The View from Elsewhere

the 1001-th post

Okay, so there is another blog over here. No, I couldn't help myself.

But don't get too excited, as it is only a very occasional, random affair (from the world of post-from-your-email-and-phone).

the last post

This is the last post of this blog, the one-thousandth post (yes: and there’s more, but not for long).  When I saw it was coming up a few months ago, I decided it would be the final one.  I was hoping to post it in April, six years after I started blogging, but other things like life got in the way.

It's important for me to sign off on this blog, because it's marked an significant chapter of my life. I'm a bit wary of repeating some of the material from recent posts (another reason to stop blogging), though I feel in need of closure.  I set out originally write an aide-memoire, of living in Alice Springs, and that's what provided the narrative trajectory for the View, as much as it's possible for a blog to have one. As far as I know, this is the longest running blog about life in the Territory and possibly the first blog about Alice Springs.

Many unexpected things came out of my time in the Territory, and also from blogging.  It’s often the things that you don’t predict in life that turn out to be the best.  One aspect of blogging I’m loathe to leave behind is its unexpected serendipity (much and all as I hate that word, along with ‘synergy’)…almost everything I’ve had published that originated in a blogpost, I didn’t set out to write as a piece for publication.  It just took on its own life.  I may find I miss this unexpected freefall into creative recesses too much to stop blogging altogether, and start a new blog...who knows?  I’ll post a link here or propagate it through facebook, if I do.

I'm now ‘unexpectedly’ back here in Melbourne, comfortable as a pig-in-muck in the golden triangle of Northcote-Clifton Hill-North Fitzroy, eating far too much food, buying too many cold-weather clothes (tho the Kmart long-sleeved numbers I’d been wearing for three years were never going to cut it in the Melbourne winter).  I feel that ultimately I’ll make my base here, tho I’ll continue to dip in and out of the Territory.  I’ve noticed that although people often return to Alice the first couple of years after leaving the place, gradually they move on.  Amongst the expats I know, there seem to be two types, often represented in a couple: one who yearns to be back in central Australia, the other who might look back fondly, but sees the urban life as their true modus operandi.  I suspect I’m more the latter type, although Alice made me more of a convert to the regional life than I ever expected to be.  I’d try the regional life again, though maybe on the coast or somewhere wet and misty, like Tasmania.

One of the deal-breakers for me was realizing how quickly the turn-over people — i.e. expats — occurred.  Long-term Alice residents would comment on how they saw whole groups of people go, and I stayed there long enough to see ten of my friends leave within eighteen months…virtually a whole social network.  Up until that point, I was relishing the regional life…until I realized how unstable it could be in Alice.

I saw that I would have to go through the whole death and rebirth cycle with people, over and over again in Alice, and more quickly…and that the new people in town were getting younger and younger, as I got older and older.  After about three years, you also start to become distant from your circles of friends elsewhere, and to miss out on some of the important events in their lives and vice-versa, those things that often make for long-term bonding experiences.  So I thought I’d see what it was like to return.

   Alice is a place of extremes — of climate, of distance, of personalities, of social privilege, of racial divides.  The sense of being confronted regularly by some basic issues of human need, survival and even hatred, as well as constantly being made aware of the cycle of life — how tenuous things could be — was ultimately wearing for me.  You’re also less cushioned from harsh realities: shopping at Kmart and Target, arthouse cinema once a week and two cafes that make decent coffee are pretty much the mainstay fleshpots on offer in Alice.

Having said that, I don’t at all regret having thrown up the cards to go to Alice six years ago.  It’s surely been one of the signature experiences of my life. But I don’t regret having thrown up the cards yet again to return to Melbourne.

the Olive Pink of Merri Creek

So, so, so...I'm at the end of leg one of my move to Melbourne, having (a) started my new job and (b) moved into my latest rental abode.  When I say moved in, I mean me, the swag, the esky, a suitcase full of workclothes, and later a toaster, a saucepan, a fridge and a microwave.  Leg two will involve the cats and the bike, and those finicky electrical goods I could have brought in the car but forgot (the jug, the powerboard, the clock radio, etc).  Needless to say, first housewarming gift to self was a secondhand swing-door kitty-litter box.

