50 Shades of Grey: on silence and complicity

For weeks I’ve been meaning to write something wholesome and inspiring about community. The last couple of months have been a roller coaster ride; I’ve stretched myself in directions I didn’t know I could reach for, learned from mistakes I didn’t realise I was making until someone gently pointed them out to me and had wins that left me double checking the numbers on my ticket to make sure they were mine. Throughout it all I’ve been loved, supported and held by the most inspiring, insightful and gutsy peeps I know. When I think about how hard I am loved I get all teared up and have to put my sunglasses on to hide my sentimentalism.

As grateful as I am for all of this and more this is not that post.
This post is about something else entirely.

I’ve spent the last couple of days with my nose in Anna Kriens ‘Night Games’, a critical exploration of sex and power through the lens of sport, predominantly AFL. It’s delves into all sorts of uncomfortable arenas, most notably what Krien refers to as ‘the grey area’ of sexual consent. She walks a fine line above a lions pit, at times with her heart on her sleeve and still manages to remain a moving target. “If I tell you where I stand you can walk away from me.” was her response when pressed about her personal position by a facilitator at a recent writers festival ” I think it’s this ability she has to call the game without showing her cards that makes her such a damn good investigative journalist. She leaves room for us to fill in our experience, she wants us to make up our own minds.

I’ve spent a lot of time lately, filling in my own experience. See, these ‘night games’ are eerily familiar, and they’re not just played by sport stars.

I belong to a number of different communities. Pretty much all of them would self identify as being progressive, left wing, liberal and pretty much all of them have in some way or other been complicit in maintaining a silence when violence against women, including the sort of ‘night games’ that Krien writes about occurs within their ranks.

 
“Oh look, he doesn’t mean any harm. He was just drunk”
“Everyone was wasted.”
“Yeah, but she’s not easy to be around either.”
“She seemed up for it”
“It wasn’t that bad”
“That was ages ago. Holding onto stuff just gives you cancer.”
“It was just a joke, you don’t have to make such a big deal out of it”

Sound familiar?
No?
Let me make it a little clearer;

I’m talking about the complicit silence when a guy repeatedly gropes women on the dancefloor, the people at a party who turn away from the really wasted girl getting fucked in the pool, the relegating of serious and repeated verbal abuse to ‘a relationship issue’, the lovers who’ve humbugged me until I’ve relented to having sex when I’m just not up for it.

Yeah, that stuff. Call it a ‘grey area’, call it ‘sleazy’, call it ‘abuse’ …but for chrisakes call it out.

Maybe he’s a nice guy, perhaps he just shouted you a beer, a joint or a line. Maybe you don’t like the woman who is on the receiving end of his bad behavior. It doesn’t matter. To maintain silence is to enter into a complicity with the kind of power that underlies rape culture.

I’ll say that again, real slow;

To MAINTAIN SILENCE is to enter into COMPLICITY with the kind of power that underlies RAPE CULTURE.

Brothers, we need you. We can’t fight this battle on our own. At worst the men who act this way towards women don’t really respect them – in their eyes women like me are just mouthy femmo bitches. At best, you’re mate needs to know that he’s acting like a perverted arsehole and that kind of behavior isn’t cool.

In both case it helps if the hear that it’s not OK from someone they respect.

I know, its’ not easy, none of us likes conflict. None of us likes admitting that maybe we fucked up. But we need to start talking about this stuff and find ways to emasculate being silent and being sleazy.

If you want to talk to some one confidentially about any of the issues in this article call or visit http://www.1800respect.org.au

Another day, another airport.

Yet again I’ve managed to pack up my stuff and move towns on 14 days notice; this time I’m heading back to the desert for two months to work on a festival. Driving back from dropping off the last of my stuff at my parents my mum took my hand and told me that she was proud of the way I live my life; I’m incredibly lucky to have parents that support me in the pursuit of my dreams, as unconventional and chaotic as they may be.

“You follow the things that matter to you” she said.

“Not always” I replied “Some days I get hung up on these idiotic small things and they cripple me, perhaps even more so because I know how superfluous they are.”

Take the beauty myth; I know that an obsession with physical appearance is drilled into women (and men) from a young age as a means of social control; I know that my self worth is based on more than the shape of my eyebrows and my hip to waist ratio; hell, I even look in the mirror most days and feel pretty damn good about the reflection (which wasn’t always the case).

