The storm came as quickly as it went.
When the first lightning flash dazzled the dreary sky
I thought of the dog begging to be let in.
When the lights went out
I was painting the second coat of mermaid gold onto my neglected nails.
Survival tool: The mobile phone. As a light source in the pitch black house that no longer belongs to us. For external communication, when the entire house is dependent on a cordless digital phone system.
I'm glad I'd left a Christmas present of Ikea candles under the TV stand all these months. It came in very handy last night.
Sitting by the scented candle light, I finished off the top coat on my nails.
I remember all those years ago when we'd huddle by the candles, listening to DJ Crush and Mazzy Star,
Falling in love with the stories we told, falling in love.
+++
It's so cold outside today.
I feel like being bubble-wrapped in a warm down quilt.
I feel like ridding myself of this fluorescent tint that makes my skin look perpetually puke-yellow.
+++
I'm ruffling around with fraying ends.
All drive to follow through has withered,
I'm done with chasing for answers.
+++
I've secured myself a spot in the hot pigeon-hole.
I'm not quite sure why I torment myself with courtesy calls,
Particularly when it was far from pleasant the last time.
It'll be a good laugh. Worth a blog entry anyway. So do swing by here in six weeks.
+++

When the intuitive paradigm collapses
You revert to laissez-faire mechanisms.
When I can stop guessing
You will quit floundering.
When we conquer catharsis
The others will follow suit.
~
These days are shrouded by mismanagement-
Of time, affairs, communication.
Unremarked and xerox-consistent.
~

City sights on the weekend:
(1) 40+ y.o Chinese mailorder bride straightening her assemblage (purple skivvy, black tapered skirt cut off mid-thigh and purple tights worn under teal calf warmers) for a photo opportunity right in the middle of QVB.
(2) Drunk guarding his long-neck VB in a protective cradle. The look of fierce determination (desperation) in his eyes sent shivers down my spine.
~
Important lesson in time-management #1: Do not overexert
Too many Asahis and 4-1/2 hours of sleep later, I attempted to do 2 loads of laundry, change the sheets, bake 56 oatmeal cookies, and be punctual to my 1.30 shopping/lunch date. When I finally stepped out on to the driveway, the brain departed from Sunday routine and begged for a coffee instead of a glass of wine. By the time we'd walked down (and back up) the South Yarra and Prahran strips of Chapel St, I was ready to jump into fluffy pjs and fresh sheets. In the spirit of Sunday evenings, I intended to suck the remaining hours dry, with (a) Will Self; (b) employment pages; (c) notebook and pencil; (d) TV; (e) Shigeru Umebayashi. After 20 minutes of incoherent scribblings I resigned myself to the fact that any capacity for higher cognitive processes had been shut down. And so I gave up and let myself sleep.
~
What is she chasing,
If not redemption of pride?
What is he chasing,
If not relief of greed?
~

She is diamond-eyed.
She is acetate.
She dreams of homecomings and spiked fences;
Of justification and untimely oracles.
She notices the seasonal changes in hues,
And wonders if someone too, would notice, that she was canary yellow before.
~
I don't leave at the same time in the mornings anymore.
Without last winter's car-pooling arrangements
I feel like I've lost the final whiffs of punctuality.
I still drive by Toscanos and sneak a peek at the melange of flowers outside.
I also keep an eye out for the moustached man who wears a black suit with reddish-brown shoes,
But we don't meet anymore,
Not by the pole, not as he walks.
~
I'd like to be tuxedo smart and less fluffy.
To banish the right (inferior) options
And not waver
When I reach the brick wall.
~
He always has such sorry eyes when I see him
In the padded parlour, and on the bench in the park.
It's as if the look of sadness follows me,
Like the moon did when I was little.
~

Early this morning I frittered away a REM sleep stage looking for mascara. A specific tube of mascara, to be exact.
The anterior cingulate cortex (the part of the brain responsible for executive control of cognition) was in full reign, as I raked through drawers, over and over again, so certain that I'd seen the offending blue tube sitting in the drawer the previous morning. I refused to give up the search despite knowing that I had another 4 tubes of mascara, unopened (no, I'm not an avid collector, just a comfortable supply accumulated from showbags during Fashion Festival), waiting to be used. Tenacity is always exhausting in dreams, because there rarely are agonised on-lookers to tell you to give it up. And if not for muscle paralysis, I would probably have hit myself to a halt. This Freudian regression - where the regular sequence of perceptual processes is reversed (internal images/thoughts are converted into external perceptions), has fascinated me for years. I fear that I lack similar persistence in wakefulness - perhaps this dip into the unconscious is telling me that I should press on, but in what?
+++

Gloomy dun days are good for listening to old Suede. I have Sci-Fi Lullabies playing in the car at the moment, with The Big Time and The Living Dead taking turns on repeat. I think of evenings sipping iced Milo with Beautiful Ones blaring from the jukebox in some hawker centre, and that night in '99 when we drove back from the Forum, singing to Asphalt World in the smoky silver Mitshibitshi. I would have loved to see them again, but all too late now.
+++

