Ok, I’m deaf, and so I’ve learnt to focus on the finer details to replace my “loss”*. Where hearing people might focus on the tones in the voice, being able to hold conversations on the phone that are far more personal than the written form (with emails and the such further saturating that world). Despite being unable to detect a person’s tone on the phone, I can detect the ‘tone’ IRL – In Real Life, that is, face to face.

Our masks extend to all over our body, as the subtlest fidget can betray the emotions within. My father are often amazed at how quickly and accurately I can tell if something is on his mind, but it’s just a simple sense to me, made easy by years of being in silence.

Of course, there are some who might be tone deaf blind in terms of body language, with some deaf people yapping away and you are radiating discomfort and piss-the-fuck-off signals, inches away from vomiting blood all over the tone-blind person and running off into the night.

My family and friends can tell, for most part, the weather in me – but that’s normal for most characters who find themselves wealthy with family and friends. My friends and I can even tell if a couple will last or not, based on their body language towards each other – hey, we should get a job in those women’s rags where they bring in body language experts to analyse Brangelia!

It’s difficult to meet with some hearing people for me, because in some odd ways (conflicting with the rest of me) I am shy, and the first sign of discomfort in the person’s body sends me stuttering, smiling, and slipping away. I don’t like to make people uncomfortable, unless they’ve somehow pissed me off. And unfortunately, one of the first few signals that a hearing person might fire off – not on purpose – when chatting to me might be a sense of alienation, disorientation, and uncomfortableness. Anyone would be, if they found themselves talking to someone of a completely different world. So, these signals twig my antennas, and I freak out a little.

However – what truly upsets me – is when someone that’s been in my circle for a long time, shoots out signals that are like emo-bombs on my radar, and I don’t know whether to butter up or flee. They may not be deaf, but still, I wonder how they do not know, after years, how easy it is for me and my friends (oh boy, let my friends tell you!) to see it blaring like a gory scene from SAW VI.

It makes me wonder if they’re (being hearing) really trying to hide it at all, or that they’re sending it out on purpose (since they know me), and I get offended, but I do not show it. I put on my best smile, radiate charismatic vibes, and hide if my presence bothers their Highnesses. It goes on for so long – and it starts seriously bugging me. I can’t tell them I know what they’re not telling me, and I certainly can’t tell them to fix it. It’s not as if it’s some kind of a switch, but it’s not an excuse either.

If it bugs you, fix it. If you can’t fix it, move on. Life is NOT about brooding and seething, because those two are like viruses – they can spread, and that’s a downer, isn’t it? I want that as a hologram, flashing above my head with the tune being DANGER, WILL ROBINSON, DANGER! Life is about being HAPPY and showing that. No one is holding you back, nothing is either, and those so called blocks – they’re obstacles rather – and you can get over them and be happy! It doesn’t take much effort to lighten up and embrace life, especially if you’re missing people in your life – they would want you to be happy, and hell, the ones around you WANT you to be HAPPY!!!!!!

*It’s like replacing Snoozeberry-flavoured cake with vanilla cake. I’ve never tried snoozeberry, and I never will be able to, and Vanilla cake is a perfectly fine replacement for something like that.

The other day I had a bit of an epiphany while my fingers crawled over the hangers in the vintage shop.

I love reading blogs about altering your wardrobe with a needle and thread, reviving your clothes, and the ultimate ‘trashion’, such as Outsapop which I read quite religiously these days.

So much, it has inspired me to trawl the shops and markets of vintage wear, nose quivering, looking for a boring, withered and terrible outfit that makes my heart beat very fast and I whisper “…it has POTENTIAL!”

Sadly, the last few months have born no fruit; no drumming of the heart or pings on my drowsing nose (one of the only uses for my long nose). And there I was, rummaging through a new shop I’d discovered on St George Road, thinking idly about pretty stones and how one certain little ex-babysitted brat is doing in a two-month camp in the middle of no where, and I’d written to tell her the secret of where to dig up beautiful amethyst crystals.

