My Degree and My Muse(s)


monster tree

Writing is not my “thing” at the moment. However, I wrote so much this week that I used up a whole pen. A new pen actually ran out of ink! I usually lose them first. It sounds contradictory, I know, but I’m studying at the moment, studying Psychology. As with many subjects we embark on, it is a can of worms. You (me) may think you know something, but as soon as the education starts, you are reduced to realising how little you know, and how much there is to learn. That’s not a bad thing.

Since I started studying….and stopped writing on my blog, I have done fairly well. Mostly Distinctions, but I did almost fail statistics. In my defence, I had taken on too many subjects. Studying Psychology, you can’t afford to fail Statistics. I actually didn’t realise this when I embarked on this degree. I imagined helping people create a good life through adversityy, that’s what I want to do. I’m actually an Accountant and don’t have any difficulty with stats so I guess I just was complacent.

Anyway, in the time that we haven’t spoken, I did get an award from the Dean of Swinburne University of Technology, “To recognise your excellent performance in Media Studies”. It’s on my wall, and I have left space for more.

So, I may have used up my pen, but pencils and pastels have become the medium of my “muse”, so I thought I should post a couple of pictures that I have recently done. I now go to a 2 hour art class on a Monday. It’s like the “ever-lasting-gobstopper” and seems to keep me inspired until the next week. I’m really enjoying finding a part of myself that hasn’t truly been explored before and appreciate the input of my art teacher, Claire Sunderland, infinitely.





think and speak love

Think love and Speak love


My Heart Weeps

My Heart Weeps


Four Diaries, 60 Love letters and a Field Day…Treasure


 60 love lettersI have all of these things. They are treasures to me. All of these things have changed the direction of my life forever. And they will always be a part of me. I cannot throw them away. How do you throw memories away? Physical or mental, they are always with me, like it or not. I treasure these memories though, as they punctuate an important time of my life with wonderful words and amazing experiences; a time of discovery, a time of, adventure and a time that I learnt about love even though I didn’t grasp it in the way I perhaps should have.

I didn’t learn from it then, it has taken two decades, but I am learning from it now as I write and read and sit alone with the company of the person I should love most .

To understand this, I will have to go back and tell you why the bar for love is set so high. I know what I want and I know what I need; I just didn’t recognize it until now. I would never have recognized it unless I had already experienced it. I’m going to wait now until I find it. I have settled for less before and less is not good enough. I deserve better. It may be around the corner. I may have already met him, but I am happy to bide my time and give myself the grace of a decision that is built on the foundations of experience, friendship and courtship; rather than the immediate gratification of lust and spontaneity.

I’m going to be old fashioned.



When I think about this next chapter, I find it difficult to find the words to describe what actually happened and it has taken me a long while to write about this. Saying so, it doesn’t make this chapter any better written than any of my last posts either, it has just been difficult.

To take myself back to that point, it is painful; but much of my history is like that; I have to return to that moment in time and put myself in the instant in order to be able to write about it. This is laborious to write about, words just don’t spill out onto my page.

At first I wanted to describe this, as I have before, as a story and then I thought it may be more powerful to write a poem. Neither flowed, and it still doesn’t. Pain has a habit of shutting your memories down in order to protect you…I know I have done that well before this time but I have to delve deep here and it still refuses to flow.

Vorn got up before me. He slipped out of bed quietly, thinking that I was sleeping. I rolled over into his warmth, savouring the essence of him and awaited his return. The night before, we had discussed religion, a topic we hadn’t touched on before. Vorn had been brought up as a Catholic and his thoughts on this subject were far more developed than mine. He also brought up the concept of having a threesome. When asked, I found it difficult to encapsulate my beliefs. I sensed a slight disquiet on his part but I had never felt that different beliefs would be the saw to fell this tree; not for one moment; so I was honest as much as I was vague. We made love. It was beautiful and connected…or so I felt.

He didn’t return to bed as I had anticipated. In my comfortable half dream state, he told me he was leaving. He told me he was leaving ME. Before I had the chance to wake up from my nightmare, he was gone.

I was shattered.

Gum Trees and Walnut glades


One Spring Vorn convinced me to rough it in the Dargo High Plains with him for three days. We each took back packs filled with minimum supplies; including a  spare set of clothes, sleeping bags, a hoochie (a tarp for sleeping under), and army rations.

