Monday, July 31, 2006

it's 11.11... which must signal bed, for any good boy, on a school night.
Nitie night.

There is that

It was a clear run to the lift, the foyer was relatively empty. 8.50am. One girl from my floor was in front of me and there was one other girl in front of her. Perfect, for me to get in and push the door closed button immediately, as they pick their floors. Doors close. I pick my floor. It's my new lift procedure. Doors closed before any other idiot can board.

This morning, just as the doors were closing, with my finger hovering on the closed door button, some guy appeared out of no where, with a cup of coffee in his hand. Not only did he try to slip into the lift, at the last minute, but the idiot lead with the coffee in his hand. What did he expect was going to happen?

Splash went the coffee, half splashed inside the lift, half splashed outside, on the marble floor. The squashed paper cup lying right in the middle of the lift doors.

He looked pissed off. Accusatory. Why did this have to happen!

Come on idiot, pick it up, hurry up, I thought.

He looked down at the cup, momentarily, looking like he didn't know what to do. He was waiting for the 7 second replay. He bent at the knees. He lifted the cup away. He carried it like it was a diseased thing.

My fingers were on the doors closed button.

The girl from my floor had her fingers on the doors open button. Our eyes met. She lifted her fingers away from the open button.

We were away.

"I hope he didn't have a meeting, first thing," said the other girl; rat-faced, blonde pony-tail, voice like a receptionist school drop-out, all nasally. She kind of whined, one suspects naturally. "Oh poor man, that sort of thing could just ruin your whole day. How awful!" She looked from the girl from my floor to me. "To happen so early in the morning. It's just awful." Earnest face, waiting for me to agree. I laughed a smile in faux agreement. "What a terrible way to start the day. Just terrible." Her floor opened. She smiled at me. She smiled at the girl from my floor. She stepped out. The doors closed. She was gone.

"Or he could be more careful next time," I said.

"Yep," said the girl from my floor. "There is that."

Monday morning

Monday morning. Er! The rain comes down, pitter pat.
Surely, I'm made for grander things, I think, as I pull on my shirt and tie.

Being brave! It's all about being brave. Throw your life to caution, they say. Have faith, just resign, they say. You are one of the ones who has "it." Usually, the ones who are saying chuck it in are usually the ones who haven't worked a day in their lives, well, certainly not this century. Thank you Tom, thank you Aby.

Oh well, I guess I should just get used to the fact that you will always be one of the boring people, said Aby.

I dare you to quit, said Tom, as he makes more plans to renovate the apartment, his parent's own, which he is just about to move into.
I think the carpet man gave me a really good deal on the carpet, said Tom. He better have, this is costing my parents thousands.

Where are my shoes? Where are my fucking shoes, I think, as I search the house for them.

Tom and Matt are fast asleep in the spare room. How nice. How I'd love to sleep in and have the day to myself.

Pitter pat sounds the rain on the tin roof. 8.06. I gotta go. Where's my umbrella? Right where I left it, gotta love living on my own.

Sunday, July 30, 2006

End of the W/E

Tom and Matt are coming over to watch Big Brother. Matt just kind of invited himself because Tom, who also invited himself, was coming over.
They both live with their parents. Yah! Glad to be of service, guys.
Tom should bring pot, at least. He'd fucken better!

Janis Joplin sings, Down on me.

Smooth Afternoon

I laugh about Alice Cooper who took up cocaine to beat his alcohol addiction, as I sit here half-tanked on red wine in the process of giving up my tobacco addiction. Alice eventually had to go into rehab for coke, I hope I won't have to go to AA for my impending alcoholism.

Maybe, I should take up crystal meth to beat smoking, at least then I'd get lots done - before I fell down through exhaustion.

Although, this wine stuff isn't so bad, I've managed to vacuum the entire downs stairs, as I sip on my... um... Lagrein... it's not even bloody Australian. I'll have to pull the flag down from the flag-pole. Call the thought police, I'm being unpatriotic. Although, don't get me started on that American virus of patriotism.

Of course, I'm now too drunk to tackle the stairs with a vacuum in one hand. Hick! But I haven't smoked anything... other than a couple of joints with Luke last night, as we downloaded music. But no cigarettes.

Perhaps, I should do some washing.

Patti La Belle sings, Ain't no way.

Delightful morning

It was a gorgeous morning leaving Bolago, almost picture book. The honeycomb sun was just oozing in between the chocolate trees, stretched long across the mint paddocks, dazzling in its intensity. Gold and smudgy spreading out across the fields. I wished I'd had my camera, I meant to put it in the car yesterday.

I had to get Luke to the airport by 8am, so he could go visit his mum for her birthday.
I love that time of the morning, fresh, new, alive, but so often quiet and still because people are still in their beds. I love the rebirth of solitude that time of the days brings.
Luke was at the airport at 8.06.

I contemplated Manny, as I cruised down the freeway and a little morning delight. But, my mum was sick yesterday and quite depressed about it, so I thought I should go and drop in on her to see how she was. Is that above and beyond the call of duty, or what? Besides, for all of Manny's considerable charms - and he has considerable, I'm quite smitten with him physically, in case you haven't got that, thus far - I think I'm over him. I need brawn and brains and I think it is high time I got myself out looking for it.

Saturday, July 29, 2006

Spicy and vivacious on the back palate

Spicy and vivacious on the back palate... don't we all want to be.

I'm eating fruit toast and drinking what's left in the bottle of the red wine, from last night.
Maybe I'll go into the city and watch Jindabyne? I haven't seen a movie in ages.

I have a woman, who lives up the lane next to me, in some of those "Aren't I hip I now live in an inner-suburban dog box", new apartments, the type who'd probably want all the deros in Fitzroy killed (like the idiots who moved to St Kilda who want the prostitution cleaned up) who has reported me to the council, twice, for my late night shenanigans in my spa.

Both times I have said, quite dead-pan, to the harassed council representative, at the door, "I don't have a spa," all the time knowing that she is talking about my ducted vacuuming system, flued outside.

"Oh, um, er. Are you sure about that?" the last one ventured.

"Am I sure that I don't have a spa?" I repeated, with a laugh.

"Oh... er... rightio then," he said red-faced as he left.

Well, I can't use my vacuum system without thinking of the good lady up the lane - oops, I seem to have left it going, while I write this.

Fuck, she's lucky I'm such a grot. I'd rather get lower watt light bulbs than do house work. But, when the debris is visible on the carpet, I've just got to clean.

I wonder how one turbo-charges a vacuum, you know, sports exhaust, louder note...
Jasus! I must be bored if those sorts of thoughts are amusing me.

The census lady entertained me for moments. Apparently, you can do it online... and the Jedi religion is perfectly acceptable. I'm going to be a Jedi Knight. Who can stop me?

It must be time to have a shower and head to Lottie's, any more perked coffee and I really will get jittery. She said she wanted to give me money. I'm not sure now what for exactly, but I'm not going to turn her down, naturally.

He, he

I screen calls, so I never talk to anyone I don't want to. But, I've been getting a lot of those annoying call-centre calls lately. So, when I went and bought a new cordless phone/answering machine combination this week, I set my message simply as,

Hello, Christian speaking.

You should hear the idiots prattling on. Snigger, snigger.

Civilised society

There are places you cannot go, not because they are impenetrable forests, thick and full, not because they are oceans, as deep as a mile and as dark as the night. No, you can't go there because they are filled with humans full of hate.

I opened the newspaper to fighting all over the world, so it seems.

The world is not civilised. Human beings have learned nothing. Peace seems to be further and further away. Make love not war, seems to have been lost.

Half the world starves, yet we think we're so cool.

Half the world hates the other half and yet we think we're so cool.

And just as an aside, the planet has been poisoned and yet we think we're so cool.

Ah Saturday. Awake early. Fuck me, why can't I sleep in any more? The world is too serious for a long stretch and a big sleep in. Maybe? (if I could just piss the bed, I could sleep forever)
I've got nothing to do. First weekend in a while where I've got no plans. I'm not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing?

I should go for a bike ride, get my lazy arse pumping some k's. I have perfect calves - someone even commented on it the other day - from years of bike riding. But now, I'm too lazy to even push the bike around to the servo to pump up the tyres.

I wish I could get inspired.

I should go to the country. I should clean the house. I should read a book. I should write something. Ah!

I should take my camera and go take some photos, but there is no sun. (The sun comes out almost on queue)

I want to turn into a cat and lie in front of the open fire, without a care. Lick my paw. Purr, if I want to.

Make my human walk around me, all day. Do not disturb, would be the message that my cat eyes would be telling.

