Jill Rants and Raves

of books and chapters closing

When my first book of photos 'Spray It Loud' was published in 1982, it was sort of a big deal. TV, radio, press interviews, gallery shows, book signings across the country, and a 'real' book launch - at the Photographers Gallery in London's Soho district, right next to the Arts Theatre where I had stage managed 'Kennedy's Children' almost a decade earlier, after getting my coveted Equity Card (wow, this is a whole other story about how playwright Robert Patrick told me I could write, and a famous actress put her hand on my 20 year old ass on a narrow staircase leading to a rehearsal room).

There was an exhibition of photos from 'Spray It Loud', the head of the publishing house was there, along with my editor, and many others, most of whom were suffering under the delusion that I was going to be a helluva lot more successful than I did, in fact, become. I was driving around and around Soho freaking the fuck out, being late for my own book launch. My date was Sue O'Sullivan, who, of course, I was cheating on (with Suzy, who I just visited in Australia). Are you with me? Jeez, life was fun.

We finally walked in to murmurs of 'where have you been?' and 'is that really your mother?'. My Mum, resplendent in a lemon chiffon dress (in which, by the way, I dressed her for her cremation), was regaling listeners with tales from my childhood, a good white wine spilling over the lip of the glass as she swept her arms wide in stories which were a mix of truth, fiction, fantasy and major embarrassment. For me. Her cigarette tilted over the edge of the busy ashtray and burned through the upholstery on the arm of one of the couches. My stepfather listened appreciatively in the background.

As she saw me walk in, she glowed and grinned with pure maternal pride. 'Oh, darling, we've all been waiting for you'. Sue squeezed my hand and pushed me towards the waiting adulation. It's a strange thing - that the evening, which is one of the highlights of my life, is defined by my memories of awkwardness with my mother. She held court, all evening - laughing, cooing, flirting, and trying to score a book contract for herself. And towards the end of the evening, as I tried to engineer her departure, I watched in horror as my Mum, by now a little wobbly, collected up food remnants from the catered buffet and wrapped them in napkins, and then for a finale, scooped up an entire quiche and stuffed it whole, into her oversized handbag. Norman smiled lovingly, took her by the elbow and led her into the Soho night.

Norman loved my Mum which was his huge gift to me. They had met through a Personals ad in the slightly upscale 'The Lady' magazine, and after they began living together (barely days after their first date), his (adult) children from his first marriage couldn't force even a veneer of civility to cross their lips. I admit I didn't like Norman much in those early years, but I would never have deprived myself of my relationship (conflicted as it was) with my own mother, so it's hard for me to comprehend the act of consigning your father to total oblivion, as he sought his own happiness entering his 50's.

An obstinate, flirtatious, opinionated, and lonely man after my Mum's early death, he liked a cigarette, a pint or four, and a walk with the dog. He lived in a bungalow which had become, over years of neglect, the kind of place we associate with the elderly - too proud and too unaware to see what the place was becoming. Yellowing stained walls, boxes piled with garbage, dirt clinging to every corner, dirty clothes in closets and mold spreading in the bathroom. When he was hospitalised for an extended time early in the year, his public health caretakers begged the local Council to provide funds to clean up the place, re-paint and re-tile and give him his last few months in a place where the kitchen didn't stink of decades of bacon grease and the bedroom wallpaper didn't seem to be sliding away from the walls.

When the hospital released him he shuffled weakly into his newly painted bungalow, noted that the freezer had been packed solid with ready made microwaveable meals, and sat in his new green leather recliner, smiling like a boy fresh from his first date. That was in May.

The day before I went to Australia, he called and left a message for me. The San Francisco Symphony was on the BBC, he  exclaimed, and he felt I just needed to know. I called him back and we spoke for an hour. He told me he felt good, but that he was a little annoyed that the doctors had finally worked out what was wrong with him. Cancer, he said, with a slight irritation in his voice. Like he'd just been told he couldn't watch the Cup Final on the telly.