Then! That’s when I had the epiphany, sirs, and I had to learn how to spell that just today, about me and my gemstone collection – I never ever brought one of those tumblers (to smooth out rough crystals into those shiny stones at the hippy shop) or readily hopped on my friend’s lapidary (polishing gemstones into jewellery pieces) wagon. Once I buy/pick up something, it stays the way it is. Someone suggests to me that I should polish the amethyst crystal I found at the two-month camp, or the rough lapidary sample I brought at a market, and I give them a blank look. Why should I? I brought it because of its present looks, not because of what it was going to be after a bit of elbow grease. I don’t even polish the battered vintage shoes I’ve brought until my mother, out of sheer exasperation, polishes them herself with dark mutterings.

The clothes I buy from the vintage shops are brought in the exact same mindset; aside from maybe a few repairs or a bit of hemming or a take-in, jobs that take barely 10 minutes, my mind goes blank at the idea of grossly altering them. I mean, they caught my eye. I brought them, and they looked fab on me. Why should I tear them up further? I feel as though I’d be destroying its original principle, and something that had been intact for decades is lost forever in the passage of time – much like a crystal dug up from a 10-million-year-old bed rock, and the original shape is tossed in a 99.99 dollar tumbler to become a polished coloured rock.

However, if it’s already been polished and set and so on, and it still catches my eye, I take my wallet out. It’s the same with fabrics and clothes – I have a huge pile of fabrics that I still CANNOT decide what to make out of them!

Now, I can imagine should my future husband to be (if there is one) drops to his knee, decides to do something unique (as per my gemstone hobby) and gives me a uncut diamond crystal, proudly declaring that it is for my engagement ring, and that I can choose whatever cut I want to make of it (oooh how romantic!).

I’d give him a blank look. “Cut it!?!”

Quite a few things have happened in the end of September and the beginning of October!

As I write, Inky sleathily snakes towards me, trying to sneak upon me, for he smells the snapper fish flesh on my fingers… and notice how he pauses and pretends he was just cleaning his coat – not being a rogue, nosiree!

Firstly:

I gots a STUDIO! In Northcote, a suburb that is largely untouched by the migrating yuppies (for the moment being), often considered “the Fitzroy suburb of the old”. My studio is a steal at 35 dollars a month- for two 1-metre squares of space. With many thanks to my father, I moved in with a table, chair, cushions, easel and boxes of books and art supplies.

Then a day went by where I had to defend myself against my nieces – Nancy with her dinosaur obsession, Maxie with her stubborn and sensitive nature (say no and watch the waterworks), and Alex, who found purpose over and over again to puke milk on everything, including my shiny silver skirt. Thanks a lot.

Then! The next day, I scurried to my studio, and spent the whole day. Then Friday, the same. Saturday, that as well. And Today as well! Tomorrow I have to step into the ring of nieces once more, but after that, STUDIO TIME! 7 days a week if possible! WHOOOO!!!! I honestly cannot think of any other things to do… other than go to the studio!

I doodle, I draw, I sketch, I paint, I read, I doze… it’s so quiet though, I forget I’m deaf, and I’m sure I make a few rude or weird noises during those quiet times. Sorry, invisible neighbours.

And SECONDLY!

I gots a BIKE!!! It was an agnoising 3 weeks of fluttering around on the internet and bike shops, desperately trying to find a nice bike, one that would suit me perfectly – I had a vision of a super-cool vintage bike that would be older than me with a lovely emblem on its front. Something I would be proud to put between my legs. Mmmmmmmm….

I looked around on ebay, missed out on a few with some cursing, and then suddenly, lo and behold – I found him! So gallant! His pictures seemed too good to be true, so I rushed over to inspect it, and my heart melted. He was the one. Even as I type, ignoring Inky ignoring me, I gaze at my darling with a simpering smile.

The hour of the auction arrived, and I stuck myself at my desk, eyes bulging and chewing my upper lip, my heart pounding… clicking on the refresh pages hundreds of times… flashing out and pressing “PLACE NEW BID”… and then, in a blink, I missed it – the auction had passed – and IT WAS MINE!!!

