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.

Day before yesterday

A few remaining things. A last wipe down. Tea leaves floating in my cup as the strainer is packed. Eggs boiled in the kettle – unsuccessfully as a last ditch attempt to a) eat any food before transporting it 350kms b) amuse myself in the absence of saucepans. Yes, that’s what its come down to folks. The stereo is packed away, beers stand around stranded without refrigeration, popping out upright out of green bags like soldiers looking around for a piece of the inaction.

My nails are split and the countdown is on before which one breaks. Things needed for a good move: sturdy shoes, water, caffeine at some point. Newspaper, lots of it.  Sense of humour. Check.  

Final goodbye to the local beach at 7 am this morning, all I needed to know about the day was in the sunrise. Red in the morning Sheppard’s warning.  Stormy out to sea, the sky purple over calm blue water like the sun was setting, not rising. And on the other side, behind the houses to the east a ball of gold sat fat behind another bank of clouds.

I woke up from a dream where I was sticking a squash game date and time to the front of a fridge. I couldn’t decide which night I wanted to play squash, there were so many options! It was a good dream.  One of many things I am looking forward to. Threads of normality will weave a safety net underneath me. As I move from this place to the next.  The programs I watch on telly, the mates I speak to on the phone, the newspapers I read, this blog I will continue writing. The food I will keep cooking and the music I listen to.  The sport I play, the plants I tend to, the love I dream of.  I may still grieve to leave Adelaide, I won’t know until 50 kms north of Port Wakefield. What’s that tiny place with the purple salt lake and the tyre Lochness Monster? The one ABC presenter Peter Goers can’t get enough of? Jesus, I’ve promoted it…driven through it a kazillion times. (Lochiel!)

I’ve washed my face and tied back my hair, found a stick of deodorant in my squash bag.  This is as close to showered as I'm going to be today. Now I wait, and know what they mean by ‘sitting pretty’.  I look forward to living among people I can relate to, sans Jaguars and huge mansions with unoccupied rooms.  When people build these houses, do they think they will stay there forever? 

I now sit and wait for the removalists. Professionals in packing, box fitting, lifting and securing objects, the masters of furniture puzzles. God bless removalists everywhere. God bless my mum who has paid for these guys to move me. Rain is on its way. 

I sit still and feel the early tremors of a new life begin to unfurl and take hold inside me. 

Memories and Dreams

Daylight savings says it's one time but my body says it's another. The morning light is clean and new and I'm sad about saying goodbye to the little things, now. The way light spills through the lounge room window in the morning, giving everything a glow. The sounds of neighbors getting up and into the day with slams of dustbin lids, back doors and shuffling along the back fence we three neighbors share.

Empty Henley Square at 5.30pm Grand Final Day

I've awoken with my dreams still lingering as memory, rising like the curls of steam from my morning cup of  tea. A dog barks blocks away. I don't want to miss a thing in these last 48 hours in this my neighborhood of 2 and a half years. I dreamt about walking around a large outback lake with other walkers following us. Becky Hirst was leading the way and I was worried our friend Katie wouldn't find us because we were so far 'back up the track'.

In the dream, it was hot. I had peeled old colourful paint off the side of an old 19th century building, I wondered if it was a film set? And then I was laying long pieces of stripped paint on the floor wondering about outback trade across Australia 200 years ago, and would 300 yards of muslin really cost six shillings to transport across to Perth, as the writing below me said?

Back in Somerton Park, through my front window I see a walker waiting for his dog wait at the end of my street, deciding which direction to go in. They turn and walk away from the beach. A girl rides by chattering to her dad, enjoying the morning's adventure.

I'm grateful to be alive, to want to get into every minute of every day. I'm nervous about the unknown, of course, but hope I can hold onto this love for life and a sense of belonging in a neighborhood. It amazes me how a life can fit into boxes sealed up with sticky tape - I expect them to burst open and get on with living the way this move has taken 4 weeks to happen from an idea to a reality.

This move is sponsored by Lenswood Apples

It is amazing what a person can get used to.

Unemployment Never Felt So Good

Ok.  I know people are reading, which is great - but I only have 4 followers. Not that I want the 'Cult of Sue' - you know that would be a great band name, but all they'd do all day long is read stuff and fancy a cup of tea now they...... ARE OFFICIALLY UNEMPLOYED.

