Party Animal

By Kathleen

When life gives you lemons sometimes the only thing to do is swallow the bitter shit, realize you’re the one who grew the damn lemons in the first place, and then shoot things with nerf guns.

It’s the only sane thing to do.

And so this weekend, in order to process some of my own lemons I teamed up with a friend and hit Melbourne’s party scene.

Stop One: Nerf Core

Don’t think about what it is, you know what it is. Nerf guns, music, disco lights, fog. It was Cambodia’s Heart of Darkness meets tiki torches and Apocalypse Now. The first thing of course, the essential thing in any Nerf based war game is to have a Nerf gun. 

My friend armed me with a sleek steam-punk nerf gun that made me look and feel like a guerrilla out of the Congo/Venezuela/Iraq. With my purple  keffiyeh tied around my face and my hood up I felt truly revolutionary. I’d post pictures but you never know who would accuse me of being involved with some sort of underground Occupy training program.

The Nerf gun was light in my hand, the lights spinning out of control, then through the fog, gorillas! No! Man down, back to the line, “we need more ammo! My gun is jammed! Medic!”.

I strutted around the bar like I was back form assignment in Hanoi recovering in Phnom Phen. It was rad.

Stop Two: Warehouse Party

Ah the mythical warehouse party. Often alluded to, religiously talked up, surprisingly elusive. I’ve been to four warehouses since being in Brunswick, the whole area is rent with them, they fill the lane ways and have funny names. They have themes and décor and better sound systems then some clubs I’ve been to. Of course, when I was invited to one, one where the location and date and time were known, I accepted.

Fabulous letdown. From the jungles of South East Asia/ Congo to the Frat boy jungle full of drunk bros in animal print togas it took about point three seconds for me and my friends to realize "this is so not our scene".

Then the cops showed up.

So much for wild rave party it was more like drunken dorm party, freshman year.

Stop Three: My Aeon

Never heard of a pys-trance club? Well don’t worry I didn’t realize they existed either. For those urbanites who can’t make it to the woods for a doof or just can’t wait until the net one, My Aeon fills a needed hole. Nothing like a friendly not grope crowd that just wants to hang and dance and has a fireplace outside.

It was at this point in the evening that conversation turned serious and I began to look at some of the major issues in my life. Namely I’m exactly where I said I wanted to be and it’s not what I want at all. Be careful what you wish for and be careful what you say.

I took a cab home, drunk and alone, thinking about how my life has changed in the last year and seriously questioning what I wanted to come in the next year. Despite all my friends here, and all that is going on, it’s just not worth anything without my love. It’s just not home.

Travel can take you many places, there is always someplace new on the horizon. The world is so huge that it is impossible to see every place or every time. When I was a child I dreamed of having a watch that would show me what was happening all around the world at any given moment so I would never miss anything.

My favorite place to go is always the place I haven’t been yet. I realize now that travel is a way of life but it is also an addiction. There will never be enough time or money to see it all. There will always be one more place. You need to know when to stop, when to set the course for home.

That isn’t to say I have sworn travel off, but I need to find a way to travel that is more sustainable for the three bottom lines (emotional, financial, social). I need to find a way to integrate myself into this world without losing what I love.

Keep your heart at the center and set sail.

Photos of Brunswick

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This was a weekend of firsts.

Traveling alone is not something that comes as naturally to me as it dose to others. There are aspects of it which I prefer, I can be say, be as cheap as I want, I don’t need to confirm an idea with somebody else and I can linger in bookstores as long as I want. Honestly the enjoyment stops there.

While I believe that there is character-building merit in traveling alone, it simply is not as enjoyable as traveling with somebody. There is nobody with whom to share those special moments when you see something amazing, or silly or sad. Nobody to point out simple joys to, nobody to convince you that ‘yes’ you really do want to buy the cheese, and nobody who is seeing the new culture through the same lens as you.

Despite these drawbacks I’ve been making the best of the experience. I’ve been taking on new challenges and overcoming fears. This Saturday for example, I was in a bit of quandary. There was a show I wanted to see downtown, for a band I had only just discovered, while my dear friends wanted to go out of the city and into the woods to dance all night at a bush doof (underground outdoor music/dance party).

Now I have never been to a doof, not a proper Aussie one at least, but neither had I ever been to a show alone. I was torn. Somewhere deep inside me there was a little voice that urged me to do the scary thing. While a doof is new in many ways it is not new in its fundamentals and considering that soon I will have a friend visiting and then soon after that Fiz will be returning I saw that this was perhaps my unique opportunity to experience standing awkwardly alone in a crowd. I chose the show.

