Back To Centre.

I once read some life advice in The New York Times from a widow mourning the passing of her husband. She’d been told to ‘sleep on his side of the bed’. She claimed doing so greatly lessened the ache of missing his physical presence. That filling the space where he once lay meant she yearned for him a little less.   

Months and months ago, when I was lying wide awake in the middle of the night, I remembered her advice. I’d read it a long time prior to my marriage falling apart but, there in the booming silence and the crushing darkness, it came to me. 

I have a habit of doing that; remembering things I’ve read. Not when I want to remember them, necessarily, like on command when quizzed, but when I need to. 

On that sleepless night, I recall rolling over to the right-hand side of the bed. It felt cold. The sheets were unwrinkled. They hadn’t had the weight of a body on top of them for a while. 

It felt slightly odd to be on the wrong side of the bed; by contrast it was mildly comforting. I don’t remember drifting off to sleep that night, only waking up. And when I did, it was morning. 

When I was holding onto my marriage, when I was trying to bend and twist and will it to work, when all I wanted was for him to stay, I was petrified. 

To the core. 

I was never scared of being alone; I am great alone. I enjoy alone. 

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Swings And Roundabouts.

Yesterday, I opened a letter from my bank and baulked. Rising interest rates have added $1500 a month to my mortgage repayments. ‘Effective 16 March 2023’ it shouted and danced on the paper in my hands.

‘Thanks, cunts,’ I muttered under my breath. Now, don’t confuse me, or my words – I am grateful to be paying off my own home. I am fortunate, beyond measure. Acutely aware that a home of one’s own is increasingly becoming a privilege. I am not complaining. But fuck.  

Perturbed by the news, I hit the garden and began furiously weeding a patch outside my kitchen window. And then my phone rang.

It was my nephew, M, calling to tell me he was coming over in a few weeks to paint my bathroom ceiling and fix my doors. ‘Start making me a list of all the jobs you need done,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tick them off one by one.’

‘How lovely of you,’ I said. ‘Swings and roundabouts,’ I thought. Swings and roundabouts.

Something that has become abundantly clear to me over the past six months is how two things can be true at the same time. I always kind of knew it. But now I get it.

I am thirty-eight years old and, for the first time in my adult life, single. I am no longer a wife. I do not have a husband. I am not married. I am a single mother. I am a sole breadwinner. I am alone.

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JOIN ME AS I DO IT FOR THE PLOT…

I am very excited to announce my subscription only weekly newsletter has launched, with the first instalment landing in inboxes on February 23, 2023. 

People have been telling me for years to release a podcast. Maybe I will, one day. But I genuinely believe the world needs less podcasts, not more. I’m a writer. Words slip out from the tips of my fingers with such ease, it’d shock you. I think the world needs more words. And more readers. Less sixty second TikToks and Reels, and more sentences. Less noise in microphones, and more silence while reading thoughts. So I’m sticking true — to myself, my craft, and the kind of art I want to keep putting out in the world. There’s what’s popular, and there’s what’s right for you.

There’s a couple of reasons this newsletter is for paid subscribers only. 

One, I’m a good writer. You can read a huge volume of my work online for free. I’ll still share and post a lot of work that anyone with an internet connection can access for free. But this newsletter will not be one of them. 

Two, access to me is a privilege. Access to my life, and adventures, mishaps, and emotions, thoughts, and escapades, is a privilege. I am going to give it to you all. Raw and real. 

And what a privilege it will be for me to do so.

Join me as I do it for the plot. Subscribe now at sandisieger.substack.com.

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Growing Up Italian.

My first piece for Italy Segreta is live and it’s a personal one on displacement, belonging and family.

“I was born and raised in Melbourne, Australia, but people always ask me where I come from. My parents were born in Italia; my Mum in Abruzzo and my Dad in Friuli. They migrated to Australia separately, with their respective families, and met in Melbourne when they were in their twenties. 

Growing up, I wasn’t sure where I was placed. I was Australian, but not completely. I was Italian, but not fully. At home, in Australia, they call me The Italian. In Italy, when I visit, they refer to me as L’Australiana.”

Read the full article here.

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I Miss The People That Make The Places.

The thing I miss about travelling isn’t so much the places — it’s the people.

I miss the guy I met in Midtown after the Dees pumped the Hawks, the one I got on the Bloody Mary’s at 7am with, and ran around Manhattan alongside, chasing shots and pasta and pastrami sandwiches.

I miss that girl I met in line at the W. The one with the tips for an Aussie in Brooklyn.

I miss that mate I made from Moscow.

Those scriptwriters in The High Line Hotel lobby.

The Cambridge professor I met on the boat four hours off mainland Australia. The way our kids played together.

I miss the stoop hangs with strangers on sweltering nights in the Village. T

hat soldier on the train in Venice.

