Happy New Year everybody.

You know, there are some people who write diaries. Not "STAFF MEETING AT 2PM" diaries but proper, descriptive diaries full of thoughts and ideas and observations that often prove to be witty and cutting and, to paraphrase our good friend Mr Wilde, excellent reading while traveling on the train.

I am not one of these people. My grandmother is one of these people. She was in the New Zealand army during World War II and she kept an immaculate, dramatic, hilarious page-turner of a diary which I have read several times from cover to cover in its original type-writer font with whited-out bits and corrections in black pen. One of my favourite English playwrights, Alan Bennett, writes hilarious diaries, some lines in which are so brilliant I have to read them several times to make the words aware of their impact on my brain. Words know these things, you see.

Anyway, the diary is an interesting form of writing, like the letter. Personal and performative but also somehow private and deprived of context. The reason I don't write a personal diary is because, frankly, I suck at it. All my diary entries when I was a kid started with "sorry I haven't written" (see, the words, they know) and attempted to fit the entire day's goings on into a couple of pages of scribble. It's a shame, really, that this is a form lost to me, but it's also easy. I don't do diaries. Just like I don't do poetry. Best to just put a line through these things sometimes.

This diary, the Standing There Productions Diary, is an exception, because it's cheating. It's actually a blog, if you must know. It's on the internet. There are stories I won't tell here, like the one about the friend of mine who... no, never mind... point is, it's a slightly different concept but you know what I still do?

I have diary guilt. When I don't write here, I am aware of my lack of commitment to reportage. I am conscious of my responsibilities in relation to... what? reporting on the world of emerging production companies in Melbourne? Telling people how hard it is to write without getting distracted by YouTube videos of animals falling asleep? Linking to videos of animals falling asleep so that others may benefiit from my tireless research in this area?

Well for whatever reason, here I am. 2009 and I'm starting anew. I even have new year's resolutions, none of which is remotely interesting but one of which involves working like a trojan (they worked mega hard) in the hopes of getting Standing There Productions producing something new and exciting and extremely lucrative across international markets with ancilliary marketing opportunities that do not in any way indicate that we have sold out or lack any of our original indie credibility, of which, naturally enough, we have oodles.

There is a trip to Sydney next week for Stew and myself, where we shall be meeting the very busy and important Rita Walsh and will also possibly be seeing a few Arts Festival shows with the money our grandmas gave us for Christmas. I wish I was being funny. Oh how I wish.

In other news, I have now seen: Frost/Nixon, Bolt 3D, Australia, and Slumdog Millionaire. I might share my thoughts on these in greater detail once I have actually done some writing, but here is a thumnail:

Frost/Nixon: makes you want to go home and see the original Frost/Nixon tapes.

Bolt 3D: makes you wonder if you're being filmed on Candid Camera wearing dumb glasses and looking like a prize douchebag. Also generates prepared lecture from Stew on 3D being the future of film, which is fascinating if a little baffling (the screen is silver? Something about an optimiser? You what?). Other than that, it's not the best plot in the world, but the characters and voices are good.

Slumdog Millionaire: makes you want to go to India. Highly recommend this one actually, if you like a feel-good huzzah.

Australia: makes you want to move to New Zealand.

That's it for today. Happy new year.

I haven't written here for a while. A few things have been going on, some great, some terrible, some merely mundane. Life, in other words.

The exciting news, from a Standing There perspective, is that Stew and I are going to fly up meet Rita in Sydney in January, which we've benn planning for a while but now we've found flights that work. Huzzah! I am currently trying to fit the following into what I imagine "flying up for a business meeting" should be like:

- Obviously will need to wear a high-powered suit, preferably with pinstripes

- Should get one of those entire-bathroom-in-a-toiletries-bag concertina things that go flip flop flop flop and suddenly you're standing in the ladies' bathroom at the airport with mirrors and makeup and hair brushes and a massage table and stuff.

- Should probably purchase spectacles in order to peer over them.

- Should practice drinking those cofffees in the tiny cups. What are they called again?

Obviously, given most of the meetings will be between myself, Rita and Stewart, this will not be fooling anybody. Still. Worth a try.

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.