Still, in the last few months I’ve been plauged by poor body image; carving up my body into bits that I like or don’t like, as though I were some kind of social media news feed and there are parts of me that are worthy of sharing and ones that should be trashed. Despite hours of scrolling through feminist manifestos, all the Naomi Wolfe wannabes in the world haven’t been able to save me from the cold hard gaze of my ego.

And the experts don’t help.

Walking into a beauty salon I’m suddenly reduced to an imbecile as I’m led through the various options for perfecting my flaws. Through caked skin and mink eyelash implants the therapist gives me a long stare.

“You haven’t done this much before” she says.

“No” I say.

“Hmm, some women do prefer to let themselves go.”

Damn right, I wanna say, I do let myself go; anywhere I damn well please in fact, which at this point in time is right out that front door and as far the hell away from you and your weird contraptions of torturous manipulation as I possibly can.

But I don’t. I shut my mouth and let her talk me through the options of reducing this and accentuating that and even book myself an appointment which I later cancel.

And I’m not the only one.

The more I’ve talked to other women about this the more I realise that some of the smartest, spunkiest babes I know suffer from the same fate; one friend wishes she had bigger breasts, another complains about sagging skin; when I hear them deride their appearance my feminist rage jumps up on the table and starts waving her fists at the sky.

But I understand.

We all want to be loved and desired, and in a branded world we’re increasingly concerned with ensuring that we’re one of the best looking products on the shelf. I don’t want to compete with my sister but sometimes I do; everything in popular culture is telling me to act a certain way and being different is sometimes painfully isolating.

And that’s why it’s so important to be reminded that who we are now is worth being proud of; that we’re deeply loveable with all of our foibles, and that each of us is an inspiration to each other.

I’m eternally grateful to the support of my family and friends; without them I wouldn’t be able to keep pursuing this crazy beautiful life of mine that sees me travelling the country and the world to work on projects that inspire me.

As the boarding call rolls in the background I make the decision to leave my insecurities behind me, and let myself go, wherever my dreams take me.

Objects in the rearview mirror may be closer than they appear: first drafts from yesteryear and other skeletal remains

It’s funny what you discover cruising the back blocks of your blog; like this little post from back in July about heartache and change, ironically written just before I jumped ship and did my best impression of a drowning woman. It’s a serendipitous reminder of the warped nature of time that allows things to simultaneously get turned upside down and stay the same. Just today I sat in the kitchen of one of the few people outside of my family who knew me in my teens, munching on muffins and talking about the swirling moral compass, and the search for true North. I’d like to write more on that, but first, lets take a trip down memory lane to July 1st 2012:

Well, well, well….what to say when it’s not OK?

It’s been a big few months. Between the launch of thicker than water and the changing of careers, the moving house and the shifting sands of heartache, the four week infected tattoo and cancelled exotic writers jaunt, life has been pulling punches like a proverbial tent boxer. Just recently I’ve managed to emerge from the ring, wipe the blood from my face and stagger to the bar. Clutching my drink I retrace the outline of my flailing figure to acquatinces and accomplices; the responses are disturbingly similar;

“But you seem so well….”

Thats the problem, innit?

As the ship sinks around us, we’re all cocktails and brave faces; a row of canaries in coal mines, throats hoarse with sad songs. In the past eighteen months I’ve seen some of the best minds and bravest hearts I know slip out out of the social circle with their sorrows wrapped around them, wondering if anyone will notice they never said goodbye. Retreating to the privacy of bedrooms, self medicating with yoga or whiskey or HBO series, chanting mantras of abundance whilst scouring the house for half smoked cigarettes and waiting for an elusive spark to emerge from it’s indefinite hibernation.

Oh sure. We can all swap stories about the work we’ve been doing on ourselves; how we fritter our community sector wages on connecting to the source. I’m all for therapy; I know my way around a sand play pit better than most, but I do wonder why we so many of us pay someone to pick us up when we’re down.

Maybe it’s something about duration. It’s easy enough to gather a posse to help you blow off some steam or lock in a long distance friend for a no-holds-barred sob story Skype. Short sprints are fast to find an audience for, team members for marathons are harder to recruit. And the bigger they are, the harder they fall; most cataclysmic transformations tend to be protracted and gnarly affairs, and the food drops usually get sparser the deeper into the wilderness you go.

