Friday, September 30, 2016

I Sliced my Finger Open

I wanted to stew some apples. I couldn't find the peeler. I searched and searched and searched the kitchen again, again, and again. Ridiculous, it should be here, I though as I looked around the kitchen yet again. I started getting that constant search blindness. So, I decided to go to Coles and buy another one, how much do they cost, I ask you? It isn't worth the stress.

So I got home with my new peeler, and I am ripping off the packaging, which just doesn't seem to want to come off. So, I run my pointer finger into the cardboard to break the back of it, managing to run my finger right along the blade, and suddenly the blade was imbedded into the end of my finger. The blade had completely disappeared into the flesh of the end of my finger. I looked at it in disbelief. Who'd have thought, a vegetable peeler blade? I, actually, had to pull the blade out of my finer, with a kind of tug/plop feeling.

It bled like a bitch. Is that a term we are even allowed to use now a days?

It was rich and red and it flowed like raspberry sauce, or liquid rubies. Brick red blood dripped onto the kitchen bench, drip, drip, drip. It was scarlet against the white tissues, like something from a crime scene, as I attempted to stem the flow. If only I'd thought a peeler blade was sharp, I'm not sure what I was thinking, but it wasn't that, not sharp like a knife, not sharp like it would cut me, like a recalcitrant gang member being bought back under control. "Vegetable peelers at 20 paces," I hear them call. If only somebody had stopped me, if only, it would have been much appreciated.
Many tissues and much pressure applied before the bleeding stopped. I have to keep a bandaid over it, otherwise it feels as though it is splitting a part again.

Do you know how hard it is to operate in this touch screen world we live in with a bandaged finger? Very hard. Simple procedures I do ever day of the week no longer work. I can hardly operate my laptop, nor my mobile phone. My middle finger is aching from all the work it is having to do, work it is very much unaccustomed to doing.

Thursday, September 29, 2016

Giving it some swagger, when the day feels great, and the music is fine

I used to be really good looking. I'm not going to say, that people still say I am, or anything like that, as it is purely subjective, it is what I think when I look in the mirror. I don't see any of it, it is just me looking back when I look in the mirror, it has always just been me looking back in the mirror. And now that I am over forty (well over 40) all I see are the ravages of time.

Not that I was aware of it back when, in as much, I never felt that I was really good looking, I never felt like that person. Some people say that was a part of my charm, disarming with my good looks. So, I never took it for granted, I never used it to my advantage, it was never a thing.

I never saw it back then. I can see it now, when I look back at old photos, it is almost as if there is now a different person in all of those photos to who used to be in those photos when I saw them at the time. I never really liked the way I looked, it never impressed me. But I can see it now. You weren't bad looking, now were you.

Although, I always got the person of my desires. And when I went to sex on premises venues, or saunas, I always got the person I wanted. I never really thought about it at the time, it was just the hunt and they were just the prey. Job done, go home.

Tom used to say to me that I was blissfully unaware of the men that used to check me out at gay clubs. 

"You just don't see them," said Tom. "You only ever see the person if you are interested in them."

I miss Tom. I think a part of yourself dies when your best friend dies. There are things that he knew about me, like what I have just mentioned, that nobody, quite possibly, knew about me and now that Tom is dead, that part of me disappears with him. But I digress.

What was I saying? Oh yes. Attractiveness comes from within, in a lot of ways. No matter how you look, true beauty exudes from inside of you. Because, I can still give it that swagger. I was in the supermarket, I was listening Ms Murphy on my head phones. She is one of the great Australian singers to come to prominence of late. I love her voice and she makes me feel good whenever I listen to her. Her gorgeous voice was singing I'd Rather Go Blind, which was resinating deep down in my soul. I love headphones, they cocoon you, put you into your own planetary orbit. I picked up my green bag and flung it over my shoulder and sauntered out of the shop to the dulcet tones of her exquisite voice.

Well, I must have been feeling good, I was feeling good, I could feel my whole vibe resinating with each step I took and people looked, middle aged  women, the Woollies chick, two guys walking in as I walked out. I stepped out into the sunshine and the dreaded street surveyors smiled and nodded at me.

The sun was shining, it was a gorgeous middle of the day.

What am I trying to say? (Oh, am I just babbling? I am just babbling, really) It was nice to be out and feel good and even have a few people acknowledge the fact, as it must have been radiating from me, to some extent. It was nice to feel.

Warm sun on my face. It was nice to be out in it and feeling gorgeous. It is nice to leave all the cynicism of this world behind sometimes and flip over to the glass half full person that, I am guessing, we all want to be. The world, the media, politics, beats us down and it is nice, sometimes, just to feel that the world is a great place.

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Euthanasia

I believe in euthanasia for the old, the sick, the deformed, the dying and even the tired. Why not the tired? What right have "we" to tell people how they should live their lives? The problem with that, of course, is what criteria on which you judge it. You know, if two doctors have to sign it off, or whatever it is called. There is no way to judge tired of life. But then how do you judge old? Should old people be allowed to elect to go? I think they should. But how do you judge old? How old? What state of decrepitude? And how do you judge deformed, for that matter. I personally think that severely deformed children should be killed, allowed to die, whatever you want to call it. But, is a hair lip deformed enough as grounds for euthanasia? So, is it illness? Or terminal illness? Who is to judge that one person's pain is greater than another person's pain? "The dying" is the simplest to judge, I guess.

