Bollywood Bombshells

I love this city. I just love it. I love the fact I don't wear a watch and I forget what day it is (at least here in Mumbai I'm allowed to - In Melbourne it's not really the done thing).

I love zigzagging the traffic - having finally mastered the art of crossing the India road amongst bikes, scooters, taxis, rickshaws, trucks and buses. I feel like I've conquered Southern Mumbai - having walked the back streets and main roads for hours, I am familiar with the markets, the fishing docks, and the endless crowded stalls lining the pavement.

But what I love most about Mumbai is the people. They seem happier and content, they make up the massive ocean that overlows this teeming city. This city has culture, a rich history, magnificent architecture, and incredible food - what more could a girl want?

Bollywood. I wanna be a superstar - so where else but Bollywood?

Last year Nechama and I missed the season for Bollywood extras - due to bad timing and pure exhaustion from all our travelling up north. Besides, Mumbai was too expensive to go out - it's noted as one of the most expensive (comparitively) city in all of India.

I lost all belief that I'd be picked up to act as an extra in a film - yet low and behold, on Saturday morning, Sunday morning and afternoon - I was approached by three Bollywood agents wanting me to work for them. How lucky is that.

I turned down the first one - I was to dress in a sari and just say Namaste for an entire evening at an Indian wedding (I already had plans to meet my friends that night, which I was looking forward to - and agreed to the second and third agent. I was to be an extra in an advertisement that, while it was produced in India, it was to be shown abroad. Nobody could tell us what the add was about - we were told at first it was a public service campaign, then part of a series of campaign ads, then we were told itwas an experimental film - we only discovered what it was at the very end of the night. Dodgy.

The ad was set in Paris, on a cold, misty winter's night. We were first hushed into a room and given tea. Then the stylist came in and barked orders at the hair and makeup artists. I was second in line. Apparently, French girls has straight hair, and after oohiing and ahhing at my billowing curly mop, they finally agreed to let me keep the curls. Thank god. To 'crunch' my hair and preserve the ringlets, the hair stlyist pulled back my hair fron my face, and ran a bursh more than a few times through my hair. I didn't mind, for as I said to them at the start - "It's up to you. i'm all yours" - so who was I to complain. Besides, I could always wash it. She spritzed some water/rpduct through it and kept it tied back while the 'makeup artist' - a small man qith a quivering hand and an apron full of paints - woked on my pink eyeshadow and bright red rouge. Apparently French fashion, so they said.

I was one of the first to play dress ups with the wadrobe - because that's exactly how it was, playing dressups and purim with a Salvation Army clothing bin. The stylist kept barking orders to her male minions to pull this sweater out, and these pair of slacks (because thats what the pants were - a loose ill-coloured pair of men's daggy trousers, yukko) and unzip that jacket, and put these multi-coloured socks on to go with high heels.

I was first given a tiny wollen ribbed turtle-neck jumper. I took one look at it and burst out laughing. Holding it against myself, I showed the others (a British couple, an American, two French students and another ditzy Australian lawyer) how it would fit my arm. But I tried it on anyway, and as I emerged form the bathroom with the jumper riding up my waist, pulling at every corners I possess, well, we packed it in with laughter. There was no going back now.

The seocnd outfit I was made to try on was a birght magenta tight short skirt. With ruffles. Truly French fashion. Uh huh. The stylist then handed me a tiny tiny pink camisole and a grey jacket - I was supposedly dressed for work.

Let me interrupt myself here and tell you what I wore (from my own clothes) to the shoot.My pair of jeans (for I knew no pants would fit me), my Converse (with socks) and a loose fitting teeshirt. Fair enough, given that I had no idea what they were going to dress me in.

After I told them my shoe size (and recieved a look of horror) I was told to quickly get out of my extra-tight skirt (to my relief) and keep my jeans and shoes on. Thank god. They tied a chequered scarf around ym neck and pointed my to the set, where men were waving shallow pans of incense around high-powered fans. It was the start of a smokey evening.

I was supposed to be browsing in a bookshop named 'Antique Printed Books' in English. Pity this ad was set in France. The Bakery was called just that (not Patisserie) and the car was on the left side of the road. Hrmm, not so good with consistency there.

The night was made up going back and forth sorting through books while the cmaera was trained on the main couple, who were speaking in French. The woman was a very thin and tall Indian model who had picked up Frnech living in Switzerland, and the man was a French journalist on his first Bollywood experience. It was a mess.

The Indian girl kept mucking up her lines, and couldn't act for her life. It was a very tedious five hours standing in winter clothing under a hot spotlight and thick incense-aze.

