Not pretending to have it together

Thanks to everyone who responded to my minor midnight meltdown post. I wasn't looking for sympathy, just wanting to share with the world, really. Not that I didn't very much appreciate everything everyone said and wrote, and not that anyone actually offered me sympathy... ahh, I'm tying myself up in knots here! Hopefully you understand what I'm trying to get at.

I've had some good encounters, rehearsals and chats with awesome artistic and creative people in the past few days, and feel much more on an even keel. Even just knowing that I'm not alone in the doubting and uncertainty has been settling, in a way.

Somebody said to me the other day that I am more together than most. I'm not so sure. I think I'm good at portraying the appearance of togetherness, but that doesn't really mean that I feel it inside. So Monday's surge of not-togetherness on this blog felt very refreshing. As though I don't have to pretend any more.

Dazed and Confused

I should be sleeping. But instead I am worrying and wondering and kinda freaking myself out. I feel like I have lost all sense of direction. I feel lost. I don’t feel like a musician or an artist, or even a creative person. I just feel stressed and frustrated and that time is passing by me incredibly quickly.

This is not how I want my life to be. This is not what I want on a Monday morning at 12:07am.

There are SO many things that I want to do. Dozens of ideas flit through my head every day. I want to create, and travel and inspire and be inspired. I could easily fill ten lifetimes with the number of things I want to do. And this is really exciting, to have this many ideas. But also paralyzing. Where do I start? What do I do first? How many things can I really do at once? What things can wait? How do they all interrelate?

And so I come to a crisis of indecision and tension between stability/predictability/reliability/being able to pay the rent and the big leap of massive amounts of faith and dreaming into the big unknown of adventure and possible catastrophic failure. I’ve always taken the safe option in the past. But it has never satisfied me.

Things are going to change. I don’t know how, but I am determined to create the life that I want to lead. And I want to share that journey with you. At the moment I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do, but something has to give. I am sure I am not alone in this. I am sure there are plenty of other frustrated artists out there who feel similarly. Are there? Who are you? What are your frustrations? What are your dreams? Your plans? I would love to hear from you.

Ederlezi

I am crap at consistency. Enough said.

Too many pots on the boil, not enough trajectory, not enough hours in the day.

ANYWAY... right now, tonight, I'm fascinated by the song Ederlezi. This traditional Roma song, according to Wikipedia, celebrates springtime and the feast of St George. I first came across this song performed by Goran Bregovic:


Beirut has also covered the song, rather raucously:


An acoustic version:
Arther ederlezi live acoustique fou du roi (Goran Bregovic)


There's even a music theatre version:

Gigs this weekend!

Oh my! So many things to do!

The reason I haven't done much (read: any) writing over the past 10 days is because I've been practicing and rehearsing for not one, but two gigs this weekend:

First of all, on Friday night, the inaugural performance from The Tea Set (myself on harpsichord, Leah Scholes on percussion). This is not only our first gig as a duo, but also the launch of a seasonal concert series: one concert for each season. We start our seasonal journey with perhaps the most poignant season of all - autumn; when leaves turn brown and red, the days shorten and one can almost feel the earth turning underfoot.

So, what will you experience? Golden and auburn gems of repertoire by baroque and modern composers, improvisation, collaboration, inspiration, and maybe some stamping and shouting!

Wear your best autumnal attire, sip on the bounty of late-harvested grapes and let the season unfold around you in sound.

Friday 1 May, 8pm

The Dog Theatre

42A Albert Street

Footscray

Public transport is easy! Just take the train from the city or North Melbourne to Footscray station and it's about a 10 minute walk from there.

Tickets: $20 / $15

Bookings: www.easytix.com.au or 9639 0096

The second gig is on Saturday night, with my ensemble Beautiful Rubble.

Fernando Ariel Gallardo: voice

Me: harpsichord

Leah Scholes: percussion

Tarko Sibbel: saxophone

Same venue, same ticket prices, same booking details.

Straight Across Bass Strait

Actually, it's surprising how many people think that Tasmania is on the other side of the Tasman Sea, which nomenclature-wise does make sense. But no, folks, travel across the Tasman from Australia and you'll end up in New Zealand, not Tasmania. When in Tasmania, you could be forgiven for thinking you have, in fact, crossed the Tasman, travelling through green fields of sheep, with picturesque mountains in the background.

Bizarrely, the best day of my trip was the worst. Or the worst day was the best, maybe? I went with the intention of climbing to the summit of Cradle Mountain. The morning of the day I arrived at Cradle Valley, the whole Northern part of the island was hit by a storm which brought gale-force winds and left many towns without power (not a great thing when you're desperate for a morning coffee!). As I drove towards the mountains, the sun peeked out for a while, steaming the water off the road. But the closer I got to Cradle Mountain, the greyer the skies became, the more I had to turn on the windscreen wipers and the heating. As I drove in the national park gates, snowflakes swirled in the air.

