In my head….

Where have I been? Well the sad news is that my beloved Babar (my ibook) died a terrible, horrible death – lots of spitting of light, mini fireworks, 'brrr-popping' noises and finally – the true sign of death – blackness from which nothing could rouse it. Rest In Peace, my beloved friend…I miss my computer dearly. It provided me with music, was my home entertainment, I could use it to communicate with friends and family, search for directions, write my blog, use it for work, carry it with me on outdoor excursions… I looked forward to coming home, and would often be waking my computer from its slumber before I even put my handbag down. It was my friend late at night, when homesickness kept me awake. It was my worst enemy when it had no emails to offer me from beloved friends. The weight of it on my lap was so familiar to me, it's humming a constant companion.

Some days I feel so uncreative. So different to the people with whom I choose to live my life.

Tonight was one of those moments.

I was taken to the preview of local filmmaker, Pinny Grylls’s, new short film (a sweet tale of 90-something-year-old lovebirds living in a retirement home for ex-musicians). And I was overwhelmed by the talent and creativity in the room.

There was much “he acted in that great play that closed last week…” “she’s written blah blah…”, “he’s a film reviewer for the New Yorker…”, “he’s an artist, a really talented sculptor…”, and surruptitious pointing to people in the room, to fill me in on the scene. I was surrounded by lengthy chats about the current cultural scene, critical analysis of the film we’d just seen and, of course, the usual industry gossip. And I remembered who I am…

It’s hard when you choose to surround yourself with wonderfully creative people, and aren’t one yourself. I landed on my feet in London, enmeshing myself with artists, filmmakers, festival directors and general all-round arty people. I take pride in the fact that whilst I may not be creative myself, I can at least support artists with what I am good at – talking, promoting, organising, providing a shoulder for tears/rants/insecurities/ideas/creating outside-the-box solutions.

But tonight, whilst being a lovely night, reminded me of how outside “that world” I really am. I can be there for the artists I love and support, but I can never be one of them. I struggle with personal creativity. Take this blog for instance – I write far more entries than I post. Most of them are unreadable, disjointed and fairly boring… I only post what seems relevant and to make sense. I actually have a nightmare that one day all the drafts of my unpublished posts will accidentally get published. Everyone will see how truly bad my writing is!

I read a number of blogs on a daily, and envy their writers’ ease with words, their ability with description, lyrical poetry, political analysis (Concrete Dialogues is one of the best – a collective of truly astounding writers, all of whom I admire and read avidly and with much jealousy!)

Even in Perth, I was lucky to work with artists on a daily basis. In fact my bosses were artists themselves, and it showed in their work. I dated creative people, I made friends with performers, visual artists, jewellery makers, and I lived in a world filled with graphic designers I admired, filmmakers I adored, and musicians I worshipped.

I consider myself lucky to be surrounded by people who are filled with such creativity, but – oh my god – some days I wish a bit of it would rub off them and onto me. Even just a little!

Anyhoo – back to the matter at hand; London is full of them. Artists ooze out of every seam, djs exist on every street corner, fashion designers are sitting across from you having a coffee, visual artists are standing beside you at traffic lights, filmmakers are sharing your bus seat. If there is one city in the world you can consider yourself the “odd one out” for NOT being aritistic or creative – London is definitely it!

… must go to the Summer Holiday boys, who set up their instruments and themselves on top of a car, parked it outside the Truman Brewery on Brick Lane on a bustling Sunday afternoon, and gave everyone a great show.

I hung around for a couple of songs and thoroughly enjoyed!

Because they were so cool, I’m giving them a big plug – check them out: www.myspace.com/summerholidaymusic
(if anyone can tell me how to hyperlink a URL in wordpress using a safari browser, I’d really appreciate it, but for now – if you’re interested – you’ll just have to copy and paste the link).

The world is saying something to me, trying to make me pay attention, but I’m not sure what the message is.

After meeting my friends brother randomly last Friday night (read previous entry for humiliating tale…), I’ve since had two more strange encounters of the Perth-kind.

On Sunday, as I was walking down to the Festival da Cuba at Bankside, I ran into the delectable Alli, a Perth girl I worked with for more than a year before leaving the golden shores for bustling London Town. I didn’t know exactly when she was arriving, and she’d only been in England for 5 hours, before I found myself face to face with her on a sidewalk outside Liverpool station. Eerie. But lovely!

