I’ve moved on to a much neater and swankier space.
I’m blogging here.
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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.
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?
To you, my dear reader for reading some of my stuff.
I have been writing on this blog for over four years (I think) and it’s been kind of a mess. I was inspired by a writerly uni-mate who has a kick arse blog. Although my blog has never been as organised and my posting is sporadic it’s been a place for me to experiment with my writing, do reviews, stalk the Melbourne literary crowd of happenings (exhausting). There’s been recipes and unicorn stories and truths badly disguised in fiction.
One of the things I have enjoyed doing on Freedom Tights was my ‘Book That’ blog series in which many great people wrote about their personal experiences with a book they have read. If you think a book can’t change your life then read Ebonie Hyland’s piece and you’ll have to think again about the power of books.
I have been to blogging workshops which have told me how to make my blog the coolest kid on the block and get a heap of followers. Problem is that I needed to focus on one key area only and market the heck out of that. And where is the fun in that?
Freedom Tights has been and will most likely be a bit messy, but I’m cool with it.
And I’m cool with the fact that my most popular post is Devon and Chicken Loaf – the worst kind of meat there is. Feel free to join in with that trollin’ orgy going on in the comments page there.
Thanks again for your eyeballs!
His name was Root and he was to be my slave for the rest of the night. He was Dutch and when he first told me his name I thought he said ‘Roo.’
Roo would have been okay. I could handle Roo.
‘Root’ was another matter. But people name their kids all sorts of crazy things these days so you just have to accept that he may have been named after a part of a plant. Maybe it was a common name in Holland.
I was the cashier for the gig and he was the bar runner. He would do as I say which was commonly one of these things:
Bottle of red
Bottle of white
For I was a slave to the customers and their sweaty wads of cash.
If he had been a real slave and not getting paid $31 per hour (Sunday rates, same as me) I would’ve ordered him to perhaps, rub my feet (sore from the previous week of waitressing) buy me one of those delicious smelling pizzas in the van next to us and please, please pop that yellow pimple on your chin because, well, it’s a bit yuck.
I tried to be a good master, I tried not to yell out the orders but sometimes Root acted like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an on-coming truck. Was I the truck? Or was it the culprit the current customer, the aggressive Santa with the strong Aussie accent?
‘I SAID RED WINE MATE NOT BLOODY WHITE!’
Bad Bar Runner! BAD!
When it did slow down, the one slow moment where the crowd was not looking to intoxicate themselves – drunk on the music instead, PK’s ‘Dumb Things’ – Root and I danced a little. A sort of bopping from side to side in front of my cash register.
He told me that he had been in Australia for only a few weeks. He had done the WA coast in a week, because: ‘Why would you need more than that?’ Stopping at the attractions during the day and driving through the night. You don’t need longer than a day to see one beach. He had scored a job at the local IGA just by posting an ad on gumtree. You know those desperate ones like: ‘Good worker, single Dutch guy want work?’
Apparently they do work.
And then he had gotten the shift at the gig too. Like me, and ten others, we were donning black tees and serving a crowd of two thousand on Cable Beach.
By the end of the night Root and I parted ways without a single see you or, ‘I’ll add you to facebook’. Our relationship was complicated. He was free from the shackles of the bar and from me shouting orders.
I counted my till, it was up $6,000. It had been a team effort, but Root had fled before I could tell him of our achievements.
I didn’t ask to be the slave master, I wanted to be Spartacus – the good guy.
After the gig, feeling depressed and sorry for myself I went to Dominoes.
I ate a whole pizza.