#marchphotoaday: batch two

Day 6: #5pm

This is where I am at 5pm most days, my work desk. My team are huge on printing out pictures of our latest obsessions and plastering out desks and monitors with them. Here, I am repping insanity and music, by way of Hunter S Thompson and (the) Melvins. The other side of my monitor is all hip-hip, all the time, baby.

Day 7: #somethingyouwore

The 7th of March happened to be a Wednesday and Wednesday happens to be yoga day! I am halfway through a beginners yoga course. It amazes me how much stronger I am than the last time I did yoga. Downward-facing dog into plank? Not a problem. How I can’t do a proper sun salute because of my boobs? Totally different story.

Day 8: #window

This was the last day I had recently where I really didn’t feel like I could get out of bed. I’m not exactly gazelle-like now, but at least I’m not mentally composing poetry about life being a cage.

Day 9: #red

I saw this skirt months ago and talked myself out of buying it because it didn’t fit perfectly. Now I’ve lost a bunch of weight and as chance would have it, the skirt was still there. Now to find me a blazer and complete my plan to look like some kind of Kubrick schoolmarm.

Day 10: #loud

I could have chosen so many things to illustrate loud, but none of them would be as fitting as Jeff. Has he ever told you his Tolkien joke? No? You’ll know when the punchline is coming because I’ll have my hand firmly clamped across his mouth and a tight smile.

#marchphotoaday: batch one

Day 1: #up

I remember when I took this photo rain was predicted for Sydney all through March. Today I sat in almost the same spot, baking in the sun.

Day 2: #fruit

I don’t eat much fruit, despite having free fruit boxes delivered to work twice a week (Sorry Mum! Sorry body! Sorry heart in body!) but orange tea counts! This is one of a series of photos I take called Big Food Photos. It’s one of my favourite things in the world, along with large underpants and the concept of adult prams.

Day 3: #yourneighbourhood

I grew up in the country and on long drives I would spend hours watching power poles go by, imagining some really fast and strong person bounding along the top of them, keeping up with the speed of the car. Power lines could be really ugly, but I like the way they dissect the sky.

Day 4: #bedside

I have always loved bedside tables, mostly because I read a lot and like having books close by. Here we have: a skull-shaped shot glass that usually has medication in it; bottles of Omega, vitamin D and melatonin; a talisman monkey that my mum made that looks to be dead, but is really sleeping; a pictorial history of hip-hip; back issues of Vanity Fair; a book about anxiety; a notebook; Polaroids from Steph and Joel’s wedding; a highlighter; a wristband from the Tamworth Country Music Festival; my Kindle; a notebook I keep track of every book I read in, and tissues.

Day 5: #smile

I am the only person who can take posed photos of me that aren’t hideous. This one is ridiculous, but not hideous. This is my fake photo smile. The photo is quite old, I haven’t been blonde in an age.

#febphotoaday: batch four

Day 16: #somethingnew

This is a ring I bought from Etsy, by a New Zealand designer. Yes, it’s human teeth set with a solid silver band. I imagine I’ll have more to say about what it feels like to wear someone else’s teeth when it arrives. My mum thinks it’s disgusting, yet at the same time, she’s offered me some of my baby teeth to have made into jewelry. Hypocritical to the bone!

Day 17: #time

Yeah, FaceTime! Hehe! I don’t FaceTime much, but when I do, I like to do it sitting on the couch next to the person I’m FaceTiming. It was really hard to get a good photo of both of us, mostly because both of our faces pale in comparison to my really pretty hair.

Day 18: #drink

James Gorman, who is both my lawyer and the world’s worst lawyer, came to town recently and Ms Nomes got a bunch of us together to go to Gardel’s to drink to his health. Then we ate small hotdogs and hamburgers to his health, just for good measure.

Day 19: #somethingyouhatetodo

I hate to admit that it’s Sunday night and tomorrow is Monday and this work and thus Unfunday ūüôĀ These days I go to Sunday night jazz and drink cider and try and ignore the fear rising in my stomach. I don’t like Mondays.

Day 20: #handwriting

1. A copy of the latest live Swans album, signed and doodled on by Michael Gira himself. This edition sold out, but I think there’s going to be a standard version for sale over at Young God Records soon. 2. My last tattoo. It is my sister’s handwriting, as interpreted by a tattoo artist. It says ‘At sunrise the monkeys will fly’.

Day 21: #afavephotoofyou

This photo is, I think, from last winter, but it fit my criteria of being an iPhone photo. Look at that fringe! I give good hair. I love winter and its fringe-ness and boot wearing.

Day 22: #whereyouwork

The corporate monolith.

Day 23: #shoes

These are The Jessicas, my very fancy shoes made by Jessica Simpson. My mum has a tape of me, when I was about four or five, singing ‘Fash, fash, fash, fash … FASHION!’. It was inevitable I’d end up being so stylish.

Day 24: #insideyourbathroomcabinet

Whoops. I forgot. But I did two #handwriting photos! Totally counts.

Day 25: #green

A few weeks ago my family got together to scatter my grandmother’s ashes in Manly. I picked one of her brooches to remember her by, Toad from Toad Hall. I kind of love that it’s a bit chipped here and there, which was bound to happen when she wore it as often as she did and hugged so many grandchildren with it pinned to her cardigan. I miss her.

