I am on a health kick. A serious health kick. I haven't had pasta for a month. A MONTH! For those of you who don't know me, the only thing I eat more than pasta is twinings earl grey tea, which, should I decide to stop consuming that as well as pasta, would be under the control of administrators and making serious-faced announcement in news conferences about closing factories worldwide within a week.

I am on a health kick because I used to:

1. Ride my bike everywhere.

2. Walk everywhere else.

3. Go to gym at least four nights a week.

4. Throw a frisbee at least once a week right through summer.

5. Play mixed soccer with my hilarious friends every Sunday.

6. Be vegetarian and therefore eat very well due to the constant (sometimes infuriated) concern of others that I might die of scurvy/iron deficiency/B12 poisoning/grout or similar. Use of pasta in vegetarian diet = necessary for survival.

Given the insanity of the above routine, I slowed down somewhat at some point. I now:

1. Walk everywhere and once read somewhere that it's great exercise ergo it justifies the consumption of vast quantities of pasta and Cascade Green beer (it's sustainable! it's organic! it probabaly cures cancer!).

2. Have Foxtel.

3. Donate to my local gym so that other people can enjoy it in luxurious privacy.

4. Have become so particular about how I throw a frisbee that I don't like playing with people who aren't my Dad or my sister, both of whom have, you know, lives.

5. Think back on the soccer playing days with longing, even though I am no longer speaking to half the players on the team (there is no i in team, but watch out for freaks, is all I'm saying). The other half? The good half? Well, turns out, they have, you know, lives (in Paris, mostly, I'm looking at YOU MELANIE HOWLETT).

6. Am no longer vegetarian. This is not something I am proud of. Also, it is not something I monitored very well. Thus on top of my well-considered vegetarian diet I added meat. So basically I went: meat goes well with pasta. How delightful!

Anyway. So. The health kick begins.

On Monday, Stew and I went to what is known, disturbingly, as a "pump class", wherein we were both rendered incapable of movement except in short increments similar in appearance to slow motion replays of the Olympic Walking events. This physical disability was a condition, cruelly, only curable by doing more exercise. We are, therefore, on an exercise bender, fending off the inevitable crippled exhaustion of an unfitness hangover, which should probably kick in some time during the weekend. At which point I plan to have a Cascade Green beer. No, they do not sponsor this website, although they should feel welcome to.

So what does this have to do with writing? And Standing There Productions? Well, everything actually, since you can't write without a clear head. You can't write if you're distracted or you broke up with someone or you've got a hangover or your foot hurts. You have to be clear and sharp. Which is why I'm doing the health kick in the first place.

It was a great idea. And I do feel kind of zingy. Trouble is, I keep dropping off to sleep. And I can't move. Healthy body, healthy mind might be a maxim backed up by science, but what they forgot to tell me is: health kick to the body = roundhouse kick to the head. A roundhouse kick is a gym term, by the way, like "clean and jerk", which I personally think should be used in other contexts (see earlier discussion of soccer team).

I sit in the State Library, I feel the muscles that did not know they existed before this morning's swim, and I hope the healthy body comes soon because the healthy mind is kind of missing the lazy and relaxed peace of knowing it remains superior.

Speaking of which, it's going to this tonight at the State Library. Poetry me up, world!

As a writer, regardless of how much you actually write about politics, it's generally a good idea to know what's going on in the world and know what you think about it. Even if you write kids's books or comedy skits or instruction manuals. If you know how to use language and make observations, you're making choices all the time. Choices are decisions. Decisions are based on beliefs or desires or circumstances. Beliefs, desires and circumstances are what politics are all about.

As the entire world now knows, America has a new President-elect.

And now we try to figure out what that means, what it changes, and in what ways it is good, bad, interesting or hilarious.There are jokes going around about how, once again, a black man has been given America's worst job, cleaning up after white people. There are tongue-in-cheek predictions he'll paint the white house black. There are exciting campaign photographs that bring a lump to the throat of the most cynical and the least interested. At the very least, the crowd numbers are impressive.

Now, nobody in the universe completely understands the US election process. Basically: lots of people voted for Obama, including some old people and many young people. CNN did a graph - they've got a graph for everything - showing how as the voters got older, they were less likely to vote for Obama. Somewhere around 66% of young voters voted for him, which is, to use a technical term, totally unheard of.