But, I am sure all of those things can be worked out. The true tragedy, really, is the unwillingness to work it all out. Let them eat cake.

Of course, people should have the power over their own destiny. They should be able to take control of their lives. Chart their own course. Say when they want to end it, have had enough.

People can't be trusted, say those against it, not to abuse the power. The only thing that I don't trust is that human beings can be trusted to make the laws that are required.

It is a very sad fact that some people would rather see people suffer, in some cases terribly, than have their religious beliefs challenged.

Funny how the neo liberals only want to apply their freedom to economic markets, but when it comes to, what are so often called moral issues, they are more than happy to regulate and to tell people how to live their lives.

Monday, September 26, 2016

Eating Cup Cakes Without Pants

He sat on the white plastic stool, his black tribly hat matched his black tie. His crisp white shirt matched his shiny white seat. He picked up the white iced cup cake, from the shiny white plate, lifting it to his mouth. As he raised his arm, the tail of his shirt lifted up over his white, hairy thighs. His pubic hair was a black bush contrasted against his white skin. His penis lay shrivel over his large purple testicles, laying down against his hairy, inner thigh. He took a large bite on the cup cake, his little finger pointed just so, chewing the light cake between his teeth. The moistened cake and white icing stuck to the roof of his mouth, his tongue made a click sound as it pulled the cake back down onto his taste buds. His crimson tongue came out over his cherry red lips as though it was too big for his head, as though he was a cow chewing its cud.  Crumbs fell from his white chin, falling into his black bush, appearing like dandruff, or diamonds on black velvet in a jewellers display, or stars in a black sky. His knees were nobly. His feet huge. Tufts of black hair sprouted out of each of his big, white, toes. His toenails were yellow and curling.

Sunday, September 25, 2016

Pills and Potions

I'm out of lysine and Olive Leaf Extract. I take lysine to ward off cold sores and olive leaf extract for... hmmm, well, why exactly do I take olive leaf extract? It is supposed to ward off colds and flus, which, I guess, is the reason I take it. Well, no, not really, I think it is some vague hope that it will give me something heading towards the Mediterranean Diet, which is supposed to be the healthiest diet. So, you can see that I am not immune to modern day advertising, 21st century nonsense.

But, protection from colds, and the like, is not so bad, I tell myself. I plead my reason. Hands and knees. Ha ha! I just had a vision of myself in a grey room with white marble fittings and fixtures, on my knees pleading for health and vitality... oh, I guess you had to be there. In my head, yes, that is, I guess, what I am saying... Alice through the looking glass and all of that. Inside my mind. There is ample justification in there for anything.

Anyway, I meant to buy replacements yesterday when we were in the city eating dumplings, but I forgot. Silly me. Forgot. So when it came time to take my morning pills and potions this morning, some of my pills remain absent. Oh dear, never mind. I hope I don't catch cold because of it? I'll go today, straight to the chemist, I'll have one of those and one of those, thank you very much. Yes, a bag, I'd like a bag. It is almost immoral to ask for a bag in a shop now a days, but when you have two glass jars, you never know when one may slip from your hand. You know, get a little anxious on, sweaty palms and all of that. Madness? No, I don't think sweaty palms is a sign of madness, I'm sure that was disproved with, well, pills and potions not doing you any good at all.

I also take fibre and apple cider vinegar in the mornings. There, I have admitted to everything. All the nonsense.

Anyway, down the hatch, apparently, I have to go grocery shopping. I shiver with anticipation. Not.

The sun shines in through the lounge room window. Buddy snores in the pool of bright light that falls across the carpet.

Saturday, September 24, 2016

Monaros

It Was a Lovely Day

We walked into the city and ate dumplings in Russell Street. Shanghai Street. The one in Little Bourke Street always has a queue from midday. Why people wait in queues for food at a restaurant  I have no idea. Sam will, but I grumble too much if we do, so we often don't.

It was a glorious day. We took Buddy to the Fitzroy Gardens, where we let him off his lead. He just trots along with us, stopping to say hello to people along the way, like a Royal Family walk about.

One day we will get fined for walking Buddy in the Fitzroy Gardens off his lead, but many people do. I can't really see why, when Buddy is under constant supervision and is constantly monitored by us, especially when he, pretty much, trots along next to the two of us. But, there you go, it is the society we live in.

Friday, September 23, 2016

Graffiti

Oh Damn It!

Oh Damn! The new recruiter at (name of my company) I shall call her Josie, Jack's replacement, just caught up with me. I was cleaning the kitchen, I was expecting a call from Jill, and although it wasn't Jill's number displayed on the screen of my phone, I still answered it anyway. You now how your brain overrides your logical thoughts sometimes when you are expecting something to happen. (read - I vagued out)

Why did I answer that phone call? Idiot!

"Hi Christian?" Overly sunny, doesn't sound like a sales call, sounds more like HR, or some such person.

"Who's speaking?" I asked tentatively.

"Josie (details) Just touching base..." I so wanted to say, it crossed my mind and the words were forming on my lips, "Um, no, Christian isn't here, can I take a message for him..." She'd never spoken to me before, she wouldn't know... but, too late. "Oh... hi," I said instead, in a haunted tone. Idiot! I chastised myself under my breath.

"You've had some time off, is that right?"

"Um, er, ah... yes."

"I see here your last assignment was (name of the assignment)"

"Oh, yes."

"When did that finish?"

"March," I said.