Down to the CBD I went, riding the tram, so different late at night than early in the morning. Crowds of gaggling girls and slightly drunken dudes all headed down for a big adventure, and me.

The show, as it happened, was sold out. So much for my experience. But on my way back up to the street from the club below I caught out of the corner of my eye, the sight of a friend I had not expected to see again. One of the women from the Permaculture course was there with her date. They didn’t get tickets either. We exchanged remarks and hugs and then the three of us spent the evening walking around the city and talking. I discovered that there is an upcoming writer’s festival (they are both writers) the Melbourne’s Emerging Writer’s Festival, starting this week. So sometimes that little voice knows something you don’t.

The next morning, feeling groggy after my late night, I did something I haven’t done in years. I went to church. Now, I’m not much in the way for Christianity, I had a long period where we were at odds, but as I’ve gotten older my dislike has mellowed and eventually turned friendly. There is something comforting in the rituals, and strangely something exotic.

After traveling the world and praying in temples and pagodas and mosques to deities of every shape size and color I found that the rituals of the Anglican Church were new and different. I was raised a Catholic, or well, it was attempted, I resisted the whole time but some of it seeped in, I love frankincense and chanting and have a strong affinity for the Virgin Mary. The Anglican service (not mass!) seemed strangely devoid of all the little Catholic things I liked, but the singing was nice and the priest gave a good sermon. Melbourne’s St.Paul’s Cathedral is lovely, a beautiful piece of Victorian Victorian Architecture.

I could not help but notice as I sat in my pew waiting to take part in the Ancient Egyptian God Eating ritual that the congregation was dying. I don’t mean in front of my eyes, but just about. A full 90% were grey, and the list of the ill and the recently passed was long. There was one child there, making himself known only occasionally. It felt as though the whole giant space, designed to hold so many was now filled with a few old men trying to stay warm.

As I walked outside into the sunlight I heard chanting. Across the street at Federation Square the Asian community was celebrating Buddha’s birthday. (As the Pentecost is upon us I find it interesting that Buddha’ Birthday is so close on the calendar.) Buddhist chants were piped onto the square and people were milling about joyfully scattered, holding incense and orchids. And there were children. Heaps of children, not just from Melbourne’s growing Asian population, Anglo children, mixed race children of every colour. Children brought there by parents who had decided at some point that they no longer wanted to sit in a pew and pray to the Lord but instead were clumsily teaching foreign rituals to a new generation of seekers.

Why? Christianity in comparison to Buddhism is in fact quite young, so it should be thriving, but instead people have turned the cathedrals and churches of the world into museums, mausoleums to a dying faith. While I know that Christianity is growing rapidly in those parts of the world that are staved for learning or starved in general, willing to accept help from anywhere, I can’t help but think that they join so they can break literal bread and thereby gain salvation, in a physical rather than a theological way.

Perhaps it is the slow decay of a way of life that asked too much of its people or that makes too little sense to many these days. Pedophilia was certainly the last straw in many places. Nothing like a bit of molestation to keep the next generation coming back for more, no wonder it’s destroyed the parishes from the inside out.

It is an interesting thing to watch, this juxtaposition of faith across the street from one another, another reason to love the urban environment, even as I find myself starting to seriously miss the smell of trees.

I am a country girl after all and I worship dirt, and wind and sun and rain. My cathedral is as always the forest and I find that no tower of stone nor any beautifully build pagoda can compare to the simple experience of a mountain or a river or a plain.

 But it gives me hope for the future, as multiple muti-cultural spaces continue to grow and flourish and we manage to live within them, surely we can learn to work out our differences elsewhere. So I bowed my head at the alter of Christ and Buddha and prayed to the One for peace and justice for all.

Working Girl

By Kathleen Broadhurst

My alarm goes off at 5am and there is a nothing but darkness and a 20min walk to the train. I get to café and sit and write with the lights off for a half and hour before I open. I’m looking forward to moving into my new place this weekend, the train is closer and the it’s a shorter trip. There is a solid hour where I think that I’m crazy for getting back into this world of caffeine addicts and barista artists.

