By the end of 2012, I needed
a holiday. Actually, I needed to give in to the concept of having a
holiday…it’s what people do, yeah? Work to live.
I love my work, but I needed to abandon my vocation, my passion,
and my core and replace it with a ‘something’ that would quantify the
year just gone.
I had worked hard and I needed to live.
This exhaustion, thumping its displaced and mournful energy throughout my
being, wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t let me just ‘be’, wouldn’t …
Stop…
Don’t scratch the itch….
Leave it....
Look at it....
………………tick-tick-tick--TOCK!!
Epiphany, that wonderful
human experience, kicked in and I realised that I was actually permitted to
take a vacation. Surprise.
I had been in full time employment for 8 years. For an artist, this was
unusual. And I was now actually paid, each year, to find a paradise to sit,
relax, and take stock. Not only was this an incredible discovery, it was a
completely foreign concept to own and to indulge.
Foreign thoughts, being what they are �" alien, adventurous and uncomfortable -
they beg for scrutiny and this one was a struggle.
I am failing! I do not ‘deserve’, I am not ‘allowed’, I am too single to have a
vacation, too unfit to relax, too under-read for reward, on and on and on.
My heroin to these thoughts was typically to move house or at least move each
and every piece of furniture in my house, giving me a sense of escape, of
meaning, and of achievement.
New.
Forward.
Create.
All very positive thoughts but, in the wrong hands, deceitful.
Detox is difficult and excruciating. It’s a tricky little so-and-so to say
the very least. It sits quite comfortably on your shoulder (the left one in my
case), whispering in voices that are infuriatingly familiar and all-to-often
frightening (an Irish accent sitting underneath Aussie sharpness).
I decided to kick the arse out of another habit and Google guided me to Flight
Centre.
The chap from TV in the borrowed pilot’s uniform smiled at me.
I pressed ‘next’.
Most people live on a lonely island,
Lost in the middle of a foggy sea.
My closeted musical theatre star turned her volume up to 11.
Most people long for another island,
One where they know they will like to be.
Bloody Mary’s voice rang strong and true, surrounded by muscled sailors in
coconut brassieres. And there’s Mitzi Gaynor drying her hair having washed out
‘that man’ that had been living rent free in her locks.
Bali Ha'i may call you, Any night, any day,
In your heart, you'll hear it call you: "Come away...Come away."
Bali. Next
Cheap flights. Next
Package deal. Next
Hi Mitzi. You’re fabulous!!
My breath paused for a second that seemed like ten.
I had been to Bali for two weeks as a 20-year-old student and always wanted
to return.
“This is PERFECT! I LOVE this island. It’s the best!” Having survived 2
weeks here with a jewish boy and his two jewish princess girlfrinds, I
understood this island, this culture, the people and their needs and it
understood ME, it knew what I needed. A holiday destination.
“Who needs adventure, I WANT A VACATION.”
White people in chalets, Gado Gado to keep the local economy buoyant and ahhh
yes, don’t forget to avoid Kuta.
Ubud, lovely Ubud.
I’d stayed in Ubud for 3 days with the red-haired Jewish boy. He told me that
memories were a luxury. I believed him in that moment of immortality.
I remember Ubud. I know Ubud.
Such wonderful people. Such a lovely village.
Go where there are art stores and a jazz café. Go to a grown-up’s pit-stop
full of massages and peace. I’ll walk down the streets and laneways and, “good
morning. Yes, its beautiful” will make my days good ones.
Remember the Spanish artist who told me mauve is my sexual colour as i stood
next to the jewish threesome? He married a Balinese dancer and bought an entire
hill.
I know Bali. Oh, I KNOW Ubud terima kasih very much!!
I Pressed ‘Enter’ and my computer’s engine roared.
Vacation.
Process. Process it.
Ticket payed for. Passport renewed. Don’t pack too much and remember to roll
your shirts. Take books.
"Come away...Come away."
Hey Mitzi? Do you have anti-dandruff?
Diary entry - Day
three
One of the things that has highly amused me in Bali has been the experience of
the local party animal, the Gecko, taking a leak on the arms, legs, heads,
meals, coffees, wines and faces of people; locals and tourists alike.
As if to say 'welcome to the day', these spunky and robust critters
shower us continuously and continually with their crystal-clear effluent.