When Vorn’s father dropped us off at the foot of the Mountain, I remember seeing groves of lush, majestic trees lining the valley. They seemed to be at odds with the Australian bush that scattered the slopes above us and I was curious as to what they were. Vorn’s dad told me that they were century-old walnuts trees. I regarded them with interest and their age truly did appear to be etched in the rough bark of their trunks. Their gnarled branches reached outwards and downwards forming beautiful green canopies that would soon produce the delicious treasures that the Ancients believed to be “the nuts of the Gods”. We picked a poor excuse for a path and started our journey into the rugged terrain. The bush was marvelous  dry but green, harsh but beautiful and the first leg of our journey was all up hill.

On our first night, we pitched our Hoochie, just a piece of tarp stretched low over two trees, and built a fire to boil water for our evening meal. The ham and pineapple freeze dried food we had bought from the Army Disposal shop tasted like vomit, so we disappointedly cooked some plain rice in its place. Exhausted from our five hour hike we slept soundly despite the rain pattering on our humble sanctuary, and it didn’t seem long before the sun signaled the voices of a chorus of birds and drew out the aromatic particles from the moist earth to release them into the air.

Our camp had been set near the Dargo River and Vorn decided to go for a bathe. I watched him peel off his clothes and wade boldly into the water and then prostrate himself in the middle of the river without hesitation or trepidation against the cold. I however, gingerly tiptoed over the uneven rocks towards him. As the freezing water reached my waist, I sucked my stomach in as if to avoid its icy fingers. I cupped my hands into the water and tipped it over my face and let it run through my hair. The water was so cold, unexpectedly cold, and I hurriedly concluded my sluice without the vigorous enjoyment that Vorn appeared to be experiencing.

Vorn tending our fire for morning riceBreakfast was rice again; we had given up on Army food. And afterward we lay in the morning sun while the steam rose from our drying tarp and the smell of eucalyptus streamed from the gum leaves clearing our noses and pervading our lungs. We felt wholesome and energized.

When we eventually stepped out our nesting glade and gazed upwards once again, ours eyes were met by a steep and jagged path. Much of it was covered in uneven rocks and I remember the fatigue in my legs as I resolutely dug my toes into its unforgiving pitch. Vorn walked a little way ahead but turned periodically to encourage me and we were able to keep a steady pace to reach our destination within a few hours. The rise opened out into a plateau and we were encountered by a panoramic view of clear blue sky, a skirt of tree tops running down the slopes and a deeper ring of green signifying the walnuts nestled in the valley below. Words were not necessary and we held each other in silence and wonder at the world we were lucky to be within.



When Love was as easy as Breathing


I can’t remember how long it was before we got in touch again; whether he called me that night, the next day or if I had to wait until our next lesson. He was on my mind constantly and when we next saw each other, it felt so natural. We decided to continue his dance lessons “privately” (another teaching taboo) and we met several nights a week in his little flat in St Kilda.

Recently, Vorn had taken a job as a security guard at the Highett in Melbourne; a job that he despised as much as the many thugs that he both worked with and was employed to “handle”; a job that he tolerated solely for the money. By this stage I think he had achieved his First Dan and I was fascinated to watch the fluidity of his Kadre and the beauty of his body at work. Vorn taught me a few combinations for my own self defence and we practiced them, enjoying the physicality of his lessons.

After a few weeks, Vorn gave me a key to his flat and I would sometimes arrive before he got home. I took great joy in cooking for him whenever I could and everything I did was met with great appreciation. No one had ever treated me like this before. On our third month anniversary, I decided to give him a surprise present. When he opened the door to his flat, I was waiting for him in high heels and nothing else but “I love you”, drawn in lipstick on my right buttock. I could hardly contain my giggles as I heard the keys jiggling in the lock and his surprise turned to peals of laughter when he saw my “love letter”.

Falling in love was swift and blindsiding for both of us. Neither of us had expected to find feelings so incredible in another. Staying in love was as easy as breathing. We respected each other mutually and I revelled in the stories from his childhood, his experience in the army and his philosophies on life. Making love was spectacular and beautiful. Often we would fall asleep afterward in the middle of the day and I would turn my cheek to rest against his back so that the whisper of my breath woudn’t disturb the fine hairs on his smooth skin. We would wake again and make love again, eyes and bodies locked in an embrace that felt like heaven.

In this time, I took on some modelling and extra dancing for a company called “High Rise City Dancers”. It was good money if not a little shady at times but it helped to pay my rent. Mostly I modelled swimwear or lingerie but I had been also accepted by another agency for mainstream advertising contracts.

I was very excited one day when my agent called to tell me that I had been chosen out of 100’s of girls to feature in the “Big M” calendar. Back in the 80’s, Big M was the only flavoured milk advertised on such a scale in Melbourne and like Coca-Cola, was promoted by bikini clad girls frolicking on beaches making the product look like this was the kind of life you would live if you drank it.