The bargirl at the Irish.

That muso at the Inn.

Those boys with the tugboats.

That woman in Italy with the big smile and bigger hugs.

I miss Mama Vi at the Harlem Choir.

Those chefs at the Adelaide Central Market.

That winemaker. And that winemaker. And that winemaker.

The guy with the jet, and the sprawling penthouse. The way the crease in his smile sparkled, like he knew he owned everything, including my stare.

I miss the jazz bar owner in New Orleans with the beret and cheeky wink.

Those girls at brunch in Switzerland.

I miss running through the underground tunnels during a layover at LAX to get forty-five more minutes with that gem I bar hopped Stone Street with.

That art dealer.

Her author friend.

Those college grads in San Francisco that I taught how to really dance.

The Wall Street bankers that I only just outdanced.

I like new places, old places, foreign places, familiar places — but what I really love is the people that make the places.

The chance encounters, the serendipitous meetings, the random run-ins, the way one thing connects you and then a million tiny moments fuse you together.

I miss the chase, being chased, the buzz, being the buzz, the turns around wrong corners, the stumbles into right arms, the bumping of shoulders in vestibules, the knocking of knees at barstools.

I miss the way he’d throw his head back when he laughed.

The way she sang.

The way he sauntered down West 10th.

Moment after moment.

Forever etched into my heart, my memory, my skin.

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A COVID-19 Plea, For My Fellow Aussies…

Our world’s in a tailspin,

our reality has shattered,

if you’re anything like me,

you’re having a solid think about what matters.

You might be anxious, and scared,

maybe you’re angry, and in despair,

anyone else have trouble sleeping,

wondering what kind of world we’ve been keeping?

The handshake is gone, the high five too,

I don’t know where you sit, but this elbow tap business won’t do.

Our lives have been cancelled,

or at best postponed,

every festival has been called off,

and everyone’s working from home.

Whole industries are wiped,

so many jobs in hiatus,

while we sit inside,

wondering if anyone’s coming to save us.

The doctors, they’re pleading,

the mums, they’re screaming,

the curve isn’t flattening,

we aren’t doing what we’re needin’.

And the shelves are stripped bare,

no pasta, eggs, dunny paper or rice,

some people are even turning on each other

in the supermarket with knives.

This is not the country I grew up in,

not the one based on mateship,

or having a fair go,

and to be honest, I think it’s time for everyone to get a grip.

We know it’ll be over,

hopefully sooner rather than later,

and then we can get back to the things we love;

footy and gigs and seeing our mates over a pint at the pub.

Now isn’t the time for division,

for selfish behaviour,

it’s time to rally together,

and forget about the idea of a saviour.

Like time and time before,

it’ll be us that saves us,

the writers, the musos, the actors, the painters,

the comedians, the baristas, the teachers, the tradies,

the scientists, the nurses, the thinkers, the ladies,

the lovers, the dreamers, the poets, the babies.

We’ve got a fight ahead,

no matter how you see it,

for we are young and free,

except when we’re not, and now there’s a distance between you and me.

Now we’re social distancing,

and in self isolation,

two phrases I’ve never used before,

they’re the opposite of what it means to be an Australian.

Suddenly we find ourselves,

a little lost and a lot more alone,

thankfully it’s 2020,

and we’ve got these god forsaken phones.

And when it all passes,

I hope we make it through the other side a little kinder,

spreading much more love than hate,

I just wish we didn’t have to go through this as a reminder.

There’s some things we’ll all be doing,

you can count on it for sure,

like living like we mean it,

and not treating our time as an afterthought.

Right now, I miss a lot,

but I’m grateful for all I’ve got,

I just can’t wait to get back out there,

and be done with this nightmare.

Sure, it’s not the worst,

and staying in is the right thing to do,

but tell me it doesn’t kill you,

or that you haven’t felt a little blue?

Hold it close,

then remember what’s good,

all the things we’ve taken for granted,

all the places we wish we could.

It’s time to come together,

by keeping ourselves apart,

and while that’s hard to do,

if you haven’t already, please start.

Stay at home,

I beg you,

stay at home,

it’s not just the flu,

stop thinking of only yourself,

you’re not doing this for you.

Our most vulnerable need us,

and our old mates, too,

and if you don’t think they’re worth saving,

I want nothing to do with you.

When this is all over,

and we’re out on the streets,

and back at the bars and swamping the beach,

I want you to remember,

how tragic it felt,

to have life as we know it,

ripped from us at full pelt.

Do not forget,

those who have failed to lead us,

do not forgive,

those that refused to adjust.

I can’t wait for the day,

for this to be done,

so I can walk into the home I grew up in,

and hug my mum.

Stay at home,

I beg you,

stay at home,

it’s not just the flu,

stop thinking of only yourself,

you’re not doing this for you.

