Bethberry with her g-LOVES - knitted with tencel acrylic; heart in felt and red cotton
…which means my list still looks like this:
Gloves I’ve been making for Ange and Beth
A commissioned painting
Monty, post-Ndizi
Piano lessons with Hayley
My unexpected life as a smitten kitten
“Significant things” including an epic holiday
I’m sure I’ll cover the final four items at some stage. The final can’t be written without writing the penultimate, and that piece still requires thought (serious risk of getting overly gushy and ridiculous).
…so I’m going to queue jump. A colleague had a friend who thought that was pronounced “kway-way”, so now every time I type “queue” I say “kway-way” in my head. Sometimes I even find myself mouthing it. Anyhoo…
My Mum broke her arm in spectacular fashion on the weekend, and has been staying with me since. It’s fortunate we’re such good friends, because my home is not exactly large. Between her pain meds sleepiness, and my penchant for staying up obscenely late, the fact I have one bed and one set of keys, and Monty’s tendency to get possessive, we could have come to blows. But no. It was quite fun really. Would have been nicer if she wasn’t in pain and annoyed, but it was still a great excuse to spend a few evenings hanging out with her.
While she was in the city, my grandparents and aunt also happened to be here, so we all went out for dinner.
My aunt is a fan of Audrey Hepburn, so my grandma commissioned me to paint an Audrey painting for her (actually, she asked to buy an old one, but I am appalled by it and couldn’t allow anyone to own it, so I painted a completely new one). I usually paint/draw Audrey in very classic poses and moods, but I stumbled across a photograph of her wearing far heavier makeup – particularly in regards to her lipstick – than usual, and looking far more serious… verging on sad. It had such depth, I had to paint it.
Audrey Hepburn. Acrylic on canvas. 12x12"
It was so lovely to paint for someone I love, whilst painting a face I love.
Mum sat next to me as I painted most of the latter part of this piece; it was the first time someone had watched me paint, which was a bit odd. But hey, at least now people know I’m not keeping someone in my wardrobe and forcing them to paint whenever I want income.
Because I’m sure that was the assumption.
Wasn’t it? That’s what you’re all thinking, wasn’t it?
So now I’m going to try to work out where to begin when it comes to the outstanding promised pieces. It’s a very pleasant thing to dwell upon… Happy thoughts indeed. I’ve been waiting for August for what feels like forever. Now it’s here, and I still can’t believe my luck.
Creating any kind of commission is always a good thing, but it’s especially wonderful when it’s both for someone you love and a style of art/craft that you love.
Recently the wonderful Monstar asked me to paint a portrait of her with her lovely boyo, Stephen, for her to give him as an anniversary gift. Even more exciting for me is that she wanted it in the style of The Inspiration Collection, which means I was comfortable and familiar with it, and had some experience with the technique.
Mon & Stephen. Acrylic on canvas. 16x24" (I think!).
A handful of months ago I bought a ukulele, inspired by the likes of Ben Abraham and Amanda Palmer.
It was shiny and black and gorgeous, and looked like this:
Black Mahalo soprano ukulele
I had tried to learn to play the guitar previously, but had failed. Miserably. It felt huge and clunky, and my fingers never sat comfortably on the fretboard. I figured a uke would be easier (amusingly one of Amanda Palmer’s latest album packages comes with a bumper sticker that with a picture of a uke and text stating “The guitar even a woman can play!”). Turns out it was far, far easier, and I’m now addicted.
A few months ago I received a delicious Evelyn Evelyn package, including a painted uke. It was beautiful. And despite being identical to my black uke, in terms of brand, style, size, etc, I gave up on the original immediately and only played the pretty one.
Quite recently some rather amazing plans have come together which mean I’m going to be travelling to Europe in a few weeks. Of course, I want to take a uke with me (pianos are cumbersome, and the idea of being instrument-free is just too weird to spend much time pondering) and have recently scored a brilliant soprano uke Rockcase…
Then came the dilemma of which uke to take. The boring one? Or the one I’d be more disappointed to lose or damage?
So I came up with the solution of painting my black uke.
I have to admit it turned out far better than I had hoped, and that it’s one of the few artworks I have created that I am genuinely delighted by. Anyone who knows me knows I pretty much never have good things to say about my art, but I think this uke is quite beautiful.
Apologies for the pics – iPhone and dodgy lighting.
Black Mahalo soprano ukulele, painted in acrylics, and varnished
Black Mahalo soprano ukulele, painted in acrylics, and varnished
Black Mahalo soprano ukulele, painted in acrylics, and varnished
Black Mahalo soprano ukulele, painted in acrylics, and varnished
Black Mahalo soprano ukulele, painted in acrylics, and varnished
I had been deliberating over a design for quite some time, mostly throwing ideas back and forth with my Kelfishy. The initial plan was for something Wizard of Oz themed (a perennial favourite of mine) but I couldn’t settle on a design. Then we discussed bubbles, and flowers, and animals… and eventually is dawned on me that Kelfishy herself was the perfect subject.