**************** *************************** ********************  ***************

That post was just two weeks before the boy who I was still madly in love with sat me down in a dry river with a toasted ham and cheese sandwich and told me in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want to see me anymore. I cried and bawled and outlined all the ways he’d let me down; a process that took the best part of six months to complete. Amidst it all I moved to Darwin, spoke at an international writers festival, completed a writing residency and had an ill fated fling with a man-child. I smiled and smiled though I felt like I was dying and was unable to count past the 5 stages of grief. I said things to myself I’m ashamed to repeat in public and did things in public I’m ashamed to admit to myself in private.

But I pulled through. At times only by dragging my belly along the bitumen while my friends dangled inspirational quotes like carrots in front of me, but I pulled through. Seven months later and my heart is still healing, but it’s stronger than it’s been in years. Yes, I did wander off into the wilderness, and yes, some people did drop off along the way and yes, there were times when I felt like a country song cliche, weeping into a gin and tonic in de-elasticised bathers beside an empty pool.

But I also discovered that I have amazing friends, who will never leave me hungering for love and that really all you need to get you through christmas is a kelpie and some home made dumplings. I’ve discovered how to know what I’ve learnt and learn what I know and that nothing is permanent (not even death).

And I know that the clouds MUST have lifted, because I can see the horizon again.

Thanks to everyone who sheltered me from the storms and reminded me to sing in the rain. I love you. 

xkl

Electric Dreams: trying to hook a big one in the ocean of online dating

The monsoon had kicked off it’s shoes, turned off it’s phone and settled in for weekend and after finally quitting boozing and smoking I found myself with way too much time on my hands. After years of singling out skinny white musicians and pursuing them with the single-mindedness of a mining lobbyist at a climate change forum I decided to try and break the pattern, which led me, curiously, to signing up for an online dating site.

At least that was the rationale.

Your online virginity, like all membranes, is delicate and slightly painful when it tears. Creating an online dating profile is accompanied by a bizarre mixture of shame, excitement and confusion.

“Is this it?” you wonder to yourself “Surely I’m not this desperate.”

“Hell, every things online” another voice counteracts “Just think of it as Facebook for singles.”

“Except that you’re trying to friend strangers” another voice chimes in

And you find yourself muttering to yourself “Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to think of a witty tag line.” And you wonder if this kind of crazy schizophrenic self talking behaviour is the real reason why your single.

If the websites are anything to go by the single men in Darwin are overwhelmingly miners with an obsession for the gym and being photographed with dead things. Despite an abundance of claims about “loving life and a laugh”, men with actual wit are pretty thin on the ground; the jokes I was cracking about emoticons in a recent chat session had my friend and I crying with laughter but seemed to pass over the my FIFO suitors head.

Despite this I did go on a date with a man who looked rather handsome in his profile and seemed nice enough in his email exchanges and professed to know how to make eggplant schnitzels. In reality though, the intricacies of his obsession with all terrain vehicles were lost on me and I was a little unnerved by the glint in his eye as he recounted the details of the property settlement with his ex (“I got EVERYthing!). 20 minutes into our early morning coffee date I excused myself and scuttled off to work.

“Plenty more fish in the sea” I cheerfully reassured myself, and certainly the adage has been no truer than in the world of online romance. But as any fisherman will tell you, the ocean is full of mullet, and it takes several tonne of by catch to net yourself a decent meal of prawns. And truthfully I’ve ALWAYS found cooking the fish a whole lot more fun than sitting around waiting for it to take the bait.

But for all you hunter gather types, as they say in the business, tight lines.

Whats love got to do with it?

It was a mad love affair that spanned three countries, dozens of hotel rooms, hospitals, family dinners and festivals; a mixed bag of intimacy and revelation so heady that even after we finally called it off, the whole experience continues to challenge my understandings of love, companionship and those weird bundles of connectivity we call relationships.