"Oh, that's a good break."

Still recoiling from the mistake of picking up the phone, I said, "Oh... yes... my mother died." Oh yes, I milked that one, oh so easily. Lottie would laugh, she wouldn’t care.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said. Oh, I hate that expression. The thing you say when you have nothing to say."

"Did you go away?"

I'd better have gone away, I thought, can't say I've been sitting on my arse contemplating my navel. "I went to Lismore," I said. "Friends were doing renovations." Mark did renovations, I still haven't seen them. The lies just roll off my tongue so easily when need be.

"So what kind of assignment are you looking for?"

I didn't know I was looking for an assignment. "Um, er, ah...?"

“What would you really like?” she asked.

But a part of me still thinks I should be working in some shape and form. Some how I heard myself saying I'd like a job for a day a week. She immediately responded, “Oh yes earlier in the week, Monday and Tuesday, maybe Wednesday?”

I was having an out of body experience watching her change my 1 day to 3 days per week. Well done, was all I could think. I was impressed with her zest.

“I guess.”

“Lovely then, we should meet up.”

“Yes… of course.” It was going very fast, I had lost control of the conversation altogether.

“I could come to you,” she said. “Or we could meet in the city.”

“I can meet in the city.”

“So next Thursday at 9am.”

“A little later.”

“9.30am?”

“Er.”

“10am?”

“Sure.”

“Lovely, I’ll see you 10am Thursday.”

“Yes… okay.”

She hung up. Boo fucken hoo! How did that happen? (Silent scream)

I never quite got on top of that phone call, I was always way behind her.

I wanted to quit work and write, but since February since I stopped work, I have written only a handful of short stories, the most recent of which I haven't even opened since 15th Sept.

It is fear that I am making the wrong decision. Fear... could... get me back into the work force. Damn it!

I told Jill, she though it was hilarious.

Sam thought it was the best news he'd heard all day.

Damn! Is all I could think.


Thursday, September 22, 2016

Pretty as a picture. The sun faded in and out and would not cooperate, but I managed a shot

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Wake Up Gay Australia

Having a plebiscite to resolve the matter of gay marriage, singling us out as a group of people who can’t be treated like all the other groups of people in society, is the equivalent of handling us with a pair of tongs, you know, like you would something poisonous, or something diseased. That is the continuation of how we have traditionally been treated by straight society, which we thought we’d, actually, moved passed. (silly us) And then “they” tell us to be grateful for getting that much, the crumbs, the compromise to being granted equal rights. Wake up gay Australia, rails Rowan Dean, we are deigning to give you this great honour. Well, you know what straight Australia, and this will probably come as a shock to you, but we don’t, actually, give a “flying” what you think.

Wow, how ungrateful we must be, to opt to wait for a better idea than a plebiscite, however long that may take, than accepting people saying whatever they like about us, as they argue why we shouldn’t be given equal rights. Not only are they going to say what they like, the bigots and the homophobes (Oh yes, that's right, isn’t that one of the rules set down by the great straight majority, if you could refrain from calling homophobes homophobes during the plebiscite “free for all”, we’d appreciate it, as straight conservatives don’t like being called names) the government is paying them to do it. A cashed up bunch of bigots ready to spew bile all over us, oh yes please, where do I sign up for that.

When the Liberals realised that the marriage act didn’t, actually, specify a man and a woman in 2004, they had the legislation drawn up on the same day to change it, no need for a pesky plebiscite then, and yet to change it back has taken how long? And they are still delaying.

And another whinny conservative commentator, Rowan Dean, gets on his high horse, with his natural sense of entitlement challenged, and berates gay people for not supporting the conservative lead, straight man’s answer to legalising gay marriage. God knows (intended use) “they,” straight society majority, couldn’t just have a parliamentary vote on the subject, because “they” can’t be seen to be violating their conservative ideals, presumably, so the decision has to be farmed out to “whoever” in society (I’m not sure it matters, as the plebiscite was only a delaying tactic anyway) so it can never be claimed that “they” actually made a progressive decision. Then “they” can always point to the will of the great unwashed, if ever their god-fearing "mommies," priests, bishops, popes, whoever, come back and point the finger, I am guessing.

You can almost hear the hurt in Dean’s writing that gay Australians haven’t jumped at the crumbs that “they” have thrown us. How ungrateful gay Australian’s are that we haven’t embraced wholeheartedly this rare capitulation by the conservative right. Good God is there no end to the gays disrespect.


But of course, it is the extremist lefty gay thugs that have taken over the debate, which somehow have silenced the moderate gays. There is the usual nonsensical claptrap about where are the gays that look like me, sound like me, live like me, in who I recognise myself, Dean yaps on about ad nauseum. Where are the gays who agree with me? They must exist, he moans. You know the ones who think like me. How can they be silenced by the gays who disagree with me? People have to agree with me, where are they? In the usual right wing display of self delusion. What is that tired old right wing, conservative mantra, “If you don’t agree with what I think you are a communist.”

Well, Rowan Dean, I’ll let you in on a little secret, gay Australians don’t give a fuck about what you think.

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

A bird's nest lying on my back yard paving this morning

Monday, September 19, 2016

The Sun Shines Again

Some days I feel crushed by the weight of my ordinariness.

Do you?

Plain. Nothing special. Everything is the same. Repeat cycle. Around again.

