After all the doom and gloom of the last year or so, this is an “I’m happy in Hanoi again” post. It’s taken a Stupid Fucking Virus™ pandemic, lock down and a bicycle to start enjoying this city again. After a long winter, punctuated by brief bursts of warm weather, summer — with all its sweltering heat and horrible humidity and ferocious storms — has finally arrived in Hanoi. I’ve packed away put my winter coats, jackets and jumpers (actually, I’ve posted them to Australia in anticipation of my return) and hung my sleeveless shirts and floaty dresses and baggy
Continue reading...Regular readers will know that my relationship with my mother was fraught, to say the least. It was characterised by restriction and control and violence. And fear. An overwhelming fear that I was not safe, would never be safe. And that I was not enough. Would never be enough. Of course, this is was from the perspective of a child but some 50 years later, I still bear the scars — scars that still weep with blood and tears in the right situation, which — usually and invariably — involves a man because attachment.
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This is the 2nd essay in the #26essays2017 challenge that I’ve set for myself this year. I’m doing this because I’m the first to admit I’ve become a lazy writer: allowing guest posts and series and cross-posting to make up the bulk of content on The Diane Lee Project across 2016. The brave, fearless writing that readers admired and respected me for has all but disappeared. This year—2017—will be different. I’m reclaiming my voice—my write like a motherfucker voice! “Be the change you want to see in the world.” “Somewhere inside all of us is the power to change the world.” “If you think you
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This is the first essay in the #26essays2017 challenge that I’ve set for myself this year. I’ll be writing one personal essay a week: 26 in total. And I’m doing this because I’m the first to admit I’ve become a lazy writer: allowing guest posts and series and cross-posting to make up the bulk of content on The Diane Lee Project across 2016. The brave, fearless writing that readers admired and respected me for has all but disappeared. This year—2017—will be different. I’m reclaiming my voice—my write like a motherfucker voice—and I’m starting with this essay about pride in aforementioned voice even though many would consider
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At the beginning of July—in a couple of month’s time—I return to my old job in my old department and I go back to my old salary, which is around $20,000 per year less than what I’m currently earning. I took a leave of absence, sabbatical, diversion—call it what you will—for three and a half years, and I left because I was heartily disheartened by a restructure that didn’t work in my favour. I was deeply unhappy. I inherited a manager that I couldn’t get along with (and who I felt didn’t value me and was–how shall I put it?–difficult, to say the least), a
Continue reading...This post was inspired by Caitlin Kelly’s posts about all the things that make her happy. I got to thinking: there are ALOT of things that get up my nose (Australian for really annoying) and I am generally quite vocal about them. But I liked the idea of embracing the concept of mindfulness and appreciation, and keeping a perpetual list of things that make me happy. So here goes. List one. 1) Taking a really, really, really good picture. 2) Having that really, really, really good picture printed as a canvas, prominently displayed in my lounge room. 3) Making other
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