I was ready to take the job. A few months worth of photos had already been taken and I was lined up for April when my agent called me to say that the contract had been cancelled as the photographer had wanted to take more than photos of the girls. The calendar that came out that year was abstract, with no babes, and was the last Big M calendar to be circulated. Modelling wasn’t for me. I wasn’t confident or ruthless enough to survive in that world and I put that dream to rest.


Here are two posts on souls mates that I found fascinating and also to be true for my experience visit Clark Kent at:

they are well worth a read!

The Time of my Life


….for those of you who haven’t read much of my blog before. This post is a continuation of my memoirs which start from The most recent post before this one was

Although my life had obviously now changed for the better, I had the clarity and desire to make even more positive changes. I was, I guess, directionless at this point; so I started to scour the paper in “positions vacant” for a better job.

One thing I have always enjoyed immensely, and been fascinated by, is dance. When I was very young, my parents took me to ballet lessons. For some reason, although I did well in my first exam, I didn’t continue with this art until I was in year 12. It was an effective outlet for me but I stopped again at the end of the year but the need to dance has stayed with me from there on.

One of the jobs that peaked my interest was as a ballroom and Latin dance teacher  in Melbourne. I called and after some initial discussion, was invited in for an interview. Although my experience did not extend to this form of dance, training was to be provided and I was offered the position.

I remember my first nervous attempt at teaching a group beginners’ class. I was terrified that someone would recognise the fact that my knowledge was only one step beyond theirs. Nevertheless, I soon realized that by presenting myself as a professional both in posture and composure, my students would be none the wiser. It wasn’t long before I was well beyond one step in front of my class, and my confidence no longer needed to be feigned.

As well as holding group lessons, I was also required to teach private lessons. For professional reasons, all the dance instructors were expected to fabricate a “Nom de Dance”, so I was known by my students as Miss Stevens. It was also mandatory to refer to our students as Mr, Miss or Mrs.

One afternoon, a new student was allocated to me; Mr Burns. He walked up the stairs to the studio and we made our introductions, recorded his preliminary details and discussed his expectations and goals. From the first moment I saw Mr Burns, I found it difficult to hold his gaze. I was aware that he was immensely attractive to me, and exhuded a quiet confidence that made my heart rhythms stutter and my face flush.

We commenced the first class and started with the basic steps of a modern waltz. I discovered that Mr Burns was studying a martial art called “Hapkido” and wished to improve on his balance and flow through dance. He was respectful and kind and I anticipated his next lesson with impatient distraction and a flutter in my chest.

After our second lesson, I still felt embarrassed to look into eyes. I felt sure that my attraction for him would be discovered and the professional cover of “Miss Stevens” would be melted away in all but one gaze. Much to my surprise, it was Mr Burns who was to break the spell. Quietly and evenly, he asked if I would like to meet for coffee in my lunch break and although I knew it to be against company policy, I was unable to decline his invitation.

We met later, around the corner in a little coffee shop. The vintage tables lined the wall and my heart skipped a beat to see him patiently waiting for me. Later, he admitted that he was sure that I would not come and had resigned him self to disappointment. His humility always surprised and enchanted me.

As Mr Burns didn’t actually drink coffee, I sipped at mine as we awkwardly began to get to know each other outside the boundaries of our pseudonyms. I was amused to find that he as much a Mr Burns as I was Miss Stevens and we laughed easily at the absurd formality of it all. Vorn, as I now knew him, tentatively suggested that we go to a movie together and we set a date for the next Saturday afternoon.

I love the movie “Dirty Dancing”, and I’m sure I would have regardless of who I had seen it with. However, the memory of the strong and dependable character played by Patrick Swayze, the music, dancing and romance seemed to be a prelude to what was to develop between us.

Vorn invited me home and against my usual judgement, I accepted nervously. We caught a tram back to his St Kilda flat at the pretense of a beer. The almost palpable energy of  longing between us spoke more than words or touch.

His first kiss was soft and unassuming but as he sensed my willingness, it became more inquiring and passionate. When we finally parted our seeking lips to take our senses deeper, I was enticed by the clean taste of his mouth and the delicate flicks of his smooth tongue. Every second felt sensual and meaningful and we slowly sunk to the floor in a rapture of dream-like desire.

On the way home, I reflected on the events of the evening, I felt enveloped by a magic never experienced or anticipated by me before. I had no way of knowing what was to come, but I knew we would meet again soon and I smiled with the memory of his scent and the quiver of my skin under his unhurried touch.

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