Day 5 - the set back

While I didn't have a cigarette, smoking tobacco in a joint is certainly a set back. I know that if I want to give up smoking, I can't smoke any tobacco, no matter how. It's the whole craving nicotine thing, it's how I feel, it's that stressed out body withdrawal thing.

I want to say that I haven't smoked for a month, six months, a year. I just feel soooo much better when I don't smoke. It's an insidious addiction, but, I guess, that's all addictions. I'm glad I've only got, had, one addiction to speak of.

Friday, July 28, 2006

Caught the last tram.

Tim and Nicholas came over. Tim bought red wine. Nicholas bought pot.
I lit the fire. They were late.
I smoked 3 joints with Nicholas, bad Christian. Tim drank a bottle of red wine.

They had to go to Safeway. They haven't been doing much.

Manny came over. He went to the gym late, he was on his way home. Good Manny. He smells sweet.
He tastes just fine. He caught the last tram. Unshowered.

Now I feel like a cigarette. Bad Christian. Although, I haven't had one.
I've got another bottle of red. Another bottle and I'll sleep, for sure... smelling Manny still on my skin.

Missy jumps up on the couch with me, for Up Late. The smell of two men gets her going too.
She's like a plush toy, right now, she seems to have a triple coat on for the winter. She lays her head on my thigh.

My head's thick. The fire glows bright red. I turn off all the lights. Reality distorts.

I wish I had more dope. I know, piss weak.

Late afternoon

Manny came into my office, he said that was the only way he was going to get to see me. I told him there were, in fact, other ways. It was good to see him. It was good to see his smiling face.

He wanted to go into the toilet. He wanted me to kneel on the toilet seat, so he could suck me off, without anyone being any the wiser.

"Yeah, sure," I said. "It's okay for you." He smiled his devilish grin and I got a hard-on.

"Come on, whose going to know," said Manny. He leaned in close, as we waited for the lift down and kind of nuzzled my neck. "You know you want to."

I went down, as though, I was going to have a cigarette, like I usually do. In the lift, I pushed him up against the wall and kissed him passionately, as I slid my hand down the front of his pants. He was fully barred up.
My boy's got the nicest dick.

Ding, sounded the ground floor chime. I stepped away from him and was standing next to him as the doors opened... as he moved his backpack in front of himself.

"You don't play fair," said Manny. "You should have come to the toilets with me, when you had the chance." Devilish grin.

I wanted to smack his arse, as he exited the lift in front of me, but there were secretaries waiting to get in.

That's (nearly) my boy

Manny called last night - he wanted my white gobs of goo. He says that we haven't hooked up in two months, which I'm sure can't be true. He was so hot for it - that's my horny, Greek boy. His voice was all breathy, he was distracted, his tone strong. But, as usual, he wouldn't get off his luscious wog arse and get himself over here.

So bugger him!

Or would that be, not bugger him?

Day 4 - the pain

Sore throat, sore mouth, sore tongue, sore chest. I thought things were supposed to get better after quitting smoking. But no, everything seems to be hurting.

My tongue feels like some one has slashed it - actually, I'll write about my impending tongue biopsy later. My throat feels like it is in the throws of a cold - of course, it could be in the throws of a cold. But I don't think it is. The back of my mouth feels like it is heading to bacteria time. My chest feels like it is post heavy night on the fags. Ah!

What is it that they say, the body puts in quite a daily effort to fight the cigarette pollutants that a smoker ingests every day, so when you quit your body relaxes and all the walls come tumbling down. Do I have that even remotely correct? You can tell that medical terminology is my forte, now can't you?
Just wait until the shit on my lungs starts to come up - the green gobs of goo. (that would be a great name for a B horror movie) I shiver in anticipation.

It is nice to have warm hands and feet, but.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Madonna

One of Madonna's tour requests is that she has a new toilet seat fitted to her toilet every time she wants to use it. I thought this was obviously bollocks, until I read that Madonna's representative confirmed the request with,

"Who wouldn't want a new toilet seat every time they wanted to use the toilet?"

Madonna has lost her fucking mind. But then again... so has America.

Day 3 - the gnawing

Feeling good... ish. Lets not get to carried away. If only I could stop thinking about it. That's why you are pretty much defeated before you start, because the trick to stop smoking is to get it out of your head, to stop thinking about it. But to quit, you have to think about it all the time.

Only 1 zyban today.

2 kick in tomorrow.

I'm off to get my teeth cleaned at 9.30. Stella will be cross with me because I have cancelled 3 appointments this year, due to work commitments, when I should have been twice. I hope she doesn't want to send me off to the awful, scary, periodontal lady. I won't go, I'll refuse. Nice thought buddy.

Stella will be pleased that I have stopped smoking, though. Even if it is early days, even if it has only been 72 hours.

That's 60 cigarettes, 90 on a bad week (the truth is some where in between) that I haven't smoked. I like doing the cigarette count thing, it puts it in perspective for me.

I must remind Mark about my treadmill. He's supposed to be picking it up for me, because he can fit it in his 4WD.

Quitting smoking lowers your metabolism, so I gotta do something to raise it up again. Otherwise, I'll turn into a fat girl with confidence, (we all know how much a fat girl with confidence is despised, hey Tom Gaylord?) and I won't be happy about that. I'll probably take up smoking again, to kill myself because of my disgusting appearance.

Tom says I'm a known fatist.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Mercy me

I believe in euthanasia for the old, the sick, the deformed and the dying. I just don't believe human beings can be trusted to carry it out.

Day 2 - the dizziness

My chest, upwards to my throat, feels like there's been a fire and now there is just coals. It's kind of burning, kind of sore, it feels kind of strained. I feel like I'm on the verge of coughing.

My head feels out of sorts, kind of off balance, kind of dizzy, kind of light.

My balance feels odd. My perspective seems weird. My eye sight is kind of patchy, while not being patchy at all... if that makes any sense at all?

Although, I basically feel calm, I also feel on the verge of losing it altogether.

If only I could stop thinking about it. During those moments when my mind is distracted with other things, I feel quite normal.

I've been nice to my fellow man, thus far.

I'm off to my mum's. Bring on the Chocolate Royals, Lottie. Tonight, I'm not going to say no.

That boy

Christian Ford. Blue eyes like crystals; searching, smiling, as they found mine. Short dark hair; if I called it curly, it would give the wrong impression, but not straight. Square jaw. A smile that could warm me forever. He smiled often, as he, seemed, to hang off everything I said. We talked so easily, like it was just the two of us. Meeting eye to eye. Interested, like there was something behind that interest.

But, I'm afraid, confirmed by Aby, the beautiful Christian is one for the girls.

He likes putting his what... where?

Sigh.

I'm sure he... those eyes... when he looked at me... we had a connection... oh, never mind.

Big sigh.

Having the same first name would never have worked, anyway, I console myself.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Day 1 - just didn't light one

Day 1 of giving up smoking. I've done okay. I've felt tired and kind of gently sideways, but it hasn't been awful. Just relentless, kind of like I'm tripping.

I haven't been rude to anyone, or wanted to kill them.

I've taken Zyban. 1 table when I got home. I was supposed to take it for a week before I quit the fags, but, I guess, that's just because they take a week to work. I didn't really know that I was going to stop today, didn't know definitely. Just felt strong enough and went with it. My trick for giving up smoking is not to have that first one in the morning.

Woo-hoo, on the Zyban box it says may make drowsy, don't operate heavy machinery. (Perhaps, I should have had a slug of snapps, with it)

I've ordered risotto and I've lit the fire. I'm just going to veg in front of the teev.

Grumpy? I wouldn't say I'm grumpy. I'M NOT FUCKING GRUMPY!

Ha, ha. Kidding.

Monday, July 24, 2006

My hero

Monty Burns walking off into the sunset, with Smithers -

"I have to endure these wretched troglodytes and yet if I had them killed, I'd be the villain. How is that fair?"

(Monty Burns, one of my top 5 all time television characters)

Sunday, July 23, 2006


Into the night

Wet, cold, dark night. Etta sings the blues. The rain falls. The open fire glows red. The house is quiet, I feel a chill up my spine. Or, is it a tingle, a sense of being - the world is out there, I know it, I sense it, it is kept at bay. A sense of achievement at my happy world - contained within, harmonious. How did I do that? Get that? Lucky? Maybe? I took a journey, a flight of fancy - a straight trajectory, as nothing has ever gone wrong for me. I've always got what I wanted, but I didn't take it, demand it, just felt it to be good and followed it instinctively. And here I am, with me.

Lonely is a relative term.

I like being with me, which I am eternally grateful for, as I see those people who don't like being, can't be with, themselves and it seems like such a burden. It has frustrated friends and confounded lovers, on occasion, when I don't want to go out and play. Sometimes they have thought I was kidding, those who have known me for a short time, to be sure.

