Monday, November 11, 2019


I turned forty in July and now suddenly it's just about November and the end of another decade is nigh. I remember twenty years ago, celebrating the turn of the century, life so full of promise and stretching so far ahead of us.
Here I am, laptop on my knees, typing away. Trying to make record of an ordinary life without being too self indulgent or oversharing. Perhaps it's too late for that, although I suppose not because this, after all, is a clean slate.
This year has seen the addition of Al the Cat and Sylvie the Wolfhound to our home. Al was immediately a comfort - always keen to snuggle in close, doing funny cat things, purring like a lawnmower at the slightest belly scratch. We fell in love, immediately and remain so, despite the challenges a kitty litter poses to a relaxed family dynamic.
Sylvie came along unexpectedly but also fatefully. This oversized scruffy and oh so loving dog found a place in my heart and gradually the kids as well. She talks like Scooby Doo, snuggles in close and has the most lovely nature - asides from a solid stubborn streak and the ability to run about 70km per hour. I love her.
Then there is these beautiful kids who I get to be Mum to. My boy, 13 and a half and almost a man. He's mature but fun, cheeky, laidback, passionate (about footy) and caring. I adore him. Now to help guide him into manhood. We'll be right. Then my girl, 9 years old, clever, funny, kind and still so loving. Today she laid her head on me and let me play with her hair while we watched tv. She is a gift from heaven. They both are.
Possibly I spend too much time just chilling with them, watching movies, eating snacks. I reread that sentence and know it can't be true - I spend time with them. It's wonderful - relaxed, caring, funny. I'm alright as a Mum.

Saturday, September 28, 2019

Naked PG

I'ts been quite a time since I've had an intimate touch except my own and I feel that my lady garden needs some maintenance. . 
She has been unchartered territory for many moons. We have grown, both lonelier as well as lovelier. Although she feels coarser, furrier, more prevalent. We need to start anew and agree it's time to try something different, something free-ing and bold, representative of who I am now. Naked in my own truth. Emerge from behind the curtains...We need a new beginning, a trimming away of the angst and solitude, a welcome mat and a tidy entrance.
So I expose my genitals to a stranger, on a plastic bed that feels too narrow, with a brilliant fluro light staring down at me and a strange poster of a well oiled man on the beach just within my vision.
The stranger is a friendly Irish lass who despite being 15 years younger than me calls me Pet and Darlin'. I'm nervous, but feel strangely comforted by her. She's seen a hundred vagina's. She knows what she's doing. 
Then she slathers lava hot wax onto my labia and time stands still. 
My mind however is screaming with pain. Many, many crosswords. She keeps lathering the burning wax onto my special, sensitive vagina and I am in shock. How could this be happening? Why would I pay for this? Should I tell her to stop? I want to scream out but I have this weird shame about being so bushy that I say nothing. Just breathe.
It seems to be over and she stands back to examine my newly sculpted vulva with the eye of an artist. I wish I could look at myself the same way she does me. So intimately. With pride. Satisfaction. Happy with the result.
I'm disturbed from this thought by her lovely voice and to my own surprise when she asks in her pleasant Irish lilt if I would "like my bum done" I say Oh, yes please. Programmed into me as a young girl - yes please. I can't dwell on this now as she instructs me to lift my legs up and wrap my arms around them. In an instant my sweet, yet slightly hairy rosebud-like anus is on fire, as she tears pieces of my soul out of me. 

All done darl, she tells me and I'm left to wipe myself down with wet wipes and despite the fact my labia minora are stuck together like kissing cousins I quickly pay my dues and waddle out of there. I go straight to the bathroom and do a wee that sprays out in 7 different directions and am shocked by the pink, angry skin hidden under my stomachs sweet cushion of indulgence . My vagina is angry, and hurt, and wants me to know all about it. I don't know what to tell her. 

It takes a few days, but she settles down and the results are reasonable - a little bit lighter, little bit fresher. Yet she looks so...vulnerable. Like a timid child. Not like the warrior chief she once was. 
I can't offer this wounded soldier up to the world, I can't have her be the hidden part of myself, saved for special occassions. She needs more time to be alone, recover and grow stronger and wiser. Much like my heart probably does.