We’ve long had a joke of calling each other Kelfishy and Jenfishy. This has been going on since we were teenagers. At one point there were even long poems of couplets.
So I decided to paint a red fish and a blue fish. At first I was thinking something Dr Seuss, but decided to set myself a new challenge; a new style of art I’d never tackled before.
A lovely Saturday of painting, and I’m happy.
Definitely keen to take on uke-art commissions. Best canvas ever. Send me your ideas for a quote.
jx
Black Mahalo soprano ukulele, painted in acrylics, and varnished
I’ve really dropped the ball on the whole blogging lately, haven’t I?
The wonderful thing is that it’s because I’ve been distracted (Ani DiFranco on Living in Clip style), and I’ve been busy with fun projects and crazy deadlines.
I’ve been making cabled fingerless gloves for lovely people like Ange and Beth:
Cabled fingerless gloves
I’ve been crocheting Arlo is a Pirate:
Arlo is a Pirate. Crocheted. Approx 10cm tall.
I’ve been painting a commission that has been very, very special to make (more on that another day, once the recipient has his gift).
I’ve been painting my black ukulele.
I’ve been having dinner with my brother and his wonderful girlfriend.
I’ve been listening to (and dancing to) Amanda Palmer’s new album, Amanda Palmer Performs the Popular Hits of Radiohead on her Magical Ukulele. It only costs 84c (US), but I would suggest you pay far, far more than that… because that means Amanda will have more dollars with which to play with in order to produce even more music. That is how the world works, people. Or how it ought to, anyway. In AFP’s case, she’s ditched her label (well, been ditched by request) and only charges enough for her music to cover costs. It’s up to the consumers to decide what they want to pay in terms of a contribution to her, personally. Pay her lots. And then a little bit extra, please. (That said, if you can only afford the US 84c, pay it and you’ll be rewarded with a fantastic album. You can help her by spreading the word about this album on Facebook, via your blog, or by Tweeting about it using the hashtag #UkuleleHead).
I’ve been writing and recording last minute birthday songs on video. Amusingly, I made this whilst wearing my PJs and no makeup, reading the lyrics as I went because I’d only just made up the song, and figured only Miss Mary – the birthday girl – would ever see it. Then I showed one other person. They’ve both now shown pretty much anyone who’ll watch. So to hell with shame and any street cred I might have once had. Here’s Mary’s birthday video (sound glitches a few times):
I’ve been giving piano lessons (well, a lesson. Well, the start of a lesson, which diminished into drinking red wine, gossiping, sharing life stories, and singing Radiohead online with the uke) to someone absolutely delightful. Again, more on that another day. It needs its own post if only to elaborate on Montoya’s crush.
I’ve been dancing, and teaching other people to dance.
I’ve been spending a lot of time talking to someone amazing… and THAT is certainly for another post. For now I’ll say I’m potentially the happiest and luckiest woman on the planet. No hyperbole intended. Really.
Generally, I’ve just been loving the life I live. Of course there are moments of head-desk, or the wearing of cranky pants, or being a bit mopey (particularly about time zones and distances), but overall things are very bright and shiny.
There seems to be a lot to laugh about.
Even this morning I managed to get a good chuckle out of emptying my coin jar in order to buy milk at the cornerstore; the cashier thought I was completely insane with my coat pocket full of silver coins, and the little piles of change I made on the counter to pay for my milk and my bottle of Coke**, and kept trying to put me off my counting so I’d have to start again.
Then I was walking home from the cornerstore I heard a loud, “Hi Jen!” from the other side of the street. In my day to day life I don’t tend to bump into people I know. I see people I know in places I expect to see them – colleagues at work, friends at their houses, etc – but very rarely seem to just run into people in public. This is primarily because I’m a bit of a hermit, and somewhat antisocial. But today when Megs, a friend and colleague, was out walking with her husband and daughter and yelled out her hello that made my morning even more sparkly. I know that’s lame. I know that a brief silly encounter with a shop keeper is a ridiculous thing to count as a happy moment in my day.
But I do.
That’s how life is at the moment.
There are far more significant things (as I’ve said, future posts) that are having a hugely positive impact on my life, and they’ve worked that fabulous magic that means I’m now open to seeing the littler moments of happiness too.
It started in January when I began Vedic Meditation. Since that time life has progressively brightened. I am open to new ideas, I am less affected by negative people, I find myself surrounded by amazing people, food tastes better, there are more colours in existence, I’m better equipped to help other people, there are more opportunities for creativity and expression… and while – for the time being – money is still a complete and utter pain in the arse (my tax “return” left me with an invoice for $4,500 to be paid to the tax office ASAP. Sigh!), everything else seems to be heading in the right direction. Yes, bad things still happen, but from anything like this goodness flows. Wow, there’s another blog post I need to write: Monty, post-Ndizi.
