Mad January

Much like AFL players celebrate Mad Monday at the end of a football season, I celebrated Mad January after the end of a big 2009. Post Christmas and New Years there were a lot of things to do, and places to be, and dinners to enjoy, and people to catch up with. And on it goes.

2010 started with a bang for me. Quite literally, a bang. In fact, lots of bangs. From hammers and crowbars. Three days into 2010 my fiancé and I were standing in a beautiful old house from the 1940s, covered in dust and plaster remnants, and wondering how the hell we were going to turn the place around in three and half months and make it our home. Even now, a month on, we still wonder the same thing every now and again, but we can see the final picture (in our minds at least) and it looks good.

So, between renovating, planning our impending wedding, and gearing ever so slowly back into all the Onya Magazine work, January was mad. And that’s not even including all the aforementioned parties and dinners and drinks.

Now, sweet February has arrived and bought with it, albeit a diary full of scribbles and appointments, a sense of calm, purpose and dedication.

Taking a break, if you can call January that, was wonderful. But nothing beats being in the swing of it.

Weddings, Parties, Anything*: The Dress

First published in Onya Magazine, on December 16th, 2009.

I’ve discovered the third biggest and most popular question that faces any impending bride.

‘Have you got the dress?’

The first most common question is, ‘When are you getting married?’ And obviously so. The second? ‘Where?’ And the third, with almost more pressing importance than the others, is always about the dress.

To read the rest of the article, click here.

Alexander Nettlebeck Trio

First published in Onya Magazine, on December 16th, 2009.

Last night’s collaboration at Forty Five Downstairs, Melbourne is hard to pinpoint. It was jazz, but not always. Funk, but only sometimes. Salsa, for a little bit. Soul, in small sections.

The trio, comprised of Alexander Nettlebeck on piano, Jonathan Zion on bass and Simone White (from San Francisco via Sydney) on drums, was mesmerising. I often judge the worth of an act on the feeling it created, rather than the sound it generated. And last night, in the surrounds of Forty Five Downstairs’ archways and high pressed metal ceiling, I felt good.

To read the rest of the review click here.

Things I Love

I Don’t Do Drugs

First published in Trespass, on November 18th, 2009.

I don’t do drugs.

I’m not boring, or innocent, or prudish.

I just don’t do drugs.

I’ve never had the desire to, and I certainly don’t feel like I’m missing out by not doing them.

But then that’s spoken like a true clean person. Like someone who doesn’t know what they are missing out on. And I don’t. And I like it that way.

I know people who do drugs – not every day, just every now and again. People that light a joint a few times a week, or pop a pill to party. And I sometimes wonder, ‘How did you get there? When did you start? How does it make you feel? And do you really like it?’

One such person comments, “I started smoking pot when I was about sixteen. I hated it, but everyone else was doing it, so I continued to join in. Now, I’ll do it once or twice a week, just alone at home, because it really relaxes me and calms me down.”

Excuse me? If you want to relax, do yoga. Try meditation. Don’t smoke shit that whacks you out. Pot makes you paranoid. I’ve been around far too many people that can’t hold a decent conversation because they are overly conscious of everything they say, overly stressed out with every aspect of their life, except in the moments when they are high.

Another I asked said, “I don’t feel like I can have fun anymore without swallowing a pill. Alcohol just doesn’t do it for me, pot sedates me; I like having something that peps me up and gets me buzzing.”

And I find it terribly sad that someone should need to rely on a drug to get them excited about life.

I’ll never forget reading Kate Holden’s In My Skin – a memoir about the time in her life spent entirely addicted to heroin. A nice, quiet, middle-class girl that got hooked, and battled, for many, many years, a heroin addiction, prostitution and all manner of emotional and psychiatric conditions as a result.

The book was so moving, so honest, that I actually had to stop reading it in some points because I felt as though I was going to be physically sick. I sympathised with her, I truly felt for her, and sometimes I just couldn’t believe that this young girl was walking the same streets as me, but in very different shoes. I still can’t believe that upon looking back at her youth, the memories she has are ones so ugly and bleak.

She battled. She hated herself, hated heroin, but just couldn’t give up. And why? Because deep down, she liked heroin. In some tiny way she liked the way it made her feel. And as she attempted to stop using, she would do it ‘one more time’ because she liked the way it felt soaring through her veins.

Reading In My Skin taught me a lot; about judgement, and addiction, and pain, and justifications, and lies, and strength. Most of all, it taught me a lot about other people. And how easy it is for them to slip through the cracks. How their families may ignore them. Or their friends may encourage them. Or maybe no one has ever been there to really love them. It taught me to never judge another person, but, in the same moment, to never accept that what they are doing is ok, if you really don’t think it’s ok.

Some things are not ok. Some things are not cool.

Whether you use drugs once a year, or once a day, there’s no real difference – you use drugs.

The perception that marijuana is no less dangerous than other drugs is utter rubbish.  Whether its affects are noticed instantly, or in years down the track is irrelevant – it’s just not good for you.

