Top Gun

Recently I was paid a visit from a super hero.

It was not the first time I had crossed paths with this stunning creature who ignites the skies. I had met him before and we had come together a few months after that, quite randomly as these things go.

A F18 Fighter Pilot, the super hero calls himself a free spirit - a mad keen surfer who chases the waves in Micronesia and travels the world for work. With his intrepid lifestyle, it's a surprise I met him at all. I've hardly moved from this town in two years and when I do it's to visit friends and family in Adelaide or Sydney.

But life works like that if you let it. Super hero and I met through a mutual friend. The more people you reach out to... the more introductions find their way.

In the short time of our acquaintance - super hero turned my humdrum existence on its head. He inadvertently reminded me life can be an adventure and with the right people on board, a whole lot of fun.

Super hero's long gone, no doubt saving other mere mortals like me from the mundanities of everyday life. He said to think of him when I see jets flying overhead. But F18 fighter jets don't often pass this way. Nor do people like him. But for the brief moment they do, their super powers keep us fully charged.

Learning from Marilyn, it could all end today

I'm a huge Marilyn Monroe fan - I can't remember when my fascination began, but it's been years and years and years. So many years that I am now the age Marilyn was when she died. I'm 36 and two months old. Marilyn Monroe was 36 and two months old (01-6-26 to 05-8-62).

It's made me think about my life and her life - and how one so short in relative terms can have so much impact. At the same age, I find this inspiring. I have also thought how lucky I am to have escaped what Marilyn didn't. World and media focus, mental illness and drugs.

It's also made me consider what comes next.

At present for me life is in limbo. I am living in Melbourne - but don't particularly want to be here any longer - so I've made steps to move on. I have entered the Green Card Lottery and find out next year (May 2011) if I become a US citizen. My father, slightly bemused by this prospect, took it on himself to do some research into my chances for success and reported back "I think you can forget it." He read that millions applied last year and just over 1000 Australians won - not sure which stats he pulled from, but the bottom line is; unlikely. I've also met someone who has entered it for the past five years - so he's living proof, the odds are stacked against us!

I have a beautiful pet dog who I have written about here before. He's 16.5 years old - already well past average life expectancy. I had a boyfriend with the promise of setting up home and having kids - but he chose to exit stage left. So now I'm in between boyfriends and plodding the single trail - wondering if I will ever have children?

I was working in an office throughout my 20s and early 30s, but now, I'm at home consulting on my own - driven by my desire to be with Walt the dog and to determine my own pace - in life and work.

Many things feel in between. But it ain't bad overall. I'm proud to be strong enough not to be led too much by keeping up with the Jones' and feeling as though I should be doing what society says I should be doing.

In God's Waiting Room

I have been meaning to write some more about my 16 year old dog while he's still with me, because I'm feeling he's slipping away each day bit by bit.

My dog, Walter, is a handsome Shetland Sheepdog (think smaller version of Lassie) who as a puppy my mum brought back from Adelaide (to Melbourne) with her on a trip with dad. We'd lost mum's beloved German Shepherd about a year before quite unexpectantly and through family friends had been introduced to a dog breeder in Adelaide - which inevitably brought us Walter.

Meanwhile during this time I was at uni and had developed a mad crush on an Arts student called Walter. He was heavenly looking - everyone saw it - and for a long time my friend Linda and me called this stallion 'Wild One'. It would be "Oh, there's Wild One" and I'd have to run off and eat a chocolate Magnum to help fill the void of burning desire...!

Wild One wore black; black jeans, black tees and being of Euro/Asian descent he had gorgeous brown tinged skin, black hair and deep brown eyes. I later came to learn his name - Walter - and like any lovestruck teenager brimming with thoughts of first love I did nothing at home but rant onto my mother about Walter this and Walter that.

As a bit of a joke, my mother called the new puppy - Walter. And to add further mirth, she called him Walter Warwick, as I'd dated a Warwick not long before.

While Walter the dog's namesake never returned my lustful affections - remaining the great unrequited love of my life - he did once say to me when I ran into him at a cafe years later: "Yeah, I heard you named your dog after me..."

Walter the dog, had become what Walter the man never could - the love of my life.

Today, it's just me and Walt, and I've been honouring this relationship by working from home to be with him through the golden years.

Walter is a most special dog.

I lost my mother to cancer 14 years ago - Walt was two.