Otherwise, I'm slumping after five days of hitting the tarmac pretty much running at my new job and organising various bits and bobs before the Big Move. That's right, the real move, leg three, when I load the rest of my stuff into the back of a van and hope that it somehow makes it here from Alice. The removalists have given me a set-down date of 6 April, tho that does seem optimistic, given they're based in Alice and they'd have to be driving over the Easter break.  All this removal business is reminding me what an undertaking it is, and how it's not to be done on a whim...every year.  I'm leaving my unit semi-furnished so I can go back for a stint in Alice if I want, but I doubt I'll ever do another permanent move back there.

I ended up applying for the first place I saw -- the Greek Grandmother's Delight in blue and white in a divey-looking block with lots of pot plants and cat kitsch -- then rescinding the application after seeing several larger abodes which would take all my stuff easily, but which were considerably more expensive. At one point, I was seriously taken by the renovated ground floor of an old bank -- plenty of cupboard space, and potential for me to subdivide an area into a study and a living room.  But there was no outside space for the cats, all the windows were fixed (so I'd rely on air-conditioning to ventilate the place), and a tramline was directly outside: I'd be woken every morning by the first tram that rattled along.  I woke up in the middle of the night and thought: do the cats really need to go outside?  The Ancient Princess was not in question, as she'd sleep all day on my bed if she could, but did the others really go out when I wasn't there?  Answer: not a lot, but they do like sitting on their chairs on the balcony of an evening.

The solution was clear: I must return to the Greek Grandmother's Delight, with its north-facing balcony.  (Happily, no one else had applied.) There were other advantages, like potentially clear delineation of cat boundaries (with separate litter boxes). The living area was kind of small, but it had an unusually large dining area opening onto the balcony, which would make an excellent writing nook, especially in the winter.  The block might look divey from the street, but it had a quite congenial feel (indeed, the residents have been friendly in a downmarket funky Melrose Place kind of way).  In fact, it seemed almost rural, because of its relative quietness and proximity to Merri Creek.  "Rural' is good after Alice," a fellow ex-Springian in the office said.  He's right; you don't want to get too urban too quickly.

It was also walking distance from High St and, as C pointed out to me on Google maps, it was a 1.2 km walk to work.  I could always buy my own floor of an old building if I still liked living in Melbourne as much in a year's time, and subdivide it as I liked. (And who wants to be worrying about having enough money to pay the rent at the expense of all the other things one came to Melbourne for -- like going out and buying books?)

road trip

I'm sitting in the Olive Pink Gardens (view from Annie Meyer Hill right), eating my last bigilla before I head off on a road trip.  That's right: how could I road trip begin without a fortifying breakfast. 

The past week or so, a refrain of 'road trip, road trip' has been going in my head...now faced with the reality, I feel a little subdued.  There has been a weekend of brunching and de-cluttering. The cats made themselves scarce, especially once the Dreaded Camping Gear appeared. That is, except for the Ancient Princess, who's scarcely aware of anything except the next feed (her hearing may have gone, but her sense of smell hasn't). 

I've been given various sage pieces of advice about the trip south -- how it will clear my mind, lift the tension from my shoulders, help me to think in longer arcs.  All of that.  We'll see.  I think it's a fitting way to ease myself out of the Centre: gradually.  The other thing is: talking books.  A road trip is always a great opportunity to fill your mind with longer narratives you wouldn't usually get a chance to read.

 Over the past few days, I've run into some of the personalities I met when I first came to town ...in the way that one does in Alice (not always a welcome experience), but also fortuituously, like the rounding off of loose ends in a mini-series or like the re-appearance of obscure earlier characters at the end of a Dickens novel. One of the local identities I ran into was the 'desert queen', who brought me here (pictured left).  When I told her I was travelling south, she said, 'Ah, you won't last in the Big Smoke.  You'll be back.'

I had hoped to leave town before 9.30 am...it's now almost 10.00 am.  I guess there's no screaming hurry to reach Coober Pedy tho I'd rather arrive before it gets dark (except to miss all those potholes).   No, the cats aren't coming with me.  I'm not that mad -- not driving 2,500 km with cats.  I am driving the Getz, which has raised some eyebrows amongst my male friends, but I'm sure the Getz is up to it.

