Cleaning out my closet

After several casual hints from my parents, I dove in the depts of my closet and found that box of photos, certificates and keepsakes you want to save for future generations but you don't want to take around with you now.

It has been a nostalgic trip down memory lane, fuelled by several cups of tea. Whilst I have managed to cull the 2 boxes and one suitcase to one box, I thought I would share a couple of poems I wrote when I think I was 13, to immortalise them digitally before throwing them away. 





"ME"

In the mirror the face I know
Looking at the familiar present
And viewing the memorable past
looking at the flaws
admiring the perfections
Touching up to nothing
Trying to impress no one
I am who I am 
And I'm searching for that proof
But will I find it in my reflection?
Or is it in the x-ray of my inside
where and how
Or am I at my full?
Can't I be anything else?
Or will I take that shadow
of what I should be
Well, stuff you
I am who I am
and that's me....

How I had that much perspective when I was 13, I really don't know. I don't really remember writing it, except the 3rd to last line. That definitely sounds like something I would have said way back in the days before I grew boobs.
I've got a couple more, which I will bring out of the woodwork (can't really say that these days, I'll bring out of the depths of my computer's hard drive?) when I don't have anything to write about.

It was lovely being able to look back and smile at all the birthday cards and notes I received from family and friends. I talk in my blog post "Down to the letter" about how letters are special moments in time we can pick up and relive, hold in our hands, tuck under our pillows. Whilst many of mine are now on the burning pile, I had 2 afternoons of warm fuzzies because of them.

So thanks.

Also apologies for the dodgy formatting on this post, because reasons.

Let me leave you with this delightful collage I made when I was 11. Take a moment to tuck those small strands of hair at the front of your face behind your ears and appreciate some familiar faces in all their 2002 glory.

Jj

My story from rehab

I am onto my 5th consecutive day without coffee. I have gone 5 days without coffee before, except they were over about 3 months. Why am I depriving myself of the black crack, the hot heroin that charges the veins and awakens the senses you ask?

Well I'm in my small hometown where good coffee is hard to find and I thought it would be a good challenge. I'm not planning on doing it permanently, I mean, that would almost be social suicide- my fixie riding, kombucha brewing, crystal wearing and opshopping self would be nothing without a passion for single origin artisan roasted alternative brewing method filter coffee. Black. In a jar. With a yarn bombed crochet cosy. Of course.

Plus it inspires me to write this blog, read about it here

Going from my one to three a day to my none a day rule hasn't left me shaking with headaches like I thought it would. Phew, the dependency isn't as intense, apart from the 3pm slump coming at about 11am and the apple cider vinegar water tasting just as delicious as it sounds, I'm doing ok.

Yesterday I succumbed to turning the corner to try a new cafe (that has Allpress Coffee) and my ears almost inverted when they heard me utter those filthy filthy words: "I'll have a soy DECAF latte please"
Ugh. 
The disgust.
I couldn't make eye contact with the barista or anyone in the cafe. Even the cups on the bench gave me a dirty look. They were dirty cups coincidentally but I think you get the picture.
As the barista was making it I almost asked him to just make it a normal....a double shot, no soy, in fact just grind up the beans and I'll sprinkle them in my eye...but instead I gave a weak excuse and explanation about how I'm having a coffee break but in the dumb way, and then he asked me how I normally have it and we started some wanky coffee banter until he gave me my takeaway cup.

(insert discriptive paragraph that could be from an erotic novel about bringing the cup to my quivering lips and having the first sip that I've been craving in days)
But it's decaf. Doesn't really invoke the same emotion. It's about tantalising as light beer. Decaf is like the imitation Spice Girls Impulse body spray my mum bought me for my 8th Birthday, which was actually just Old Spice.

Just because some parts of the name are the same, they are no means the same.

(feel free to pause here to imagine 8 year old me wearing Old Spice)

Allpress decaf isn't bad.
Much better than apple cider vinegar water (which I am actually starting to enjoy) and the placebo effect of tottering the 50 metres down the main street with my scepter that is a takeaway cup in my hand made me feel fine. I have a friend who insists that he feels more powerful when holding a takeaway cup, like he is some kind of all hours dwelling artist. One time he even asked to hold my cup. One time I got a cup out of the bin for him to hold. 
I don't think he does it anymore.

I see the light at the end of the tunnel.
The tunnel is fragrant of green tea and lemon juice.
The light is next weekend when I have to drive for 6 hours after a wedding and will need liquid gold to power me across the country.

Gasoline, of course.
Black, with no sugar.

Jj
 

Feel the fear and do it anyway

This is a statement my mother used to often say. She says many great things, you can read some of them here. 

I am doing something that scares me- taking my one woman show across the ditch and home to NZ Fringe Festival.
There were many things that I was afraid of about this- aside from the usual questions of will anyone come, will they like it, will I suck fears that performers and producers have with any artistic venture, I had the fear of judgement from family members who haven't seen me perform since on the lawn as a child, critics who had never heard of me before, and being in a place where I have minimal industry contacts. 

To cut a long story short, this mantra got me through a pretty successful season, and has been at the front of my mind for the rest of the festival.

I have been doing hot yoga daily, and one of the themes in the classes is the courage to show up to the mat and just give all you can to the practice. No excuses, no negative self talk, but bravely backing yourself. For me growing up in a world where tall poppy syndrome is prolific, having courage and backing myself felt a lot like bragging. What I have realised, is that being open and excited to share what you are doing with people is not really a bad thing.

So normally, even though I am a pretty confident person who can hold a conversation with a brick; when it comes to industry things and people,  I become some sort of starstruck talentstruck groupie who sees someone they saw in a show and just stares at them awkwardly until they might muster a smile and then I just wait to be introduced by a friend.

Well, I've been feeling the fear and chatting to people anyway, regardless if they are in another show, a foyer, toilet or a random shop. I'm now performing in Newtown festival because I got talking to someone who commented on my outrageous banana phone cover in a cafe.  I got to workshop story telling with a man who used to write for Jimmy Carr. 

I'm telling you this because I want you to join me on this fearless mission.  What is fear stopping you from doing? Yoga? Talking to a friend or family member about an incident from years gone by that changed your relationship? Recording a video of that song you wrote and putting it on You Tube?

I met this guy the other week who was thinking of doing just that- recording a song he wrote and putting it on the internet, the first time anyone would hear him sing and play the guitar. He asked me how I go from performing in my bedroom to a room of strangers.

I told him that I just remember yes, the feeling of fear about doing the thing is scary, but it's not as strong as the feeling of regret from not doing the thing. 

It's like a game of would you rather for feelings...

Last night I got asked what I would do if I won half a billion dollars and only had a year to live, what would be the last thing I said. I said I would go back and tell all the people I never told I loved them what they mean to me and how they touched my life. From the old guy on the tram to drunk girls I've met in the bathroom, to men I have dated for short weeks, or had butterfly inducing crushes on. 

I don't have half a billon dollars, and provided all goes well, I should live more than a year.

So maybe I should feel the fear and do it anyway.

Jj