And last night, another Perth lady, Jess WG, was walking out of Wagamama with her friends as I was walking in with mine! Crazy coincidences. Or maybe the world is even smaller than I could possibly have imagined!

It’s got me thinking about why and how things happen. I know I’m not the first to have these sort of encounters far from home, you can probably fill any number of books with unexpected encounters like these – but to have three in one week! That’s got to be saying something…

It does make this feel a bit more like home though, the possibbility of running into friends has to be a sign of being established, settling down. My English friends are starting to say I have a more legitmate routine than them – a bunch of pub friends, some people who I can go to galleries with, work friends, and now Perth friends. And the world keps turning.

Speaking of turning, here are my five steps to scaring yourself senseless so you can’t sleep (as experienced last night):

STEP 1 – go see The Innocents on the big screen. This step is highly important is it’s the initial point at which you’ll begin to feel fear. The Innocents is the old black and white movie adpated from the Turning of the Screw, and on the big screen it’s particularly shiver-making. Lots of ghostly faces through windows, screeching music and sudden death. When you think about it, as a women living alone, that’s one of the big fears – seeing an unexpected face at the window. Even today, that one movie trick is able to make an entire audience scream or jerk with fright.

STEP 2 – make sure you see the movie late at night, and it ends when everything is closed, so there’s no opportunity to calm yourself with a coffee with your girlfriend (who is also scared out of her wits at this stage), and the only thing you can do is go home to an empty and dark flat.

STEP 3 – miss the last bus. So now you have to walk twenty minutes to where the next closest night bus route is. This journey will take you alongside the dark path beside river, and everywhere you look – in gardens, under benches, doorways – you will unexpectedly see a dirty white face peering out of the gloom at you. Homeless people are sadly familiar during the day, but take an unexpectedly threatening turn at night, when they keep appearing where you least expect them.

STEP 4 – By this stage your heart is beating pretty fast, and you’re walking as quickly as you can without actually pelting through the streets of London. As you turn the last street corner to your bus stop, you see that bus arrive 5 minutes early, and leave the stop before you can make it. The next bus arrives in thirty minutes. You decide to wait, but a large group of drunk guys (possibly post-world cup pub drinking) arrives and makes you feel uncomfortable, so you decide to walk the rest of the way home, which is less than thirty minutes away anyhow.

STEP 5 – you find yourself walking through the centre of London CBD, and it’s like the first scene in Vanilla Sky, but really dark. There are surprisingly few street lights, no buses, no cars, no other people… just you on an empty street surrounded by menacing looking buildings towering over you. And the echoes of your shoes making you think there’s someone behind you, but every time you turn, no one is there…

It took me hours to get to sleep last night. Every sound, every night-creak made me jerk wide awake. I actually tip-toed through my flat when I needed to go to the bathroom at 3am (not sure how I thought it would help, but I did it anyway), and when I came back to my bedroom, I jumped from the doorway to the bed, in case there was anything underneath it…

Even just thinking about last night still makes me shiver.

In a bar, on a street not far from the station Angel, two people meet. Strangers.

Vague interest from the girl, she’s mildly intrigued by his charm and easy-going smile.

The boy keeps talking, gently moving them off to one side of the bar, until eventually they are quite separate from the rest of the group.

Conversation flows. A few jokes. A giggle and a long look into each other’s eyes. Then a sudden reference by the girl to her past life. And the boy says “Do you know my sister, R?”

The girl bursts into tears. The boy has mentioned one of her closest friends, who is thousands of miles away, back in Perth.

The girl is standing in London, talking to her friends brother, at a farewell party for someone she’s not even met, in a pub she could barely find, and is very drunk. And now, crying. The world is a surprisingly small place and the girl feels overwhelmed by it all.

This morning the girl feels quite ashamed, and remembers with embarrassment the wild look of desperation and desire to escape in the boys’ eyes, as he was faced with a gushing, snivelling girl, hysterically telling him how wonderful his sister is, and how much she misses her, and isn’t it an amazing coincidence the two of them should meet…

Oh the shame, the shame.

