On loving music.

I have this obsession. It's called music. This insane thing happens to me when I'm listening to music - the heavier, the harder, the crazier the music, the more calm and collected I feel.
When I'm listening to a song that really strikes me musically - it touches me. Like heaven, my soul is absolutely open and willing to listen.

It all started with my big brothers. My idols; my heroes.

I'll never forget the time they brought home the Rage Against the Machine album, cranked up the volume and we screamed the words to "Killing in the Name" in our front loungeroom as though nothing else mattered in the world. Swear words and all: I was meant to be a boys' girl from that moment.

One of the first deep experiences I had with music was in my early adolescence. It had something to do with my first kiss. He was older than me, by one year. In those days, that was an eternity of age; I thought the guy was the messiah of experience. I fell in love with him because of the simplicity and stupidity of the experiences we had together. But in terms of music, he was an influential person in shaping my taste.

We were sitting on his couch, lounging back. We weren't going out or anything; I was too young and embarrassing and unattractive to be his actual girlfriend. But still - something kept him revolving around me. He had put on the CD player and the drone of Kurt Cobain's voice wafted through the speakers. For a mid-90s Pearl Jam fan myself, I thought Nirvana sounded instinctively depressing. I didn't like thinking about sad things. I was young. I liked fun and happiness and enjoyment. I had never really thought of deep feelings or any of that stuff.

"Come As You Are" was playing. He turned to me, his eyes slightly closed and his head turned back, a pleasurable smile tinting his face. "Don't you just love Nirvana?" I stared at him a bit and replied, "It sounds a bit depressing. I don't know." He smiled at me and said, "No really, listen. Listen to the music. Listen to the sadness in his voice. Once you get into this, you'll never go back. Kurt Cobain is a true artist."

There was something about the guitars which struck me, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I was thirteen or fourteen at the time. Kurt had only died a year beforehand, and the true fans were still mourning his passing and lamenting his music. As the years wore on, Kurt gathered more and more fans from his tragic death than through his life, and I moved on to my next love, the budding Dave Grohl who took Nirvana to a more upbeat, controlled kind of rock in his next band, The Foo Fighters. They suited me better.

But, from that day sitting on that couch with my first love teaching me about music, I listened to Nirvana more and more. It became my anthem of sadness. It tainted my heartbreak as I realised that first loves inevitably dissolve. Youth doesn't mix very well with love. But Kurt kind of got me through those years, as I listened to the tender pain in his voice.

The next heartbreaking album that shaped my tastes was Jeff Buckley's "Grace". I don't even think I need to explain that one. Except that I think I began to form an extreme attraction to singer/guitarists who died at age 27. It annoyed me, all these suicidal artists, because I was someone who never wanted to be depressed. I was the happiest person I knew. But I did start to contemplate things at a whole new level, and the prettiness of their music stunned me into submission. By the age of 16 I was changing. I was maturing. I was becoming more physically beautiful, much to my surprise. And with that, the complexities of relationships started to grow. I still thought of myself as that ugly, unwanted little girl who was never good enough for the older guy whom I loved. I thought I was unattractive, so I used my vibrant personality to get myself through every situation and climb the ranks of popularity. People wanted to talk to me. Boys started taking interest in me. My parents started tightening the reins on me. I became angry in my world - held back from my potential, my growth. I wanted to be like the girls I worked with. Get a tattoo, get a nipple ring, be sexy, be wanted, be free.

Angry rock music started a cycle in my life. I would lock myself in my room and play the heaviest music around at the time. I'm surprised I'm not deaf from the amounts of music I used to play. I was a music addict, a maestro of knowledge at the time. Anything that was played on Triple J was in my spectrum of taste. I would try to teach others around me. The boys loved my music knowledge; the girls hated it. It was a sad time when I left high school and started going clubbing. Because at the time, there were no clubs that played music of my element. I was stuck listening to R&B or pop music every time I went to Fremantle or Northbridge. I became disillusioned. Why were people listening to this commercial rubbish when there were so many rich musical experiences around them?

