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On turning 60 (wtf), & noticing new love makes me want to blog again

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Hello Folks, thanks for dropping by; it’s been almost exactly a year. How did that happen? We all know how it happens: LIFE being life.

In less than a month, I will be turnning 60. WHAT THE HELL. How did that happen?? We all know how it happens right: LIFE being life!

A visual update: here’s me last week, trying on a possible party outfit for my joint 60th celebration event… but no, that’s not the winning suit. Stay tuned ;~)

So why am I suddenly back here on WordPress? There’s a new form in town called Substack, plus Patreon of course; and with horror I’ve noticed an updated option here which suggests using AI to improve/expand/summarise etc.

THAT IS NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN AT BONE&SILVER.

Quite frankly, I’m back as I’ve recently started rewriting poems and spoken word pieces, because one of my creative muses is Love, and she’s come to visit me again…

This morning, synchronistically, WordPress reminded me of a post I’d written in 2017 about the neuroscience of arguing; it’s pretty good. As in, I impressed myself with my own research and advice when I read it HERE.

So I began to reflect on my latest romantic adventure, valiantly starting again at nearly 60. Will I ever give up? Will true love ever settle with me? How long do I even have left, to enjoy a new authentic connection?

And importantly, how will we fight? The good stuff is always easy/fun/sexy/kind/caring… the disconnection and ruptures not nearly so pleasant.

None of us want to hurt the Other, the object of our desires, yet it’s inevitable. I hope after 30 years together, it feels less dangerous to your bond? But at the beginning, when rose-coloured glasses are firmly in place, a rupture can feel fatally dark and scary.

I have a great somatic therapist, (like the wise Aunty we all need), and she often reminds me that arguments are guaranteed; the focus must be on the repair strategies.

That’s how I feel about the whole bloody world right now! We’re tumbling towards a terribly hot, terribly sad, brutally divided planet… how can we repair?

With nearly 60 years of lived experience, all I can offer is Love.

In gratitude for the Muse, resilience, & the courage to keep going, G xO

Buying fresh vegetables today made me feel sick

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Hello Folks, thanks for dropping by.

I live in a small country town on the Eastern point of Australia, and have spent more than 20 years supporting the local farmers growing markets.

I love nothing more than fresh green vegetables, handmade products like aged miso, red curry paste, macadamia nut butter, and of course the pastries and croissants.

Every Friday I get up at 6.00 to be at the markets when they open, and home in time for work (I need to factor in at least 30 minutes for hello chats with various other friends and locals).

But today, as I bought firm cucumbers and zuccinis, piled high in my bag with plump carrots and sexy round-arsed sweet potatoes, I felt bile rising.

I looked at the happy birds-nest-haired kids playing together, or hassling their parents for another sweet treat, and I nearly burst into tears in the tomatoes queue.

WHAT IS HAPPENING IN GAZA?? Why is no Aid getting through? Why can’t governments make it happen? And how can anyone, ANYONE, condone starving children and babies?!

I walked back to my car, literally burdened with fresh produce for the week ahead, and just wanted to throw it all away, throw myself on the ground, and weep.

Weep with frustration, despair, defeat.

Weep with anger.

WHY IS NOTHING BEING DONE?

What are our politicians doing? What will they tell their children, nieces, nephews?

How can any of us eat freely, knowing what we know now?

Have you seen latest footage of the skinny screaming boy in blue singlet, banging on his empty steel bowl with a spoon, yelling and begging for food? Oh that’s right: you probably have, as there’s been so many of them…

And yes, I’ve gone to protests/written letters/made phone calls/shared social media posts/gone to protests/donated to agencies/read the news, and gone to more protests…

NOTHING IS CHANGING. IN FACT, IT’S WORSE.

I don’t know what to do. Do you? What have you been doing that helps? One of my neighbours has sailed to Gaza on humanitarian ships The Freedom Flotilla carrying aid; no way could I ever do that, so I donated dollars.

But I can’t fathom these new levels of inhumanity.

I don’t care about your religion, faith, politics or values: children and babies never deserve to be deliberately starved.

With a devastated heart, yet still terrible gratitude, G xO

Tiptoeing through tulips towards love, perhaps?

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Hello Folks, thanks for dropping by.

Now, I loved my Dad, who died in 2008 aged 73. Too soon, too young.

The pain of losing your Dad never quite goes away

He taught me to play Backgammon when I was only 3 or 4, helping me understand the rules and vagaries of chance with every roll of the dice. The year he died, I’d sit up late at night playing Backgammon with myself, all the house lights blazing, while a depressive fog of grief and loss rolled over me for months.