While we go about our days, whether it is vacation or work, Mother
Nature’s bodgies and widgies are taking a dump on us. It is an annoyance at
certain times sure, but hey, their fun ain't stopping.
‘S**t happens’ has never been more profound. Pause
…..and ponder.
After a fantastic evening meal at Casa
Luna, I set off on my usual post breakfast/lunch/dinner activity to
find…'something'. Surely this is the mission when on a holiday...just wander
off and find 'something'.
It’s a vacation.
Off I set again, down the main strip of Ubud, past what are now after two
jam- packed days of walking, very familiar and repetitive sights.
Being in a village and on a vacation that is catering for, well, ‘me’, is quite
a surreal experience if you turn your Fassbinder camera onto yourself and let
you mind venture into realms of ………STOP!
This is Bali.
My vacation.
The sun is setting and it’s a beautiful tropical evening.
Bring it back to who, what, where and when.
Relax.
Remember you’re on a package deal.
Relax.
Remember you have a pool to read those books by.
Relax.
Remember to sip a G&T.
Relax.
Remember-to-buy-a-sarong-Remember-to-read-the-paper-each-morning-
Remember-to-learn-at-least-three-phrases-Remember-to-indulge-Remember-
to-forget-about-work -for-a-minute-Remember-to… DO NOT think about
Death in Venice!!
My inner ramblings on this particular evening, designed to assist my robust
avoidance of relaxation, found me wandering about without absorbing landmarks
or their relationship to the streets that I now know.
Familiarity is important and preferable to me.
Challenging myself with the adventure of it all, I decided to turn down a
street that I had a sneaking feeling I had walked down only once before but I
could not be certain. Similar stalls lined the avenue and similar eating-houses
invited me in for dinner, a drink, cake, Italian ice cream and so on...I was
secure in my ‘I know this village well now’ confidence.
As I dared forward, I hadn’t noticed that I had begun whistling a jolly and
nonsensical tune.
A high C, too loud and too unsupported by my breath pierced me into my
surroundings. A hairdressers shop called ‘Edward’s’ caught my eye and begged me
to question if I had indeed conquered this street before.
‘Edward’s’, with its after-hours barber-pole spinning just that little bit
too slow to be a satisfying echo and its black and white striped wallpaper
encouraging a Victorianesque masculinity. ‘Best haircut’ I am told by a sign
written in shop-bought font.
Maybe I should get a hair cut tomorrow.
Vacation.
Maybe a hair cut will relax me?
I once read that during the course of a haircut, your stress levels drop 6
points. Follicles and the such. This is a piece of trivia I take great joy in
telling hairdressers in my attempt to justify frequent visits. You are
doing such a great service to us all”. Chuckle chuckle.
I find myself staring a tad too long into Edward’s interior and there’s an itch
in the centre of my back that I just cannot reach.
However meek, I consider it important to indulge that tingle in the gut that
ignites when you are in the unfamiliar. It’s generally a tiny, sharp and cold
ignition, flecked…out…by….flint. It’s a feeling I adore in the rehearsal room
of a play. It’s a tool of my trade and one that I utilise with great success.
It scares the hell out of me in the real world.
With flint fuelling a new fire in my spine and having claimed Edward as a
'familiar', I focused and opened my eyes a tad wider and journeyed forward with
a manly and imagined slap on my back for having such an adventurous spirit.
The danger here, in Bali, is to allow your peripheral vision to blur. The
result of such carless walking here, or anywhere really, can lead to a highly
embarrassing trip or fall, inciting all kinds of terrible mortifications.
Experience is a marvellous teacher.
Once suitably focused and feeling sidewalk savvy, I noticed a distinct thinning
of stalls and restaurants. Instead of side-by-side establishments that are
fashioned for maximum tourist-attraction, I found I was walking past the
locals’ homes butted against more domestic shops. Quite suddenly it seemed,
there were families sitting on stoops, alleyways without salespeople spruiking
massages and no more Lacoste t-shirt stores. All in all a very pleasant
environment.
Ubud, I know you so well.
Of course with less commerce comes less light and a couple of near misses
regarding footpath confrontations that could have resulted in all kinds of
implosions suggested that I walk on the road. As there was near-to-no
traffic, this was an easy compromise.
Slap and a hearty wassail.
At this point in time, I had fully recognised that I was in uncharted territory
and my ability to navigate north/south kicked in. Ability, I should add, that
is as reliable as my prowess to barter a lower price for a sarong.