And then life happened. A spiral occurred. Complications, boyfriends. I worried too much about moving out, finishing Uni, getting a job, getting a life.

I forgot about all the things I loved. Or so I thought.

Once I had a boyfriend who said to me, "yeah I guess we were never going to work out. Music is too important to you." I thought differently after that. I realised, 'yeah, he's right. We are too different.' Music is too big a part of me to compromise on someone who doesn't share my passion. In recent years though, people have swarmed in and out of my life, reminding me what I lost. Almost like those crazy 'meant to be' moments, I have met people who have changed me.  I have re-instilled my love of music, finding new and defining experiences. Triple J is still my backbone. Alternative, fresh new music is the key. Pushing the boundaries of possibility is what I love searching for.

 Listening to a new sound and realising that my heart is momentarily cured: Priceless.

I b

On tears and masculinity.

Ever made a boy cry?

I've made five men cry. Not just boys: men. It's possibly the most heartbreaking thing you can ever witness. Because when men cry, it's because their whole world has fallen apart in one hideous sweep and they feel the emptiness and power in all their emotions at the same time.

Women cry all the time. Part of the inbuilt over-emotional processing mechanism I guess. I am actually so sick of crying lately. I cry every few weeks usually, but recently that's become even more regular (annoyingly so). Now that may sound like a lot, but it's actually nothing in female terms. Most girls cry every second day. They freak out about every little incident that happens in their lives and let the tears roll, a little like a pressure system - a little gets let out to reduce the pressure. 

Most of the time I'm pretty strong, but I'm openly passionate and emotional. Sometimes I cry not because things are bad, but because things are good. For example, my super-talented housemate made a film for someone's wedding. When I watched it, the music crescendo towards the final scene progressed into a slow motion shot of the bride smiling blissfully into the camera and then folding into her new husband's arms as the image blacked out. I thought it had been done so professionally, tastefully and artistically that I literally felt the feelings swell inside myself until two tears rolled gracefully and silently down my cheek. 

I think my housemate felt pretty chuffed that he'd done a good job, judging from my reaction.  It had the ultimate effect.

So crying is not all bad crying. Sometimes it's ecstatic crying, it's massive tears of joy because you haven't seen someone for so long, or how about my favourite kind of tears - the rolling on the floor laughter that makes you feel totally high. 

The sadness tears are the worst. The I-miss-you tears. The I've-fucked-up tears. The I'm-a-worthless-piece-of-shit tears.

But what about man-crying?

I made my male best friend cry once. Actually I think I've made this person cry several times. 

My boss let a few tears slip when I left my work last year. It took everyone by surprise and it was in the middle of a speech he made for me. I have never felt so loved. Coincidentally, I felt perfectly at home when I arrived at my new workplace this year and found out that my new boss is perfectly ok with the man-cry. He claims he does it all the time.

Two men have cried when I have ended a relationship with them. There's just not a lot more I can say on that topic. I just don't want to think about it anymore. 

But the worst person to see cry, is your dad. 

Dad cried with me earlier this year. His heart had broken for me. Daddy's little girl. How much it made me gasp and choke on my own tears as I watched my father heave in pain and stumble over his words in a manly mess.

A lot of men tell me they don't like crying. They like bottling. It's unmanly to cry. Crying doesn't solve things.

But crying is sometimes like a free counselling session. You get all your negativity out, like a tap draining out all the shitty stuff you have inside. There's an intensity of emotion and then a sudden sense of relief, or sedation, or just... nothing. The feelings have gone. You can breathe again.

A friend once told me about a date she went on, in which the bloke started crying when telling a tragic story halfway through. Harshly enough, she didn't date him again. She felt that there was a lack of masculinity on his behalf... [it felt like she was dating herself]. 

I agree that it was a little too soon for the waterworks. It's pretty confronting seeing a guy cry, and I doubt it would make for a relaxed date afterwards. 

But long term... to watch a man hold back his feelings for so long, to only see a skerrick of their fears and desires every now and then when drunk and uninhibited... 

It sounds a bit sadistic, but what an artwork it is to see a man cry that you know and love.