I don't know why? It just happens. Maybe, it is the position of the moon, maybe it is the alignment of the planets. (David would say it was) Maybe, it was something I ate. Maybe it was the exact combination of sugar from my cereal and caffeine from my morning coffee. Who knows?

Maybe, crushed is over stating it. What then? Become aware. Realise? Have it occur to you. See it in the light of day. Feel it tingle in my finger tips. Feel the hue of the day to day.

Maybe it is just Monday.

Buddy and I are still in bed, it is a lovely place to be. Buddy is snoring like a worn diesel engine. And as if on queue, he just chugged and snorted and burbled out loud. I rubbed his back and his legs stretch out, almost, automatically, and his paws made star 
shapes, as though Twinkle, twinkle, little star was playing in his head phones, and then they relax again.

I write in bed, which is good, not so many distractions and apart from a bit of a sore neck, it is productive, kind of. Once I have navigated my way through social media, news on line and have avoided YouTube, so easily my destination for the day.

Now where is my short story?

Listening to Sarah Blasko, Flame Trees.

The sun shone down gloriously in the afternoon. Gotta keep up daily exercise, if I am going to sit on my arse for the rest of the time. I chatted to my neighbour, Jackson Wag, as I headed out. He is writing a murder mystery, he wants my help, he suggested I help him write it. This went through my mind as I walked in the sun, I probably should.


I've got to stop fearing that I can't do stuff, it is a waste of time. I've think more positively, I know that.

Sunday, September 18, 2016

And this was handsome Jack

Apparently, Sam's was the first iPhone7 to be taken back. Less than 24 hours old. It got replaced, lovely.

I got a new screen protector put on my 5S. I had a 6plus, at which time my 5S went to Sam's sister. I hated the 6plus, it was just too big. I could never sit, squat - how often do you think I might squat - pick up Buddy's shit in the park , whatever, without taking the damn thing out of my pocket and putting it some where. So, I gave the 6plus to Sam's sister and she gave me back my 5S, however, she had put a screen protector on the 5S which had several bubbles in it, which drove me mad, so I got a new screen protector put onto it.

Do you think Apple was busy with the recent launch of the iPhone 7? Yes it was.

Faulty iPhone7

Where did the sun go? Back to cold and, I was going to say, at least it didn't rain, but it did.

Oh well, off to the Apple shop, (oh yes, I know the American's call it a store) good old Chaddy, to return the faulty iPhone 7 Sam bought yesterday. Less than 24 hours after buying it. I guess it goes that way sometimes.

Sad Face.


Saturday, September 17, 2016

Myer's sexy top floor

out myer window, the old and the new

cool scooter

swedish mercedes

a quiet coffee

yellow is spring

sexy 58 cadillac

sexy dog

valiant R series front

sexy valiant R series

sexy boy

exhibition gardens

the third shop in a row for sale, which I just hope the piece of shit property developers haven't noticed

the fitzroy gardens conservatory

Friday, September 16, 2016

Left hand, "Hey Right Hand, what ya doin?"

What the fuck do retirees do? Presumably, I am going to live for another 50 years, or more, if modern medicine's claims are anything to go by. Not that I hold out much hope for that, with the current political climate. Sure, you can live until you are 150 years old, but it will cost you your life savings, all of your assets and your first born. Not that I have retired, despite what Sam may be telling people. I am just holding that up as a yard stick - or should that be metre stick? How all the time, set your own agenda? I have changed jobs, that is all I have done, slipped into my chosen career, the one that has always been waiting for me. But, these days of doing what I like are really hard. I work better with time schedules and deadlines. Give me a date to write to and I'll get the job done. 

And I know I am just angsty because my writing isn't going so well. I've written a few short stories this year. And I have one in progress at the moment, about a piano being dropped on a graffiti artist, but it is hard work. It is not all sitting at your desk with a cup of tea and hey presto. It is like having your blood drained. Is it any wonder that I'll review blogs from 6 years ago, or read social media until my brain is fried, or double check that every bill has been paid, or offer to have lunch with every person I know, except that I am fairly anti social so there are only a handful of friends I would  have lunch with before I'll sit down behind that computer screen.

I remember I was at uni and I was failing screen writing. I still maintain that the whole concept of the 3 act structure was not taught to us at the beginning of the subject, which left us all floundering. I'd handed in this piece of drivel and our lecture said that it was no good, but fortunately for me, I wasn't the only one. The lecturer realised that she'd fucked up and she gave us intense script writing remedial and said we had a week's extension to hand in a replacement piece, if we felt so inclined. As luck would have it, a friend's son hanged himself in a barn and I was privy to the relative's grief who discovered him, be it second hand, once removed, as told to me by a 3rd party. And over that weekend I wrote a whole script called Killing the Young and I got a distinction for that subject. My lecturer suggested I put the script in for funding, which, of course, I never did. My point is, that I had to get it done, I had a week's extension, no more time would be allocated, I had to get it done. And I did, from nothing, no time to piss about, I had to do it.

My point is, how do you manufacture that drive? I don't have an inferiority complex to over come, I don't have horrible parents I have to prove something to, I'm not, exactly, penniless and need to fight off the wolves at the door. Although, just recently, I realised I am staring down the mantel of failed writer to my social group, as all my friends love my writing and have always expected great things from me, which I am not delivering on. Here lies the remains of Christian Fletcher... such potential never realised. Maybe that will do it, get me inspired.

