the sound of green

The end has come, of sorts, to the year already. By the time this afternoon draws to a close, I will have sent off the last of my pages for our final magazine edition for the year, and the bulk of the work will be behind me. Sure, there will still be proofing and other fiddly bits to follow up on tomorrow and Friday, but the majority of the hard slog is done. I can coast from here on in.

It’s peculiar to be faced with a month with little-to-no responsibility. December doesn’t see us produce a mag, as we don’t run a January edition – too many of our contributors and readers are away on holidays; churches shut down over parts or all of the break, and my editor and I both need to have holidays at some point. There will be work to do throughout December (planning for the coming year’s edition, sorting advertising rates and locking in our major advertisers, etc), but there’s no hassle of sourcing articles, booking in shoots with contributors, laying out columns, articles and pages, and no ads to design and fit into pages. It’s a somewhat freeing thought.

I’ve got plans of how I want next year to run. I’ve already started to map out a possible new timeline of how each edition could run, how our workflow could be improved, and how I can actually start to tie in photos with the articles and their content. It’s exciting to stare down a month’s worth of time and space to try and make these thoughts and plans a reality.

My personal work is oddly mirroring my Monday-to-Friday work as this year draws to a close. December is currently empty (much to my relief) with nothing but a possible client meeting or two. And I’m very excited of the time that it will allow me. Time to start pursuing some of the things I’ve had planned for a while.

My creative direct has been lacking of late – that much has become obvious to me over the past month or so. Tying into my previous post about writing, my creative direction has all of a sudden decided to re-emerge, and rear is (sometimes) ugly head. Once more I’m starting to actually see images I want to make. I’m starting to plan shoots in my head. I’m beginning to no longer struggle for ideas, no longer staring at my bag sitting next to my desk and wondering why it gets no use outside of work or client hours. My hand is itching to hold my camera again, and this is an infinitely good thing.

The problem with the sudden reappearance of creativity led to a clash between the want, the need, and the ability to both find the time and space to make any of those images a reality. I had these ideas I wanted to shoot, but was either in one of the two deadline weeks I live in each month, or flat out working for other clients. Holidays were in there as well, which did limit some ideas – but that time lying by the water at the beach and pool were both instrumental in gaining some clarity of what to do with my rediscovered muse. December affords me the time and space outside of work, as well as the lack of stress from major publication and distribution deadlines hanging over my head like Damocles’ upward glance revealed. All going to plan, the coming month (and especially having the lovely Christmas present from work of 10 days off) will be a chance to realise some of the plans that have been flying around my head at a million klicks.

I’m not going to say anything relating to what those plans are, just yet. I want to sit down and nut through a lot more of this with Beth first, and get a plan of action so that this month doesn’t waste away like so many have before. But I’m looking forward to December with baited breath.

Writing. There’s something alluring to it, something that calls to me. Writing has been a part of most of my enlightened life – ever since early primary, I was a big story writer. That continued and flourished into high school, with English being one of my biggest and best subjects, and one of the easiest. I could churn out an essay in the period before it was due, and know that I was guaranteed at least an A, if not an A+ for my last-minute efforts. In my spare time I wrote fiction; countless half-started plots that never amounted to anything more than a collection of hand-written pages sitting in a folder.

Writing gave way to blogging, soon after school finished and my time online increased exponentially. I’ve had a blog in some form or another since the end of 2002, and although the name, location and content have changed several times in the following seven years, there has been a blog of some description with my name (or at least a name) to it.

Here’s an admission: I used to write Star Wars fan fiction. That sentence alone completely outs me as the geek I am deep down, though I at times hide it behind the outgoing/creative/photographer exterior that I put forwards. Through the end of high school and into the first two years of Uni, I wrote my fair share of fan fiction. Most noticeable was a piece that spanned some 140-odd pages, something that I began in mid-high school and last contributed to during my early days of post-school freedom. Yet that, like most of my other work, sits in a folder. Collecting both physical and metaphorical dust.

My last attempt at writing any fiction came in 2005, when I attempted to participate in NaNoWriMo – National Novel Writing Month. Each November, participants are encouraged to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. I started on track, cranking through 2,000 or so words a day for the first few days, before the time and inkling to force myself to write wore off. I swore that even though I didn’t get it finished in the 30 days, I would at least do that idea and concept its fair duty and finish it – yet four years later, It’s still a Word Document that ends mid-paragraph. Since then, any writing has been solely limited to postings online, client contracts, the occasional training manual for work, and letters to Beth in the early days of our relationship.