And the justifications are hilarious.

“Drinking alcohol out of moderation isn’t good for you, so as long as I don’t use out of moderation, I’m fine.”

“People eat McDonalds and poison their insides too.”

“It’s a natural drug.”

Alcohol and McDonalds are bad for you. That doesn’t make your decision to shoot or light up any more reasonable.

Subject changing and fact finding is so prevalent when all people want to do is justify why they’re doing something. Everyone has a reason; because they can’t cope. Because they are stressed. Because they need a pep up. Because their friends made them do it. Because, because, because.

I’ve only heard one person come out and say, “I use, because I like it.” And I appreciate their honesty. Because the excuses and lies? They are just damn annoying.

And for my most favourite of all; “I do drugs to expand my mind and be at one with my creativity.”

Oh, ok, excuse me then. I must be terribly dull and entirely uncreative. I must not know what it’s like to imagine. Clearly I’ve got to be out of my mind to understand that.

The idea that to be creative, or moved, or to really feel, requires some sort of drug is utter bullshit. I prefer to keep my brain entirely in tact, thank you very much. That, I’m sure, will serve me much more in future than an ‘experience’ or two.

I sometimes wonder if I’m one of the rare few left that just isn’t interested in drugs. That chooses a good nights sleep over a pill to pep up. That’s learnt how to ‘be’ in the present to feel true calm, rather than puffing away to achieve it. I hope I’m not. Because I can already see the effects that drugs are having on a generation that has more potential than they’ll ever know.

If only they stayed clean long enough to see it too.

Weddings, Parties, Anything*: An Introduction

First published in Onya Magazine, on the 30th of November, 2009.

I’m getting married next year. In five months and one day, to be exact.

Before I tell you about that, though, I need to tell you about this:

I’m getting married to the most wonderful man.

It’s the truth. And I need to be truthful, to preface this column and all the rest that will follow, so that you understand something:

The love I have for my fiancé is beyond anything I can explain. As a writer, I was once told I should be able to explain anything and everything. And I can, except this one thing. Love. Not just any love, but the love I have for him, and with him.

We’ve been together for just over eight years. Whenever I say that, people gasp, because they think it’s such a long time. And it is. But those eight years have gone so fast. They feel like eight months. And I sometimes wonder if, when I’m an old woman, I will one day think of how the past fifty years have flown, and how they feel more like five than fifty. My fear is they will.

Even though time has flown, looking back it seems, paradoxically, that we’ve been together for a lifetime. So many moments. So many memories. So many brilliant, diverse, tiring, happy, complex times.

People ask the funniest things, especially after they find out we’ve been together longer than it takes to start and complete high school. ‘Do we get sick of each other?’ ‘Has the spark gone?’ ‘Aren’t you bored?’ The answer to all three questions is no. A big, fat no. My fiancé, Kaz, and I instantly clicked upon meeting. We then started going out. And then we went out some more. We never discussed our relationship, where it was heading or what we wanted out of it. We just liked each other, and we had fun. Seven years later I was sitting opposite him in a café and he proposed. That was probably the first time we talked about where our relationship was heading. We’re very organic in our lives – we live for today (probably too much than is sometimes wise) and go by feeling rather than reasoning more often than not.

People also ask if I was surprised when Kaz proposed, because really, after seven years, would I be? Yes, I was. I was utterly surprised and shocked. Never for a moment did I expect it. Sure, we instinctively knew that’s where it was heading, but I was surprised and touched when it happened. In seven years I had never moaned or whined about getting married. I’d never even thought much about it. That’s just not me.

I’m telling you this because I want you all to understand that first and foremost, Kaz is the love of my life and I am his. We believe in great, big love. A wedding, for us, is a way to celebrate and publically and legally acknowledge that love. We get that it’s not that way for some people. But for us it is. Most importantto us, is our love. Not canapé menus and tulle skirts.

We’re different from a lot of couples we see. From a lot that we know. Not better, not worse, just different. We’re disgustingly happy. We rarely fight, and when we do it’s usually diffused quickly because one of us bursts out laughing when the other is screaming. We get each other – down to the very core. We have the same values, but we’re not the same. We’re never bored, or stuck in a rut. We’re always talking. We’ll stand up and stick by each other, even when one of us has done something questionable. We don’t ask for each other’s permission to do or buy anything, because we’re both individuals and we both have minds of our own. And, as for the spark, it’s shinier and more electrifying than ever.

In books and movies and real life people grow apart and get bored, but we’ve only grown stronger, closer, fallen more in love than ever. I’m even convinced Kaz is better looking now than he was eight years ago. People look at us and assume we’ve been dating for six months, because apparently beyond three years or so you’re supposed to start hating each other.

I could never hate Kaz. I could never be out of love with him. Even when illness or death or something tragic tears us apart. I love him even though he sometimes annoys me when I’m tired or trying to do something else. Even though he misspells words. Even though he forgets things when I say specifically say, ‘Please don’t forget’. And he loves me. Even though I annoy him when he’s tired or trying to do something else. Even though I harp on about his misspelt words. Even when I say, ‘Please don’t forget’ four or five times in a row. And for people that think we’ve got it easy, and have never known an issue or drama, correct yourselves. We’ve individually and collectively been through more than our fair share of shit storms and problems.