And I know I am feeling a little house bound due to the constant rain for the last few days (even if I know that is just an excuse before I have even finished writing the sentence) And that I need to get outside and do some exercise before I end up being a viable option for the remake of Who's Eating Gilbert Grape.

It is not as if I can ever look at my work and be objective. It is very hard to read a story I have written and thing, gosh that is good. I only ever see the flaws, I only ever see the shortfall between what I wrote and what I was trying to write. This doesn't exactly inspire confidence in myself. The only exception to this is time. I can pick up something I wrote quite a few years ago and think, well, that is pretty good. Often followed by the thought, did I write that? But anything more immediate, I only see the faults.

Anyway, that is my rant, which is really just a distraction from putting on my runners and going walking. How do I make writing the distraction?

I should do what I decided to do when I was drifting off to sleep last night, worrying about my lack of achievements, and that is join the writing association, the subscription for which I let got a year, or so, ago. And find out if The Writer's Market Place has a new addition, or if it is online, or whatever? Get some short stories together and start sending them off. At least the tinniest hint of achievement may inspire me somewhat.

And back to the time frame concept, Sam will be home for lunch around midday, maybe half passed, it takes me an hour to do my exercise, it is now 10.50am, I'm on the clock and it is pushing me along, I can feel it. How do you manufacture that pressure to get on and do other things?

Buddy just exhaled, put his head between his paws and gazed at me with his big brown eyes, with a big sigh, as if to say, Not this again.

Thursday, September 15, 2016

This is what I woke to

This is what we've got now

What the fuck happened? Global warming, anyone. Oh, no, of course, that doesn't exist, it is just a figment of the greenies imagination. (Why that would be has never really been explained) Or is it just balmy old, crazy old, unpredictable old spring?

And people question why I've stayed in bed. Well, truthfully, nobody has questioned why I stayed in bed, people don't give a shit, but if they did, this is my answer.

Jill called and complained about the burden of all her money. I agreed with her, in a sense, that if I don't go back to work, I need to get my investments right, otherwise I am fucked. 

My boss has sent me 4 potential assignments recently. My new boss who I haven't even spoken to, as yet. He took over from Jack in March. Jack said he was putting a good word in for me, before he took up his new position. I decided I'd give a job a go if there was a good one, half good one, one that vaguely satisfied some criteria. So, the 4 jobs were, once a fortnight in Altona for 2 months, possibly 3 months, full time in Epping for 3 months, or 3 days per week in Camberwell on a permanent basis, or 5 days in South Melbourne, split over 2 weeks. I didn't want any of them.

Sam told me to clean the house then, if I was going to be so choosy.

Andy had the day off and he hung around the house all day.

Mitch suddenly burst out of his room, not long ago, and raced to the shower and then raced out the front door, as he has a habit of doing.

Buddy snores next to me undisturbed.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Oops... oh... how did I do that? Happy Birthday.

Oops. Some how I deleted my blog roll? The blogs I like. Damn! I'm really not sure how I did that? Stupid me. How was I so stupid? I never do stuff like that, it makes me look like a techno moron, like when Auntie Leanne says she doesn't know what Outlook is, or some such thing. 

"I thought you were talking about some scenery shots," she said. 

Grrrr! And I have no idea when it happened? Head spin. (well, head spin is a little dramatic, it isn't really so important, not life and death, just annoying) Now to put them back. Oh, where to start? 

Perhaps, it is time to pick some new blogs to like? Does that even make sense? You can't pick blogs to like, you can only like the blogs you like. Oh, you know what I man. Oh, sure you can, it is just a short cut to reading other blogs, what the hell.

It has been raining for 3 days here, since Monday. We didn't, actually, get the month's worth of rain in 12 hours as the weather bureau predicted on the weekend, it was more like a lot of rain in 3 days. I wonder if it was even a month's worth? There has been flooding, not where I live, in the country. It seems like there is flooding every year now. I'm sure we never used to have flooding every year?

It has just stopped raining, as I wrote this, the sun even came out momentarily, but it has gone again now. It is now overcast and bright. Hand over my eyes as the bright grey burns into my retinas.

I like the rain, no, I do. In fact, thinking about the summer coming up and those 40 degree days, the string of over 40 degree days, I laughed to myself, instead of wanting to move some where warmer, as everyone seems to do now a days, I thought I'd like to move some where colder. Tasmania would be ideal, if it wasn't for the pesky water in the way.

I gave up smoking 3 days ago. Quit. Stopped. I'm now a non-smoker again. It is just the 3 days of angst that is still going.

It's my birthday too. Buddy and I are spending the day in bed. Streamers and balloons and a jam and cream sponge, with pink icing, would have been nice... but no. Sam appeared at the bedroom door, when I thought he'd have my birthday treats, and said, (words to the effect) "Get your lazy arse out of that bed and put the bins out." (to be fair, Sam makes me my breakfast every morning, and many of those mornings he delivers it to me in bed, so I have nothing to complain about) I looked over at the French Doors to see the rain falling heavily. That was 3 hours ago. I put the bins out with an umbrella, wearing my clogs. The choice by the back door was thongs, crocs or clogs, so I chose the most water proof. So there I was on my birthday morning, 7am, in the pouring rain, teetering down the cobble stoned lane way holding an umbrella in one hand, trying to pull 2 bins with the other hand, slip sliding away, trying to keep the bins upright, as they threaten to topple over with each uneven cobble stone.