Then my co-workers show up. Overall they are lovely and my boss is wonderful. The head barista has changed my opinion about baristas he’s fun and friendly and after 18 years of pulling shots is a master. Watching him work is wonderful, it’s always interesting to see somebody who is really good at what they do. I’ve been learning a lot about coffee, it’s more of an applied science than an art with exact measurements affecting tiny details. For me as an American who grew up on Dunkin’ Donuts it all seems a bit much but it’s still cool.

I love this city more and more every day. Riding the train is one of my favorite parts of being a new urbanite. I like the graffiti and the grey concrete and the tall sky-scrapers in the distance. It’s like a big dystopian fantasy, gritty and real.

Melbourne itself is a lovely combination of old Victorian architecture and modern buildings. I’ll post some pictures as soon as I get to taking the camera around, but it’s such a monster and I feel a little silly looking like a tourist in a place that I’m calling home.

I noticed something the other day on the way to work as I was staring up at the glowing neon signs of the CBD. ANZ, Commonwealth, NAB, all banks. Historically when you look at cities, the taller the building the more power it had. In Italy families would vie for the tallest tower and hence the biggest show of power. For millennia kings and queens have been erecting monuments as testimony to their strength and all throughout the Old World the steeples and minarets and pagodas of religion have reached for the sky, dominating skylines as they scrambled to touch God.

Our city skylines are dominated by banks, by the symbols of trade and materialism. It’s not a metaphor. It’s worth thinking about.

I’m excited to move into my new place tomorrow, even as I fight off a cold, but I’ll be sad to leave my friends’ home. Australians are generous in general but these two may just be the most generous people I know. They have helped me find my feet and held my hand as I stumbled onto this new road. I can only hope one day that they come to visit in the Sates so I balance out the books, even a little bit.

Making new friends here makes my connection to here stronger, but I am always aware of those who are still at home. They walk with me, phantoms of my imagination. I see a shirt I think of you, I hear a song I think of you, I have an amazing time at a club I think of you. I rid the train and think of you. You are all in my thoughts. Friends make life worth living.

Now to make some dinner!

Fallin’ Into Place

By Kathleen Broadhurst

My last week has been rainy and as far as Australia is concerned, cold. I have been getting to know the inner workings of the trains and the trams and recognizing faces at the gate of Flinders’ Street. I’ve been learning the nuances of “fare evasion”, yep, I’m that person ( At $4.50 a ticket you would be too).

Meeting strangers everyday and having to tell a quick blurb about yourself is a strange exercise in the art of being concise. You quickly learn the fundamentals of your identity. “ I’m from Massachusetts, I’m a writer, I like plants.” Seemed to be the most common themes. I delight in its over simplification.

Meeting potential employees is always a bit of a theatrical déjà vu. All those classes and years of stage acting pay off in ways like being able to give a spiel without pausing or looking nervous. So much of life is acting it seems and what we wear is all costume.

Yesterday the rain got me down, as I trudged along in a too large, too blue borrowed jacket with a strangers passport, I couldn’t help but think “ What am I doing here”. None of us like to admit when we are wrong, I sure as hell stick to my guns long past the point when I should let go, but even I was looking at the cold drizzle and thinking that Melbourne was silently rejecting me.

Today I woke up feeling conflicted. I hadn’t heard back from the job or the room I wanted and I wasn’t prepared to settle for second best or start my search from scratch again.

But Alas! The gods of this city must have heard my pleas. “ I need a sign!” I told the grey streets and the concrete. Australia isn’t what I would call an easily manipulated place. It’s a touch untamed and doesn’t seem to enjoy human interference. I was missing Asia where everything can be so easy where the seething mass of humanity has left a deep impression on the land.

Then, it all came together. The house I wanted wanted me too and the rent was cheaper than I had been first told, then as I was getting ready to apply for another round of part-time-casual f*ck-off jobs I got a phone call. I had the job, starting Monday, 6:30 AM. Back to rising before dawn in the middle of winter.

I am looking at the city with new eyes. All the events that are happening are suddenly accessible. From International Permaculture Day (preserving persimmons in the Japanese style anyone?) to Melbourne Museum’s new exhibition about Mesopotamia to the hip record stores that sell vinyl and coffee to the endless lists of shows and concerts happening at my doorstep. I need a bike!

So I am becoming a real person here. I don’t get to move in until the 10th but I start work on the 7th. So here goes nothing Vicarious adventurers, this shit’s about to get real.

Roomate Roulette

By Kathleen Broadhurst

Yesterday was a full on type of day, full of running to catch trains, strange people and disappointing conclusions. I started the day optimistic, with three roommate situations lined up to look at I figured something would go, I was wrong.