Something particularly difficult to understand about the American voting process is the concept that more than one thing is being decided at the one time. For instance, if you were voting in California, yesterday, you voted on - among other things - Proposition 8. The result of the Proposition 8 vote is why a lot of people who would be happy in America today, are not. The same goes for Florida and Arizona apparently, although you wouldn't know it from media reports. It's a shame that on a day that will be remembered for bringing different races and creeds together in a spirit of multicultural understanding, it's feeling to some like another battle: between race and sexuality.

All of this is interesting, even if men in suits talking about politics bore the pants off you, because there are a whole lot of young Americans for whom the pants - at least at the moment - are not bored anywhere at all. And all the way over here, in Australia, it feels like we've got a new President.

9 years ago, when I was on exchange in America, Noam Chomsky spoke passionately at my college (Boston College) about the role America had as the world's policeman. This was before 9/11 and before the war. It was a week after the Timorese voted for their independence, with murderous results, which is why we were discussing the world policeman thing.

I put my hand up and asked Chomsky why America As World Policeman wasn't the same as American Imperialism. Since then, I've learned the subtle differences by virtue of the fact that my worst fears have been demonstrated time and time again. Several times, I've wished the rest of the world could vote in the American election. I think it changes lots of things. Not "just politics" but lots of things.

The day after John Howard was voted out in Australia, I heard the word "multiculturalism" being used on television by an elected official. I was shocked. Previously, the word rendered any subsequent argument obsolete. I actually have to admit to being a bit embarrassed to hear it being used. It had become such a dirty word, such a softie-left-bleeding-heart thing to say, that I wanted the speaker (I can't remember who it was) to qualify it, lest the argument be dismissed. Of course, there was no qualification, and it seems silly now. It's subtle, but language changes because of politics, and vice versa. In fact, language, the right to use it, and the right to be a writer, are all elements of society that people in less liberal societies cannot afford to take for granted. I think it's good to remember that.

By the way, in case those aren't enough links for you: be grateful your job doesn't extend to every aspect of your private life, as this guy's does. Yeesh. All the best to those kids, that's all I can say.

This weekend in Melbourne was the football Grand Final. It's an infectious day - almost always sunny and full of the joys of early Spring. It's hard not to go to a BBQ and pretend you care about this team or that team or indeed know anything about football whatsoever.

I stayed in this weekend. I escaped briefly for essential things like a walk in the park with my mum, but I stayed in, mostly, and recovered from the huge week I had. Then, yesterday, I opened my laptop and I wrote. I actually did some writing.

Doing writing on the weekend is just like doing writing on any other day except IT'S THE WEEKEND AND EVERYONE ELSE IS RELAXING. Therefore, like most people who work on Sundays, in my head, I get paid double time. On Sunday, I made a fortune, in bonus points, self-appointed. Yay for me, and Spring, and walks in the park with my mum.

Well, Rita Walsh has done it again.

Just when we thought the word "congratulations" was starting to become a cliche, Rita's short film, Hugo (which has already won Grand Prize for Fantasy at the Rhode Island Film Festival, won an AWGIE and been selected for Palm Springs) has been selected for the Chicago International Childrens FIlm Festival, which is extremely exciting. Rita is now in Palm Springs and will be greeted with considerable respect when she arrives at Bundanon, where word has spread of her ridiculously heady achievements.

Meanwhile, at Bundanon, the biggest event on our social calendar was last night's "Artists' Drinks" which consisted of some very delicious local wines, some lovely artists and some of the Bunanon peeps (including the person responsible for the excellent Bundanon website, go here). After the drinks, someone decided it would be nice to have an unofficial tour of Arthur Boyd's studio. It's the actual studio he worked in, left completely as it was when he died (his paint-splattered slippers are still under his chair). It was amazing. It was even more amazing because we couldn't find the light switch so the studio tour was done under torch light.

With the lights out, you smell everything much more than you might otherwise. The smell of paints in an art studio are so exciting to me. They speak of possibility. I wish laptops had such an inspiring smell. That way, I might create with a greater fervour. As it is, I sit here in my own studio, with my own view out the window and the laptop in front of me and I discover that other great inspirer: headspace. Having nothing else to do really is such a luxury. Arthur and Yvonne Boyd must have known that. I've had more thinking time than I ever usually would, as well as more writing time, and... I'm allowed to write on the walls! I'm starting to fear what it might be like to return to civilian life.

The best thing in the world is not having to worry about work, or dishes, or having to go and do social things (which are lovely, but which are not an option here, so that distraction doesn't exist!). In fact, here, nobody cares enough to interrupt you. They're all busy doing their own thing. Here is a photo of nobody caring about what I'm doing:

That cow on the right is particularly disinterested.