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

Vegemite

I'm Australian, I can eat Vegemite off a spoon, you pussies


Monday, September 12, 2016

Save the... um... what are we saving?

Save the planet is really just a big lie. I wonder if we stopped calling it global warming, if we stopped saying we have to save the planet and started saying we have to save the human race, if people would act differently?

Because, you know, the planet will be just fine. It will repair the damage we have done in no time. I know human beings seem to like to think we are important, but with the age of the planet, the time we have been on board is just a mere blink of an eye. We are nothing, to the planet, nothing but a momentary aberration. Once we are gone, we won't be missed and we won't be remembered. The planet will obliterate any trace of us quickly, like wiping a bug from your shoulder, that is all we will amount to.

Perhaps, we should call it, Saving you goddam sorry arses because you are either too stupid, too lazy, or too dumb, to do it yourself. I wonder if that would work? (What would be the acronym?) SYGSABYAETSTLTDTDY? (It looks Welsh)

Again, with all things Global Warming, I don't care, I don't have any kids to live after me, but I am always surprised how complacent those with kids are. 

I figure that the planet will hold it together to see the end of my life time. I hope. 

I don't actually believe the human race deserves to survive, when half the population is starving and the other half of  the population is eating itself to death, throwing away up to 30% of the food they have because it doesn't look nice on a supermarket shelf... seriously fucked up.

The very wealthy continually try to screw over the very poor so the very wealthy can become more wealthy... sigh 

Business will tell us whatever lie it takes to make a profit... please read the fine print, as the goods may, in fact, not be what was advertised...

The very, very wealthy are actively campaigning against action on global warming because it is bad for business.

I could go on...

The experts say at the current rate, by 2100 the planet will be heading towards uninhabitable by human beings. Of course, there will be a mad scramble to fix the problem, lets say, by 2050, when the planet is seriously fighting back, which will probably involve draconian laws being bought into play in a desperate attempt to save our sorry arses, which will be really annoying for people like me who don't care about the human race's survival, who just want to be left in peace to live their lives.

"Yes, yes, you are all going to die," says the wizened up crone, waving a crooked finger in the air. "You were warned years ago and you took no notice. "It is too late, TOO LATE, I say! YOU WERE WARNED!"

Of course, I do care about the human race, how can I not, they are my tribe. But, if we can't stop fighting, killing, cheating, hating, polluting, lying, why should we be saved? The smartest animals don't shit in their own nest... and we think we are the smartest, the alpha being. So why are we destroying our own planet, seemingly,  without a care? If we are all overcome by our own greed, what is there to save? In an era when we should be preserving the planets resources, rampant consumerism seems to be the only answer?

Sunday, September 11, 2016

Do you ever dawdle at the lights because the hot boys with the sexy arses would otherwise be behind you? They were both cute. The way they walked together suggested they were more than just friends, just a little too close, nonchalantly touching arms, which nobody would have really noticed, although that could easily have been my imagination.

Saturday, September 10, 2016

Until Death Do We Pass

You know what I hate, the term "passing."

It’s been 1067 days since answering the door early that Sunday morning to be greeted by two policemen who delivered the news of your passing.

Your passing affected each of us in such different ways.


I always want to laugh whenever I hear somebody say it, as I picture a carful of gangsters passing me in a brown 1948 Ford, whistling and hooting with their guns in the air. (I'm not exactly sure why) I think I have even laughed on occasion, stifled laughed, of course. "Oh, that is awful." (snigger, snigger)

The term is death people. 

It’s been 1067 days since answering the door early that Sunday morning to be greeted by two policemen who delivered the news of your death.

Your death affected each of us in such different ways.


Is this political cor
rectness - you know political correctness doesn't mean what it once meant. Today, it means anything somebody says that we don't like. All the harsh words are out, only the cuddly words are in. We don't want to hear anything that makes us feel remotely uncomfortable. Or is it we don't want to hear any words that we don't want to have to explain to the children?

Do I hate it because if is effectively a denial of what has just occurred? No awful death, nothing nasty, just a passing, nice and clean and homogenised. All sweet.

Or, do I hate it as it is so often uttered, was originated used by, the deluded religious community. They are passing to a better place... (maybe, this is the point that I stifle a snigger?) Um, no they are not, they are either about to be burnt, or dropped in the ground as worm food. There is no better place, this was it, this was their shot, they have died and now it is over.

Nobody is passing anywhere, that is just denial. No matter how much you want it, there is nothing after death. That is it. Dust and worms is the only thing promissed.

I have this discussion with David all the time. Of course, he thinks god is anything you want it to be, and death is just a moment in anyone's lives, with his new age spirituality bullshit... it is a doorway, or a portal, or some goddam shit, that we pass through to the other side, or some such nonsense.

Or is it just another step down the path to being the 51st state. You know, those Americans who have a word (or 100) for everything.

...as always, this is just what I think, think what you like people, it is a free world. Object, deny, tell me I am wrong, but have an opinion, preferably based on something real... and not the big sky man who sits on a cloud as told by the pedophile in a dress from your childhood indoctrination in church.

Friday, September 09, 2016

A 1965 Dodge Phoenix, you don't see too many of these around any more. Bigger than most modern apartment's lounge rooms. 

It is as hot as hell in Phoenix. Tsssst! Burn your fingers on the bonnet as you rub them against the shiny duco.

