Stem the Tears

I haven't been outside once today, which for me, is weird. I think I'm forcing myself to stay away from the shops which are pret-ty scarey places on wet weekends. Yesterday i went to IKEA, on a rainy Saturday, say no more.

Today was more about your back to basics wet weekend pastimes. Rekindling marital bonds, reading, talking to my mum on the phone for an hour.

My daughter and I decided to make some more mini-purses, they are basically ribbons folded in half with beaded sides. We made a basic one last week, today we embellished another one with a fringe. On the first purse I got her to paperclip it together, design all the ribbon/thread/bead combinations and did my best to hold my tongue, I can quickly lose my patience and she is quick to tears. I think we both tried hard and made it through. Today she was close to crying straight off the bat because she'd forgotten what she'd learnt.

We have a secret word that I say when she is about to cry when she can't do something. It is a dumb word with no relation to what we are doing except we both agree that it means "try not cry, lighten up" and she can use it back at me and it means "stop being mean, Mummy". Learning to sew, to use needle and thread is fraught with opportunities to give up, on both sides. Small steps, including a nap on my part mid-way, we got through.

Procrastinate Later

Something is going on today, some sticky chi is getting moved, is it the the extra coffee I had? I’ve opened Pandora’s box and in it is 74 undeveloped black and white films I have never got around to seeing what is on them. Years of hard work not wasted, hopefully. I finally feel the urge to get around to dealing with my neglected art.

There was that 5 year stint in the media that made me only live for the day and have the time to shoot/develop/upload the work I’d done that day. There was never enough time to go back and organise or rework the previous year’s efforts. There was only this rushing wave of ambition that headed in one direction - the future. Then there was the 7 year stint of full-time parenthood/part-time photographer. I could hardly string 10 full minutes together to gather my thoughts let alone create anything that took more than one fifteenth of a second.

Now the youngest child is at pre-school, I have three days a week to myself. I’ve had naps, watched ‘Cougar Town’, made elaborate salads, jogged with girlfriends, taken yoga classes, shopped, vacuumed, Facebooked, done laundry and sloughed my late thirties feet. But lately I have this hankering to actually do something about that nagging feeling called ‘my lost career’. It wasn’t really lost, it was just on the pause button.

There is a box of black and white film that dates back to 1991 that has been following me - it documents all the awful relationships I had, all the exotic places I went and now dream about, all the films I just couldn’t find the time to develop in my makeshift darkrooms in the bathrooms of Surry Hills or freezing laundry of Clovelly in the nineties, when I was holding down a day job and night school and shooting my heart out in between.

I’ve looked online and found my old favourite labs still open (surprisingly after the slaughterhouse of the Day of the Digital Camera) and I’ve got tomorrow pegged as lab drop-off and begin the process of exposing these little windows into my history.

I’m starting off cheap and cheerful by the seaside with Charing Cross Photo in Bronte at $6 a roll. But what I’d really prefer is the Blanco Negro hand job experience with a happy ending for $13.75 a roll