But for now I’ll go back to my happy Saturday of knitting, trying to perfect my cheese roux, afternoon yoga, and ukulele painting.
jx
PS. Nomatter what the focus or overall mood of your life at the moment, share one snippet of happiness in the comments below… Go on… you know you want to…
** Yes, I’ve kicked the caffeine. Coke is a “sometimes food” (thank you, Cookie Monster) for occasions such as parties, Saturdays of relaxation, moments of utter exhaustion (like after my “fun” trip to the RTA earlier this week… fuckers)… and yes, I can justify it pretty much any time I want some. Which isn’t nearly as often. Approximately 12 litres a week down to less than 1 is pretty kickarse. Win.
Yesterday I had a delightful day shopping with a very special friend; lately I’ve been mentioning people and places and events that have lead to people asking questions bout the blog. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that you don’t all live inside my head, so you don’t know everyone I know, and that you haven’t been everywhere I’ve been. So every now and then I figure I’ll introduce someone properly.
This is Kel.
Kelby (right) and me. 2003.
I have two very special Kels in my life. I find it funny that they’re so different, and yet are the two people with whom I happily share everything. Must be the name.
For the purpose of differentiating between the two I tend to call this Kel, Kelby-Lou or Johnson, and the other Kel, Kelfishy.
Kel and I met in my second last year of Uni. I was going through an interesting phase during which nothing inspired me, everything was slowly going splat, and I was a bit lost. At some point I decided that this was due to boredom (in hindsight? No.), so I added another degree to my course workload at Uni. Smart move, right?
On my first day studying Education it dawned on me that the vast majority of the other students had been studying this topic for at least two years already; I had snuck in to the course sideways using the first two years of my psych degree as prerequisites. So when, during this first class, they announced that we’d be starting prac placements in the next week or two I was a little, well, shocked. I think the extended version of WTF escaped my mouth at the time.
Fortunately for me I was sitting next to someone who had also only started that day, sneaking in the same way but on the basis of a linguistics degree. We both raised our eyebrows dubiously, muttered to each other about how it might be good to learn something about teaching before being expected to apply our skills… and that’s how Kel and I became friends.
From there it was an insane rollercoaster of break-ups, buying houses, drunken parties, hospital trips, travelling, two marriages, two divorces (I think this is just proof of how much we inspire each other… ??), and changes in both our families. Most significantly in all of this, I feel, was the loss of Kel’s amazing mum to cancer a little over a year ago. I loved Kel’s mum. I only actually met her half a dozen times, but I always felt so welcome in their home. And she thought nice things about me, which always helps. Once I rocked up so Kel and I could go out dancing. I was wearing (as only a Uni student would!) a hot pink tartan mini-kilt, black fishnets, kneehigh Doc Martens, and a black top… Marilyn turned to me and said, “How is it that you always look lovely when you come to visit us?” And she was being genuine. How could you not love that woman?
And carrying on that tradition is Kel. She’s one of the very few people I can tell my most ridiculous and far-fetched plans too without her rolling her eyes. In fact, instead of pointing out the flaws in these pipedreams, she usually comes up with additional aspects. Or adds herself into the plot.
Climbing the Eiffel Tower with Glandular Fever and the Flu. 2005.
Kel always makes me laugh. Big, proper laughs. The ones that make your cheeks and stomach hurt.
When we were young, silly Uni students (who both, unfortunately, thought they were far more mature and logical than we actually were) I took her the town I grew up in. Just out of town there’s a lookout, with a tablet with directions and distances inscribed in it. I pointed out the obvious ones: nearby towns, landmarks, the direction of home, etc. Then we noticed something that still baffles me “Johnson’s Nob. 15km”. My Dad was one of the bigwigs on the local council for many years, and even he has no idea what it is. But at the time we thought it was hilarious. It became the ultimate insult to tell someone to go to Johnson’s Nob (as I said, silly Uni students). And, somewhere along the way, we both gave each other the nickname of Johnson.
Coincidentally matchy-matchy at an 80s dress up party. 2006.
Then there’s the odd factor. As Kel pointed out yesterday, “Weird stuff always happens when I’m with you.”
Yesterday we went underwear shopping. A guy in his 20s came over and asked us for advice about stockings, because he needed to put bait in them for fishing. It was slightly awkward, but we both dropped everything and sussed out the perfect stockings for this fellow (we’re still convinced he’s actually a closeted transvestite – he was far too uncomfortable in his approach to just be buying them for fish). Then there was Kel’s awesome assistance when it came to choosing underwear for myself… Genius, woman. Genius.
