Fletcherbeaver

2012-01-29T16:15:00.002+11:00

Cute isn't he

2012-01-28T20:09:00.000+11:00

He's not mine despite the fact that is me holding on to his lead, but I'd like one just like him. I jumped at the chance of holding him for the owner who wanted to head into an open house inspection. What a cutie. Santo and I went home and looked up puppies on the internet. OMG how confusing was that? They ranged from $200 to $3500, how on earth do you sort through those kinds of differences?
So we went for a walk in the lovely afternoon sun, buying ice creams in Carlton before walking back through the park... dogless poofters.

He's home. Yay!

2012-01-27T22:04:00.003+11:00

My pumpkin is home. Yay! I picked him up from theairport at 10am. He's still just too gorgeous. I gave him a big hug and kiss. Ithink we shocked a woman standing near by as I ran up to him and grabbed him. Swung him around and around and around, as the musicplayed. Crescendo’d. The strings soared. Okay, the spinning round and theviolins were, quite possibly, only in my head, but they felt good none theless.

Kiss. Hug. Squeeze.

He sniffed out the car window, on the way home."I so missed the fresh air."

I rested my hand on his leg, I didn’t realise howmuch I missed that.

He's slow, though, really slow, moving at a glacialpace. He keeps telling me he is exhausted. A six and half hour train ride, anhours aeroplane ride and then an eight hour aeroplane ride to Melbourne... withstop overs of varying time in between each. So he's been travelling for 48hours on his journey home. So, I guess he has a case.

We ate Japanese in Carlton for lunch. The sun shonedown and a cool breeze blew. We slept in the afternoon.

"We can't do this, we have to get you backonto Melbourne time."

Of course, I kissed him first. Licked him, pulledhis clothes off. Big smile.

He's missing his maid from home... but he is gladto be back. He keeps clapping his hands to be waited on and then questions whyit doesn't work. He's still funny. Of course, that is more a comment on how heexpects to be treated here by his honey, who would be me, than anything thathappened back home.

He's laying on my couch with his tongue hangingout. “I’m exhausted.” Clap, clap. "Where’s my drink?" Clap, clap."Where’s my watermelon?" I'm running around getting him things... andI don't mind one little bit.

I cooked him a sausage pasta for dinner. It turnedout rather well. I introduced him to Chinotto, which he hated. Too biter."Oh the after taste is horrible." Cough cough. "Euw! Yuck!"

He feels nice in my arms, just where he is supposedto be. I can rub his hair again and smell him in long slow sniffs.

He's worried that he won't be able to writecomputer code. I kissed his handsome face. "Don't worry, babe. The saltmines aren't for three days. We still have the weekend."

I like it when he pats my hair and plays with myear… nonchalantly.

“I’m exhausted,” he says. “Let’s go to bed. Oh…come on! NOW!”

So, you can see, he’s still bossy.

I tried to photograph people secretly... I'm still not very good at it

2012-01-27T01:33:00.002+11:00

He seems to have been away forever. Ages. Going on months

2012-01-26T23:59:00.000+11:00

I head to bed around midnight, whenthe nocturnal rummaging’s of off-his-face Shane start. He’s clearly “on theprowl” probably on grindr trying to entice someone over to play with him. Someone to be tied up, wrapped in cling film, or pissed on. Or all three.

The long slow night of drugintoxication trying to procure a playmate who will come around and bolster hissense of self worth.

I hear his footsteps on the stairslate into the night.

I sit up inbed and read blogs. The cool night air floats into my room, fresh and clean andcool.

I hear avoice from the street with some guy talking. I try to ignore it, but he doesn'tstop.

Blah, blah,blah. Bah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah.

Oh really, Ihave to go and look.

I head overto my balcony doors and peer surreptitiously over the railing to see this guystanding in the middle of the street in his dressing gown on the phone. He'sfrom the house over the road, as the front door is open. It is hot, TV's blazethrough open French doors in upstairs bedrooms. I kneel down and push my faceup against the tulip balustrades. Dressing gown boy is talking, givinginstructions in a sexy tone, clearly he is interested in whoever it is he istalking to. That and his hand seems to keep disappearing inside his robe insearch of something. I can't, actually, see the detail, but I can make out whathe is doing in silhouette. He stands there gazing down the street. A short timelater, a girl walks up the middle of the street to him, talking to him on hermobile phone. They sit on the footpath and talk awhile smoking cigarettes, shesits down on the edge of the footpath, he seems a little more toey than that, preferringto remain standing for the most part. Once they have finished smoking, they goinside.

Mark andLuke call at 3am from Ho Chi Minh City, from their some what sartorial, readtacky, hotel room. They laugh.

"Gorgeousisn't it."

They havenot long checked in and are tired. They will catch a connecting flighttomorrow.

I’m awake around 9am, just before.My balcony doors are open, of course, and I pull on my black track pants so Ican stand in the open double doorway to survey the morning, feel thetemperature and not get arrested, before I close the doors.

I need a piss so I head into thebathroom. I sit down on the toilet, like a girl, because I am barely awake andit is nice taking it slow in the quiet of the morning.

As soon as I sit down, I hearmovement in Shane’s room and clearly someone is getting out of bed and cominginto the toilet. They are on their way. I finish quickly and get up and standin front of the mirror, just in time to stop a sweaty, stocky guy in a dogcollar from entering the room.

“Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry,” he says.I push the door closed.

Shane’s need for approval, arelationship, a boyfriend, need not to be alone, has always out weighed hisjudgement, somewhat. I mean, this guy could have been perfectly nice but, youknow, I have seen first hand the, shall we say, low bench mark Shane is willingto accept and this guy, upon a fleeting glimpse, is right up to scratch, orshould that be, down to the depths.

Anyway, I’m sure it wont be longbefore he parades this loser downstairs and I’ll have to be nice to him andmake small talk knowing all the while that I will never see him again.

I head down to the lounge room whereI make coffee and prepare muesli and switch on my laptop and read theentertainment news. Santo would roll his eyes.

"Do you think I care about, socalled, celebrities?"

I read about the new film J Edgar. Inote that the first session is at 10.50, over an hour away. Sweet. But, I alsonote that it is opening day and a public holiday and do I really need to mix itwith the great unwashed when I can just as easily go to the delightful $6Monday on Monday. Then I think about Santo and think that now that he is home, nearly,tomorrow, I should wait and see it with him.

Mark called from Ho Chi Minh City toask for Jane’s phone number, so he can call Jay. He and Luke are good andlooking forward to crusty bread and jam and coffee for breakfast Vietnamesestyle.

Don’t you love Skype? I know I loveSkype? I talk to Mark and Luke, no matter where they are in the world and itcosts me nothing? It is great!

It’s quiet at midday, just the windblowing outside, under the blue sky and the golden sun.

Santo messages me good morning. Hemessages me instructions to start looking for a job. Come on! Chop chop!Apparently, we have to make investments and travel overseas and generally amasswealth and think about our future. Really?

I agree. I keep him talking,messaging, just because I miss him… not because I could care about the future.

He’s home tomorrow. 10am. Yay! Heseems to have been away forever. Ages. Going on months.

Shane comes down with, who turns outto be, McKenzie who is really very nice and I should be eating all my previousnasty words. Well, I mean, my words aren’t really meant to be nasty, just arecord of events, and they are not meant to be judgemental, just a statement offact.

Reading back over this, it is hardto actually make that claim with any kind of credibility, I realise, but I amgoing to none the less. Just because McKenzie is nice it doesn’t make theprevious any less true.

I don’t mean it is true of everyoneShane hooks up with, of course that is not true. It is just that it can be truewhen Shane is on drugs... and one just has to wait and see which way it isgoing to go.

Everything I have said is probablytrue of me when I am single and on drugs too.

I think I have met McKenzie before,although I can’t remember where?

They disappear upstairs again to dogod knows whatever to each other and basically I am on my own for the day.

I wanted to take photos all day andI did wander up the Victoria Parade and take some earlier in the day. It is agorgeous sunny day, perfect for taking photos. Late in the afternoon, I takemyself off for a walk (exercise) around Carlton and I take my camera and takephotos on my way.

Santo calls from KL airport and wechat on Skype. He looks so handsome. Not long now, a few hours and he will begetting on the plane.

He’s halfway home.

Travel safe. May the universe lookafter my precious cargo.

Shane heads off to McKenzie’s inSouth Yarra saying he can’t sleep in his bed because it is wet. I hope that iswith perspiration and not anything else.

Thehouse is quiet, still and serene. Nothing stirs, nothing at all. Over and out.

We never learnt anything about building ugly buildings, now did we?

2012-01-25T23:55:00.000+11:00

Nice Porsche

2012-01-25T23:50:00.000+11:00

Maybe I'm completely deluded and it is, in fact, me who is the bitch?

2012-01-25T23:45:00.000+11:00

Missyis emaciated, compared to her old self. Mark thinks she looks fabulous. Thin isalways better with Mark… even the cat, my god, Mark’s mother did a great job onhim regarding “fatness.” It was his mother who spread the phobia, as she power walked in her pink tack suit with weights in each of her hands extolling the virtues of "slim is best, dear."

Missynow looks like a slim cat, where before she was a fat cat. It’s not that shelooks bad now, but there has been a dramatic change, for no other reason thanher more expensive food has been changed for cheap food.

Thisis one area where generic branding may have to be reviewed? Missy has lost ahuge amount of weight since I have had her on cheap generic food. Maybe it isnot nutritious enough for her. Tim says she is over 20 years old, so maybe shehas moved into the geriatric cat phase. Or maybe she is sick? Sickness seemsthe least likely, a she seems happy enough. She still seems to be her old self.Her behaviour hasn’t changed in anyway. So I’m going with the need for morenutrition and I’m going to buy her a bag of her old food to see what affectthat has on her.

Weleft the house by 9.30, to get Mark and Luke to the airport by 10am. It wasmuch cooler this morning, much nicer than the sweltering heat of yesterday. Idropped them off at the door to the departures, waving them good bye.

Iparked behind the shops in Smith Street, on the way home and went and got ahaircut. For Santo for Friday. He hates long hair and not that mine was long, as such, but it was beginning to get volume and length beyond short, ifyou know what I mean. Smile. He’ll be back Friday. Bigger smile.

Isat in the chair with my eyes closed, for the most part, enjoying the touch ofmy fat-boy barber’s hands. Sometimes I think the artificial effort we put inwith the hairdresser and conversation is just too much. Today I didn’t feel like "the talking", so Ididn’t. There is something nice about closing your eyes and just letting thebarber move your head as he sees fit. Side to side, like the lapping of the water on a boat's hull.

Then,I went to the bulk billing doctor and signed up to see him. Finally. Do it now!Don’t procrastinate! You don’t have to give it any more thought.

Igot to the door when I realised I forgot my glasses, so I headed back to thecar to get them. When I got back, there were two Sudanese chicks with kids andprams who’d got in just before me, who had just turned up as well and I had towait for them and their children to have their turn, clearly, in a surgerywhich had been empty before the five of us arrived. I cursed my stupidity atforgetting my glasses, otherwise, I could have been in and out in practicallyfive minutes. I laughed at myself thinking that I didn’t have a full day ofappointments ahead of me and to just relax and stare at the wall blankly, ascalm people do in waiting rooms. It did give me time to think about the implicationsof a doctor’s surgery that, obviously, wasn’t popular. I got a script forNexium and had the wart frozen off my chin. No more witchy pooh!

Thebest bit was that it cost me nothing. My usual doctor charges something like$70 per consultation now, some of which I get back, of course. But is thereany sense in doing that when it is only a script that I, so often, want? It isapart of my “going homebrand” for the sake of the budget... and unemployment.

Icame home and pissed around for a short time, turning my PC on to check my blogsizing on that computer. The sizing seems different on a Mac to a PC, it seemedto be huge on a PC, I’m not sure why.

Whilesitting at that computer, I saw all the bills that I hadn’t paid, which werenow over due. "Oh damn, the late fees."

"Slack",Santo would say… if I told him. (Not to self – he reads your blog. Grin. HiBabe. Wave.)

So,I got them all together and headed to the post office and the Westpac bank, posthaste, despite it being 12.30 and lunchtime. "Are you mad," as Anthony would say.

Ishould rent out my spare room again and get the cash in, or set up Internet banking,there is no in between.

Ohthe lunch time crowds… why?... when you can do it at anytime during the day. Iwalked down to Smith Street with a sense of trepidation…

ButYAY, people must still be on holidays and there weren’t any queues anywhere.You’ve got to love that, you've got to love it when the great unwashed are absent. It makes a change from when things are in the fullswing of the business year and there is a queue out the door and onto the footpath even at the bakery.

Ofcourse, I blame it on all the medium density housing that has been going onaround here. The terrible traffic jams are all so to be blamed on the flats "they" arebuilding everywhere.

Iread today they is a major over supply of apartments in Melbourne. With the waythey are building them EVERY WHERE that is no surprise to me.

Icame home and re-wrote passages on my blog. Is it a case of needing to put inmore effort, put in more time rewriting and perfecting, rather than thinkingthat I am wasting my time with my blog? Maybe the problem is that I am not taking my blogseriously enough?

Ididn’t think about jobs.

Thenews is saying that job positions are drying up as we head for another GFC.

Idon’t care.

I ate scrambled eggs and ham forlunch. It was lovely too.

Myex-girlfriend Leah was supposed to drop in for coffee around 16.30, but shedidn’t turn up. I didn’t really pursue it, as I’m not at all surethat I want to see her anyway. She’s just been a fucking bitch the last fewtimes I have seen her. She has turned into such a “Sydney” person (Read cunt) that I’m notsure I can be bothered with her. But, I guess, I should at least try, we’ve known eachother since we were teenagers... lost out virginity together and all that.

However,I can’t really hide the fact that I am relieved when she doesn’t turn up. (Ed note - from who? You are home alone at the time) See,left in the hands of the “forces of human nature,” maybe the correct out comeis arrived at?

Idecided that I’d rather go for an hours walk in the warm afternoon sunshine,than chase her up. Maybe the problem here is that I am not self focused enough as therest of them, as Leah is.

Ineed to be more self focused on me… maybe. It’s always been my problem, reallyand what I should learn from all of this. Too laid back = too lazy, in my case.

Actually,my problem has always been a lack of confidence in myself. Shrug.

Isaw the cutest house open for inspection in X Street. #233 the white housebehind Wollies. If Santo wants to buy another house and one in Fitzroy, atapprox. 700K and gorgeous this one is perfect.

Idecide to give Leah one last opportunity and text her sometime after 6pm regardingour meeting, when I get home.

Iget in the shower.

Shanecame home saying he has a four day weekend. He headed out later saying he “hasthings to do.”

Iknow that this translates into he’s heading out to buy drugs.