Thursday, September 08, 2016

I watched Ellen this morning, not something I usually do

Mad as a Hatter

Mercurial disease, caused by chronic mercury poisoning, was common among hatmakers, and the phrase "mad as a hatter" was in use three decades before "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" was published. 

Due to an occupational hazard caused by a process called "carroting," part of felt hatmaking, hatters often developed symptoms such as tremors, excessive saliva, forgetfulness and unprovoked anger.

Wednesday, September 07, 2016

Won't Somebody Help?

The rich world has a poor conscious, it wants, in fact it needs, to know that someone, somewhere is doing something to help the 3rd world - Christopher Hitchens

Tuesday, September 06, 2016

The in Bed Project

I was reading The in Bed Project and thought I'd write my own.

I have never seriously thought about getting married. I have never quite seen the point to it. Get married, get divorced. (You'd think from that statement, my parents were divorced, but no, 50 years together before my father succumbed to cancer) I have never seen marriage in my future. That day, so perfect compared to every other day? The guests, the cake, the afternoon, the cliche. Every day I am married to my partner, anyway.

But to say that I have never seriously thought about getting married, implies that there is some choice that I have made, which, in reality, I have not. So, if ever I did decide to get married, if my partner really wanted to get hitched, then maybe I'd consider it. Maybe I'd consider it? Simply, the same rights should be afforded to all citizens in a society, and if they are not, then that society is not fair and equitable. Australia does not treat all of its citizens fairly and equally at present. It is time that it did.

And isn't that Australia's biggest claim to the world, a fair go for all of its citizens?

Friday, September 02, 2016

I'm A Rat

I looked over at the bedside clock hoping it wasn’t too early and it was 5.52am. I was quite pleased with that, considering how early we went to bed. Sad, isn’t it? I sat outside in the mild morning and smoked a cigarette and drank coffee and listened to the heating coming on at 6am.

Buddy came back inside with me, he sat next to me and put his head in my lap, as if to say, So early again, comrade?

Andy was the first to get up. It is like an organic alarm clock? Or the wheels of the day cranking into life. The soul adrenaline of human beings being stirred out of slumber. The rhythm of life filling with energy.

Headphones and my own music cocoon, from the wee small hours. I’m still on my Patti kick. I went back to the beginning of her catalogue, again.

I deleted the extended dance version of Eyes in The Back of My Head from Tasty, it is just too awful to hear it once and then to endure the extended mix as well. It had to go. Delete.

By 9am, I was due to go to the supermarket to get smokes, but I really wanted pot. If I was going to smoke cigarettes anyway, I might as well make it creative. In fact, it could possibly be seen as a lost opportunity, and it had to be grabbed with both hands.

I tested the water with Sam, he seemed pretty keen for me not to buy pot.

Hmmm?

I chatted to Mark online. He asked why do I do what Sam tells me, when I never did anything for him? I told him perhaps I’d learned a thing, or two, in the passing years, older and wiser, perhaps. Tell Sam this is the best Christian ever, I dare you?

Ha ha, Mark laughed.

Is that what you really think of me? I asked. I would do nothing?

No... but you are last person that I thought, that would buckle under petty tyranny, said Mark.

Really? I thought. I have a terrible habit of doing what I want to do, which comes under no scrutiny, what so ever, it is one area I resemble the Liberal Party, come to think of it.

I’ve got to do something with my life, I know that, this is unsustainable. Is that the Liberal Party talking about Medicare? Oh, except it is not true about Medicare. Take a look at what we spend on health care compared to other western countries. Oh, it’s not true about me, either. This life is sustainable? What to do? Do I only pay lip service to being more productive? A bit like the Liberal Party’s lip service to maintaining Medicare?

10.30am. I’ve bought the cigarettes. I’m still thinking about the pot? Hmmm? What to do?

Bad me, I text Guido at 11am. What am I thinking? I want to put on my head phones and write, as the rest of the world fades away, that is what I want to do.

Sam says I should sweep the front yard and clean the bedroom instead of getting pot. I’m going to get the pot and do all of those things as well, that’s what I tell myself.

Guido was home, so I had to drive to his place. I was only going to smoke cigarettes for the rest of the day, and cigarettes are awful. I might as well be smoking...

I messaged Sam saying that I was going to Guido’s, I’d be back for lunch. He wasn’t pleased. Forbid me even.

I drove out the driveway at 11.05am.

Sam sent replies threatening Armageddon.

OMG! I saw this obese Staffy, I mean, I have never seen a fatter dog. I nearly stopped the car, got out and said to the owner, "Seriously!" He was staggering across the tram tracks in North Fitzroy.

I had to check myself on the way out there. I hadn’t, actually, smoked pot for 24 hours, surely that was enough? I don’t really know what the requirements are. I felt okay, officer. Surely 24 hours is enough?

I hit the big intersection where all the roads meet up, the ring road and whatever else. It was the first time I have struck traffic there, usually I just fly right through, green all the way. In the traffic taking each one of those sets of lights, at a glacial speed, it was interminable. Grumpy Christian. Sam would have said that it was only his ears that were bleeding, if he’d been with me.

I got to Guido’s at midday. He was up for a chat, prattling on about something. I was miles away thinking about Sam.

“Blah, blah, blah.”

“I can’t stop, gota be back in Fitzroy in half an hour.”