Anyway, I'm for the open road:

 

the woman of the cattery

Just had a telecanvasser:

Her: Can I speak to the Man of the House?

Me: There isn't one. Are you a telecanvasser?

Her: Am I speaking to Mrs Elsewhere?

Me: No, you're speaking to Ms Elsewhere and this has been a fairly sexist telecanvassing session so far.

Her: What?  This is not sexist.

Me: Yes, it is.  [Slams down phone]

Phone ring again.  Pulls connection out of wall.

Thinks:  She's probably calling from Singapore...descending into my own generalisations here.

Thinks again: What kind of a sad, mad, unreconstituted relic am I?  Have I been too long in Alice?

Of course, there is always Otty, who thinks he's the Man of the House, but he's too shy to talk on the phone.

amongst cockroaches

I'm now at a cafe on the northside of Alice where there is power...the owner has kindly let me use a powerboard in front of the 'stage' where there is unfortunately live lunchtime music (most live music is fairly unfortunate in Alice, not least because you've already heard the performer several times).  I told her I had good powers of concentration, tho I probably can't do much more than blog, under the conditions.  I have an hour left on my other, older laptop with the bigger screen and more sophisticated scriptwriting software, which I was using yesterday...I'm hoping to charge up another three hours on this one.  

A 43 yo man has been found dead in the Todd...apparently, he'd been drinking then was swept away in the current while trying to ford the river.  He's been named as 'Kwementyaye', so clearly he's Aboriginal, and quite possibly homeless or itinerant if he was by the Todd.  We're being urged on the radio to 'stay indoors at home' -- not an option for everyone -- because monsoonal waters are passing over the centre to the north-east of town...which doesn't mean that they won't flow to the south where I live.

It doesn't take much to make you realise how dependent you are on a couple of infrastructure elements to maintain your pretentious lifestyle.  Once my plans for the day were so rudely thrown out by a power outage, I decided to embark on another decluttering campaign, this time the plastics cupboard in the kitchen.  There has been a major pest infestation in Alice, thanks to this inclement weather, and some cockroaches have taken up residence in my plastics.  (This is at its most abject when you find roach dirt in the ice cube trays.) 

I reckoned I could chuck out at least half my plastics, anyway: you can't take it with you and all that.  None of this perfectionistic dithering about whether you might need a certain container again, faintly veiled by internalised ecological guilting.  Things can be 'chucked' in the Salvoes' bin, because there'll always be someone in need, especially in Alice.

this floating life

Yesterday, the cats and I packed into a life-raft fashioned from plastic tubes filled with lentils, almonds and raisins, and set forth on the ever-burgeoning Todd for Adelaide.  In case you fear for our collective welfare, we were all wearing flotational vests crocheted from ininti seeds, although one feline certainly didn't need it; indeed, the tortoiseshell blimp has proved useful as a buoy on occasion.  

We floated past the Brewers Industrial Estate just after midnight; we hope to make the Marla Roadhouse by noon, then negotiate the currents eddying from potholes at Coober Pedy before arriving in the River Torrens for the opening of the Adelaide Arts Festival.

The Todd, before we left (actually, on my last bike ride, snatched before the floods on Friday afternoon):

Emily Gap (somewhat unfocussed iphone photo: it was raining):

  

Seriously, the rain has poured down fairly constantly over the past few days.  It's a pleasant novelty to fall asleep listening to the rain, tho I do wince when it starts teeming, as I live in the flood zone.  Still holding out here, hoping the puddles won't up to the door, though it's pretty swampy outside my back gate.

Otherwise, drinks at Crowne on Friday night, then a weekend of de-cluttering, writing and DVD-watching, tho it might just be de-cluttering today, as the power has been off for a couple of hours.  It once went off for a couple of days after some stormy weather (the solution is to boot-up the laptop in a cafe with power).