For many years I viewed long term relationships as the holy grail of intimacy. The spinning whirlpool of my childhood and adolescence left me questioning if I was worthy of love, and I set out seeking the answer in the reassuring arms of Forevermores. It was a logical place to look; the boy meets girl and finds redemption through commitment narrative is engraved deeply into our culture; like archaic graffitti on school desks, we recarve it year in, year out, through films, books, dinner table discussions and self help books, the supremacy of the long term monogamous relationship as the end game underwrites so many of our assumptions about love and romance.

But something didn’t fit.

As my lover and I went through the throes of trying to work out why we didn’t make eachother happy, we stumbled upon a sobering realisation; neither of us knew of any long term relationships that we aspired to.

That scared the shit out of me.

Everything I’d swallowed about the “you and me babe” package deal got stuck in my throat, and like a polite guest at a family dinner, I didn’t know where to spit.

At this point I started talking to some of my friends about their relationships; particularly about the different configurations people were experimenting with under the banner of polyamoury. The compelling thing for me about these relationships wasn’t so much the multiplicity of partners, but the commitment to honest communication about what was needed and desired from different relationships at different times; the willingness to create a framework around the connection, rather than the other way round.

I’ve got a hunch about the link between prioritizing a cultural norm about how to relate over the dynamic process of relating, and my inherent confusion within relationships; like I’m trying to squeeze the myriad of connections and experiential delights into a tiny box called “partner”, and wondering why it feels so damn claustrophobic in here.

For me,  polyamoury provides a much needed philosophical framework (because some of us have a deep need for structure) for teasing out some of these issues about how we create relationships that work for the kind of connections we are having. I don’t think it’s some silver bullet for the whole complex web of emotion and desire that arises when bodies and souls entwine, but there are some great voices from the frontiers of sexual and gender politics that are raising some poignent questions about the historical and cultural assumptions that underlie why and how we relate to each other.

These cultural assumptions at times seem overwhelming and impossible to overcome; I don’t know if I’ll ever want to have multiple partners, at the moment having room for many different kinds of love (for people or experiences) feels central to my understanding about relationships. Regardless, it feels a worthwhile undertaking to lift the veil on partnerships and delve deeper into my understanding of self in relation to other.

Mates Rate: consumerism in the time of scarcity part 2

“If you want something done right, do it yourself” was the rather dogmatic mantra my father would mutter as he slaved over a metal lathe, creating the perfect part that would make his drill rig sing.  It’s a rather isolationist approach that assumes the worst in others. When it comes to food I’ve adopted a more middle road approach; if you want to eat right, do it with someone you know.

In this small desert town the best meals tend to be cooked at home. Love is the best condiment, and without it even the finest ingredients taste second rate. A rather nimble twist of community innovation is looking to share the love of food through a little group known as Alice Home Restaurant

Legend has it that Alice Home Restaurant was conceived over dinner. Resident Bon Vivant, Kym, acted as midwife, delivering the ripper of an idea into the big bad world of social media, and gave it a name. Like all strokes of brilliance the idea is simple but effective; people host dinner parties featuring local produce, and charge people $10 a head to attend.

Edible landscaper extraordinaire J9 was the first to fling open the doors of her kitchen and welcome fellow foodies inside. Hosted at her rural desert oasis, she promised a two course feast of garden goodies. Originally capped at 15 guests, the bookings were greedily gobbled up and swelled to 19 people.

And so it was that on a cool Autumn night we assembled in the garden; wine flowing with conversation, spilling out into the darkened garden beds. One of the best things about dining at J9s place is that you literally eat amidst the vegetables; pumpkins sprawling near the swimming pool, pomegranates peering in the front door.

The star of the evening was definitely cucumber. An abundance of these cool Cucurbitacea trailed their way into a veggie curry. Skinned, seeded and mixed with lemongrass, chilli ginger and coconut milk, they transformed into heavenly hunks of texture reminiscent of choko. Some uncooked cucumbers were mixed with home made yogurt as a cooling side dish, their crunchy consistency juxtaposed against the softness of their slow cooked brethren.

Dessert was creme brulee , with gems of fresh and dried figs embedded in it’s lucious creamy silk. I wandered through the kitchen to find J9 caramelising the top layer of sugar with a jet lighter, a wicked grin on her face.

As digestion kicked in, we sprawled across the garden, gazing at the heavens and conjuring up dumpling recipes for a home restaurant yum cha and discussing the dynamics of a camel hangi. Although we left early, rumour has it that the gathering simmered gently through the night.