John, the man who was his best friend for almost 2 decades and who has taken care of Norman as only a forgiving human being can, told me the cremation service went beautifully - and that the only thing missing was Norman's booming voice with his familiar private joke 'Look John, would you be quiet, while I interrupt you'. End of Chapter.

Savage Nations Of One Kind Or Another

I have been trying to write something about my stepdad, who died on Tuesday, and it has been harder than I thought. I will though, perhaps after his coffin, draped in a Union Jack, with a photo of him in his Army uniform on top of it, glides through those strange eerie curtains at the crematorium in Durham on Thursday. His best friend, John, has been reminding me about Norman's eccentric mannerisms, including his habit of arriving at the Social Club bar in Sedgefield and greeting John with a badly pronounced German saying, just so that the other villagers would be excluded. He and my Mum sort of spat their dislike of small village life and described those many whom they had alienated as simply plain 'stupid'. It always surprised me then, that my Mum had decided that this was her last stop. A small place in the north of England, with a motorway encroaching on one side, chain stores and housing  developments creeping in on the other. And Tony Blair as your elected representative. Good thing my Mum died before Bush and Blair ate at the little pub on the green.

So, in lieu of that - geez, what a shocking week, huh? OJ arrested. This simply goes into the 'what was he thinking?' column. But I imagine if you've got away with double murder you don't have to think through too much.

Then there's the visit from Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, whose statements about there being no homosexuals in Iran was met with jeers from his Columbia Uni audience. When his interpreter repeated the assertion over and over, including the sentence 'where would you get such an idea?' the jeers turned to head shaking wonderment. Now don't get mad at me for this - but if only for a moment, Michael Savage, Amerika's most virulent anti gay, right wing, talk radio host, acknowldedged that 'at least gays had the guts' to oppose this man. Savage, known more for his 'I'm not gonna take it anymore' breast beating hate fests, was left wondering how any president of a nation could be allowed to dress in as ill fitting a suit as the Iranian Prez. 'His shoulder pads were slipping down his front' fumed Savage. His suit was a disgrace he blustered. Perhaps Michael, it's because, as there are clearly no gay men in Iran, he doesn't get the fashion advice the rest of you well dressed men do.

And though I know there's a whole bunch of 'real' news I could and should get totally worked up about, I'm the one that has to read the Sports section so you can keep up. An associate of disgraced dog-fighter/killer, Atlanta Falcon Michael Vick, was found shot to death at his home in April. Authorities found thirty pitbulls, all of whom had to be euthanised. Why was this news in the Sports pages exactly?

Am I glad to be home? I'm not entirely sure. In some ways, yeah, no doubt. Overall, I think it may be time for a climate change in the weather pattern known as my life.

letter to hamish

dear hamish

you've not known jill very long. we like her quite a lot, those that do know her better, but we thought it best if we let you know that she's been acting like a depressed fool since she got home. she's not getting out of bed early enough to take us to the landfill in the mornings and blames it on somebody called jett lagg, she slops around in her ugg boots, but she didn't even get them in australia. she mopes about, talking about beaches and rooms with high ceilings and worst of all she hints at the good deal she had only sleeping with one small white dog. this is not OK hamish. we have a contract here in our house. all objects with four legs under 12 pounds are allowed on the bed, and jill seems to want to re-negotiate that pact. it's not that we're jealous, let's get that straight, right now. but we're not going to let jill go away again if she comes back and acts like she needs another vacation. what did you do to her? and another thing. there are fotos of you and her. do you realise that there is not a single photo of oscar and jill? 