Day 26: #night

This was taken on one of the last nights I lived in Marrickville. I’d walked this part of the street so many times over my many years in the ‘hood, but it never felt as fresh as this night, nor the sky so big.

Day 27: #somethingyouate

Yep. Still not great at the cooking. And this is¬†a lie. I couldn’t face eating this.

Day 28: #money

Dear Americans, this is how you do it.

Day 29: #somethingyou’relisteningto

Still in love with the latest Puscifer album.

And that was it for February! This is a really fun project, massive props to Fat Mum Slim for setting it up!

One Thing Before 50

It’s strange the levels of dreams you can have for the future. My short-term ones are all so frantic and filled with static, they all feel like grasping at electrified straws.

My good friend Lilla sent me a link to a blog post¬†of a student who took David Foster Wallace’s Literary Interpretation class in ’05 and after reading through the syllabus, I’ve decided that after I’ve made my money and paid my taxes and own some bricks and have ticked all the boxes that make me an a-ok globalised capitalist, I’m going to pack a small bag and go America and enroll in literary courses, and lurk in brownstone buildings, not for a piece of paper at the end, but for nothing more than to selfishly indulge in the study of a subject I love, one that has lost its lustre over the years, in an era where the time you can spend in higher education is capped, because it’s now a system that’s a sausage factory, the end result of which is to push you out and get you paying taxes, quickly at that.¬†

I just want to sit somewhere quietly, surrounded by paper made stiff by hand-written notes and highlighted passages and I want to read into every sentence of a book, and¬†wonder if ‘red’ is just red, or if it’s flagging danger, or passion, or death.

The Gweat Weight Debate.

This morning I was passing the desks of¬†a small¬†team I work with, and I stopped¬†under the premise¬†of discussing work issues, but mostly to compliment one of the guys on how much weight he’s lost and how my team have been discussing how good he looks. The conversation took all kinds of twists and turns, we discussed tax and the really great article Michael Lewis wrote about the odd relationship citizens of Greece have with the concept of paying it; we discussed¬†the industry we work in, and its future and then we¬†fell into a kind of nice silence. ¬†¬†

Suddenly, one of the guys said, ‘Julia, I’m sorry if this is rude, but have you lost weight recently?’ I nodded, because I have, in little bits and pieces, and then he said ‘You can see it everywhere, like in your face and arms and stomach, everywhere, you look good!’. One of the other guys nodded in agreement.

Last week a friend who hasn’t seen me in a month or so told me I’m looking ‘trim’ and a week before my parents said I was looking ‘very well’ which is parental code for ‘thinner’.

The strange thing is, I can’t see it, at all, anywhere. I have a pair of skin-tight pants I wear to yoga and to the gym. I thought they were getting baggy because they are about six months old and because I didn’t pay very much for them. Same goes for the shorts I’m wearing today, that used to be slightly clingy and now which hang off my hips.

I’ve never really blogged about weight, because¬†there’s a plethora of articles out there¬†that start with ‘Like¬†many women, I have a complicated relationship with my body …’ and I really don’t have much to add to the discussion other than that I am going to write a letter to the¬†makers of all larger-sized clothing for women and point out that splashing everything with garish animal print doesn’t make a larger woman¬†feel sexy,¬†it makes her feel like hunting practise. Really,¬†you pull on one of those suffocatingly synthetic garments and you instantly hear David Attenborough whispering, ‘Watch, as she¬†chafs her way through her natural metropolitan habitat, camouflaging her loins¬†in the print of the fictitious hot pink zebra,¬†in hope¬†the bright colours attract her a mate’ and then someone shoots you in the butt with a poison dart.

I don’t know what those clothes attact other than contact rashes and sweat, but all my experiments in adding colour to my wardrobe in the hope of faking some sort of “larger person cheerfulness” ended with me returning to to safety of all black, all the time. It suits my personality better anyway.

Now I have to go and force myself to hunt some prey for lunch, even though having the Santorum and Romney GOP presidential primary speeches playing in my ear for the last hour has sapped me of much of my appetite. There’s my diet tip right there.

Six Feet Under

Nate: Stop listening to the static

Claire: What the fuck does that mean?

Nate: Nothing. It just means that everything in the world is like this … transmission, making its way across the dark, but everything – death, life, everything, it’s all completely suffused with static. Chuuuuuuuu-, you know? But if you listen to the static too much, it fucks you up.

Last night I went to Mush’s house and we watched the last two episodes of Six Feet Under. I’ve seen the whole series three or four times now, I’m compulsively drawn to the dissection of the pain felt by neurotic white people, in a world where that’s almost the best thing to be.

The Fisher family are beautifully broken, their pain is legitimate. Everyone is covered in marks left by life; no two of us are the same; so long as you continue to surprise yourself, you also have to accept you’ll never really know anyone else.

I swing between finding this liberating and terrifying.

Mush wrote a piece after we finished, it contains spoilers so I wouldn’t recommend it to people who haven’t had the pleasure of spending time with the Fishers, but if you have, it’s a fantastic analysis of how the final scene draws together a strand from every single episode, simultaneously binding them and setting them free.