He has seen through every significant love in my life and relished having a new 'alpha' male about the place during this time. He's seen the relationships fail, mourned their loss and been a darn fine comfort to me in trying to make sense of it all. Walter has been a staunch support. He's seen me cry more than anyone - hovering to let me know he's there - watching. In these times, he's stuck to me like glue. And when things are going ok - he's off doing his own thing - usually resting - but often with one eye watching.

We've been through so much in the past 16 years - my mother's passing, getting another dog (free to good home) as a companion, only for Maggie Charly (cross Lab/German Short Hair pointer) to turn on Walt and gnash him so badly that with the recommendation of a dog behaviouralist "I have grave concerns for Walter's welfare" I had to have Maggie Charly put down at age eight (Walt was 12 at the time).

At 10 Walter became the "miracle survivor" of tick paralysis - I had been away and my boyfriend at the time didn't notice anything wrong (he hadn't been around to notice) but fortunately when he did see Walt, and intuitively suspected as a doctor, something was very wrong. I'll never forget leaving what I thought was a healthy pet one day to hear the voice of the vet on the other end of the line saying "50/50" by chance of Walt making it through the next.

In his old age, he's grown mostly deaf and has episodes of dementia - he ended up in Albert Park Lake in Melbourne one evening on a walk wandering across the path and falling into the water. A passing jogger yelled to me as I searched for Walt "Is that your dog swimming in the lake?".

We've lived in Melbourne, Darwn and Sydney together and he's travelled with me to Canberra, Adelaide, Mount Gambier, the Mornington Peninsula and Beechworth (Ned Kelly country) in Victoria. This dog, you could say, has lived a cat's life (nine lives).

We're currently in Sydney - having endured an 11 hour car trip from Melbourne to stay a fortnight in a beautiful home on the harbour - wide open spaces, just me and Walt.

I watch him laying across from me, resting so quietly that I'll often spy his rib cage for signs of breath. I bless every day he's here to share in my life.

Small talk turns deep with strangers

I've read about what I'm going to write about here on at least one other occasion. A female columnist wrote about connecting with strangers not so long ago in the Sunday Age's 'Sunday Life' publication, and I've bought Beth Orton's CD "Comfort of Strangers" based on the same premise. The other night, I saw a play, "Intimacy", part of the Melbourne International Arts Festival, which was devised around the concept of the intimacy that can develop in conversations with strangers.

My friend, Nicole, works at the play's theatre company and she will often organise tickets for me to see the season's works. By now Nicole has an accurate cursor of what I like and don't like in my theatre productions. And more often than not, she knows to put my bum on the seat of the more traditional works. I like a story and I like that story to encompass the full gamut of human emotion. I want my plays to be meaningful. A Leo star sign; we gravitate towards drama.

On Friday night Nicole offered me a ticket to Intimacy - a play based on the principal character's real life experiences of meeting random people - ie strangers -and asking them if they were open to conversation. The play is a result of those who agreed to partake and the essence of what was said during that time.

Nicole conceded Intimacy wasn't the type of theatre she would usually recommend for me but in her own words: "there's something so subtle and honest about(it)and I thought you'd appreciate that". Once again, her street smarts to my tastes hit the mark.

The reason Intimacy worked so well for me is that it could have been me in that play. The lead character takes himself out on his neighbourhood street one Friday night in thriving St Kilda and asks passers by if they are up for a chat. He's on his own for the night and just feels like talking. He knows he could call a friend, even go out with a friend, but tonight, he seeks something new. A connection of a different kind.

And so we are led through the play with four different characters he meets and in each exchange the audience sees a snapshot of what these people are about.

The day after seeing Intimacy I called Nicole to debrief. We both had a chuckle about some of the awkward pauses in the play that are typical between strangers coming together. For example, once finished talking about one subject, it's more than likely you'll hit a standstill as you have no historical context to the person you've just met, until eventually one of you says something and off the conversation rolls via its new tangent.

No less than an hour after hanging up from Nicole I experienced my own Intimacy moment. Another of many I've experienced especially as I've gotten older - or perhaps more to the point, my dog has gotten older - as he walks a snail's pace and I wait on - a prime target for passing people inclined to stop and chat.

The last two connections I had with strangers unravelled a tremendous depth of personal information - something that only a good friend or family member would usually be privy to.

Both these incidents were triggered by the women commenting on Walt's feeble gait and how fragile he is. They both asked "how old?" And on both occasions, entering into a conversation about Walter soon evolves into a conversation about you and the other person accompanied by general life observations.