Nevertheless, it was a fun experience. The French students kept picking out strange lines - we finally knew what it was about.

Baby wipes.

Weird.

A life without plans...

I only had one plan when arriving in Mumbai - eat Friday night dinner at Chabad. That was enough for me - and it was the kinda plan that's foolproof. If I didn't meet anyone - at least I would've scored a free meal and heard kiddush in Mumbai. If I did - well, maybe I could score some travelling partners or someone to grab a beer with.

I was successful in both respects: I met an a fellow melbourne boy who I had met at the Belgian Beer Gardnes the previous saturday night, a dutch israel entrepeneur (my age, however) and we all went for a beer at the infamous pub Leopold's after dinner. I've read a lot about this pub from the book Shantaram - but I never visited it last year (overpriced drinks, bad timing). It was fun to be served Foster's beer in a massive cylindrical tube that fits a pitcher of beer. We were later joined by two of the dutch's indian friends (the dutchman's living in mumbai until july) and we all got on very well. After a couple pints we headed down to a shishah bar - we got an insight into Mumbai that would have never happened better a mere 'tourist'.

Today I headed down to the famed Crawford Market - the fruit/veg/spice/pet/whatever you wish market of Bombay. Much like any other market in foreign countries, the produce spills over into the street, insistent shopkeepers yelling their products, beckoning you with curled fingers - 'come here madam, look here'. I became a little bored by it all - the 'market keeper', an elderly man (who I suspected wanting to be paid for 'minding me' against beggars) followed me around from store to store - and so I walked off the beaten trail and stumbled into a maze of streets selling plastics, flashing neon lights, tacky handbags, until reaching the cloth market.

Man, Indian's have gorgeous fabrics. I was tempted to buy some, but those who know my track record for doing things to objects i purchase overseas realise that there's no point. It will be a waste of money and room in my backpack - I won't follow through.

I'm running outta steam. I'll publish more later....

Mumbai Take #2

As my taxi inched away from the airport last night - I remarked how even though it's been a year since I left this bustling, overflowing, energetic city, it feels like only a month ago. My taxi driver wasn't interested and remained silent.

It was 11.30 pm and the streets were still crowded - people milling about, laughing, sipping chai and chatting in groups. The dogs were still prowling, the trucks still honking, the air was still thick and dirty and I loved every minute of my taxi journey to my hotel with the window wound down.

Walking around colaba it was like nothing had changed - and I wonder what would have changed in a year?

So, what did I do today? I walked. I followed the hoards of Indians getting somewhere and from 11 AM I walked around the South of Mumbai - except I had nowhere to get. Walking in circles, narrowly missing oncoming traffic, getting lost, loving getting lost, turning around, narrowly missing cows and motorcycles (actually, that's pure fabrication, i saw some cows, and bikes as well, but thats about it). I stopped walking at 4 15 PM to get back to my room to get ready for Chabad. Yes, that's right, Sarah is going JewGirl in India. And I love it.

Why walk around with nothing to do/see and with nobody to share? Coz it was an incredible experience - I felt safe, relaxed, and somewhat at home. Wtf? At home in Mumbai? Yes, weird, but true.

anyway, I have to run - but before I go, I have to say, I know Indians stare, but if i made any money on how many stares/comments i recieved today, as well as giggles about my height - i could buy a nice mansion in colaba and live here for a while.

One guy was jogging in a whole sports outfit - he stopped and said, very nice heigh madam, and kept on running. Just to give you a picture.

x

In Transit

Another year, another adventure, another refreshment of Sarah The Nomad.

This time I'm revisiting old haunts, going back to places where I've experienced the ultimate happiness, and I'm not looking behind me. I'm also travelling alone.

This journey has been a long time in the making. Thanks to my family and friend for helping me get here (finally!) - and now that I'm here, there is a sense of overwhelming calm. Rest. Quiet.

Perhaps it's my stopover in Singapore (where i'm currently writing from) that has given me this feeling. I woke up much earlier than I had anticipated, and since my phone clock is set to an hour later than Singapore's actual time, I walked the streets before most shops had opened. The roads were quiet, nearly empty, and I spent the entire morning listening to Zero 7 walking the streets of SIngapore in the rain. Pure bliss.

Singapore is a shopping paradise. Pity I'm not interested. I would go nuts if I had all the money in the world - designer shops, gucci, chanel, george jensen, prada, ysl - i go gaga just window shopping. But that's the limit of my retail interaction. And man, are those window outfitters talented.