when she came back she had one phone call asking her advice on a bird trapped in a chimney, another asking whether she could feed a neighbours cat for a few days, and then, to top it off, she was asked whether she could immediately go onto a city commission that had a long name with something about 'fair' in it. she had to swear to uphold the constitution that very evening. why? doesn't it uphold itself? jill was a bit worried that she might fall asleep at the meeting, but she seemed happy to have the right clothes to wear. she put on her new t-shirt, the one from the right on 'cultural' store in your town, hamish, and thought that, at least the other commissioners could see, even if she was asleep, that she understood the concept. the t-shirt says 'fair trade. making a difference one cup at a time'. jill believes in that kind of thing and will spend more money on her coffee than our dog food if we don't watch the labels.
when she came home from the meeting, she was a little shame faced. and we suppose it was a good thing she was able to stay awake, because the meeting wasn't about fair trade. it was called 'fair campaign practice commission'. oops.
it isn't that we don't think we'd like you hamish. and paella, who cranky franky the border collie says is a hot babe, it's just that we need jill back in total. it's true, she has taken us to walk at the creek trail in the evenings, and susie and bonnie who looked after us - pretty damn well - while jp was away, only took us for one walk a day. but fair is fair. we demand fair trade, and fair is two walks a day. perhaps it isn't you, after all. do you happen to know the address for jett lagg?

roo, roxy, frank, calvin, and oscar

JillARoo

I am packing quickly - best way to go. You're having a cuppa and suddenly it's 'oops, gotta go to the airport'.

When I get home, today, though it is tomorrow in California, as it is only Tuesday there and today is Wednesday here - I will follow my usual routine - get home, ignore the dogs so they don't get too weird, call out for my wayward cats Joe and Slim, load laundry, make coffee, look at my house and see all the things I have to do....

And then the next day I will start the blog again. So this is as a farewell - temporarily - to the land of Tim Tams and Pavlovas, Blue and Red Heelers and kangaroo burgers and raise a glass to the imminent defeat of John Howard and the Liberal Party.

I don't get photographed much - strangely I've always let Susie.....and it seems fitting that my last look at Adelaide would be me on a beach....

leaving or going

So, all of a sudden it's time to think about what I want to do over the last two days of my visit. This is of course a total bummer. I have begun to sleep more soundly (though this may have something to do with the fact that Hamish has nuzzled under the covers the last few colder nights, and the presence of a small breathing furry object next to me is a familiar comfort), my throat feels better and as I have become more comfortable with the new friends here (Susie and Claire's real and extended families), I am anxious about leaving.

It has been an amazing thing really - to meet people glimpsed only through the filter of Susie's infrequent letters or phone calls, but they are people who have made her life the whole cloth it is now. But there are also Susie's biological family whom I knew very well back in the other place - her Mum and Dad moved here from England last year, and her sister Jenny had left some years ago. So, to sit in Jenny's house just doors away, or to have lunch with John and Ann in a somewhat foodie french-themed winery, where two Briards loped around eating the leftover lamb bones from the lunch tables, has been (to say the least) like putting two completely different negatives on top of one another, going into the darkroom and seeing an entirely new image emerge.

Before you ask - I have not seen any kangaroos (except in the meat or deli sections of the markets), nor have I held a koala like I did on a previous trip (maybe I will post that picture and pretend it was now.....I'll just do some reverse photoshop and add grey and wrinkles), I have avoided dangerous creatures (though this is a disappointment), someone did tell us about a black snake on the trail leading to the beach, but alas it had slunk off without my seeing it, I have seen only a few galah's - the incredible pink and white parrots - and that is about it.

But there is no substitute for the shared dinner table and the companionship of the people (and the dogs they love) that one meets in life and grows to love. And that is what makes leaving Adelaide and going home all part of the same continuous journey. This blog is decidely sentimental. Don't worry, I'll be home soon, and after settling back into my routine, I'll be back on my assault on all things hypocritical and disassociated.

It is both one of the saddest elements of my life and one of the most fulfilling - that I feel I do not belong anywhere, but can be all over the world and feel at home. Because I genuinely am - in the homes of friends and family across continents. And while Adelaide has built another trail-head in the parkland of my heart, I am excited to be going home. To the shared dinner tables of Berkeley, to the walks with my companions, both furry and not, and the ongoing struggle to make the images emerge as more of a whole.

tweaking while on holiday

Real life has interfered with my plans. I finally succumbed a bit to the little viral thing circulating in impolite society in Adelaide, and woke up on Friday with the head hurting, eye reddening, sore throat and general yeuck feeling.....I cancelled my Melbourne visit and now feel bad about disappointing my friends Joyce and Euni and my coz Deb. But the idea of getting on a plane and then feeling sick was enough to discourage me. Now I can feel guilty for months. This is a good distraction from other things. Other things meaning my life at home, which seems to be continuing without me there, thereby proving that a tree does fall even if I am not there to hear it. Am I mixing my metaphors again? The dogs are going to the park, people are doing all sorts of things and I am here, and not there. And because I am preoccupied with 'connection', my reliance on technology is like my hyper vigilance - way up there.....

