the trouble with ruts

After not knowing what to do with the other blog, I have kind of just given up without giving up. If you know what I mean. Too hard basket.

Sadly, I don't feel the love for the food blog thing anymore. I wish I did. But I mostly struggle to stay enthused with making beautiful nourishing food, let alone the all-consuming documenting of it. Probably because by the end of the day I am done, though the making of the adult dinner lies ahead. Also I think I spend too long making dinner (I have not really downgraded my standard of what is worthy of the 'dinner' descriptor since the boy arrived) and therein have grown to not really enjoy the process, because all I really want to do is sit down, spend some time with my beau and pour quantities of wine all over myself.

There are moments of spark though.

In the past fortnight I have made pumpkin and lentil burgers, vegie pasties (first time I have made shortcrust pastry since high school!), and a rad roasted beetroot salad with panfried beans, fetta and homegrown purslane. I recently made sourdough after a long lull (including making a new starter after our last au pair inadvertently binned my several-years-old starter >..<). And I smell meals with tomatoes in our future, courtesy our homegrown tomato glut.

When the householders urge me to get thy camera out, I dwell on the bad light and the prospect of picking up where I left off. You know that feeling that once you've let too much water go under the bridge?

Oh, and that brings me to thy camera. Has not seen light of day for many moons. My all-purpose lens is infirm. And it all got too much to carry a heavy baby, baby paraphernalia and a heavy camera when we went anywhere. And it is just so much easier to use the phone... thank goodness for the phone! Though I have been loving these posts and this (and her photography generally) and wanting to do so much more.

Reading, there is no time energy time mental coherence. I have a small stack of books and magazines purchased in quiet city-induced flurries of internal sunshine and hope. These get picked up intermittently and held for about three minutes and thirty seconds (including time spent discerning where I was up to after toddler has dislodged bookmark).
 
My hands miss knitting. My most 'recent' project - the boy's baby blanket (ho!) - is scrumpled somewhere in a dark cupboard after I backed myself into a corner I could not see clear of. And yet I have bought wool for future projects.

When I do get a moment, I either seize it for some physio exercises / yoga, get some chores done, or fluff around aimlessly because I don't have a project-that-I'm-not-totally-overwhelmed-by to get on with.

The trouble with ruts is that they are self-fulfilling.

I have high hopes though. I dream about blogging about creative stuff I am doing, without the technical difficulties that go along with creating stuff and blogging. Oh, utopian me!

I have resolved that rather than getting sucked into the nightly vaccuum of the lovely interwebs (but not actually doing anything productive on them because I'm exhausted, and going to bed way too late and waking up feeling hungover despite aforementioned quantities of wine being more occasional nowadays) I will spend my evenings creating, or if I'm too tired to create, relax. Seems simple. And obvious.

I have wondered whether I could morph the foodie blog into new terrain. You know, make it more about life generally. It seems like such a shame to let it lapse. I still occasionally get amazing emails and comments. Someone even offered to buy it! And did I mention the thing about being invited to have a few recipes featured in the ABC's Foodi iPad app? 

Perhaps I need to climb out of the food rut, and the photography rut, before I can get any traction on the blog rut. And probably, more generally, just start. I love this post about getting your creative spark back. 

Yes, I know this space is temporary. And this here, is my start.

a general malaise

Perhaps not quite the headline you'd expect after the preceding tales of love and seaside holidays. If, in fact, you were expecting anything at all, following an entirely silent September here. Life's been roaring along. But something's amiss. I've not been able to quite put my finger on it til today. Self-diagnosis: a delayed bout of post-holiday blues. Fuelled along by an unusually rainy and grey Spring. I've never seen it rain like this... nor missed the sun so much in Queensland.

As usual, work is the nub of my irk. The return from holidays was not so bad... in fact, work was entirely reasonable for a couple of weeks. In the post-holiday glow, I conceded that I would never be entirely on top of it all. Seven peeps to manage, a shirtload of work and an information environment that makes my multi-tab webtrawling a playground. Nevermind that it is kind of a playground. Anyhoo. So the work is amping up. And I've come to a disturbing realisation. Sheepishly, kind of late in the piece. After most of this year warming this particular roost, I've realised that perhaps I don't really like it so much. I don't want to be responsible for other people any more. I don't want to continuously struggle to stay on top of the ridiculous information flow. I'm sick of churning out god-damn widgets. And I hate having to always be 'on', no matter how crap I feel. There's no checking the news, attending to personal errands or taking time for lunch. Sure, I was happy to give it a whirl, and hang about for a bit while they needed me. But now, on the cusp of potentially yet another extension, I feel very much backed into a corner. Like I've been stealthily groomed for it. Maybe I'm naive. I should have anticipated. It gets worse. Next week I am being the Director (bah!) and have to go to Sydney to represent Queensland at a national thingy. Sheesh. I do not feel the love.

Anyway, it all still hangs. Perhaps I'll get to go back to my policy post. I'm trying to remember why I latched the desk shackles back on, chill out a bit and enjoy all the great stuff outside work. But still. I went to the fabulous Women of Letters last week (my cousin said go, then K's sister invited me: fated?). The premise is that a bunch of talented writerly folk read letters they have penned to their most treasured posession. It was funny, inspiring and revealing, and totally worth it even though it made me feel old. (Especially so when I heard the next day that, after I'd bailed, K's sister who is an editor partied on into the eve with the booky-cool crowd, performing a karaoke duet with Marieke Hardy!) Anyway, moving on. Reflecting on the evening's monologues, I realised... I could write like that! I can write like that! I did write like that, once! What has happened to my writing?! Of course, thus ensued my own monologue, along the lines of 'what am I doing with my life, I'm creatively driven, why am I still chained to this god-boring public service desk? Gah! Double gah!! Holy GAH!!!'.