Leahcalled and said I didn’t confirm our coffee date so she didn’t think it was on.“What the F are you like,” she said. “I didn’t hear from you... blah blah blah.”

11^thJan texts

“I’llbe in town for 25^th, do you want to have a catch up?

Isaid, “yes I’d be in town that would be lovely.”

“I’vegot a meeting at 4.30, I’ll come around after that.”

Andbecause I didn’t confirm after that, she said she didn’t here from me.

Itired to be breezy, told how I’d seen this great house and how I should downsize.

Thenshe started with her criticisms, about how awful my house is. Disgusting, Ithink is what she said. The Amityville horror house. She only understandsmodern chic stainless steal and glass, she doesn’t comprehend period style. Shehas that non-style of Sydney, you know, where style is whatever is in fashionfor that particular millisecond.

Thenit was why don’t you sell it?

Whyaren’t you travelling?

Whydon’t you do this?

Whydon’t you do that?

Youdon’t have any goals?

Younever have any plans?

And,not far into the conversation I just wanted to hang up. She is a judgemental bitch,she really is, and I’m over her. She can fuck off!

Fortunately,Rachel turned up wherever Leah was and Leah said she had to go and I tookthe opportunity to, practically, hang up in her ear. Not that she would havenoticed though, her self focused attention had already moved on to Rachel andwhatever it was that they were doing together.

Jillcalled about the invoice for the work I did for her. I told her about Leah andhow I was through with that “vile bitch”. Jill wondered why she wasn’t invitedout for dinner with Rachel, Fat-David Monsoon and poisonous Harry Whit.

“Becausewe are losers Jill, face it.”

Jillbristled at this description but, basically, I think it is true. Leah judgesthe two of us to be the least successful of all our old group of friends. (Ed note - read the least uptight, furiously networking, pretentious corporate wannabe tragics who think they are somebody important)

Eventhe obese, pretentious, kaftan wearing Fat-David gets a higher rating than thetwo of us, mainly because he can offer Leah something – a place to stay, in thecity and in the country and a corporate pat on her back telling her how greatshe is.

Leahonce told me that she inspires a whole corporation to do better. I wonder ifthe reality of that statement is that she inspires a whole corporation to hateher? Essentially, she is completely self-focused and judgemental with the selfbelief that she can say any thing she likes to anybody, in a completelytactless way, because she knows best, as she is the one to inspire andencourage something better out of “lesser folk.”

Sheonce told me that you just have to let some friends go some times. Well, you know what Leah,this is me letting you go.

Iate spaghetti with tomato and lentil bean sauce. I cooked it after Shane hadcome home and had gone to his room, assuming, knowing full well that he wouldn’t beeating. I didn’t see him again, except for a brief glimpse, which only confirmedmy earlier beliefs about him smoking crystal.

Iwrote the beginnings of, We have Eggs, a story that had been going around in myhead while I was walking.

Iwatch TV on my own in the dark. It was lovely.

2012-01-24T23:50:00.000+11:00

Summer's back, for sure... and I head to the movies

2012-01-24T23:45:00.000+11:00

Today’s the day I should be applyingfor jobs. No, it is. This is the day. Really. This is it, as Michael Jacksonsaid. Does that mean I should take an overdose of sleepers? (Something smooth) Oh,kidding, it's a joke. It should, of course, be anaesthetic. (which I don’tunderstand at all... where is the journey?) Ha ha, no, no. Too soon?

I wrote my journal, as I drankcoffee and ate my muesli. Mornings are lovely, they just slip away to quickly.

It is a bright, hot sunny day. I canalmost feel the heat seeping into the house through every crack in thebuildings airtightness. (Is there such a word?)

Oh? Find a job? Fuck it. Is anotherday really going to matter? (Am I going to regret this?) Of course, the verynext moment they are talking about the GFC and the job market shrinking.

Instead, I decided to take myselfoff to the movies. I wanted to see Iron Lady, at the Nova. 12.10 was the nextsession. I didn’t look at the movie times for the day until 10.30, when thefirst session for the day was starting, right at the moment I waslooking.

Why does that happen? (Santo would say this is because of the lack of a plan) Is thatMurphy's Law? I guess that isn't something going wrong? Well, I guess it is, ina sense.

It was hot walking there. I tried towalk on the side of the road with the shadows, except that it was midday. Ha!It was nice walking under the elm trees in the Carlton Gardens, though. Thatwas a little shady respite from the scorching sun. Just for a minute. I wantedto take my shoes off and walk barefoot in the grass... but I didn't. I shouldhave? What was I scared of? What could there be to be scared of walkingbarefoot in the grass in a public park? I ask you?

I was surprised by the number ofpeople waiting at the box office, but, apparently, it was $6 Monday. I musthave been hanging out at Gold Class Cinemas too often, which is really not likeme, and it must be a comment on the company I have been keeping. I’m so much yourindependent cinema kind of movie goer. But, if the box office boy had said $25I probably would have paid it. But, $6 was lovely.

I was even more surprised at thequeue to the cinema when I got upstairs, as it was already quite long. I saidto the group of women standing in front of me, when they commented on the queuein front of us,

“I expect there to be only 3 or 4people in the cinema when I come.”

“That’s what I expect too,” said thesmiley member of the retired women’s appreciation society, in their trousersand hand knitted jumpers. We all laughed. I’ve always had middle aged womencharm, they love me. Truthfully, they were just a bunch of “girls” as theywould have referred to themselves, who now lunch.

The Iron Lady was sad, as it waspredominantly about Alzheimer’s disease. It made me cry in places, as maybe itis too soon for me. It’s a cruel disease, really a sad, unkind disease. And, Iguess, it is a subject close to my heart.

So, the Academy Award? As usually,Streep’s acting is fine. She has those almost perfect small mannerisms. Thatnear perfect detail, physical details. The eyes – beautiful blue – the mouth,the inflection, the expression.

But, surely the stars of this movie,deserving of the Academy Award, are the makeup artists.

At varying stages, Streep was an oldlady, an old lady played well, of course, but she could have been any old lady.Was that old lady Margaret Thatcher? I don’t know.

At certain other moments, it feltlike caricature, and in just a few moments she reminded me of Faye Dunaway playingJoan Crawford and in a couple of other moments she reminded me of the LittleBritain Boys, or Catherine Tate, or was it French and Saunders?

When I came out, it was very hot. Ithought immediately about going to interviews in a shirt and tie in that heatand wondered how long I could put off looking for a job? I could hear Anthony’svoice as I crossed the road. “Are you mad?”

I bought some bananas at theWoollies downstairs, to eat on the walk home. As I was coming through thecheckout, the man after me was buying large boxes of Nutri-Grain.As my items were scanned, the said man removed the outer boxes from the NutriGrain packaging flattening them out carefully and precisely, like someone withOCD. He had seriously creepy, deliberate spider-like fingers and dead eyes. He then slid the boxes in behind an ice cream freezer at the front of thesupermarket and got on his bike and rode away with the inner plastic bags insupermarket carry bags. He looked like a serial killer? Or maybe that was justme? So familiar with serial killers, as I am.

I thought that the walk to The Novain Carlton would be enough exercise for the day, but at the last minute, or atleast, late in the afternoon, I decided that I should go for a bike ride,because I should try to keep up the momentum of keeping fit, of trying to getback into good shape, trying to speed up my metabolism from, what I believe, isthe disastrous effects of my stop start, quit, not quit, habit of smoking andmy now re-slowing (is there such a word, it scares me not?) metabolism, now being starved of nicotine.

So, around 5pm I decided to go for abike ride. It was hot in the afternoon, the sun blazed, the sky (seemingly) burned. The moisture was being fried out of the atmosphere.

When I got home I was hot to thepoint of burning up; my face was beetroot, my hair slicked with perspirationstuck to my forehead. I’m sure you could have fired eggs on my cheeks. Everypart of my body felt the effects of the hot sun, my pulse pumped in my neck. Iwas still dripping sweat profusely as I stepped into the shower. Oh thatcooling water was so gorgeous running over my head and down over my skin. Is it too cliched to say like silk. It is, but fuck it.

Shane cooked sausages and lentilsand a green salad with tomatoes and nectarines.

We watched three episodes of the BigBang Theory, my favourite TV show at the moment, one of them was the newseason, after which was the gorgeous Joanna Lumley on Nile.

Anthony called. He said that Ishouldn’t even entertain looking for a job at the height of summer, it is justmadness. He said it was going to be hot tomorrow and if I dared go out in it Iwas just asking for trouble. I told him I had to go and pick Mark and Luke upat the airport at 4pm.

“You must take a parasol, then,” heresponded. “I have one protecting my tomato plants.” He laughed. He's got that funny matter of a fact way of saying things, which makes me laugh too.

I came back into the lounge room. Iknew Shane had heard me mention Mark and Luke’s names, there wasn’t a chance hewould have missed that.

“So? What is this? Mark and Luke arecoming down?” asked Shane.

“Yes, tomorrow at 4pm.”

“Oh… really… why are they coming?”

“They are going to Vietnam onWednesday?”

“Oh… I see,” said Shane nervously.“So… um… are they staying some where?”

Are they staying somewhere?

Shane has this really weird denialof Mark and Luke fitting into my life, and there fore, more apparently into his life. He always discounts theirexistence, rights… oh I don’t know, how do I explain this? It is subtle,really. It is a continual and constant disassociation of them, always in theway he speaks about them. It is as though they are not his friends, members ofhis inner circle of friends, so he always questions their rights and presencewhen their orbits coming in contact with his.

It is bizarreo world, the way hereacts to them, so often, as though they are the enemy and I am on his side,totally discounting the fact that they are my best friends.

I’mnot at all sure if he realises that they don’t like him. I honestly don't think he does.

2012-01-23T14:31:00.000+11:00

Dinner and a show

2012-01-23T12:00:00.000+11:00

It was one of those lazy afternoons.I was making a coffee in the kitchen when Shane came in.

“Oh,” sigh “My quiet afternoon goingto see the Muppets, on my own, has been turned into an event by Sebastian, whoinsisted on drinks and nibbles and now everybody is arriving at 3pm to drinkvodka.”

Oh yes Shane. Of course. I’m sureyou objected to an event of yours being aggrandised and made more fabulous.“Really? Who?”

As it turned out it was justSebastian and D and Ashley.

You see, even Shane’s rhetoric isgrandiose. Please, who are you kidding? Three people, thank the universe.

Really, I thought. The Muppets?Apparently is it a childhood thing.

I wondered if Shane was going to askme to go? He doesn’t tend to ask me to things. I don’t know why? I think it isthat he is far too self focused and I’d need to be pandering to him more tomake him feel as special as he’d like to feel. I’d need to blow far more smokeup his arse, like his other friends do.

Or maybe I’m just a sour bitch?Smirk. Either way…

Oh, I didn’t really want to go. Ishould have been bike riding instead, trying to exercise some of this fat stomachoff. But, that would mean trading social outings for doing something at home,on my own, again. How would it feel? Hiding away? Would I regret it? Probablynot. Wince.

I didn’t exercise yesterday either.

Oh, I should say yes, I should stopsaying no to things? Shouldn’t I? Convince me. Yes, I should. Say yes, be apartof it all. Or am I just being as sucked into a constructed social whirl as Ithink other people sometimes are?

We've all got to be more fabulous, don't you know.

Shane did ask me and I did say yes.He then said he had to go out and buy vodka and nibbles. Reluctantly make animpression, no doubt. Ha, ha, I jest. He likes approval, does our Shane.

I made avocado toast and a nice cupof tea for lunch and retired to my room with my laptop to wait for theonslaught. The shadowy world of my bedroom, it is where I like best.

Everyone would be here at 3.30. Ofcourse, the first ring on the doorbell sounded before Shane hadn’t returnedfrom the shops… now there is a surprise. I was lying on my bed and I was socomfortable that I ignored the first couple of rings. Well, I could have beenasleep. I would claim that I was asleep… if I had to, if I cared enough. Ohplease let it be D, I thought, as I finally headed down to open the door, onthe third ring. It was Sebastian.

Oh, try not to groan, Christian.

Sebastian cooked sausages,immediately. They were lamb and had paprika in them and the fat in the pan turned the most glorious red colour.

There was cheese and pate and meatloaf and gherkins and beetroot relish and olives and gluten free biscuits,which tasted like old bits of parchment that had been dried in the sun, on arock, in a desert, on the hot side of Mars. Shane made martinis, which arereally just pure shots vodka in a glass, after all, mixed with a little waterfrom the ice, when stirred. We talked about the skill of making a dry martini. I was a barmanway back when and I can wank on about the subject with the best of them… asthough, I am masturbating in a playground with a trench coat. But, I neverreally drank them. I’ve always been a vody and tonic boy, ever since I was akid.

D and Ashley arrived pretty soonafter, with Ashley reeling from the pot, which had been, one could on assume,forced down his throat at Perry and Wes’, where they had just come from.

Shane produced the dope cookies forhe and I. Sebastian can’t eat them, of course, because of his glutenintolerance. Poor bitch. Sly smirk.

D drove us all to Victoria Gardens,to the picture house. He was the designated driver for the after noon. I hadn’tbeen in his fully imported, German design, whatsit, replacement from hisparents after his last car, Korean, drowned in a blocked rain in one of those torrentialdown pours we had. It was smooth.

The Muppets were on in Cinemas 7. Noproblem. We weren’t as much of a disturbance at the box office as we could havebeen, in fact, I think we brightened up the box office/candy bar chicksafternoon. We were funny and charming and colourful, well, that’s how if felt on my side oftwo martinis. We stumbled into Cinema 7 relatively on time. There were onlyabout four other people in the cinema, which seemed odd. Surely, this movie ispractically in its first few weeks? The lights went out, the trailers started.After a few adverts and shorts, there was a trailer for Toy Story 4, sometherapy session for Buzz Lightyear. It seemed to go on and on… and on.

I thought, this is a long trailer.Then I thought, this is a very long trailer. The third time I thought that itseemed inordinately long, I followed that thought with… this isn’t a trailer atall.

“Are we in the wrong movie?” Iasked.

We all started to laugh, as the ToyStory 4 trailer continued… and continued.

D and Ashley went out toinvestigate. When they didn’t return, I went out to investigate too. The two ofthem were heading back to the cinema doors, as I stepped out into the mainwalkway.

“Apparently, it is on now in here,”said D. We headed back in and the Muppet movie had started.

WTF?

So, I don’t know what went on there.If it was a combination of the booze and the pot we had consumed, or if the ToyStory trailer was a particularly long trailer, you know, just for effect, somenew marketing ploy. I don’t know.

The movie started off with someMuppet kid being befriended by two humans, who were concerned about the oldMuppet Theatre because it was about to be demolished for oil drilling. It couldbe saved if they could raise 10 million dollars and the way to raise 10 milliondollars would be for the original Muppets to put on one final show.