We’ve both grown up a lot over the past couple of years. A lot has changed. At the moment we’re both happy, looking ahead to new adventures, content with the ones we’re having. I think it’s a sign of a solid friendship when you can both go through so much individually and together, and change so much, but still love each other.
There’s no point to this blog post, really. Clearly no ending.
Just that I think Kelby is wonderful, and that when I mention her in the future you can say, “Oh! THAT Kel!” and know who I’m on about.
I’ve been meaning to blog about my tattoos for a while. They’ve come to mind a lot recently; there was the conversation at work after a number of colleagues compared me to Lisbeth Salander, a Twitter request for everyone to twitpic their ink (I didn’t at the time), and Lori’s post about her Jiminy Cricket tattoo.
Star tattoo on wrist
I got my first inkwork in rAdelaide in mid-2007. I wanted a little star on my hand on the semi-webbing-y bit between my thumb and index finger. The artist said it wouldn’t heal properly, so I went for the back of my wrist. I figured it was a safe place that I could display when I wanted, and cover with my watch if required. It’s about the size of a 20 cent piece.
I was expecting it to hurt far more than it actually did, although I admit it was pretty painful when the needle got close to my boney wrist. Flesh and padding is good.
The outline was done beautifully, but the inking in was a little dodgy. One day I’ll get it resurfaced.
Why a star? There was no single meaning behind this one, but a combination of reasons. Once influence was that I had just got into the city after a week in Woomera (the vast majority of which was spent learning about space exploration and technology, and astronomy). Another was the symbolism of five sided shapes representing “like everything” (a quote for you, Mum), and the fact I was getting inked was a strong sign of independence for me. It alludes to something I’m very passionate about, work-wise. I’ve always loved stars, and hey, I thought it was pretty.
My second and third works were done in the same sitting, on May 1, 2009. I’d spend the entire day working on a massive fundraising event in the city, then ducked out to Platinum Ink in Petersham with my designs all printed and ready to scan and transfer onto my body.
When I told them I wanted to get my foot tattooed, they thought I was nuts. Even a chick in the parlour (not sure if she was a customer or staff member) who had two full sleeves and a design across her chest told me there was no way she’d ever get anything on her feet. But I was determined, and I felt it was integral to the design.
Ubuntu - right foot
I have the word “Ubuntu” along the side of my right foot, just under the ankle bone; it’s about 4cm long. It’s along the base because in many ways it is the foundation of my beliefs and my actions. It has a fullstop because I’m adamant about it, and feel it’s kind of the final answer when it comes to many problems. It’s a humanist philosophy originating from the Bantu language of southern Africa.
There is no solid official definition for ubuntu, but all interpretations lead back to the same idea; it’s kind of a tangible form of karma, in a way. It’s the essence of being human.
Archibishop Desmon Tutu said in reference to Ubuntu:
A person with Ubuntu is open and available to others, affirming of others, does not feel threatened that others are able and good, for he or she has a proper self-assurance that comes from knowing that he or she belongs in a greater whole and is diminished when others are humiliated or diminished, when others are tortured or oppressed.
Nelson Mandela’s example was:
A traveller through a country would stop at a village and he didn’t have to ask for food or for water. Once he stops, the people give him food, entertain him. That is one aspect of Ubuntu but it will have various aspects. Ubuntu does not mean that people should not enrich themselves.
One way to look at it is that if everyone was good to everyone else whilst also making themselves as good as they can be, then everyone would receive goodness and be filled with goodness. How could you want anything else?
Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu. Plus freckle. Hi freckle.
The ink I got at the same time as this piece is a Zulu phrase often linked to this philosophy: Umuntu Ngamantu Ngubantu. This translates roughly to “a person is only a person through other people”. It’s the old “no man is an island” concept. You can’t genuinely judge yourself or your situation without comparison to others, and you can’t be the best self you can be without interaction with others. Whilst interacting with others does have the potential to bring out the worst, it’s also the best way to experience the strongest, brightest, most beautiful aspects of life. As often as I mutter, “People suck”, I do love people in general. There is so much kindness in the world. If you want proof, click back one blog entry and look at the number of comments on my entry about losing Ndizi.
It started with one friend seeing that I’d tweeted the URL of my blog entry. She sent the URL to Sockington, who then tweeted it to his army of followers (over 1.5million of them), who then read my article and began commenting, leaving the most supportive, beautiful and touching notes. Healed by the kindness of strangers, I was. Thank you Lucie. Thank you Sockington. Thank you to all the amazing people who left me notes.
Now, back on track… ink… yes. The reason I have this philosophy where it is – on the left hand side of my back, about halfway up – is so that I can’t see it. That way I need to interact with other people for it to be appreciated. Simple, a little silly, but something I like. It’s about 7cm wide, I guess.
