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Monday, October 31, 2011

It's not easy being GREEN







I always considered myself a bit of a ‘greenie’. I like whales. I’m from Tasmania (green in part by definition) and I wash-to-recycle plastic and aluminum containers. I have attended my fair share of anti and for rallies in my time, and have even donated hours to ‘green’ charity groups. However, a spontaneous move and quick house-hunt in Sydney swiftly sorted out my shade of urban green.

In trawling through advertisements for house shares, I was drawn towards city dwellings claiming to be ‘eco’. The explanations of eco-house assertions were many and varied; including declarations of: worm farms, compost, water recycling, chicken coops, veggie patches and non-smoking housemates. Availability of natural light, floorboards throughout, access to public transport and room sharing within a house-share were frequently touted as being ‘environmentally positive’. One ad even specified that practicing yogis need only apply for their eco-loving-inner-city-herb-growing-terrace.

Applying for residence in an environment saving abode was an altogether special battlefield of open-ended questions, recycled hypotheticals and forced proclamation of voting preferences. Depending on the size of the room available and presence of own terrace verandah led by one’s own French doors, I found myself nodding in agreement to all types of quizative (husband was instructed to follow my lead; back me up; support unfamiliar hobby claims). Miraculously, my own yoga habit became a fully-fledged profession ‘sure. I’ve got no trouble instructing an advanced yoga class for your friends in the garage. Tell me again how nice the breeze is on the verandah of a summer eve…’. Further, I became a gardening, mediation, cooking, (all kinds of) baking, and dhikr-breathing enthusiast.

Alas. Mouldy fibbing was not the answer. These folk must have seen through my elaborations, gifting other properly nimble couples with easy summer breezings. Damned with stretched blessings in disguise, I had one more circled house in which to redeem. As a promise to myself, and a gift to dear nodding husband, I vowed to not green-xaggerate for this one and we got it. Two small floor-boarded rooms for us in an Inner West Sydney share. Tick!

As previously expressed, though aware that I could be more pro-active in my greenness, I thought that I made some reasonable contributions to loving AND living on this increasingly damaged Earth. Within two weeks of sharing a space with two other fellows, I realised, along with Kermit, that it is ‘not [so] easy being green’. While embracing with ease the recycling and power-saving routines established in our new shared residence, it was the worm farm and water recycling that quickly had me unstuck.

Respect to those who can get everything done in the shower in four minutes flat. I soon learnt that I cannot. The once considered ‘thoughtful’ house sharing gift of a suction cap sand-timer for the shower became a grainy vice that beat me every time. I was pleased with household efforts to save, and where possible, redistribute washing up water, but I begun to over-think efforts to do much the same with shower and bath water. Would the parsley become pubic with stray hairs? I was buying my own herbs.

Then there is the worm farm. The indoor black boxed crawly home. It is filled with worm shit. Worm shit and rotting vegetables stink. Who would have thought…?

The weeks have passed and despite occasional wormed dry reaching and hiding of extended shower and hair-dryer time under the cover of very loud meditative hymns, I have begun to applaud the household efforts of green. And have included myself in my ovation. Saving water and worm farming might be their thing but I contribute to shades of green in my own way. My house mates might baulk at my vegetarian diet when they insist on maintaining a predominately grain fed, land intensive and water wasting carnivorous existence. But that is their composting choice…


Monday, October 10, 2011

Chink.



Let us sleep
and put them both to work.
They will be our hidden explorers.

Can you feel them reaching?
That wool is them. Keenly catching the hidden.
Connecting our misunderstood parts.
Since we can’t.

Fitting.
They puzzle with deliberate intent
in sieving our complexities.
Blinding our stains.

Coming up for breathing now.
We wait to hear the chinks.
Click.

Tuesday, October 04, 2011

Post-Festival-Churn



I’m experiencing the two-day-post-festival anxiety churn. Somewhat similar to the post-holiday life prompting reflection: it has crept up and grabbed me worse than yesterday’s offensive hangover.

Blessed with a long weekend for Sydney’s Parklife, a Monday morning obligatory employment crawl was transformed into a denial binge. Instead of dealing with said hang-body-over with nurture and maturity, we were easily convinced to relive our festival indulgences and drink the reality away for one more treasured day.

So the weekend has suddenly become Tuesday. A working day I still could not face. An early morning muffled sicky was dialed in. But sweet relief at how I miraculously managed to turn my week into just three wee days was soon engulfed by the churn. This was not like yesterday’s soulful hark back to. Favoured beats, disastrous festival fashion choices and comparative rambling regret of sore bank accounts would not be discussed today. Friends had left. People were back at work. I was alone.

Alone and prolonging the inevitable reality pain, free minutes today were not savoured, but scoured. Lacking equally derailed minds to provide bias reasoning, I have re-lived shit things said, acts missed and rent money spent in painful detail. Further; despite the idle reflective clicking of minutes, I have still managed to avoid attending to sweat-mud infused clothing, proper nutrition and re-hydration, or the detangling of festival hair.

I now realise that any attempt to continue prized festival moments by flicking on a reminiscent playlist and drinking warmth from plastic cups is hopelessly artificial. But the alternative (straight back into real world work and bills realism) seems horridly lacking in self-indulgence. Such is that future triumph and pain is already being quickly investigated as I peel through summer festival line-ups.

Sending my credit card into choking hibernation appears completely justified for the likes of Foster The People and Girl Talk at Big Day Out. And I cannot imagine a better way to see in New Years than sippin on gin and juice to Snoop at Shore Thing. So it begins again…who be joining me for this summer churn?

muse&skip x

(image sourced from: thewanderlustproject.com)