But wow, I must say, unemployment never felt so good. The title of this blog. Bound to get some its by hardworkers....? C'mon, you know you want to follow me.... join up, don't be a sissy...

What a life. A good life! Beautiful. Saying goodbye....supported, loved, thankful, greatful, gentle, wonderful! Great workmates, great friends...the week of the long goodbye is washing up to be a fabulous end to a great chapter. I'm surrounded by A-grade people. This is the best, most rewarding goodbye, ever.

Gush, gush, gush...its ok. Im about to say g'bye to the squash crew, and they're bound to put me right!

Let!!

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.

The week of the long Goodbye

It's started, finally. The week of the long goodbye has arrived and this time they are fun! No slinking off into the outback this time. This time it's a square on look at my gorgeous friends in the eye and saying "Jesus, this is really happening."  Mostly, I love their reactions, from shock to surprise, to shaked heads and cocked eyebrows (!).

I'm having all sorts of interesting conversations with people on this last whip around.  With the MBA crew at a rather long lunch in Cibo, talking about  our final assignments, trying new things and how each of us have changed through the past two and a half years of postgrad study. How could we be the same after dealing with the oddballs in group work, drinking dodgy campus coffee and surviving the Managerial Finance exam - the nerve test for all MBA students sans engineering degree? That's a regular lunch date right there.

With Kim at the Espie over cold beer, talking about our sense of god and spirit and how do we find it and what does god look like if you draw it? Is god ok with not having a capital G?  How dog is god backwards.

Kim said "Wow, you look glamourous!" as I gave her a hug in welcome.
" Yeah, that's just my make up holding up my face. It's still returning from Perth and is an hour and a half behind."  I replied.
It's been a big week.

All the talk of god, as I was riding home  I decided to visit the Brighton Cemetry and walk among the dead. As I rode through this space of bones and tombstones I thought of how we remember others, the things they did, how they loved us or not. You can' tell much from an inscription about the way someone lives. I kept my bike moving, not a soul around. Quiet. Noone visiting. Wind in the trees. Cracked cement and lots of faded fake flowers. A grave dug up, I wasn't going near it. Not superstitious, but I didn't want to explore that much. Bones are all that's left at the end of a life, the skeleton that holds us up.

I left the way I came, the cemetry was large and I was feeling a little depressed. There's plenty of time to visit when Im dead. Not even spirits want to visit a graveyard. No ghosts in sight. All busy at the bar in heaven, talking about Dog.

Sunday morning, popped in to have a final cup of coffee with the neighbours, Mary and Paul McCabe.  Paul still in his dressing gown, at 11am and loving it. Me too! He knows how to live. The most well connected Adelaide couple I know. In their 80s, their networks and family stem across the country. They are great lovers of the bush, horseraces, a good laugh and sharing stories. While I was there, two other visitors popped in and the stories just got better.

"Remember so and so? Married to so- and so. Lived on XYZ street, two blocks from so-and so. Had ten kids, the youngest related to the Connors." And so on. Couldn't keep up with them!

Sunday at the Wheatie, a fabulous Adelaide pub frequented by musos, roller skaters, gay friendlies and locals....  Sitting at the bar, waiting for 3pm to roll around and for more of my crew to come by for a drink. The bar door opened and a guy and girl walk in. I think, "Man, he looked like someone I knew..." and immediately switched off. The a big hulk of a man approached me and my jaw dropped. I thought he was in the States!?

"No way!"  I said blinking in disbelief clambering off my bar stool.
 "Yes way!" he responded with the biggest bear hug of recognition. Yes way! It was Chris Vargo from Alice Springs, some 5 years ago since Ive last seen him. Just popped in for a coldie before he hits the road to Port Augusta with new g-friend Emily. Didn't plan it, but travellers up the Track find one another when they need it the most.

Other crew rolled in - old uni mates, Alice friends, family, squashies and niece, the bonkers British crew (you know who you are - keen lovers of the Track),  best ever housemate... Sunday afternoon sesh ended with pizza and an open fire, a fine way to say ciao, for now.