MUSE*LI:

My bike! And the title…it’s an in-joke.  It will take too long to explain…

*

She had possibly the sweetest cheeks I had ever seen.  They were the colour of golden pastry, and were so round I felt like I could lean over and bite them.  When she smiled, they folded over neatly, like crust on a pie.  When she laughed, they rose like mounds.  I thought she must have been quite pretty in her youth.  As she sat chattering away I listened to the wholesome vowels of her German accent.  She sounded quite like a good friend of mine, and the association made my heart pinch a little.  Around her shoulders she wore a red cardigan that spilled over her hills and valleys.  On her nose perched a pair of green frames.  As she turned towards me, she laughed, her body shaking like a red mountain. The whole effect made her look like a youthful Mrs Claus.

‘And that’s why we don’t allow high heels in the house,’ she said, beaming.  ’Not that you look like the kind of person who wears high heels anyway.’

‘No, not often,’ I said, forcing a smile.

‘Good,’ she said, and tossed her head like a pony. ‘And you don’t mind joining in the cleaning roster either.’

‘Not at all,’ I lied.  I had just walked through the kitchen, where she had been drying her home-made pasta, hanging like willows from a plastic tree.  And before that she had shown me her leather work studio, which was in the courtyard out the back.  Anything after that would have seemed normal to me.

‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘Then perhaps I can show you a little bit more of the house.  I think Kyoung-Hwa is out of her room.’

She beckoned and I followed.  As I walked into her bedroom, Kyoung-Hwa nodded at me.  When I had knocked on the door, it was she who had opened it, her dyed purple hair glistening like seaweed.  Initially, I had not been too shocked, figuring that perhaps this small, middle-aged Asian lady was the aunt of the woman who had I spoken to over the phone.  It was only when Ilse entered the room and asked for my name, however, that I realised my mistake.  Now, as she opened the cupboards proudly, I swore that I would never use anything but a fee-paying flatmate finding service again.  I wondered if I could somehow make a quick escape.

‘And this is the room you’d be taking.  It’s all furnished, so you wouldn’t be able to bring a bed.  But it’s quite nice and cosy!’

‘What beautiful blinds,’ I said weakly, turning to the window.

‘Yes,’ she beamed.  ’They’re specially made from Bali.  Now, let me show you the bathroom.’

As she led me back into the hallway, I took the opportunity to consider my options.  Although I was not seriously considering living here, I thought I at least had to give the lady a go for giving me her time.  The house itself was small and cosy, and for the right person, it would definitely be a wonderful place to live.  It was just not for someone like me.  As we entered the living room I once again admired the flat screen television and the black leather couch sitting like a giant piece of liquorice in the corner.  At the end of the day, whether or not I was interested or not, I would still have to see this through, then tell her politely that I was not interested.  Shining with joy, Ilse patted the other flatmate, a young girl in her early twenties, on the shoulder as we sat down.

‘Sarah and I get along quite well, don’t we?’

Sarah tweaked the corners of her mouth, and, tired now, I smiled back.

It was time to go.  After she finished her second ream of house rules, Ilse beamed at me again.   Gathering my things, I shook her hand and told her that it was very nice to meet her.  Escorting me to the door, she waited while I unlocked my bike and waved at me as I kicked off.   On my bike, I pushed my legs as hard as I could and cycled into the rain.  It had been one of the coldest days in Melbourne I had ever experienced, and of course I had chosen that particular day to ride half way across the city.  It had been months since I had been looking for a house, and as each week passed I felt lower and lower.  In my quest to find the perfect house I almost run myself round in a full circle.  I was beginning to despair.  As I rode, water exploded on my face in cold clusters.  Bullets of rain peppered my neck.  Despondent, I arrived at the train station.

As I got on the train however, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.  Taking it out, I looked at it with curiosity.  It was a message from one of the houses I had looked at that day, a media student with a lovely apartment near St Kilda.  She had been thinking over the evening and wondered if I would be interested in taking the apartment?  She knew that I had gone to see other houses that night, but she was prepared to cancel the next few people that were scheduled to come as she had thought we would make a good fit.  What did I think?