This is all hypothetical, obviously. Of course I wouldn’t do anything as terribly humiliating as get seriously drunk in front of people I don’t know, cry to a strange boy who probably prefers his friends veering more toward the side of sanity, swapping phone numbers with girls whose faces I can’t remember and then stumbling drunkenly to the tube station, to fall down the escalators for the third time in a week. No – of course I wouldn’t be that person…

My head feels like an elephant is sitting on it.

If you had been in Islington last night, you might have heard the sounds of Ella Fitzgerald, Spandau Ballet and Al Green, intermingled with the laughter and murmuring of six women, drifting around you.

If you had pushed through the heavy, creaking metal gate, past the open front door leading to a 1970s bungalow house, filled with old movie posters, knick knacks, clothes draped over chairs, signs of life cluttering the furniture, if you had stepped out into the back courtyard, you would have been faced by the sight of six women laughing, sharing, confiding, singing, eating, chatting…

I haven’t spent time with a group of women in a really long time. It’s not that I avoid that sort of interaction, I just find that most of my girlfriends and I are social one-to-one, and group situations invariably include male partners and friends.

Last night I was so happy to have these charming, intelligent, excitable, funny, generous women surrounding me. I was suffering another bout of homesickness, because a dear friend of mine back home is suffering a heart break, and I desperately want to be there to comfort her and remind her how amazing she is, and get drunk with her, and let her cry, and then let her plot her revenge, and at the end of the day, watch her heal.

Instead, many miles away, I sat in the middle of a garden, on colourful rugs (there was no space to sit so we just plopped ourselves in between plants, like a fairy-ring in the centre of an overgrown garden), toasting Cumberland sausages, and then marshmallows, on the tiniest BBQ you’ve ever seen, playing DJ with Rach’s extensive, old record collection and passing the night away by the light of candles, sharing experiences.

No conversation was out of bounds; we traversed religion, moved to high school memories, on to parents and our potential as future child-rearers, back to broken hearts, over to first jobs, second jobs and job interviews, onto housemates, lingering past the pros and cons of being single, staggering toward diets and vegetarianism and finally resting on “gee isn’t this vodka and fruit juice nice? Oh my god, it’s 11.30, I think I’m going to miss the tube”, and all of us dashing off to try and catch the last train.

This morning I woke up and all I wanted in the world was to gather all my girlfriends in one room and tell them all, “thanks for supporting me, thanks for not being annoyed when I didn’t have much time to spare before leaving Perth, thanks for still loving me while I’m so far away, thanks for reminding me that I’m not really alone because you’ll always be at the end of a phone, or email, or plane ticket for me…” And give them each a really big hug.

When does a foreign land become a home? At what point am I no longer a stranger, but a “Londoner”?

London is one of those strange places, like New York, where no one actually seems to be from London; everyone I’ve spoken with has migrated here from as close as Brighton and as far as Bali.

It’s been two months, and London is the only home I have in the world. I’m not on holiday, with a familiar bed waiting for me in a land a thousand miles away. I’m stranded in a country where the only people I can consider friends met me less than five weeks ago, and the walls of my home are blank.

My collection of personal artefacts are wrapped in newspaper, snuggling in boxes lining a shed somewhere in Margaret River. I have only a handful of photos to represent my 28 years of life and only a couple of books and dvds to remember my past by.

At what point will I stop explaining to people that I don’t know where Docklands/ Bankside/ Hoxton/ Bus number 8 is, because I only just arrived, and instead simply say that I haven’t been there yet, without justification of being a stranger in a strange land?

I have found my way – a way – of living. The tube map no longer terrifies me and I can skip through the A to Z without checking the index. I know which supermarket I prefer and which off license sells the most decent and affordable wine in my area. I have a rhythm that belongs to me in every way, and yet I can’t quite bear not to still be a tourist. It feels safer somehow.

If I’m not a tourist, than what am I? I can’t be a traveller, because I’m based in one place. I can’t be an adventurer, because my adventures are no different to those that other people experience, whether they are far from home, or living in the same house they’ve lived in their entire lives.