One of our other favourite games, when I was similarly small, was a song we’d sing while I stood barefoot on his feet, my nose to his belly, as he high-stepped round the room, holding my hands tight.

“Tiptoe, through the tulips, through the tulips, that’s the way we’ll go, We’ll tiptoe, through the tulips, Today… “

I’ve no idea the provenance of this rhyme, or what else it may say? Perhaps I’m even recalling it wrong? But we giggled and stomped, getting faster and faster, as I tried not to fall off!

Such a joyful memory. Our shared commitment to the challenge; his ultimate power in making it harder and harder while he sped up; the safety of his hands gripping mine; the delight of laughing and singing together, just the two of us.

I realize what a lucky child I was: so many friends don’t share beloved memories of their fathers.

And now, aged nearly 59, I feel like I’m playing that game again. I’m tiptoeing and humming softly, holding my own hands tight, while I walk and skip slowly towards a new human I may one day love…

I’m excited, nervous, intrigued, and strangely, sometimes very calm.

It’s early days in the dance, and the song is barely audible. But the memory of that delight with my Dad has returned, and I felt compelled to write it down. Some of you have been here for a while, recalling my various loves over the years… so I’m just letting you know now that we’re possibly off again, on a new adventure.

Please tiptoe through the tulips with me.

In gratitude for good old Dads, & new courageous choices, G xO

Does Chaka Khan know I polished Gertie the Giraffe for her at Australia’s recent Blues Festival?

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Of course she doesn’t. But I do.

Hello lovely folks, thanks for dropping by.

I am recovering from four days of a Blues music festival (as punter, not musician- not yet anyway). And three days full time work helping to set it up before that.

“Artist Decor Assistant” is the official title; what it really means is lots of climbing up and down step ladders, staple gunning vintage fabric to the temporary walls of incoming artists’ dressing rooms. It’s the second time I’ve done it, and I loved it even more this year.

Transforming a big, blank, box of a room filled with even smaller blank boxes into a vibrant, welcoming, eclectic and interesting creative space is thrilling to me… especially when one of the performers is Chaka Khan!

This year’s line-up included one of my favourite disco singers; who here over 40 hasn’t danced to ‘I’m Every Woman’?

Exactly no one.

So when I was told to polish Gertie the Giraffe ‘… because she may go in Chaka’s room…’, I leapt to it. Never was a giraffe so lovingly dusted, oiled, and buffed.

I also hung the fairy lights, and sprayed the couch cushions with Thieves Oil to keep away bugs and mould.

Actually, this was one of SIX rooms available for Chaka, her band, and entourage. Fabrics used were rich reds, golds, tapestries and silks. The couches were brown leather, with brocade cushions, and a stunning illuminated native floral centrepiece, like an altar.

We decorated many other rooms too: for Tom Morello (from Rage Against the Machine), Toto, Crowded House, John Butler, George Thorogood, and The California Honeydrops, as well as the incomparable Allison Russell, among many more.

We made cosy shared foyers and outdoor terraces, lush private dressing rooms, and an evocative entrance. I certainly got my daily steps up too.

And the whole time I ironed, hung, straightened, smoothed, stapled, steamed, and measured, I thanked my lucky stars I can volunteer for a job like this, in a relatively free country such as ours, with a belly full of good food for breakfast, and no shelling.

Four long days and nights of music awaited me, thrumming in my veins so that my legs can’t keep still, even when I’m tired.

No running from rockets for me. No standing in line for a bag of flour or drink of dirty water. Even while I sweat and swear, with an aching lower back from walking on a concrete floor all day, I am acutely aware of my privilege.

So Gertie the Giraffe is humbly polished; the dressing rooms are prepared with love and attention to detail; the musicians are danced to later with waves of gratitude crashing over me; and during the rainstorms and searing sun, as I walk kilometres between venues and the carpark, I remember the blessing of being here, of contributing, and of appreciating.

Thank you Chaka Khan, for your decades of music which have brought me such joy, and please please PLEASE, can we all help create peace in Gaza? If we could dance Peace into being, this would be my song:

Like Sugar- Chaka Khan

How good is that? You don’t win 10 Grammys for nothing.

In gratitude for a disco beat and slapping bass, G xO

Revisiting this blog brought me old favourite stories, almost 10 years old now. Do you recall it?

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“France is a desperate party girl.”

From rockstar to writer: the return

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Hello lovelies, how are you all?

Having just spent 3 months very focused on my punk cabaret band Mutton, including touring to 5 different venues, and being away from my beloved rainforest home for WEEKS, I’ve had an epiphany!

I’m still a writer, even when I’m not writing.