So that is the premise of the film.

After the first half an hour, or so,of the show, it was shaping up to be a very bad Xanadu. I turned to D and said,“This movie is worse than tragic.” Everyone else shifted uncomfortably in theirseat and giggled nervously.

The dope cookie was kicking in, sureit was. It felt good.

There had been a couple of songs, afew big production numbers and apart from the Muppet kid, no Muppets.

I turned to Shane and said, “Whereare the fucken Muppets?”

He started to laugh.

It was the Muppet Movie after all,and thus far just some dopey looking humans and an even dopier looking,unknown, puppet kid.

Well, the Muppets did turn up,eventually. We rounded up the crew with Kermit in his Rolls Royce. I quite liked how they gave the Muppets a life in the real world,that much I liked. But, it was a weird movie, strange. Sheldon Cooperturned up announced at some stage. They tried to make it eclectic withdifferent realities and that nearly worked, but in the end, it was just astrange little movie.

There were car spaces in VictoriaStreet, unusually, as we headed towards home. “Do you want to eat now, or go homefor more martinis?” asked D.

We went home for more alcohol. Ithink it was me, unusually, who suggested we head home for more martinis. I’mnot really sure why I did. I think it was that “moreish” feeling of feeling,shall we say, “enhanced” and wanting to feel it even more. Maybe, my logic hadbeen diminished by the pot and the piss.

Once at home, Shane threatened topike and not make it out again, he was so fucked up, as he put it, sitting backon the couch, that he wasn’t at all sure if he could stand again. I'd had the same as him, I scratched my head.

D was keen to get going, as he wasdesignated driver and he wasn’t having so much fun remaining sober, so we toldhim he certainly didn’t have to drive, not if he didn’t want to. It wasn’t far,we could walk, if we had to.

We caught a tram back to VictoriaStreet. It was kind of nice walking to the tram stop in the fresh early evening air, as it was kind of nice standing under theshade of the elm trees in the middle of the wide plantation in the middle of VictoriaParade waiting for a tram to romantically slide down the steel rails and stopat out feet.

A breeze blew, cooled by the gianttrees.

We went to the bottle shop andbought Mai Tai Vodka and four bottles of rose. Really? Six bottles of alcoholamongst the five of us… two of them spirits, well, spirits’ish.

Sebastian wanted to eat quail. Hewas very keen to eat quail. He calculated how many quails we would eat. He’dbeen banging on about the quail all afternoon. He led us to the restaurant thatspecialised in… the… quail. Unfortunately, it was full. We would have to waitfor at least half an hour for a table. Sebastian, of course, was keen to wait.

Now, I’m sorry, but in a street,which specialises in food and is jam packed with restaurants, I have never beenable to see the point of standing around for a table for any one particularestablishment, I’m sorry.

“No, I’m not waiting half an hourfor a table.”

So we went to Minh Minhs, which wasfull. Then we went to Ha Long, which was full. Then we went to iSpicy.Sebastian ordered the food, you know, it gives him some credibility. It is hisone claim to authority. Only claim. (Oh, other than being the child of Satan)Sad that Luke thinks his food is unexceptional, at best.

Luke shrugged. “Sorry, I’ve tastedmuch better food.”

Sebastian, the great chef. Well, youknow, ever since I have known Sebastian he has been the great waiter. Luke is the onewho has made a living out of cooking, so...

The food was nice, except for onesausage dish. Other than that, lovely. Sebastian had asked quite clearly thatall the dishes needed to be mild as far as chili content was concerned. Thaifood and chillies, eek ads! you have to be careful. Right at the end, the pork belly and greens dishcame out, which was so hot we were all visibly burning up. You could see it inall our faces, red and glossy. I said I was happy to send it back, which I did.

“This is too hot, we can’t eat it,can you please cook us replacement dishes.” There is no point being vague – bedirect, ask for what you want and more often than not, you will get it.

Everyone said my directness was aconsequence of going out with Santo and seeing how he treats Asian waiters andrestaurants. Sebastian, yet again, related it to him living with James Wang.It’s a funny kind of racism and simply not true.

It left me wondering, how did I getso undervalued amongst my friends? (Maybe, I should read back over this acouple of times?)

This was at the end of the meal andwe ordered the bill not long after requesting the replacement meals to be brought tous. As we were calculating what the bill was, D and Ashley were outside havinga cigarette, or something, so Shane, Sebastian and I paid. Then they came backand we left.

Shane wanted to catch a taxi, but myhead was spinning and the last thing I wanted was to feel enclosed in aconfined space, somewhere airless. No thanks. With some idiot taxi driver asking for directions for what amounted to one right hand turn.

“No, come on, we’ve all got tramtickets.”

That didn’t sound very convincing,even as I said it. But, some how, the foggy-headed, collective pissed brainsamongst us simply seemed to accept what I was saying and they started followingme. (This was how Jesus started out)

There was no tram in sight inVictoria Street.

I was really happy to walk it off,let me tell you.

“Let’s walk to the corner ofVictoria and Hoddle. There will be a tram here by then.”

But, there wasn’t, once we got tothat corner.

The tram stop had been moved to theother side of the intersection, as is the fashion at the moment, which for this intersection, one of the largestaround, seemed all the way “over there.” But, as luck would have it, the lightsturned green and the little man appeared green in our favour, as far as I couldsee, so rather than ask, I just lead the way and the motley selection of drunksfollowed me without question, yet again.

A born leader? No, I wouldn’t saythat.

We continued up the middle ofVictoria Parade, like the Night of the Living Dead, almost silent in ourinebriation. The green grass stretched out in front of us, slipping along underthe elms like a giant pool table, wide and expansive, separating us admirablyfrom the rush of traffic all around us. We seemed to be in our own little microcosmof stillness and serenity floating towards nirvana.

We pushed forward up the gentleincline and the rest of the world seemed to fade away, if only momentarily.

The shiny things in the Porsche showrooms took our attention for a time, as we stared at the magnificent machineswith our mouths open at phone numbers for price tags.

At home they sorted out the bill,however, I think, it was Sebastian who got the extra money. You’ve got to watchhim really – even Shane has confirmed this – male Italian child… he’ll takewhat he wants.

Shane tried to buy some show onApple TV, but was too pissed to manage it, despite trying for an inordinatelength of time. He seemed to be focused on it, but I’m not sure that the restof us knew what “it” was.

Everyone departed.

I woke up on the couch aroundmidnight, with Shane on the opposite couch, limbs akimbo. I took myself off tobed, after switching off all the lights I could manage without leaving Shane inthe pitch black. I knew he would eventually get up and stumble off to bedwithout switching off anything. I felt remarkably fine and sober, as I nestledinto bed.

2012-01-22T23:40:00.000+11:00

Off to the home

2012-01-22T23:30:00.000+11:00

Mysister Gill arrived somewhere between 10 and 10.30 and we went to visit mum.Now that my sister doesn’t seem to have one of her daughters accompanying heron her “mother” visits, I seem to be her permanent Alzheimer’s wingman.

Andever since I ceased my twice, to three times, a week visits to mum, I haveaccepted this. But now I am realising that this has become the norm for both ofus.

I must come home and apply for somejobs… you know I can’t seem to stop thinking about it lately, which is a verygood reason to do something about it now…

…this was the thought that was going through my mind as I stepped out into thebright daylight with my sister, as we crossed the street and headed towards her, quite ugly really, brand newSubaru.

Mumlooked frail and old as she got up from her seat in the communal dining roomand headed towards Gill and I. I guess that sounds like a strange thing to say,as she is old and living with Alzheimer’s disease, but somehow she looked thinnerand more frail as she got up from her seat, amongst the sea of tilt, immobileheads, and moved towards us. She stood in front of us with the expression of an expectant child. I'm sure she had shrunk some more.

Wetook her across the road to the usual café for a cup of tea and a chocolatemuffin, something she remembered having and enjoying from the last week when Itook her across the road to the same establishment.

Theshop was busy so we sat outside at the tables on the footpath. It was quite anice day, certainly warm enough for alfresco dining and then we didn't have to negotiate tables, chairs, steps, people.

Mumdidn’t complain too much about her lot. She only made a few comments about thestate of the food at the home, one was that she was being given a toffee for lunch. Hands inthe air. She didn’t mention going home to her house too much either,thankfully. A little, but we managed to change the subject successfully eachtime. She sat there obediently in her thick cardigan and now brimless hat,smearing chocolate muffin on the tea cup, the table, her face and me, as she reached out for my hand, like a fiveyear old.

Backat the home, Gill and I wanted to pee before we left. Mum said she has to go too.I head off to find the visitors toilets but they all seem to be occupied, allthree doors seemed to be locked. Ah! Ah! AH!

Mumtook Gill to the doctor’s rooms, saying there was a toilet there. Something’sshe does remember. This was where I found them, outside the doctor’s rooms. Gillsaid mum has just gone and that the toilet was now free. I head in, but there was shit all over the edge of the toilet, the safety scaffolding around thetoilet and all down the front of the white porcelain and all over the floor. Icome out retching.

“Ohmy god,” I said still holding my hand to my face.

Imet an articulate inmate, as apposed to the usual mostly catatonic zombies, inthe lift as I was heading up to try the upstairs visitors toilet for the secondtime.

“Ithink it must be time for a nap,” she said. “I guess it is a little early.” Shesmiled and adjusted her fringe.

“Oh,I always think a nap is good,” I replied. “Sleep, it is the thing I say I dobest.”

“Yes,I’d have to agree,” she said. “It means you have a clear conscience.”

Ikind of liked that. I thought about all the people I know who have troublesleeping.

Gillsets off to find a toilet of her own, as one of the, what are they called,attendants takes mum by the arm and leads her off to the dining table.

Iobserve the inmates gathered around each and every table. I’m watching thehusks of human beings struggling to cope with the simplest tasks of sitting ata table and holding cutlery.

Gilland I kiss mum good bye after that, as she sits at the lunch table, noting thatshe smells strongly of shit. I wonder if she has even wiped her arse?

Iguess I should have said something to one of the attendants, it seems obviousnow, but really it sent me into a spiral of sadness as the last thought isstrongly of just getting away from my mother... who sits there with an idiotlook on her face waving a white serviette in my direction.

Oh,it is just too cruel this disease. Really! Just cruel! What would mum think ifshe was in her right mind? She’d laugh and look embarrassed and she’d say, “Ohgoodness.” I think. I smiled at the recollection of her being normal.

Gilland I discussed euthanasia in the car on the way home. What would mum say? Shewould say and has said in the past, “What is the point of keeping them alivewhen they are off their heads?” That’s what she would say.

Ican’t see any good reason why we don’t have Euthanasia laws in place, otherthan staunch opposition from Christian lobby groups in Canberra. I wouldsuspect, it is another area where the religious right has inflicted theirbeliefs on the rest of society.

Leavingmy mother aside, one of my sister’s best friend’s mother, and one of my friendsgrandmother, have both been in, what are essentially, comas for quite a numberof years. There is no hope of any improvement from this condition. Why wouldboth these women not be given drugs to end their lives just as a matter ofmedical course, is quiet beyond my thinking?

Thereis absolutely no reason other than an illogical, bible/Christian based, beliefthat all life is sacred, no matter what?

Andyou know, that particular Christian belief doesn’t even hold up to scrutinywhen, let’s just say in the case of America, you take a state like Texas, whichexecutes a huge number of people for the crimes they have committed.

Andjust taking a wild guess, I bet the support for anti terrorism wars is veryhigh in the so called conservative Christian states of America.

2012-01-22T02:13:00.000+11:00

Go F*ck Yourself with Dave Franco from Dave Franco

2012-01-21T15:22:00.000+11:00

Funny what we think

2012-01-21T15:06:00.000+11:00

As I stoodon my balcony this morning, feeling the temperature and surveying the streetfor life, the beanie capped, kaftan wearing, bearded Muslims were gathering inthe street across the road by two cars, one parked legally, one pulled into thedriveway of the property where they live. I watched them as they pulled plump, fullypacked United Airline travel bags from the back seat of the legally parked carand slung them over their shoulders, as they clutched their prayer mats,transferring their booty to the other car. I guess they wouldn't, exactly, call a prayermat booty?

I laughed atthe sight.

How manyexplosives could you fit in each of those airline bags, I pondered?

Could therebe more of a clichéd, fear-provoking archetype of modern day, even down tothe airline bags being United? I guess, the first thought rattling around in mybrain is the result of “politics by the racial trump card,” which theconservative governments are so good at exploiting. And eleven years of John Howardhas left us all scarred in that way.

What wouldthe gullible people be thinking with those visuals? Are those “report aterrorist adverts” still on teli? Isn't this what we are supposed to think? Be suspicious, for the good of national security? Well, I guess, if thefear factor had been successful they'd be reaching for their phones, to call theagencies that now have an amazing raft of laws with which to protect us. Luckyus.

"Ohyes, myate, I'd like to report a terrorist." I'm sure said with that nasaldrawl the likes of which is more prevalent in, shall we say, the hotter states. "They had airline bags... They were carrying'em... taken 'em from one car to anofer... no, that's all... yes, that's whatthey were doing... No, nufink else... just that... don't you tell us to reportanyfink we see that is suspicious... so I'm reportn it... no, nufink else...fanks."

Meanwhilethe men in white dresses having completed their pow wow in the middle of thestreet, packed their prayer mats and their explosives... er, luggage into theircar and drove in the direction of the airport... um… er north up my street.

I laughed.What a stereotype.

I'm sure itwas all very innocent, although we don't know, do we? I guess even writing thisjust buys into the ridiculous stereotypes that have been fostered for politicalgain.

It just made me laugh, that's all I'm saying.

2012-01-20T15:09:00.000+11:00

Something nice for breakfast

2012-01-20T13:27:00.000+11:00

I woke at 10am, just passed it actually. Itwas my usual lazy morning in my usual lazy life. Upside down days in a more andmore upside down life. All false, of course, unsustainable, sure. This is notgoing to end well, I’m wondering?

I was hungry. The day was bright beyond myroom, out in the street. I stood and swayed a little, then stepped over to myopen balcony doors to close them, being careful to stand just out of sight inmy skanties, some mornings I just don’t think, not awake enough to think.

I thought about the jobs, which I found online at 5am, when I couldn’t sleep. I think there were three, which I shouldapply for, no questions asked. (Don’t tell Santo) It all seemed so easy in thedim breaking dusk of light, so easy when the urgency of the situation had takenhold of me, that I felt a certain flush of confidence ebbing away theunderlying stress of the future. Three perfect jobs, every thing about them wasright.