The woman yesterday revealed she had just been diagnosed with breast cancer and the lack of bedside manner of the surgeon assigned to her had aggravated her to the point she gave him the bird as we call it colloquially - the middle finger - and said "fuck you" after he was done realing off the standard steps of cancer treatment. It was clear from the scenario she painted that the "Mister" surgeon had treated her not as a human being, but as a number. The message in her recalling this tale was "don't let others tell you what you must do (in this context, about Walt the old dog and when it comes to letting him go). You decide."

The other exchange I had recently that left its footprint was during one of my regular visits to the local fruit and veg market.

The woman was elderly, I'm guessing Russian by her accent, who like yesterday's introduction, commented on Walt's old age, my old man (dog) had been slacking several paces behind me.

We only spoke for about 15 minutes but within this time shared tears! She told me how an old stray cat was the soul to her existence. She cared for her mother at home and the two of them derived so much joy from the once hapless moggie who had found its homecoming in their arms some years before. She had experienced intense heartbreak; her only son committed suicide and from memory, she was the one to find him.

So while not traditional theatre, Intimacy truly struck its chord for me. It's a play where those who take the time to 'stop and smell the roses' will feel their own chill of 'deja vue'.

Nice is the new black

I recently had the fortune to be in the company of two very great men. In the short time we had working together these two greats imprinted my heart with a memory stamp I will hold dear for some time.

The first, American film director, Tim Burton, and the second, the Director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York, Glenn D Lowry (Tim Burton photo above, Glenn D Lowry below).

In Melbourne, where I live, I don't often cross paths with people of this stature so when an old work buddy asked me what I was doing for the week Mr Burton was due in town to open Tim Burton: The Exhibition at the Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI), I cleared my diary and jumped at the chance.

You see, I've wanted to be an actress from the moment I knew what it meant to be one. Growing up, I thought actors never aged, that every time I saw the same film (and I would have seen Grease and The Wizard of Oz some 300 times), the director had to rally the actors all over again, and they would assemble to replay their parts. That of course was when I was little. I thought it was a wonderful way to cheat growing old.

I realised acting wasn't for me at 22. I could act, but I would not be able to rely on my acting skills alone - they weren't of the calibre that would see a legendary Hollywood career and having a size 14 figure, I realised I wouldn't be able to fall back on a model figure, unlike so many young actresses who began on the catwalk and moved to celluloid with one smoulder and unclipping of their bra strap.

So instead, I forged a career in PR with aspirations to one day work in the creative arts.

I've always loved being around people who are making a contribution and have made a difference to their vocation. That's why I've steered my career to include working with politicians and high-level business people. I've met and worked with the Prime Minister and many other Ministers at Federal and State level as well CEOs of Top 500 companies.

And so when Mr Burton came to Melbourne in June 2010 - I was psyched (along with the several journalists scheduled to meet Mr Burton).

Nonetheless, I am a pragmatic person and of course, those we put on pedestals rarely live up to their heights. But Mr Burton did - and then some. And so too, Mr Lowry - the Director of MoMA, MoMA the first exhibition space to host Tim Burton: The Exhibition. Apparently in season three of Gossip Girl one character (Jenny) turns to the other (Nate) and asks: “Do you want to go check out the Tim Burton exhibition at MoMA?” Classic. Art imitates life and vice versa.

Devoid of pretension, full of appreciation, graciousness and gentile - these men demonstrated to me that being top of their fields does not mean they escape their manners and common courtesy.

I suspect (particularly before the Global Financial Crisis), a lot of Wall Street bankers and corporate heavyweights practice their days just like this - treating people as necessary tools to use and abuse in the A to B pathway towards sating their own greed.

Both Mr Burton and Mr Lowry are powerful, rich and successful. The exemption is, and this is what impresses me, they are both extraordinarily NICE.

Mr Burton spoke to journalists about the importance of forging a connection with people, to tap into people on that emotional level, to relate to the everyday man.

This sentiment carries to his movies. Mr Burton shook my hand, looked me in the eye, smiled and greeted me with ease. On the job, he approached his numerous media interviews with humility and enormous generosity.

From all accounts media interviews are not Mr Burton's favourite thing but he revealed an intimate piece of his private life, for example answering one journalist's questions to do with “What I know about women” with candid charm.

“You could say our meeting was quite primal,” he said of Helena Bonham Carter whom he met on the set of his film Planet of the Apes.

As well: "It's better late than never..." for him and Helena to have children (Mr Burton was in his 50s when his son and daughter were born).