I jumped around in joy, grabbed my helmet and made to run out into the dusk to pick him up, when mum placed herself stoutly in my path and told me that it was dark and it was a new bike, how would I know if it would carry me home responsibly?

I bowed and soon enough, it began to rain hard… I started to count the minutes till the next day into the afternoon, where I made tracks to the address: handed over the cash, and then – he was MINE!

Isn’t he stunning? A french-made Peogeot bike, (from 1977, my friend suspects), with 95% of the original parts, a bit of surface rust (but hey, I like my men rugged!) and some chips and bruises. I don’t trust clean-cut-crisp men – I love men like Indiana Jones, especially after they’ve been chased by tribes and giant stone balls! His name shall be Peogeot, and I’ll have to take him in for a service – fix up the brakes and re-wire the lights (which are self-generating! AWESOME!) and take my time to polish him up a little, remove some rust here and there. Oh mama, when he’s between my legs, I’m in heaven!

I took him out for a long ride today, and man is my whole lower parts sore… Peogeot sure rode me instead! Hehehehe…

Today I started the search for an art studio, with my father’s car as my fine mount for the journey.

Of course, I will have to let go of the mount and purchase a small little pony, perhaps from Pony Bikes, complete with an absolutely necessary accessory for my wardrobe: a modern white army flight helmet, the sort that the army dudes wear to direct those eagles to the ground. I can see it now… imposing white helmet, mirror shades, nifty bike with a pretty basket, and a very elegant dress (with clips so it doesn’t flash lucky passerbyers). Mmmmmmmm!

Back to the art studios… I’m looking for a cheap place with plenty of light and the heady smell of oil paints*. I saw two today, and both were quite different. One was smaller and more intimate, as well as being near the outdoor swimming pool (I prefer those far much to an indoors one), but it was much darker and the prices weren’t so good. However, the second place had so much light, and was quite cheap, and seemed to be crowded with much more artists, but I might get lost in all of that – and it seemed more professional to my meek dabblings. The former is available immediately with a month by month lease, while the latter has a waiting list and contract plan.

There’s three and four more names on my list that has yet to get back to me, so nothing has been made certain… but for my eagerness to move my work out of my mother’s home and into a small, personal space I can escape to and lost myself into my work, and chat to other artists for inspiration and worldly matters.

I can hardly wait!

*Trivia: I do not like blue cheese, particularly the strong vintage kind, because they do smell and taste like oil paint. How do I know? Because I had a habit of chewing on pencils at school, and when I was doing oil painting I’d pause to nibble on the brush handle, but one or two times I put the wrong end in my mouth, which would cause me to bolt to the sink to wash out the foul taste frantically.

I should totally patent this idea.

Like, I totally LOVE True Blood. So trashy and horrific and excellent! A bit like The Bold And The Beautiful if it had vampires…

For the last 9 days, I’ve been on a diet.

Yes, the Lizard is on a diet. Not one of those supermodel lemon-cayenne-maple drink diets or Atkins or whatever, but an acid reflux diet.

You see, I have a build up of acid in my body – and it’s gotten to the point where that I can tick off a lot of boxes in the questionnaire of “Are you a Giger ALIEN?” when I apply for a spaceship occupation.

Last year, I had to give up pepsi max (aaaargh) as it had been acting as a diuretic, washing out all the salt and other nutrients, leading to the worsening of my hypotension symptoms – and I think by the amount I used to drink, it also washed out all the excess acid in my system.

So. Two weeks ago, my health hit a boulder and splat – I went on the internet to check out (as I couldn’t be bothered going to the doctors) and found out about acid/alkaline levels. From the sounds of it, I was a perfect candidate for an Alien Queen.

I decided to force myself on this diet, kicking off all acidic foods and eating alkaline-rich foodstuff, and went into severe withdrawal symptoms for lack of cheezels, ms&ms, big mac, malsters, KFC, salt n vinegar chips, Big M, salami, cheese, pizza, steak and fries, you get the picture.

Imagine a little blue tongue shivering and dribbling in a pool of its feverish sweat, hallinucating about flying big macs and cadbury bars, desperately clutching a celery stalk with almond butter in it.