In the morning light doubts began to creepin. OMG, I guess they will ask me questions in the interview. Oh! What is thetax treatment of… How is a payment made up when… What is the legislation aroundLSL accruals… Could I remember? I should have been studying up on these thingswhile I was off. Studying up? This is what I know. I can’t remember, my brainis rusty.

I felt a shiver of terror run through me.

I could feel the stress return, as if it wasan IV hit directly into my vein, and I felt it pulse through my blood, throughmy entire body. Zzz! Zzz! Zzz! Zzzzzzzz! My head swum, my eye balls bulged,like some cheap junkie feeling the monkey scratch. I should be doing some…what?... something? I should be? I should be? I should… I should… AH! I think,I spun around in circles. I know…

I should have, Ishould have, I should have… What?

Breath.

I was hungry, I knew that. I wanted somethingnice, something interesting, something to dazzle my taste buds, something tomake me feel good, something lovely and good and wholesome. Since weevils hadinfiltrated my muesli, I’d been eating toast in the mornings all week, but thethought of vegemite toast this morning just made me want to wretch! I wantedcranberries and blueberries and raspberries and strawberries and sunshine andlight and happiness and contentment and, and, and, something like that shoneand dazzled and exploded in a million possibilities.

OH! I closed my eyes and threw my head backand tried to feel that peace and calm deep down inside that has always beenthere, that used to be there, that was there once! That I have always had.

I stepped towards my window until the sun hitmy eyelids turning the inside pink and orange and red.

I exhaled long and slow.

I would just walk to the supermarket and trynot to think until after I had done that.

Food. Coffee. In that order. That is all Ihad to think of now. As a wise friend said to me recently there are only twomoments that exist. This moment right now… and the next one.

It was such alovely morning that I just had to get out in and taste it. It was alovely day, really, not too hot, just nice. Another perfect summer’s day, Ithought, as I stepped onto the footpath and headed towards Woollies. And it tasted good, bright and sunshiny, like sparkles and lustre andsomething shiny, like smiles and good intensions and good deeds. The skywas blue, the air fresh, I’m sure the birds were singing, lovely.

I love my street on such days, wide andstraight, under the huge afro hair-like plain trees, round and voluminous,casting shadows dappled on the ground, over lapping some where near the middleof the street for me to walk under.

I could almost touchthe fresh and bright.

I wanted cherry bites, or caramel bombs, orchocolate chews… well… fruity things encased in wheat wrapping things, smallpillows of puffiness that dissolve on your tongue. Poof! I guess chocolateisn’t a breakfast food, unless it is wrapped in pastry and comes with a Frenchname, that is. I patted my round stomach and thought there will be no pastriestoday.

There was a short rat-face woman with a voicelike a squeaky door, I had on my car once, telling her fat little children thatshe wanted Nutri-Grain. Nutri-Grain. Nutri-Grain, she said like some kind of demented parrot.Then she picked Wheatbix off the shelf, exclaiming, “There they are.”

Huh? Although, why I was looking, or why Iwas so interested, one might question.

"Did he leavehis wife?" said the very camp voice of one, of the two, men walkingtowards me. The one speaking had one of those swivelling heads that wasattempting to give the impression that he’s not at all interested in who may besharing the isles with him, at the same time not missing a moment that someonemight be looking at him. "You know they are all doing it now a days."He tilted his puffy head downwards and gave me a once up and down looking overhis glasses.

I felt violated.

A girl withpiercings in her eyebrow, nose and lip, like some sort of stapled body parts,breezed passed with a mobile phone attached to her ear, “I was so wasted I’mnot sure if it was my vomit or some one else’s. Yeah.”

I looked at theporridge and winced.

The back of hertoo short skirt was creased up concertina like so I could see the curve of her,shall we say, “grey” undies, grimace, hugging the cheeks of her arse.

Santo sent me a photo of a green bag with chickenhead’s poking out of them. Not sure why now.

I never fail to think of those starving inthe world (well, nearly always) when I am gazing at the rows and rows packedneatly with colourful packages and boxes.

The Plus Antioxidants with cranberries, blueberriesand sultanas won me over as much as the Wildberry fruity bites. I think it wasthe red fruit, or the red fruit filling, the promises of sweetness it made,that dazzled me the most. Something moist and red.

I was suddenly thirsty, actually I’d beenthirsty the whole time it was just at the end of my shopping I allowed myselfto think about my dry mouth, so I selected fruit of the forest fruit juice. Itwas really coffee that I wanted, of course, which I would be quaffing down assoon as I returned home with my booty.

What was I waiting for, I thought, as Iwalked home, bags in both hands. It is so often the weight of the shopping bagsand the sight of the length of the walk home that brings life into perspective,don’t you think? The visualisation of the journey in front of you, where youare going in life, with the weight of your baggage present and apparent. Whatam I doing? Where am I going? I so don’t want to get a job, equally as much asI don’t want to rent out my two spare bedrooms, that is the impasse Icontinually find myself at. They are the two options and I don’t like either. SoI guess it was a tattslotto win that I was really waiting for. Is that it? Isthat what it comes down to? Some kind of delusion? Happy in it, until life getsdesperate, being forced to act.

Well, what do I think the outcome is going tobe?

I could probably not work for another sixmonths, but then I would be skint, broke, be in a desperate financialsituation. I would have nothing in the bank then. Is that what it is going totake for me to act?

Oh please universe give me the strength, andmore importantly the desire, to do something before then?

My head spun a little with anxiety and stressas I walked the straight road to my front door.

I made coffee, poured juice and prepared aplateful of Wildberry Fruitybix, yum yum. I dragged the antique rosewood tableoutside and pulled up the wicker chair and switched on my laptop.

Coasters? It made me think about Santo. He isnuts about his glass coffee table and coasters. It always kind of makes melaugh.

Then the day just slid away. Ffffew. Gone.Over, pretty much. Vanished. The electrical equipment whirring away on therenovations next door the only mechanical intrusion in my garden.

I went for a walk around 4pm. It was a lovelyday for a walk. Gorgeous. Perfect. I just don’t know about Mark and Luke movingnorth, you couldn’t get better weather than we were having right here.

I did my tattslotto in Carlton. Of course,my, apparent, investment in the future.

Then as I rounded the corner for home “it”started. “Oo, oh, er!”

Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle! Oh really? I havebeen feeling the tell tail signs of my metabolism slowing, it’s been about amonth since I completely stopped smoking. Done. Over. I have been feeling myselfgetting all blocked up. I have been feeling that some what “tight” feeling.

I have been eating lots of bran and I havebeen eating lots of fruit. Bananas. Nectarines. Oranges.

Then. Brahmmm!!!! Brahmmm!!!! Like a fuckentrumpet, or the whole fucken brass section. Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!! But what aninconvenient place to start. Well, it had started earlier in the day in a slowand more subtle way, but the walk had sped it up. Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!! All theway up my street. Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!! I always find exercise is the besttreatment.

Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle. Cramp, cramp, cramp.

So, my walk home was a little more frenzied,there was a somewhat greater determination. It was the equivalent of a childcrossing his legs and raising his hand to be excused. Miss, miss, miss!

Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!!

After I got home, I decided to make tea, havea shower and retire to my boudoir.

It’s the one effect of stopping smoking that Ifind nobody tells you about.

I was supposed to go to diner with Shane, Dand Sebastian, but my volcanic bowels trumpeting the 1812 overture made me wantto stay home, not want to go out in public, for sure. So, I curled on my bedand stayed out of sight.

I found out the, shall we say, consequenceall by myself the first time I quit the gaspers and I was quite surprised byit.

I wrote on my computer and read blogs untilTwo and a half men at 8.30. The Big Bang Theory, The great cities of the world,in Hong Kong with Griff Rhys Jones, followed by Stephen Fry’s America, thegreat Mississippi from Louisiana all the way up to it’s source in Minnesota,following music and food.

Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!!

Things I learnt today, there is a huge shipin the middle of Hong Kong…, which is a restaurant. Hong Kong is the richestcity in the world with more millionaires per square metre.

Santo

OMG!You would be dead by now, if you were here. Gassed. You'd certainly have RSI ofthe finger from spraying the air freshener, certainly, as you clutched at yourthroat and scratched at the wall for relief.

I've been drinkingmetamucill everyday and exercising also, every day this week. Your metabolismslows down when you stop smoking, temporarily, the physical manifestation ofthis is a certain tightening of the stomach and a reduction in crapping, somuch so that one can feel a little uncomfortable. The metamucil surely helps,the exercise speeds up you metabolism again and the fruit, well that is justhealthy, hey. The unfortunate bi product is even more gas than usual. OMG! I'mchoking.

(christian)

Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!!

I ate breakfast cereal all day and didn’tapply for any jobs. I want to do what Stephen Fry does, cruising up theMississippi in a canoe, or Griff Rhys Jones does, shopping in Hong Kong, thatwould fascinating that would be interesting. How do you get those jobs?

Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!!

I feel sad sitting there in my room with thedoors and windows open letting all the fresh air in the world, thinking thatthis time must finished.

Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!!

I got a message from Santo who said he feelsbad that he wasn’t here to go to Carnival with me. “Poor baby,” he said.

“What have you been reading?” I ask.

“He he he,” he says. “You know I have mysources.”

I reiterated to him that he is the onlyperson who knows about my blog, I’m not sure if he realised. I just have to tryto forget that he reads it, when I’m writing it.

I did tell Mark and Luke once, but it didn’tsink in with the two of them. And my mate who writes her own blog, but otherthan that I kept it quiet, as it affords a certain freedom in the writing, I’vealways thought.

Note to self

Cut down on bran and fruit

Increase water and exercise

Plenty of air

2012-01-18T23:11:00.000+11:00

I woke up just before 9am, to shut off theexpected warm air flowing in through my open balcony doors now that the cool nighthad turned into warm day, but Missy looked so comfortable curled up on thebalcony, one eye open to check what I was doing, I went back to bed withoutclosing the doors to the day time elements. Besides, it wasn't so hot. She is the most ardent fan of the balcony. I think cats like to be raised up, looking down.

I was feeling deliciously lazy, so Iscratched my arse and drifted back to sleep almost immediately. My legs didn’teven have time to uncrinkle before I was horizontal again. Yawn. Stretch.

I woke again at 10.30, sure I'd heard Guadalupearrive, with the sound of the front door opening and closing. Click, clunk. No, let that be the wind, or my imagination, a dream. Someone in the street. Birds, I don't know. Please let her be on holidays… or sick… or dead… my mind pondered thepossibilities.

I woke intermittently after that, not beingable to hear any cleaning going on. Suspiciously cocking an ear towards mybedroom door whenever my eyes cracked open. Hoping. Wishing. Wanting. Is she? Isn’t she? Maybe?Maybe not? Oh please…

I wondered if there was any therapy forcleanerphobia?

I woke again just before midday. 11.45 and Ithought, well, I should get up then, nothing else for it. Lovely, 11.45, how could I sleep so late? Soeasily really. 11.45, really, how time flies when you are having, um, er, slum…ber. Ah!

So, I pulled on some shorts, you know just incase, and swung my bedroom door open, to see the vacuum at the top of thestairs and to hear the tell tail scratching and the scraping going ondownstairs.

“Damn!” Gotta get out. Gotta leave. Gotta go. Exit. Clear out. Vamoose.

I was in and out of the shower 2 ½ minuteslater. Dressed 4 minutes after that. I hit the ground floor at the 5 minute mark.

“’Ello Mrsta Chreese.”

Ah! There she was with her hair scarf (Jackie O hair wrap, don't draw the wrong conclusion) and herjiffies. “Yes, yes, yes.”

I was half way to Smith Street 10 minutesafter. It was 12 pm. If Guadalupe had, in fact, come at 10.30, I then onlyhad… counting on my fingers… staring at the blue sky... counting on my fingers again, oh, bugger, 1 ½ hours to go. Exhale. I’d better have along breakfast.

I ordered the biggest baguette I could see, beef, cheese, cherry tomatoes and beetroot relish, I think it would be called a twelve inches at Subway, or a swingers club, that thought amused me as I ordered the largest mug of coffee they had. I opened my book, Dorothy Hewett andsettled in. The café was filled with people and surprisingly I wasn’t annoyedby any of them, so there’s a thing. Good book, or Fitzroy people rather than tourists?

The old post office looks a treat as a cafe. I still remember it as a post office when I first moved into the area. Ah, the gentrification of Fitzroy. I guess it has given us more coffee houses and bigger muffins. But, what else has it given us? I don't know? A noise problem and drunk gen y's from the suburbs on a Saturday night.

I tip toed back to my front door, like athief in the night… er… day time home invasion, I guess, was moreaccurate, just before 13.30, turned the key like I was trying to hide myentrance, laugh, not really sure why, to be greeted by the whir of the vacuum.

“Grrrrr!”

I sat outside on the wicker chairs waitingfor Guadalupe to finish. It was so lovely out there, but my laptop was hot onmy thighs. What is that called? I’m sure it is a syndrome? But, I didn’t wantto go inside. So, I got my mum’s antique rosewood table and set that up outside infront of the wicker chair. It was lovely too. Not that I really suffer fromcabin fever, but with the wind blowing and the birds singing and the smell oflavender in my nostrils even the hint of being a shut in was lifted up andfloated off me and away.

I read on the internet rather than writingmyself. Oh yes, Christians who are acting anything but… oh, that’s right… no oxygen.

I went for a walk in the late afternoon,around my big walking track. I’m still not game to go bike riding. I know, Iknow, there are so many directions I could ride in, but I do like riding on abike track. Cars and bikes really are not meant to share the same space andwhile the Aussie Open is on, I’m so happy to walk the footpaths and not to dicewith the pent up anger of the motorist. And I don't want to spend too much time thinking about exercise, otherwise I can sit back and not do it.

I went out to dinner with David and Shane. Wesat on the footpath outside on Smith Street and ate. Ah, al fresco dinning, an excuse for the cafe owners to commandeer the streets. I'm wondering if we are going to regret that move one day, when there are more tables and chairs than pedestrians on the footpath. Shane had calamari, Davidhad chicken salad, I had risotto. And the three of us decided that we would havethe main serving of fish cakes to share as an entre.

A main serve of fish cakes to share betweenthe three of us as an entre… did you get that? I would venture to say, thatthis is not a very normal request. Not that it is hugely abnormal, I grant you,but out of the ordinary enough to make it memorable, don’t you think?

David told a story about some guy at the gymon Sunday nights who paraded around the change room with his enormous penis onshow. It is huge, apparently, so much so that it stopped traffic, could be seen from out of space and causedgrown men to stop and stare. Gobsmacked.

“Down to here,” said David karate choppinghis leg at the knee, swivelling in his chair to face the pedestrian walkingtowards him. “Enormous!” legs spread and chopping his knee again, you know,presumably, in case the pedestrian had missed the gesture the first time. “Youcould choke on it,” he said to the back of the departing pedestrian, as David's head followed him.

Exclamation. “This big!” he said, swivellingaround 180 degrees in his chair once more, scanning the footpath for anotherunsuspecting passer by. “FAT!” he announced down the footpath, “Beautiful!”Practically, laying back in his chair and rubbing his crotch at man 2. “OMG!”Fanning himself with both his hands flat, as man 2 exited stage left.

“Like this!” Looking back down the footpathfor audience member number 3, holding his hands a metre apart. “Enormous.”Eyeing man number 4 up and down, grinning wildly.

Hands in the air, huge grin, exclamation.

“The whole change room’s eyes were fuckenglued to it!” He may as well have been on his feet, with his arm around thenext pedestrian’s shoulders, intimately explaining the joys of cock flesh, suchwas his loud, animated enthusiasm.

I wasn’t sure if he was trying to pick upsome random guy in the street with his antics, or if it was simply an extensionof David’s chronic “look at me look at me” syndrome that we all love and hatehim for in equal measure.

David’s chicken salad arrived first.

“Oh weren’t we having the fish cakes first?” David asked with narcissistic outrage that his wants weren't being met. Crossing his t's, dotting his i's and s'ing his s's, you can be sure. His pointer finger was distended as if in question.

“Oh… um… er… sorry. Yes, sorry,” said thewaitress. Big eyes. Then she was gone.

Next came the calamari and my risotto.

“Sorry, sorry, the chef got it wrong." The waitress grimaced apologetically. "They’llbe four minutes.”

Some time after we’d finished our mains thefish cakes arrived. Youknow, and the retail/shops wonder why people shop on line. I know, it's notquite the same thing, but really, hopeless. The service was hopeless. Actuallyno, it is not okay for the entre to be served as the desert. In which reality would that be acceptable? Call me oldfashioned.

We went to Sircuit for a beer on the wayhome. David left quickly saying he had work to do. I will always admire thatabout David, he fits in socialising and then he gets down to it and gets hiswork done.

I don’t know how I grew up to be a one task aday type of guy. Why aren’t I driven and productive andsuccessful like David.

Just a lazy bastard at heart, really, Iguess.

2012-01-18T18:26:00.000+11:00

The last word

2012-01-18T11:11:00.000+11:00

Yesterday, I originally wrote a piece about the views of that old tennis player, Margaret Court. But, you know what, I've decided that I, actually, don't care enough any longer to give her views oxygen, so I took it down.

Whatever she wants to believe, go ahead it is a free world and free speech is alive and well.

I believe that science has now explained the existence of the world completely.

She's entitled to believe in the great big space man who sat on his cloud and said aberacadabera. Good luck to her I say.

This is what I thought as I lay in bed last night in the wee small hours worrying about the world. Okay, I was worrying about me and not the world, you got me. This is what I was going to replace yesterdays post with. Okay, so I haven't taken down the original post. What the hell, I thought this morning.

But, you know, I know not to write pieces like that again, it is a waste of time. There is no use talking about, or to, the terminally deluded. There is no use contacting these people on any level, it is a waste of time. Diplomacy only works to a point when you are trying to negotiate a peaceful resolution with the enemy.

They have god on their side. End of story.

On some level, it makes me sound like I am trying to convince the fundies and the cunning "don't-mention-the-c-word" Christians, of something, which I am not. I'm really happy for them to believe in whatever they want, virgin births, space ships, pillars of salt, girls should be commended for having abortions, or not, whatever. I just want them to stop trying to convince me, and the rest of the world, to believe in what they believe in.

Instead, we need to speak to everyone else, which is what we are doing, which is the reason we are achieving equality, which is the reason we are obtaining the rights that everybody else in society have always had. Not special rights, the same rights.

So, there you go.

Post script...

I couldn't leave it without, my favourite Christian quote practically of all time. This was said just recently, when a well known don't-mention-the-C-word Christian comentator was asked why she doesn't come forward and make her Christian beliefs known.

"Well, if I tell them I am a Christian, I risk them not listening to me."

Here endeth the lesson.

Amen.

We have the world on our side... not just the congregation

2012-01-17T13:08:00.000+11:00

"Politically correct educationhas masterfully escorted homosexuality out from behind closed doors, into thecommunity openly and now is aggressively demanding marriage rights that are nottheirs to take.

"The fact that the homosexualcry is, 'We can't help it, as we were born this way,' as the cause behind theirown personal choice is cause for concern."– Margaret Court

In my opinion, at best, these are justnonsensical words that belong to the rhetoric of the last century, at worstthey are carefully chosen to discredit and alienate. At best, they are designedas a smoke screen to confuse, at worst they are designed to engender hate.
The inference is that we aresomething nasty and horrible that should be kept behind closed doors and out ofsight.
“Politically correct education,” isat best indicating we are getting treatment that we don’t deserve, at worst itis making a particularly ludicrous but nasty association between homosexualityand the young.
The fact that the homosexual cry is…blah, blah blah, gives the impression that there is something disingenuous toour call for equality, inferring that all of society should be worried aboutthis.
Of course, Christians can only castdoubt with their words, because if they came out with the real reason, “the acceptanceof homosexuality renders my Christian beliefs null and void,” society as awhole wouldn’t listen to them.

It is sad that the, who I like tocall, flat-earthers – those whose view of the world hasn't progressed orevolved passed two thousand year old myths and superstitions – such asChristian bigot – those who cherry pick only certain ideas or passages out ofthe bible to discriminate against others – Margaret Court, feel the need toinflict their chosen and, in my opinion, outdated, views of the world onto therest of society.
Ironically, her Christian views areher choice.
Australia is not a Christian country,rather it is a secular country and the majority of Australians believe gaypeople should have the right to marry. I think that the last poll that I sawput it at something like 61%.

It is almost funny that bigotedChristians feel free to talk about any topic they choose, even if they can’tpossibly have any knowledge on the subject, when, of course, it suits theirchosen Christian view of the world. Margaret Court mentions several times inthe articles that I have read lately about her intolerance towards inclusivemarriage, that being gay is a choice. What possible knowledge could she havethat she is basing this view on? Logically, if you think about it, teenagers,young gays, of course, would choose to be different from the rest of theirpeers, they would, of course, choose the lifestyle that the likes of MargaretCourt demonises and admonishes, because teenagers are like that, they wouldnaturally pick the more difficult road.

Sadly, Margaret Court doesn’t evenrealise, in my opinion, what a fool she is making of herself, as I thinknearly all Australians now understand that gay people are born gay just asstraight people are born straight.

There aren't recorded cases of gaypeople being turned into a “straight” people, rather there are many recorded casesof ex-gays, gay people squashing down their natural gay feelings and desires bybecoming born again Christians, I assume, for fear of hell and damnation andfamily, who go on to live, what I can only assume, are tortured straightChristian lives.

What we need to do is ignore theMargaret Courts of this world and instead focus on the moderate Christians,who, I am sure, are the silent majority of Christians, who take Christianity toenhance their own lives and who are prepared to let other people live theirlives as they see fit, without this illogical, you must join us, mentality.
I know it makes better head linesand sells more newspapers if we get some controversial comments, but we need tostop giving the bigots airtime and start giving it to the moderate Christians,who don’t discriminate. We should give the moderate voices the chance to speak.

It is the same with Muslims – theradical, hardline Muslims, are giving the rest of the Muslims a bad name. It isthe same with the Margaret Courts of the world and Christianity. We disregardfundamentalist Muslims, as we should disregard fundamentalist Christians suchas Margaret Court.

If you don't believe she holdsfundamentalist Christian views let me quote her.

Courtwas quoted describing advocacy of same-sex marriage as promoting"unhealthy" and "unnatural" unions trying to legitimiseabominable sexual practices that include sodomy, which reveals our ignorance asto the ills that come when society is forced to accept law that violates theirvery own God-given nature of what is right and what is wrong.

2012-01-16T23:11:00.000+11:00

So, why do I feel... um... left out?

2012-01-15T15:16:00.001+11:00

While Santo is overseas, all my mates have headed off to Carnival today and nobody thought to invite me.

Carnival? Really? Some tacky picnic where we have the same tired dog shows and the same tired lube wrestling, every year. The same old same old same old same old. For a group of people who are meant to be so innovative and creative... I ask you? Always the same stuff. Community stalls run by serious lesbians and health stalls run by over the hill queens.
I'm guessing it is all monogamy and children now that we are going after marriage?

Do I even want to go? If I was asked... I ask me?
Shane never asks me to go to things, no he doesn't. I'm sure over the previous however many of years I have said no too often. Well, with him and David it was always "Come out for a drink, come out for a drink." And then within one drink of being there they'd disappear to the sex rooms never to been seen again and I'd be left standing on my own.

So, I'm sure it is my fault. Yes, I'm sure it is. What is the opposite to boy crying wolf too often?

Of course, Shane never thinks about anyone but Shane. We know that. I some times wonder if jealousy plays apart in all of this... I have what he wants. Anyway? I don't know?

I had plenty of occasions to say that I wanted to go, today. I could have said it. Easy. "I'll come too."

"Sure, come too," would have been the answer.

But... um...

Oh, I don't know how to put this? I really don't. It will seem kind of odd if I write it out in words. No, it will.

When I say "mates" I mean they are my second tier mates. All my first tier mates, the ones who I really loved and adored and who I really enjoyed being with and around, have all left me one way or another.

Tom died a few years back. When he said come out for a drink, we went out for a drink, we played pool and we hung out together. The two of us. Mates. There was none of this looking around and they were gone business.

Simon died a month after Tom. Lovely, funny, smart Simon. He threw a rope of a tree branch and... you know, if I could get him back just for a moment, I would so slap his face for doing that.

Anthony went nuts and has only just come back into my life, a shadow of his former self.

Mark and Luke moved to NSW a few months ago.

And you know, if Santo had been here, I would have happily gone to Carnival with him. It would have been fun with him. But with Shane and Sebastian and Nick and D, desperately showing off his new and only boyfriend that he has ever had... all of them thinking they are fabulous when they really are just... well, usually trying far too hard to be interesting.

Oh, maybe I'm just missing Santo.

None of them asked me if I wanted to go. Of course, the common denominator here is, actually, me. So, I'm not blaming any one but me, don't get me wrong. It is something I have done, clearly. And the truth is that I don't really want to go... not with them, not really.

So, why do I feel... um... left out?

We're hard to please aren't we, us humans? A mass of contradictions, hey? I wanted to be asked so I could turn the invitation down, that is the only conclusion that I can come to? Which is kind of psychotic, really.

I'm going to go pump up the tyres up on my bike and go for a nice long bike ride. Clearly, I am sitting around with far too much time on my hands.

2012-01-14T23:35:00.000+11:00

Langsat

2012-01-13T20:25:00.000+11:00

Not even midday and I have ruined my diet

2012-01-13T12:06:00.001+11:00

I had dinner and watched dvds with Jill, lastnight. Dinner and a show, if you like, except we traded party frocks for acouch each. The Green Lantern was okay, a bit dark and the cinematography was abit muddy, but any movie with Ryan Reynolds in it, especially running aroundhis under pants, be it for only a short time at the beginning, can't be all bad.Horrible Bosses, I, actually, found this hysterical and am now thinking how Icould use it as a template for a story of my own. Bridesmaids, which was myleast favourite of the three, just a little too American to be too enjoyablefor my tastes, even if it did have some funny moments.

We had hamand salad and a chocolate and caramel tart.

As I was leaving, Jill handed me a packet of TheNatural Confectionary Co "Party Mix", "Here, take these."

"Why?"

"Well, I have already eaten the other packetthat I bought and I don't want to eat this one."

Jill has weight issues. If I hadn't been in hercar, often, I might suspect she is one of those fat chicks who surreptitiouslydrives through fast food drive-throughs, hiding the wrappers, the evidence, inthe back footwell of her car.

I know, that the mince pies over Xmas caused herand Jenny Craig to part company, recently.

Of course, I could have said no (to the bag oflollies) and in the real world I only have myself to blame, I realise that, butit is something that one often just accepts, says yes to and doesn't thinkabout until some time later.

Like this morning, Oh, there is that bag of lollieson the kitchen bench. Yay!

Yes, well thanks Jill, not even midday and I havealready inhaled most of the packet. All of the packet. And now it has startedto rain just as I was about to go for a bike ride. (smile) Do you like myexcuses? (wink) Oh yes, I am full of them. Santo loves it. (nervous smile) And, I hope, that he willgo on loving me despite them...

However...

What is the mentality here? (with giving me the bagof sweets, are you keeping up?) I (Jill) have already ruined my diet, so now I amgoing to take you (me) down with me? Or is it less thought out than that, do youthink?

"AH!" Throw the remaining poison at thenearest person? Take no prisoners? Every fatty for himself? Here! Catch! Help?

Missing him?

2012-01-12T15:26:00.000+11:00

I haven't stopped talking to Santo - instant messaging, Skype, sms, emails - since went OS. We have talked the whole time he has been away. It's nice, really nice. I don't get a chance to miss him, I don't want the chance to miss him. I can just chat to him whenever I feel like it. I just pick up my phone, sign into Skype, write an email. Even at his sister's wedding, he skyped me on his iPhone, for some time, so I got to see the dancing and the magic show and the bride and groom and the cake that was as big as a person.

He kept turning the phone towards himself and smiling. He looked so handsome in his suit and tie. Lovely. I'm sure his face was blushed with joy.

He's now hanging out with his family, which he is enjoying more and more now that the members of his extended family have returned home to their own houses after the wedding. The more who leave, the more the noise dissipates and calm is restored.

He's become a soft Aussie, though, as he says he can hardly take the humidity now. "Aren't you supposed to be here fanning me?" he says. He misses his foot massages, too.

He's now helping out in his parent's shop, I suppose, until he comes home. Lucky him, I guess, like the past ten years has never happened. I don't know? Maybe? A sense of deja vu?
I asked him if the locals are saying it is nice to see him. He says that those who come in are asking him, more often than not, when he is getting married, of course. The last of the four siblings yet to marry.

And he's feeling sick, which is no doubt as aresult of eating too much chili, the admission of which could get him thrownout of the family, naturally, and relieved of shop duty. Ha, ha. I guess not. The best labour is family slave labour. What do you mean you don't want chilli?

If only it were that easy.

I should be rubbing his... um... er... stomach.

It's funny how often I look over to that space... where he should be... when he's not filling it... feeling like something is missing. I waved my arm through it, just to check that my eyes aren't playing tricks on me.

2012-01-11T23:11:00.000+11:00

Off to find out about my poor tooth

2012-01-11T15:54:00.000+11:00

I was up at8am, listening to idiot DJ’s as I have lost Radio National as my set station.Oh where is it, I thought, as I struggled to lose the cheerful, blabbermouth morons who never stop… never stop... never stop... NEVER EVER STOP – it's one of theproblems in the world today, too much talking and not enough silence – until Iwant to puke, or throw the radio at the wall, or slash my wrists, or all three. (What would I look like after that?) It isthe only time I listen to the radio, it wakes me up.

