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The moves

March 24, 2012

Current world view

I’m in tracksuit pants and an oversized sailor blue jumper (complete with screenprint of jaunty striped sash). I’m under the covers in a friend’s spare bed, with a hacking cough and a toilet roll for tissues. I’ve seen enough rom-coms to know that after the past few days I’ve had, at any moment Matthew McConaughey (or, if I have a vote, Simon Baker please) will enter as an emergency plumber and change my life forever. At least that’s the worst case scenario.

A clean slate is a beautiful gift. It’s something you only get a few times in a lifetime (usually) and you’ve gotta grab it when you can. Thing is, when it comes, you’re usually so exhausted you feel you don’t have the energy to grasp it. Although you’ve spent so much time yearning for freedom, when you get it, all you want to do is retreat to your room, dive under your doona and perhaps have someone hold you and stroke your hair. But those are the prizes of security (and the enemies of freedom (not in an American war context, in a lifestyle context)).

Besides, if you’ve got a clean slate, chances are your room is gone, your hair stroker is gone, and you’ve no idea which box your doona is in.

It’s been a week. I’m sure in hindsight it will be a momentous, important, tight-hairpin-turn-ahead exciting week. In the living though. It’s been… surreal.

I wasn’t going to write about this week. Although I think it is a little hilarious, people often find my sense of humour a little dark, and I was afraid it would come across all woe-is-me when in fact what I’m saying is, ‘well played, life, jolly good fun. tallyho’. Because I’d like to be on a stead when I say it.

Anyway, a good writer pal of mine asked if I would be. So that got me thinking. Also, although I detest self-serving therapy as public performance/writing, it’s good therapy. One of my besties thinks I have to write stuff down to process it and she’s been around long enough to know. Besides, I missed the live journal phase. Anyway… let’s call that [therapy] a side-product rather than an aim so it all sits shall we?

I’ve been trying to decide where this story starts. In some ways it started last Friday (not yesterday, the one before) and in some ways it started in 2005 and in some ways in 2003.

So a brief background… In early 2003 I moved from Sydney to Perth on my own it was awesome and I knew no one and I loved it. In late 2003 my Mum died and it sucked. I moved to Melbourne to be in the same time zone as my family (but not too close, you can’t be too careful). Later my father remarried and my youngest brother (then 15) moved in with me in 2005. I loved living with him, and my other brother who arrived later, but once they were fully grown and old enough to drive and drink and have stand up sibling fights in the hallway I was pretty stoked to move into my own apartment.

By ‘my own’ I mean rented because I am a writer and that is the joke we tell about (generally) ridiculous rates of pay in Australia (except for those of many of my clients/titles who I am genuinely thrilled and honoured and relatively well paid to be involved with).

Anyway, I loved my apartment from the moment I moved in. There wasn’t a day I didn’t arrive home and feel grateful for living there. I spent the first 12 months waiting for someone to knock on the door and tell me there had been a terrible mistake and I must leave immediately. Anyway, the apartment, contrary to my ideas of how I feel about material things, and being a gypsy nomad, meant a lot. It was secure, I could go where I wanted when I wanted, have people over when I wanted, dance naked when I wanted and generally answer to no-one.

I hooned around the city with my girlfriends and dated boys for a couple of years and then met a someone. Someone I knew could potentially change everything and truth be told, I freaking loved everything as it was. Nonetheless there was all of the love stuff and he moved in. Then the apartment was too small and so we were moving to The Most Beautiful and Homely Apartment of All. And maybe getting a dog.

This sat well with one part of me, the doona girl, and the dog-lover, but awfully with the rest of me, the freedom lover. And also we had successfully ignored that the relationship wasn’t working because we thought if we had a bit more space it would be ok. I gave notice on my lovely, lovely apartment (which anyone at all will tell you isn’t that special, but I adored because it was miiiine).

We were set to move on Tuesday. On the Friday before I went to Sydney for a party, which many characters of my family attended. I considered the move, and realised I wasn’t going. It wasn’t so much that it was a decision, just that if I tried to imagine moving to The Most Beautiful and Homely Apartment of All my mind skidded, my gut seized and I imagined a cartoon dog on a leash being dragged, digging in its paws whilst jerking its head side to side like they do. You might say it didn’t sit well with me.

So I came back Sunday night, told the man I wasn’t moving to the new place, broke up, and quicker than you can say ‘hey Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat’  I was single and homeless. At least that’s how you’d put it for effect. In fact, I love love love being single, and I’d arranged to move back with my brothers for a bit. He moved into The Most Beautiful and Homely Apartment of All (and is currently seeking flatmates I believe).

The day of the move was much like a movie. Prettymuch everything is going ‘wrong’ (or perfect for a rom com, as I like to see it) right now. The examples are many, but the one I am most looking forward to writing into a feature film is where I packed two possessions to take with me in the cab to my brothers, an orchid and a crystal vase. Crossing Bourke Street, with The Grand Hotel and Spencer Street Station towering over me, and traffic every which way, the bottom of the bag broke and the vase smashed on the tram tracks. You hear that Matthew (or Tourism Vic – lovely shot that)? Hello?

Then when I moved to my brothers the landlord kindly sent over tilers to wake me up and traipse through my room, oh, Every Day. I lost the box with my make up in it. My landlord wants to come and sit with the tilers every day to keep an eye on them. Hiccups. Hiccups perfect for building drama in film, I tell myself.

The exciting part of this story is the next bit. Because (oops forgot to mention) I don’t need to be in Australia after 1 June. So effectively, I can go anywhere, and do anything (within the reach of my/a wealthy backer’s funds/Visas/etc etc). How often do you get that kind of blank slate? Neat huh?

Right now I’m thinking International Housesitter of Mystery. The mystery is why anyone would ask me to housesit for free now AirB’n’B exists, unless they have a particularly rabid dog. OR AirB’n’B could hire me as their official blogger and I could visit properties and write them into pithy (hello 1,158th word) rom com blogs. Or something… By the by, doesn’t this sound like a great outline for a book or film, random publisher who is reading this?

I do have a couple of plans. But they are hatching and don’t want to be disturbed right now…

Hope your week has been as err… full of opportunity, as mine.

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3 Comments leave one →
  1. Kealey permalink
    March 26, 2012 1:23 pm

    Here’s to freedom, fresh starts, and new adventures. I’m close by when ever you need company to explore new plains with.

    x

    • LouPardi permalink*
      March 26, 2012 1:38 pm

      Thanks nutters – likewise! xo

  2. March 27, 2012 5:11 pm

    If you ever get sick of your brothers, your sister has a lovely spare room in a quiet place near the beach any time you need it. She’ll even let you ride her new bicycle.
    Glad you are listening to your intuition, it’s usually right. Draw something beautiful on that blank slate of yours and make it happen.
    *Much love*

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