I walked along Zion Rd (loved the name), tried my luck to have a sneak peek at the Raffles Hotel, and admired the local shule from afar. I wondered why, as Jews, therer is this sense of attraction to check out the local synagogues in the countries we visit. Do Israelis do it? Do any other Jews do it? Or is it just me?

This post is really about nothing, just an introduction to the next saga in Sarah The Nomad. The posts won't be plain retelling of my actions, I promise. It's just so hot and muggy and grey in this bland city - I'm spent.

Over and out, y'all.

More mock covers..

mock covers for visible ink

let me know what you think, people.

Jew-ing the Urban Dictionary

here are some of my favourites (and I don't apologise if you find it offensive. I find it funny):

1. Jew Muffin

cheap ass motherfucker

"Ashley wouldnt give me 5 bucks cause she's a jew muffin."

2. Jew Jew

one of those mega-jews

(See also lubavitch)

"Hey TEoS, what is Jew Jew?

Why my good man, they're those boys in hats and suits with the long things of hair hanging over their ears!"

3. Jew Fetish

To only be attracted to jewish women for reasons beyond normal peoples comprehension. People who have the jew fetish usually will be unaware of the problem until it is called on by a friend. After exposed the jew fetish usually befalls large amounts of scrutiny and bad jokes. Unfortunatly for the sufferer the jew fetish is uncurable and will remain forever. Even if the sufferer dates a non-jew he will feel unsatisfied.

"Austin Kennedy was the first known sufferer of the jew fetish and is still unwilling to cope with the problem."




NOTE: I am a proud Jew with a twisted sense of humour - no self-haters here.

As I trail through the site onlysimchas.com I can only see girls, young girls, young girls in white dresses, these are not women, they are girls as young as me, girls who will learn to love their husbands, girls who frock up in white billowing dresses with made-up porcelain faces and perfect shiny hair, their man wears a big pointy black hat and a white dressing gown and they buzz beneath the Chuppah, quietly praying that the rest of life won't be as frightening as this moment. These are just girls, girls who were once my friends, girls i grew up with, girls i remember from school. Girls.


My mum was my age when she married my father. My age.

I am nowhere near the marrying age – I can’t think of a life more further away than what it is for me right now. I sit on my bed, alone on a Sunday night, no friends with benefits, no partner, and definitely no husband and I’m at peace with that... It's my turn to be single, I'm no bitter 'psycho-bitch' (at least I try not to be) and I'm no needy girl craving for a 'boyfriend'. Ergh.

It's my birthday on Wednesday, and it's real interesting to reflect on the past year - where I was at this time (in war-stricken Israel), the friends I had, the adventures journeyed, the risks taken - and where I am now. I reckon I'm doing pretty well.

So, I've been quite quiet on the blogging front for the past month. Nothing special to report back on - I've been at school four days a week, and I started a new job at a shoe store for extra large feet (like me!). And that's all. I bought a pair of magic boots (they're cute ankle suede high-heeled boots that has mostly led to my number being taken by a boy - note: this does not guarantee a followup phone call) and been frequenting house parties across Melbourne.

I’ve been nursing a bruised ego for the past week – I can’t handle rejection as well as I thought I could (I have discovered that I’d like to be prepared for rejection – when it comes out of nowhere it leaves me sore.)
I headed into a situation expecting a casual winter fling - nothing serious, something to fill in time and someone new to meet (i've been bored out of my brain of late. bored with everything. it's pathetic.) i expected him to be a typical israeli 'man crumpet' - but he caught me off guard and got under my skin. Obviously I didn't get under his. And it's making me crazy. Insane. I'm bewildered at my reaction. Because usually I'm the one in control. Ha. Who woulda thought. That seems to be my line, I like to use that quite a lot. Who woulda thought. I wouldn't have.

Things.

Things I know I am:

- a reckless driver. Music turned LOUD (preferably rock or dance, but can go the mellow romeo+juliet soundtrack occasionally) and foot slamming the accelerator, I particularly enjoy weaving through the traffic on King's Way in my zippy little Jazz. Fwooosh!

- a nervous flirt. When I notice that someone wants to chat to me and is clearly making an effort, I turn quite shy and to cover this vulnerablity I come across a little coy/arrogant (perhaps?) and answer questions with more questions. Such a complicated typical Jewish girl, I suppose. But I like to think that I stick to my beliefs, and wouldn't bend for anybody in the beginnings of a conversation - especially if neither of us know eachother. But the nervousness persists. Not because I'm necessarily attracted to the other person, but rather I feel that I'm still quite new and inexperienced in the game. Strange perception, quite untrue, but it still exists. The nervous flitter that starts in my stomach but can be heard in my voice and be seen right down to my fingertips. I am so awkward sometimes.

Things I know I am not:

- rude. I am not rude, and moreover I do not like when people are rude to me. There are certain niceties and rules of etiquette that we should use when participating in society. There are certain responsibilities, no matter how superficial, that we still have to people - and I don't care what people say. Civility to your fellow human is not such a big thing to ask for.

- 12 years old anymore. I think I'm kinda over the age where my parents still find it important/necessary to tell me how to dress. My converse sneakers don't always mean disrespect. And makeup is not always required on a sunny sunday afternoon.

Things I am still grappling with:

- the fact that I am Charlotte from Sex and the City. Apparently. And with shades of Samantha (thank fucking god). I've been told recently that I'm a JAP (Jewish Australian Princess) and I'm still somewhat bewildered, and constantly aware of this perception. A friend described me as regal, elegant, and these factors all contribute to one's overall impression of me. But the question is: Is that a bad thing? If not, then why am I still perplexed?

Miss Saigon moved me to tears

Top Musicals:
Cabaret - Sam Mendes remix, Studio 54, New York City
Wicked - New York City
Miss Saigon - Melbourne
The Boy from Oz - Melbourne
West Side Story - Melbourne and film
Les Miserables - Melbourne, London
The Producers - New York City

List of Current Playlist(StrangeWinterDays):
"No Diggity" - Blackstreet
"Turn Out the Lights" - Nelly Furtado (sounds a little like retardo? hmm never thought of that before)
"Singing in the Rain Remix" Mint Royale
"Sunday Mornings" Maroon 5

Disjointed

What I Like:

- riding in my car listening to Triple J's Hottest 100 album of 2000. Why? I feel like a dirty teenager with unwashed jeans and greasy hair and I don't give a shit. I'm endeavouring to be as happy as I can be, to live my life the way I want, to not let the complexities of emotions and surrounding circumstance to get me down. I like feeling like a kid. Especially when I sing along to Sinead O'Conner's "Daddy I'm Fine" - the first song I ever heard the word fuck used properly in a pop song. I love it. That song is still empowering. Much like the half-joke I made on Sunday at my family's Mother's Day Brunch. Back in the days of my grandmother's youth, sluts were called 'mattresses' because all a boy had to do was lie down to sleep with the woman in question. My uncle then volunteered that in the 70s he used to call these women 'bicycles' - because everyone got a ride.
And what are they called nowadays?
Strong independent women doing what they want. They don't have to answer to anybody. If they're enjoying doing what they want, with whom they want, when they want - well, quite frankly, that's up to them. Don't you love the valourisation of choice in the twenty-first century? Feminism not only granted some haphazzered equality-like status to women in the workplace and within civil liberties, but it also brought on the high idea of women's right to choose. And I think that's the most important. Judgement calls are only valid if we let them be. Us girls have the right to choose, as well as the right not to be judged for that (perhaps unconventional) decision. This sounds a lot like my essay about Bizet's Carmen. Perhaps that will be exhibited next time.

- my editing class. For the obvious reasons. Each week I feel like I'm studying the English through the angle of a different profession. One moment we are detectives, as I've wrote about earlier. The next moment we are scientists, classifying parts of speech and labelling the parts within that. We put everything in their correct drawer, label every jar that is language. Another moment we are mathematicians, deconstructing complex mathematical structures. Getting the basics grounded first, then we start asking a series of questions - WHat is the verb? What is the object/subject? And if this is so, then how do we find the (insert term here)?
I feel empowered by this knowledge, decisions are made easier. I swear.

What I find amusing:

- the concept of rent-a-crowd for barmitzvahs and weddings. These special occasions should NEVER be subject to the pressure of 'rent-a-crowd'. What makes a simcha so special is the people - not the food, not the band, not the location. I believe that occasions/events such as these should comprise of those who you love and who will love sharing in your happiness. The acknowledgement of this 'rent-a-crowd' pressure by a certain Friday Lunch with the Ladies socialite was deemed hysterically ironic (i'm not sure if that's the right term used there) over the past weekend. Haha.

- the fact that I managed to hurt myself again. It's becoming a pattern - and I'm not sure if I like it. I try to look after myself, but it's not working out for me right now. I sprained my ribs/ irritated my rib joints when moving in (perhaps) a strange way on saturday night. Now the whole upper left section of my torso is in agony, a very strange sensation. With the aid of drugs and physio, I shall overcome. But until that moment - this new awareness of my body is quite unreal. Mmmm.

This has turned into an unintended rant. I like my lists - but I don't think I like this one. Let's see.

vis ink

a lot.

i miss india.