I switched it off. Silence. Easy, I thought.

Shanehas been doing early yoga mornings with David andall the other airheads in Prahran, but his bedroom door was closed, whichmay indicate that he has missed class this morning and is still home.

I had to be at the periodontist at10am. I'm hoping I have the morning to myself, which means no Shane, so I can take it leisurely.

I’mjust going to make coffee and then have a shower straight away, then, when I am dressed and clean and ready, I can piss thetime away and be able to leave within a moment of deciding it is time that Ileft.

I was feeling depressed this morning, depressed aboutmy tooth – you know with a front tooth missing I could perhaps have banjo musicprerecorded to play whenever I enter a room? Depressed about selling my mum’sinvestment property in a weak market – I hate real estate agents, lying, bloodsucking bastards who still managed to get us to sell it below the price wevowed not to go below. Depressed aboutthe prospect of getting a job – throwing my life away doing something I don’tlove. But probably, primarily, I’m depressed about my tooth, truthfully. Thepresenting problem. I was sure that the periodontist was going to say that thetooth had to come out.

Imade coffee and prepared my muesli. My stomach churned on slow grind.

Iswitched on my computer, despite telling myself not to until I had had ashower and got dressed. I started reading the news, despite telling myself thatI wouldn’t. Ben Cousins is having drug problems again, apparently. He was takento hospital after a fall in rehab. He’s in rehab? “Fragile Ben, all of hisfriends are worried about him.” I thought, lucky Ben, doesn’t have to worryabout the world and the troubles there in. I wondered how long it was going tobe before we read the headlines, “Ben Cousins dead at 33. Troubled starsuccumbs to his addictions.” It was now inevitable, I thought. An ex-landlord, allegedly, complained about the syringe ridden apartment that Ben had left behind.

Apparently,Molly Meldrum is able to have limited conversations with his brother. He hassome idea that he is in hospital, but probably doesn’t understand what hashappened to him yet.

Iwonder if he is going to recover fully, you know, back to the old Molly that we all know and love?

The clock is ticking towards 9am. Ishould go and have a shower. I should... I should... I should...

Ihear the front door open and close. Shane walks in, back from yoga. He startsto prepare his breakfast.

He’llwant a shower, I must go and have one first, which I do, before he fucks up myschedule, such as it is.

Ihear Shane come up the stairs as the water is still falling on my back. I havea certain satisfaction in being in the shower and being able to hold him uprather than the other way around.

Ihear him come up the stairs again a short time later. Oh, what am I doing, Ithink? I turn off the water and get out. What is wrong with you, I think? Shanehas to go to work. I don’t know how my mind works, sometimes. I've got a mean streak, to be sure.

Idry myself quickly and leave the bathroom.

Ihear Shane head into the shower almost immediately.

Iget dressed and head down stairs.

Shaneleaves for work.

Itis 9.15 when I switch on my laptop again. It’s an easy walk, it shouldn’t takeme more than fifteen/twenty minutes to walk it, to the top of Collins Street.What number Collins is it? Twenty something.

At9.30, the wind picks up outside and starts to blow the garden around. A shorttime later, the blue sky turns grey and the rain starts to fall... heavily. Like machine gun fire on the tin roof, which may just prove that I have no idea what machine gun fire, actually, sounds like. At nine forty'something there is a winter’esque storm.

I’mheading to the front door, I'm starting to panic, a little. I’ll have to catch a tram, I think. I look into mywallet, as I head out the front gate, to see I have silver coins only. Groan. That’sit, no gold? Dam! I keep walking. I shrug and raise my hands in the air, what it is that I am going to do?

Youare going to catch a tram with no money? Is that the plan? Really? WTF?

Ihead back inside and get an umbrella, telling myself that I have no choice but towalk now. Move! as Santo would say to me.

I head up Napier. At Victoria there is a tram, justsitting there with its doors open, waiting. The universe is telling me to getin, clearly. So I do. The tram moves off. At the next stop, I have my walletout and am looking for the coins I know I don’t have. A woman in the first setof seats looks over at me and gives a faint smile, as if to say been there,done that. My acting must be good? The tram moves off again, turning intoGisbourne. I’m not sure who I am acting for? I look up and pretend to be pissedoff, annoyed that I don’t have any coins, as though they should have been therebut some how they had been spirited away. I’m acting for any inspector secretedaway amongst the passengers who may be watching, ready to pounce? The womanstarts to look in her handbag. I wonder if she is going to offer me coins. Icheck the rest of my wallet and then my pockets. The tram moves off from AlbertStreet. The woman closes her bag and rests her hands on top of it. I presume myapparent difficulties have given her reason to check where her own ticket isand not prompted an act of generosity on her part. I shrug and pretend that Iam resigned to getting off the tram. The woman is still looking over at me. Iget off one stop before Collins, one stop before my desired destination. It's easily walkable from here, no use pushing my dishonesty.

Sillythe things we do, hey?

Ifind the building in Collins Street. It is one of those old ten up stylebuildings, which I’m sure scum of the earth property developers want to get theirhands on and, no doubt, will one day to enhance their private banks balances atthe same time making the city poorer for their efforts. I look at the directoryon the ground floor, I can’t remember who it is that I am seeing, as theperiodontist I was referred to isn’t the one I am actually seeing. He moved tohis rooms in horrible Brighton, where the worst of the Melbournites live. Horrible,rude people. The new rich. Ghastly! I don't want to go there. I get out my phone and dial the receptionist’s number.

Itis 10.05. I consider that to be on time.

It’s one ofthose dingy old professional suites... narrow hallways, small rooms, mostlypainted grey white.

“Have myrecords been sent from my dentist?”

“No.”

Of coursenot. “Should I reschedule then?”

“No thatwon’t be necessary.”

I don't want to waste my time. “But he willneed the x-rays to see the problem, clearly. Surely?” I'm still not at all certain that jumping the periodontist ship, so to speak, off my own bat is a wise idea.

“I’ll calland see if we can have them sent over electronically.”

"I see."

Ifill out the new patient form… less than convinced. The only question I give ananswer to other than “no” is the smoking question. I write that I am an exsmoker.

I’m usheredin to see the periodontist. He is older than I expect, grey-haired, althoughthat can happen to a twenty something, seemingly not far off retirement. Helooks like a paedophile, although doesn't everyone 2nd person now a days. Around every corner, hey?

He glancesat the new patient form. His first question is when I gave up smoking.

“Please don’t tell me it was yesterday?”

Wow,perceptive. “In the last few years, I have essentially given up, although Ihave smoked on and off.” Last month.

“Areyou going to tell me you were a 40 a day smoker.”

Direct,I like that. “Um, no, I don’t think it ever quite got to those levels, 20, orso, maybe… but I was an enthusiastic smoker.”

Helaughed. “I’ve never heard it quite put like that before.”

Mydentist's receptionist emailed my records but forgot to attach the information. Every other person is one, of course, a dope, we know that. He checked mygums, while we waited for the information to be resent.
I have evidence of periodontal disease. And diseased gums lead to a greater incidence of heart attack and stroke in people with diseased gums, especially if left unchecked. And something about inheriting gum disease, or the predetermination for it, from our parents in the first, however many, months of life after conception, or something. I didn't quite get the finer meaning of these points other than I had it and I needed to have it treated.

“Youhaven’t given up smoking for too long, there is evidence on your teeth ofrecent smoking.”

“Oh…um.”

Hesaid my tooth was savable. “Of course, it depends if you get in that seat whenI tell you to.”

“Oh,I will.”

“And if youturn out to be a non-smoker, that would help a great deal, of course.”

He remindsme of my next door neighbour, Jackson. It is a little disconcerting.

“I’ve stopped smoking cigarettes pretty much, it’sjust been joints lately, over the last few months.”

“Don’tput tobacco in them.” He smiles.

Iwas a bit taken aback, I didn’t expect him to say that. “Well, it’s difficultwhen I have friends who roll the joints with tobacco.”

“I’ll needto see you every four months to start with. Then I will be able to assess howoften I will need to see you after that. Okay?”

"Okay."

"Anyother questions?"

“No, thatsounds fine.”

“It will be an on going maintenance situation, though.Don’t think there is any kind of quick fix.”

Ihead out into Collins Street. I go to the pharmacist and get brushes to cleanbetween my teeth.

Thesun is now shining, I head towards home. My stomach is still in a knot. I’mstill stressing, I can feel it.

In mystreet, there is water lying in pools in the gutters from the rain this morning. The gutter is blocked, next to the wheel of a car, with an oldnewspaper and an accumulation of leaves. I move the blockage with the spikyend of my umbrella and the large pool of water starts to run down the streettowards the big drain. I find it strangely satisfying. Another blockage dams itup a bit further along the street, so I walk back down the footpath and unblockthat with the end of my umbrella, as well, and the large volume of water startsto move again. There are several more blockages before the drain further downthe street and I unblock them too. I head down to the drain itself and clearaway the build up of leaves at the entrance to the drain and the water makes agurgling and splashing sound as it falls freely into the large grated cavity. Iclear away the build up of leaves on the other side of the large square drainand water splashes into it noisily. Not since I was a kid with sticks in therain have I played dam busters in the gutter, I feel like I have achievedsomething.

I think about folding paper into boats.

Rusty Brain

2012-01-10T11:30:00.000+11:00

I went and did some work for my best friend Jill. I was setting up a spreadsheet of costs she had incurred in the last marketing campaign she's been working on. OMG! Talk about a rusty brain! I've nearly forgotten entirely how to use Excel. I've been using a Mac for the last six months and, of course, she had two PC laptops, one which was running old versions of Excel and one that was running new versions of Excel, so I had to think twice how each version of the application worked. AH!

Then driving home at midnight, I kind of thought that all of that, all of what I just did, is something like the reason I don't want to work. Who cares about your quotes and your orders and your spreadsheets, how did I settle for such a mundane job as figures and spread sheets in the first place? There must be something more interesting, more engaging, more creative that doing that for the rest of my life. How did I settle for some boring 9 to 5 ' er?

Oh course, I have just sat on my arse for the past seven months and have pissed away the opportunity to do something else. I've done nothing... and loved it. I say it is an emotional reaction to being sacked.

But look at what I could have done?

Can I have that time back now? Please?

Bugger it!

Is 11am too early for a wine?

I read that the Hyacinth Macaw is more monogamous that human beings? What exactly does that mean, do you think? One slutty bird?

2012-01-10T02:18:00.000+11:00

2012-01-08T23:50:00.000+11:00

Big fat lazy arse

2012-01-08T23:48:00.002+11:00

And it rained all night as if for lovers separated.
I watched Atonement until 3am. So sad. It seemed some how fitting as I lay in my bed alone.
The rain was still falling as I fell asleep, closer to 4am.

I woke up to the sound of the rain falling still and the feeling of a cool breeze blowing in through my balcony doors over me, latish, 10'ish.

I took my breakfast back to bed.

I fell back to sleep until early afternoon, like I am the laziest person in the world, or I had been bitten by a tsetse fly, or had been pumped with valium, relaxed, stretched languorously across my bed… as I watched "Britain from Above", a program all about movement in and around Britain’s roads, rivers, trains, power stations everything really. Very interesting, despite me sleeping through the second half... of the program and the day.

Mid afternoon, Shane headed out. I suddenly felt hungry, as if his movement had stirred my gastric juices, and I think Kebab. You know, something easy. Then I think something healthier, if I am not moving from my bed for two days, after all, so I head to the supermarket for roast chicken and salad.
I was soooooooo tempted to drive to the supermarket, but I just couldn’t lie in bed for two days and then drive 300 metres to the supermarket.

I watched Grand Designs, they built a house out of old tyres in the south of France and it turns out really stylish, really nice.
Then I watched Bran Nue Dae, which I’ve never seen before, and which I think is really cool. I think it is the first time that I have seen Aboriginal content be funny and not take the Aboriginal issue so seriously.
Then there is The Italian Job, the original, of course, one of my favourite movies. That spectacular scenery, the beautiful cities, those stylish cars, the action scenes, the old fashioned suspense.

I called Anthony late, he says he has had another day where things have not gone right. The ongoing saga of continuing life with broken arms. Shopping, caring for his mum.
I tell him I have spent the last two days in bed. “I’m sure a therapist would say I’m depressed, but I’m sure I’m not.” We both laugh.

I’ve been so lazy fucken fat arse immobile that my back begins to hurt. Damn! Why can’t you be a lazy arse with no consequences, that’s what I ask?

“I worry about you and your depression,” says Anthony with a laugh.

Santo messages me to say that the whole family has descended on the house for the wedding tomorrow and it is noisy and loud and there are so many people his head is spinning. He says that I should have gone with him, to share in his agony. That's what boyfriends are for, after all.

2012-01-07T23:50:00.002+11:00

The day in bed

2012-01-07T23:45:00.001+11:00

I wake at 7am, in the cool dewy morning air. I fall back to sleep and wake some time around 10am. I make coffee and prepare muesli and return to my room.
I, essentially, spent the day in bed. Lovely is was too… nothing I like more, locked away out of sight, with my balcony doors open letting in fresh air and a hint of the world going on around me.

I read about Meryl Streep’s Iron Lady and about Margaret Thatcher. I don’t know, it seems too much, caricature, reminds me of Faye Dunnaway in Mommie Dearest, although I’m sure I am probably wrong about that. Of course, I've only seen the trailer on the net.
I read about a new Marilyn Munroe book being released. Some Australian photographer who lived in LA for years and who photographed Marilyn for a good part of that time. I think about her and decide to watch some of her movies. I've never been so fascinated by her in the passed, but more lately I have.

I head to the video shop to get Marilyn Munroe docos and movies. JFK’s women, The Story of Roman Polanski, Who Killed the Electric car, A few good men and Atonement… I’d like to watch James McAvoy masturbating.

I finish reading and watch the rest of A Few Good Men.

It has been hot all day… but it begins to rain and then it is muggy and wet… warm, but cooling with the pitter pat of rain on everything.

Santo texts, he is fine, everything is okay. He is waiting to go through Indonesian customs… with his 6 kilo over the limit hand luggage and his two laptops.

Sebastian comes over to watch TV with Shane. I don’t feel like watching TV with them. I don’t want to watch Captain America, which is what they are watching. Or Sherlock Holmes, which they watch first.

I stay in my room watching my dvds. It’s lovely. I’m so comfortable. Or is that too comfortable as Santo says? I’m happy watching Who Killed the Electric car.

Mark calls, he and Luke are loving it up there. He says the two of them often look at each other and say, “We really live here.” I love Skype.