He talked about old girlfriends, meeting one, a German woman in London, and feeling an instant connection to her and his new city. Everything about the circumstance was foreign but to him, he felt like he'd come home. This experience appealed to him having grown up feeling like a foreigner in his own country.

He noted that no matter how successful one becomes in life, no matter what great things can occur, that if you have a predisposition to feel sad or lonely, a tendency to gravitate to the melancholy that it's in your DNA, and thus remains so. No amount of success or happiness will diminish that side of you.

Here I was sitting next to and listening to a man who has directed some of Hollywood's biggest names: Johnny Depp, Dianne Weist, Jack Nicholson, Sarah Jessica Parker, Glenn Close, Danny DeVito – the list goes on.

Mr Burton was so human and grounded. But I felt like I’d met an angel.

Glenn D Lowry is the Tim Burton of the art world - ie you don't come much more successful.

The day he was lined up to do three consecutive interviews on ABC Radio - Virginia Trioli, ABC Breakfast; Jon Faine, ABC Mornings and; Amanda Smith Art Works - Labor called a leadership spill and Julia Gillard was contesting Kevin Rudd for the role of Prime Minister.

Overturned by local and hard news, the first two interviews with Mr Lowry were cancelled. The grace with which he reacted to the last minute cancellations astounded me.

There was no drama, no tantrums, no: “Do you know who I am?” rants.

“It happens, I completely understand," Mr Lowry said, adding: “It's a good time to be in Australia. You see what happens when Mr Burton comes to town?” Magical.

Snoop dog

As a woman who fancied her career path to either take to the stage, or the pen (ie journalist), I'm one who likes to take an active interest in (almost inhabit) other people's lives - their thoughts and feelings - get the insights and know-how to what they're all about. A woman's sixth sense digs deep.

Don't throw stones at people in glass houses. I am renowned as an eternal foot in mouth girl, blunt, constantly offending or upsetting people, but it's been in surrounding myself with a wise and socially aware crowd, that I feel in my dirty 30s ;-) I'm finally coming around. I centre myself on peace (achievement with help in partnership from those aforementioned). While certainly flawed, I try to be well meaning in action and intention, and believe I'm getting there....almost.

An inheriently social person, in moments of solitude and perhaps in the name of nostalgia, I'll find myself....snooping.

Checking out facebook profiles, googling the internet for signs of 'where are they now?' - the people I've burned (or they've burned me), grown apart from, let go, broken up with or simply lost track of.

By prying into the ghosts of the past I am glimpsing a piece of what was to what is today - and it's quite intoxicating - detective like. With this folly, old friends or lovers, become yours again when their photo smiles back at you in albums posted and their voice is heard through wall post entries.

For weeks post a breakup I would intermittenly check the facebook profile of a society ex girlfriend of his - I liked to see her latest photos - check out what she was wearing, doing, observe through the privacy of my own home and safe screen divider, how her life was panning out post him. In my eyes, we were the road kill of a shared but defunct relationship with a fallen prince. With the dulls of heartache lifted, so has the spell of cyber courting her, he's gone and she no longer rates on my radar of concern....although I do someday think I would like to meet her in real life. There I go again. It shouldn't matter because when you move on from past loves so do you move on from the insecurity of having their ex-girlfriends live somewhere there in your psyche.

And just like ex loves, the ex girlfriends, broken friendships, and lost acquaintances are probably best left in the reality of the past not to be revisited -as tempting as it is with one click of the mouse.

Under our skin

If you will permit me to have a Carrie Bradshaw moment - I have been thinking of the beauty within pain. Pain of heartbreak that is.

Looking back at lost love it’s easy to slip into the romantic delusion that your heart belongs to your lost love and the fact it is no longer there, brings about a feeling of loss so profound the pain is palpable.

To be denied the connection you had with someone - a love and lust that can no longer feed in the physical realm - is to find yourself in a world of solitude, of aloneness that leaves us in a state that is nothing less than aching.

But interesting it is - this state of melancholy can also be tantalising, consuming and addictive. The state of mind that allows itself to be lost to and idealise the past is an escape from reality, the now, the present, where we are and where we need to journey.

It's the elixir of anaesthesia.

Sure our (now ex) boyfriends may have been the best thing since sliced bread but the universe paves its way in unforseen territories and if she forces us to part - it is essential we honour this and accept the inevitability our step is to build a new life sans Don Juan.

Find our own feet and tread the next gradient solo.

Until the future man of our dreams falls in our lap, it's our romantic connection to the nostalgia of the past that keeps lost loves at the forefront of our minds and in our present.