A few weeks ago I had an epiphanic moment while watching Sex in the City. This is the episode where Carrie has been given an eviction notice by her recently-axed fiance, and is scrambling around to find money to buy the apartment from him. When deemed an undesirable loan candidate, she realises she's 35, without a regular job, financial asset, or security.
Then I saw it - the foreboding flash of my future existence: 35, single, lala fashion writer/stylist, living in a rental apartment, and spending all my laughable salary on shoes. I'm already on the right track - I just need the rental property. And so between morning peak-hour traffic and evening baths I've been thinking about changing my destiny.
***
Today was hat day.
The gossamery drizzle fell like mist, and the air smelt like spring rolls and peanut sauce.
Days like these pique solitaire constellation.
Soldier on, it teases.
***
Yesterday I waded through the sea of black in oatmeal.
After many piccolos of champagne I jumped into a taxi with strangers.
Between Flemington and Federation Square we tallked about horses, bets, and jumping into cabs with strangers.
As I drove myself home, the post-footy traffic on Hoodle Street gave me time to think about dinner provisions.
***

Big Fat Chewy Choc Chip Cookies.
This is probably the most fuss-free (and successful) recipe I've used. Steal it here.
+++
The quality of my drive to work each morning governs my mood for the first half of the day.
Simiarly, whether I'm going to be chatty at the dinner table when I get home is pegged to the level of peak-hour angst.
Last night I raced a bitch down Kew - only because she'd raised her hands at me in exasperation when we stopped at the lights, and muttered something I couldn't hear. Women are the worst drivers because they never let you cut into their lanes. If not for the fucking Mercedes (think typical middle-aged Asian woman in Kew) which was travelling at some ridiculous snail's pace, I would have put the offensive forest-green Honda in its place. There. I feel much better now. Hi. I'm Eugenie, and I've got road rage.
+++
I spent the evening sitting by the warm oven watching my cookies grow. There's nothing like eating them fresh from the oven-
When the chocolate bits are still gooey, and the centres are still moist.
I sat on the floor and had dinner. It's nice when the house is quiet. It's nice not to have to speak to anyone sometimes.
+++

Breeze-tousled maple leaves shimmer as the delayed summer sun crowns tree tops.
Like fish-scale sequins, flittering gently.
Makes me think of bar chimes and cherubin harps.
It's nice to be able to savour these moments;
It's so easy to forget, in a flurry of going places, mind stretched in eighteen straggly directions.
~
I've rediscovered the wonder of Bjork - I urge you all to listen to Vespertine.
~
Between excitement of new plans and angry words
The hours skipped by,
Graphite outside, phlegm yellow inside.
~
Tonight I shall bake cookies.
Having cooked tonight's dinner last night,
I will have four uninterrupted hours of domesticity.

There is something seminally beautiful about driving through auburn-lined streets.
This morning as Bjork's Cocoon played
I took time to observe the paths laden with fallen copper-
Window wound down,
Negotiating the bend and beating an Audi travelling at a leisurely 47km/h.
It's a sultry morning and
Leaves pirouetted across asphalt, fuelled by the warm wind,
Dancing, feather-like.
~
If she could only break the paralysis
She would flourish.
~
The time between firsts and lasts
Is sometimes impetuous, candied, coy like mimosa, extravagant and withering, lolita pink or malachite, latent, flitting, magical, grating, light as air.
The time between firsts and lasts
Is either a gap or an escape.
~

I was dreaming about aliens and asymmetry when
The garbage truck woke me.
I thought about stripes, rib, ribbon and lace being tipped into the refuse swamp.
I thought about the work week,
And arrived at work without regard, savoir-faire, or pivot.
+++
I'm slowly recovering culinary interest again.
I sense this has stemmed from a (very) long weekend of sobriety,
Of engagement and reclusion.
I'll soon be baking again.
+++
Six weeks to go.
In six weeks I will fly away
To where notions of home impregnate dreams;
Where familiarity has grown distant.
+++
People with elevated buoyancy wear me out.
I don't so much feel like I can't keep up;
It's more that I feel they are pilfering my verve.
+++

Last week the powdery pink peonies were in sturdy bloom.
This morning they were brown-tipped and hanging slightly,
As if finally resigning to their perennial instincts.
~
I've packed away beach dresses, minis, polka-dotted halter-neck tops;
And put in their place wool jumpers, scarfs, and a whole lot of black.
~
A fine line lies between forgiveness and omission.
When you quit someone's life
Omission is a much easier option.
~
Today I cooked.
When I opened my eyes this morning and saw ash grey
I decided to play mum.
In an impressive two hours I drove to the market, lugged around seven bags of meat and vegetables, stopped by Safeway for milk and eggs (because I almost always forget something), divided all the meat into meal-size portions and packed them into labelled sandwich bags, planned the rest of the week's menu, made lunch (soup and 3 dishes), and struck a kind key in dad's heart.
~

Saturday's Stars:
If you are feeling jangled or discouraged, you need to back away from certain people. You are rather susceptible to gloomy vibes at the moment, so find time to centre yourself. You are in a long slow process of clearing out what you don't need in your life any more.
~
Someone bring out the Bombay Sapphire and gardening gloves.
This lady will be doing some weeding.