Anthony has called twice. I call him back. He has had his landlord there who wants him to clean the garden. The landlord seems unsympathetic with Anthony’s two broken shoulders. It upsets him.

Santo texts again, he is on a train with his sisters and his nephews approaching his home town. His arse is sore from all the sitting whilst travelling, planes, trains, etc. I suggest that perhaps I could rub it for him, he says I could.

Anthony calls again. He has had a glass of white wine, for the pain of course, and he is suggesting that I do the same. I head downstairs and get myself one.

Sebastian makes a fantastic prawn salad, late, around 10pm.

My baby headed overseas, tonight

2012-01-06T23:50:00.025+11:00

I wake up at 6am having had lots of dreams. It’s amazing when I quit pot how active my brain is at night. All my weird and wonderful dreams that I always used to have, have all come back to me. I watch Santo sleeping, he looks lovely when he is sleeping.
I fall back to sleep. Sometime later I wake up again and Santo’s eyes open and he says good morning. I say, “Good morning lovely.”
He replies,” So I am lovely now?”
Oh yes, that's right. I tell him that he isn’t lovely and that he is selfish.
He says he thinks he was incredibly clever and very funny.
I tell him again he was not funny.
We cuddle. He kisses me. He convinces me that he is right.

We get up and brew coffee and eat muesli. Ha ha, of course.
I watch the old "Homosexual Warning Video" on YouTube as I eat my breakfast. It’s hysterical. Actually, if it wasn’t so homophobic it would be very funny. Oh, it’s funny now.
Young Jimmy is just a cock tease and clearly wants it from the outset, that is clear.

We head to the city to shop. We go to Harvey Norman and buy a foot spa and a toaster. Santo is taking the foot spa home for his mother. I don't know why I didn't buy the toaster yesterday.
The toaster is for me, as the one I have now, I think, has become dangerous. Sometimes it just burns the toast for no apparent reason. I reckon one day, if not watched, it could possibly burn the toast to flames and since that is the way my mum set her kitchen alight, I’m not taking the chance.

We walk home up Little Lonsdale Street... my favourite route home, as I like the architecture.

We eat Japanese in Brunswick, Lygon Street, bento boxes. It’s nice, but three times more expensive than the bento boxes in Carlton. Our last dinner together, our last before we don't see each other for three weeks.
We head to Santo’s and he packs his bags as I watch, A Few Good Men.
James, Santo’s housemate, is not around, which is good. He doesn’t like me and I don’t like him. Actually, I only don’t like him because he’s grumpy and unfriendly.
I drive Santo to the airport, we leave before A Few Good Men finishes.

My baby heads overseas. I drop him off at the departures. He hugs me, I hug him, by the side of the road.
"What am I going to do without you?"
"Get a job," he replies dryly. He smiles and squeezes me tightly.
Then I had to move my car, I am being directed. But, but, but? And I wave him good bye. He blows me kisses. Then he is waving in my passenger window and then in the back window and then he is walking through the airport doors smiling and still waving... and I am driving down the road way, trying to look back art him and then I am turning away from the airport and the freeway is in front of me.

He's gone for three weeks. He's gone home for his sister's wedding. I should have gone with him. I wish I'd gone with him.

I come home and watch the end of Harry Potter with Shane in the dark. He wants a boyfriend and he hates being on his own and I suspect he is feeling depressed and hiding away from the world in the dark.

We watch the first episode of The Black Adder… all on Apple TV.

I text Santo still waiting at Melbourne Airport to board his plane. Waiting, waiting. Still, he enjoys a shop, so I am sure he is taking advantage of the duty free… of course.

Shopping

2012-01-05T23:49:00.004+11:00

Santo and I go shopping in the city. All we have is coffee before we leave, no breakfast, nothing to eat. We want to get moving, you know, things to do. We chat to Mark for a short moment before we leave on Skype. I love Skype. We are hungry by the time we walk out the door. Grrrr!

It is another beautiful day in Melbourne, sunny and warm, blue skies and crystal clear street vistas.

We walk to the city – up Brunswick Street, down Gisbourne, down Albert through the Parliamentary Reserve and down Bourke Street. There are plenty of people around, being that week of the year where everybody, well practically everybody, has time off. It must be the most non-worked week of the year? Surely? Out dated Christian holidays withstanding.
We go to the White Tomato for a Korean breakfast. I am really thirsty, or is that hungry, by the time we are seated and are ordering? I order a Fanta, it was the first thing that catches my eye in the drinks fridge. You know what they say about orange and hunger? Santo disapproves. I practically disapprove myself, I rarely drink soft drink, but I need a little something, my sugar levels are dropping, I can feel the shakes coming on. We both have spicy pork.
Santo is so lovely... have I said that lately?

We head up Russell Street to QV and to Santo’s favourite shop Harvey Norman. I look at toasters, Santo looks at headphones. He tries to get a discount, but the shop assistant informs him that the head phones were just recently discounted and that she couldn’t now discount them because of that.

Santo has his hair cut at 2.30 and I buy a coffee and a newspaper and wait for him... right outside the salon, like a possessive boyfriend. Ha ha. No, I do and that is what it looks like. I wonder what it must feel like to be that? Tiring, I imagine.

We head to the phone shops next where Santo wants to buy a sim card cutter. What the hell is that? Apparently, iPhones have smaller sim cards. The phones shops are busy, we have to wait for a while. People and phones, what is with that?

My mouth is dry again and I want a slurpee, but Santo just thinks this is piggy. But I want one. I had one the other day, practically, for the first time ever and I have got the taste for them. Mmm mmm mmm. I’m sure it is just a phase and I wont even think about them again soon, but I want one now. That strange painful freezing sensation is oddly appealing.

We go to Swarovski in the Bourke Street Mall, looking for gifts for Santo to give to his sisters for his return visit. We head to Myer to buy them as Swarovski has a shop in Myer and Santo has his $500 gift card to use. Santo thinks he is SO clever that he bought a $500 gift card and got $550 worth of value. Clever, clever boy. He buys necklaces for his sisters and his sister in law. It's is really generous and I am touched for them, with them, I wouldn't do the same.
I suggest to him that he is not buying anything for his mum. He shrugs and says she is hard to please. But, we head to the bag department to look for a bag for her.

Then we head to the men’s department to buy him some work shoes for Santo, his new job requires more than casual clothes. He buys shoes after trying on many pairs and nearly doing my head in by not keeping track of the ones he is interested in. He wants me to find pairs for him to try on, but when he points at a huge pile of them in front of him with a shrug as to which ones he liked, I get snarly.

I decide I want some new shoes too, however, I have on my old Dunlop Volleys without socks. Santo lends me his socks, which he isn’t so happy about. It is a hot day. They smell just a bit when I take them off. Santo says they smell fucking awful and insists that I move them away from him. I'm (mock) insulted. He moves away from me when I haven't moved. He says he is embarrassed, that I am stinking out the whole department. "You stink!" he says.
I buy new the shoes. Santo holds his hand out for the socks, his other hand holding his nostrils shut. His eyes look hysterical.
When we leave Myer he makes me sit down and change shoes. He insists I throw my old shoes into the bin in the mall... with an outstretched arm and extended finger.
He can be a little bossy.

My feet hurt with my new shoes without socks as we walk up the mall. I don’t feel like walking home risking blisters, so I suggest we catch a tram.
"Really?" says Santo.

We have just crossed over Russell Street and I want another slurp. Santo looks at me as though I am nuts.
"But I'm thirsty. Come on sweetie, just one more slurpee." I want to get off the tram again to get a slurpee. Santo is not happy about the idea. "We'll be home soon."
Bugger it! I decide to get off the tram, forcing him to get off too. He'll follow, of course he will. That's what boyfriends do.
I get lemon, lime and bitters. Bourke Street is completely empty of trams, when we look back down the hill to the city, me with the large cup in my hand. So we sit at the tram stop and drink the slurpee. The sun is lovely; nothing is as nice as the late afternoon sun. The bags are around our feet. We smile at each other, kind of sneaking grins.

We make garlic bread from the remains of the old bread stick, dried up as it is, from just a few days ago when we made garlic bread last. It is actually like rock and only just works. It has softened up on in the areas where we layered on the garlicky butter. It's a little gross, maybe we're a little gross. Fat boyfriends are happy boyfriends... after all.
We eat the last of the vegi/chicken soup in the freezer.
We watch teev.

We head to bed, where I want to watch The Late Show, but Santo is incredibly naughty, wanting to go to sleep. "I'm exhausted!" He insists on the TV being switched off, like he does when he has to get up for work in the morning, even though he doesn’t have to get up for any reason tomorrow morning.
"You don't have to get up tomorrow."
"I don't care, I'm exhausted."
He is so selfish, and wants his way. When I wont let him, he proceeds to talk all the way through the program, non stop, over the top of Dave, very time Dave speaks, it is very annoying. Then he gets his pillow and puts it on the other side of me and lies on top of me. He laughs and thinks he is very funny… when he is NOT funny AT all. Nor is he clever! I give in and turn the TV off, I'm cross with him being sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo (fucking) selfish!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I don't speak any more. I don't wish him sweet dreams. I don't hug and kiss him.

His little finger quietly slips around my little finger, not long after.

Guadalupe and Project Runway

2012-01-04T23:56:00.009+11:00

I so love my balcony doors, when it is hot, I sleep with them open and the cool of the evening always cools my room by morning. When I got up and pissed at 7am, while the rest of the house was hot and stuffy, my room was cool, as I pulled the doona over me and slept until 10.30.

I had a shower, as soon as I got up, and I swayed under the fresh jet stream of water, still bleary-eyed and half asleep, so much so that I could feel the effort it took to keep myself upright under the water.
It is the equivalent of a newly born puppy before its eyes have opened.

Guadalupe arrived, not long after I got up. So I got the hell out there, headed out for breakfast. Everything seems to be closed for the Xmas holidays though and I ended up at the old post office in Smith Street. The newspaper and muesli and fruit and coffee. People coming and going. It's nice to leave the house, really. Some where between the first and second coffee, I looked up and Shane was sitting at the next table.
“Well hello.”
Laugh. Laugh. How funny. Fancy that. Ha ha.
"Hello."
"How long have you been there?"
"I didn't notice you when I walked in."
"I've been lost in the newspaper."
"I was in need of food."

Shane got up and left, saying something about having to pay Guadalupe, or having to get the money, or something. Then he was back what seems like moments later. "That'll shut the bitch up." He ordered more coffee and more food and we read our respective newspapers and commented on the news items.

Then Shane looked at his iPad and said he had just got a date and had to go, and he packed up his stuff and was gone for a second time.

Then, I went to the French bakery and bought a cheese and caramel tart. I saw a huge fat old lady struggling with her steps as she walked towards me, she had on a thin cotton t-shirt and no bra, so it looked like she had two meat loaves dangling on strings on either side of her chest below her shirt.

It’s cooler today, with a lovely breeze blowing. I bought a Dorothy Hewett novel from the second hand bookshop on my way home. I sat outside on the wicker chair on my veranda and read until Guadalupe left. Then she was saying good by Christian and I was saying good bye too and I made coffee and peanut butter toast and I ate the tart and read some more, lying on the couch with the window at my shoulder.

Santo came over after work, he’s now on holidays. He wanted to do more tina.
"I'm on holidays."
I had to put my foot down.
"I want at least a mill of serotonin in my brain to make it effective."
"It'll be Easter then," said Santo. "As I can't do it on a normal weekend and go back to work Monday."
"I'm quiet pleased about that, actually."
"I think I miss her already."
Sharp intake of breath. "I'm not pleased about that."

David came over for Project Runway. It was the last few episodes, the finale, so we were glued to the end. My favourite won... um... er... that could quite possibly be the gayest thing I have ever said.

We had fish and chips from Hooked. Santo and I felt sick afterwards. Shane said the next day that he felt sick too. I don’t know how David felt, but as we know he can eat anything and still feel just fine. I text the fat slag, he said he was fine. Of course, he can inhale the contents of a fridge and sleep for 8 hours soundly.

Sebastian didn't come over and cook dinner. I don't know why and I didn't care enough to ask.

I stared at YouTube all day

2012-01-03T23:36:00.006+11:00

Santo went to work, he looked kind of nice, out of my bleary eyes, in his blue striped shirt, as he smiled and blew kisses from the door.
“Bye darling, have a nice day at the salt mines,” I said as I snuggled down into the bed and pulled the doona over me.

I slept until mid morning. Lovely! She I give up on the myth of claiming that I am up at 9am? No, I am, usually.
I stood in the kitchen and stared out the back windows into the garden as the coffee brewed. I felt oh so bored, really, wasting my life on my computer and I wasn’t looking forward to doing it again today… but I did… of course.
I felt okay, all things considered. I should be doing more though, good things, productive things, creative things.
I spent the day on YouTube looking at a collection of American concept cars from the 1950s. You know, as you do. What else does one do the day after? I watched a video of them electrifying a 1955 roadster prototype, very interesting. It had never been powered before.
I love YouTube.

It was hot outside, forty degrees. A day to keep the windows shut and the curtains drawn and try to ignore the temperature that was raging beyond.

Sebastian came over in the evening and he and Shane went out some where for dinner. Sebastian looked at the bowls of plums on the kitchen bench, picking them up and asking if they were ready to eat, biting into one and announcing that they were and generally appearing to be knowledgeable about plums, as he likes to, if you know what I mean. Food means relevance to our Sebastian.
I don’t know if they invited me out for dinner, or not, but I didn’t really care.

We watched TV mindlessly. The day slipped away. We lay in each other's arms

2012-01-02T23:33:00.016+11:00

We were awake at 9am. Day is night and night is day. It was hot, it is going to be pushing 40 degrees today.
I was fucked. As Santo watched porn and tried to cum, I fell asleep, stopped. I had to stop, just had to stop, stop. The glorious feeling of stillness. The bed clothes were damp, our skin sweat drenched, we lay back as the world whirled in different directions in front of out eyes. Our brains buzzed, zzzzz, dull, still, errrrrrr.

We got up hungry and had pizza delivered. A family pizza with the lot. We can eat, things taste good, I don't know why? It’s strange, but I’m not questioning it. Food makes me feel better, makes us both feel better. Fuel, energy, sustenance, power.

We watched TV mindlessly. The day slipped away.