Alice Home Restaurant inspires me. It makes me want to cook amazing food for people who I know and those I’m yet to meet. Moreover it seems to be a recipe for building a community of people who hunger for a taste of the good life.

Talking Shop: consumerism in the time of scarcity part 1

I almost lost my faith in food last week.

On a sweltering Saturday morning I meandered up to my local corner store to buy some bread that would make a perfect breakfast of fried eggs. Living in a town so regional that by some definitions it is remote, I’m used to hefty food prices, so I duly paid over $6 for my preferred loaf, and tottered back home.

The bread had been defrosted, not unsual in a remote area where the average food item spends three days on the bitumen before hitting the shelves  and the noble art of freeze packing remains one of the most effective ways of ensuring freshness.

No, the cause of my concern was a tiny label displaying the baked on date of November 2011, almost three months previous. It seemed that this sucker had spent the summer sitting in the back of cyrogenics facility for baked goods, paitently awaiting the return of customers with an inclination for soy and linseed.  

I felt disparaged and disgusted; I try to do my bit and shop local, especially as the regions business reports read more like an obituary. Lately though, the nose dive in quality has sent me running back into the arms of the tweedledee & tweedledum duopoly that dominates 80 percent of the grocery market. It’s a confusing place to be; aisles of super-specials so potent I usually end up leaving with nothing that I need, and double packs of everything that I don’t.

That said, I’m lucky that I have a choice in where I shop. Many of the more isolated communities in Central Australia are held hostage to local stores that charge outrageously for geriatric vegtables. On a quiet day you can hear the weeping of nutritionists sweep across the towns as mothers empty their basics cards in exchange for tinned meat and white bread.

The scarcity of decent food outlets in this small desert town is dire. Most of the solutions seem to lie in a handful of small specialist businesses, a few emerging social enterprises and a trailer load of cowshit…..but thats a whole other story to be told next time.

Till then,

kl

Dinner in the Devils Arsehole

The day is a devils arsehole; the heat billowing so relentlessly that even the weather forecast on my mobile is reduced to a single tinny soundbite.

It begs the question, what does one eat in an arsehole?

Schoolboy scatological references may not fall that short of the mark. But is it good shit; the kind that grows bumper crops of mashed potatoes or the dry acidic sort that only turns up stunted portions of tomatoe sauce?

Take the local delicacy, camel. Although only one step removed from eating horse, camel  has had a makeover and upgraded from pet meat  to “wildfood” through an unusual alliance between butchers and greenies. Nestled in the back of Yeperrenye shopping centre, Charbray butchers has been cranking out a steady string of camel and date sausages. These fat fingers of sweet, sticky meat treat are reguarly served up to interstate guests and new arrivals as a gastronomical talisman of all that is both carnivourous and chic about Central Australia. They also play a star role alongside white bread and onions as a staple fundraiser at festivals and events.

The cull em vs eat em camel debate flares up occasionally around bbqs across Alice Springs, and was last sighted in the national media in early november . When the camels started running people out of their houses in Docker River, some polished their guns, others cleaned out the deep freezer. A local enviromental leader coined the term “cameltarian” to describe the way in which Central Australians should be tackling the problem. The jury is still out on the fate of the meat laden ships of the desert, however it seems that word on the street is that the camel and date sausages at Charbray just aren’t as good as they used to be.

Also of dubious certanity is the quality of chicken schnitzel on any given Thursday at the Todd Tavern. Possibly the best meal deal in town, the $7 schnitty at the todd comes equipped with chips, gravy and salad bar. If the person taking orders isn’t full of hate, or the fear of authority, they’ll usually let you swap chips for mash and my mate Kev says you should always get your gravy on the side (I tend to agree with him).

What happens next is counter meal roullette; if you win, you’ll get a plump juicy just-outta-the-deep-fryer slab of goodness, lose and you dine on an encrusted jerky jerk off. Experiments with both timing and choice of schnitzel resulted in a mathematical equation resembling string theory, but for what it’s worth I reckon the chicken is probably you’re safest bet.

Don’t believe the hype about club eastside; their crumb-n-cook is no better. I have, however, heard from reliable sources (my mate Kev) that they have a killer ten buck sunday roast.