Collection of Unconnected Matter

It's funny when you rethink all the situations and emotions one has experienced in a certain period of time. Yes, I know this sounds very vague, but looking back on these last couple months since my return from my trip, a rollercoaster of adventures and feelings and moments of 'stuckness', I wonder if I've learned anything at all. I wonder if, through each situation and thought process, I am learning and improving myself and improving the lives of others.

A cycle of convoluted thoughts pepper this blog, a 'collection of unconnected matter' and I oft wonder - where does that leave me? Where exactly am I going? Am I the person I would like myself to be? Are any of us? A friend recently told me that through a late night conversation he "saw a real sad side of me", a facet of me that I usually conceal not to frighten others, not to frighten myself. But I think we all have this sad side of ourselves, and choosing to expose it depends on us. It's funny, because that particularly night ended the 'sadness' I had been experiencing since I came down with glandular fever.

Glandular fever produces various side affects in people - exhaustion, restlessness, lack of concentration, aching muscles, sore glands, temperature, and depression.
What I thought was the annual April apathy and madness I sometimes descend into (and posted about previously) was (I think) encouraged/produced by my glandular fever. I lacked motivation, I lacked enthusiasm, I lacked the passion I so often seek and express. A cycle I worked hard on to break, to smash up all the negative thoughts and consequent anti-social actions - which, I might proudly add, I overcame with success. But that Friday night when my friend saw that 'sad side' of me was the slow ending of this melancholy. I had finally thought myself out of the bad, the sad, the madness that had enveloped me for a while. Too long a while. But starting afresh is always renewing. And I've come to realise that it's upon ourselves to make that change. Others can help us see the way, or make us feel even more bitter, but we have to work on the rotten from the inside out. Once the clutter is arranged in some order, some progress is made.

To really take control of your life, that's one of the hardest things to do. To be happy and satisfied with your every action, your destination, your journey to that destination - I think that's one my biggest wishes for my life. A big birthday wish. A lifetime wish, a lifetime workshop - for nobody really wants to achieve perfection, otherwise there's no room for improvement.

To disconnect from life - I think that's one of my biggest fears. I may live to be average, to finally grow up and not realise my 'potential', I may remain single for the rest of my life, but I don't feel as frightened from those 'fears'. To disconnect from life - to not care, to stop thinking, to feel like a transparent blob hovering through the everydayness of life - no thanks. Nisht for Sarah.

spilt milk

The sea was like milk foam. Spilt milk. The white creaminess of the salty foam looked delicious as it washed over the black rocks that jutted out forming mini Oreo-islands. It was breathtaking. I think the reason why I was so surprised at the beauty was because the milk foam belonged to the sea spray of Nobbies, Phillip Island. That's right, Nobbies' Nuts. When I used to think of Phillip Island, I remembered the Penguin Parade we witnessed during a class excursion in Grade Four. I thought of the ordinary name Cowes, and the lack of seals slapping themselves silly at the Nobbies rocks. I thought of a remote place that belonged to my childhood, and completely disregarded its potential for appreciation in my adulthood.

It's funny how things work like that.

Scribbles from Editing Class 101

I feel like a detective - learning the training to dive into complex sentence structures and identify the grammar construction of our language.
We piece the puzzle together with each new class - a new pearl to unravel the secrets embedded within communication.

I feel like a builder - learning the materials and tools for construction. Laying the foundation - solid, of course - and during class we build together the walls, windows, ceilings - the limitations, the exceptions - "you gotta know the rules to break 'em."
Layer upon layer, we work hard and we work long. Peeling the verbs, subjects, direct and indirect objects away from the core, we reveal some inner truths of our language.

Grammar girl is our goddess.

Frozen Music

Music allows us to pause the present for a moment and feel full with the memory bubble that's created upon listening to it.
It's so wonderful that there are songs out there that allow us commonfolk to express our 'feelings' - especially when words seem inadequate. Songs capture a glance, a shyness, a whoop of joy, a relief, a place of comfort - that sparks memories within us that we tend to put away for a while. Whether they are songs once shared by lovers, by friends, by heartache, by family, by grief - or songs that remind us of a time with which we are familiar. I think it's quite beautiful.

Current songs of currency:

"Dream about you: Mark Sholtez"
"So Happy Together: The Turtles"
"Apple Candy: Ben Lee"
"Book of Love: Peter Gabriel"
"Move On Up: Curtis Mayfield"
"Alright: John Legend"

These songs are important to me because they encapsulate a whole range of emotions, felt along wide spaces of time in various parts of the world. I wonder what YOUR current songs of currency are. Let me know. I enjoy allowing sunshine memories soak through me via the beauty of music. Perhaps it feels a little like love.