Well, dear reader, what did I think?  She was friendly, she was in her 20s, she didn’t make home-made pasta, she wasn’t German, she wasn’t a crazy Asian lady, she was normal – oh joyful, she was normal! – and as I texted her back I thought YES! Absolutely!  YES!

*

Note: names have been changed, mainly because I can’t remember them!

Erm, there’s no real reason for this image except to show off my Boozy Hot Chocolate that I purchased at The Alchemist bar on Brunswick St while waiting for friends the other day…the only time I will ever drink anything from a beaker…Maybe I can draw a scientific/analytical parallel to this post…or not…

*

They were all looking at me.  Before entering the room I had layered on all my clothes to protect myself from the cold.  Now, as my face grew as red as my hairy, raspberry beanie, I realised that I had probably put them on to protect myself from the fear that was now dropping in on me.  The annual attention of six teachers, all with constructive but critical things to say, had always been daunting.  Now, for the second time in two years, I was subject to exposing myself and facing up to some strong demons.

They proceeded to inform me of my faults.  M, whom I had not worked with much before, spoke first.  She was a large beaverish woman with a small nose and pale freckles.   From previous encounters with her, I knew that she spoke directly and firmly, and so I was not surprised when she informed me almost immediately that despite being very impressed with my work at the beginning of the year, she was now surprised to see my confidence steadily decline.  T, a slim and green-eyed woman and my acting teacher, who had green eyes like a cat and whose movements often reminded me of a meerkat, agreed.  As she read aloud from my self assessment the note that at times I had tendency to sit back in my work, she leant forward and put her elbows on her knees, a characteristic trait of hers.  Then my two voice teachers, the owl and the pussycat, informed me that vocally I had no resonance and that my hypernasality, a lingering effect of my cold, was making it near impossible to make my end consonants audible.  In movement, headed by my sweet and soft French-Canadian teacher with silvery hair like an old paint brush, I was told I had a good presence but had a tendency to wash over things with a broad brush stroke.  And lastly, I was informed that my overall approach to performance appeared to be to hold on tightly to concepts and never let them go, like my mind was a fist and holding on to things for dear life.  As I pressed the white rose of my scrunched up tissue against my nose, they all looked at me with puzzled expressions on their faces.

“It’s as if you’re capable of doing it, and I believe you are, but there’s something holding you back,” said G, her brows tessellating together.

“I think it’s something that I have to address in all areas of my life right now,” I blubbered.

“Well, whatever it is,” said M, “perhaps you have to address it when you have the time.  You have five weeks now, there’s no excuse!”

They all smiled at me.  I realised that they were all looking at me kindly, but, with the accuracy of their comments ringing in my ears, I was too overwhelmed to compute anything.  As I stood up to leave, the bright red bust of a plastic deer sticking out from the wall above their heads seemed to jut out at me, but otherwise, after a quick farewell and holiday wishes, I stumbled out of the room in a daze.

My classmates were impatiently waiting for me in the corridor.  As we sheeped together to discuss our feedback, they asked me how my interview had gone.  They had told me I had no inner life, they had told me that my movement work didn’t translate into performance, we grumbled.  As we exchanged further war stories, it became clear that none of us had had an entirely positive experience.  The teachers were expecting a lot it seemed, and so far no-one had been able to stand up.   Feeling even more sorry for myself now, I decided to leave my classmates to their bleating and went back to our building to get my wallet.  The liquorice allsort of the drama building looked impermeable as I began to climb the stairs.  Halfway up, however, I ran into M.  Horrified, I tried to sneak away, but to my surprise she grabbed me around the shoulders and pulled me into a firm hug.

“How are you feeling?” she said, her sultana eyes twinkling.

“Um, a bit down,” I said.  Her friendliness made me anxious to get back to my locker.  Looking over her shoulder, I caught the questioning glance of a classmate in passing.

M patted me on the back and gave me a generous smile.

