cybele? photographer? (fuck the social pages)

I think that this year is the year. My year. The year of the rooster. The year of cybele. I think that this is the year that I finally realize that my life does not start until I am ready to say go. And fuck, here goes…GO GO GIRL!


It is morning. Early morning. My dreams are awakened by a thick amber light, coaxing me out of the delicious slumber. A kookaburra reminds me of the autumn showers, seeping into the summer hours. He laughs, I laugh, me and the kookaburra.

Yoga to Lovage. Bending into the music, stretching as far Mike Pattons voice can throw. Fuck life is oh so sweet.

Downstairs I find my little kittycats, waiting for dinner, pawing the glass doors, like a vertical treadmill, only fifteen more hours to dinner pussycats.

The juices of my morning mango wash off my skin, leaving a trail of sweetness in my shower.

I walk to work. Here I am. Sothebys. My last day. I’ll miss this. The door delivery of the most yummy soy cappuccino with the sweetest of honey, courtesy of Agustini’s, the fruit salad with a dollop of yogurt, yes that’s a dollop. The fruit man will give you a bucket of yogurt if you say anything other than dollop. Spoonful, scoop, dash, tad, they all result in a very expensive, very obese, very ‘I’m never eating again’ kinda breakfast.

And, according to tradition, first to the newsagent, finally, after two years of this routine, on my last day, I no longer have to ask for a receipt, Jimmy the newspaper man just starts printing one out as soon as I walk in. I tell him its my last day, he says it’s a shame, he was starting to warm to me, I had passed the initiation and I was now, finally a Queen St local. In Sydney, that means you’ve made it. You are one of those people.

Fuck the social pages in the Sunday Herald. Come here and you see the aftermath of those A-lister boozeups. Yes no matter how much money or collagen or general pampering these elite brats get, there will always be something to bond ‘them’ and ‘us’. THE HANGOVER. Sure, they can try to hide their bloodshot eyes behind their fendi shades, or rest their weary head on the shoulder of their yachting zillionaire, or ease into the day with a nice Penelope Sach tea, Faberge teapot and all. But my dear girls. I know something that you don’t. We share the same toilets. I smell your poo. I see your spew. Sparkling with chandon and diamonds maybe. But it’s still spew. Very different nights we may have had, but hey, they both end up down the same toilet.

And now here I sit. Rewie has left the building, the air-conditioning is blurting out some winter chill factor song, my time is almost up. No more Saturday mornings. No more four hour working week.

Yep, I am a working girl now. Working nine to five. Five days a week. Saturday is now my sacred day, Sunday is once again the day that you dread to come, coz that two-day window from monotony is closing.

I am finally living that dream that has been worming its way into reality for some time now. I am going to be a fully-fledged photographer!!!! I shall be taking over my brother's photographic studio for six months. Corporate shots, design shots, architectural, product, advertising. This is the real deal. No longer shall i sit at my architectural table, pining over my lost path of photography. I’ll be the apprentice to my magicians, Wee Gee and Dorothy Lang., Man Ray. This is it. This is the year that I realize. What I realize, we shall find out.

Snap!