Tuesday, July 23, 2019

Day Two

Another marvellous day. I wake at 7, shower, head to yoga down the road which is closed for three days due to Bali Celebration, head back to hotel, eat healthy breakfast, drink fresh juice and read my magnificent book Vol 2 of the KingKiller Chronicles which is full of wonderful stories and I completely submerge myself.
Mum and I have massages, sleep, swim and read and head out about 3pm to explore Seminyak. Lot's of shops, lots of special price for you darling, lots of amazing and unsettling smells. The Balinese are a beautiful people always so ready with a smile and laughter. We watch the sunset at the beach whilst drinking Bintang and round our day off by indulging in suckling pork and mojitos. Amazing.
Enjoying my time with Mum, companionable and relaxed.
My only problem at this point is the lack of lesbians. I'm gaydar-ing and very few are rearing my antenna...where are you ladies? I shall do some googling tonight and see if I can find a hotspot...the search for the elusive lady gay begins. Wish me luck.

Monday, July 22, 2019

Bali Day 1

So this is the first trip my Mum and I have ever taken just the two of us. 5 full days in Bali with nothing to do but relax, read, write and be beautified. Looking forward to it.
Our plane leaves Darwin at 11.10pm and we are suitably weary when we finally board. I've cracked a valium so am tired but super chill and before I know it we land in Denpasar, get through customs and our driver is waiting for us with my name on a sign - Ms Clare Bizley which I am delighted by. So progressive.
Our hotel is lovely, not the flashiest but has a big pool, not too many kids and the bed is perfection, as is my pillow which is extra large, not too firm but not too soft - I want to live with it forever. I sleep beautifully despite the fact I have a working tv with heaps of English speaking channels and I could seriously be watching tv in bed if I so chose. Have never kept a tv in my bedroom so it's always a treat.
I'm up at 8, eat a mismatched breakfast of fruit, a doughnut and half an omelette, then I'm picked up for my appointment with a no shit legitimate Balinese Healer. I spend almost 2 hours with him, he reads me (accurately), massages the FUCK out of my feet hips and neck and it is pain like childbirth but I breathe through it and afterwards I am light as a feather. No more worries? he asks and I say not today my friend, thank you, terimakasi. He cleans my aura with chanting, oil and his warm hands and it is then that the tears leak from my eyes. Good, he says, good to express.
I go back to the hotel and sleep like a baby for an hour, then Ma and I go for a facial which is simply magnificent and we are glowing like healthy humans as we head for dinner. We have a lovely dinner and some wine looking out over the ocean and I feel relaxed and happy and blessed.
So that was Day One. I read, I wrote, I relaxed and I was beautified - kicking goals the Balinese way.

Saturday, May 25, 2019

Sing A Song

I sing when I'm young, a child, easily. Watch my Dad strum the guitar and croon old folk songs, warble nursery rhymes with Mum and join the school choir when I'm 7.

Over the years we sing at  bushdances, eisteddfods, school celebrations. I love it, the rise of voices together, the strength and belonging in it, my skin tingling as we sing.
Highlights include singing with Kamahl circa 1987 and a deep love for Peter Combe.

High school appears and it is soon apparent that any form of trying too hard is a social discrepancy so singing out loud is not a good idea. Very quickly my voice closes off, except for those precious times when I play my cds, alone in my room, loud and sing along. Hearing my feelings, my confusion, my angst in music.

I get older. Music is everywhere and I still lose myself in it, adding to the soundtrack of my life as time moves forward.
I sing with the crowds at concerts, still quietly, still afraid to lift it up, to be heard.
Occasionally I go to church, just to sing. Softly.

I'll keep the car windows up, duetting like a queen with the stereo.
At parties where people sing, I join in, lightly. My  throat and stomach still afraid to let it out.

We drink, we laugh, we dance. Remember our old selves through song and sometimes find our new selves.
My friend and I join a choir. We are sporadic attendees and don't offer much in terms of voice or music knowledge, but we do contribute to a tasty shared supper and provide some light entertainment.
We gradually get braver, voice wise and occasionally I feel myself lost in a song, my chest rising, losing my space and finding it within the room of voices, singing, together. I’m never quite in tune but I offer sound with spirit - my song.
I attend my childs primary school assemblies and shoulders back sing the national anthem with quiet confidence. Still not in tune but nobody seems to mind, they almost seem relieved that their own voices can blend in quietly behind mine.
I'm at a party and we start to sing, no backing music, just two of us and soon enough more people join in and we are having a beautiful moment, singing songs, together. Again, not quite in tune but filled with companionship.
To sing a song together brings joy, connection, a lightness. Funny how the things that should be easy, that offer such remedy, are the things that we can be most scared of, the things we are afraid people will judge us for.
So I remind myself. Sing a song. Abandon yourself to the moment. Let people bear witness to the child in you that loved to sing. Open your throat and let it out.