My fourth (and currently “final”) tattoo is the Devanagari symbol for “aum” on my right ribcage, done on the way to bookclub one Friday night at Skin Deep in Newtown.
If anyone ever warns you about getting your foot tattooed, let me tell you right now it’s far more comfortable to get done than your ribcage. At one point it felt like she’d gone straight through the skin and was tattooing the bones themselves. This was nothing to do with her technique. In fact, the detail and quality of this piece is quite amazing. I wanted it to look somewhat organic, so included paintbrush strokes in the design I handed over. She managed to get them in, despite the piece being pretty small (around 2.5cm square).
Aum - right ribcage.
Aside from the mystical and meditational basis for me wanting this symbol on my body, I have dodgy lungs. My right lung, in particular, has been very difficult and caused me significant pain. To pronounce an “aum” properly, you have to breathe from the very bottom of your lungs and breathe out for a long time (one of the actions that my health condition can make difficult), so I thought it’d be funny to place the aum over that lung to remind it to behave. Even more amusing is the fact that since I got the tattoo my medication has finally started doing what it’s supposed to do and my lungs are functional at least. Serendipity!
That’s the collection so far. The art on the canvas of Jen.
I have a feeling that there will be more – equally small and discrete – in the future. If I had to put a number on it I’d probably estimate I’ll have eight by the time I stop.
And that I’ll continue to love every one of them as much as I do now, even once I’m old and wrinkly and have to smooth out my skin to read the words properly.
Ukipenda boga penda na ua lake:if you love a pumpkin, also love its flower
(If you love someone, love their flaws too)
Ndizi - four weeks old
Ndizi only came for a short stay, but he didn’t leave for almost three years…
When Ndizi was born in a normal sized litter of kittens, his mother attacked him. She happily fed all the other kittens, but any time Ndizi tried to get to her, she’d swipe at him. His owner removed him from the litter after less than a day, because he was already failing to thrive. They bottle fed him, and kept him away from his mother who still – even once he no longer relied on her – would attack him at every opportunity.
A friend of mine was looking for a pet for his elderly mother, and heard about this little kitten. So, at three weeks old, the kitten moved in with Mama C. At this stage, however, everyone thought “he” was a “she”, and “she” didn’t have a name. As Mama C was from Uganda, her son suggested she name “her” something typically Ugandan. He meant in terms of a name; but she had a cute sense of humour and picked something she thought was very Ugandan: Ndizi. Banana.
From that time Ndizi-paka (Banana Cat) lived in her apron pocket, and was bottle fed. At the very end of September, 2007, Mama C had a stroke. Ndizi came to stay with me. During this time, Mama C passed away, so Ndizi found a home with me and my other cat, Montoya.
Montoya and baby Ndizi
Monty was considerably larger than Ndizi…
Montoya with Ndizi (aged 4 weeks)
And not immediately impressed with his new sidekick…
Montoya with Ndizi (aged 4 weeks)
Particularly when “she” sat on him…
Ndizi sitting on Montoya
As Ndizi was only four weeks old, and hadn’t encountered solids yet, I had to bottle feed “her” every four hours. It was ridiculously cute:
Ndizi drinking from his bottle
And ended in one of two ways. Kitten with milk all over “her” beard:
Ndizi with milk on his chin
Or kitten overdosed on formula:
Ndizi. Formula overdose!
Ndizi settled in very quickly, and developed a penchant for sleeping in odd positions or odd locations.
Ndizi asleep behind my shoulders
Ndizi was very tiny:
Ndizi on the couch
But so full of love and hugs:
Ndizi hugs
After “her” first visit to the vet she he turned out to be a slightly malformed male. Oops.
Monty gradually adjusted to his new friend’s company:
Monty and Ndizi eating
As soon as Ndizi caught on that Monty ate solids, he wanted to too… and once that started happening, the panther appeared. He grew at a rather alarming rate, turning from a black pompom into a lanky cat with oversized paws.
Ndizi on the bed
For a while it looked like Montoya and Ndizi were going to become friends.
Monty and Ndizi napping together
But Ndizi kept growing…
Montoya and Ndizi on the couch
And growing…
Ndizi at 9 months
And once his cute games of wrestling meant that Monty was being beaten up on a daily basis, Montoya decided he wasn’t really a big fan of Ndizi afterall.
Monty: not Ndizi's biggest fan
I’m not exaggerating. I’ve seen cats get angry before, but I hadn’t seen a cat look so decidedly unimpressed until Monty realised he didn’t like Ndizi. If cats could roll their eyes, Monty would have.
"Seriously, why did you have to lie next to me?"
Ndizi was a bit special. His back legs were at the wrong angle which made his back half run in a figure eight rather than forwards, and his tail went the wrong direction – arching over and touching his head – earning him the nickname “Handbag cat”.
