A very boring week. Because I write about those now too. Apparently.

Because it is school holidays, the children had their annual visit with their grandparents and Bingley and I sat on the couch and wondered at the silence. For a very short period of time anyway before trying to fill it. I still had to work all week, and weekend, but we managed to do some other things too.

The first night we went and saw The Hobbit and drank slushies that gave me headspin and ate popcorn until I couldn't feel my lips. It was good and I enjoyed the Hobbit very much. I am thinking of taking the Elfling for an encore as I think she'd like it but it may be yet just a little scary. We'll see. Plus the idea of a night out with just her is appealing.

After the movie we walked around Southbank for a while and sat down at a Spanish bar to eat tapas. Fun ambience and a jug of tasty Sangria mixed with the sultry night as we people watched and the bougainvilea bower swayed listlessly in what was left of the breeze. After dinner, having eaten too much, we wandered through the park to the beach where hundreds of others were still swimming and I peeled off my shoes and pulled up my jeans and waded in tipsily, wanting nothing more than to dive right in. The only thing that stopped me was that my underwear was sheer, otherwise I would have jumped. Bingley was much more sensible than I though and promised we would come back the next night.

So Monday, after work, when I was overtired and overworked and underpaid, I got changed into my riding gear, we snapped our new $10 LED torches to our bikes and we rode all the way to the city, across the Goodwill Bridge and back down into Southbank to the pools. Unlike every other day of this new year, it was actually blowing quite a bit, with the wind racing along the river and losing all of her heat. Remembering the strong pull of desire from the previous night however I forced myself to strip off my slightly sweaty clothes down to my bikini and jump into the water that was actually blissfully warm. Lapping at shoulders as we bobbed around watching the city lights and listening to the sounds of everyone else splashing. The wind as it blew across the surface raising gooseflesh and causing me to shiver so much that it was not quite as long as expected before we were back on our bikes and riding home in the night.

Bingley and I have never ridden our bikes together in Brisbane before and it was a revelation. Wide, well maintained bike paths that snaked under and over bridges that seem so much bigger when you're whooshing past on your own steam. On arriving home my knees and shoulders hurt, but the grin of self satisfaction and spontaneity and doing something fun and active was elixir enough to fall peacefully to sleep not long after.

Wednesday night I stopped at Ikea on the way home and bought a new bookshelf. It was very big and heavy and getting it into the car I used all of my grade 10 Physics to actually lever it in without breaking something. We then had the fun of sitting on the floor and putting it together, which is probably the real reason we own so much Ikea furniture - it's just a really big lego set.

Thursday we went out for dinner at a Lebanese restaurant. It was ok.

Friday we had a big fight. I cried. We made up. I slept badly.

Saturday we woke up and the sun was shining and my room was full of light. I was snuggled up in my blankets as the airconditioning rumbled through the vents. After finally climbing out of bed and into the shower, we made our way to GoMA to the new APT exhibit.

Side note - I am lucky that I was brought up in a family that appreciated art and took the time to take children to museums and galleries and to explain it as well. Some art doesn't need explaining. Some art is just pretty and nice to look at, but art that speaks to you other than just being pretty - learning to appreciate that is a true gift.

Anyway, the Asia/Pacific triennial art exhibit at the Queensland Art Gallery is one of my favourite things to experience. The last exhibit in 2010 was spectacular and there were pieces there that made my heart hurt. Some that made my eyes sting and some that pulled my stomach out of my chest .I loved it. Loved experiencing it. Loved visiting it on my own. Loved taking others with me to experience it. The stag of globes still rates as one of the most amazing things I have ever seen. So of course my expectations were high, and I take disappointment badly.

I was not disappointed.

From the first moment of walking in, I knew I would not be disappointed. Some things of course I just glanced over politely, missing, or not caring about their meaning. Others had me spellbound, sitting and watching, sometimes nose right up to the glass or the paint or the wood, just to see every last tiny detail. To try and work out how as well as what and why.

Here are some of my favourites, and reasons why you should go too.

I liked these. I empathise.

This is techinically spectacular and utterly unnerving. So incredibly beautiful and so ugly at the same time. My phone has done nothing to capture the beauty of the colours or the technique. 

String theory. I followed each line to its completion. I loved the wobbles. String theory needs wobbles.

The yellow room 

Black and white. Texture and light. I was wearing a red dress and the reflected light from me gave the painting colour. I was profoundly moved by it.