Which means I’m also still a blogger, connected to this community, albeit while it constantly morphs into something new.

Of course, a writer needs to write, and practice their craft; gone are the days of my thrice-weekly blogging, and the constant commenting and connecting we all used to do here. Part of me misses those days… but they were also a particular time, pre-Covid, pre-TikTok; we are ALL different since then.

In full slam mode late last year

So I write killer arts grants, for myself and others. I write songs now. I’ve entered a few Slam Poetry competitions, and will continue.

I still write in my journal (although not daily).

Last month I kinda wrote a love letter.

Sure, I’m not published, other than a couple of short stories in anthologies years ago, and I think I’m way too lazy to actually write a book, although I’ve tried a few times.

I have several friends who are ‘proper authors’, and I so admire their tenacity; a little envious of their commitment and subsequent rewards.

But that’s just not me.

I’m a devout reader, and always have been. Proud daughter of a librarian mother, my extended family all has a love of books, with several published authors amongst us; my son ‘Nearly25Now’ asked for everyone’s favourite, life-changing book as his 18th birthday gifts.

My bookcase at home, need another one

I love nothing better than being out at a gathering and thinking:

“Oooh, I’ve had enough of this, I’m going home to read my book.”

Who else does that?

So it was with absolute delight that the epiphany settled upon me:

I’m a writer, and I need to write more again.

I have nearly 1500 followers here- I’d guess that maybe 5-10 of you are still actually interested in me! That’s probably the number of blogs I still read myself… although I am finding new ones on Substack too.

But you know what? It can’t be about the statistics. If the world is sliding into a Tech Bro oligarchy/racist/homophobic/environmental disaster/nightmare, I REFUSE TO BECOME A COMMODIFICATION.

Post-show midnight punk delight

Yes, I’m utterly priviledged: my home is secure, my health seems good, my chosen family is solid. I can make Art for the joy, not the financial necessity. And while no publisher will knock on my door to turn bone&silver into a mini-series (*cue deep chuckles), I don’t give a shit.

I’m back, because I love to write, I love to read, and I truly, madly, deeply love to write.

With deep gratitude for words, & the Dewey Decimal System, G xO

New year, new me: come visit my Australian punk cabaret band Mutton!

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Band photography by Kate Holmes Photographer

Hello lovelies, it’s been a loooooooooooong time between posts I know.

How are you? Hello once again, where I’m swinging by to invite you to visit my new creative project ‘Mutton’, a post-menopausal, post-modern, post-punk, pre-apocalyptic drums and bass duet!

We sing, we swear, we play bastardised covers and dodgy originals, and we are having the best fun.

Band photography by Kate Holmes Photographer

You’ll find our website HERE.

We have stunning photos, upcoming gigs, and a good feminist vibe.

So pop in to say Hi.

Who knows: perhaps we’ll end up coming your way one day?

If you’re in Australia, you’ll find us in Gosford, Bellingen, Brunswick Heads, Wollongong and Sydney in February…

Then back on the couch recovering for most of March haha.

In complete and utter gratitude for the privilege of creativity and my drumming determination, Love G xO

Band photography by Kate Holmes Photographer

In her honour, we played our first ever gig as The Ruths

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Have you ever been in a band? It’s a complex juggle of personalities, skill, nerves, and creativity.

Hello Folks, thanks for dropping by. I’ve been ridiculously busy lately, but in the best way for me: various art projects, which of course also includes grant applications/rehearsals/long-distance driving to gigs/exhaustion/recalibrating.

I’ve written before HERE about my ‘Band Me Up’ project, inspiring local women who always wanted to play music to actually give it a go; finally, our weekly rehearsals culminated in our first performance at a local pub’s [very low-key] Sunday afternoon Open Mic.

It was a process to get there, let me tell you! Seven women, at seven different stages of musical prowess, including our funky bass player who only picked up her guitar three months earlier. She started out on tamborine, tried backing vocals and the drums (but I was very hard to prise off the throne), then finally found her niche.

‘But we’re not ready,’ some of us said.

‘You’ll never be ready, and you’ll never feel good enough,‘ advised one old musician. ‘You just have to do it- you’ll learn so much.’

As a theatre performer anyway, I was super keen to push us all out there, so gently coaxed/prodded/reassured and nagged.

We checked out the Open Mic the previous month, and agreed the crowd was warm, friendly, and supportive. We agreed on two songs, and practiced them over and over, with two singers, two guitarists, keyboards, bass, and me on drums. We agreed to wear black and red, agreed to meet there an hour beforehand, even agreed on who was carpooling with whom… but simply could NOT agree on a name.

