Sunday 7 July 2013

Disgraceful Ageing

I am unapologetically middle-aged. And although 48 may be the new 12 I think it is time I started acting my age. But what does that mean?

I like gardening and punk music. I wear skinny jeans and drive a station wagon. I love food, wine, theatre and staying in on Friday night. I may have a mortgage but it doesn’t mean I understand it. I still feel the same as I did 25 or 30 years ago, it’s just that the crow’s feet and tuck-shop arms give me away.

So I guess I’ll go on badly dyeing my hair, listening to Triple J, loving John Green novels and dressing inappropriately til the day I die. The last thing I want to do is have a mid-life crisis and discover tantric sex or turn vegan or join a cult or become a crazy cat lady.

I read an article about how middle-aged women feel invisible in today’s youth-worshipping society and frankly that’s fine by me. Ever since the shiny new megamart replaced my local corner shop I feel that if I haven’t had a manicure, a facial and a nose job before I go out to buy milk I’ll be committing social suicide, because invariably as I’m wandering the aisles vaguely, in my slippers and daggy old pilled jumper, without a shopping list wondering what the hell I came in for I’ll bump into my daughter’s favourite school teacher, the local member for parliament, my sadistic ex-boss, the kid who works in the video store where I still haven’t paid the overdue fine for Eat, Pray, Love and the bloke who fixes my car. Eventually, after I hide in the frozen fish section to avoid the militant wing of the P&C, I’ll end up buying 24 rolls of toilet paper (because they are on special) and I'll forget the milk.

My dad, who is 81, is reading The Hunger Games trilogy. He loves Katniss, Peeta and all the crew. It takes him back to the Depression days when hunting small wildlife and bush survival skills were the norm (not sure about murdering other kids). Only problem is he’s still waiting for the third book to be released. 

He has a saying which I like: “there’s no future in growing old”.

Thursday 4 July 2013

The Crying House


Recently I commiserated with a friend who was packing up her family home as it had been sold. (Cue audible sigh) It’s always hard moving house, physically it’s a nightmare and emotionally it’s just plain tough. So many memories, not all of them good, but all of them particular to the lives that are played out within those walls.

It didn’t help my friend that it rained for an entire week during the packing and detaching process. 

I was reminded of an art installation I saw last year as part of Sydney’s Art and About festival.  The installation, called I Wish You Hadn’t Asked by James Dive from The Glue Society creative collective, was a fully furnished house, erected in the middle of city, that rained on the inside.
For two weeks, furniture, bedding, appliances, toys, artworks, books and clothing deteriorated as 200 litres of recycled water rained down on them – gradually destroying this little time capsule of family life; symbolising a relationship falling apart.

To experience the installation you donned a raincoat and entered through the front door. At the time I visited it had been raining on the inside for over a week. I found the surreal Dali-esque scene of molten belongings - the ruined trappings of a familiar life - and the stench of decay extremely confronting. I couldn’t get out of there quick enough; tears streaming down my face by the time I exited the back door.

Of the project, artist James Dive said: “From the outside everything looks normal – it is only once we go beyond the exterior normalities that we become witness to a private world slowly destroying itself. As the water continues to rain down, and as your shoes fill up, we gain empathy for a private world which time cannot mend.”

I know it's not material possessions that define "home" but after the boxes are filled, and you’ve dealt with the dust bunnies that remain when the furniture is removed, somehow an empty house doesn’t feel like home any more. It took my lot six months to come to terms with our latest move. (Or was it just me?) Eventually we stopped calling it “that house” and now we belong (albeit in a state of flux for the last year - see Cabin Fever), the sounds and smells and chaos of family life - arguments and laughter - filling the spaces up.