I think I have always had some where to be.

I had enough intuition to know who were the good people who came into my orbit, I got to recoginse that early. I've always had good radar for such things. Maybe that was luck?

Etta sings. My house is warm. I have good friends and have had beautiful lovers. I feel content, humming Masquerade, thinking about what tomorrow will bring.

The rain falls. The open fire glows red. Missy rubs against my ankles, purring and lays at my feet.



Saturday, July 22, 2006

One night in Melbourne

I caught up with Aby, last night. One night in Melbourne, of three nights here, before she heads to the Big Apple, Monday morning. She seemed good, she looked great, as she told me how she's been sick in Tassie, for the last few weeks. Bronchitis, I think it was. It's funny, it's never struck me before what a hypochondriac Aby is. There's always a tale of sickness, from her. I guess I never noticed when I used to see her more often, live with her.
The story about her going to apply for the dole for the first time, last year, still makes me laugh. Tom had convinced her that she had to put on a great show, firstly, as sickness benefits are more lucrative, and secondly, so she wouldn't have to comply to all the work for the dole requirements. She convinced them she had avian flu, or at least convinced them that she believed she had avian flu. She told them about the voices in her head, which she meant like the voices that we all hear in our heads... and how she wasn't at all sure if this world was one that she wanted to continue in. They wanted to call the C.A.T. Team and they wanted to assign her a psychiatrist. They wanted to put her on suicide watch.
Oops, said Aby, as the Department of Social Services started to call her every day. A little too convincing, perhaps.
But she got put on benefits, without any responsibilities needing to be met by her.
I told her that we could write a whole film about it, somehow this deception would come back and bite the character, in the end.
Aby does have a certain madness in her eyes, when she talks about her illness, though, I noticed last night.
Tony was, of course, with her. They are still together, Aby and he, despite Aby heading OS indefinitely.
Aby is a bit worried about all of her debt collectors coming home to roost while she is absent - unable to duck and weave, bat and catch and throw again, with them all. There's a real possibility, says Ab, that all the various departments, with both her identities, will work the whole lot out while she isn't here to slot in acceptable excuses, or shuffle payments. She has, of course, got a new credit card to finance this latest trip.
Pete, Aby's friend was there too. Pete and I have never really clicked, conversation wise. Don't know why. We both seem to hesitate with each other and stand back.
Another friend of Aby's was next to me, rounding out the six. I'd never met Chris before, but apparently, he's known Aby for ages. He was a little surprised, as I was, that Aby and I had lived together, so recently, and the two of us had never met, as he lives in Fitzroy too.
I was a little intimidated by Chris, as I was sat next to him, as I normally am when I first meet someone who I, well, fancy. Dark hair, blue eyes, a gorgeous mouth that smiled so easily. But, we soon got chatting and he seemed to be sneaking looks at me, like someone who was interested in me, might do. We talked about architecture in Fitzroy, politics, love, life and I was smitten, or could have been, if I didn't assume he was straight.
As we were organising the bill, as everyone was in a financial huddle, Chris stretched lazily and as he did, his shirt rode up and I gazed upon his sexy stomach, which he caught me doing and he smiled sweetly. I wanted to touch him, where the hair appeared out of the top of his jeans.
When I got home, I said to Tom, Do you think Chris was straight?
I think they were both straight.
No, Tom. Pete is gay.
Really, said Tom?
Yeah, sure. And I've heard him bemoan the fact that he can't find a boyfriend. He's looking for love and the "one," I said. A bit like you.
What! said Tom. Now you tell me. If I'd known that, I'd have moved myself next to him and got chatting.
So, according to Tom, anyway, Chris could easily have been gay.
We waved them all good bye in the cold night air. Chris seemed to shake my hand, like he really meant it, as his eyes danced across my face to find mine, as he smiled seductively. But, I put it down to my imagination.
Must email Ab and tell her that her friend Chris was cute. What a waste! Just to see what she says. He's within walking distance, after all... and smart... and there has been something unusual happening with the name Chris, lately. Friend's with new Chris' in their lives has been happening a lot lately.
Do I bemoan not having a boyfriend, asked Tom. Do I really?

Friday, July 21, 2006

There is this boy - time passes slow

Time passes slow. The clock on the wall has broken, stopped eternally on 3.15. We will go on, life’s in front of us, unfolding.

I sit here with cold feet and watch your hand sneak around my cock. With your three moles on your face and your beautiful blue eyes. I watch you shake. Your hair still wet from the shower.

We’ve got to go, we both know it, but for now I watch you suck me nice and slow. My stomach churns with the fear of being caught. You always close your eyes, when my dick is in your mouth, like nothing at all could worry you at that moment. I don’t know why, but I like it, it’s nice? Vice Captain, wouldn’t your team mates like to see you now, on your knees with your bare arse exposed?

I’m am cold in my towel, even though your mouth keeps me warm. Your hair is thick in my hands, as I kneed it in my palms. Your chest has hair; you’ve become a man.

I pull you up to your knees and our cocks touch, our lips meet and I kiss you. You have warm, soft lips.
I push you back into your jocks, and into your grey flannel pants. You’re dribbling. We laugh, both of us. You wipe off the last slick and tuck your shirt in. I kiss you, as you zip up your fly. One last time.

We pick up our bags. You smile. We slip outside, through the main gate and out onto the street. Parents are still picking up their children. We steal looks at each other. We smile. You shake your head. Still smiling. Switch off. Look straight ahead. Someone’s mother smiles at the two of us and nods her head, as she heads to her car. You smile and say hello, as of course you would. Nice day, you say. Not missing a beat, such ease, such charm. That smile, you have it for everyone to see. You shine.

We walk to the tram just like two schoolmates should. Smiling, in the warm afternoon sun.

I don't understand?

I know this is not new, many people have said it... but on prime time television you can show a woman being beaten to death and then you can see her corpse with it's eyes having been gouged out, but you can't show her breasts.

You can show a man getting his throat slit, from side to side, or you can show his brains being blown across the wall behind him with a gun, but you can't show his penis.

I couldn't be bothered last night, just gave in and watched the American police shows until my aching head took me off to bed. I watched three shows and on each there was some form of graphic violence done to the victims. It just got me thinking. Why don't all the Christian Queensland senators complain about that?

On Big Brother, they pixelate a bum crack in the same time slot.

I really don't get it.

We seem blase, at best, when three hundred thousand Iraqis die in the fight for ownership over oil.

We are scandalised if a pop star's breast flops out at the super bowl.

It's a funny old world.

Brought it on myself?

Thank you universe. Thank you world. Instant karma is coming to get you, as John Lennon once said.
Late yesterday, my neck got stiff, the back of my head thick, my eyes felt the sharp pins, you know, at the back in vital nerves, before my scalp started to ache and my stomach went on the quease. I went to bed early, deciding I should get myself to work today - worrying a little about my predisposition for psychosomatic manifestations.

I woke at 1 am with a full-tilt migraine, blaring through every cell in my brain. I thought my head was going to explode, after a while I was hoping my head would explode and just kill me, even that would have been better than the excruciating, get no relief, pain I was experiencing.

If I lay flat on my back, my pounding head intensified. If I lay on my side, my stomach slid all of it's bile all the way up into my throat. As I'd never thrown up with a migraine before, always got to the edge but never gone over, I decided on my side. Harmless nauseousness, although annoying, was better than an exploding head.

Then suddenly, the bile was sliding passed my throat and into my mouth. Erump, went my stomach. My saliva turned metallic, my mouth became hot, I started to sweat, I couldn't swallow without fearing the worst.

This is ridiculous, I thought, I have never chucked on a...

I was out of bed, four steps and I was in the bathroom. Oh fuuuuuu....

Heave! Gulp for breath. Heave! Heave! There was nothing in my stomach, nothing to come up. Heave!

Heave! Heave! It was like screaming into a vacuum, gasping into a void. All of my muscles were doing their very special sickness dance, from the pit of my stomach to the tip of my tongue, but there was nothing to lubricate the exhale, nothing to make it wet, so all those muscles were clamping down on themselves. Fellow Migraine sufferers have said to me before that I was lucky not to get the vomiting stage, as it was particularly nasty. Now I know what they mean.

I vomited at 1.06, 2.10 and 3.46 am.

So the irony is, that I'm now dragging my sorry arse into work, my head is sore, my neck is stiff, I have the broken vision thing happening, and my stomach is grumbling, but for the moment, staying put. I feel exhausted.

Happy days.

Thursday, July 20, 2006


Hello Manny

Manny called last night.

Long time no hear, he said.

Yes, indeed, I said. What have you been doing?

Nothing much, he said. That's the problem.

Me either.

He wanted me to go over there.