Last night, as I went into Blockbuster, some Aboriginal men drinking in a car outside called out, 'Hello gorgeous!'  Only weeks, maybe even days left of these interesting cross-cultural experiences.  The Blockbuster car park isn't a usual drinking spot (in fact, I'm surprised they could get away with it).  I suspect they're out-of-towners, here for the NAB match between the Pies and the Crows, which I missed as I was drinking on the other side of town myself.  Apparently the match was pretty swampy; I've seen it so many times now not to be disappointed by missing this annual Alice event.  Anyway, I may soon have the opportunity for more interesting cross-cultural footy experiences.

In the new releases section of the DVD store, I saw some copies of In Tranzit, which as I understand it is an indie film about German POWs in a Soviet transit camp after WWII.  It features John Malkovich and Vera Parmigiana or whatever her name is, who was so good in Up in the Air...but more excitingly for me, I know one/have been taught by of the writers. True, I know/have been taught by some writers of Australian films, but it was a first for me to be able to say that about an international film. Needless to say, I didn't borrow it, I was brought up on a staple diet of WWII stories and have to steel myself to read/watch any more and I was In Search of Something Light, as one invariably is in Alice. But it's made it to Alice, so perhaps another time...

sleeping with bears

On Sunday morning, I caught up with the not-so-speedies (a ka: the ‘slowpokes’).  For those not in the know, this is a consortium of peoples who prefer to ride at an average speed of 23 kmh.  This coalition of the unwilling was started by my dear friend L, who was disquieted by the constant 30 + kmh speeds of the bike club’s Sunday Social Ride, as opposed to the advertised average of 27 kmh.

I told L I might come if I woke up in time. (Actually, there are a lot of ‘L’-friends in my life, and their names often do start with ‘L’ – ha!).  The biggest hitch was the meeting time of 6 am, but there were some good reasons to join them.  It’s hotter earlier at this time of year, and the last time I joined the Sunday Social Ride, they wore me out, as I’m not ‘bike fit’ enough to deal with the speeding.

Much to the not-so-speedies’ surprise, I did wake in time (it’s also very bright early in the day this year) and joined them.  We rode about 40 km at 25 kmh, amid protests that I had raised their overall average speed.  However, they did get to use me as a windbreak. 

Out riding, I was reminded by how seductive the embrace of the Centralian landscape can be early in the morning: the quietude, the gentle light picking out pastel tones.  Holed up in my air-conditioned bunker over summer, I had begun to forget what the place could be like.

   There were only three of us slowpokes on the ride, though many others passed us on the way, evidently with the same idea of catching the cool of the day.  Afterwards, we – L, the Gavster and I — had coffee in the Mall while the marketers were still setting up their stalls.  It was almost impossible for me to imagine I was up so early, as indeed it was for my companions (mind you, I felt like falling asleep for the rest of the day).  

Gav, in particular, couldn’t get over the fact that I was actually there, given my aversion to earliness and my peripatetic lifestyle.  At one point, L related a travel tale about a friend who had been ‘sleeping with bears’ while camping in the States.

‘Can you imagine that?’ she said.  ‘I can’t imagine camping with bears.  Would you camp near bears?’

‘No,’ said Gav, ‘But I can imagine texting El and finding that she was sleeping with bears.  I’m always getting messages: “Sorry, can’t ride with you, I’m in Timbuktu” or “I’m in Alaska”.  Next thing you know, she'll be texting to say that she's "sleeping with bears".’

Well, more like penguins in Tasmania or Mormons in Utah… We also talked about Alice, what a good but difficult place it was to live, and where we might go next.  ‘Alice’ is such a common topic of conversation amongst those who live here, it’s hard to know why (apart from the obvious ‘resonances’), but maybe it’s because everything is so far away.  So many residents are expats too and there’s such a great sense of transience that the place naturally becomes a point of discussion and comparison itself.

 L had always wanted to live in the centre, and had cast an anchor over the side here after travelling round the country with her ex.  Gav, it seemed, was gradually travelling north from Tasmania, and planned to head further north, to the Kimberley perhaps, in hope of better fishing prospects.

L asked Gav if he’d seen any of the film festival or if he intended seeing anything.  She handed him a flyer, and he scanned it and said, ‘No, and the only film I’d want to see has already been on.’

‘Oh, The Fox and the Child!’ I said.