It used to be different - not that long ago. You'd go away and write postcards, right? One day, you'd say to your holiday companions...ooh...I've got to write me postcards today, you'd head down to the local souvenir shop, buy 10 cards for cheap, get a bag of whatever local delicacy had become an essential daily dose, pop into the post office and buy a little booklet of stamps and sit at the nearest coffee place and write cards. You'd write all the cards and then you'd address them afterwards. 'Cos you wrote pretty much the same thing on each card. Right? Didn't you do that? Having a great time. Weather is.....the people are.....wish you were here....

Occasionally you'd add a special PS to someone....but the chances are that you'd be gone for two weeks and you'd get home and if anyone had died, a pet had been sick, or someone had smashed your car up while you were away, you wouldn't have to worry about it till you got home. I am so 'in touch' with people while I'm away, I know they have sneezed before they do, because of course Australia is 18 hours ahead of California, so it's happened here a day ahead of there. I worry that this wired state of being is a double edged sword. Would I be better off just wandering around in an innocent haze of unknowing?

I am so impacted by the actions and words of others that any ripple at home causes tsunamis in my tweaking brain. I will have to think about this. Added to that, I am listening to KT Tunstall, who is heavily represented on my beloved ipod, and she is providing plenty of musical inspiration for my feeling 'the other side of the world'. All this just to say - travelling has become complex for me. The sense of being able to focus entirely on here ...now.....this - is replaced by the same anxieties I have at home, yet being away means I cannot act on things. Not good. An interesting lesson for me about the need to develop in the state of 'whatever' ness.

But I am what I am. It is what it is.I hate that phrase. I didn't know till recently that the 13th or 14th century (whatever) poet Rumi had first written that and now it's become the refuge of everyone who wants to avoid actually dealing with an issue head on. Hardly surprising that politicians find it such a comforting new slogan.

I think I need to develop a 'it is what(ever) it is' type of personality so that I can't hear so many trees fall across continents. Until then I think I might have to stay home.

of adelaide animals, nasty fish and other things

I finally managed to resize some of my HUGE digital files by encouraging Claire to buy Photoshop to put on Suzy's PC, so that I could do just that. It has been frustrating to keep taking photos and not be able to work on them, like I can at home. And I admit it, I am a Mac fascist. PC's are a total mystery to me, therefore I hate them. So, I finally started working on the hundreds of pics I've taken.

I got a little sad looking at the photos I took at one of Adelaide's animal shelters...yup, I did go, and was I surprised that, just like in California, the shelter is located in an industrial area, near the dump, water plant and container yards? Not really. What really shocked me was that animal shelters here have as bad a euthanasia rate as the worst CA shelters - near the 70 - 80% mark. Ouch. Cats are often killed as soon as they come in - the obsession with kittens leads many people to bring back the cats they adopted from the same shelter when they were kittens. And cats have a bad rep here - being blamed for all the predation of native birds and reptiles when the major cause of wildlife destruction is human encroachment on habitat. I'm not negating cat impact on wildlife all over the world, but the solution is not to kill our feline pals, but a controlled reduction in numbers through feral fix programs and education about, and accessible spay/neuter. They call s/n 'de-sexing' here, I have to wonder whether that term is too emotionally loaded and discourages people from getting their pets fixed.

The worst part is that there is NO public money for the shelters, even though providing animal care and control services is as much a social service as any public health, safety, park, elderly, or youth program funded out of taxation...jeez, trust me to get myself so riled up. The staff at the Animal Welfare League just shook their heads in disbelief when I told them that the same service is absolutely the responsibility of cities and counties in CA.