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They’ll Never Get You…

“They’ll never get you,” he says, walking ahead of me, teetering on the edge of the gutter. “They’ll never see you like I do. And they can’t, you haven’t shown them the darkest and dustiest corners of your mind.”

I stop and stare at him, my shoe hitting a lip in the concrete.

He turns and edges closer to me, then reaches out and tucks a wayward curl behind my ear. “And you ask me not to love you,” he sneers.

I stare at him, willing myself to look away, knowing I won’t.

“It’s hard to not fall in love with someone,” he continues, getting even closer, “when they’ve shown you the mixed up parts of their soul, and you’ve shown them yours.”

I keep staring.

His hand is lingering on my cheek, his fingers falling past my ear.

“Say it,” he demands, towering over me, feet firmly planted atop the gutter.

I’m still staring at him.

“The deeper our conversations, the more I find to love about you.”

“Stop it,” I tell him.

“I won’t,” he retorts, “I won’t because I’ll never get enough of exploring who you are.”

“Don’t,” I beg, shaking my head from side to side.

He stares, long and hard.

I finally look away.

His hand drops off my face.

He takes a few steps and turns, pausing to gaze through the glass walls of an office building, fixated on a painting in the foyer.

I let him hover for a while, before approaching.

“It’s a cool painting,” I say.

He’s silent.

We stand, side by side, staring at the hues of orange and blue, red and violet, that blur in front of us.

“You might never say it,” he states, turning to face me, “but I know.” He starts to walk away.

Now I’m fixated on the painting.

“C’mon,” he shouts, “let’s roll.”

I turn and see him sauntering off, his boots kicking out just a bit to the side with each step. He walks like he has nowhere and everywhere to be, all at once. It’s captivating, and irritating.

“Let’s get a nightcap,” he suggests, swaggering down the street, “and you can continue to pretend you don’t love me.”

I laugh and scoff, all at once, smiling, and blushing.

It’s so annoying when he’s right.

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Condensation Drips On Brooklyn Rooftops.

‘Nice view, huh?’ he asks, placing my drink on the cardboard coaster.

It’s so hot the flute starts dripping, condensation rolling down its curved base.

‘The best,’ I reply.

He pauses.

‘Where you from?’

I look at the coaster, then up at him.

‘Melbourne, Australia,’ I say, with a smile.

‘Wow, a long way from home. You like New York?’

The coaster is already soggy. This heat is some kind of hell.

‘I love New York,’ I answer, in the kind of tone usually reserved for a person, not a place.

‘I think New York loves you too,’ and he winks, quickly wiping the dew from the marble table, walking away.

I scull half of my drink. I don’t mean to, but this weather calls for more than a simple sip. I fall back into the lounge chair. Cross my legs. Close my eyes. And breathe out deeply. I squint and my eyes open.

I do love New York, I think to myself. I love the way everybody here wants to be somebody. The way they believe they can. I love the boldness of it, and the courage. The audacity, if you will.

I take another swig of my drink. I stare at the towering building across the river, the one that reclaimed the New York skyline after 9/11, the one I have grown to love, so much. I try and work out why it transfixes me. It’s just a building, I scoff to myself. But I can’t deny that every time I catch a glimpse of it, my heart flutters. There’s something about it. Something about the way the light dances off it. From a distance. Something about its boldness. From up close. Something about the way it catches my eye, from so many nooks across the city. I suppose it’s audacious, too.

I lift my glass to finish my drink. The coaster has risen with it, stuck to the base of the flute. It’s sweltering.

‘Another?’ he asks.

‘Absolutely,’ I reply.

He picks up the empty flute. Wipes the beads of water off the table, again.

And I smirk as he places a crisp, new coaster in front of me.

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Show + Tell

A few months ago, I stumbled upon new website Show + Tell, the brainchild of Monty Dimond and Brooke Campbell (read my interview with Monty here, where she explains the inspiration behind the website). I loved it instantly – its rawness, freshness and realness appealed to me.

So, naturally, I was thrilled to have a little piece of writing appear on there recently.

Check it out here.

Show + Tell

Stay tuned for more!

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Wine Day Trips and Where To Eat in Melbourne…

Melbourne Restaurants

If you love Melbourne, you’ll enjoy my latest blogs for Forbes Travel Guide…

Melbourne is renowned for its world-class food — the strong influences from various cultures shine through in its restaurant offerings. From European and Cantonese flavours to a 19th-century mansion serving contemporary Australian fare, there’s no doubt taste buds will be pleased with this city’s eats…so where are my top five restaurants? Find out here.

and

When you think of wine regions around Melbourne, the famed Yarra Valley, an area peppered with vineyards and postcard views, is usually the destination du jour for locals and tourists alike. But, if you prefer venturing off the beaten path, the following trails and regions are well worth exploring. So where to go? Click here for my unique wine trails.

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