Not to be intimidated by the weather, I checked in to the backpackers and hurriedly changed into my thermal gear. Jeans did not do anything against that cold! Given that the forecast for the next day (the day I intended to climb up to the top) was even worse, I decided to brave the elements and at least go and see if I could see the mountain. So I walked for two hours around the edge of Dove Lake, only getting rained on once! The path in many places was running with water like a mini-creek, and the mountain-tops around me shifted in and out of cloud. Huge thundering waterfalls cascaded from the cliffs, and the rainforest trees were bright, mossy green in the wet.

A number of people staying in the backpackers were heading off on the Overland Track the next day. The booking system for this walk means that you have to start on the day you booked in for, whether the weather is favourable or not. In any case, as we reasoned around the pot-belly stove, it rains seven days out of ten (according to Lonely Planet), so even if you start the six-day walk in fine weather, chances are that you'll get soaked sooner or later. Needless to say, they were not looking forward to that happening on day one!

The next day dawned grey and drizzly. I decided to walk with the Overlanders for the first part of their walk, see what the conditions were like, and then decide which way to return. From Cradle Plateau there are a number of walking tracks to choose from.

The first section, along boardwalks in the valley, was easy and not too wet. We chatted as we walked along; a Canadian couple, an Irish couple, a Dutch guy and myself. Past some impressive waterfalls, and up some steps we came out beside the pretty little boathouse at Crater Lake. The surrounding mountains were completely hidden in cloud, and the rain was starting to fall more steadily. As I took my map out of my jacket pocket I realised my mistake in not bringing a waterproof map case. The paper wouldn't last long in the wet!

We pushed on up to Marion's Lookout, which wasn't so much a lookout as the edge of a hill in the fog. No looking out was to be had, just some huddling beside some rocks to try to get out of the strengthening wind long enough to drink some water. As we climbed further up the wind threatened to blow us off our feet entirely, and patches of snow became more frequent beside the path. Once on the plateau, the path was mostly underwater, with unmelted snow in the puddles beside the rotting duckboards that served as the track. Now I understand what Tasmanian mud is! In places there was nowhere to go but right through the middle of the mud. In fact, the national park authorities specifically ask walkers to walk through mud and puddles rather than going around them, in order to keep environmental damage to the fragile alpine landscape to a minimum. I was very glad of my sturdy, waterproof leather boots and my warm socks! There were sections of newly-constructed boardwalk, but most of the track was wet, muddy, slippery and rocky. In one place we had to gingerly rock-hop across a flooded stream as the rain kept on falling around us.

Eventually we reached Kitchen Hut. As soon as I stopped walking I realised how wet my clothing was getting, and how cold I was going to be if I stopped moving. I had a waterproof jacket, but no overpants, and my legs were certainly not dry any more. After eating some nuts and yoghurt I decided to part ways with the others and turn back. There was no sign of any improvement in the weather and I did not feel confident to walk alone on a strange track in the conditions as they were. So I decided to go straight back the way we had come, knowing that there would be other Overland walkers coming up, in case I ran into any difficulty.

Walking back, I was facing into the wind, and felt the full, painful force of it whipping raindrops into my cheek. The rain was more horizontal than vertical, and it didn't take long before the conquest of my legs was won by the rain, and I felt the first little trickle of water down my ankle. This was the beginning of the end for my dry feet. Before I reached the edge of the plateau my boots were squelching with every step, and I could feel the water sloshing around my toes. I must have looked pretty crazy, stumbling along in the sleety wind and rain, my glasses completely covered in mist and water, my pants dripping, boots sloshing! But I wasn't cold. What they say about thermal material and wool staying warm even when it is wet is absolutely true! I had woolen gloves that I was wringing the water out of, but that still kept my fingers warm. My feet and legs were not cold even though they were as wet as if I had been standing waist-high in a swimming pool.

As I climbed lower the wind eased, and then even the rain let up a bit. I was suprised at how much I was enjoying walking along through the mud and the rain, completely soaked! Once I was off the heights I was confident of my safety and took an alternate track via Wombat Pool to my starting point. With my feet already as wet as they could possibly be, I walked through water and mud on the path without a second thought - it was like being a kid again splashing through puddles!

The weather gods must have a sense of humour because, as soon as I had changed out of my wet and got in my car, the sun came out! Not for long, however, the grey clouds soon moved back in, and as I drove out of the valley I left it as rainy and cold as when I arrived.

But, somehow, that was the highlight of my trip. I discovered that walking in bad weather doesn't have to be a bad experience, and I have plans to walk the Overland Track in December this year. Now I've had a taste, I want to do the whole thing!

Photos will be coming shortly: I'm currently battling iPhoto!

Airports

I know it's not really fashionable, but I actually like airports. Granted, waiting around in them can get tiresome, but I don't think I'll ever get bored if going to airports.

Ever since I was a kid, when my parents would take me out on the observation desk at Tullamarine to wave off overseas tracelkers, I have been fascinated by the complexity, order, chaos, uniformity and uniqueness of airports. I love the fact that everyone is heading to different destinations. For an instant I could cross paths with someone on their way to Shanghai, Suriname or Swan Hill. As travellers, we are all thrown together, regardless of background, social or cultural interests (well, except for those lucky few in first class!). I can be sitting next to a Greek grandmother, the bogan family from hell, or an aspiring rock band on their first interstate tour.