Terrible picture of a stunning series by Michael Cook. Amazing.

This is a photograph taken of the sky in a mirror. The mirror is made from polished meteorite. When I realised what I was looking at my heart jumped a little. So spectacularly beautiful and so simple - seeing the sky from the sky. 

Large installation piece of cities that raise to they sky. Worth looking at close up to see all the little details. 

I usually am not much interested in the short cinema offerings at these exhibitions and wander out after a polite few minutes of trying to look interested. This one was not like that. 9 minutes that sucked the breath from my chest. I know it won't affect everyone like that, but it's worth sitting down for just to appreciate the cinematography. 

Whimsical Japanese print. Ethereal.

Farsi. I love that the room bent the more I looked at it to become a 3 dimensional thing. 

I am not sure why this moved me so much. It's massive and it is beautiful. Part of a larger series by an Indigenous artist. One of the bags reminded me of the Giants in the BFG. They seemed perfect for snatching up little children. 

One of those spectacularly beautiful wow creations that you don't need to be a critic to enjoy. I wanted to visit there in the clouds this temple. Live there. Home of the air nomads. 

Parade of the tiny glass animals. Intricate, refractory and flowing like water. 

Menacing shapes in the art gallery over the water. I loved the reflections and the menace and the beauty all mixed in together.

My hair is longer.

Wrap up posts are always a bit tedious. Both to write and to read. But we write the equivalent of the mass mail out Christmas letter because we feel the need for a punctuation mark in this little written universe of ours. So here goes...

There were and are plenty of things I could write about, but the first thing that came to my very very tired mind tonight as I bullied myself into writing the sort of post I usually glaze over, was that my hair is longer than it was this time last year. Quite a bit actually. Sometimes, in the tedium of growing my hair and trying to keep it looking healthy, it has felt as if it's not growing at all. That I'm spending all this time pursuing something that's just not possible, and as far as poorly drawn metaphors go, that about sums up good portions of this year.

But whining is not attractive at the best of times, and even at the worst of times it's not really one of my defining characteristics, because no one ever achieved much whining, and I've always been an overachiever.

So here's a few things I actually achieved this year:

I started drawing again. I've talked about it and half heartedly tried to pretend I was making an effort, when in reality I wasn't doing much of anything. But this year I really did, and I was even brave enough to give some of it away to a friend who deserved something much more impressive, but who was properly appreciative of the effort and thus I love her to bits.

I started a training program for a Royal Australian and New Zealand medical college and got excellent reviews. I got referees to say wonderful things about me and make me cry (in the good way). And if I didn't pass my exam first go, that's ok, I can do it again.

I moved into my first house all on my own and not only survived, but enjoyed myself. I went to the beach after work and sat on the sand. I stopped and bought icecream just because I could. I stayed up to late and read crappy books to cure the insomnia. I got up too early and did yoga on my purple mat.

I came home to my beautiful family and never want to leave again. Though it would be nice to still be able to pop down to the beach after work, or to the top of the mountain. I'd still rather come home to a noisy house full of squabbles and laughter and hugs and tiny sunburned hands that grip my fingers and steal my pillow in the middle of the night. I sleep better here.

But in general , 2012 was far harder than I anticipated, and in ways I hadn't expected. It hasn't been so much about enjoying as surviving and it's not my favourite way to live. 2011 finished on such a high - home from Paris, a major life long dream fulfilled, succeeding at work, succeeding at home, loving my beautiful children and with dreams this year of saving for our first home together. And I think that has what has been hardest this year, not the long hours, though they have been longer than almost any other time I have worked, or the stress of Bingley's prolonged unemployment, or the financial difficulties, or my weight gain that has been enough that my beautiful clothes that I wore to Paris pinch and no longer drape as they're supposed to. No, what has been hardest of all is that it has seemed pointless to dream, for fear of disappointment, and with no tangible goals to work for, I have floundered.

So for 2013, my goals are these - to have goals again. To work for them, even if they are smaller than the dreams of a year ago, when circumstances were different. To feel beautiful again, and dress accordingly. To learn how to curl my hair in curls that last longer than the time it took to put them in. To pass my exam. To go on a holiday, booked and planned in advance, even if it's not as glamorous as Paris, and sit in the heat with Bingley with limp hair and drink mojitos in the sunset.

