No. Speed. Limit.

You want it all now. At the rate of licks. Fast. Spontaneous. Swift. You don’t want to analyse it. No time to think it through. Pour another. Line in up. Call in sick. Abuse the plastic. You will own it. Mishandle the prize as much as the guilt.

Now slow it down. Give me space. Settle down. You’re confusing me. Let me think it through. This isn’t what I wanted. Give me stability. Honesty. Comfort. Pay the bills. Think of the future. I don’t recognise these goals. What happened to our plan?

Whose edge is this? Whose checking it? No. Speed. Limit.

"It's OK. I'm with the band."

14 years young. A bottle of pre-mixed raspberry vodka. The lessons of the spirits quickly learnt, but not dutifully remembered. And not youth recommended. Fun that screamed to be proven. Battle of the bands. Sweaty awkward of adolescence. A new found [fed] courage. Planning. It was your time. Our time. A new tight black diamante tank top “It’s OK. I’m with the band.” And so it begun…your acrid obsessive taste for this live music caper flavour.

So while it may stir with a different beat. A harder melody. A set of lyrics written 'just for you'. It is always in season. Starts everywhere in its fevered rising; a little pent-up something similiar to this:

[original source of images is linked where possible xmuseandskipx]

Ho um hum.

I have never worked for a large organisation before. But my newest attempt at straying far away from teaching finds me tucked into a tight partition with similar sprawling walls surrounding me. It is just like on the movies, only more awkward in its lunchroom ‘hellos’ and elevator ‘goodbyes’. Hence my dilemma: to ‘Christmas party or not to Christmas party’.

From what I have gathered, an office-organised event only happens once a year. And this is it. I’m thinking if I don’t go, I won’t be included in any ‘remember whens’ (for the next however long people decide to talk about that one event instead of the weather). There is free alcohol…but alcohol-fuelled conversations can be disastrous amongst people you know let alone making chat-chit with your new ill-common Vitamin D deficient fellow boxed partitioners.  And partners aren’t invited. I can see myself walking in solo, bee-lining to fill my mouth with dirty spring rolls and champagne before getting stuck talking to someone whose name escapes me while having no lifeline. Errrrrrrrr. The possibility of inelegant discomfort seems endless.

I am the office grinch. 

xmuse&skipx

Embracing My Inner-Burb

Despite the lack of family and familiar treasured friendships, Sydney is fast growing all over me. Of late this city has been kissing my skin with early summer sunshine, voluntarily draining my bank account with an abundance of designer sales, feeding my curiosity with knitted treasured laneways and licking my insides with a never-ending array of reasonably priced delicious cuisine and happy hour vinos. I simply cannot say no to her.

I can walk for hours people watching her unique and colourfully diverse residents, with none more wonderful to me than fellow street roamers of the Inner-West. Though bias in my new found budding love of all things King Street (being a lucky skip from her windings in Newtown), I have made efforts to kindle with other burbs. To me, Sydney is dotted with a collection of city-niches that call themselves ‘suburbs’.

Upon arriving in Sydney we wanted to try it all and found ourselves whizzing on spare days to sample-cram Manly, Bondi and the Northern Beaches; as well as bar crawling and café hopping the closer inner izzards of Surry Hills, Paddington, Kings Cross and The Rocks. When extending invites to seasoned Sydney folk, we found that many were none too keen to leave the main street of their niche, citing traffic and parking hassles as too frequently eating into their Sunday coffee sipping routines. Though leaving the car behind to jostle on the CityRail, I now see their fellow point. There is brain-hurting confusingly overwhelming choice. You want to do it all; and now. But can end up over thinking the simplest of sipping tasks and time really is of the essence.

My yesterday involved a King Street breakfast before joining the mass at Newtown Festival. This was my first experience of this locally run event to raise money for the Newtown Neighbourhood Centre. And I loved it. I got lost listening to author Nikki Gemmell talk of her novel Bride Stripped Bare and its follow up With My Body in the Writers’ Tent. I was left in awe of the rocking power and effortless cool of the young four piece, triple j Unearthed sister act, Stonefield, on the Essential Stage and Dubmarine easily set my reggae heart alight to finish the day on the Main Stage. But it was the ease at which this whole event seemingly went about its festival business that I found irresistible. If someone had decided to don a ‘Free Hugs’ T-shirt, this may well have been my time to take them up on their cheesy offer. I was a happy lass.

Newtown: you are my timely essence. For this jiffy I am pleased to selfishly (and predominately) look to you as my crazy out of work saving grace space. I can’t get enough of you. xmuseandskipx

xStonefieldx