Sweets for my sweet

Wingham Town Hall could be have been the happiest place on earth today where it was the church's fete. Witness these photos as testimony that sometimes the simple life is indeed is the best. I think the kids of today would be much happier if they ate toffees and coconut ice. Lollies for all.

And the sun went down over the Great Lake with the promise that when it returned it would be a better day

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Happy campers!

I arrived at Grassy Head for three nights with Lizzie and Glen who recently bought their own rural patch of paradise just near Grassy Head, a tiny beach side town about 10 minutes out of Macksville. My favourite memories are: the shifting sands sweeping along the beach in a three dimensional optional illusion, eating sausages at a sausage sizzle on the beach, jamming with Lizzie - two guitars, two girls and a goon sack (my first ever goon experience and it's true what Lizzie says, goons go a long way), $1 bets on the Keno at the Scott's Head RSL (Keno for those unintiated is the RSL's version Lottery), hearing the worst band I'd ever heard in my life - really -with two old dudes singing completely out of tune but keeping their rock and roll dream alive (they had the best ever equipment, stacks of Marshall Amps and a fuck off Pearl drum kit) as three kids danced on the dancefloor, bird watching in the early morning light from the Lizzie's van where I slept, walks by the river, Lizzie's excitement at her 1000 new housemates (a worm farm), sunsets over the water, watching families play happy campers, artful mosaics, watching re-runs of Seinfield and swimming in the cool bright blue beautiful ocean. The dream was slightly shattered for Lizzie and Glenn when they found out their real estate agent had been less than forthcoming about the fact their neighbours were sub dividing the block across the road and building two houses when suddenly the sound of chain saws roared into life, shattering their peaceful rural stillness. Can you ever trust a real estate agent? Discuss.

Remembering Mellie

The last time I visited Grassy Head was for my friend Mellie's funeral last June. We were friends from Spaghetti Circus and Mellie committed suicide after a particularly horrific biopolar episode. Grassy Head was imbued with memories of that very sad day and it seemed surreal coming back here again, especially as the whole place was overrun by thousands of Seventh Day Adventists. I must say the Christian youth looked particularly healthy and happy. I didn't see any pimples, which was strange for teenagers. Maybe praying does help after all.

Anyway, I went and sat on Mellie's bench where there was a plaque in her honour and also one for her sister Tamara who had also committed suicide years earlier. I wrote an obituary for the local paper, here's a bit from it.

My own personal memory of Mellie is seeing her high on the trapeze or swinging on the cloud swing at Spaghetti Circus in Mullumbimby. Aerials reflected her free spirited nature and being up high suited her down to the ground. She showed little fear and every time she mastered a new trick, her mouth would open wide and she’d let out a howl of laughter that would reverberate around the shed. Mellie was well known for huge warm hugs that would engulf you and make you feel good about life. I always also looked forward to a Mellie hug, as to me she had the smell of freshly baked biscuits. It seemed her essential essence was just so sweet that it seeped out of her.

It was sad remembering that such a loving, generous, kooky spirit such as Mellie was no longer with us and I think of her dying as a tragic waste of gorgeous soul but her untimely death was also a timely reminder that you never know what life will bring to you or when your time is up. I did wonder if all those Seventh Day Adventist kids sat on that bench overlooking the sea and wondered who these sisters were and how they died? Or did they just look out over the ocean and thank Jesus for their clear skin? Who knows? RIP Mellie, you're missed but never forgotten.

Lost in the forrest

Just like life, sometimes we make wrong turns.When I left Mandy and Mark's for the next leg of my adventure I had two choices: the sensible one - turn right and head into Bellingen and find the Pacific Highway or turn left and take a gamble that I would be heading south. Naturally I took chose left and somehow ended up at the top of a mountain in the Gladstone Euclayptus Forrest. Bah Bown (it's the sound from the buzzer on Family Feud when you get a question wrong). You really can't tell just how perilous the road was by the photos but trust me it was particularly narrow with no room for error and the bottom of the Golf was scraping against the gravel road making a horrendous noise. I didn't know if to turn back or just keep going, well I couldn't turn back because the road, if you could call it that, had almost disappeared from the floods. I was wondering what would have happened if I got a flat tyre. I once did an 8 week mechanic's course for a magazine article once and all I can remember from it was to use a rag when taking the cap of the radiator.

I was having fun being lost the forest, giggling at my adventurous spirit until I saw all the fallen trees that had fallen down the mountain and the huge crevasses below. Somehow I managed to do a 18 point turn and make it back down, where I saw a dude in a pick up truck who I asked the road to the highway. He told me to turn right at the next road, which led me deeper and deeper into another forest - the Newell State Forrest. I was on the dirtiest of dirt roads and didn't see one other car when I suddenly had the thought that maybe the pick up truck dude was Ivan Milat Part Two and had called ahead to his brothers to head me off and then I'd be murdered and chopped up into five thousand pieces, buried in the forest, never to be heard of again. I'd hate to end up a footnote in a crime encyclopedia. Obviously that didn't happen and I made it to the Pacific Highway where cars zoomed and whooshed by. For the first time, I felt like I was really heading south. No, not my face, my car.

Rivers and mountains, mountains and rivers

Crossing mountain ranges is one of life richest metaphors. I left Glenn, Bingara and the bush behind today. I had an amazing time in that little sleepy country town with its rows of neat houses, kangaroos in the gardens, and sheep in the backyard. Where the predominant hair colour was a blue rinse and hours passed by like lifetimes, and lifetimes were discussed over coffee by gaggles of grey haired little old ladies with papery skinned hands and walking canes. My mind and body holds those memories, especially my body, even now, where my inner thighs are still strained from a two hour horse ride (I delude myself that the pain has somehow firmed and toned my legs) on Sunday. We followed the Gwydir River, which flowed serenely past as the mid afternoon created dancing pools of light on the water and the green mountains full of Gum trees and Cyprus Pine in the background, felt as if they were giving Bingara and me, a big hug.

I’ve been horse riding before but this is the first time I ever felt like I’d ever really ridden a horse. “Up, down, up down, come on, squeeze your knees and lift that bum out the seat” called out Cathy Wade, a vivacious blonde wearing a full make up as she taught me to trot. “You want to get horse’s rhythm”.

Queenie my horse was dancing to a four four beat, whereas my derriere hitting the seat in three four timing – hence the arse-ache. Suddenly though Queenie and I felt like contestants on ‘Dancing with the Stars’ as our timing came together. “I think I've got it,” I screamed in jubilation. Cathy cracked a big smile, say “Yee Hah” she yelled. I let out a throaty exhilarated “Yee Hah” in response, that pierced the valley and was picked up by hearing aides across the valley.

I was at one with Queenie who responded by going faster and faster. The best moment was cantering with John, Cathy’s husband of 30 years, who still had a naughty schoolboy twinkle in his eye. He roped Queenie to his horse and then took off, I felt as if I were riding the winner of the Melbourne Cup I was going so fast. “Park your bum and relax,” said John. It felt like I was flying and the grin stretched across my face was as wide as the river we were following. I’m still paying five days later walking like, well; I just got off a horse.

Back on the road away from ‘out west’ as the locals call it, I followed the mountains up and up, and over through country and one horse towns. It was an amazing sight, seeing the dry plains and the ghostly white gums disappearing in my rear vision mirror whilst the rolling hills of rich green pastoral land materialized in front of me.

I tried to remain positive, however something about all that space and emptiness around me made me feel lonely, as again, it was me and my little red car loaded up with possessions on the road to who knows where. “I’m alone,” I said to myself in a moment of self-pity. “I’m truly alone”. I plugged my iphone into my cigarette lighter hoping music would ease my soul but it made me sadder, as the lyrics spoke of love found and love lost.

I fought the urge for two hours to call my ex for some comfort until it overwhelmed me, he didn’t pick up –not that I blame him for wanting to move on but I was really missing him. The music; Cat Power, Angus & Julia Stone (I had switch it off, it got too sad), Radiohead’s Amnesiac, Kings of Leon and Thom Yorke and the mountains urged me to keep following the road until I got over the towering Dorrigo State Forest where I’d spent some time when I was writing The Mag Hags, nearly three years ago. Note to self: finish one of the three books you’re writing.

I’m now staying 20 minutes outside Bellingen with my friends Mandy, Mark and their two daughters Layla and Larnie. I have known Mandy since my Picnic Point High school days when she was my best friend Lisa’s neighbour. I’ve always adored Mandy and although she is younger than me (a year but school years are like dog years) she has always been a wise caring soul with a big open smile and heart. Mark, her partner, has recently been diagnosed with cancer and is in the middle of chemotherapy, not that you know it from his mental attitude. He remains buoyant, positive and quite the inspiration. Staying with them has taught me a lesson in gracefulness and in acceptance of what is, even if it is painful and that you just have to get on with life, whatever it gifts you.

Sunday paper

I had a story in the Sunday paper today in the Body & Soul section. If it saves someone a little heartache, I've done my job.

How to break up gracefully

• By Lollie Barr
• From: The Sunday Telegraph
• Sun Oct 04 00:00:00 EST 2009 Sun Oct 04 00:00:00 EST 2009

Growing apart ... There are ways to ease the pain of breaking up. Source: The Sunday Telegraph

ENDING a relationship is always hard, but with honesty and consideration for your partner's feelings, you can do your best to end things on good terms.

1 Don't shift the blame
When your feelings for your partner change, one of the ways it manifests is a behaviour called "distancing".

Relationship counsellor and clinical psychologist John Aiken says that can mean being overly critical, hostile, prickly or short, or through physical separation, such as going for long walks, partying, working late or spending time on the internet.

"It's the beginning of the exit strategy," Aiken says.

"However, it's this kind of avoiding behaviour that leaves your partner feeling vulnerable, hopeless, lonely and fearful."

It's particularly damaging when they ask what is wrong and are stonewalled.

"If you're shutting down emotionally you have to own your feelings," Aiken says.

"Some people spend months, even years, criticising and distancing, thinking they're letting them down slowly, but it only has a detrimental effect on their partner's self-esteem."

2 Don't make them dump you
Avoid forcing your partner to do the breaking up when it's you who wants to leave, Aiken says.

People sabotage their relationships in a number of ways, he says: reducing sex and intimacy, flirting inappropriately, putting their partner down, drinking and drug taking, going out or having affairs.

"Essentially, they do all the things their partner hates, so it gets to a point where the partner feels they can't put up with being so disrespected and they have to call it off," he says.

Instead, Aiken says you should be upfront. "Tell your partner directly and in a respectful manner that you have decided to break up your relationship. Don't force their hand to leave you."

3 Avoid the old cliches
It's not you it's me; I've got too much work on; I need some space right now... avoid cliches at all costs. It just leaves your partner's mind searching for answers.

"The mind needs to make sense of the world," Aiken says.

"If they're still in love with you, they'll want to try to fix it when there is no hope. If you are clear and talk in terms of your feelings, such as, 'I don't feel there is a spark or chemistry', your ex can't go into denial about what is happening. Being honest helps them move on quicker."

4 Say it to their face
Breaking up by phone, email, text, or by changing your status on Facebook is just plain disrespectful.

"To do it in a short, blunt way reeks of a lack of courage and responsibility and devalues the time you've spent together," Aiken says. "It's so impersonal that it hurts them even more, and breeds anger and resentment."

There is also the issue of closure, especially when you avoid your ex. "Front up and see them face to face so they can get the answers they need. That way you're helping them through the break-up process.

"Otherwise they are left with a void of trying to work out exactly what happened."

5 Don't do it in public
While you may think that a cafe or bar is a good place to deliver the news (and to spare you an emotionally volatile scene), you will be taking the coward's way out.

Clinical psychologist Joanne Corrigan says: "Even if it is anxiety-provoking, you have to face it and do it in a place where your partner feels safe to be able to express their feelings.

"Preface the conversation with, 'I have something really important to talk about'. Then they are at least somewhat prepared for what is to come."

6 No mixed messages
Once you've made up your mind you want to break up, don't give your ex mixed signals by sending text messages, asking to meet up and, especially, sleeping together.

Corrigan says you've got to have distance or else you will install a false hope for a future that you know will never exist.

"The psychological damage comes from the inconsistency between verbal and non-verbal communication," she says.

"Our instincts pick up on non-verbal communication, while the verbal is telling us something completely different, so much so that the emotional process malfunctions because you can't decipher what's going on, which causes further pain."

Corrigan says sending the occasional text message to let them know you're thinking about them is okay. "But giving someone false hope because you want your needs met is just cruel."

7 Don't be their emotional rock
If breaking up is easier for you than your partner then you may get a touch of the guilts. However, you're not the appropriate one to support them emotionally through this.

"It's totally inappropriate and damaging to get comfort from the source of the pain," Corrigan says.

"You can't take the pain away, so give them space to work through the emotional process. In life and love, there is pain and suffering, we all have to work out how to deal with it. Instead, encourage your ex to get support from friends or family, or to go to counseling."

8 If it's over, it's over
You've broken up and now suddenly you want to hang out. Getting back together after a few days or weeks will only extend the pain of a break-up.

"Set clear boundaries, such as four weeks of no contact. That way you aren't sending mixed messages," Aiken suggests. "This is saying: 'It's over and I'm not going to keep you hanging on.'

If you want to be friends, you have to let the feelings fade before you can resume some sort of friendship. Keeping in regular contact doesn't allow anyone to move on."

9 Don't rub their face in it
So you've moved on with somebody else? Be mindful not to rub your ex's face in it by bringing your new beau to your mutual friend's gatherings.

There will come a time when the dust has settled and this can happen, but in the short term try to be respectful. Ask yourself how you would feel if the shoe was on the other foot.

10 Be liberal with the cold, hard truth
Be honest about your feelings, but if you've broken up with them because you don't like a physical characteristic, their family or because they just don't smell right, there is no point going into specifics.

Life - a variation on the same day?

Another Friday. Another night at the Wairalda Rail Social Club. Tonight was HUGE. Tony, a country and western singer belted out hits by Johnnie Cash, Elvis, Willie Nelson. I danced with wild abandon around the shed being twirled and spun by John and then was shown up on the dance floor by 70-year-old Olive. Way to move it girlfriend!

I got the honour of being barrel girl for the meat raffle (eat your heart out Jennifer Hawkins) and had to call out the raffle ticket winners after strict instructions that I must check the winning tickets against the ticket being drawn - it's serious business out here, the meat raffles) and even got up a sang a tune on the ole guitar. How I wished I knew Joelene by Dolly Parton instead of just my own songs.

Friday night got me to pondering how similar every day, week and year can be especially out here. I remember sitting at Lulu's Cafe in Mullum watching the same regulars, drinking the same coffee, smoking the same cigarettes, sitting in the same spots, thinking how life was just a variation on the same day. I have always fought against routine, always needing the 'new' to keep me stimulated and happy but the people at the Wairalda Rails seem much more content with their lot rather than on an eternal search for ... what? Whether it's a case of expectation or personality I'm not so sure. It will be my last night at the Rail for a while as I leave in a couple of days but no doubt, when I return, everyone will be sitting in the same chairs (Glenn inadvertently upset the natural order last week sitting in Harry's chair), buying a shit load raffle tickets, drinking beer, smoking like there is no tomorrow and having a laugh.

While I say I crave the new, I also realise how much my own mind runs on an old programme. I called this blog 'the me change' because there were things that I wanted to change in my life but two weeks on I realise that while I may have changed location but I have bought my head and bad habits with me. The same repetitive thought patterns swirl around my head (thinking about the past, plotting the future), I still waste inordinate amounts of time on the internet especially when I want to avoid reality, I have smoked (despite my earlier pledge, luckily nobody has hit me up for the fifty bucks yet), I still haven't written the allocated 3 hours fiction per day (I have been writing but not with zeal and determination needed to finish a novel), I haven't exercised every day, I still order a double shot skinny latte, I still forget to take my thyroid medication even though when I don't it makes me loony and fat, I still don't drink enough water, I still hold grudges far too long, I still feel the need to be right, I still slouch. I still don't meditate when I know how good it makes me feel, I could go on and on and on and on.

In order to really change I thought I'd put my pledge of changes here. Apparently it takes 21 days to form new habits. So the Me Changes I'd like to make are:

1. No smoking. Both my nan died on cancer, my grandfather of emphysema and my father of heart disease. Nuff said.

2. Write fiction 3 hours per day. Every day apart from Sunday.

3. Get puffed out once a day - swimming, walking, bike riding.

4. Drink 8 glasses of water

5. Stop obsessing over things that never were and were never meant to be.

6. Avoid all unhealthy habitual behaviours by doing the opposite of what I usually do.

I started this morning actually. Instead of ordering my regular coffee, I had a skinny flat white. Embrace the change!

PMT - it's armless really

‘PMT it’s dynamite, PMT it’s dynamite’ are the lyrics AC/DC should have written (incidentally I’m going to see the legendary AccaDacca in February in Sydney). Every month I am gifted a day when it all feels a bit shit and I feel a bit grumpy, over sensitive, and highly emotional. If you happen to be an ex boyfriend of mine you’ll be nodding your head in acknowledgement. The weird thing is I always expect it but am surprised when it comes EVERY FUCKING MONTH. Then at the end of the day, a light blub suddenly turns on and I go, “oh yeah I must be pre-mental, I’m not really a psycho bitch after all”. I hate admitting the reason for my overly emotional outburst was due to PMT as it makes the issue I’ve been emoting over, seem trite and trivial. I’VE GOT A POINT YOU KNOW!!!!

Anyway, it’s not my fault. REALLY. DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THAT? The primary biological reason is the decreased progesterone levels before the mystical shedding of the lining – which amazingly is only a thimble full of blood – being a woman’s magazine journalist I know these sort of things and I’m not afraid to use them. If you’re getting all grossed out then remember it’s just the cycle of the life and that lining was once your first ever home and it’s a bloody miracle if you got to that prime real estate ahead of all of your spermy buddies as the chances of impregnation based on one sexual act per ovulation is 1 in 225 billion. That number escalate the more times your Mum and Dad shagged during each cycle. Sorry to put that image of your Mum and Dad shagging in your head on a Friday.

Speaking of cycles. I went for a bike ride around Bingara with a broken seat, which kept dipping backwards or falling completely off to the side. I had to ride past the pub where four local dudes where having a beer outside. It was hardly dignified as due to the angle of the seat exposing more crack than a fat beer bellied truckie in a pair of Stubbies pending over to pick up a penny. Then to add to my shame then seat fell off leaving just the pole – tre classy lady. I’m officially Bingara’s first ever pole dancer. As my reputation lies in tatters, I take comfort from Glenn’s neighbour who says in Bingara everyone knows what everybody is doing, and if they don’t they make it up.

Someday we'll find it the Rainbow Connection

It was a big Saturday night in Woolomin when we headed about 2 and a half hours away to the North West Rainbow Connection dance, an opportunity for rural gays and lesbians to get together and party like it's, well, 1976. Woolomin, is a sleepy little town about half an hour outside Tamworth and if only locals knew! The dance floor filled up in an instant, when the Grease Medley came powering out over the speakers and everybody chanelled either Sandy and Danny or both. The big gay hits kept coming like there was no tomorrow, Rocky Horror's The Time Warp, at least four Village people hits including YMCA with all the action, Pet Shop Boys with Dusty Springfield singing, You were always on my mind. It was a quirky crowd who were all up for meeting new people. Some of the girls from Armidale were disappointed that I was straight, as you can imagine it's pretty hard to meet gay people out in the bush. There was also a raffle and I was delighted to win what Glenn calls 'my aids t-shirt'. Modelled here for your viewing pleasure.

A very happy man

This is John, he's happy and there is a genuine warmth that just exudes out of him. I hope one day to be as happy as John.