Rosamond Purcell - lovely photos for your enjoyment

An inspiration.

This is an excerpt from an address by Israel President Ezer Weizman to the Bundestag and Bundesrat of the Federal Republic of Germany on the 18th of January, 1996. It was written by Israeli novelist Meir Shalev. I came across this while exploring my new Haggadah, attached to the paragraph 'Bechol Dor VaDor - In every generation'. I wish everyone a pesach kasher ve sameach.


"It was fate that delivered me and my contemporaries into this great era, when the Jews returned to and re-established their homeland. I am no longer a wandering Jew who migrates from country to country, from exile to exile. But all Jews in every generation must regard themselves as if they had been there, in previous generations, places, and events. Therefore, I am still a wandering Jew, but not along the far-flung paths of the world. Now I migrate through the expanses of time, from generation to generation, down the paths of memory.

Memory shortens distances. Two hundred generations have passed since my people first came into being, and to me they seem like a few days. Only two hundred generations have passed since a man named Abraham rose up and left his country and birthplace for the country that is today mine. Only two hundred generations have elapsed from the day Abraham purchased the Cave of Makhpela in the city of Hebron to the murderous conflicts that have taken place there in my generation. Only one hundred fifty generations have passed from the Pillar of Fire of the Exodus from Egypt to the pillars of smoke from the Holocaust. And I, a descendant of Abraham, born in Abraham's country, have witnessed them all.

I was a slave in Egypt. I received the Torah at Mount Sinai. Together with Joshua and Elijah, I crossed the Jordan River. I entered Jerusalem with David, was exiled from it with Zedekiah, and did not forget it by the rivers of Babylon. When the Lord returned the captives of Zion, I dreamed among the builders of its ramparts. I fought the Romans and was banished from Spain. I was bound to the stake in Mainz. I studied Torah in Yemen and lost my family in Kishinev. I was incinerated in Treblinka, rebelled in Warsaw, and emigrated to the Land of Israel, the country whence I had been exiled and where I had been born, from which I come and to which I return.

I am a wandering Jew who follows in the footsteps of his forebears, and just as I escorted them there and then, so do my forebears accompany me and stand here with me today. The sharp-sighted among you may be able to discern them: a retinue of prophets and peasants, kings and rabbis, scientists and soldiers, craftsmen and children. Some died of advanced years in their beds. Others went up in flames. Still others fell by the sword.

Just as memory forces us to participate in each day and every event of our past, so does the virtue of hope force us to prepare for each day of our future. "

Deconstructing Sarah

1. The tonsilitis that I thought plagued me was diagnosed as glandular fever. Goody. I suppose that explains the serious melancholy of the last post - and since I have been in bed growing restless and crazy. It's amazing where the mind takes you when your company has been countless episodes of Law & Order and your nuclear family. I love them, but I need to go out, man!

2. It's quite pathetic when you watch Foxtel over and over and realise that you've already seen the episode of Law&Order/Crossing Jordan/ Law&Order:SVU etc etc. I watch way too much television. Which brings me to

3. I think I hate the way glandular fever affected me because it produced a concentration span of a goldfish - I became quickly bored with television/movies/conversations - to the point that I had no energy to read. I couldn't READ! What good use is an editor-in-training who can't read?!?! I felt helpless and quite miserable for a time there.

4. But now I'm over it. The misery. The self-sorrow. I'm slowly getting better and realise that getting better takes time. A lot of time. Which I've never quite disciplined myself to take. To the detriment of my health. And I chase my own tail and the never ending vicious cycle produces me with more ailments (which I am confident I can overcome) and well... I'm not making any sense anymore. I'm up past my bed time.

5. I like lists. To be specific - I like lists of words. Perhaps a forthcoming posts will be just that. But not numbered. I do not number my word lists.

6. Is vulnerability an art? Can it perceived/decontructed/theorised as art? The ability to expose oneself - one's fears, one's weaknesses, one's neurosis, one's strange habits - does that take courage? And to what degree do people show and conceal these vulnerabilities? Is one able to tone a certain weakness down, or keep it in check, consciously? What strength does that require?

7. Who reads this?

8. Do I care?

9. I think I do. And I had to answer that because nine is my favourite number in the 1-10 range, and so I must have nine points. None have to make any sense. But that's ok. This is my blog. And I'll write what I want to.

cripple

Beware, beware, the Ides of March - Beware!