These guys don't care either:

So really, it's just me with my own mind. Which is being stimulated constantly by views like this:

That's Arhur and Yvonne Boyd's the original owners' Aboriginal stockman's hut (sorry, got that wrong originally). It's teensy weensy. Behind it is Australian bush, featuring about a trillion kangaroos about the size of Wayne Carey, and not dissimilar in appearance. Here is Arthur and Yvonne's house:

There's a tour of the house on Sunday, which I hope to go to. Whenever Sunday might be.

I'm going to try to remember for another reason too. Rita is on radio at 8am Australian time on this station. Of course she is. Captain Famous Pants talks to the peeps. Can't wait to hear it. Go Rita!

This is our second full day at Arthur Boyd's farm, Bundanon. I don't know enough about Arthur or Yvonne (I intend to find out more) but I do know that I am a little bit in love with them both. This place is amazing. On our first night we met an enormous wombat on our balcony. We've met many kangaroos, rock wallabies, and birds aplenty. There is a sculpture by Sydney Nolan on our porch. I have two appointments the entire time I'm here. One of them is in 45 minutes and it's Artists' Drinks. The best kind!

So far today I have done more writing work than all the weeks in the entire past month combined.

Here are some photos of what an artist residency at Bundanon looks like in the first few days. I need to credit Stew of course for the photos. The average ones were taken by me. Like, for instance, this one:

This is Stew's studio about three seconds after we arrived:

Even the bedrooms are cool!

This is our apartment (Stew gets one end and I get the other). Rita gets one to herself:

Note the little desk where I can do work. It's so odd to have a loungeroom with no TV but goodness me do you get some work done.

That's all for now, there are drinks to be had.

Before I write about Bundanon, where we have finally arrived and in which I am already completely in love, let me fill you in on stops 2, 3 and 4.

Our second stop after Mansfield (of Subway fame) was Bright. We drove there via Jamieson, which has a population of 88 humans and maybe a billion birds. It's completely gorgeous. Here's a sample:

As you can see, the locals kept to themselves a bit.

Then we went to the snow. How awesome is nature? It did this all by itself!

Then of course, coming up against nature all the time is humankind. I have a friend who discovered when he came to Australia for the first time that Australians don't like littering.

They don't like it, but they do it anyway, using what they seem to think is a littering loophole: it's not litter if you stand it up.

Slot a chip packet between two boards in a fence: not litter. Stand a beer bottle up on a pub window: not litter. Apparently, the same rule goes for the snow.

Good way of keeping your beer cold I guess.

Mind you, we enjoyed our own beverages on our food and wine tour, OH YES WE DID! Check it:

So much more sophisticated. We were driven to this place in a stretched limo and we tasted cheese, olives, wines and at one point Stewart went missing and was discovered behind a sign that said FUDGE TASTING.

This leg of our trip was a present. It was the most lovely present in the world. Well, that and the new set of tyres we got just before we left (thanks dad!) which have been tested many times along the way, and will be again I'm sure, due to the fact that the driveway to Bundanon is longer and more filled with holes than a long thing filled with holes.

More when the photos have downloaded. We're off for a quick walk with the wombats. Seriously.

For reasons to do with technology and small country towns, I cannot upload photographs, nor can I spend long writing this. I write from Narooma, two hours away from our destination at Arthur Boyd's place. Both Stewart and I have now suffered through a vile illness that should have cleared by the time we're supposed to start work (ain't it always the way?) and we have so far experienced snow (Hotham), a winery tour in glistening sunshine (Bright), and Stew's grandmother's cooking (more? are you serious? I might die!). It has all been excellent, although a feature of it has been vile coughing and repeated nose blowing. Stew currently sounds like the wimmawe guy in The Lion Sleeps Tonight. Sometimes I get him to do it and dissolve into giggles.

Tomorrow we arrive at the residency! Huzzah!

I will upload photos when I can. There is no TV so I won't be watching the olympics anymore and will therefore have several hours per day in which I can do other things.

 Meanwhile, Rita has left New York and is currently in LA. Slightly different pace, but there you go. Hugo, her short film that won the Grand Prize for fantasy at the Rhode Island Film Festival, has won an AWGIE for the script written by Rachel Bowen. All extremely exciting and they should all be sent to the congratulatorium. Where, hopefully, nobody coughs.