I still want to get the camera out and take photos of all the interesting and exciting things I see, but after two months the cultural landmarks are no more than old buildings with more history than Australia (it constantly surprises me that there are building here hundreds of years older than Australia’s white history). It’s amazing how fast Big Ben becomes a blur – you can only see it a few times before the excitement wears a little thin.

Is this my home? No – not yet… maybe not ever. In two years time I might still feel like a stranger in a strange land. But am I a tourist? I guess we all are in a way – avidly goggling the sights, whether they be a historic building, a street performer or a car crash… we all like interesting new things.

I feel a little adrift. Excited by what’s around me, but less about the sights as I am about the new life.

In honour of my tour of duty thus far (and because all foreigners should take photos of places familiar and famous from books and postcards) here are my favourite “I’m a tourist on holiday” snap shots.

For the last four days I have lived, breathed, slept and focused on the film festival I’ve been working on. That’s what working for a festival organisation is like. When I was at ARTRAGE there was an unbelievable momentum amongst the staff to keep going – an entire month of being focused on one thing – everything else in your life gets put to one side, everyone is entirely focused on this one beautiful monster.

So it was unusual to have the same level of focus, but for it to only be four days long. I’m used to getting into the swing of things, but this time I was WHAM BLAT – straight into the middle of it with no warming up.

The festival was amazing. The films were all great – I’m not sure if I’ve written about this, but Birds Eye View presents films made by women from around the world (mostly shorts, but we also did three feature films in this program). Only 7% of films are made by women – so the focus of Birds Eye View isn’t to give women the “pity voice” and show films made by women whether they are of good quality or not. It’s about showing how incredible films made by women are, and our program went a long toward showing that… Sadly some women think it’s offensive to have a festival like ours – that we are being condescending and implying that women aren’t good enough to be in other festivals. You really can’t please everyone.

Which reminds me – when the Reel Dance screen festival comes to Perth (I think all you melbourne, Sydney and Brisbane-ites have missed it, but I could be wrong…), make sure you catch Magali Charrier’s short film Tra La La (I think it’s in Program 2, but you’ll have to check that one). I had the amazing opportunity to do a masterclass with her, and her films are so moving and beautiful.

Also got to meet Andrea Arnold, who just won an award in Cannes, and is doing this crazy freaky film project with Lars Von Triers production company. He picked three directors (she was the first) who are all given the same characters, which are to be played by the same actors, but the directors have to tell their own stories. She was really cool – very humble about her experiences and her recent award, and she has an incredible vision… Her film (Red Road) is being made with no music, which is so brave. can’t wait to see it!

And Ken Loach came along to support his god-daughters’ film which we premiered (he won the Palme d’or last week). But I don’t want to think about that, let alone talk about it… I embarrassed myself in front of him, and I blush every time I remember!

And Fiona Shaw – oh my god! Lovely Helen (she works with me) and I have the biggest girl-crush on her after she opened the festival for us on Thursday. Fiona Shaw is the most beautiful women I have ever seen – truly, breathtakingly lovely to look at. Helen and I had to practically restrain each other from accosting her and drooling over her!

So much in just four days – morning, afternoon and night we basically lived in a little theatre on Regent St. We knew all the cinema staff, found all the nooks and crannies in the theatre, became familiar with all the screens and projection rooms. For four days we each had individual melt downs, laughed at each other and ourselves, got hurt, got upset, met amazing women directors (I don’t want to gush, but I’ve met so many inspirational women in the last few days, I feel so privileged), and gushed (Helen restrained herself with Fiona Shaw, but couldn’t hold herself back with Magali Charreir, and promises me that she completely freaked Magali out by gushing over her so much she felt like a stalker).

And now here I am. With a black finger nail (I tripped on the escalator last night trying to catch my last train, because I stayed at the cinema too long, having a drink with the staff), and a sense of loss because everything I’ve focused on for the last week is over, and I’ve lost my bearings.

It’s midday, and I should be doing something outside in the beautiful sun, but I feel so lost (and my finger nail hurts so much!). Directionless.

I love festival time – I loved it in Perth. And I’m so happy to find that I carried that love with me to here. I miss it when Festival has finished. I miss the activity and the sleeplessness and the manic timekeeping and the pushing of boundaries. I miss the new friends. I miss the sense of purpose…