Practically the one night, in the last month, that I'd smoked dope - thanks Tom - and I couldn't drive. Wouldn't you know it.

Glen had bought Manny Calvin Klien underwear and insisted on Manny modelling them, for him, when Manny said he didn't want them, because they were the wrong size.

Sick fucker, he'll do anything to get Manny out of his pants.

I thought small wouldn't fit, but they fit fine. I tried them on after Glen left. Manny's voice turned husky, I'd model them for you, if you came over. I've got a big bulge in them, I'm adjusting it now.

He knows I've got a thing for guys in underwear, he knows which of my buttons to push. But it was 23.00 and I just couldn't drive.

Thursday with a joint

My first thought this morning about my boss was that she could shit herself, as far as I'm concerned, so I'm home again today.
I had dope in my mull bowl, what the hell did I care about work.
I'm surprised how pissed off I am. Had enough. At the end of my rope.
I'm just sorry that I couldn't have rolled over and gone back to sleep, after I made the call. I'd never make a good assassin, can't kill without guilt.
It must be a day to light the fire and write some Haiku. I so want to go right brain and shut the world out.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006


Sick day, huh?

Tom dropped in unexpectedly - he has a key to my house, so he can hang out during the day, if he's in the city. He lives way out in the suburbs, with his parents. He's lived with them ever since his battle with cancer - and gave me dope, so now I'm stoned.

I was blogging, as he walked through the door. I had to hide it, quickly. Which is what I'm thinking about now. Nobody knows that I have a blog, other than other bloggers, of course. I have never told any of my friends or lovers. I love the anonymity of all of that. It gives me such freedom when I write, I never feel inhibited.

But Tom is my best mate and I have never kept anything from him. I'm sure that's not entirely true, but I'm sure you get my meaning. The point is, that I have been soooo tempted to tell him, on so many occasions, today being one. But I didn't.

The reason that I can't, is because many of my friends lives, or a good part there of, are chronicled in my private journal. We all used to party together; a good number of them have lived here, over the years. They have often said, I hope that's not going in the published journal, you know jokingly, but said none the less, when I'd pick them up on an indiscretion, or some bad, on occasions, putrid behaviour. They all have said it.

My answer has always been, Everything goes in, make no mistake.

Only one friend has strictly forbidden me from writing about him.

I even renamed them all, some years back, on a drug fucked weekend, it was so much fun. (I guess you had to be there and in my particular state of mind, at the time) I stupidly breathed a wisp of a hint of this and then they all wanted to know their alias'. I put a stop to that very quickly, it got tiresome. Besides, I might have wanted to use those names one day.

And while my life is dramatically different from those times, all of our lives are different to the time I am referring to (thirty-somethings are way more responsible than twenty-somethings) - fucken hell, we were a soap opera, in those hedonistic, drug fuelled, partner swapping, experimental, fuck everything that moves, take anything we could, often, party days - the point is, even if most of them don't think about such things now, I dare not even breath a word of this blog to anyone, as they are all fully aware and they'd be on it like a bitch!

Because basically, their worst nightmare has come true, be it too late for the real, skanky recriminations... unfortunately.

We've all got houses and mortgages and businesses to run, or illness, in Tom's case, to deal with - cured though now - so who has time for such frivolousness. Besides, you get over it, there are other things to be done, to occupy our time. All grown up, I guess.

Note to the children, the real story about drug taking is that you can come out the other side, unscathed. You can lead productive lives. It's like anything, usually you just get bored and just want to do other things. It was fun while it lasted, so much fun and I'm glad that I did it, but I don't have any great desire to do it now. Well, not often.

Anything you do, you have to do responsibly. I really believe that if you take drugs for any other reason than to simply have fun, you are probably doing them for the wrong reason and you probably shouldn't be doing them at all.

Not that any of us completely abstain, don't get me wrong. Just not every weekend, like we did for years.

Tom's wondering about the etiquette of luring Matt away from Shane & Mark, who have gone on an overseas trip; last report was that Shane & Mark haven't actually slept in the five days since they left Sydney, the amount of speed they have done. I think it's been Sydney, San Francisco, Vancouver, with trade in each town. They missed their flight in Sydney, day two of their time off, because they we too out of it to get to the airport, in time. So they were already 24 hours behind, before they even left the country. But they are on holidays, after all. Tom and Matt are planning to go to Witness Protection this weekend.

As for the friend who has strictly forbidden me from writing about him, I decided that I would never, ever mention him, or his exploits. For the more astute of you, I do refer to him from time to time, if he happens to be in a story that I am writing about, but I always refer to him as another friend. And that's the only reference he, or his life, ever gets. So when I do publish the entire journal, one day, as the New Tales of The City, he will never, ever be mentioned, as he wished. And that, my dear friends, will kill him ever more than anything I could have ever written about him.

He, he, he, such happy thoughts on a stay at home work day.

From the vaults - There is this boy

The pieces written under the "From the vaults" title were written by me as a sixteen/seventeen year old in my journal of the time. I have rewritten them, of course, changed them where the grammar was bad and the meanings were unclear. But, essentially, they are how I wrote them, at the time - added bits, withstanding.

I only blogged it initially because I was reminded of it from a particular blog I wrote a week, or so, ago. Because people have responded positively to it/them, I have decided to work on the rest of them and I have decided to blog them under the title of "There is this boy."

So, to avoid any confusion, anything written under the "There is this boy" title, refers to me and my life as a teenager.

From the vaults - There is this boy

a week later...

I know you all and will a while uphold the lazy nature of your idleness; you don’t know what you don’t know and your inquisitiveness is small. A façade is a façade and nothing needs to change for change sake. I can play the pied piper; it is a role I’ve learnt well. You are too easy to fool, as I have been – not knowing, what I didn’t want to know. From now, I will smile as brightly as the sun and I will hide my guilt in the clouds.

Alex, I have a strange sense of ownership over you. You joke and I smile. I can see it in your eyes, the way you look at me. Nobody else sees me want you.

I’ve feared it for a long time, tried to run away from it. Felt sick about it. But when we did it, despite your enthusiasm, despite your strength, you freaked out more than me. I was the strong one, I think that made me feel good.

Would it be different than with a girl, I don’t know.

Alex’s body was hard; his hands, his lips, his intent, just seemed so right. It might be the green field always looks greener syndrome. You always want what you can’t have and that sort of stuff. But, there was no nervousness in our fumbling, my fumbling, in fact, no fumbling at all. Just touch. Just being.

Just relief, at the final outcome.

Occasionally and it will be fine, you and me. It doesn’t mean anything. I’m not a poof. And while I’m young… guys know what guys like. When I’m married, then it would all have to be different. I will change.

I know nothing else, but the life I have. Big fish, small pond. My naivety keeps me grounded. I need to travel, see the world.

Tear me a part, it couldn’t be true. I just have to try a little harder, for a glorious, normal future.

Wednesday in Bed

Today, I'm being very juvenile. Completely. Extremely. I'm home. I've taken the day off in a childish snit.

Yesterday, I was ten minutes late for work. I was told off for it.

I know my colleague, who is, after all, my boss, becomes totally unreasonable when she is under stress - she's a liberal voter and, I'm sure, the product of liberal voter parents. She likes John Howard (from hence forth he'll be referred to as Mr Sheen) and believes in tax cuts for those of us who work, greater tax cuts for those of us who work harder. When she sees protesters in the street marching against Mr Sheen's IR laws, her response is, get back to work, you bludgers. She does have Mr Sheens 1950's'esque response to matters... at times. (And as with Mr Sheen, there will be no apology forth coming)

So usually, when she acts unreasonably, I let it go, I don't bite back.

Yesterday, I responded with, You can't be serious.

And you left early. (the night before)

I went to the doctor. (I finally went and got antibiotics for my gum infection. The same gum infection that I cancelled my dental appointment for, the week before, because of work commitments) All the extra hours that I put in that I don't get paid for, nor do I ask to be paid for them. That's just the way it goes.

Now this is coming from a woman who, up until a few weeks ago, with end of financial year going so horribly wrong, was incapable of getting to work before 9am.

I know, I know, she is my boss. Well, lets talk about that, for a moment.

We have worked together for five years. We changed companies together and took over a department that was in chaos. I replaced four people, which, to be honest, is more of a comment on their incompetence than on me. But, having said that, I still replaced four people. We replaced five people.

I've done my bosses job before, I can do what she does, I'm as good and as capable as she is. She knows this and it is an accepted fact between she and I, if not with the rest of the execs. I choose not to, because I don't want to do what she does, I don't want the responsibility, I don't want to be held accountable... because I have this stupid dream of being a writer. I want to do something else. (It isn't working out that way, just for the moment, but it is my plan) She knows she is damn lucky to have me, working down a shelf, if you get the meaning.