The First house: Caught the long way into East Brunswick to look at a room in a house with a singer/songwriter. She seemed the coolest of all the people when we talked on the phone and it was the closest to my friends in Northcote. After catching a train, the wrong tram and then the right tram I asked her what stop I should get off on and got “ Ooops I totally forgot to tell you I already gave the room to somebody else!”

Awesome. Thanks for telling me…. now that I’m three stops away. She invited me to come over anyways, because the girl she chose isn’t a long termer and you never know. So I went over and had a cup of tea. She was really cool and we ended up talking for about and hour. Too bad.

The Second House: Between houses one and two I had about two hours to kill and seeing as the second room was in a really cool area I decided to grab a chocolate and a seat at a café. I’m still not sure how cafes here work ( something I should get up on quick considering that I’m looking for café work), its not your standard counter system, you pay when you leave not when you buy and they often bring you your coffee.

After a relaxing hour reading and writing I ventured forth to the next stop. It was a beautiful apartment in an old brick townhouse, the room had a fireplace and it was literally a stones throw from the main street where all manner of interesting stores and people reside. I liked the people well enough, a bit stuck up for me but negotiable. Friendly certainly. They told me they would tell me in the morning.

The Third House: I could tell I didn’t want to live there before I even rang the doorbell. It was the room without walls, a curtained off section of the main room. I shouldn’t have wasted their time. Two couples living together looking for a fifth wheel to live in their living room, vegetarian kitchen, non-smokers. Not so much. Though they were very nice and I got on with them fairly well. Leaving their place I was further convinced that it wasn’t for me because the area was, while not unsafe, unsure.

This morning I woke up to a text that said “ sorry we’ve found somebody else”. Rejection sucks, even, perhaps especially, from strangers. But it was probably out of my budget anyways.

Today is for the job interview, hopefully that is more successful than the rooms. I guess its back to the drawing board- or in this case, Gumtree.

Road Less Traveled

By Kathleen Broadhurst

Heading down South with all my bags, listening to Old Crow Medicine Show and dreaming of writing fantastic novels that sweep people up and away with the beauty of this land. I’ve got a book poetry book and a gardening book and my pencils. Fiz has landed safely State side, Thank God, and is headed back to our ancestral tromping grounds at around 80mph.

I got up early this morning, folded up my bedding, kissed the cat, left money on the counter and put my bag on. I ended up leaving behind pretty much everything that wasn’t stolen. Had I known I couldn’t carry it, I would have sold it. Tent, air-mattress, bedding, comforter, pillows. I slowly lost pieces of them last night as I started packing. The comforter I tried for the hardest. I folded it up, strung rope around it, Asia-style and was prepared to carry it’s fluffy mass on board with me. It had other ideas and escaped its bonds after about 5 steps. So it too got left behind.

As part of my Australian water saving initiative I cut my hair.

Its something I’ve wanted to do for years and damn! Its looks awesome, I could have gone shorter. The response has been 100% positive. Contrary to what you would have thought you can see my hair more because it’s down all the time now instead of up in my tight-ass-librarian bun. It looks good messy. I like it.

Prospects in Melbourne look good.

I’m beyond excited to throw myself into city life. I found three shows in the next four days that I want to see and have signed up to do an Edible Weeds Walk with these awesome folk who are responsible for the amazing Permablitz movement. Urban Permaculture “hells yes”!

I have 3 roommate interviews tomorrow (at least I only need to get gussied up once.) and will be running around trying to convince people I’m awesome to live with, which I’m not totally convinced of, but I’ve come a long way since college when I specifically requested a single. Living with people doesn’t scare me anymore, sharing space has grown on me.

As for the interviews themselves, it seems like a date crossed with a job interview, you’re never sure when to tell them you smoke. Just in Job interviews you are selected on your merit, background or credentials but not just on your personality and dish-doing traits. A rejection in this case is probably a bit more personal. Thinking about it though, people should interview their dates about their dish-doing ability. It would save so much trouble further down the line if you already knew somebody was slob or a neat freak.

I’m excited, exhilarated even by my new adventure. I know it may seem selfish, or indulgent, or taboo but I’ve never felt so free, loved and supported. The train moves below me, rocking me slowly and sliding on its metal tracks I feel like I’m levitating through the Australian countryside. And you know what they say, those poets, about those roads less traveled. I hear it makes all the difference.