Writing has been a part of my life for a while; that much by now you’re well aware of. And while I’ve never held the dream that I would become a writer, or even write anything that would be of a level to be published, I’ve realised I’ve always taken it for granted that writing would continue to be part of my life. For a long time though, I’ve had neither inspiration, desire, or the two combined to actually sit down at a desk, cafe, or anywhere with my laptop, and put more than a hasty post together. Recently it’s begun to change. Ideas are coming to me, lines of dialogue are popping into my head at the most random of times. Murder-thriller plot ideas coming to me whilst hanging up the washing in our roof void are one recent example. Yet I struggle to know what to do with any of this.

I’m not entirely convinced the ideas ever left me – more that they took on a different form or outlet. Studying Media and majoring in television production meant that a lot of time during my years at Uni were forcing myself to visualise concepts and ideas – and that translated to the following few years, as I continued to do the odd piece of production work. Yet that work has well and truly stopped for me – and thinking in terms of a video piece is now something I have to force myself to do, rather than something that happens of its own volition. These days, I also realise that writing comes under the overarching umbrella of creative direction and inspiration – but that’s a matter for further thought some other time.

I struggle to know what to do with the ideas now. My creative time is a lot less than it ever used to be. That in itself is not necessarily a bad thing or wrong thing (I for instance no longer find myself at a loose end wondering just what I’m going to do with my time), it simply means that I don’t have the time to sit, be still, and write. I struggle, because I wonder about the audience – whether certain things get or even merit one, and about how much of it is for sharing, and how much of it is an exercise in creativity and mental acuity for myself. Let’s be honest here – my job is not the most mentally draining or stimulating, more a matter of task & project managing, and being able to manage myself effectively with the freedom my job brings me. It boils down, therefore, to a matter of a few simple questions I need to work through. Do I make myself write? That’s something I’ve tried to do over the last few weeks, as I’ve felt my writing powers coming to the fore at certain times of day. Do I write simply as an outlet, as a way for me to continue to keep my mental and creative juices flowing, saving each file on my computer but taking it no further? Do I write, making the most of the micro-publishing that the internet allows us, and sharing all with what little audience I have? Or do I take that creativity, that time, as quantifiable measures, and direct them into other avenues – of which there are many I could see as inherently more useful and productive.

So I continue to try and sort through why I write. Whether I write. What I write. When I write. Who I write for. And wonder whether all the words produced amount to any, even infinitesimal, worth. Or whether they’re simply a slow, slow way of filling a hard drive.

The windows of the apartment next to ours are covered with foil. Initially there was one piece of aluminum covering the gap between two perpendicular venetian blinds, something that while semi-amusing, wasn’t all that out of the ordinary or explainable. Today however, the entire inside of the windows is covered with foil. It’s pressed right up against every single edge, right into the corners, and smoothed against the glass. All light from inside is blocked from spilling out; all light from outside is stopped from entering the room.

Seeing this, our curiosity is piqued. Discussing what it could be, we have a few laughs about the possibilities. Nothing more is thought about it, however, and we head down to the pool for an evening swim before dinner. The water is brilliantly warm, and it’s not long before the water is warmer than the breeze coming in off the water. Beth jumps out, having had enough of the water, and heads up to the apartment before returning with a laugh.

It turns out that the guests in the apartment next to us are visiting from the UK. The lady from that apartment met Beth outside the doors, wanting to explain the slightly weird use of foil. They’re a film crew for a television show back in Britain, a show that airs during the day there. They’ve been crossing live to the crew next door to us during the show, which due to the time differences turns out to be in the middle of the night our time. The foil, as the lady explains, is so that they can sleep during the day to be awake on London time for the show. There’s something to be said for traveling and working in such a manner. For starters, there would be no requirement to adjust yourself to the local time zone and enduring jet lag. No struggling to sleep, or struggling to wake up at odd and ridiculous hours. No return jet lag once you got home either. The only issue with that would be being able to isolate yourself enough from the local time zone, so that your body wouldn’t start adjusting by itself. You’d have to completely block out all outside light sources, and restrict yourself to only going outside in such a way that would be in fitting with the time zone you are continuing to exist in, even though you are on the other side of the world.

Turns out, covering your windows with aluminum foil and speaking to your neighbours after dark isn’t such a stupid idea after all.

The humidity is the first thing that hits me. As soon as I step out of the plane, I can feel the moisture in the air clinging to my skin and everything around me. It’s a familiar feeling, and I’ve long since found that I seem to deal with humidity a lot better than most. Whether it’s got something to do with the months spent in Malaysia visiting all of my Mum’s side of the family when I was a kid has anything to do with it, I’m not sure. What I am sure of is the slightly comforting feeling that it gives me each time I step off a plane in a humid place.