“Why? You shouldn’t be.  Come on, girl, you’re a strong intelligent woman.  It’s just acting.  There are more things in the world.  Relax.  You’ll pull through.”

And with that she bade me a good lunch and ottered down the stairs.

Still flustered by the day’s events, I plodded up the rest of the stairs.  Reaching the top however, I paused to reflect on what she said.  The teachers had all been very warm to us throughout the term, and even in times like this they had not been at all harsh.  What upset me most was the sinking feeling of self awareness that the majority of what they had been saying was right.  It was, after all, their job to deconstruct me and inform me of my progress.  I would have felt much more disappointed if they had not been so precise.   I just had to let go, have a rest, and move on.  M was right.  It was just acting.  Such harsh criticism was the standard here, we had worked hard to get here, and we were lucky to be the few to receiving it. There were other things that were more important and deserved more stress and attention.  Acting, like life, should be fun.  I just had to allow myself to enjoy it.

And with that thought, I headed to my locker to grab my wallet so that I could!

I was returning from interval when I met her.  For the first time in five days our cast was not required to perform our three hour show twice a day, and being able to watch my classmates perform was a welcome break.  Slinking back to my seat like a salamander, I made way for the little old lady who was shuffling down the vomitory.  Using a stick to oar her along, she wore a matching jacket and skirt that went all the way down to her feet. Her suit was beige with thin brown stripes running through and across it.  As a result she looked like a slow moving waffle.  Helping her into her chair, I noticed that she wore black flats, similar the ones that I wore in my play.  They were shiny and looked like prunes.

I smiled as she arranged her handbag, a pink, watermelon flesh-like thing.

‘Are you enjoying the show?’

Her face was crinkly and creased.  A light dust of floury powder covered her cheeks. She looked like a white bun that had been freshly baked in the oven. As she smiled slowly at me, the skin over her cheekbones umbrellaed upwards.

‘Yes, I am very much.  But I don’t quite follow the story.  The characters don’t seem to be connected at all.’

‘No, they’re not,’ I mused amiably, ‘but I’m sure we’ll find out in the second half.’

‘Yes, I suppose that’s what the play is all about!’  She laughed to herself.  Her voice crinkled the air around her.  Leaning forward, she knitted her brows together as she peered at me. ‘Were you in that play about the strange people in the asylum?’

I smiled at her inquisitiveness.

‘Yes, I was a member of the tribe.’

‘Oh!’ Her face lit up like a stove.  ’You were wonderful!  I very much enjoyed it.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, then added uncomfortably, ’It’s a bit of a funny story.’

‘Oh yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘But I really enjoyed it.  Such a fascinating story on that island.  And you have a marvellous voice.  What language!  I just thought you did a wonderful job.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. Still very uneasy, I tried to think of something amusing to say. Luckily, as I opened my mouth to speak, the sound of a clarinet playing clamboured over my words. The old lady turned back to the stage, and I to my chair. The play began.

The incident resonated with me over the rest of the show.  Although I didn’t end up continuing my conversation with the lady (in my rush to congratulate my classmates on their heartfelt work after the show, I completely forgot about her), I did think about her response after our own show was said and done.  During rehearsals, I had struggled a lot with the writing of the play, and had felt that because I could not feel passionate about the show, myself and my colleagues could not give as strong a performance as we would have liked.  After speaking to as several friends, it became clear this was not the case.  Despite the obvious flaws, people still commented on how genuinely moved they were.  After some repeated encouragement, I finally accepted that perhaps the show wasn’t as bad as I thought it was, and, by now a few drinks in me, shuffled off like the old lady had done to reminisce about my favourite kind of golden age: sleep!