Then I read that Ruth Miller, who had inspired me to start this group via her Leicester-based Unglamorous Music Project had just died.

I sat in the rainforest in Australia and cried. She’d known about us over here: someone online had sent her my last blog post about her, and she’d shared it to her networks. This little blog got over 250 views in one day- I was almost viral :). Although we’d never met, she absolutely felt like my mentor, or my ‘punk Mum HERE’ as she was known.

In just two years, she had inspired 12 bands to form in the UK, and the punk scene was taking off again:

‘We write our own music and we’ve got a lot to say about everything we’re angry about. I’ve been enraged for years.’ Alison Dunne – stage name Fish – has formed a punk band at the age of 58 because, as she said: “I’ve got no fucks to give any more about what anyone thinks of me.” The Guardian, Feb 7, 2023

I had imagined going to meet Ruth the next time I was in England… in my wildest dreams, I imagined her band The Verinos touring over here, or our band going to visit hers…

The agreement was unanimous when I proposed we perform as The Ruths for our first time. None of us would be here without her creative influence, from 10,000 miles away (17,000 kilometers).

I introduced the band to the pub crowd, and explained our name choice. Our first song was a cover of Nancy Sinatras ‘These Boots were made for Walking’, speeded up, and we rocked it. Our second song ‘Gloria’ had a few more mistakes, but we still got lots of cheers and calls for more, which felt wonderful.

Next time we hope to do at least one original, and I know that Ruth would approve.

“There is a very limited range of hobbies that are acceptable as an older woman,” said Miller. “If you like music, for example, then you’re expected to join a choir. The genius of punk is that you don’t need to have played an instrument before starting. The main thing is your lyrics,” she added. “Most bands are young, white men aged 19 to 23 and their lyrics are about their experiences. But put together women whose ages range from late 20s to early 70s, and their experience of life, their humour, their anger – these songs are absolutely brilliant.” The Guardian, Feb 7, 2023

Vale Ruth Miller, with gratitude for her musical attitude, G xO

Too old to learn the drums at 56? Hell no! One year later…

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Welcome Folks, to the best year of my life. I mean that. Twelve months ago exactly I bought my first electronic drum kit for $400, played it for 2 weeks every day, then upgraded to a $1500 kit. I wrote all about it HERE. A couple of months later I spent $500 on a cute blue acoustic kit (which means the proper ‘drum kit’ you see with rock bands), then again upgraded to my now-much-beloved-almost-new-proper Pearl kit, with pride of place in my living room:

And yes, I’d sleep there if I thought it would help me learn quicker.

For me, drums are the perfect combination of rhythm, dance, meditation, creativity, focus, play, fun, and discipline. I try and play every day for an hour (sometimes more), and let me acknowledge here what a privilege this is: I don’t have to deal with a fulltime job, 3 kids, a struggle with homelessness, or even just grumpy neighbours.

I am SO blessed.

Last week marked six months of weekly rehearsals with my group of over-45 women who had always wanted to be in a band but hadn’t yet; I wrote about that project HERE.

And it all started with this fabulous article about Ruth Miller and Unglamorous music:

“The unlikely story of England’s all-female, middle-aged punk scene“

From that original gathering of 20 women, 10 of us became regulars at Nedlands in Lismore, which is an old farming shed down a dirt road on the outskirts of town, converted into 2 music studios, each with a drum kit, mikes & amps, plus soundproofing and aircon.

All for only $20/hr to hire!

I’m proud to say I’ve only missed one, and that was two weeks ago because I was in Melbourne. Apparently, the bass player put the metronome on her iPad in the middle of the Studio floor as they all began to play, and just watched as everyone slid off the beat… so I was actually missed.

*happy grin.

The next big step of course is performing. As a performer anyway, I’m super keen. But some women have never been on stage before, or even contemplated that as possible, so there’s a variety of anxities to address.

Last week, Nev (who created Nedlands for his drumming son Ned) suggested we play one song at their Xmas party, which of course thrilled me, but not everyone. However, to the protest that ‘We’re not ready’, Nev wisely said:

‘You’re never ready, and you’re never as good as you want to be. But you learn so much. You’ve just got to do it.’

I like Nev’s attitude. And I think that sums up my one year of drumming perfectly.

I have SO DAMN MUCH to learn of course, but oh my Goddess what fun I’ve had already; if you’re reading this and you’ve always wanted to play an instrument or sing or tap dance or make furniture or write a memoir or carve ice sculptures etc, this is your sign.

Just BEGIN.

Because the next year is going to go by anyway…

In gratitude for my privilege, commitment, and Joy, G xO