He was obsessed with anything dark. If you had two shirts on the bed, he’d lie on the black one. If there were two boxes on the floor, he’d get in the black one. If there were two toys, he’d take the darkest one.
He was excessively affectionate, despite not liking being held. If you reached down to pat him, he’d stand on his back legs and meet you halfway, with his eyes close in deliriously happy anticipation. If anyone sat on the floor he’d spend as long as possible rubbing against their back, turning around, and doing it again.
And he wouldn’t stop growing.
Ndizi in the sun
He even started outgrowing his usual sleeping spots, draping himself over areas that he used to easily nestle into.
Ndizi looking out the window
He became a little panther.
Ndizi (For scale: that's a laptop bag behind him...)
At a very early age, we started referring to Ndizi as a “special needs kitty”. There was just something not quite right about him. Nothing problematic. He was just… odd.
There were some funny incidents, like the time he tried to climb into a friend’s lap when she was using the toilet, and then got quite upset when she didn’t allow this.
But then things got really weird.
The little cat who loved pats but didn’t really like cuddles would suddenly plant himself in my lap… but if I patted him while he was there I’d get bitten.
Ndizi on my lap
Then came the massive confusion. He’d knock something under the bed, and go downstairs to look for it. He’d desperately want a treat, but his first attempt to get it would be to stick it up his nose, rather than in his mouth. He attacked a friend of mine for going upstairs without me.
And, then, sadly, the week it all went swiftly downhill…
I had a few people over one evening, and he bailed up two of them in the bathroom and started howling. It wasn’t a normal cat-howl. Most of the people in the apartment thought it was a child. And no matter how much I calmed him down, the howling wouldn’t stop. After a minor disagreement, he ended up in a carrier with a towel over it, and I ended up with bleeding arms.
Then a few days later it happened again, but this time without the aggression; someone would go to the bathroom, and he would end up terribly distressed, confused and terrified… and howling.
Instead of waking to this on my bed:
Ndizi
…I was being bitten without any provocation.
He couldn’t figure out basic problems, like how to jump into a box. He forgot where his litter tray was, and within days also couldn’t find his food bowl. He’d cry as I was feeding him, then watch me put away the cat food and consequently cry at the fridge… then walk past his full bowl of food to the loungeroom to howl about being hungry.
He fell up the stairs.
He chewed open a hole in his own leg.
He started chasing his tail obsessively, and getting very worked up that he couldn’t catch it.
I talked to a vet, and they agreed that the kindest thing to do would be to put him down, as he had either a brain tumour or feline dementia.
After a day of trying not to cry in my office (fail), I came home to find a very lost little cat who not only didn’t greet me at the front door (first time in memory), but wouldn’t respond to his name. He launched himself at my head while I sat on the couch and dug his claws and teeth into my scalp. He had figured out how to catch his tail, but this resulted in hours of walking in circles with his tail in his mouth (including on a balcony ledge that he wouldn’t come down from, until 1am). He was upset. I was upset. It was hideous.
So today I spent half an hour trying to trick him into taking sedatives; my lovely friend Em drove us to the vet clinic (from which he had been previously banned due to bad behaviour) and looked after me as I tried to answer the vet admin’s questions without sobbing. I failed. The lovely girl at reception saw how hard it was and sped things along for me, and promised they’d take good care of him until the vet was ready.
Some people suggested I should be there with him as they put him to sleep, but I couldn’t see the point in that. He no longer knew who I was, and I certainly wouldn’t be providing him much human comfort given how upset I was. I was already distraught enough at watching my beautiful monster-cat slip away over the past weeks, without also watching him die. I can understand why some people would see this as horrendously selfish, but it wasn’t. It was best for the both of us.
The journey home was tougher than I expected. After trying to swallow sobs outside the surgery with Em, I just wanted to be home but still had an hour of public transport ahead. At peak hour, into the city. I appreciated all the people who saw me trying to cry as discretely as possible on the train and the bus and turned away.
Now I am home. Monty is confused, yet comforting and wonderful as always; but it feels very wrong to walk in the front door and not be greeted by a streak of black trying to headbutt your hand.
So to my sweet little kitten who snuck on board trains in my handbag as a baby; who would bound into the room as soon as you said “butterfly?”, “bubbles?” or “treats?”; who was so massive he ran down the stairs like water, two at a time; who never figured out the cat method of rubbing against me, so would headbutt at full force with an almighty CLUNK!; who played fetch with great gusto, albeit sometimes forgetting to return the item; who received names from visitors like “Mr McFlirty Pants” and “Vegemite” and “Bwana”; who kept my legs warm at night; who let me cry on his head when I was down; I’ll miss you.
Ndizi. My camouflage cat.