So, when she chose, yesterday, to, literally, not speak a single word to me for the entire day, because she is under the pump, I took exception to being treated that way.

As I walked home last night, I thought to myself, Let's put this into perspective, unreasonable boss lady and the junior worker is going to do what junior workers do, take no responsibility - after all, that's why she gets paid more, that's why she gets a bonus for all the extra hours she puts in and I don't, because she is the manager and she is ultimately responsible.

Last night, I ironed a shirt, for today and scolded myself for having such childish thoughts. Get yourself to work and help her out and prove that you are the adult that you really are.

But this morning, oh, I don't know, my real plan kicked in and the thought of spending the day doing what I really want to be doing, that is writing, was too much of a temptation, so I called in with a migraine at 7.04am.

Her head will probably explode, the mood she is in, at the moment. (Tomorrow, there will probably skin fragments wrapped around the computers and bone shards embedded in the ceiling and brain tissue splattered on the window, completely encircled with yellow, crime scene, tape... snigger, snigger)

Lottie said that it was probably PMS and that I should cut her some slack. Oh please!

Tuesday, July 18, 2006


I had a dream

I haven't dreamt in an age. Well, I guess I have dreamt, but thanks to Mr Green, I haven't remembered them, not a one. Not even a hint. Not for years.
I used to have the most vivid dreams as a kid. Some might say bizarre. Graphic. Incredible. Strange. Crazy, maybe. I used to love it.

Last night I dreamt that I was near the main road near my parents house, as I would have seen, and did see, it as a boy - it is so interesting, the detail one's memory retains. Someone was with me, I think it was my sister, as we spent most of our childhood together.
I was in the street, heading some where, now alone. I was dressed in thin, cotton baggy pants, the type I would never wear and the type, I can only describe, that Jamie, from Big Brother, wears, when I had a bad case of diarrhoea and, yes, you guessed it, an accident.

Then I was at a fictional neighbours house, by myself, cleaning up, as they were out for the day and I could go about what needed to be done in private. I will spare you the details, but it was graphic and nasty. Toilet, shower, strangely set well a part, acres of beige and miles of polished floor tiles.
The place was sparkling clean, not unlike Mark's mother's mirror finished tiles and surfaces. (It's no surprise to me that Mark is anal about such things) I had wads of toilet paper, which seemed to be having little affect on my, shall we say, state of cleanliness.

I was overwhelmed but getting it together. Panicked, but moving forward with the task. I'd got my pants off and was cleaning up by the toilet, when the son of the house, who seemed to be Max, from Big Brother, came through the front door and headed up the stairs. Somehow the toilet and I now seemed to be in the middle of the lounge room. Max casually looked over at me, as he headed up the stairs and said, Mum and dad will be here in a minute.

I was squatting, reaching between my legs, rolls of paper towel in both hands. Max smiled, as he took two steps at a time with every bound, not seeming noticing anything unusual about me or my predicament.
I was completely mortified at the thought of Max's parents about to enter the house. Stunned and shaking, as I gazed at all of my soiled belongings spread around me.

Then I was walking to my house, not reminiscent of any house I have ever lived in. I was nearly there, I was nearly out of sight. I was nearly safe. My heart was beating furiously. My head was swimming. My body was shaking. My arse cheeks were squelching. Something was dribbling down the backs of my legs. I had a shirt on and my putrid cotton pants in my hand, but nothing else.

As I turned the corner, there was a party in full swing, my house was throbbing with people and music. I was defeated. All hope was lost. There was no way out of it this time; no protection, no where to hide. I froze. All of my filth was about to be viewed by a multitude.

A wave of calm came over me. My pulse returned to normal. My head cleared. An inner strength welled up and washed over me. The sun even came out. I calmly rapped the, what seemed like, material that had been soaked in mud, around my hips, tying it in a knot on one side and confidently sashayed toward the front door.

I sat up in my darkened bedroom and looked out to the still dark morning, it was 5.45am and I was wide awake. Well, I had slept away most of the weekend, my sleep bank must be full.
I have no idea what that was all about, I thought. I laughed and shook my head.
"Fuck me!... Welcome back dreamboat." I lay back down, resisting the urge to check my arse crack. "That's what I gave up dope for?"

Monday, July 17, 2006

Random Monday

"Die," was AFL star, Nick Riewoldt's response to a word association game. The word given to him was homosexual. Oh yes, Mr Riewoldt... very nice.
... I guess that puts paid to my fantasy of Nick and Adam McPhee being secret lovers.

Uma Thurman playing an insecure super hero, G-Girl, with Eddie Izzard playing the villain... that's gotta be good!

No one has ever read my journals from school, before. I've kept a journal ever since my teen years. Some of my friends are nervous about me publishing it, one day, (as if anyone would be interested) due to the record of their bad behaviour, promiscuity drug taking and non-stop partying.

Kylie's set to resume her whatever it's called tour. Why doesn't everyone spend their money on a real singer?


Oh surprise, surprise, religion really is going to destroy the world. Kind of ironic, really. Won't the Jesus and Allah devotes be surprised when there are no virgins and no heaven, when the bomb goes off stripping the flesh from their bones, because of the way they have acted toward each other.
Hang onto to you hats, planet earth, here we go.

Grethel says to evictee Darren, Weren't you intimidated to have a best friend relationship in the house with, David, a gay man?
Yeah, thanks Grethel, you bitch, like all straight men should be intimidated by gay men.
(The spell checker wanted to change Darren to Darwin, how very Andora, from Bewitched, of it)

I didn't smoked all day yesterday. I've been watching my diet. I soooo wanted to have fish & chips last night, but I settled on cigarettes. At least no one can see the cancer.

I stayed home all weekend. I ditched drinks on Friday night for Shane & Mark's going away. I was a no show for dinner at Tim & Nicholas' Saturday night. I didn't go Rachel's birthday drinks and dinner last night. Not to mention, I ignored Tom's suggestion of coming over last night to watch Big Brother and smoke pot. I didn't go see my mum and I turned down Mark's offer of going to Bolago to hang out while Luke worked. I slept most of Saturday afternoon and I slept most of Sunday afternoon.
I'm wondering what the hell is wrong with me?

I've quit a ten year, daily pot habit, recently... I wonder? (I've only smoked it the last two Sunday nights when Tom has bought it over for Big Brother) It was easy, no problem. But could there be side effects?

Angie Stone sings, I wish I didn't miss you.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

From the vaults (part 1) ...circa senior school, year 11

All eyes are gazing, looking for my expression to change. They are wondering what I’m going to do, going to say. I don’t know; I’m momentarily numb.

I’m being paranoid, I know.

Alex just asked me, about an affair, as he put it, just like that, as the assembly went on around us. He didn’t even seem to hush his tone, although he didn’t shout.

Sitting quietly not making a sound, all eyes in the room are seemingly staring me into the ground. He is smiling, nervously, well, as nervous as Alex ever gets, waiting for my to reply. I don’t know what to say, as my insides tremble, with every fibre of my being.

There is white noise burning in my ears.

Is he expecting me to say yes, or is he expecting me to say something funny because he’s just clowning around. Why me? How do I believe it’s the truth that he says?

My stomach grinds down.

I say no, nervously. I smile, sheepishly. I think I feel calmer now that I’ve said it. No. That had to be the answer.

It’s quiet now and I’m oblivious to everyone staring at me, because they're not, they’re all now doing their own thing, looking elsewhere. I stare at the floor. He’s still smiling, he said he didn’t believe me.

He’s not going to take no for an answer. Say something funny; it’s expected of me. I don’t feel like being humorous when my guts are a mess.

Alex has to go, he smiles slyly and touches my arm.

“Think about what I’ve said.” Alex smiles the birth of that smile that later would make him wealthy in real-estate. “And then answer yes.” He hesitates. Smiles. Thumps me on the shoulder and then is gone.

I wanted to kiss him, his handsome face, framed by blond hair. But instead I ran. As soon as his attention was distracted, I’m out into the hallway and onto the oval for fresh air.

I walk down to the back of the oval, as football is played all around me. The smokers look nervous as I come over the embankment, until they see it’s me, a regular face, one of the usual suspects. We don’t always talk, us smokers, but we know who we are. One kid even stubs his cigarette out. He’s obviously a novice, probably year nine, just taking it up.

Alex’s suggestion made my stomach fill with fear. That grinding, gnawing, acid of excitement churning, trembling like it may always be unfulfilled.

I can’t believe it; I’m having trouble keeping my hard-on under control. I shake as I convince myself that he was genuine and not setting me up for a fall. I can’t believe his brazenness he just came out with it, like it was perfectly okay.

