I’ve moved on to a much neater and swankier space.
I’m blogging here.
You can ‘like’ me on my Facebook page if you wish.
Come say hello!
I’m reading a book about guts.
It’s about gut bacteria. The book covers how having good gut bacteria can stop you getting gross runny noses that make you look like you’re seven. And how looking after your tum tum has been directly linked with the power to open the right golden suitcases of your mind to make insanely good decisions.
If you like to frequent some hip parts of the world you would know that Sauerkraut and kombuca (teaming with yeast and good gut bacteria properties) are ‘in’ right now.
But if you’re really hip, you should make your own fermented goods.
I bought a SCOBY for my kombuca for $12 off Ebay. If you don’t know what a SCOBY is, I suggest you Google it as that is where I get my trusted information. Some lady from the great southern lands of Tasmania posted it to me. It looked like a small breast implant floating in the wee of a dehydrated drunk man. So I made my fermented tummy drink and it didn’t stop my nose from running, nor did it help with my decision-making.
There’s something I’ve been thinking about lately that the book doesn’t cover. Gut feeling. As in:
“Listen to your gut feeling.”
You may believe in intuition and have a lovely rainbow aura and have a highly communicative bowel and gut system and know what’s up in your world.
It’s not something I’ve been very good at.
I feel a lot of things. Loads of things, somewhat acutely, it’s not just a gut feeling, it’s a mind, it’s a heart, it’s a left funny elbow bone with an opinion. There is a whole-body jury judging things, judging me. And often they fight one another, the mind rationally divides the situation while the heart squeezes tight. The gut just sits there, it’s sometimes left out from the decision, sometimes it is argued away.
But lately I’ve been sitting with my gut and wanting to know what it says. It’s quieter. It doesn’t judge so harshly. It’s okay with taking things slower – it can’t keep up with the mind, can’t compete with the heart with feeling the weight of the world so fully.
But it’s worth listening to more than eating another jar of saukerkraut.
For a few years I kept lists of books. This was more than just for pure bragging rights (although have you seen how many books I read in 2012? What a nerd burger!) it was also useful for remembering books, and it helped for recommendations.
If you’re a reader (weird breed of folk with clearly too much free time) you’ll be hit many times with the question, “What is your favourite book?”
It’s a hard one, and can you choose just one? Do you have one type of favourite food? Do you have one favourite song you listen to on repeat? Do you have a film that you’d happy to watch non-stop on a long haul flight?
Like food, songs and films what is deemed favourite depends on how we are feeling. There’s certain books I will be more drawn to then others. While I’m all for sexual liberation (if you dig whips and belly-wine, well, good for you) but thinking about 50 shades makes me 50 shades of nauseated. And not because erotic novels don’t have their place in the world. But moving on…
So if a good person asks me what my favourite book is, it might be easier to break it down to these categories:
Favourite books for a laugh
Favourite books for out of this world escapism
Favourite books by Australian authors
Favourite “it’s a classic” books
Favourite Non-fiction books
Favourite Higher-brow (probably has a sticker on the front for prestigious award) books
Favourite Genre-bending books (think literary meets sci-fi)
But there’s so many more…
It is a Sunday afternoon and the hours seem to drag, as they do on a Sunday afternoon. Too early for a shower, too early to start dinner, too early to slip into the comfort of flannelette.
Sundays are for shopping malls and supermarket aisles. Where we go to get lost and forget about our boredom among the bananas, the value pack of socks, a new type of cereal for breakfast tomorrow. It’s where purpose is as easy as making the choice between one brand of plastic-wrapped spaghetti to another.
There is joy in the small things on a Sunday afternoon. Even this feeling of endless time in this space is a privilege with a blanket on one knee. Stringing a few words together on a blog post is a delight. Grainy photos from the night before terrible, but perfect.
Conversations of the future are the present thing and my mouth is sore from opening and closing like a goldfish looking for new pebbles to suck on. My brain tired from beers and over-contemplation.