People are madly rushing to try and disembark as soon as they possibly can. One lady pushed her way from the very back of the plane to our row, 9th from the front, onto to be confronted with a wall of people also waiting to get their hand luggage out of the overhead compartments, and make their way down the stairs to the tarmac. Why she rushed, pushed and forced her way forward when in the end it made no difference to how quickly she was able to get off the plane, I don’t know. Beth and I shared a look as she came to a grinding halt right in front of Beth’s nose.

Inside the terminal, we’re greeted by the baggage carousel almost immediately. The whole airport is tiny, much smaller than any other airport I’ve flown into before. People are milling about, waiting for the conveyor belt to start up. I grab a place in the front row of passengers, not wanting to force my way through the crowds when our bags finally start appearing. An announcement comes over the PA, informing us that “Passengers arriving on flight TT504 please be advised there will be a delay of 20 minutes before your baggage will be available.” Collective groans fill the small arrival hall, and many people turn to their traveling companions in disbelief. They begin to wander off, not wanting to stand in one spot for the next 20 minutes, especially after sitting in the same seat for the previous two hours. A line forms almost instantly for the toilets, which Beth joins – a line that quickly becomes umpteen-odd people deep.

I decide to stay where I am, opting to stand instead of further sitting, and checking how things are progressing online on my phone. The terminal is the size of the office building I work in – which in itself is no big building by any stretch of the imagination – so there’s not much to explore. A quick check and update of both twitter and facebook fill the first couple of minutes, before I start to study my fellow passengers. As the stragglers arrive through the doors from the walk across the tarmac, I start to put complete pictures of people to the fragments I glanced of them through the gaps between seats and rows, or a glimpse as I walked past them.

There’s the pre-teen girl who was sitting one row behind and one seat over from me, who spent the entire flight playing a game on her dad’s laptop – with the annoying, high-pitched dinging sounds included. Whether it’s her age or her lack of patience – or more probably a combination of the two – she doesn’t seem suited to air travel. Immediately upon taking her seat in Melbourne, complains started about why the window couldn’t have been moved so that the seat looked directly out it. Or why the flight wasn’t going to take 5 minutes like it looked like it would on the map.

There’s also the group of twenty-something-year-old guys that were taking up three or four rows across the aisle from us. During the 80 minutes of the flight that drinks were served, they managed to consume several cans of beer each – with the promise of more to follow as soon as they arrived. The minute the announcement comes across the speakers, they grab their hand luggage and go searching for food and drink.

I can’t help but laugh to myself, as not more than three minutes after the announcement, our bags start to come out the conveyor belt. Within another minute, my bag and Beth’s suitcase are in our hands, and we head out the door to wait for Kaz. It’s overcast and spitting rain, but it’s still warm and humid. The sun will follow, we’re sure.

Kaz drives us to our apartment, and we check in. The apartment itself is far better than I thought it was going to be, and much better than the photos on their website led me to believe. It’s very nice, very modern, and has a fantastic view out the balcony, looking right out over Coolangatta Beach. Lunch is had on the balcony, and we settle in for the afternoon.

It’s going to be a good holiday.

Not just bad, we’ve had a shocking run of late. The kind of run that makes you finally realise that the timing of ‘accidents’ is controlled somewhere by a sardonic, lifeless guy in a little room, who is no doubt bald with terrible eyesight.

Thursday lunchtime, mere hours before it was our newest housemate’s 1st Birthday Party, I stupidly put the pastie in the microwave to heat up for the required three minutes, on a plate. Why, when I’ve never done such a thing, I would do so is still beyond me. The even stupider part was then picking up the plate to take out of the microwave. And burning all four fingertips on my right hand in the process. To make matters fun I’m right-handed, and burning all four fingertips effectively puts the whole hand out of action. Bandaged and sore, we made it through the kids party unscathed, with nothing more than a little pride hurt on my behalf. By Saturday morning, the bandages were all off, and all was well with the world.

Sunday, however, things turned bad again. What initially seemed like Beth’s morning sickness entering another round of “I’ll make you puke your guts out”, instead turned out to be gastro. Thankfully the puking stopped, but certain other things didn’t. Fast forward four days, and she’s still flat out asleep in bed at 5pm, exhausted from running on little-to-no food of crackers, water, apple juice and the occasional Powerade. Having survived week-long gastro a couple of times, I know what it can be like – but the combination of gastro and morning sickness has morphed into a hideous beast that is currently wreaking havoc on my wife’s internals. Thankfully a trip to the hospital and a separate trip to the doctor have both ruled out it having anything to do with the baby, but at this stage all we want it to do is stop.

We’re destined for Coolangatta on Friday, for seven nights on a fourth-floor apartment looking over the beach. We fly out Friday morning, and both of us are adamantly telling each other that she will be fine for Friday. Our last big fly-away holiday somewhere will not succumb to gastro. Hopefully it won’t.

Please?