Some other things I quite like about airports:
• People who take pillows on planes. OK, this can be pretty annoying, but, unless you're unfortunate enough to sit next to one, it's quite sweet. Kinda like they're off on a grown-up version of a boy scout camp or something.
• Pilots looking hot in their uniforms.
• Flight attendants being all smug and official as they strut through the airport in packs, knowing that they look more coiffed than ANYONE else in the building.
• The way every single male flight attendant seems to be taking part in a covert international "campest-man-of-all-time" contest.
• The arrival and departure boards made of those cut-in-half letters and numbers that click, whir and tumble as they cycle through.

I'm sure there's more to add to this list... Any suggestions?

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Rockin' African Blues

On the train home from an unexpectedly awesome gig. Unexpectedly so, because I really only went because I received an invitation from The Arts Centre offering me some tickets. Being the starving artist that I am, I never turn down a freebee!

All I could tell from the invite was that there was going to be African blues music and Senegalese food beforehand. The food was great: I had spicy lamb and vegies in a peanut sauce, which was exactly the comfort food I needed, feeling a little flu-ish.

Heading into Hamer Hall, we passed by a traditional tea brewing ceremony and musicians playing in the foyer. This event was part of The Arts Centre's multicultural arts series, and they obviously were looking to create a mini-festival-vibe, including letting people take drinks (in plastic glasses) into the auditorium. Why can't they do that for MSO concerts as well?

The "support act", King Marong and Afro Mandinko with Jeff Lang, was great, featuring energetic drumming, vocal harmonies, enchanting harp riffs and frenetic dancing. One of the performers was especially captivating to watch as he alternated playing a small West African talking drum with bursts of athletic, frenzied dancing.

But the main act, Tinariwen, was unlike anything I had ever seen or heard. From the moment they walked on stage in desert-style robes and head-turban-thingies they captivated and riveted the audience's attention and imagination. And their sound - at once exotic and familiar. Arabic-style singing, African beats, moments of hip-hop and many layers of blues-influenced guitar. Throughout all of their songs was a sense of travelling, of constant movement, a feeling of "being on the road", which is a common thread running through the culture of the blues as well as that of nomadic desert-dwellers.

By the time the musicians left the stage, a good proportion of the audience were dancing in the aisles, some adventurous souls even starting a conga-line on the stage, before being sent off by an unimpressed stage manager.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Twials and Twibulations of Twitter

I joined Twitter in July last year, but didn't start using it until a few weeks ago. I've found a few great people whose posts I really enjoy reading (most notably MysticMedusa), and I like the connection between people in disparate occupations and time-zones.

I've also become slightly addicted to posting witty little observations about my life and the world around me. No longer are moments of discovery coupled with the thought "if only someone else was here to see/hear/experience this, too!" Now the whole world can know about the strangely dressed person at the station, the random guy on the train with the rubik's cube, or the fantastically yummy cup of tea that I was given at the Indian take-away last night. Actually, I didn't tweet about the last one, but you get the drift. And it was possibly the BEST cup of tea I have ever had: hot, sweet, strong. Exactly what I needed at that point in time.

Anyway, to get to my point, generally I kinda like Twitter. It's not perfect, but it's pretty cool.

What I DON'T LIKE is people who think that the aim of the game is to get followed by as many people as possible, by following as many people as possible. Last night I got 6 new followers, which, when I've only got 20-something followers, is quite a jump. Overwhelmingly, they were mega-follower-conglomerations, who were themselves following 40 or 50 THOUSAND people. There is no way they are reading the updates of 50,000 people. No way at all. It is painfully obvious that they are following me in the hope that I will follow them back. But I just don't see the point in that.

Now, feel free to disagree. This is just my own point of view, and I'm aware that there are many reasons why people use Twitter. But I refuse to follow someone whose updates I am not interested in reading. I follow people who post interesting stuff, and whose writing or activities I am actually interested in. And what's more, I want people to follow me who actually read what I'm writing and are interested in me. I don't want thousands of "phantom" followers; followers in name but not in nature. And I'm really not convinced that having 50,000 followers is benefiting these people. Maybe it is - please correct me if I'm wrong.

Ultimately I agree with the idea of 1000 true fans. It's much better to have a smaller number of fans/followers who are actually engaged with what you're doing, than to have a huge number of people ostensibly "following" you who actually don't care.

And a parting word from the Twitter blog itself: "the tweets you would see on your home page are from sources of information that you have curated over time". I especially like the word "curated". It suggests care, deliberation and discrimination in the selection of twitterers to follow.

Things I've Found on my Virtual Travels

Some pretty amazing art installations.

A very long piece of music.

Greg Sandow on New Directions in Classical Music.

Saturday Papers

Two articles inspired me in The Age today. This doesn't normally happen! Mostly it's all either doom and gloom or completely vacuous dribble.

Visions for Melbourne and Confessions of an Arts Gatekeeper (which seems to not be online any more...)