on a prayer

Prayer beads, Alexandria, Egypt

When attitude and behaviour argue

"it's true that your co-workers can accurately judge you by looking at your work space, but it's also true that your computer desktop is a nice place to hide your worst attributes."

Penelope Trunk, A messy desk undermines your career

Now, how to stop my (currently non-existent) manager from looking at my screen...

say it on the street

via eclectic emily

How I feel in airports.

 Image by we make words

Drinking water from a wine glass makes me feel like 

I make better choices than I really do.

Forgetting that kids are just kids

I am taking a small hiatus from this space while playing tour guide to friends in my new city, and frantically putting the finishing touches on the women's empowerment in Bangladesh doc I'm writing (up to the pretty pictures part, much more fun now) but...

I couldn't resist commenting on the Kyle and Jackie O debacle. How the idea of questioning a fourteen year old girl about her sexual history, a minor, on live radio ever seemed like a good idea has left me stunned.

Setting aside whatever people think about the presenters privately, or the 2Day FM breakfast show (which I don't listen to when in Aus as anyone who has read my frequent mentions of Triple J will be aware of) - how it ever made it past a producer's desk, an editor's desk... um 14? sex? drugs? underage? live? on air?

ALARM BELLS ANYONE????

Will Dry July lead me to The Lost Weekend?

snapped at Changi airport last Dec...so pretty

Given I’m living overseas at the moment, I wasn’t aware it was Dry July until I read Richard Glover’s SMH opinion piece, but the only reason I read the piece in the first place is because my friend Natalie and I are trying to dry up our livers at the moment too.

This seems particularly ridiculous since I live in a mostly dry country (Bangladesh), where buying liquor is expensive, difficult, and in Chittagong, near impossible on a volunteer’s allowance. You’d think all this means I’d have no need to dry out.

But, no. It seems that by living in a constant state of alcohol scarcity, the minute I can get on the sauce, I get that glint in my eye. You know the one. It starts right around lunch time and by the afternoon it’s well on to sparkling. It’s the kind of glint that says ‘I was never any good at maths anyway, so why bother counting?’

It’s also the kind of glint that had me scraping my head off the pillow after three hours sleep on a school night, and dragging my sorry arse into the office where I spent eight hours dreaming up escapes. Leaping out the window from the 13th floor was seriously starting to look like a more appealing alternative to my 2 o’clock meeting.

That was last week, and since then I am pleased to report I’ve stayed very much on the wagon. In celebration of my (temporary) sobriety, I watched The Lost Weekend, a 1945 film about an alcoholic on a bender praised by movie critics, for very good reason it turns out. The script is superb.

As I watched Don explain between shots of rye whiskey why it is he drinks, however, I squirmed.

It shrinks my liver, doesn't it, Nat? It pickles my kidneys, yeah. But what it does to the mind? It tosses the sandbags overboard so the balloon can soar. Suddenly I'm above the ordinary. I'm competent. I'm walking a tightrope over Niagara Falls. I'm one of the great ones. I'm Michaelangelo, molding the beard of Moses. I'm Van Gogh painting pure sunlight. I'm Horowitz, playing the Emperor Concerto. I'm John Barrymore before movies got him by the throat. I'm Jesse James and his two brothers, all three of them. I'm W. Shakespeare. And out there it's not Third Avenue any longer, it's the Nile. Nat, it's the Nile and down it moves the barge of Cleopatra.

While I am no alcoholic, and I personally wouldn't go quite this far, I do know what he's getting at. It’s the very reason why I suspect when I reach the end of my self-enforced sobriety, I’m likely to attempt a reenactment of my very own Lost Weekend.

In an effort to stave off the inevitable, I’m not only banning the booze, but also all things that Make Me Want. Top of the list are: anything by Hunter S Thompson, The Dresden Dolls, Tom Waits, Arab Strap, Fat Freddy’s Drop, Amy Whinehouse, Friday afternoons with friends, hmmm… but 'these are a few of my favourite things…'

JJJ 'Cock fest' Causing A Stir

Well well well, what a stir the Triple J Hottest 100 Countdown is causing. From articles in the mainstream press: The Age, through to more niche mags: lip magazine, popular bloggers: Mia Freedman, and Triple J itself, people are all a buzz with basically half the population missing from the list.

Considering my vote included Janis Joplin, PJ Harvey, Nina Simone and the Pixies, I can at least say I did my bit for the gals. Not that it mattered much.

What I'd love to see is an analysis of the voter's demographics. With over 500,000 votes, this represents a pretty good sample of people from which at least some interesting threads could be found. For instance, I'd like to know the ratio of male to female voters, and the age spread. I'd like to know how many of the 13,000 songs Triple J had listed to choose from involved women, and the ratio of airtime given to male versus female artists. And that's just for starters.

What I would do with all this information is explore how we can use what we know to bring women out of the shadows and back up the top of 'serious' musicians when they deserve to be there.

It really interests me that a poll run by the primary youth/alternative radio station of Australia, which you think would have a more 'feminist leaning' audience (based on stereotypes of course) than most, can have such distressing results.

And by distressing, I mean distressing in the most dramatic of ways; because ladies, we've got a long way to go in this world if the report I'm writing on women's empowerment (albeit in Bangladesh) is anything to go by.

In the mean time I'll be spending my evening putting together a new 'ladies only' playlist on my iPod. Artists to be included:

PJ Harvey, Patti Smith, Tori Amos, The Breeders, Amy Whinehouse, Throwing Muses, Lilly Allen, The Cocteau Twins, Soko, Kate Nash, Ida Maria, Adele, Nina Simone, Janis Joplin, Clare Bowditch & Feeding Set, Martha Wainright, Angus & Julia Stone, Emiliana Torrini, Bridezilla, The Grates, Camera Obscura, Little Birdy, Chairlift, The Dresden Dolls, Neko Case........