I woke up to a coughing fit at twenty minutes past three this morning.
Then again at ten to five.
When I opened my eyes again it was eighteen past seven
And my joints felt like I'd been in a triathlon the day before.
Eyes billowy and throat sore from a week's flu threat,
I coaxed my stiff limbs into the shower-
With reminders of the long weekend, today's chi-chi luncheon, and adult apprehension.
+++
As I sat facing the beach
Staring out as far as my myopic eyes would go
The others talked about Tom Ford's virgin Rive Gauche collection.
The water was a pristine teal, littered with high school kids on holidays.
I wished then that I could be rid of my pinching shoes and black-clad company;
Walk the token few metres and lie undisturbed on the sand.
Midway through lunch the northerly winds came
And swept through napkins, roquette, and an antique-gold skirt.
In a matter of three minutes
The clouds moved in
And so did we.
+++
I feel like staying in bed until I remember to smile again.
Spawned from restless inertia
The recent flatline has taken possession.
+++
I don't know how much 10ml is -
About 2 full tablespoons perhaps?
The cough syrup is working well with the day's Pinot Noir and g&t intake.
xxxNitexxx

She says I like to kiss you
He says you'd better not
He's on the brink of loving
She's on the brink of falling
- Sharon and Hope, Stina Nordenstam

In emerald and oyster pink
I was asked if I had a date tonight.
No, I replied. Just felt like being pretty today. Forced smile.
This skirt reminds me Leeuwin Estate and hot sandy footpaths;
Of hungover Saturday afternoons walking down Flinders Lane and Little Collins St; brown paper shopping bags and home-made Thai green curry.
I haven't worn it in more than 12 months. I can't even stomach the smell of green curry paste.
+++
The house has been sold and the packing will start soon.
Packing I loathe, unpacking I loathe with great vehemence.
At least there is anticipation of change to cushion the resentment attached to packing.
Unpacking marks the end of extraordinary times - and the recapitulation of routine.
+++
I've become a horoscope whore.
Monday mornings are now kick-started by reading the stars section in every magazine delivered to my in-tray.
I figured that if nobody else could give me answers,
Reading between the lines would suffice for now.
+++

Everyone else in the world
Would love me by now
Would love me in a crowd
But not you

False promises of love
Still promise love
You get what you want
When you just
Want what you get

Eugenie's morning drive-tune:
-Everyone Else In The World, Stina Nordenstam

It was nippy when the alarm went off this morning.
Actually, I beat the alarm, contemplated rising early for once this week, then shut my eyes again because it was too cold.
When I finally got off my arse I thought about having to take out the winter garb that I'd packed away not too long ago.
As I walked into the bathroom I noticed my back was sore - from sleeping with the torso arched like a taut bow.
+++
I often find first encounters with new hairstylists daunting. And usually traumatic.
First of all, I have to deal with the guilt of change.
Having dumped a stylist of 4 years (a relationship that saw relocation, marriage, then baby names) when he refused to give me a fringe,
I was on the market again. Guilt-ridden, but liberated.
I found Leanne - who would give me a fringe, didn't talk while blowdrying, and made realistic good of the Vogue clipping I'd bring along.
She decided to flee the country after a year and the salon recommended someone else.
Last night I sat nervously while Wendy scrutinised my frizzy ends and straggly layers.
Then I sat annoyed while she chastised my request for more layers.
An hour and half later, I walked out a happy customer. With a graduated fringe, and rid of 5-month old ends.
+++
Last night I dreamt of champagne-
Unravelling the foil around the bottle, the titillating pop, bottle after bottle after bottle.
Several references:
(1) Preemptive of the approaching weekend
(2) Compensation for the drink-free day I had
(3) Suggestive of alcohol-reliance
+++

Leaning against the front window of the now-defunct milk bar,
We contemplated temporal pauperism.
Cigarettes in hand we lamented about holidays taken months before,
Yet we strained to remember events from the past 6 days.
Killing the butt with one steady twist of the foot
I shivered when skin and pre-winter chill made contact.
+++
At night I responded to someone else's leads.
Driving past ill-positioned roundabouts and intrusive cyclists
We had Greek for dinner and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon for laughs.
Still bickering with the flu bug
I kept my hands in coat pockets.
Marvelling at the potency of alcohol as a congenial lubricant
We traded stories - of escape and make-believe.
+++
This winter I want vintage floral dresses and cigarette jeans.
+++