It's not about seeing a man crumble. It's about seeing a man's true self. How incredibly attractive, to see that a man you know and love has a real heart that beats and resides with passion and feeling - and that he is man enough to live up to his truths.

On being lucky and loved.

I’m feeling blessed. I’m feeling the wash of love and good feelings and freedom and creativity and…. everything that is important to me.

The last two weeks have been so significant. To spend time with just me, my thoughts, my family and my friends. I can’t change who I am. I have to harness what truly makes me shine.

This is especially an important concept this year, as I approach a new decade. I struggled, wondering what this meant to me. But I need to stop worrying, and just be myself, and the best version of myself. The bright, happy, spontaneous, lovable, creative person that I am. I’ve struggled with my self-esteem so much over the years, and it’s time for me to just be happy with life.

I felt this strongly when I was on year twelve retreat. I was sitting, cross-legged, with a group of rowdy boys who just wanted me to feel accepted and equal. They knew I was a different kind of teacher, but they loved that I was completely myself. 

We shared so many personal experiences with each other, and I felt like part of their family. And the letters they wrote me at the end: it made me realise why I do the job I do. It’s not for the marking, the ladder climbing, the fact that my parents are proud that I’m an English teacher – it’s because I love connecting with people and sharing my love and life experience. I love guiding young people. I love building my family. And this wonderful, warm group of people left that retreat hugging me and tearing up as we left for the 2.5 week break. Not just girls, boys too. I felt it, a feeling of pride in who we were, and an understanding of what we all meant to each other. And the thing that really got under my skin, was the fact that one beautiful kid told me that he was sad that we’d only have two more terms in homeroom class together, and that he felt blessed that he had met me.

I thought, wow. I had stalled on leaving my old school, thinking that I’d never have these bonds again. I was so scared that leaving Kolbe would be the end of my career, or at least, the end of the beautiful parts of my career. And here they are again. Stronger, unstoppable.

I feel love. And that’s the only way to describe it, just as Gregory David Roberts describes in Shantaram. 

You feel love inside for others. You show your love to others. Unbridled and real and unashamed. That’s the Indian way that people show love and I guess that’s my way too.

And yet I always tend to feel the most love towards people who hide their love so deep, it is almost untouchable. Maybe because I have so much love within me, I need to unlock that love.

It’s no surprise that a lot of my creative writing is linked to love. Just as Tim Winton is inextricably linked with imagery of the ocean, I feel tangled in love. I breathe it, I understand it. And I won’t apologise for it. I feel songs and stories that tinker in love. I have had life experience that builds so many levels of understanding about love. The abuse of love. The loss of love. The reconnection of love.

Trying to understand a father who did not love himself, not one little bit. To the point where he was so willing to give his life away.

A mother who loved so much, too much, destructively, untamed, passionate, unstable. But always, always consistent. I will always love my mother for her reliable love. I think I am very much like her. I don’t fall in and out of love quickly; I hold love for a very long time, and there is something beautiful in that.

One thing I cannot stand in the world is a fickle love. One who decides they love one week, and fall away a moment later.

But I have also learnt the difference between love and attachment. Attachment holds no purpose. Love lasts always, an eternity. The people in your life who represent real connection and love will always fleet by your side and in your thoughts with only goodness and happiness. Attachment however, is destructive. I have fallen into this trap many times, trying to hold people in my life in a terribly unloving way. To let go of attachment is the ultimate love.

I’ve changed my life in many ways this year, but actually, I’ve come back around to where I was, and where I’m meant to be. I can’t be holding on to negativity and attachment anymore for the wrong reasons. There’s a great beauty in letting people go and letting them live their life. Because I will always be here when they want to be in my life again.

Life is exciting, and wonderful, and as I’ve experienced in the last few days, reconnecting with people who I hold so close to my heart, I know that all I need is their presence in my life.

And I had hugs with people I really, really needed hugs from. And I felt complete again, knowing that their open, honest smiles and warmth and twinkle in their eyes meant that our connection means a forever of happiness. I’ll always hold on to that feeling.