I should have said yes. Should I? I want to. What if he’s setting me up? How? Alex isn’t like that; he’s gentle and kind. I sat in the grass; lost in my thoughts. I pulled the blades out of the ground, one by one.

Shaking on the inside, wanting to scream. I was offered a cigarette when it looked as though I was out.

Safety in numbers, you can’t squeal if you’re in.

I blew smoke without talking. He’s got a nice smile and sexy arse in his trousers. He looked even more handsome than usual just there in that room, as he spoke his words of passion, as I shook like a leaf and my loins stirred in disbelief.

We travelled around New Zealand last year, we shared hotel rooms, how easy it would have been.
I ran inside when my cigarette was done. I was still shaking thinking about what I’d say when I saw Alex again. I went to English, accounting and maths.

Alex was in the hallway, when the end of the day bell sounded.

I grabbed his shoulder from behind, in the hallway where all the lockers were lined in a row along each side of the corridor, along each blank wall. His blond hair shone as he turned around. It was time to leave, people were milling about, getting in each other’s way, wrestling as they rushed to get out the door. I decided to be as brave as Alex had been, so I spoke, clearly, without faltering a word.

“You know what we talked about earlier, in form assembly?” I wanted my shaking to stop.

He smiled broadly. “Yes.” At that moment I really didn’t want to give in, I wanted to run. But a force greater than me was pushing me along, making me, gluing my feet to the ground. I was shaking. Alex was smiling that smile.

“What if I wanted to change my answer?” I smiled nervously; my stomach churned. I’d said it; there was no going back. “To…yes?”

“I knew you would.” He smiled again and looked me up and down. “I’ve got footy practice, I’ve got to go.” He smiled wantonly. “I’ll see after.” He slapped my arm. “I’m glad,” he said before he ran. He turned as he pushed the side door open. “Later on. Don’t go home.” He smiled and then he was gone.

From the vaults (part 2) ...circa senior school, year 11

I hung around at school last night for Alex to finish footy practise. He’s got think hairy legs, sticking out from under his white shorts. The backs of his thighs are sexy, leading to so much more. His calves, too, round and muscular. I love watching kick the ball, he flies in the air, as he does, high in the air.

I got talking to Rich Phillips, (we'd fooled around once in class, while the teacher was prattling on. We slid our hands into each other's pockets to feel each other's hard-ons) he didn't seem to be in a hurry to go home.

“Why are you still here?” asked Rich.

“I dunno, just watching the guys practice.”

“I see,” said Rich. “Why, you don’t normally?”

“Oh, me and Alex were just going to hang out. After.”

Footy training finished, the boys were coming off the oval. Jon Temple, David Johnson, Craig Cameron, Alex coming up the rear. Alex caught my eye, his eyes widened as he looked at Rich and then back to me.

Alex was behind Rich, he shrugged and raised his palms in the air. He then headed off to the change rooms too.

“Where are you guys going to hang out?” said Rich.

“Just around,” I said.

“When did you and Alex start hanging around after school?” I picked up my bag.

“We always have.” I took a step away, Phillips grabbed my arm. “Where are you going, Alex will still be in the shower.” I looked at the shower rooms, I looked at Phillips. I looked at the oval, a vast
expanse to run away into, I looked out at the Street.

“How are you getting home?”

“My dads coming to get me,” said Rich.

“Your dad?” His non-existent, absent father. There's a first.

“Yes my dad, so it could be anytime. Come on, sit here and talk until your boyfriend’s ready.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean.” I hadn't even done anything with Alex yet.

“No I don’t.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

Alex came out of the change rooms, he walked across the grass at the end of the oval, towards me and Rich.

“I gotta go,” said Alex.

“What?” I said.

“I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Alex and then he walked off like he had something to hide, he was avoiding Rich.

“Hang out hey?” said Rich as we both watched Alex walk the pathway to the front gate.

“Yeah, something like that.”

From the vaults (part 3) ...circa senior school, year 11

two days later...

Alex came straight toward me in class after lunch.

“The dunnies up at the Kew offices, after school. You and me.” He didn’t stop; he went straight to his desk.

After class, Alex was right next to me in the hall. “I’ll meet you there, okay?” No smile, just a serious face, this time.

“Okay,” I said. I grabbed my bag and headed out of the school.

From the vaults (part 4) ...circa senior school, year 11

the next day...

What can I do?

I feel like I have done something that is too big to forget, to ignore, or cover up.

What can I do?

When everyone’s staring and pointing even though they have no idea what’s true? They don’t even suspect, nobody does.

Some guys are called poofters in the hall, as I look in my locker for things to take home. I don’t join in; it makes my skin crawl. I walk away.

What else can I do?

I wish that it would blow over, quickly, I don’t want any blame. What can I do when my guts are aching with fear and worry at being found out?

Why did I say yes, the other day, out in the hall? He smiled and raised his eyebrows. I was as nervous as hell. He tried to arrange it before the end of the day, but I took a rain check, to settle my nerves.

His body was tight; his cock was hard. It felt good and was all over far too soon. Did we really do that? Yes, I can still taste him on my breath, feel his hands on my skin.

Isn’t it funny that they’ll blame other guys, but never look at us? No one suspects. But I still want the fuss to blow over, anyway, out in the hall, even though I’m not even involved. I don’t want the association, even though I can’t be blamed. It’s those guys, who are “friends,” truthfully they’re not friends at all. And their trouble, hopefully, won’t be coming my way.

I exit outside.

Saturday, July 15, 2006


Boys School

Just thinking back to my years at my boys only private school... all those memories.

I liked school, had a great time; from the moment my dad dropped me off at the front gate, he taught at a uni and it was on his way, fitted into his timetable, to when I wandered out the gate with my big bag flung over my shoulder.

I liked the boys, for sure. I was friends with all the different groups; played 500, at lunch time, with the smart boys, smoked with the rebellious boys, hung with the sporty types, laughed with the gay boys, befriended the tough kids, schemed with the geeks.

I don't know now how I did it? I can only say that it came naturally for me - that's the best I can say.

I guess, if I had to slot myself into my own school tribe, I was one of the smart kids. But I was semi-sporty and pretty good looking and intelligent - a good mix, for me, good genes, thanks mum and dad.

And if you think good looks and athletic ability (just enough to get by, in my case, don't get me wrong. But enough) doesn't make you attractive to, popular with, other boys - straight or gay - then you are wrong. Males are very sexually orientated, don't be mistaken, for a minute. In my opinion, there aren't that many males who are completely and utterly straight, given the right set of circumstances, despite what they may claim otherwise.

I mixed easily across the sub-cultures, without even thinking. I wasn't fearful as a teenager, that came later, as an adult, when I went out into the big, wide world and learned how truly fucked up it really is.

I never got it on with any of the gay boys, nah, sorry to say, effeminate men have never done it for me, they leave me cold and make me wonder why they have to be like that? Having said that, I believe it all comes from birth, we are born the way we are. I never stood up for them, of course, but, they didn't need heroes, they rarely got a hard time. In fact, as cliched as it sounds, the only thing they ever got was hit on by the sporty types, pretty much. They used to confide in me, without me ever making any direct admissions. I was admitted to their secret circle - when I hung out with them, which wasn't so often, but often enough - and just accepted. It's strange now that I think about it. There was just this unspoken understanding, that I accepted them without question and they accepted me, also, without question.

They talked frankly about who they'd been with, be it in whispers behind hands and more often than not, in a type of code, but frank admissions, none the less.

Jon, the gorgeous, athletic footy boy used to do it with Adam - even after school, when he was married.

I used to drive passed Adam's place, onto my then girlfriend's house and I used to see Jon's Commodore with JT personalised number plates parked outside Adam's place, from time to time.

David used to do it with any number of guys.

Raymond used to do it with Michael, one of the smart boys, who had unbelievable, I guess you'd call it, Scandinavian looks. One of the smart boys who I'd play 500 with, occasionally having come from the gay kids where I'd heard Raymonds latest details. I used to gaze knowingly at Michael when he'd chat about his girlfriend, as I trumped his card.

And me... ah yes, Alex. The, eventual, vice-captain of the school and the vice captain of the footy team and one of the most popular kids in the place. Alex and I were buddies from year 7 and, for want of a better expression, lovers for the last two years we were there. Blonde - against type, I know - handsome, round face, floppy hair, killer smile, great legs in footy shorts, let me tell you, smart, with more confidence than any one person should possess. Everybody loved him at school. He was universally adored.

It was his confidence that got us together. It was he who made all the moves on me. I never propositioned anyone, he did all the talking.

I've written about it in my private journal/diary, years ago. I'll dig it out.