The pup in the photo will get a home, by the way, so don't worry, I didn't pack it in my overnight bag....though I was tempted.

Talking of being tempted, I have fallen for - though I swore I wouldn't - the little runty hand reared West Highland Terrier that lives with Suzy, Claire and their other, tolerant dog Paella. I was expecting Hamish McTavish to be a spoiled brat. Well he is, but he is also what endears him to me - a real dog. There has been much merriment over the numbers of photos of Hamish I have snapped, compared to other creatures.

Tomorrow I head back to Adelaide after a too short stay at the beach house, because on Friday I fly to Melbourne to visit other friends - women with whom I shared the dubious pleasure of living in one of London's most radical lesbian separatist squatting communities 30 years ago. Joyce, Eunice and I felt a little fraudulent being there, given that we were utterly irreverent about the angry wimmin we shared a backyard with, so it'll be nice to catch up with these two compadres....

I'm going to look back at Goolwa with fondness. 

And I don't think anyone believes me about the nasty porcupine quilled fish...so here's the proof!

Gone to Goolwa

We finally arrived after dark on Monday evening, and settled in, on a blustery damp, cold evening. It rained during the night - good for everyone here because South Australia is threatened with terrible drought as they head into what looks like being a blistering summer. Not so good for me, simply because I am on vacation and I want warm, toe tingling sand and lapping water up to my knees. I have also caught the little bug that Susie seems to have - a cold, eye watering, throaty thing which makes me feel sorry for myself.

But I shouldn't really complain. It is quiet except for the sound of the waves thundering on to the beach just yards from where I sit, the sun is climbing over clouds and then retreating, and the walks on the beach are just better dressed ones than I might have wanted. It is supposed to warm up tomorrow, so in the meantime, I will watch Hamish, the Westie, dream of rolling in cuttlefish instead of doing it. As it is, he stinks from his morning adventures on Goolwa beach.

Though the little cul de sac we are on is on a small scale, close by, things are as they seem to be everywhere - massive new building developments on marshland to accomodate the human appetite for larger and huger vacation homes. The saddest part, to me, is that at this point in our history, we have the means and the knowledge to build green, to construct buildings which are in synthesis with their environment, to use solar panels, and sustainable materials, to create design which is harmonious with the land we claim to love (otherwise why build by the beach or forest, or marsh, right?). Yet, the construction here is in screaming disharmony, in chaotic conflict with the natural beauty, in almost wilful rebellion against the very place the builders profess to want to protect. There are huge ornate homes, with massive decorative pillars and large garages, swimming pools, landscaping and grass. Grass? What the fuck for? Am I comforted to know that Australia - so english in many ways - is copying America in the wrong ways?

I am homesick - there, it is said. It is wonderful being here, across the world, and I wouldn't wish my visit to be over. I am enjoying the beauty and the differences, as well as getting all worked up about the similarities, I have enjoyed all the re-visiting old friends and meeting new ones, but there is a part of my little soul that is already yearning for the familiarity of my routine. So weird. I used to be a better traveller. It was pretty laughable how many clothes I brought to Australia for my three weeks, and even more laughable that I packed almost everything I had brought to the continent, to come to Goolwa. But what can you do, right? I am what I am.

The cormorants, egrets, and pelicans remind me of California, and the black swans swimming in the estuary of the Murray River, ducking in and out of reeds, evoke a curiously english countryside feel, so I was extremely pleased to find, not one, but two puffer fish - lying dead on the beach. Not so much that they were dead, but that I could examine this toxic beast up close. These fish hide just under the surface of the sand and if stepped on, will sting through hideous porcupine like quills, injecting venom through the wound. I am, it has to be said, a little accident prone, so I was pleased, frankly, to come across these fish once they could do me no harm.

Yesterday, I almost drove Claire's car into a loading dock when I missed the brake and flew, in reverse, towards the concrete dock. I needed an adrenaline rush, and that was quite a good one, I have to say. I'm amazed Susie let me get back behind the wheel of the dreaded Subaru with a bumper sticker that says 'Remember To Breathe'.