To tell or not to tell

Post Secret

I think it's okay to have secrets too, but it's also good to know there is someone you could tell if you wanted to.

“Girls Are on the Davos Agenda…”

Feminism is a word that conjures up images of women with droopy boobs and hairy underarms waving placards written in their own menstrual blood. At least it does for me, and I’m female.

Am I a feminist? Can I be one and still wear my bra? Considering I spent $60 on it, I’m really not that keen on the idea of turning it into a torch. I want to shave my underarms and my legs, too. And while I’m being really, really honest, I also like it when men offer to carry my heavy bags for me. Maybe I’m not a feminist.

What I am, though, is overwhelmed at walking into villages and finding posters like this:

It makes me furious and I picture myself storming out into the center of town where I order each and every man there to stand in a corner and Take A Good Long Hard Look At Yourself! This would prompt waves of shame as men looked deep inside to discover that, oh, women are people too, and apologies would be broadcast alongside each call to prayer until it no longer became necessary for women to draw pictures to teach each other that It Is Not Ok For Him To Beat You Senseless!

Petty debates over the meanings and labels of being a feminist aside, I am desperately grateful for all those who have gone before me and paved the way for me to be the kind of woman I want to be: bra, brains and all.

Today I read this, which made me feel slightly better, but it’s such a long, long road…

Girls Are on the Davos Agenda... Before It's Even Started

Abattoir Blues

Sacrificial Animals

Traders up prices on short supply

Purchase and sale of sacrificial animals have already started at different cattle markets in the city ahead of the Eid-ul-Azha but prices are high compared to the last year's prices because of low supply of cattle.

...Oh how I can't wait for 'Bloody Eid'.

losing my curves

Over the past ten years (or more) I would have been able to tell you, at any point, what my weight was in kilograms. I would have probably lied in about half of these ten years, shaving a kilo off here or there for those who dared to ask. I would also have been able to tell you my underwear size for Bonds, jeans size for Levis, dress size for Cue, and much in between.

Having crossed the border from Australia’s very western ‘leave little to the imagination’ style sense to a culture of covering up for women, I have learnt a few things. Most are obscenely obvious and I probably would have been able to list them before experiencing them. The difference though, and it’s an important one, is that I actually know what it’s like to feel these differences.

The clothes I wear every day directly influence the relationship I have with my body
No shit, Sherlock, to steal a phrase. The most important part of this statement is that I didn’t realize before quite how much I thought about my body and all its lumps and bumps. I’m not talking exclusively in the ‘I wish they were bigger, smaller firmer, higher’ kind of way (though this is part of it), but in a much simpler way. It just rarely comes up.

If I track back to only a month ago, one of the first thought processes I went through each day was to think about how I was feeling inside my skin, which would then determine what clothes I wore. There were two significant factors in the end decision: what I had clean (washing not being my forte), and just how close/loose/long/short/breathable I wanted my clothes to be given how fat/slim/fit/droopy I felt that day. Now that I wear the equivalent of loose pyjamas everyday, those thought processes are a thing of the past. Which leads me to my next epiphany.

What would I be like if I hadn’t spent so much time thinking about my hips?
I am really intrigued to know how different I would be if I had not spent so much mental powers thinking about my waistline. I am not implying I would be a better person with a career in social conscience well carved out, a firm Life Plan drafted, and an infallible pension plan allowing me to retire in my forties if I so choose. After all it’s entirely possible I would have substituted the thought power used thinking about my body on developing obsessions with Colin Firth, or a useless mental database of The Cure’s back catalogue etc. I’m just truly curious to know if I would be different.

Not being able to see the shape of other women’s bodies increases my curiosity to know what they look like under there
Which helps me to understand, at least a little bit, the whole ‘nine parts of desire’ idea, in a very shallow, western culture kind of way. I know I am heading into dangerous territory here, so I will try to explain what I am experiencing.

Since arriving in Bangladesh, I am finding myself wondering what women on the street look like with their clothes off. Before anyone gets excited, this is not in a sexual way, but in the way that I have no idea at all what the average Bangladeshi woman looks like naked. And it isn’t as simple as ‘the same as you with no clothes on’, because they have had very different life experiences than me. For example, I have been regularly exercising, albeit with varying degrees of intensity, in some form or another as far back as I can remember. This includes swimming, bicycle riding, playing team sports, roller blading, gym work, aerobics, bush walking, the odd hike, jogging etc.

This is very, very different for Bangladeshi girls who, on the whole, can’t swim, have never been on a bike, never walk very far or for very long, have never been inside a gym, and cannot even comprehend the idea of setting out solo with a pack on your back to hike through an alley way let alone Mt Everest. From what limited limbs I have seen, the big difference is muscle tissue. There appears to be a distinct lack of it. Which means, I am sure, that women do look different to me with their clothes off. Even ones that weigh the same as me and wear the same sized clothes.

At home this curiosity isn’t there because I know if I’m around a woman long enough, I’ll get a pretty good idea of what most bits of her body look like. But here, I’ll probably never get the chance to see. It also adds an air of mystery to a woman’s body I’m sure the opposite sex are very much aware of.

I love this new found freedom
As silly as it is, there is a definite part of me which ties my self esteem to my body. How could it not? We all contribute to building a society where size, shape, style and sexiness all matter immensely. So I would just like to acknowledge that being given the freedom to think about other things than whether my bum looks big in this is great. I wish every western girl could experience it too.