On jet lag

Jet lag is not dissimilar to a hangover, but without the accompanying guilt or self-blame. I am confused and tired, foggy and forgetful, emotional and numb. And full. So very full. But with what?

I sit in a mediocre pub near my house, drowning the prog rock out with headphones playing Florence & the Machine, and my chest hurts. Because despite my 26 hour flight, it feels as if some vital part of me has been left on the other side of the world.

And I think of Poland’s grey streets and brown buildings and trees that rain tears in the wind. And the cafe with atrocious service that serves the most perfect breakfast of French bread with an egg and a pot of jam.

And the way the men could make their interest in me known without saying a word; the respectful simplicity of it.

And the theatre. My God, the theatre. The impeccable artistry of the performers with their 4 to 5 years of gruelling training. And the realisation that with great performers, even an average show is watchable.

And I sit here and try not to cry. Because while these inner west streets are my home, I’ve been shown something that is so primally *mine* that my body is screaming to be taken back.

Since childhood, whenever I walk through a field on a sunny day, something within me expands and a nostalgic feeling presses against the inside of my chest and skull, drawing tears. I’ve never understood it.

But on this trip, when walking through a meadow on the way to Radegast Station, this same feeling overwhelmed me. And I understood.

My body had been looking for this land my entire life without me realising it. The body remembers. It’s remarkable.

And someone I greatly respect said to me today, “Life is a mere blink, you know that. Your spiritual home is Poland and Poland will nurture and enable your passion. If you don’t give it a chance, it will haunt you in later years.” And I think, maybe he’s right.

Maybe this striving towards some goal that I’m not even sure I care about—success, children, an open-plan home with mid-century furniture—is just a distraction. It’s an idea of satisfaction that convinces me I’m doing what I love. It’s a path born of expectation, not the heart.

And so

And so.

And so.

And now.

On fear and racism.. and not texting at night.

A thing happened to me tonight walking home.  In the grand scheme of horrible things it’s not that bad. I wasn’t beaten or raped or stabbed. But I’m sitting here shaking and shocked nonetheless. Because I couldn’t get through to my boyfriend to pick me up. So I started walking home in the dark. And there were footsteps behind me. And I didn’t look behind me because I work so hard to not be that person. To trust people. To see the good in strangers, first and foremost. So as I reached a quiet intersection, and he came up next to me, and he was a tall, young, black guy in a dark hoody, I didn’t put my phone away because fuck stereotyping people based on their age, or skin colour, or what side of town they grew up on. And then I was crossing the road, in my naïve goodwill, texting my mum, and then he was sprinting up behind me, and he was grabbing my phone, and he was running away. And I yelled out. And then I froze. And I started crying.

And then, like the mad Polish woman I am, I chased after him in the dark. And a couple in their car heard me scream “you fucking cunt” and chased him down. The kid, and his mate. And the kids stopped and dropped my phone. And then ran away.

And I’m sitting here crying, shaking, in shock, with a weird ache in my gut, and I say FUCK THIS SHIT. Fuck the fact that they were black and that I can see how racism worms its dirty way in to people. Because people attribute the act to the skin, rather than the person. And fuck those two punks for killing my bravery. And fuck the world for bringing those kids whatever set of circumstances led them to that decision tonight. Because with the shock and the anger is sadness for those numskulls and their own life experience.

And all I can do is hope that my resolve remains. And that I will feel ok walking alone at night again. Because above all I say fuck you to fear, and its destructiveness, and I will continue to fight to the death for my conviction in the goodness of people.

It's a Redfurore AKA chill out Redfoo

Reading about this Redfoo thing, I can't help but be reminded of the time a certain Aussie playwright got really upset that "unintelligent" people were taking offence at his script, and went on a rampage of Twitter blocking and Facebook defriending.

Offence is offence. It's everyone prerogative to be offended by whatever they feel offended by. Should artists worry about every single way in which they may offend someone before releasing a piece of work into the world? I don't think so, no. Where's the opportunity for subversion and change if we all tread carefully?* But if something does offend people, you've gotta suck it up buddy. That's the price you pay for publicising your personal take on the world, and making money from it.

To make public claims that people just "don't get it" is puerile and kinda sad. Deal with it, learn from it (or not, if you stand strongly by your artistic decisions) and let your legal team deal with the ramifications.

Don't hate on the haters. It just makes you look petty.

*I'm not advocating for Redfoo, just so's you know. While I do believe that discomfort is a natural response to new representations of sensitive issues, in this case, Redfoo's just written a really crappy song that offers nothing remotely new or interesting. But that's just my opinion.

Read more about the Redfoo saga here.

Peter Temple via Jack Irish

He can write. The man can.

From the novel Black Tide by Peter Temple, soon to be made into a telemovie starring Guy Pearce.

Obralem Dziemnaga

Polish-Australian wonder-brothers Jacek Koman & Tomek Koman with a very special guest star in a short film promoting the upcoming Melbourne International Film Festival.

No points for recognising the guest - whose pronunciation, in Polish, of "I peeled a potato" sounds something like "I beeled a bodado" - but kudos if you can name the band for which Jacek is the front-man.

Australian Citizenship Test

Please complete and submit results.

Our National Apology

There are certain events in history that, as a blogger, one cannot ignore.
Today the Australian government said sorry to the indigenous people of Australia for the 200 years of pretty shitty treatment they've received at the hands of the white fellas. In particular, the systematic removal of mixed-race Aboriginal children from their parents, known as the Stolen Generation, who were then placed in missions and trained up as servants for the white folk.
And this morning, sitting at Ici in Fitzroy with a friend who I hadn't seen in almost a year (and who I'd collected from the airport at 6am), reading the apology (which covered the entire A2-sized front page of The Age), I got a wonderful sense of things being right in the world. A temporary feeling I know, but sweet nonetheless.


Gerard Ellis (stolen 60 years ago), in Canberra for the apology.