We did it all over the school; change rooms, toilets, empty class rooms, down the end of the oval in the gardens. How we never got caught, I'll never know. We did everything to each other - two horny school boys going at it like rabbits. I had my first threesome, organised by Alex, in the bush walking store room. I was the member of the bush walking team, so it was my responsibility to get the key and it was Alex's responsibility to get Jake. Of course, we were all too nervous and couldn't really get it up and nothing really happened, as it turned out, but I got to see Jake with his pants off.

Alex went onto get married, run a hugely successful real-estate company and have three sons who he sent to our school.

I was often tempted to go to an old boys function, just to sidle up to him, hopefully with his wife by his side, and whisper in his ear, How about one more time, for old times sake? Just to see his pretty, blue eyes squirm one last time. Of course, I never did. But, I was always confidant that one day we would see each other again, just to chat, just to reminisce.

His gorgeous blue eyes used to catch my attention in class and his eyebrows would raise and his forehead would crease and he would smile... that was his sign for how about it. I can still feel my face breaking into a smile in return, as I looked away, so no one would catch on. And my pulse would raise and being a teenage school boy, it wouldn't be the only thing. After that, my concentration would be shot for the rest of the class. I remember, on one occasion, a teacher said to me, most accusingly,

Chris, you haven't been paying attention. Would you like to stand up and tell the class where your mind has wandered off to?

Well, you see, there is this boy... my mind started to think - I'm sure it wasn't quite that clearly, at the time. Of course, I said nothing.

I sneaked a look at Alex, after a safe passage of time and smiled and he smiled back knowingly.

So you will understand... a year, or so ago, I was flicking through the old boys magazine, to the back page to the news of old boys, the only bit I really read and my eyes strayed down to the In Memoriam section, which I always just throw a passing glance at, to read, We are all shocked and saddened to hear of the death of Alex Roberts... how truly shocked I really was.

I was left oddly numb, standing there in my kitchen with my coffee in my hand, strangely so removed, by time and experience, from the images and pictures that were flooding through my mind.

It was a Saturday and it was raining, as it is today, I put on my jacket and got my umbrella and went for a long walk.

Ah, beautiful Alex, despite the fact that I haven't seen you since our school days, I still can't quite believe that it is true.

Friday, July 14, 2006

If you could choose a job...

...other than what you are working as right now/studying to be, then:

1. What would you love to be working at and why?

The two great loves of my life are writing and architecture. I, allegedly, went to one of the best private boys schools in Melbourne. When I was in year 11 and expressed a desire to be an architect, the careers councillor said to me, Oh Chris, you have always been a business student, you couldn't possibly be an architect because you have never done physics. As a 17 year old, I just accepted what she said blindly.

And despite my constant poetry and prose writing, the school never picked up on that either.

I have just recently finished a writing degree, just as a personal goal. What I am going to do with it, I'm not sure. What am I saying, I'm going to become a great, published author.

If I'd stop blogging and start writing something useful, that is. (Come on Aby, sell that damn script) I've got two novels and two film scripts at various stages, at the moment.

But architecture will always be a regret for me.

Sorry mum and dad, but I have to say you blew your dough on my education.

2. Also what is the one job that you can never see yourself doing and why?

I could never be an ambulance driver. I just couldn't stomach that potential trauma around every corner.
I'm sure it would be very rewarding, being able to help people when they are, probably, most in need. But I would end up having a nervous break down, I just couldn't handle, what I perceive, to be such a high stress occupation.

I once had a girl OD at work (An old job many moons ago - the baby-faced manager who some punters found hard to take seriously) and I had to call an ambulance to help her. Those guys couldn't have been nicer, more patient, or kinder to that girl. They won my heart that day, as I watched as useless bystander.

3. What would be the most unfit occupation for you (even though you may prefer to do it)?

I couldn't be a doctor. I am squeamish when it comes to blood. I faint at the sight of operations, I shudder if I see a scalpel cutting skin. I can feel the blade piecing my own skin, in a creepy kind of, chill up the spine, way. Broken bones make me wobbly, literally. Hurt people - physically, that is - make me nervous and uneasy. (I'm good with emotional hurt, less blood) Illness simply makes me... as much as I hang my head in shame at this admission... um, weak. A bit like vertigo - nauseous and dizzy.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Blue Ceiling

Everyone is freaked out

I was watching Medium, I don't usually. I don't usually watch much TV, only Big Brother. When it's not on, I often don't turn the television on for days.

Medium was about a serial killer with the same powers as Alison. A girl had just looked through a window, after being warned, by Alison, she was in danger, to see the serial killer looking in at her, about to break in to kill her. Then it was the add.

I went to the toilet, in the break. I knew I was a bit uneasy, as normally I don't have many lights on in the house when I am home. Just a few. I often walk around the house in the semi-dark, I don't know why, I've always been like that.

I started switching lights on as I walked through the house to go to the toilet.

Manny watches Medium, so I came into my computer to get my mobile phone to call him, to talk about the show. My mobile phone was flat. I was sure that I had plugged it in when I got home, but there it was unplugged. I was just wondering about it, when I turned and saw eyes on the stairs looking back at me. I nearly jumped through the fucking roof. Ahhhh! Of course, it was Missy, looking down at me, as cats do.

I started to laugh, nervously.

Manny didn't answer. He will think I'm absolutely mental from the message I just left him.

Last night...
I worked late. Everything went wrong, time was running out for a dead line I just had to keep. I was pissed off that the execs had rescheduled a meeting for 9am, to suit them, meaning I had to stay back. I got to Lottie's late, missed dinner. I had to take the dog back, I had no choice, he didn't have any food left. I had nothing to give him.

I'd just got home. Calm at last. The phone rang, I picked it up.

I like you because you don't try to control me. I like you because you don't try to organise me. I like you because you don't try and tell me what to do. I like you because you treat me well. I like you because you like who I am. I like you because you are a good person. I like you because you are normal. I like you because you don't try to change me. I like you because you don't play with my head.

It was Manny.

Apparently, the creepy Glen weirded out on Manny again. (Oh gosh, surprise me) He tried to organise Manny's life, now that they had rekindled their... thing. Now that Manny had made certain... promises.

What promises said Manny? He's seriously fucked up. (again... oh gosh, surprise me) I made no promises to Glen. I thought we'd just developed into friends. I thought all of that was over.

Glen tried to give Manny the new mountain bike, which Manny didn't want, insisted. Then he tried to put restrictions on Manny, with just about everything. When Manny wouldn't comply, Glen spat down the phone at him.

You're having a thing with Stuart? Aren't you, said Glen accusingly. (Lets me off the hook, at least) That's why you won't let me come around. Glen accused Manny of having Stuart there, when Manny said that he couldn't come around.

They all stress me out, said Manny. They all do my head in. All except you.

Apparently, Manny did have a thing with the beautiful Stuart. I mean, he did tell me they fooled around once, watching DVD's. But, he lets more slip when he's upset. Stuart wanted to get back with Manny, after they had had sex a few times. He took it as a sign. He tried to put pressure on, too.

But, apparently, they are both out now, both Glen and Stuart.

So does Manny like the drama?

He becomes reclusive when he is stressed, which is probably why he didn't answer the phone tonight.
Which leaves me jumpy and with no one to talk to, home alone. I've got to stop watching American murder shows. They are not good for me.

I think I'll call Tom.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Lift Doors

I know this is a terrible thing, well, actually, I don't mind it being done to me, in fact, I kind have a little respect, in a sense, if someone does... come on, hurry along, we're on our way... I'd have to say, that maybe it isn't so, so terrible.

I close lift doors on people at work.

Come on, hurry up, this car is leaving.

Oh, I don't mean to mean but, people dither so much getting into lifts that it drives me mad. It's nothing for them to keep the doors open while they finish their conversation, despite anyone else. Or they file in like sheep, even when other lift doors open up, like once they have committed there's no going back.

People wanting to go down, get in the up life and then scramble to get out, before the doors have closed, once they realise. Come on, pay attention!

Or they do the opposite, they run like mad and practically fling themselves through the doors when they are about to close, like their lives depend on catching that particular lift, despite there being five more lifts. I'll never understand it.

And don't get me started on the people who catch the lift up one floor. It would, often, take them longer waiting for the lift than it would taking the stairs. The other day, when a, shall we say large, girl did exactly that, as soon as she alighted a bloke in the lift turned to everyone else and said what we were all thinking, - or is that what I was thinking - And that is why she will always be fat! (He almost spat the 't' out)

I work on the fortieth floor of a large office building - yes, the view is spectacular, as so many people like to comment when they come into my office, which overlooks Port Phillip Bay - so there is no escaping my reliance on and my dismay at, lifts and the people who use them.