 Before heading off I should also give a nod to the steak sangas at the dirty little oilhouse Feeling Peckish, and the pies at the newly opened IAD press cafe (their homestyle mixes include hunks of potatoe, stewed cubes of beef and lashings of bacon).

I’ll be escaping my camel and aircon fuelled existence in a few weeks to scour the back blocks of NZ in search of big trees and small breweries. I’ll meet you back here in Jan with a wind up of the best grog.

Have a fat xmas kl

Hit me Babi One More Time

Anyone who knows me well will be aware of my deep seated belief in the healing powers of swine. Many a bleary eyed morning has found me holed up in the kitchen, tethered to a grease speckled stove and soothing a hangover with plate after plate of pork. A recent bender found me braving 40C+ tempratures to ride across town in search of bacon, with a desire that could only be saited with a caterers pack of rindless short cut. Yep, I’m a sweet meat senorita, a pork on yr fork kinda gal, and on a recent trip to Bali, I discovered a whole new dimension of devotion on the island of the gods.

 

Now Indonesia and swine may not be instantly synonomous; it being one of the largest muslim countries in the world. However, the island of Bali is unique in a number of ways, one of them being the dominance of an endemic version of Hinduism. This gives rise to a proliferation of both delicate offererings  of flowers to the gods, and delicious offerings of pork to the tourists. Daging Babi (Pork meat) is widely consumed, with one of the signature dishes of the island being the delectable Babi Guling, or suckling pig.

 

My most recent Balinese excursion was courtesy of the sensational Ubud Writers Festival , a four day bonananza of global literature, in which I was lucky enough to participate in. On arrival I was whisked through the sprawls of Denpasar and Sanur into the lush hills of Ubud. Within three hours of landing in the country I was seated at Ibu Okas tucking into a plate of her infamous Babi Guling.

 

 

Daging Spesial at Ibu Okas

Ibu Okas is a bit of an insitution in Ubud. Situated across from the Palace, this bustling swine house does a relentless trade in the Babi from lunchtime onwards. Swarms of tourists lounge eating the Babi Spesial coupled with Bintangs of varying temperature, while taxi drivers jostle for take away swine wrapped in the trademark balinese brown paper triangles. Every now and then two runners hustle their way down the street with a whole cooked pig slung on a stick between them, and slap the carcass down on a table in the outdoor kitchen. 40,000 rps will get you a few chunks a sweet white flesh, a couple of strips of crackling, some strangly delicious pink “twice fried” pork, vegies, blood sausage and (if you’re really lucky) some indescript boney yellow things, which I have never really been able to identify.

In 7 days I ate there 6 times.  Once I even managed to convice several other people to join me and so large was our pork party that we had to be escorted to a second Ibu Okas location up the road. Here we called for plate after plate of pork flesh and pork skin, accompanied by token amounts of rice and vegetables. We gorged ourselves amidst cast metal scupltures of lacatating sows and their offspring, until we quite literally ate them out of skin.

 

It is one of my most satisfying memories of the whole trip.

 

The other swine place to note in Ubud ranks higher in international noteriety, and is accordingly far more expensive, and not nearly as good. Naughty Noris hosts  celebrity crackling chompers and it’s killer martinis have been raved about in many a hipster magazine. It’s an outdoor grill that specialise in racks of pork rib, marinated in big pots and cooked over an open flame. Despite the exhorbitant price by local standards (nearly 200,000 rp including taxes), theres nothing quite like watching a group of slender ladies bbq giant slab s of meat on a balmy afternoon. The ribs are exceptionally tender and even more messy; this is not a meal to pick up someone over unless you both have a penchant for licking marinade of eachothers elbows. They are served in a no nonsense fashion, deviod of any trimmings and with a single steak knife for cutlery. For the tight arses, or those who would like to make a nod towards a balanced diet, their pork loin sandwich (60,000rp) is also not bad, but definately steer clear of the burgers. They serve imported beers, if you’re really craving one.

 

Pork Ribs from the Infamous Naugthy Nuris in Ubus

 

 

Arriving back to my desert homeland, my ocean starved and gastronomically deprived peers drilled me for tales of  exotic seafood dishes. It was then that I did the tally;  thirteen meals of pork in seven days……piggy piggy pig.