*update: I retract all I’ve said.  It was a horrible show!  I still can’t believe we did it…

I was on the tram when I saw him.  I had just started reading my book, Peter Carey’s Parrot and Olivier in America. In my mind’s eye Parrot (whom I imagined to have rim-red eyes like rock candy) was in heavy competition with Olivier de Garmont (whose hair I imagined to look as if it were dusted with icing sugar) for the affections of an artist by the name of Mathilde (whose bosoms I imagined to be like a pair of ripe melons).  As much as I was enjoying my book, however, the gentle rolicking of the tram was making it hard to stay awake.  My eyelids flapped like moths wings.  Dreamily, I closed my eyes.  But as the last pyramid of light was about to disappear from my sight, a guy with blonde hair got on the tram and stood near the door.

I opened my eyes.  Despite my half-evanescent position, it was still obvious that he was very attractive.  As he turned to glance at me I clocked his eyes, which were a mossy green.  He had on dark blue jeans like slim cigarettes and a trendy black jacket.  Feeling lucky that I now had a hot boy to dream about, I took a mental picture of him, shifted my weight away from the person sitting next to me, then drifted into a light sleep.  A few minutes later, however, I felt the fulcrum of the seat shift.  Someone new was making themselves comfortable. Curious, I opened my eyes.  Blonde hair that broke like a wave greeted me.  With horror I realised that it was the cute guy, who had sat down to check his iPhone, and which was glowing like a luminescent brick in his hands.

On his lap was a piece of paper with text crammed like ants into boxes.  Stealing a quick look at it, I realised that they were lecture notes on helicobacter pylori.  Confidently, I put down my book and opened my mouth.  Then, just as confidently, I shut it.  Meeting the eye of a stranger on the morning tram was weird enough, let alone trying to make conversation.  What if this guy thought I was a freak?  And, it would probably look wanky if I tried to talk about gastric ulcer causing bacteria on the tram.  Opening my book, I tried to return to the fructuous world of 17th century Europe.  But as the minutes passed, and as my heartbeat began to hammer on my throat harder than a woodpecker, I decided to make a move.

I stared at my book.  What on earth could I possibly say?  My eyes tripped over the words on the page like fingers skipping keys on a piano.  Finally I decided to ask him if he was a medical student.  Opening my mouth again, I bravely stammered out this question.  At the sound of my voice, he turned to me.  I had not inspected him closely when I had got on the tram, other than to note that he was attractive.   Looking at him now, I noticed a scar like a mollusc on his brow.  His skin was freckled, and he had a light tan. I wondered if he was from out of town.  His slightly broad accent, of apples and wheat, confirmed this as he spoke.

“No, I’m presenting a lecture on helicobacter pylori.”

“Oh,” I said, blushing slightly. I had not anticipated a reply.  ”So…uh, so are you studying microbiology then?”

He smiled.  He had very straight teeth, as if someone had taken a bunch of shinpads and lined them up in a row.  I wondered if he was one of the sports-mad that so populated this city.

“Yeah, I guess I am.  Amongst other things.”

“What other things would they be?”

“Ah,” he said with a wink.  ”I see where this is going.”

He told me that he was a PhD student, studying at at university in Melbourne.  As I closed my book, he asked me if I was a medical student.  I told him that I used to be, but I wasn’t any more.  He told me that although he had wanted to study law, his mother, who was a lawyer, had not advised it.  I told him that even though my parents never studied medicine, both had doctor envy, and had urged me to try it.   We compared war stories over choosing a career path, and both acknowledged that one could never be happy.  He told me that before he started microbiology he studied geology.  I imagined his mind like a mesa, rocky and sandy and spanning the horizon.  I told him that I was studying acting.  He said that must have been a big change and I said yes, of course.  I asked him if he enjoyed what he was doing.  Yes, he said with a smile.  Of course.

As we talked I could see the coast in his skin and the breath in his hair.  He was friendly, and had a laid-back that made me feel very comfortable.  As we talked about drama school, I wondered what kind of friends he had, and if he was single.  I had been thinking about about how I wanted to lead my life recently, and this seemed to be a good opportunity to act on my thoughts of hanging out with people from the ‘real’ world again.  We talked more about his PhD, and what he planned to do after he finished. He was thinking of continuing his research and working in a lab.  As he spoke I noticed that the edges of his lips crinkling like a paper bag.  Then, sending a spray of laughter into the air, he admitted that he had no idea.

