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.

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.

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.

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.

Library Love

I knew today would be hard. My Mum heading home after a week of school holidays, the kids back to their Dad's and this house, quiet again. I've been dreading it.
I see my daughter with a huge smile on her face walk up to her Dad and wrap herself around him. It is a beautiful thing and so of course I am barely out the driveway before the tears course down my face. I'm ready to wallow in the lap of my own self pity...and fortunately I did plan ahead.
Black Betty is charged so she brings some welcome relief. I fall asleep to my mindfulness meditation but not before I take note of my vanishing thoughts. I awaken twenty minutes later, groggy but with purpose. To the library.
I return my overdues so I can finally borrow again and I begin my drift. Through the new releases, the recommended, the favourites. I stroll through the non fiction, become emerged in the first chapter of someone I've never heard ofs autobiography. I lose myself, my head, my loneliness as I wonder, distracted by all the stories, all the information, the quiet buzz of this special place.
I save the best till last, late afternoon at least. Donning my hiking boots and black lycra I tread the paths of Anula, music loud in my ears, shoulders back, enjoy it. I come home, slightly buzzy on the afterglow of my walking high, potter in the garden (move sprinkler around, water plants, pick up three fronds - hard core stuff) then decide a self care evening is in order. I have a single Valium left from a recent flight and it is time we connected.
I allow myself to dive into the deep of the peace, the fluffy cloud of the Big V. I slow down, my mind, body, every movement more mindful, natural. I feel like Harry Potter on Felix Felicis, not quite Lady Luck but safe in the knowing that all is as it should be. Follow what feels right. Write. Sing. Be Kind. Love.
Not too bad a day at all.

Family

For Mum's 70th we had a couple of exciting things planned. A trip to TKMaxx the department store of quality goods reduced to cheap prices where I purchased an eight dollar spatula. It has a sturdy wooden handle and a shiny silver flipping bit and is a delightful addition to my second drawer down.

We got to the Bootleg Beatles at the Crown Casino, after eating delicious food in the French Bistro and watching my big brother tip the chef fifty dollars. I preferred the waitress, French accented and caring and the bringer of such delicious food to us waiting with love. I'm about eighty percent sure the man at the table next to us was the singer in a cover band whom I slept with 20 years ago but he's older and fatter and so am I so neither of us say anything. I think about mentioning it to Mum and Biz but don't. God love me.

We are in the younger spectrum of the crowd at the Bootleg Beatles but there is a lovely sense of anticipation in the air rendering everyone at least ten years younger. The band walks out on stage - Ringo, John, George and Paul, looking just as they did in the early sixties. They play well, sound great - similar to the real thing and banter in lovely Liverpoolian accents between songs.
There is a guy bouncing up and down on his seat - it's delightful to watch and I think some of us wish we could join in. At the halfway point we gather outside around a heater and an impromptu rendition of Hey Jude starts up with a glorious Na, Na, Na, NaNaNaNa chorus line. There is a happy buzz in the air.

Mums actual birthday is on Sunday and we are booked in for lunch at Heston Blumenthal's Restaurant. It's a five course set menu and is extravagant and incredible and way beyond anything I'm ever likely to experience again. My big brother Biz paid for the entire lunch, he is a generous and kind man and as I get older more and more I love his company, the comfort of him. Sadly my joke about the Gentleman's Relish on the entrée wasn't appreciated to it's full capacity but I may have been one glass of bubbles in by then.

My Mum has taught us, mostly by example, what it is to be kind. To think she is 70, wiser and more beautiful as the days pass. I am proud to be her daughter, happy to have known her kindness, her care, her love. Happy to know they live on in us, her children.
It's a lovely weekend, despite my feeling like the poor cousin from the south. The only meal I pay for is our Uber Eats on the Friday night - it's the least and the best I can do. I don't envision ever having much money again, feel nervous when we speak of upcoming holidays knowing that I need to get my shit together if I'm to afford any of the adventures ahead.
I've been studying up on life goals and how to set them. I'm aware getting my shit together does not constitute a specific and measurable goal, but I'm too tired to dig any deeper. For now I just sit in the safety of family, the knowledge that they love me, they've got me, they care. I am blessed.

A Dog At The Beach

I've been taking Jess to the beach since she was a 12 week old pup. For the first few years she had plenty of bounce in her step, would run along the shoreline, chase sticks and balls and occasionally even play with other dogs. I walked her when I was pregnant, with a baby strapped to my chest, with toddlers running around me and alone, many times alone. It was my escape from the 6pm madness at home, the early Saturday morning routine, the Sunday afternoon ease. Jess and I would come home sandy and glistening and better for our beach walk.
As she got older arthritis started to bother her legs from running through the sand. She slowed down and we stopped going as much. Time passed. Things changed.
I wasn't quite prepared for how large the gaps would be in my world when I left my family. How shameful it still feels to write those words. Initially it was the grief of not being a constant in my childrens life. Not being with them half the time - what sort of a mother does that make me? Truthfully - a better one. The time I have with the kids is quality, not quantity. It's funner and more relaxed and they are meeting their Mum again - Clare Bizley. I think we all like her.
Yesterday I took Jess, aged almost 9, to the beach for our first walk in a long time. We are both a bit fatter and slower, but the delight we shared driving together to our spot was palpable. She stays close on the walk, but every now and then runs into the sea and looks at me to join her. She lets other dogs say hello but then moves on quickly - not here to make friends. Just here to walk with my Clare.
Sometimes  she gets ahead and I see her turn back to look for me. I call her and she bounds in for a quick pat then back to business - let's walk lady. I feel a sense of loss at the time that has passed without us walking together. I have let her down. Then I see her, smiling at me and I am overwhelmed with the joy of the moment. What does it matter now that we didn't walk yesterday. We are walking now, together again.