The Ides of March have come and gone, but still the months of March/April hold their breath as the rest of the world gradually ebbs away, in pieces. Bit by bit, piece by piece, square by square, moment by moment, the waves come crashing down again as the sea welcomes the winter and I find myself lost. Again. What is it about March/April? The pre-Pesach jiitters? The heave of anticipation to clean out your system, flush the dangerous or the old or the unused or the resented out in order to breathe in a new warm day? Perhaps the realisation that it is already near April. The first quarter of the new year is already up. Time's up. Stop what you're doing, and reflect. What, reflect on this past since since the last Pesach? Since the beginning of the Jewish new year at Rosh HaShanah? Or what's been going on since the beginning of the secular year, the first of January. And now it's already near April.

They say time flies when you're having fun. Maybe that's why this week has crawled. Snail. Turtle. Old granpa behind the wheel on Carlisle Street. It's lurched forward, pushed by the various films I watch on my laptop in my bed as I disgust myself in the mess of my room, the stench of old clothes and India and unopened boxes. It's disgusting and I don't do a thing about it.

Maybe as soon as this tonsilitis is kicked, the autumn cool sunshine and bare trees will warm me again. Man, I'm praying that it will.

This Single Life

I think my mother has finally understood.
I think I have now seen the light.
And even though I'm loving every minute of this single life - the acceptance of my mother that, yes, it IS quite hard meeting people, ahem, meeting JEWISH boys, who have balls and the courage to take an interest in Jewish girls - has had an interesting effect on me.

That was one very long sentence. Pardon me. It's as if now, everything will be alright. She understands. And, hopefully, my grandmother will eventually understand, and might even stop asking me, "Nu, Sarah, you've been home for over three months now, where's the boyfriend?" No, I don't have pressure within my family or friends, as much as I joke about, and I have been fortunate to have experienced a wonderful long term relationship, but now that I'm single, this "single life" is equally fascinating and confusing. The more I learn, and the more things I do to 'make myself known to the world', the more confused and frustrated I become. No, not frustrated, just disappointed. Yes, disappointment hurts more than frustration. Because any sliver of hope that one might have, is lost.

Another fleeting thought: while I may love being single and this single life (friends, flirting, parties, uni, concentrating on what i like to do and how fabulous living life is) I may get tired of it all. Not long how far away that might be. And by that stage, as they say, all the nice men are either married or gay. And in the Jewish world, it seems as if it gets harder the older you are. Men become MUCH more picky (as if they can afford to be!) and women, well, we just are sad and eat more and get fatter.
No, i'm lying, That was cruel. But sometimes true? I might be having too much fun at the moment and let life slip me by and before I know it, I'll be nearing thirty with no relationship since the one of my university years sitting in a bar in new york sipping cosmo cocktails with my girlfriends wondering where all the men have gone and realising this would be a FANTASTIC tv show.

But right now, I'm having too much fun. Is that a bad thing?

It's been a while. Yes, it has.

I've finally rediscovered my creative juices - now they're pumping through me like never before. And I'm so excited. My mind is racing a million miles a minute like I've just guzzled six cups of espresso and I can't sit still. I'm so excited.

I started school again on Monday - an event, or milestone (as my father would like to see it as) that I met with both anxiety and apathy. I suppose those too are mutually exclusive, but it was a strange feeling running through me when turning up to the first introduction lecture at nine thirty that Monday morning. Toured around the RMIT campus I felt that I was back at school again, class excursion to the library, to the cafe, to the bookstore, with an orientation guide that was too dificult to understand - for all reference points on our tour he just pointed us to the direction of "read the handout I gave you" and prayed that we did.

I made friends instead.
We were bored and all felt that we were back in primary school. Fun.

After the orientation and the mandatory (FREE) barbecue was over (the veggie burgers were very unappealing) I had three hours to spare before another class meeting - and it was hot. Very hot. And as much as I ADORE socialising/networking - not in the mood. It was Monday, and it was before 4 pm. You know what THAT means :D

Cheap flicks at the Nova cinema on Lygon Street. Yes! Airconditioned bliss.

Tuesday though made me happy. My first subject was Editing with a soft spoken woman who encapuslated warmth and I was a happy girl. Tough class though. We were given a grammar test and me, thinking hey this stuff should be easy, was stumped. Mmm, I have so much to learn. But I suppose I have time.

I could go on about my other class but I think I've lost the momentum. Alana is stressing out about what to wear to shule (synagogue) - it's gone from being a house of worship to a house of fashion - all about the shoes, darrrrrling.

Thank god I'm not into that anymore.

Thank god. Yes, I engaged in an argument with some Brit friends of mine about the fact I was atheist for about half an hour. Which, after ten minutes convincing myself and them that I no longer believed in any aspect of god I turned around and realised -

"I'm a liar. A complete liar."