‘That’s the one!’ Gav turned to L.  ‘You see, El knows me so well she knows which film I’d pick.  It’s because it's about the innocence of childhood, and my childhood was disturbed, so I like to see things like that.’

And not only that, but hence the long journey north, further and further from Tasmania.

winging it

 The other day, I went to the physio.  I hadn’t been in ages, because generally I can’t afford these things so often these days, and I try and deal with my various aches and pains with yoga and exercise.  Most of my issues are concentrated round my neck and shoulders from all the computer work I do: I don’t have problems with my lower back or knees.  

 

As soon as I took off my top, the physio said: ‘Oh, your left first rib’s sticking up.  I’ll just pop it back in.’

I said: ‘Hold it right there.’

And I explained to her about the whole subclavian vein/thoracic outlet episode (the theory is that this shoulder vein gets compressed between the first rib and clavicle, leading to thromboses and other issues).

She looked nervous, but I told her to go ahead with the manipulation because there wasn’t any clot (as far as I knew).

 That done, she examined my back and said that my left scapula was ‘winging’: i.e. my shoulder blade isn’t sitting flat against my back. She suggested that it was the cause of my neck problems, and gave me exercises to strengthen the muscle.

 

 I was given exercises for scapula winging on both sides by a physio several years ago.  Evidently I need to keep them up.  It’s raised an interesting chicken-egg scenario for me: did the poor scapula strength contribute to problems in the thoracic outlet, or did the scapula problems result from the clot experience?  I hardly used my left arm for two years afterwards, which definitely led to another set of problems.

 Anyway, I suspect that both structural factors are interrelated.  Given that I spend more time at the computer than anything else (tho sleeping with cats might be a close second), it would make sense that poor posture was a major contributor and that what I had was possibly an e-thrombosis (getting more special all the time — Ed.)

 

I also habitually hold my head to the right: childhood photos show me doing this, so I may have shortened the neck muscles on the right side over time. If I turn my head totally to the right, I close the vein, which was the position in which I was sleeping when I got the clot and which I try to avoid.

A sports doctor once told me that I’m hypermobile (i.e. overly flexible), a common problem for tall women with long ligaments (TPS: take heed).  Apparently, it means that it’s difficult for you to maintain stability in different postures, unlike a short, compact, nuggety person, so you tend to overcompensate and your muscles become tense and rigid in response.  I do find it hard to remain comfortable, sitting for long periods of time, and my neck often tenses into positions that I can’t undo without professional help (however much stretching and exercising I try).

So...so...am now sitting with shoulders permanently pinned back in 'must-improve-my-bust' position evocative of characters in Mad Men, the second season of which I am now watching.

no to the bubble

In Darwin I noticed the prevalence of the ‘bubble’ fashion, something I daresay may eventually come to Alice, but then again not, if we’re lucky (I’m sure we miss many fashions altogether).  If I remember rightly, the bubble skirt had a flutter a couple of years ago (indeed, twenty years ago) but seems to have come back in force, in multiple forms: bubble dresses, bubble shorts, bubble pants, etc.  I think this trend can only be described as unfortunate: does a bubble suit anyone, outside of a bath?

I imagine it’s the kind of bandwagon some might leap onto, hoping for greater concealment, though it’s more likely to create the impression of greater bulk.  You could end up looking like you’ve got two baobabs for legs or as if you flunked the parachuting course and made yourself some duds from the silk for revenge.  (But wouldn’t you be dead? Ed.)

I tried on a couple of the bubble fashions at Casuarina Mall, that great northern homage to hyperreal shopping.  Being tall, I reckoned I could get away with the bubble pants thing, but would I want to?  I tried a size smaller than what I’d usually take (still plenty of room), and I immediately looked like I should be fitted with a crop and a small horn, so I could ride out with the hounds.  But you wouldn’t want to be short and stumpy; that would be stretching the whole bubble pant thing (actually, the exact opposite). Lulu's so rotund, she looks like she's wearing furry bubble pants anyway.  As for the bubble dress with its high gathered waist and faux gold trimmings: I looked like an escapee from a toga party or perhaps from a 1930s girls boarding-school book production of a Greek tragedy.

 So that’s my verdict: no to the bubble thing, along with its distant relative, happy pants: both should be banished.