Goodbye little camouflage cat. I hope you enjoyed your visit.
jx
Napping on the floor with Ndizi. 2009. Photo by Oli.
I’ve always loved birthdays. Admittedly, as a kid it was primarily because it was the one time of year I got to eat chocolate Vienna cream (damn I love that stuff!), and because my mum was one of those amazing mums who let me lovingly trawl through the Australian Women’s Weekly Birthday Cake Book from the 80s (70s?) and choose something fun for her to create. Within reason. (One day I’ll have that castle… one day…)
For a number of years, though, birthdays have been a bit “meh”. Usually because there’s been other crap going on in my life to put a dampener on it, or because the people I’ve celebrated with have been inclined to celebrate in a way different to me, so they’ve been bored. Or I’ve been out of place.
Anyway… this year has been amazing.
It began with this:
Music: Birthday Song for me, written and recorded by Evelyn Evelyn Photo: my cousin, Cameron, and me on our 4th birthday; born on the same day, I thought the twin-allusion was appropriate given the musicians
On Saturday a delightful mix of people came to my apartment for the evening. It was such a laid back affair. Drinks, snacks, music and chatting. It was one of those moments that caused me to actively stop and realise how blessed I am to have such amazing people willing to spend their Saturday night with me (despite the territorial cats, tipsy birthday girl, and lack of grown-up foodstuffs). To top it off, I received presents! PRESENTS! Totally wasn’t expecting that. I’m spoilt. Highlights of the night include seeing my brother (and the epic coat he gave me that I have worn every day since), making a new pint-sized friend (if abducting toddlers wasn’t illegal… And immoral… And hurtful to their parents… damn), Liam arriving with case after case of Vitamin Water, and Grass playing David Gray on the piano. One year I want all my favourite people in one room.
Some of the birthday cards, er, and a Bat Mitzvah card (I love my brother)
Sunday morning was a little painful. Oops. Thank goodness for Liam’s Vitamin Water delivery.
But the day brightened significantly when my Mum came to visit. We went to the Opera House for a matinee performance of Waiting for Godot, starring Ian McKellen. I adore Beckett, and this performance did it justice beyond what I could possibly have hoped for. Flawless. Truly flawless. Not a line missed, stumbled over, improvised. Not a step out of place. Lighting and sound, perfect. Just divine. It left me on the verge of tears. If you’re considering going to see this run, I would suggest you don’t hesitate to purchase your ticket.
Mum gave me some beautiful make-up and a fire engine for the cats. No, really. And they love playing with it. Well, Monty loves playing with it. Ndizi headbutts it sometimes, but can’t work out how to get in.
Fireman Montoya.
Monday was a normal work day, and Monday night was a quiet night.
Tuesday was my birthday. I was overwhelmed by the number of messages I received. Again, I took stock of how fortunate I really am. It was a bright, happy day, despite the pouring rain. Tuesday night, two gorgeous friends came over with wine and snacks, and didn’t leave again until the wee hours of Wednesday morning. There are photos… and a pretty spectacular video… but I’ve promised not to share.
A dark and cloudy birthday.
Tonight I went to the post office to collect a few parcels, one of which was an incredible box of handmade chocolates from one of my favourite people.
Special chocolates from Meag
Handmade chocolates by Max Brenner.
In general my week has been brighter than usual. There’s a holiday with someone amazing on the cards (albeit one that is quite unbelievable, so I’m not getting my hopes up yet!), things are progressing at work, I’m feeling calm and creative and happy. Oh, and England got through to the second stage of the World Cup. Yay!
I am hoping that this new found delight in the world is something that has arrived on the doorstep with a new year of life, rather than a phase.
The truth is, there is so much to be happy about, and I continue to forget to see it. It’s so much easier to focus on the difficult things, or the bad things that we can’t change.
Mind you, the lead up to my birthday came with – for the first time – an anxious feeling that I should have achieved “something” by now. I had so many plans, and so many things have changed and thrown me off course. Now I’m just taking moments of goodness as they arrive, and trying not to spend too much energy seeking them out, because then I just focus on the absence of them when I’m between delights.
But I still want a plan. Something to aim for.
How far ahead do I aim? A year? Five? Twenty?
For tonight, I’m aiming for tea and biscuits. It’s a hard life…
When I decide to document and event or holiday with photos, I really need to learn to attach my camera to my body in some way. I get so easily distracted by fun things, or comforted by the relaxing, that I forget to take photos of much more than meals and transport… as is proven in this blog.
On Saturday morning I began the rather easy trek to Nelson Bay. Mum was in Newcastle that morning, so the easiest way there was to get a train to Broadmeadow, where she’d pick me up. Simple, right? Not so simple when the trains aren’t running due to trackwork. So I caught a bus from home to Central at 5:50am.