Sometimes, I forget I'm 31, and I want someone to swoop in and save me. To make me feel clever and fun and beautiful and to make it all easier for me. To not worry about money or learning or holding the steel that is pressed against a person's heart and controlling their fate. To wake up and worry only about doing my hair and  making breakfast for the family and planning dinner and listening to homework. To still feel like there is magic and joy in the world.

But it's not my job or my study that takes that away, and no Disney Prince could ever give it to me either. And there are moments of magic still, when I make someone laugh, while taking away the fear of the procedure I'm doing. Of being thanked by the big burly security guard when I've given him the joint injection that means his arms work like they're supposed to. Or the little old lady who tears up when I am the first person to explain what it is that she's doing in hospital and why I'm doing what I'm doing. Who holds my hand with frail paper skin that buckles under my blade and bruises at a whisper.

Little old ladies always comment on my hair too. My beautiful long hair. I guess that's another thing I achieved: I have my old hair back.

Sun setting on 2012

PS I want to write about Christmas
PPS I want to write more this year. And not just because Liss told me to.

Eclipse

I woke with the curtain brushing across my cheek and the morning sun already filtering through my lashes. Tomorrow, the sun will wake me again, before disappearing, hiding behind the moon. Last week I would have been just under the path of the true eclipse, hoping for a fine day - though what other sort of day would I have had in the place that hadn't rained for 3 months? But I would not be anywhere else but here, enjoying the partial eclipse from the verandah as the breeze rushes up the hill.

There's an excitement and romanticism about the eclipse. One that extends to its very name despite what Stephenie Meyer may have attempted to do to besmirch it. I imagine there will be many proposals tomorrow under the dark morning sky - promises to be lights in darkness, suns to moons etc etc. The thought makes me smile, but I am still happier home with my partial eclipse and my partially romantic life.

Because, after 18 hours along the Bruce Highway I am home. Properly home. Not just for a weekend, not for a holiday, but home. I have given up my little flat with the wallaby that came in the mornings and the evenings, foraging in the grass. I have said goodbye to the little room where I danced in the dark and the friends I made in the middle of the night. I am back from being someone respected and feted to bottom of the ladder again and it's the way it should be.

I received an amazing end of term report and even nicer personal reviews. There is nothing quite like the feeling of having your mentors think well of you, and not only think well but share that with you and with others. To have people that will remember you, long after you've stopped working under them but will write nice things when a reference is required. But even nicer is the knowledge that they liked me as a person, respected and genuinely enjoyed my company. It made what could have been an awful time not only bearable but valuable.

In some ways it has been hard coming home and being responsible for hair brushing and dinner for 5 and setting the table and loads of laundry. To a husband that not only has never thought of writing me sonnets about suns and moons but who has become profoundly depressed about his lack of employment since I've been gone and as aware as I am that my hours are now much less and I am earning barely enough to keep us all afloat. To the extent that I am looking for a second job because a life of just getting by is too difficult.

But somehow, even with those stressors, I'm still happier home. Where I'm woken in the morning by the brush of curls under my chin and the sun in my eyes. Even if it will be hidden for a time tomorrow. The shadow will pass. And it's not the same unless I was on a yacht anyway, watching the moon ink the waves.

Sketchy

It was a hot and tense start to the weekend, with no rain and no relief in sight. I felt tired and hot and resentful and not inclined to be a loving wife or mother. The exorbitant electricity bill courtesy of an ailing refrigerator and the necessity of replacement just fouled my mood further.

It was lucky then, that in a burst of forethought and perseverance I had booked a babysitter for Sunday so that after a workout at the gym, Bingley could run off and not think about children for a while.

We went to yum cha and then to my beloved GoMA to see Matisse. I adored the exhibition. I loved standing with my nose almost against the glass as the worried stewards looked on so that I could see every last stroke of the pen or where the stump had been smudged into the vellum to create shadows and softness.

My very favourite bit of all though, was at the very end of the exhibition where a hall had been set up like Matisse's studio, and there were free drawing pencils, art boards and an encouragement to sit back and create. I have been drawing a lot lately, studying with pictures and sketching the finer details of the foramina of the sphenoid but sitting there with a large piece of thick card and a lovely soft pencil while I looked at art work in between all the others doing the same thing filled me with the sort of contented bliss that comes with doing what you love best.