You could feel bitter on a Sunday. After reading the newspapers of beautiful people with beautiful manicured feet you may stare at your calloused feet and wonder what’s the deal here.
Or you could be okay with that.
I’m okay with that.
Estelle was in a good mood that morning, her tea was the perfect temperature and her floral flannel pajamas felt warm against her calves. Her house-mates had gone to work and the house was quiet.
A rare moment for her to hear her own heart-beat. There was nothing to do and no expectations. She was in a good mood and it came naturally to click ‘like’ on everyone’s statuses and updates on Facebook.
Like – the photo of the melted cheese sunrise that Renee Summers from high-school uploaded. Clearly gloating about her early bird discipline. Usually this would annoy Estelle but today she admired the girl she had once shared English class with.
Like – ‘Happy Hump Day!’ A second cousin. Yes, it was good that it was mid-week wasn’t it?
Like – ‘Should I have Nutri-grain or eggs for breakfast?’ Estelle empathised with Xavier Goodes’ indecision, as it was something she suffered with herself. But really Nutri-grain? Surely that was something only hormonal 14-year-old boys chomped through while simultaneously spraying Lynx under their pubescent pits? Xavier was 38.
Like – a picture of a fat, fluffy cat wearing a top hat.
Like – ‘Be Kind, everyone is fighting their own battles.’ So true, especially of the Facebook poster Aunty Meryl, who had happily declared at the last family Christmas that at 52 she still menstruated each month and as a side-note she loved G-strings. Aunty Meryl was not receiving so much kindness from her family as late.
Like – an article about this year’s Mile Franklin winner from a girl from Brunswick. Estelle was currently reading Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven but she appreciated the idea of literature as much as the next snobby arts degree student.
Like ‘Get into Aldi for bananas, $1.99 a kilo!!!!’
Estelle put down her phone, perhaps her generosity had gone too far. Although she made a mental note to pop in that afternoon because, well, banana smoothies…
After her morning ritual of scrolling through other people’s fragmented lives Estelle wondered what she should have for breakfast. The sun burnt its way through the window and the yellow rays stung the corners of her eyes. It was after 10 now, the sun looked like a light had come on it the sky. Now that she was updated on her feed Estelle felt a strange sense of hopelessness. She checked her email and the phone beeped in her palm, but it was only an email from Nature, Beauty and Health who reminded her to eat more garlic (IMMUNITY BOOSTER!) and asked her if she’d entered the competition to win a set of spoons (FAIR-TRADE JARRAH!)
Estelle wondered what people did in the mornings pre-Facebook. She tried to remember herself not having that little screen with statements and photos and silly You-Tube clips. She tried to remember what she had for breakfast previously, but it seemed too long ago, another life-time ago. She got up from the seat and put the kettle on. While it was boiling she picked up her phone, pressed on the blue icon and pulled the browser down with her bitten-down fingers.
The further we travel the more I lose things along the way. A lady I met believes it’s because I have a bad mental habit and convince myself it’s just what I do and then I do it more.
Perhaps i would take these comments on board if she wasn’t partially coconuts. She believed in many things like g-strings, unpacking all of her emotional baggage for frequent aeration and Home and Away.
But who am I to judge? She doesn’t lose stuff.
In seven months I have lost the following things:
Why do I lose stuff? It’s because I’m either worried about something (what to have for lunch) or day-dreaming (if only we had cheese and avocado and roasted pumpkin). I’m somewhere else, often in the toilet. And no, I wasn’t drunk when I lost any of these things.
I miss some of my lost stuff.
Though I do tend to think of my things as ‘stuff’ and try not to have too much attachment to them. It’s ego. It’s vanity. Maybe that’s why I’m a tad careless and give them to the world for free. Like my VISA card. That one wasn’t so smart was it? Maybe it’s just normal to lose things when you’re just on the road most of the time. But my boyfriend seems to have parted with only one thing. One bloody thing!
He’s got his shit together.
How about you, do you lose things often?