But, I guess, the charge of excitement that I got at the sight of the old lady's puce, gloved hand nearly being amputated as the stainless steel slid closed... is not, um... er... snigger, snigger... a good thing.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Clueless

What is it with guys in dark suits with pale shoes? Often, black or dark blue suits with tan shoes. There seems to be a spate of it at the moment. Who told them that that was fashion/style?

Did some dill just decide to wear that combination one day, for whatever reason and that rest of the fashion cowboys felt that it gave them all a license for bad taste? Someone without a clue seems to have influenced the rest of the clueless. It's like a virus spreading in the CBD, at the moment. Now I know most guys aren't supposed to have a clue, but surely that is just a stereotype, a cliche? Come on guys get a grip!

As my granny used to say, Your complexion should never be darker than your hair. Your shoes should never be lighter than your suit. And you should never take more than you give.

So let's take it back to the politically correct thing - a set of rules designed specifically for the people who have no idea (i.e. the stupid) - in the same way that we now say monetarily challenged or folically independent or uniquely coordinated, we should say that tan shoes and a blue or black suit should never be seen.

Let's just make it a rule and be done with it.

Monday, July 10, 2006


The best me is now, I’m sorry for what has been

This should be the part of the story where the good guy comes along – sparkle in his eye, a brave smile, knowing what he wants and how to get it – and steals my heart away.

I'm ready now. I’m ready to meet him. Where is he… right now?

I’m standing tall and straight, eyes open wide. I know exactly what to say. I’d recognise him now, I’d be brave. I am all of those things. I’m the best I’ve ever been. Working straight out of the box; I don’t need any more training, just loving.

I’d fall into his arms, I wouldn’t run away. The soft piano music would play. There would be angels and we could both laugh, as we chased them away, holding each other’s hands.

I wouldn’t let go, if he promised not to too. No promises though, there wouldn’t be any need for those, redundant they’d be, as they say. Rules of how to play, we’d know them already. They’d be given, easy as the wind on the ocean, or the twilight in the sky. Fingers together, eyes locked on eyes, if we felt like it we would cry. Tears of joy, for fear of touching because we’d never let go.

Who is he? Come out and play. Show me I’m good enough to be the best me. What is he doing? What would he say? I’ll close my eyes and do what I am doing. And when I look up, to see that group pass by, that man laugh, that child ask why, I’ll look the other way and there he will be.

Small things

I love the way you don’t cling to me,
I love your uncertain feelings for me,
I love the way you don’t know,
I love the way that you say
that you’ve got to get going back to your life,
your way of going, no questions asked.
I love your exasperation at my decadence,
the way you don’t want to defend me,
you don’t want to tidy my life.
I love you for not depending on me,
I adore you for not adoring me.

The truth

The truth is only so
depending who is looking at it,
different people
looking for different things.
It can be any thing
to different eyes
different things
with different lies.

Sunday, July 09, 2006

Sand through hour glasses.

Stuart kept his pants on and took the car.

I went to work and did a full day.

Glen spent the day with Manny. He took Manny shopping and they spent money, some top of the range mountain bike. Manny thinks Glen saves it up just to impress him.

Tom smoked crystal with Shane and Mark, Shane's boyfriend Mark, not mine. Matt Oretti was there too. Apparently, he and Shane are on together.

Tom got crystal from Perry, just to have in the cupboard, just last Sunday. You know, for the next night out, whenever that might be, so things didn't have to get organised at the last minute. Monday he was at the needle exchange. He lost three days. So he decided to take what was left over to Shane and Marks, last night, to take temptation out of his way.

Can't be trusted, said Tom. Apparently?

I laughed. (How many times does that have to be proved? I thought)

They played Uno and smoked the stuff through a crack pipe, as Tom likes to call it. Matt made a pass at Tom, but Tom crashed at my house anyway. Something about slops that weren't even cold not being his thing.

Tom got home at 5am desperate for valium, but without any. He's hardly slept.

We got shit-faced on Tom's pot watching Big Brother.

Dogs

Dogs! They are so uncool when you have been used to just cats for a long period of time. They are always under your feet, always wanting attention, practically prostituting themselves for approval. I didn't realise I had become SUCH a cat person, but I have.

I had a Rottweiler for ten years, who I loved and adored. He was my first boyfriend, after I moved out of home. It was nothing, on a quiet Saturday night, for me and him to lie on the floor in front of the fire, he happily acting as a pillow, as I watched TV.

He and I did everything together.

But now, I just find Fred annoying.

Missy came and slept on my bed last night, which is something that she never does. Meow, meow, meow. Thrump, thrump, thrump, straight across the bed. Purr, purr, purr, nestled into me. Do you think it is an ownership thing? Fred is outside, the coast is, finally clear. It is her time to reclaim her owner?

Saturday, July 08, 2006

Ah Alex!


Getting it together

I only got onto iprimus to straighten out my internet this morning. I've been working very long hours at the salt mine and haven't even had time to think about it. Last Wednesday, I changed my plan, as I'd been paying so much in excess internet fees, that I think I have paid the equivalent of the next two years connection. I guess I should start to open my mail, a little more regularly.

I tried not to think about it, as I do, as much as I hate to admit it, get ansy when my computer isn't working.

EVERYTHING went pear-shaped at work, this week, to the point that we are probably going to ditch the much maligned new system and the million dollars it cost us - got to love working for rich lawyers - and go back to the old system. Consequently, I've been working very long hours.

I did go out with my work buddies last night for E.F.Y (end of financial year) drinks, at which I got pretty pissed. When I was having a lively discussion with the beautiful Luke about literature and life - we often talk about such things and he'd make a really, really great boyfriend (I think I have a small crush) except for the pesky fact that he is straight - as I gazed into his beautiful blue eyes and looked upon his handsome, smiling face, as we propped up the bar, I had such an overwhelming urge to kiss him passionately, which I really had to fight. I kid you not. I blame it on the beer, natch. At that point, I decided it was truly time to take myself home and I did.

Aby emailed from Tassie today. Cold, she said - Aby hates the cold, having grown up in Queensland. But, she did move to the coldest part of Aus, after all. I'd knit her some mittens, if she was staying there.

But she's off to New York, any minute, with our feature script, to find us fame and fortune. She can have the fame, I'll share the fortune. She'll be popping back to Melbourne on the 21st. Cool. I must keep it free. It'll be good to see her, before she heads off on her big adventure.

Aby wanted me to redirect her mail. Bugger! I had to apologise and I hope she won't be too, too cross with me, but I had a whole pile of mail here, for just about everyone of my flaties, from the beginning of time and only yesterday, I kid you not - damn iprimus - I sent it all back return to sender. I'm really sorry, but I didn't have an address for her.

I was feeling as though my life was getting weighed down from my inaction to fix things in my life, nothing to do with any one I have lived with, all to do with me. You know, selling cars, fixing the guttering so the balcony doesn't rot any further, the lights in the atrium haven't worked for years, paying my credit card, doing last years tax, changing my internet plan, dealing with the possum that has taken up residence in my roof, cleaning the pile of newspapers and dishes, off the kitchen bench etc, etc, etc, etc and I had an uncharacteristic wave of, must get things done so I can stop worrying about them. I hadn't even opened my own letters for a month, or so - much to Tom's amazement... even more so when another friend said he was doing the same thing.

"They are all bills, Tom. There is nothing even remotely pleasant in any of those envelopes."

So I went through every thing like a tsunami and it is all cleaned up now.

The beautiful Stuart will be over to get the car soon. I said no to him moving in, much to Tom's chagrin. And I quote "Don't you know how much Stuart wants to be my boyfriend! How could you say no?"

Ah, the beautiful Stuart. I do hope that will all turn out okay, as the road worthy may take some time, consequently, he'll be driving the car around in my name for a short time. Fraught with danger, do I hear you say?

I must go and get dressed, have a shower, wash everything for Stuart - kidding. But I must go and get out of my bunny jarmies before he gets here.

I emailed Tom to say Stuart would be here in 38 minutes, his answer was,

shit!
not even I can make it over that quickly!
stall him.. do what it takes..
tell him i'm bringing over drugs to share if that helps...

Boz Scaggs sings, Pay day

Cats and dogs

Lottie has gone away to my sister's house in the country, so Fred, mum's dog, has come to stay with me for four days. Missy is outraged! The look on her face as Fred came trotting through the door last Wednesday night was priceless.

"WHAT THE HELL!!! is going on."

Her fur stood on end, her tail lay flat on the ground and her ears slammed down on her head, as she took her retreat.

Fred has a cat, Spook, who shares his bed at night, and he is perfectly cat-friendly, but Missy isn't hanging around for a minute to give him a chance. He doesn't understand why she is soooooo snarly towards him.

She has now taken up residence on the stairs, with a hugely miffed look on her face, from where she stares down at him with absolute disdain.