The best Friday night out in town

We headed over to the Wairalda Rail Social Club for Friday night dinner. I had visited on my last trip and had the best Friday night out I'd had in ages. I love feeling a quasi part of the community (cries of G'day Lol when I walked in the door), meat raffles (Glenn won, I didn't), talking about farming (it was here, I learnt that if a new calf dies and mummy cow is full of milk, you have to buy a new calf, then skin the dead calf and make the new calf wear the dead calf's skin and then rub the piss of mummy cow all over it, which cannot be a good feeling) getting a $3 dinner (curried sausage or beef stew) and having a laugh (everyone loves a good piss take). It was a top night and beats going to the Beach Hotel on Friday in Byron any day.

Rissole at the Rissole

Who wouldn't be tempted by this six dollar lunch at the RSL in Barrabra? This tasty morsel may look slightly toxic but the rissoles and gravy were actually very tasty. Or maybe I was incredibly hungry? Or maybe I don't know my taste buds from my bum hole? Answers on a postcard.

Is it just me or does this tree look like a beautiful woman with an afro wearing platform boots dancing?

Dead animals and dust

Oh the glamour. I went to the Bingara tip yesterday and got a weird red mud all over my red Gladiator sandals near the Dead Animal Pit. Sexy.

Lollie is a big fat cow

If I were PM I'd put it into the legislature that not to have Monday morning tea was Unaustralian. It seems to be another one of the country traditions that we'd all do well to re-establish. Glenn and I headed out to Wadgee Farm to have morning tea with the lovely Mr Stuart Dick (who wasn't too happy about me putting his underwear on the interweb), and Kim, John and Gary from Warialda Rails who I met on my last visit. I love country life. There is something delightful in the no bullshit approach and having the time to stop and have tea, made from tea leaves in a silver tea pot in tea cups with saucers, home made passion fruit sponge (thanks Olive), and cream and finger buns on a Monday morning. Stuart always turns the teapot three times before pouring the tea. I noticed this on my last trip and used it in The Sensitives, as well as calling the protoganist's granddad Stuart, after Mr Dick who I adore. Actually I used Wadgee as inspiration for a couple of scenes in the book.

Later I stood amongst a huge herd of cows under a threatening sky, which spat at us from a great height as Glenn and Stuart fed the cows. I still having city nerves being two foot away from a bull. I saw Lollie, the Heffer calf who was named after me on my last visit. Stuart declared that she is the biggest Heffer calf on the farm. Go Lol!

As much as I love the country, there are things that I still don't like. Birds in cages is one. We took a tour of Kim & John's birds, who they tend with absolute devotion and love with a passion but the rebel in me thought of sneaking in under the cover of darkness and opening all the cages. Fly be free! Yeah right, until they all died of starvation or became fast food for a hawk.

Where the bloody hell is Bingara?

The trip out to Bingara took about 7 hours. My thoughts were more of what I left behind than where I was going, although the scenery when you cross the Great Dividing Range is stunning. Suddenly the landscape takes on a Norman Lindsay feel, as the Lantana and greenery of the coast is left behind, and a sense of Australiana takes over.

There something about road trips where you just want to get there. Whenever I observed my mind willing to get me there faster, I reminded myself that it was about the journey, not the destination. To get me to my destination, I listened to Radiohead, Regina Spector, Fleet Foxes, Fever Ray, Elliott Smith (which is torturing myself, as it reminds me of someone who stole my heart) and Sarah Blasko, in that order.

It was great arriving at my dear friend Glenn's house. Glenn is a fellow Mullumite, who two weeks ago traded in small town living for even smaller town living. We were out west about three months ago, when I was writing my novel and Glenn found the cutest little cottage, owned by a old fella called Bernie. It's amazing that just three months on, I'm sitting in the lounge room typing this. There is something I love about the simplicity of the bush, the unhurried lifestyle, the lack of pretension, the constant talk of rain and animals and adverts on the television about pink eye featuring a farmer with a pink scarf around his eyes.

I'm going to be writing travel stories all down the coast for the Escape section in the Sunday newspapers nationally such as the Sunday Telegraph, Herald Sun, etc. My first story is going to be on Bingara!

Here's some photos to get you going.