I’m giving up being a polite driver, it only relegates you to 40 kph, with all the nanas. I’m not rude, I’m not cutting anyone off, but from now on, it there is a shorter lane of traffic, I’m taking it, sort it out at the other end. And you don’t even have to push in, there are enough cars pissing about, fingering their clitorises, looking at their phones, no doubt, and there is always a gap. The faster drivers can drive around the slower drives, it just requires your full attention – how many drivers can claim that? – and a bit of smarts and forward planning. Look up from your phones people and drive your car. Check your messages when you get there, think of how thrilling all those messages will be to read.

I was home by 12.38pm. I even managed to squeeze a joint in as well, as I text Sam that I was home.

Start walking, said Sam

Sam was dark, angry, I could see as soon as he walked up in the midday sunshine.

“Hi Sweetie.”

He wasn’t going to be jollied out of anything any time soon, that was abundantly clear from the get go. In hindsight, it would have been a good lunch to miss, strategically, the grief I copped during that lunch would have been more than the grief I’d have copped from not going to lunch at all. “Sorry, honey. You know the traffic is terrible.” I’m a rat, I know. And, not lastly, him having a whole afternoon to cool down, before I saw him.

He told me I was lazy.

I’m not nice to be around when I am stoned.

I am selfish because I don’t think about how it affects him.

Don’t smoke it then, apparently, is not the correct answer here.

He has to go to work, when I get to stay home and do what I like.

“You haven’t even vacuumed up our bedroom?”

“Vacuum?”

“Change the sheets.”

I don’t know how alarmed I felt here, but it must have shown on my face.

“Yes. Change the sheets.”

That is just not something I am going to do. I don’t care about the sheets. Quite frankly, it just seems ridiculous to me that you want to wash them as often as you do. (Ed note – that would be fortnightly) It is a waste of the world’s water.

“The sheets? Again?”

“They smell.”

“They smell of Buddy.”

“I said, they smell.”

“I love Buddy’s smell,” I said. Implying, that I loved Buddy more, clearly.

“You could, occasionally, go to the supermarket and cook dinner.”

Ah! I was screaming on the inside. “I thought the agreement was that you do food and I do the cleaning… of, anything, to do with the preparation of… the… food.” I was hesitant, as I was processing the terms and agreements to check that they were fair.

“You are home pissing about,” Sam hissed at me.

What could I say?


I don't think he is hard done by, except that I don't go to work. I pay the bills. I clean up after all meals, dishes the lot. I do the washing. Washing and fold of and placed into a basket.

Sam puts them away in the wardrobe.

Sam washes the floors, and vacuums and dusts upstairs.

I vacuum the ground floor.

Sam cooks and organises the food. Which is the biggest job, I acknowledge that, thank the lordy do dah day that I don’t have to do that, “Ah, no thanks,” that is all I can say.

I know it is hard for him having to go to work, when I don’t have to. It is difficult, you lose a work ally, it is true. You lose that person who leaves the house with you and who calls you from work, discusses his work problems, is conspiratuly tied in all things work.

I had to work when I was with Mark. He gave up work as soon as he met me, or soon there after. I had to go to work all through our relationship, I had to, I didn’t question it. I didn’t have the money then to support myself. So, I know how it feels.

I have no consideration for him, he said. "Why do you think I got sacked from my job? I couldn’t think. I couldn’t work properly."

“Hang on. Are you saying smoking pot got you the sack?”

“What do you think happened?”

“This is the first time I have ever heard this.”



I’m lucky, I don’t have to work. Is that what we should be saying to each other, Are we now at different stages in life, is this always going to be a problem. So, it is going to be a problem. If that is the only problem we have, I’m okay with that. I answer him with logic. If you can afford to pay your way, stop work. He can’t. Not to mention he has some wild idea that he has to help support the rest of his family, so he can’t quit work on that front either. Me, on the other hand, don’t have to support anyone. I’m planning for my last dollar being spent as the last thing I do before I take my final breath. Of course, there is a chance I have horribly miscalculated and I’ll be old, penniless and alone.

Look at Antony, he had to get a dog for free because he can’t afford to buy one. I can afford a $4000 bulldog. There is living, and then there is living the way you want to live.



I send Sam a Hi, honey message.

He texts back, Don’t you honey me, as I said it out loud, perfectly synchronised.

Text>Chuckle.

Reply>Don’t you chuckle.



2.15pm. Oh yawn. Now I have to go and do all of those fucking, pointless chores, to completely pull this baby off. The clock is ticking.

Better have another joint first.



3.15pm. I take scammers and sales calls at night as the universe reminding me that the crazy people are still out there. The same goes for scammer/sales calls during the day. I just got one who said she was from Windows and they were very concerned about my computer…”

“I’m sorry, where are you from?”

“We have sent you literature recently to which you haven’t responded.”

“What did you send me?”

“It doesn’t matter, are you in front of your computer?”

“Are you going to ask me to check the settings on my computer?”

“Yes, Mr Fletcher.”

“This is the oldest scam in the book,” I said. “Do people still fall for this?”

“Well, Mr Fletcher, not all things in this world are scams…”

“Okay then, can you tell me who you work for to be showing an unusual amount of interest in my computer…”

Dial tone.



I’ve got a good part of the front yard cleaned up. I can do things when I am um, you know, just get going and the chore takes care of itself. It is true. Ta da! Finished before you know it.

I ask Sam if he wants a puppy, mid way through the afternoon.

He says no.

3.45pm. Finished. An hour and a half. I should have done it last Monday.

I wish I could remember what the other chore was?