And that's where I'll end this little rant. It's way past my bedtime. And I'm 'on' first thing tomorrow. Any advice about what to take for a general malaise would be much appreciated.

oh glorious productivity

Yesterday was about the most productive day I have had in aeons. After dropping the pee-anywhere cat off to the vet bright and early, I had three whole hours to fill before my knitting class. After a quick look in the opp shop (and another el cheapo woollen jumper score), I headed to the Federal Coffee Palace and plonked myself by their open fire. With laptop and caffeine I proceeded to work like a madwoman. At home, despite being stationed behind a closed door, my day would be about one part work to two parts tending fire and sixteen parts engaging with domestic life that refuses to believe in my ‘absence’ (a Snuffle-upagus case in reverse?). Then there’s time spent in the thrall of the kettle, which, thanks to its perch on the always-on woodstove, graciously affords a constant stream of little breaks. (Much like the always-on internet.)

FCP is my saviour. I did a full 'Bingi day’s' work in two hours. I will come back often. So what if it’s a 40km round trip? So what if they don’t have wifi (actually that’s a good thing, since internet access would’ve thwarted my blitzkrieg). At the very least, I will move my homebound workspace to the big caravan on the property.

But that’s not all. Yesterday I also finished my beanie – my first knitted project EVER! (Every time I enter her orbit, my knitting yogi apologises for starting me off on such a not-quite-straightforward project.) See here.





On the whole, I'm quite chuffed. I'd like to wear it with the roll-up bit rolled down, but because it's got a bit more headroom than I can use, wearing it like that makes me look Smurf-headed. So I plan to tweak the design and make another. After I finish the scarf I also started yesterday.

sunshine good, freeloading bad

The sun came out this week. On consecutive days! After days of icy chill, rain, hail etc, I cushied on my bedroom floor, ugg boots against sunlight sneaking in through the window. I cushied on the verandah, sans uggies. And remembered what it felt like to be outdoors without thermal assistance.

I frolicked outside with dirt, lettuce, parsley, coriander, rosemary, chilli, thyme. I even poured a very unseasonable glass of sav blanc, a little celebration to accompany an improbably perfect lunch of leftovers: potato, zucchini, feta and dill polpettes with risone (I want to kiss whoever invented risone, the most perfect pasta to eat with nothing but olive oil and fresh parmy). Accompanied by green leaves with grapefruit and kalamata olives.

Bliss, I tell you.

Sunshine also made me reflective. Have been feeling a bit hopeless lately about the quest. (You know, the quest, the all-consuming search for meaning/fulfilment beyond the desk that occasionally involves some form of income.) The freelancing thing is proving v demoralising, especially as a pitch to one of the section editors from the (formerly?) reputable metro daily resulted in … two of my ideas (one of which was fresh fodder, largely uncovered to date by any media outlet) appearing in their online version two weeks later. Gives new meaning to freelancing...

Freelancing: verb, to give away sale-able story ideas and then impale oneself on own sword upon seeing ideas in print, with someone else's name on the byline.

Am channelling all the Buddhist detachment I can muster. And yes, it could have been a coincidence. But grrrr!

Anyway, since the editorial gods are not going to play (or play fair), I’ve decided to direct energies craft-wards. Landing in a cold/flu quagmire this week, I turned the bedroom into a craft den. See here,

feather deckled notebook (from reclaimed paper & fabric)

My floor is mere cellophane offcuts/rogue cotton wool fluffs away from resembling a kindergarten play-room.

Am also working on some photo cards which I’m hoping the local gifty-type estabs will snap up. See here,

I’m quietly hopeful for a little success, quest-wise, once we’re over the solstice hump.

bloggers' dissonance

I love the blogosphere, but there was a reason (well, serveral, actually) I joined late. The one I’m thinking of is my discomfort with the genre’s focus on self.

I know, I know! It’s the whole point!

Maybe it’s all those uni journalism subjects retro-kicking: 'the writer is not the story'. Anyway, small doubts were easily ignored in the shining doorway of Web 2.0.

Fast forward the good part of a year to the current freelance footslog (greylead nested behind ear, trying to make a buck, etc). All is moving slowly and then the pre-eminent Dumbo feather found little earth stories (whose delightful acronym I realised, post naming, is the tattoo-knuckled truckie moniker of ‘Les’... but I digress). Df batted its eyelids at the bread post and suggested publication.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrgh!

Exult or cringe?

Both!

“You look as happy as a man who thought a cat had done its business on his pie but then it turned out to be an extra large blackberry.” – George, the Prince Regent, Blackadder III

I think Df is all blackberry, so on one hand, am utterly flattered.

But on the other, I’ve discovered that small doubts left unattended have a tendency to pork up: so many more worthy bloggers… I’m just a middling drop-out without any significant accomplishments… one million displaced Burmese versus meandering bread-making escapades, and, and… when does self-consciousness become vanity?

Or more to the point, when is blogging not?

*Cringe*

So now I must go and try to write myself out of the post that won the feather's affection!

PS: Apologies to anyone called Les. And if anyone sees any doubts on the loose, please do hit them with a large hammer!