My stop arrived.  I was about to announce that I had enjoyed his company very much, when his iPhone rang.  Pulling out the shiny oblong, he paused to answer it.  Having already missed my first stop, and unsure of what to do, I picked up my bag and hooked it over my shoulder.  Unable to respond to me, he put his hand up.  Terrified at what all this conversation meant, I yelled “It was very nice to meet you!” and hopped off the tram.  As the tram doors closed behind me, I turned to look through the window, but the tram was already waddling down the street.

And here is where my story ends, dear friends.  I did manage to spoon his name from his lecture notes, but alas, no Facebook, and I fear any further stalking would be too bizarre.  But if you do know any Brisbane born, helicobacter pylori loving Melbourne based microbiologists, please send them my way!

She was squat and square and at first I was afraid of her.  But as she led me to her room, grinning with a big bulging smile, she suddenly looked like a friendly Freddo frog, and my apprehension tadpoled away.  She sat me down at her desk and asked me to wait as she did a few things.  While she answered her phone, I took this as an opportunity to have a good look at her. She had long black hair like a lot of older Indian women and wore several gold rings like pipes on her fingers.  Pinks, greens, blues shouted on her sari.  Around her neck was a pashmina scarf, that had sworls on it that reminded me of rainbow icecream.  At the bottom of the scarf I noticed a tag that was the same as that on the scarf that a friend had given me for my birthday. Her earrings were muscat coloured stones, clustered together like a bunch of grapes.  As she hung up the phone, she turned to me, and with a monotonic but amiable voice, said:

“What’s the problem, little miss?”

Surprised by her familiarity, I scratched together a reply.

“I have, aarhhhcchh, tonsillitis…”

My new favourite doctor stretched out a broad smile like a big, colourful Chesire cat.

“Is that so? Let’s have a look at your throat, then.”

My lymph nodes feeling as if they were ready to jump out of my skin, I nodded.  Picking up a tongue depressor and a torch, the doctor came around the side of the desk and asked me to open my mouth.  With one short prod of my tongue and a squint at my tonsils, she stood up and grinned triumphantly at me.

“Indeed you do!  White spots every where.”

Whipping out an ear-o-scope thermometer, she slipped a cone of clear plastic over the earpiece, and nippled it into my ear.

“No temperature. But you do need antibiotics. And lots of rest.”

I nodded meekly.  A phial of pharmaceutical pens lolled around on her desk.  It had been some time since I had acquired myself such a colourful piece of candy, and I was itching for a new one.  Sitting back down behind her desk, my doctor began writing out a prescription.

“I want you to take penicillin, two tablets twice a day before meals. You can have as much panadol, panadeine as you want.  You want to get rid of this as soon as possible.  Is there anything else that you need?”

I shook my head.  I was pretty happy to take the drugs and lie prone for about a month, but if she had had any other suggestions, I would have been happy with those too.

“No thank you.  That’s all.”

There was a twinkle in her voice.  ”Perhaps you might need a medical certificate for school?”

“Oh, um, yes.  That would be great, please.”

She opened the file on her computer and printed off a note.  As she typed she sang a Hindi song softly under her breath.  While I waited for her to sign the sheet, I noticed the bunch of sugary pink flowers like a big cloud of fairy floss that the receptionist had brought in at the beginning of the session.  Seeing them there made me feel cheerful.  Despite the expense, I was glad that I had taken the time to come in for a doctor’s appointment. The act of being looked after was something that I had been dearly missing during the past few months in Melbourne, and here was clearly an example of people allowing themselves to be cared for.  Being at the doctor’s surgery had finally made me realise that taking the time to look after myself was not something to do just for fun, but a human necessity.  As I stood up to take the medical certificate, I decided that I would begin looking after myself by doing my favourite thing of going to the library and borrowing a book to read when I got home.

“Take care of yourself,” she said as I left.  And, closing the door behind me, for the first time in a long time, I felt like I would.