It’s been 9 days, and I’ve been dutifully keeping a food diary to make sure I don’t snap and buy family-sized meals or make a tub of buttercream frosting. I feel a bit more better, as in body only – my addiction to sublime junk food is burning holes in my psyche – but it’s all about the long term, baby.

In a month, I’ll start re-introducing good acidic foods slowly (i.e. eggs, milk, chicken, lean meat) and keep junkfood to a very low percent – say, one or twice a month.

I know it sounds hellish, but I’m taking it into my stride by pretending that the scattered list of alkaline food is a challenge for me, future Master Chef – to turn healthy food into absolutely delicious dishes that you refuse to believe is healthy.

GO GO GO GO GO GO LIZARD GO GO GO GO GO GO!!!!

I just made my second batch of Cauliflower soup, after a taste of the most divine creamiest soup at the spiffy restaurant TAXI, sandwiched between the bar TRANSIT and the pub TRANSPORT on the corner of Federation Square. It was so purely delicious, it was like it was cauliflower-flavoured cream with a hint of olive oil and nutmeg.

I made my first batch about a week ago – and what a bloody effort it was! I’d forgotten I had no blender or mixer to smooth out the soup, and quite frankly, there is a big difference between vegetable soup and vegetable puree. So I took the long step of force-straining cups of soup through a little plastic flour strainer, like those Japanese horsehair strainers that they made paste with. For all the effort it was, it was so delicious that it disappeared over only two days between my mother and I. I made zucchini and parmesan soup next, but it wasn’t a favourite of my mother, so I still have some frozen.

I decided to try making my second batch, having made fresh chicken stock the night before, and set about simmering a whole head of cauliflower and parsnips in the chicken stock. Hours later, it was done, and I used a new appliance that my sister had loaned to me – she’d heard about my soup making endeavours and loaned me an extra one. It looks like a vibrator, and you stick one end into the soup and buzzzzzzzz away. Tilt the soup vibrator the wrong way or too shallowly, and you get sprayed. Fun.

I completed the soup, and sampled it. It tasted… odd. Something was missing. I added lemon juice, more white pepper, more salt, even a boost of chicken stock powder, but it all just tasted strange… just odd, like it was one of those canned soups.

Then it hit me – the difference was in the technique! The slow force-straining with a wooden spoon flavoured the soup more than a soup vibrator that smelt of burnt rubber after I’d finished! Sheesh.

As my mother said after tasting the soup: it has lost its integrity…

Ever since I left Pagemasters to seriously pursue my artistic dreams, I’ve been caught up in a deluge of ideas that come too often, leaving me scrambling to jolt them down before I lose them – and more often than not, distracts me from my work on my portfolio. My portfolio is at the moment a bit of a secret, seeing as it could be the first of its kind in the world that is portfolio designer platters.

For example, my father at his post production company some years ago, said that he often received a swarm of applications for internships or occupation at his company, so he devised a cruel but efficient way of culling the pile on his desk: anything that was a white piece of paper with black typography immediately went into the shredder.

He told me of how one day he received a package that had a bag of blood in it – fake, of course – and a letter attached: “NEED NEW BLOOD?” along with the applicant’s portfolio on a disc. Needlessly to say, he immediately booked him in for an interview.

So! My portfolio is finally coming together after a series of failed and limp ideas (thank goodness), all leading to this masterpiece that should be available very soon!

As for the ideas, they range from the serious to the absolutely silly, such as Bukkae White Fist with no explanation necessary, Phông Le the Vietnamese concierge with a skull in her left eye socket, Elise the Steampunk Occultist, to name a few.

I know for certain what I want to do: EVERYTHING! I want to learn as many skills as possible and excel in them all (even bloody acrylics, blergh) as my art teacher used to say, “Once you know how to draw, everything else – pfffbt!” Along with my characters to develop, I have a list that is filled with things to learn like 3D, Flash MX, gouache, jewellery smithing, shoe making, felt sewing… like my little brother once said that he’d love to become an ‘all trades Joe’ (literally, ha!), I want to become an all trades Illustrator!

Thank you to my dearest friend, who told me the world is at my fingertips.