Blog

Lady to Ladette?

/ Zenobia Frost / 2 Comments

Important news, readers. Auditions are being held for the next season of Aussie Ladette to Lady.

There’s actually a large portion of my brain (or if not my brain, then my kidneys) that would very much like for me to go on that show.

Sadly, a friend did point out the other day that I don’t regularly binge drink, swear at strangers, or moon people. Well, maybe I should learn. We’re talking a free five-week course in cookery, dress-making and etiquette, here. After all, I’m hardly a perfect lady, so it can’t be too hard to head in the other direction. Right?

A few days later, while recording some spoken word demos, Nerissa pointed out that to ‘pass’ as a ladette I’d probably have to be hip to whatever young people today are into. I am a young person; I must be hip. Right? Hmm. Actually, right now I’m thinking of the number of times the high school students I tutor smack their heads against their desk when I try to make up-to-date pop culture references.

I’m just trying to make it interesting for them. Okay, so I don’t completely understand these sparkly Cullen people listening to bands composed of young men who sport fringes at jaunty angles and jeans that are half falling-off, singing about how much things bleed when you cut yourself shaving. Maybe they shouldn’t use Aspirin, or something. Doesn’t that thin the blood? Maybe they should buy safety razors and make sure to use shaving cream.

I don’t know.

I should probably get back to pretending I know which poems I should submit to Publications of Interest.

I should print a zine titled ‘prominent literary magazines’ so that everyone who’s in it can put that on their CV and feel great.

Oh. This photo. This is a picture of the inside of my head:

zenbrain

Here’s a small poem to reward you for getting through this blog entry without your brain also turning into feathers and sparkly things.

~~~

Epilogue I

I see the moon half-empty
behind spilled-milk clouds.
In the backyard hammock,
I drink gin and tonic
and wait for the sun.

That sun has so much
to be glad about.

Things I Want to Be when (if) I (n)Ever Grow Up

/ Zenobia Frost / 2 Comments
  • Writer of The Great Australian Novel, or just the great Zenobian novel—that’d be lovely
  • Owner of a hat museum
  • A tiger trainer
  • Owner of a 50s-themed milk-bar
  • The host of Antiques Roadshow
  • A burlesque dancer / cabaret star / hula hoopist / belly dancer
  • A travelling safer-sex educator
  • A professor of linguistics and mythology
  • A mermaid in the circus freak-show
  • An explorer and anthropologist
  • A fairy at children’s parties, minus the children
  • A drag king
  • A martial arts master
  • A champion swing-dancer
  • The person who gets to name the stars

NEWS:

You can now subscribe to this blog by email! Receive poems fresh in a bottle first thing in the morning–but don’t forget to put the bottle out for recycling at night.

Subscribing would be a great way to keep up with my impending important annoucements! My chapbook will be launched by SweetWater Press on the 3rd of May at Metro Arts. More details to come shortly, but keep the evening of Sunday the 3rd free.

Adventures in Outer Brisbane

/ Zenobia Frost / Leave a comment

This morning my engines were kick-started by a sight of this ’67 Ford Fairview outside my medical clinic:

Ford Fairview

Om nom nom. Sometimes cars just get me going a little too much.

Anyhoo, after my appointment I spent twenty minutes outside in the beautiful sunshine (finally, the humidity is gone!) enjoying the last few pages of Sandman: Worlds’ End. The thing I love about this particular collection of Neil Gaiman’s comics is the way the narratives flow; like Pyramus and Thisbe in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Worlds’ End contains stories within stories—sometimes five deep!—and they are small stories that prove that you don’t always need a grand narrative or twist in the tail to engage the reader. And, as always, I love the way Gaiman weaves the threads of old myths through his writing. It’s downright yummy.

One day, I’ll do what that man does. (But in my own voice, of course.)

Anyhoo, we moved on to Hawkins Gardens. What I like about this place is that it sells several of my favourite things to look at: flowers, antiques and fish. I did what I often do and pretended to be wealthy and English (cheeky, I know) in the beautiful, high-end antique store there. I fell in love with an 18th century French writing desk, and the gentleman working there was willing to give me a very fine price indeed, but alas, I am not yet the Lady of the Manor whom I expect one day to be. I told him I’d think about it.

And I will be thinking, and possibly dreaming about it, for days. It’s beautiful:

writing desk

You can’t see it very well in the picture, I’m afraid (from my phone), but the inlay is exquisite. So many different timbers were used, and–oh!–the detail. Check out the tiny rams’ heads on either side. Even the legs of this item were beautiful. I could easily collect desks. If I had the casheroonies.

ram!

Luckily for me, I derive almost as much pleasure from flowers as I do from antiques, so instead I wandered around the gardens for a bit (the smell of the fruit trees reminded me of visiting my grandfather in the summer as a child) bought granny’s bonnet, lobelias…and I can’t remember what the little white ones are called. Kendra thought they smelt nice.

Kendra with flowers

Actually, I think she was more interested in laying claim to the box they came in. She bit me the next time I put my hand in it.

granny's bonnet

I should also mention that I had the best strawberry milkshake of my life (fresh, with actual strawberries and everything) at The Pearl Cafe at Wooloongabba the other day. I was wearing a nice suit at the time, and the music was great, and I drank the whole milkshake (which was almost as tall as me–even the waiter was impressed). I felt very buoyant indeed.

So that’s all for today. Nothing profound, just small pleasures and unexpected delights.

Zen and the Very Blustery Day

/ Zenobia Frost / 2 Comments

It’s a bit windy outside. I should go about my collection and fix hat elastics.

There’s an Italian word I learnt yesterday that I was going to share with you, but I’ve decided it’s so delicious that I’m going to keep the whole thing to myself. Maybe I’ll show you the plate with the crumbs on it. If you can guess what it is, I’ll give you a raspberry. Clues? It’s a musical term; if it were a fruit, I think it’d be a cherry; and it has to do with gentlemen in balaclavas.

Anyhoo, newses:

Many of you know what a sensitive bug I can be; I had research vegetarianism for work, and haven’t eaten meat since–not even yesterday, when Caitie’s cheeseburger smelt like some kind of tasty god–but I have been enjoying making things with lentils.

I’m very definitely travelling to Wisconsin in May to meet the Fonz (and co.), so I’m madly excited about that. I’ve been using my departure date as a deadline to clear up some unfinished business, and I’m feeling so much better for it. I’m enjoying a week of great levity, even if I feel swept off my feet with busy-ness. Days need to be longer.

Finalising venue stuff for launch of The Voyage shortly, so watch this space. Ms Walsh has been doing a very fine job of the art for the book; do take a squiz at it here. I’ve not yet seen the final image, but I’m leaning towards this glorious drawing for the cover:

Sky Fishing

Sky Fishing

Finally, for today, here’s a poem that’ll be included in the chapbook. It was printed in The Definite Article in 2007, and hasn’t seen the light of day since then. And yes, the house in the poem did have massive cracks in the walls. They let the sunshine in very nicely.

Woodgate Sonnet
for Andrew, the ghost

And suddenly it gets colder. The sun
lingers on the horizon, waiting to drop
like a stone to the water. Buried under

the sand, our feet feel the tide. We pull
our coats around ourselves, pockets heavy
with shells, and hunt for our shoes in the dark.

My hands rebel against the chill; keys tremble
in the door. We shuffle in, pad around
in sleeping bags, leave the dishes till morning.

We drink dark Earl Grey, pour an extra cup
for Andrew, listen to Bowie or maybe
Waits, and notice yet another fissure

opening the walls between us and the sky,
us and the water, us and our Woodgate.

Oh, and I’m setting myself a new challenge. I’m going to write a poem for every single one of my hats (well, for their mysterious previous owners). They shall appear here in coming weeks (months… who knows).

So this is the new year…?

/ Zenobia Frost / 6 Comments

Oh hey, it’s 2009. Wouldya look at that.

How time flies.

I’ve been watching a lot of movies and working-from-home at the same time. This resulted in a four-month poetry hiatus. But I’m back!

(And no, regarding the last post: I didn’t grow a moustache. I wish I could!)

The kind folks at Voiceworks kindly published a poem of mine in their ‘Beat’ issue a couple of months ago. It went a little something like this:

My heart a chest of drawers

1. Red drawer
Sophia Loren’s breasts netted behind wet cotton. Klaus Kinski’s Dracula and the raw lust of unglamour. The inflamed joints where my spine becomes skull. When I watch the late news, I feel impotent. The tide of my blood still rushes forward when I call you.

2. Orange drawer
Fruit peel left on the table top: a hollow planet collapsing inwards. We danced the merengue to the radio on the lawn. Mustard seeds popped between my teeth. We made cordial on Sundays, jug too big for me to hold. I’ve seen too many sunrises from the wrong end lately.

3. Yellow drawer
Children unwrap presents on Christmas morning; the older ones try not to tear paper beliefs. I hear they trucked the beach into the city grain by grain. You washed my body with a new bar of Sunlight. The cat licks up yolk splattered on the floor.

4. Green drawer
Memories of home: Koro Kahikatea, strong and moss-bearded. A low voice sings cicada songs while I sleep. My right hand writes; my left hand holds the book so that I may write. I used to think that broccoli were tiny trees.

5. Blue drawer
Half-moon wavers above the swimming pool. The pool swallows the moon. A grey cat sometimes mews at our laundry door. I’m sewing a mixtape called ‘Raincoat’ for my early-morning downpours. I always feel for my pulse after you’ve hung up.

6. Purple drawer
Incense smokes bad spirits out of the house, though I’m still allergic. My spectacles match my hair-colour; I imagine I have wings the same shade. There used to be violet and indigo, but I guess they forgot to separate them in the wash.

This was an attempt to get my brain in order.

I was pleasantly surprised, today, to find that Miss Laila liked a poem of mine and posted it on her blog. Thank you, Laila. :)

More exciting things: I’m invading the US in May. That should be an adventure!

This month I’m reading e.e. cummings, a whole lot of NZ poetry, and the novel Coastliners. Actually I’m reading about twelve novels, as per usual. I’ll let you know which I finish.

Yesterday I learnt that there’s a moth that behaves just like a hummingbird. Look: