It’s not Australia Day. It’s not something to be proud of, to celebrate, to drink a beer and look the other way when racism is dismissing people of the first nation. Think about aboriginal deaths in custody, land grabs and massacres, low life expectancy and poverty. A treaty was never signed when white people came to this land. Survival Day speaks louder. It’s the term that is used by the original inhabitants. It’s time to understand the reality and begin to change the status quo. It’s not Australia Day and there’s nothing to celebrate about colonisation, oppression and denial of the truth. As the marchers chanted on the 26th January,,, ‘Always was and always will be aboriginal land’.
OMG, I really got sucked into the dating site today. Just when i was ready to axe the lot, I discovered there are interesting men out there. A few anyway. On the site, I mean. I freely accept that there are as many amazing males as fabulous women in the world but cyberspace seems to attract the desperate and uni-dimensional. There are more gorgeous people on the blog than the restless and dateless seeking Woman for Relationship. But you know, i noticed a couple who tipped me into the curiosity zone.
Then perhaps I have missed the whole point of blogging? Maybe this satirical piece will poke me in the ribs and laugh out loud if I accidentally trip over someone with a cute font and a show and tell masterpiece. Even though I’m not actually looking. Only through my fingers with the lights out.
Seriously, I know that i am in escapism mode at the moment, but for a short moment this obsession gripped me tighter than Facecrack. Oops gotta go, there’s a new message from Likeyou101. Only joking, I’m off to make dinner. Bon apetit!
The portraits have consumed me. The rawness. The visual narrative. Words seem superfluous. Yet I can’t leave it alone. There must be a few eloquent words that an author can add. Even if she is being a photographer today. Rest says the jet tearing through the late afternoon sky. Sleep on it say the birds plucking off the last plums. Trust in the process says the paint on my walls. You know you can do it says every bone in my body. I am exploding with ideas but too tired to follow through. Tomorrow I sigh. A demain. Manana.
I have a new photographic book almost ready to be released. Here’s a sneak preview.
There is no going back. The collaboration between artist and muse began in a time when there was only the artist. She needed a muse and searched along the river. The water sang as it flowed over the rocks. Create. She walked the mountain and talked to the trees. Create, they whispered. She knew there was only one path. It began in the beginning of time and stretched to her future bones.
Photo copyright jeni mcmillan
I just did an all-nighter, still wired and staring at my screen when the kookaburras announced the crack of dawn. I wasn’t blogging. When my housemate, La Dina, came to check in with me about the pressing situation of containers without lids in the pantry sometime in the afternoon, I was still in front of the computer, tweaking my profile on an internet dating site. I confess, I ventured into the evil empire and I lied about my age.
I’m not even sure if I want to date someone. Am I ready? I’m two years post serious relationship, one year out of practice and a week past a passionate moment with an old friend that wasn’t as passionate as we hoped. And the men responding to my profile are way out of my interest zone. Sorry older men who will make someone a very nice husband, I am not looking for you. I want passion!
Passion for life is the key. Artists, writers, environmental activists and climate campaigners, great lovers, French whisperers and those who can sit on a log by a campfire after carrying muesli in their panniers up a mountain can apply. No lycra necessary but a cute bottom appreciated.
So here’s my profile. I’m baring my flesh for the world to pick and chew. And perhaps when I get some more sleep I’ll regret my exposure.
“I’m a painter, a photographer, a lentil sprouting expert and zucchini wrangler who may be lured back to the french countryside at any moment or stay to contemplate the flight of a sea eagle above the belly of the southern ocean.
I try to live lightly on the planet and keeping stuff out of landfill is one of my passions. So is eating organic, riding my bike, having lots of close friends and learning french. This summer I remembered that I love diving off cliffs into crystal clear water. Self-sufficiency is on my radar. I can swing a hammer and an axe and I know how to use a chainsaw. I love being fit and capable.
I’m a hippy with a science background. An artist who writes. A vegetarian who can skin a cat. Oh yes, I remembered how sweet and furry they are when I was in France … but I am still a conservationist and know they love to kill small creatures. I lived in France for four years on the sort of shoestring that is worthy of a book. Oh, yes, I wrote a book about it and am looking for a publisher!
I’m a bit of an enigma. I lied about my age but the photo is real, taken a few months ago when I discovered that travelling solo is fantastic. So I apologise for this, my only, fabrication. My last partner was 18 years younger than me and we parted with regret after 8 years, not because of the age difference. Some stunning fullmoons later, I am happy with my life and not sure that I’ll stay on the dating site as I’m getting responses from men way out of my interest zone. I’m a free spirit looking for someone who is one too. Someone who is passionate about life. Another creative being who can appreciate that enigmas do exist.”