The bus windows are mirrors in the dark
I take the phrase “bleary eyed” very literally at this time of the morning.
What day is it? Where am I? What's my name?
I love how things look different at peculiar hours; like the Central Station tunnel that normally has so many people in it that you can’t walk around the annoying people who dawdle at peak hour.
Central Station tunnel. Early.
A little after 6, I piled onto a coach, ready for the trip to Newcastle, with my bag and my uke.
Bag, uke, coach seat... sorted.
I napped until we hit the F3, then entertained myself with the prettiness of the sun rising over the bushland, the sandstone and the rivers.
Sunrise. Non-city-fied.
Brooklyn Bridge sunrise.
So what else does someone like me pack for a one-night holiday? A book, some knitting, and chocolate biscuits, of course. Apparently I aged a bonus 30 years sometime in the past decade. But hey, it brings me happiness.
Mint Slice, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and Paton's Zhivago.
Oh, and of course I don’t go anywhere without my iPhone. My entire trip was a blend of the Dresden Dolls and Ben Abraham.
Dresden Dolls on the iPhone, with new beanie.
Eventually made it to Broadmeadow, and found my mum. Well, she found me. I love seeing my mum – I never feel so wanted or important or loved as I do when she sees me for the first time in a little while. And after recent crankiness, a good hug goes a long way.
We drove to her place in Nelson Bay via Salamander Bay (to buy groceries and druuuuuugs). I love many things about my mum, and one of these is her utter lack of surprise at the amount of food I eat. First meal? Couscous and parmesan chicken on a foot-long roll.
Couscous and parmesan chicken roll. Loooong roll. That's a dinnerplate, people!
In a “should have brought my camera” moment, we went down to the Marina so I could meet Mum’s bosses and their super-cute little girl and puppy. Gorgeous family. It makes me happy to know that Mum keeps such good company. I understand now what it was about when she used to worry about who I was or wasn’t friends with.
Dinner was the most incredible tomato, spinach and ricotta lasagne (two servings, thank you very much) with bubbly wine. Oh, and yes, I did cave and drink Coke that afternoon. It was pretty much a holiday, therefore it was allowed.
As Mum cooked, I serenaded her on the ukulele and swamped her in YouTube clips. I love the way she can appreciate the humour and musicality of things I love, even though they’re not entirely her cup of tea. Hearing Mum laugh at someone saying, “My two favourite fucking freaks!” is not something I expect, but something that delights me.
We spent the evening with the heater on, watching the ABC (the habit mentioned in a previous post), drinking tea, and eating chocolate biscuits and a date/walnut/brown sugar slice (drooool) that Mum just whipped up whilst chatting in the afternoon.
Tea and treats.
Both crashed out not long after 10, and slept many, many hours. We both needed it, albeit for different reasons.
Wandered down to the beach – less than a block away – just to soak in the beach-ness. Out to sea was stormy and dark.
Dark clouds out to sea.
Inland was sparkly and beautiful.
Bright and shiny morning over the bay.
Mum made a sandcastle collected sand for a craft project.
Mum playing in the sand.
Headed home again, through the bushland.
The way home.
Headed back to Sydney that afternoon, hitting the F3 with the long shadows of a winter afternoon.
Slow sunset over the Hawkesbury.
Orange light of sunset.
Reached Sydney Harbour just before sunset, as the Opera House turned orange and pink through the fences of the Bridge.
Opera House at sunset.
And finally, just as the light disappeared, I arrived at Central.
Central Station.
Next time I aim to document a holiday with photographs, I really need to take more photos of the actual holidays and its events, and less of the blurry scenery through smudged bus windows and random shots of my luggage.
I love good beanies. Not the fitted tea-cosy rugby-match-in-5-degrees kind of beanie. I’m into the slouchy kind. My love of beanies has a lot to do with having ridiculous hair, at a particularly ridiculous stage as I grow it out.
I knitted up a lovely silky soft (tencel acrylic) beanie last week. Super-comfy.
Grey beanie. Paton's Zhivago Home - tencel acrylic blend.
This even involved me getting over my dislike of circular needles. I’m still not exactly keen on them, but I am keen on seamless items, so you’ve got to pay the price, I suppose.
A friend’s mum is currently tackling the not-fun that is chemotherapy, so I made one for her too. The tencel acrylic is soft, and non-irritating, and the lack of seams and slouchiness should help in terms of comfort. I figured grey – however lovely in appearance – might be a little too drab when someone needs sparking up, however I also didn’t want someone who is going to be suffering from an upset stomach to be presenting with a fluorescent pink thing, so I found a beautiful blue-purple-grey variegated Zhivago.
Are you interested in owning any of the art you've seen in this blog? Prints are available of all pieces, and - in some cases - the originals might be up for grabs. Check out the store (link above).
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