I loved sneaking a peak at the works being created, from little tiny girls, balancing on a stool, to stooped and serious gentlemen studiously recreating still life. I loved the sound of pens rasping softly against paper and bodies bent over their works. The absorption of trying to recreate something on paper. And I loved being amongst that. Being completely absorbed and not noticing an older woman at my elbow watching my every pencil movement and encouraging me to continue. I loved the dark smudge of graphite over my palm where it brushed the page. And I loved best of all that from the rough sketches little bits of reality imprinted on the paper.

While Bingley sipped his coffee and ate shortbread overlooking the river I sparkled and sipped tea and smudged my face with my graphite-y hand and wished that I could sit curled with my neck aching balanced on the chair and practice and practice and practice until I was good at this. But even more than being good, I just wanted to keep doing it. My fingers literally tingled.

Not Matisse, but I can't resist marble

My fellow sketchers

20 minutes later

Studying the orbit - handwriting bonus for the graphologists

Almost finished the cerebellum

Finally coming to grips with the palatine bones

Louboutins in Luxembourg

Our last full day in Paris started with breakfast in the 6th, wandering ostensibly in the direction of the Jardin Luxembourg. I was sure we were going the wrong way, but Bingley was in charge of directions for the day and so I left it up to him as we wandered through side streets and colourful alleys. After the customary tartine and oeufs we headed down yet another side street while I looked bewildered at Bingley knowing for sure that we were headed in the wrong direction to get to the gardens. In fact I was arguing this point as he gestured to a fabulous window display as a way of distracting me. 

I stopped arguing and instead smiled brilliantly at the display of perfectly finished shoes on display, sitting serenely in the window, their indecent red soles flashing to the keen observer. "Which one would you choose?" asked Bingley as I licked the window, French style, salivating over the perfection of form. "All of them" was my flippant answer, preparing to wander past, not really in the mood for pining over something I couldn't have. 

"You should try them on" said Bingley, opening the door, and that is how I found myself, sitting on the velvet ottoman in Christian Louboutin, admiring dozens of pairs of spectacular shoes while a sales girl looked on bemusedly. No one came to my assistance at first, and I am sure that they assumed that we were yet more gawkers intent on "browsing" as I fingered a pair of shoes and tried not to look at the neat price tags. And to be fair, I wasn't sure we were doing much more than that either, and was waiting to be thrown out Pretty Woman style, however Bingley insisted, stating that he wanted me to have a pair, as my birthday present. 

I was finally approached by the sales assistant who asked if she could help, and in terrible French I told her I wasn't sure what I was after, but that my husband wanted to buy me a pair for my birthday. After that, she was all smiles and soon had a little pile of boxes in size 36.5 sitting beside me. I loved them all, and in an alternate universe where paying hundreds of Euros for a pair of shoes is not laughable (though if it keeps trending as it is, this may be a possibility...) I wanted them all. In the end though, I had narrowed it down into a pair of plain navy pumps that were comfortable and perfect and a pair of black Mary Janes with an impossibly slender heel that Bingley loved. In the end, in spite of the 200E difference, I left the decision with him and then proceeded to grin inanely as we wandered the streets of Paris with a Louboutin carry bag dangling off my arm.

To say I was excited was a shallow echo of the jubilant girl bouncing through the streets of Paris like a 4 year old on Christmas morning. The weather was greyer than it had been for the few days prior but I felt luminescent. We found the Jardin Luxembourg with its majestic paths and flower beds and the spectacular trees and I couldn't help it, even knowing that the white gravel would tear into the red soles I had to try them on again, to wander in Paris, in amongst beautiful Autumn leaves wearing something so elegant and perfectly fitting that it seemed to have been made for my foot alone. 

And as I gazed at the trees and the sky and beamed, I was approached and asked for directions, I was smiled at, and I smiled and smiled. I may not have been a 21 year old etudiant, living off baguettes and beure but an older Jenn, a wiser one with more elegance than the youthful starry eyed one was there instead, tripping along in her Louboutins. 

The rest of the day was spent wandering along Rue Rivoli, through the Marais and ending up again at Trocadero for the best hot chocolate I had in France before tired and happy coming home to our apartment. We went out for dinner that night, and sat on purple velvet chairs, and though I knew that it was tomorrow to be goodbye to a city I love as a soulmate, I knew that we would meet again. And in the meantime, when I am sad, I can unwrap my beautiful shoes, do up the tiny buckles around my tiny ankles and marvel at the wonder that is a perfectly crafted pair of shoes.