So, before I could start a weekly column on weddings, specifically our wedding and the journey leading up to it, I needed you to know all that. I needed you to understand us. Because us will be featuring in these columns quite a bit. And for those of you wondering whether I have Kaz’s permission to write these columns, whether he’s horrified at the thought of them, I don’t and he won’t be. I only decided to start them this morning and I’m not going to bother him at work about something so minor. I told you, we’re different to other couples. I get him. And he gets that this is me:

I have not been dreaming of my wedding day since I was five years old. In all honesty, I’ve never dreamt of my wedding day at all. And even now, as an engaged woman on the wedding journey, I do not daydream about it half as much as what I’m probably supposed to. But I’m so excited about it.

As a result of not being wedding high half my life, I don’t have it all figured out. But I like exploring the options. My aim is to be the bride in a beautiful ceremony, and have a corker of a party. And neither of us has ever struggled with style or design or details so I’m sure we’ll be fine.

I’m no bridezilla. Yet. I don’t want to be one. It’s the antithesis of who I am. But I am sometimes impatient. And stubborn. So pull me up if you see me veering off the rails.

Lastly, I am proudly Australian and the Director and Editor-In-Chief of an online and soon to be print magazine that is all about celebrating every facet of Australia. So, naturally, my journey will not just be to plan a wedding that is magical and beautiful, but one that is magical and beautiful and supports Australian businesses. No, I’m not getting married under a gum tree in ugg boots and stubbies. I just really hate the shit that comes out of factories in China. And I don’t think lace has to be French to be pretty. And, heck, if I don’t, I’d kind of be a hypocrite to my beliefs and business.

Let’s see how hard it is to plan a wedding and support Australian businesses.

Or easy.

Until next week, your Bride-To-Be,

Sandi

*Weddings, Parties, Anything were an Australian indie folk rock band formed in 1984 in Melbourne, that continued rocking until 1998. Their name came from The Clash song Revolution Rock. I’ve decided to use it as the name for this weekly column because I was born in Melbourne in 1984 and love Australian indie folk rock. And I’m having a Wedding, Party, Anything in 2010.

Image credit: Kathryn Sprigg

Chi Chi

The Chi Lounge, located at 195 Little Bourke Street, Melbourne, is a divine venue for a few snacks and drinks with pals. It’s an eclectic mix of old meets new, Orient meets West. And did I mention the snacks and drinks are gooooooood?

Interview on Wordsmith Lane

I was interviewed by the lovely Sarah Ayoub over at Wordsmith Lane on being a writer, starting a business, taking Onya to print, my goals and the challenges I’ve faced.

To read the interview, click this link.

Why We Are Australian

First published in Onya Magazine, on the 27th of November, 2009.

I will tell you, first up, that Why You Are Australian: A Letter To My Children is a very, very good book. It’s an easy read – because it’s so beautifully and clearly written. It’s also an uplifting read. A book for anyone who needs reminding of why being an Australian is such a wonderful thing.

Nikki Gemmell is no stranger to bookshelves. She is the author of five novels; The Bride Stripped Bare, Shiver, Cleave, Lovesong and The Book of Rapture, as well as non-fiction work Pleasure. She has been called the female Jack Kerouac in France, and the US describes her as one of the few truly original voices to emerge in a long time. In her home, Australia, she is considered one of the most engaging and unique authors of her generation.

Why You Are Australian is proof of the above. What I love most about the book is that it’s real. It’s the real story of a mother, and a family, and a country. It’s honest and moving.

As an expatriate living in crowded London for the past twelve years, Nikki begins to achingly miss Australia. She decides to leave London, for three months, and spend the summer at home – to give her children a slice of the Australian childhood she had. One filled with sun and surf and gumtrees and space and fresh air. Her children, despite all being born in England, all hold Australian citizenship over British. Nikki needs to explain why she chose that for them. And she needs to show them why.

‘I want you to know what it is to be Aussie kids. Where playing barefoot is a signifier of freedom not impoverishment. Where a backyard’s a given not a luxury. Where sunshine and fresh food grow children tall. Where you know what a rash shirt is and a nipper, a Paddle Pop and a Boogie Board.’

Incredibly heartfelt and warm, the book is a pleasure to read. And it evoked so many memories of my own childhood. Every now and again it borders on repetitive, but not in an annoying manner – more as a construct to constantly remind the reader that some facets of Australian life are so important they must be repeated.

Whether Nikki decides that the Australia she remembers upon leaving, and the Australia as she sees it now is still the same, I will leave you to discover. And I will not spoil whether she, along with her husband, decide to leave London for good. What I will say, and now I’m repeating myself, is that Why You Are Australian: A Letter To My Children is a very, very good book.

The Last Days of Spring