All in all, just another memorable day. Tonight Suzy is making kangaroo burgers. They all talk about eating Roo. Anyone who knows me is aware that I cannot conceive of eating anything that reminds me of my little overweight papillon mix. I'm going to open the pack of free range ham instead.

 

God - the name change

It's the actual Suzy birthday today and the back door has been swinging open with some frequency as friends and pals have dropped by on their way to work or back for another dose of Suzy. Poached eggs from the resident chooks, porridge, coffee and toast have been on the go since 7am. I, of course, in my typical way, am getting anxious about when we will leave for the beach house at Goolwa. I'm noticing that the level of social interactions makes me wanna hide, just a bit. I admire people who really can be more flexible on the visitor front. Odd that my other Susie ex is also more like that than I am, and her birthday is tomorrow. For me, 9/11 is always the date to celebrate Susie above anything else...

But there is a type of crass Aussie humour that always makes me laugh and this morning someone at breakfast suggested that a name change was in order for the man upstairs - that g.o.d really stood for the Great Out Doors, and it is of course possible that Steve Irwin (one of Australia's most famous recent exports, who died in a freak accident while filming one of his amazing nature specials) might well have suggested this change of direction for the big guy. Hey god, he might have said, we can make a billion with this concept change, what d'ya think?

Everyone here seems relieved that george, laura and the hundreds in the support team have left these shores. There is understandable anger that the cost to Australia is approaching 250 million - so that the prez could come here to insult the Chinese Premier instead of doing it from home. And given how easily the security system was breached by the Chaser gang, what exactly did the 250 million buy?

I'm restless to get going to Goolwa, to miles of beach and nothing much to do. Mind you, I'll be trying to fill every spare crevice of time with incredibly important agonising about how many butter tarts I have consumed since Saturday afternoon.

foot in mouth (again)

Funniest moment of the week so far, though georgie porgie might disagree, was the culture jamming act by Australia's resident satirists, the Chaser's, who faked a diplomatic motorcade - complete with Canadian flags flapping on the front of the cars - which raced through the streets of Sydney and had all of the security forces fooled, being waved through security checkpoints until they ended up at the doors of Bush's hotel, before one of them was arrested after emerging from the lead limo dressed as Osama BL. His fake beard was taken into custody. Their home made APEC credentials featured the pranksters with their names, photos and the word 'Insecurity' printed on them. Takes me back to the days when I was a bit bolder, re-facing offensive billboards with spray cans which inevitably leaked all over my hands, and which stopped spraying just as we came to the last word or letter of our decorating project....

It's great to see that protest can still be imbued with a sense of fun. I'm thinking though, that they would have been shot by trigger happy law enforcement had they tried the joke on in Seattle or Chicago.

So, I'm going to leave the bush visit now - with the last thought that when Laura and G said they wanted to see some native aussie animals, the authorities rushed some from the local zoo for them to look at.

This trip is definitely a lane with major memory for me. I've known Suzy for 25 years and she has photos of me that I am going to make sure are destroyed before I leave! The 80's, and it was tight jeans, polo shirts and, for some inexplicable reason, immaculate white sneakers.

Last night was Suzy's 50th birthday party and there were women with whom I had heated feminist debate back in the squats and radical newspapers of that era in London. I had forgotten how many of them were from Aus. and now we get to see how all that sturm und drang turned out. It was a great evening: Suzy who encouraged my love of dogs way back then and always made art and politics the centrepieces of her life, is still doing the same.

I am feeling inspired to come home and be a little truer to the dreams of living the way I want to live - in my constellation of support - I've always known that a conventional 'marriage', pursuit of a traditional model of the 'perfect' match was never going to work for me....some of the women here reflect that back at me, and, honestly, it feels comforting.

It's back to the beach today, and I might try to go to the Adelaide Show and see the sheep dog trials, and I'm sorry, but I can't help myself - as indeed neither can W. While praising Australia's role as an ally in Afghanistan, Bushbaby found his mouth ahead of his brain again and his foot back in mouth when he declared that the 'Austrians' are great soldiers. Mind you, one foreigner is much like another. Right?