(What’s your best price? Oh, ok. Thank you.)
North/South/North/South/Nor/Sou/N/S
I took pause for half a second to consider turning back but this half a second
was a true half a second and onwards I proudly walked.
A gentle voice sighed into the sticky night, Look at me Mitzi, I’m doing vacation.
Turning a corner that reminded me of the poster image from the Exorcist, I
pledged to myself that I was on the path back to Monkey Forrest Road, my
vacation hood. I was minutes away from the satisfaction of having been on more than
just a lovely stroll. I’d been on a good post dinner discovery.
Tingle
I successfully navigated the corner and I found I was in the presence of
blackness.
Wassail?
I should mention that I had been on my journey for over an hour by now and my
ever present perspiration-is-an-unattractive-image cloth had been utilised
quite a number of times, keeping my glow at bay. (It was saturated. It hung
around my neck reminding me of discarded gym memberships and binge drinking.)
Darkness can be a frightening environment, but its positive side effect is the
guarantee of ignorance. It’s foolish I know, to live in hope that if I cannot
see something then it sure as hell can’t see me but please, let me live in hope
until I reach that sacrilegious day when sunlight hits the stage and Bacchus is
banished….or at least until I arrive to the safety of my package deal.
I pushed forward and something in me, something quietly primitive, finely-
tuned and razor sharp, suggested that I might not know what direction I was
walking. I could, with confidence, admit to myself that I might be edging on
lost.
With perspiration as the only indicator of my internal ˆwhy…why…why? I
continued walking with an uncomfortable sensation of pushing through the water
of a heavily salted swimming pool.
Death in Venice.
Wipe sweat.
Moving furniture in my head.
Did I mention all houses and shops had disappeared by now?
Wipe the sweat.
Those that know my stories about being nervous will also know that I whistle
when I am in this state. I agree, it is an odd reaction and if I were fighting
in the fields of war my comrades would surely toss me out of the trench a few
hundred metered away from where they are bunkering down. I believe this would
be a great service to them as my trilling would be an affective warning that an
enemy was approaching. IF I survived a war, I imagine I would be awarded a very
large medal for this service.
Whistling a spirited version of 'Baby Come
Back' along this back and black road, every now and then I
was assured that I was still indeed near civilisation as a rented motorbike
carrying loved-up holidaymakers rolled by. I was comforted by humanity that
nearly each and every bike slowed down to see if I was ok. I guess a whistling
middle-aged man, carrying a satchel, holding a sodden white hand-towel and
walking down the centre of the road could be cause for a safety check.
“Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. No, no please, I’m fine. Yes, beautiful”
‘Baby come back.… ...'
As I turned yet another corner that I believed would be the one that sparked
recognition, an oasis appeared. A tiny candle-lit cafe. The image of this café
had been processed in the darkness into a sepia tone. It was populated by a
small number of tourists and locals basking in candlelight. It was
breathtaking. Not only because it paused my personal soundtrack, lowered my
heart rate and instantly took away the adventure, but it was
just…quite…beautiful. If this was a familiar enough picture, I imagined I would
have been one of the candle lit faces.
There was no door person to tell of its ‘best’ meals, no signage, no taxi
drivers hovering, just candles, relaxed people and..... actually, that's it.
'A beautiful night for a walk hey? A handsome and gentle German face had noticed me. ‘The rains will start soon.'
I stopped walking
Stopped whistling.
I stood quite still.
The perspiration seemed to cease.
I looked hard, very hard, but there were no thoughts.
Breath out for what seems the first time in a couple of hours.
I didn’t answer.
Walk.
Walk.
I walked,
literally 5 minutes along this road and I found myself on the corner of Money
Forrest Road.
Simple.
I was back in my vacation hood.
Annoyingly simple
So very close for such a long journey.
Sitting on my package-deal
veranda that night, I cried and felt incredibly poor and alone. Death in
Venice.
I conjured my courtyard at home.
I closed my eyes and looked through my bookshelf.
I could smell the softener in my European-styled laundry.
I could see the red of my William Yang hanging above my couch.
I longed to move furniture.
The German face in the candle was right, it indeed started to rain. I welcomed
the flood, feeling quite tired but surprisingly safe in my body.
There was no whistling.
Drip.
A cold drop of water fell on my face from above. I looked up to locate the leak
and there, sitting in the eves, was a Gecko.
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