What the hell was I thinking?

Anyway, back to why I'm just so excited and happy and grinning like a kid who just gobbled a massive choc fudge cafe - this morning made me glide down Swanston Street (actually, that's a lie too, I was strutting. Listening to Justin Timberlake I felt like sex on legs). I met this fabulous girl who finished her Bachelor of Creative Arts a couple years before me, back in the day when it used to be held at the Victorian College of the Arts (and no longer at Melbourne University) who was in the same year as Lally Katz and Claire Bowditch (infamous pearls of melbournians known for their theatre and music respectively) who, like myself, LOVED melbourne and loved telling the world all about it. She's also the co-editor of Is-Not magazine, a bunch of other publications and her boy is the art director of Monument magazine - how INCREDIBLE is that?

After reminiscing about Creative Arts and the new direction (or lack thereof) the course is taking, she asked if I wanted some work as an editor or editorial assisant or fiction writer or contributor to her fiefdom of melbourne magazines - to which, after confessing my lack of self-confidence, i readily agreed. (I know that that does NOT make any sense - but I'm completing wiritng this at 12.40 am after falling asleep on a friend's couch in the middle of a dinner party. I am the height of manners quite presently, and also half asleep)

So yes. Sarah's back. And she's loving it all.

is it so bad that i check my own post for updates?

thoughts on a love tape (pinker tones)

"I don't want nobody baby, but you! There's something about your body that got me thinking bout nobody but you!"

Nothing like dance music on a grey muggy afternoon in Melbourne. Gets your otherwise lethargic juices finally pumping! Nothing like sitting at a computer trying not to dance to the dance music, while attempting to type with long nails (yes people, Sarah finally took the plunge!) - it just doesn't work as well.
Nothing like getting your ears pierced at the ripe age of twenty two. And a half. Nice mid-birthday present for myself.
Nothing like awkward situations which enourage instant intoxication. In back bars and across the globe. Why can't we all be friends?
Nothing like having a summer crew when all your regular friends have flown away overseas. I think these might become my regulars too. Nothing like a mashing of friends from all over the shop. Mmm.

"When the lights go down in your town. And the band begins to play. You can feel the energy coming. From the people lest they say...."

Nothing like laughing so hard about a situation that's actually not as funny as you thought.
Nothing like pining over misspent hours watching golf and singing about a corn dog and dipping my little toes into rockpools at dusk. Nothing like little toes. Do I have anything little?

Nothing like a crappy post like this one. Enjoy.

All I want for Christmas is a little bit of rain!

It's been a while. I've settled back into the mediocrity of Melbourne, and while I'm not here to complain about it (actually I've had a jolly good time) my heart still soars back to my days of adventure.

Oh, how sappy! Come on! I suppose I can keep blogging about life here in Melbourne, for the multitudes of foreigners that read this thing (the random americans/canadians/israelis - thanks for your support) and I do have a couple stories up my sleeve to entertain you. In a sec...

Culture Shock - they always warn you about it, they try and keep you safe from it, but it always seeps in through the everydayness of your home town and the familiarity of family and friends. What the hell is Culture Shock anyway?

Do I have it?

If I had it, am I over it?

Yet?

This time round, when coming back home to Melbourne, I prepared myself both emotionally and spiritually. Here I am, having one of the most exhilirating and adventurous years of my life all but over, a newfound awareness and confidence about me - having to hit the beige of familiarity and homeness, where nothing changes. Ever.

I felt like one of those Shnatties (Shnatti - an 18 yr old Australian Jew who spends a year in Israel with the Youth Movement of their choice after graduating from high school) - people asking me, "Is it hard to be back?" "Have you settled in yet?" "What was your favourite part?" (To which I have no answer, I loved every chapter of my year) - What do I say?
HECK YES! I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE FOR VERY MUCH LONGER!!!!

But then I truly sound like a spoiled and overindulged Jewish princess. And perhaps indeed I am, but one doesn't have to tell the world about it. Anyway, enough with this rubbish.

It's hard to get back into routine - to be honest, what I miss about travelling is meeting new people everyday. Tht's what kept me going on the days I felt blue. I met someone interesting who could take my mind off travelling alone, and things weren't so bad anymore. But in Melbourne, I'm noticing that while most things haven't changed, there is a heck of a lot that has. I've been meeting and going out with new people every week. So I suppose in essence I really haven't stopped travelling. Oh, and the fact that I'm home alone for a month to housesit doesn't hurt either.

Love this independence.

Ps - Droughts stink! Sarah and Global Warming bring you SUMMER