster in Alice Springs for a concert with Paul Kelly protest gig for the traditional owners fighting nuclear waste dumping that read  "We are Not No-One and this is Not Nowhere." That's how I feel about outback Australia. It has such personality, it's a living, providing thing.

This past two weeks, I have experienced the nitty gritty details that sole traders in start-ups face...which email address, what phone socket, which insurance company, who will do my website,  and on and on it goes.  But, I can see it working in my mind's eye; my vision is clear.  Im not sure if I can tap into a paying market this side of Christmas, but I have plan B. And with or without the Gods of Business and Market Forces, I'm going to try and find it. I'm well aware some people dislike my determination, but it's gotten me into and out of some tricky situations in the past. It's amazing where pure tenacity can get you.

It's not all plain sailing. I've had a few sleepless nights, lying awake, blinking in the dark and listening to the nocturnal sounds of my old Quorn house creaking and  settling;  I'm alert, but not scared, just frustrated ...body tired, but brain-wired.  1am, 2am Jesus Christ will you go the fuck to sleep! 3am. Ok this is ridiculous, as I know I will not be getting up for the 9am start back down to Adelaide.... but I did, to clean the flat, drink beers with friends and returned back up to Quorn to breathe relief that finally I am 'home'.

Dirt in my Cup

A woman with power - and I don’t mean spiritual or economic power,  I mean actual electricity - can do anything.  Such as, make a cup of tea, and feel like it will all be ok.

I have arrived in Quorn, done a lap of my house and unpacked my small but very reliable car. Now I wait for the kettle to boil, and the removalists to come. Just like yesterday, but 330 kilometres north on a map. Little things about a house I forgot – how sticky the front door is, how the knob comes off in my hand when I pull it open, how the fireplace handle does the same. How awesome the floor tiles are in the kitchen, and what a cool kitchen it is.  How down lights make everything look glamorous.  How I love the bathroom’s groovy green, and didn’t he do a great job painting that door? Yes, I remember where the hook is for the mirror. And I see how the house has aged a little, the rain swelling the French doors and the cracks in the soft, damp walls.

How I always need to piss so bad when I get to Quorn as I don’t stop north of Lochiel, and trying to open the door with foreign keys while hopping around with my ass sticking was an unconsidered but memorable first impression for the neighbours, slowly driving by.

I filled the kettle up with rainwater – straight from the tap and feeling very Goode Life  ( 1970s TV show, not the gourmet pizza place) and set it to boil. Went to pour a cup of tea and it came out brown from the jug - gross! Is this my water? Brief panic sets in. What am I going to do without someone to tell me what to do? Runs through my mind. No landlord, no boyfriend/builder, no neighbours who I know, no strata title, no housemate.   

Who will I ask about ‘country things’ like what switch to flick to go over to mains, and who has a bobcat and where can I borrow a lawnmower or will I have to buy my own? She who can’t bring herself to buy a decent vacuum cleaner – yet.    Eek! City Slicker Panic Sets In!

Notice in the Quorn Trader reads, “Unemployed single female homeowner seeks experienced country person for brief liaisons about essential regional matters. Reply by homing pigeon due to no network coverage at present.”

Some saner more wise part of me, I’ll call her ‘Country Sue’, (no relation to Sue Ellen or Suzie Beth), lets the water run til its clear – fucking genius, eh? And start again. Moral of the story; if you say you are going to love the country, you have to be prepared to get a bit of dirt in your cup.

Neighborhood watch

Coming home from the last committee meeting I'll ever attend, I turn off the car radio and darken the dash board lights. Streetlights flick over and above me.  I just want to hear the sound of tyres on Anzac Highway headed west for Glenelg. Don't want the distractions of radio noise, or to think anymore. This month has been too big for my tired brain.  I think of  a good friend of mine, Casey, diagnosed with depression and hallucinating at work. Her brain ceased to function. Just could not work out how to move her hands to move the damn computer. She couldn't believe she had 'depression', more like complete malfunction.

I cruise in the silence, blissful. Breathing, quietly the sound of my breath soothing me. Shoes kicked off and air coming in through the windows. My body gears down one more level. Head for Holder St to find my tree. I've navigated my neighborhood by this massive gum tree; it dominates west Hove, towering above houses with branches reaching an forking out  30 metres and more.  It's the granddaddy of trees, stretching elegant, tall and silent. My ritual is to drive slowly underneath it with my headlights turned off, just to see the silvery bark glow in the darkness all above me, moving gently like octapus arms, watching over the neighborhood.  I love that tree.

I do it again, one last time.