It’s aretharre season, when the northwest wind comes howling down and mucks around in our heads. it just started last week, and the island on which I live is perched at the north end of town. it is rapidly turning into a dustbowl, so I am turning into a refugee and heading south for holidays. just for a week. meanwhile sydney seems to be catching our dust storms – whoever’s in charge of the wind must be trying to say a word or two to those city folk.
Never thought doomsday would look so pretty. seriously, is anyone else enjoying the apocalyptic media coverage? it’s only a little dust storm. you get used to ’em.
If the wind doesn’t get you, the saturn-uranus opposition will. Another month of this and I will go up there myself and take to those damn planets with a crowbar. I think it’s starting to shift though. Half my friends are quitting their jobs this week and I seem to be getting over the notion of finding one. Freelancing is a frustrating way to make a living, and the housing crisis here means I will eventually be pushed into getting a more reliable income – but I’m still hoping that this can be done without a) giving up being a full-time writer, b) leaving alice or c) moving back into my car.
if anyone has a spare reliable income, do let me know.
instead i get to do bizarre things for a less-than-living. for example, yesterday morning I got up in the dark and went to stand in the bush and recite poetry while the sun came up, then walk up and down a hill. all for a forthcoming documentary. i am glad i don’t work in television. i wasn’t born for early starts, repeating myself, and trying not to roll my eyes at cameras. as if it wasn’t challenging enough, aretharre kept messing with the radio mic.
i never should have watched dirty dancing on the weekend. she’s like the wind was evidently too much taunting.