Santo went to bed at 9pm’ish, he had to go to work in the morning. He wanted me to go to bed with him, but it was just too hot and I wasn’t sure I was going to sleep, so I stayed up in the dim light of the lounge with Shane and watched more TV until midnight.
When I slid into bed, Santo stirred just a little, just a small still voice confirming that it was me and that everything was alright with the world, with our world.
Then, I’m sure, he snored, as he does. I fall asleep to the sound of the vibrations in his nose. It never keeps me awake, I am a heavy sleeper after all, but he never keeps me awake even if he falls asleep first. Sometimes I lay awake momentarily and wonder at those people who say their partners have ruined their sleeping life and wonder if they are just babies, or selfish, or not quite as in love as they would like the rest of the world to believe that they are? I don’t know what the answer is, but Santo snores like the proverbial chain saw and if it affects me, at all, it gives me something to listen to as I drift off to sleep.

2012-01-01T23:59:00.028+11:00

New Year New Year New Year New Year New Year New Year New Year New Year New Year New Year

New Years Day

2012-01-01T23:16:00.005+11:00

It seemed to take forever for the fireworks to explode into action. Wesley had bought glow sticks, which he distributed liberally. The dogs had glow sticks attached to their collars and they seemed to dart all over the place, they seemed to be everywhere.

Then the sparkles twinkled and the fizzes fizzled and the promise of colour and movement lighting up the sky commenced, but that was all it ever really was, a promise. Nothing. Nothing much happened. A fizz, a whizz, a sparkle of colour, hissed and fizzed and then it all seemed to be over. There seemed to be no great rockets, or flashes of brilliance lighting the skies above us. No whirls, or shooting stars, or explosions of colour. It was all just a little disappointing.

I think I saw the gold at the beginning?

The expectation of something great never gets past expectation. It seems odd, I know. Maybe, they were all geared towards Docklands, centred around Victoria Harbour, which would make sense, as we were across the other side of the city to that.

We head off to Kensington to get our “party favours.” My stomach is nervous. Santo is smiling. We scheme to take the back streets, but of course, it is a drive straight through the inner suburbs. We avoid the more major roads. The roads aren’t busy and we figure that people wont be heading out of the city quite so soon, even if I heard that the busiest train of the night is the first one after midnight.

We arrived back from Sebastian’s around 2am, or thereabouts. We had tried to take most of the back streets on our way. We didn’t see any coppers, although I may have seen a police car out of the corner of my eye, some where in the distance.

We smoked on the crack pipe and watched the end of the gladiator movie, The Eagle. Then we all retired, that quiet retirement to the solitude of each of our rooms, quietly continuing the day behind closed doors.
Of course, Santo and I had the pipe out again straight away and were smoking it in the quiet of my bed, balcony doors open letting in the fresh air.

From there we pulled out the porn. The rest of the day disappears on a mélange of dirty thoughts and requited desire. Time for mind expansion and dirty thoughts, filthy dreams and the exquisite nature of chemical enhancement. Fucken fabulous, there is nothing like it, the free, the bold and the sparkling decadence.

I hear Shane leave the house around 6am. I’m thinking he has been online with somebody.
I hear him come back some time later.

Whoosh, whir, zip, zoom, gone. Zzzzzzzzz. Ha ha, he he, ho ho.

We got out of bed around 11pm. We hadn’t eaten for twelve hours, not since Sunday lunch, which would, of course, make it longer than twelve hours. I felt… I felt… I felt… oh, oo, er, um?
I ate muesli with stewed plums, Santo ate noodles.

Shane has some guy in the lounge, dressed only in a towel. Both Santo and I think he is a bit, oh, shall we say, short of a full picnic, but that could have been us, certainly. Or, it could have been him temporarily affected by something, who knows.
Shane didn’t go to the day party. He said later that he was never that keen to start with.

2011-12-31T23:56:00.001+11:00

Last day of the year... party!

2011-12-31T23:45:00.000+11:00

I was awake at 8am, it was hot, and I couldn’t sleep. My bedroom faces east, so it can be warm in the mornings, warmer than the rest of the house. I pull on shorts quietly to leave Santo sleeping. I quite like that first blush of the day to myself, and Santo doesn’t get to sleep in very often, so I tip toe out of the room with my laptop under my arm.
All I need is coffee, and it is gurgling away in the coffee pot not long after.
But, I’m feeling cold, a little later, in what I am wearing, so I go to get tracksuit pants and a hoodie. I wake Santo up and he gets up, I tell him to stay in bed, but he doesn’t.

Santo makes a lovely toasted sandwich for breakfast. Fried egg, bacon, fresh lettuce, tomato, mayo… he is sick of muesli. It was lovely. Of course, the strong coffee is not negotiable, what would the morning be without it?

Santo gets bored and decides to clean the back yard. I guess it is the anticipation? The not knowing? The uncertainty? About our celebrations tonight. He ropes me into sweeping. I resist initially, but then he is doing it and it is my back yard and I am sitting on my fat arse in the lounge on my computer reading e-news, wasting my time, while I am watching him. It is my back yard and he guilts me into it.

As son as he gets me “doing something” as he says, he’s headed off to the shower, I am supposed to be following. No, I am following, of course. Sweeping finished.

Maybe, I’m just too boring for a relationship? Maybe? Maybe he deserves someone more exciting than me. A “do’er”, an “achiever”? Maybe, he needs someone with more get up and go, than I have. Maybe, I’m just too lazy to keep a boyfriend interested in me. Maybe?

Maybe?
I feel lazy today. I feel a bit lost in it all. What the hell am I going to do with my life? What the hell? Where am I headed? It is the day to think about such things, hey? As the year ebbs away.
Nothing seems appealing. Nothing. Nothing at all.
I better go and have a shower, before he waggles his finger at me and tells me I’m a lazy arse… yet again.

It’s midday. It is another glorious sunny day.
We walk to the sex shop to get supplies. Lube, toys, and Santo’s favourite amyl.
The streets are xmas holidays quiet. The sun is hot.

Shane is organising crystal. We have decided that we want 3 points, or four points, for New Year. Santo was keen, so am I, so I organised it.
It turns out that the regular source is not “with stock” so, unbeknownst to me, Shane was sourcing it from somebody Sebastian knows, which means it is Sebastian who is getting it and means on who we have to rely.
Sebastian turns up mid afternoon to collect the money.
Now, you see, the problem we may have is that Sebastian et al are going to the day party, Nurse Betty, new years day and so may not, in fact, need the drugs until then, which may mean that Sebastian may not deliver the drugs until tomorrow, new years day, I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned up at the party with it... which is no good for us.

Santo looks at me with his disappointed face. I commiserate back with mine. We look at each other at various times and pull happy faces, or sad faces, depending on what drug news we are being fed.
Sebastian is no answering… sad face.
Sebastian is answering… happy face.
Sebastian hasn’t got the drugs… sad face.
Sebastian says he will have the drugs soon… happy face.
Is Sebastian going to make it back with the drugs tonight… happy face/sad face.

Shane wanted to watch The Jewell of the Nile, it was a favourite of his when he was a child. It just seemed like 80’s dross to me.
We watched The Eagle. Shane promises that it is good and homoerotic. I’m less than impressed when a short time later I realise it is a gladiator movie.
Santo and I take one of our e’s for the TV show. Well, it is New Years Eve, after all. Hip hip hurrah! Let’s party! I have to say, I am a little miffed when I realise I am stuck watching this TV show.

Apparently, a bunch of our friends are heading up to Studley Park for the midnight show and we can tag along if we like.

So nothing to do until just about midnight.

Sebastian called just before we left for the boulevard and the fireworks to say that the eagle had landed. Happy face. So, it was decided that we would go to Sebastian’s, after the fireworks, to collect the shipment. I would drive, as Shane had been drinking. Nervous face.

At that news, Shane gets out his pipe and passes it around… just in case I was worried about driving, you understand.

We head up to Studley Park for midnight, with Shane, Wesley, (the two dogs, with fluro glow sticks) D (and Jamie, apparently, some guy who is interested in D) Lesley, Nick (Simon-Morris) I am buzzing just a little behind the wheel, I have to admit.
I know, I know, ooooo, bad, bad me. Straight to hell! It’s not like alcohol, it’s really not.
It was parking room only on the boulevard, there were people everywhere and cars parked all the way along the side of the road. It seemed like an auto meet of some sort, judging by the car lights and the opening and closing of doors and people alighting, everybody heading somewhere, to experience the “witching” hour.

We take our positions on the golf course on the higher side of the boulevard. There is a sweeping view of the city beyond the trees, framed by the flora. It’s lovely, really. People mill about in their groups dotted about, in the dark in the warmth of the night.

Apparently, the fireworks will turn the city gold upon the strike of midnight. It sounds grand.

D brings coffee in a thermos, he offers it around as we wait for the specified hour. We sit huddled in a group, in an arc, in a semi circular pattern, as the others sharing our expanse of hill do to.

I wake again at 11.11, the second morning in a row

2011-12-30T12:55:00.005+11:00

Santo woke me at 8am to say good-bye. I feel very relaxed, very well rested, very nice. I took the valium last night when Santo was offering it and I slept like a baby, like the proverbial log.
Santo has discovered a liking for them. I wonder quietly if that is my fault?

I ask Santo to close the balcony doors before he leaves, but he says Missy is out there. Oh, okay, she loves it out there. I don't know what it is with all of my cats and that balcony? But the morning is winding up and the noises are building up too. So, not long after, I get up, throw Missy off the balcony close the doors have a piss and go back to bed.

I wake again at 11.11, the second morning that I wake at this time.

I wash the doona cover after how long? I dare not think about it. How long could it be. I think back that I bought the newest doona cover when I first stopped work, which was June. I decide not to think about it any more.

It is another glorious sunny day. I decide I must do things. Go to the shops get nasal spray, get pills, go for a bike ride, do all of those things I have been putting off.
It is now 12.30. Here I go, computer off. I must not sit in front of my computer all day, like I do, it can’t be good for me. It causes me not to notice the day slipping away, my life slipping away. Here I go, wish me luck.
I’m contemplating the beach. Ha, ha! But, I could ride my bike there. Easy.
The scream inside my head saying Do Something is getting louder! Louder! LOUDER!

2011-12-30T12:23:00.000+11:00

I began to feel housebound

2011-12-29T23:51:00.005+11:00

I began to feel housebound, quite seriously, so I headed out to the bakery for a hot pork roll, all the time in hope, please, please, please, pretty much knowing they would probably be closed.
Closed. Closed. Closed. Closed. Every bakery in Smith Street is closed. But no, the very last one, the one just before all hope lost, is open. There is not much left but what do I expect when I head down at 15.30. It is a glorious afternoon.

I’ve got to do something? I have to admit the nightmares are getting worse. I keep dreaming about loosing everything. But, I’ve still got 50K in the bank, so why am I worried? That should last a while. Sure, I’m frittering away my life’s savings, but my mum turns ninety-one next birthday, and she has Alzheimer’s, she can’t go on for that much longer, now can she?
I don’t want to work.

I met Nicholas down the street. He walked out of the crowd like an Italian model. “Come home for a coffee.” I was just beginning to check him out, when I realised who it was. He is still his amazingly beautiful self. That Nicholas, he lay back on the couch and laughed, in his dark blue t-shirt and dark blue jeans and looked a bit like a photo shoot, momentarily.

We drank coffee, I smoked bongs, two in a row. Tim went out for wine. He’s good. I explained what work did to me and he said, they can’t do that. They just can’t.

I walked back up George Street in the bright, warm sunshine. What am I going to do then? What? I’ve got to do something? My head is thick, my eyelids heavy. I drag my feet, but in an altogether pleasant way.

Santo comes over after work.
We go to the supermarket to buy ingredients for Risotto, using the left over roast chicken from last night. I've also got home made chicken stock in the freezer. Lovely.

We head to bed early and watch TV. But, pretty soon, comes Santo's nightly call. “Switch it off.” He now grabs the remote control and has the TV turned off before I even realise.
Darkness.

2011-12-29T17:17:00.001+11:00

Back to reality

2011-12-29T09:33:00.009+11:00

Okay... goodness! where was I?

Santo and I did the old cliche party behaviour over the Xmas period. All the drugs we bought for New Year arrived Xmas eve. And Shane went away to the country leaving Santo and I home alone.
"Now remember, they are for new year."

So? What are two boys to do when they are home alone for Xmas with a big bag of crystal meth? What indeed?

And here I am four days after Xmas only just beginning to feel human again.

"Yes, Shane we smoked the whole 6 points."
Personally, I don't think that is exactly excessive. D came over Monday saying something about it being a lot, but then said he had 3 points to do for himself... so, I'm not really sure where the "excess" comes into it.

It's funny, Santo and I were discussing people who do a three day, five day binge, who don't sleep for a week, we still don't know how they do it. Forty eight hours is about my maximum, after that I just feel wrecked, completely fucked. I have to sit down quietly and be very still, very gentle on myself. Shaking head, I don't know how people do it.
And as far as even wanting to get up and do it all again on Monday, or Tuesday, no way. Not interested. I'm done. I just don't know how people become crystal addicts? I just don't. And of course they do, lots of them. It's still a mystery to me. I just can't break through the sick and tired stage to even contemplate doing it again. I can't even do it weekend after weekend, just the thought makes me feel queasy.

I've had to be very quiet and low key all week, if I have any chance of partying New Year's Eve.

The weather has been glorious.

Santo had to go back to work, yesterday. I didn't, of course.

2011-12-25T23:55:00.004+11:00

Woo-hoo

2011-12-25T23:45:00.032+11:00

2pm. I’m a little bit ruined. I feel kind of sick… a bit plain… my head is spinning. Movement is tough, my head is aching, my body is aching too.
I was supposed to go and see mum, but I didn’t. Poor mum. Let's hope the Alzheimer's kicks in big time.
My sister asked me to call the real estate agent, but I haven’t. Really? Now? She is going to be pissed off.
I made muesli. Later I made scrambled eggs

Later on, we look at the drug bag and say, “We haven’t quite done half, really.”
“When are we going to take the rest of it?” I ask. We’re not going to a New Year’s Eve party, after all.
"We can have a bit more," says Santo holding the small plastic bag between his fingers, running his tongue over it.
"Let's do it now," I say. Who cares about what happens in the future.
"This weekend is as good as next."

And just as we inhale the remaining powder, D messages to say he has the four pills we got for New Year. "There you go," I say.
"There you go," says Santo.
Sorted.

We both admit that the thought makes us feel like throwing up right now, but we both think we'll have that sorted by Saturday.

We don't sleep for forty eight hours.

2011-12-24T23:59:00.002+11:00

Starting the New Year Early

2011-12-24T23:44:00.014+11:00

Shane was trashed from last night. He said he got fucked stupid by a big black cock. His eyes were big, his face flushed red.

Santo and I went to Victoria Street for Thai. The Hoddle Street end. We weren’t so impressed with the size of the dishes, still, it was a lovely day for a walk.

Shane went to Kyenton to see his family. I share my last cigarette with him before he leaves. He always seems to head off there every year tweaked on meth, or some drug. Hs parents have a pretty good idea, but as all reasonable parents should think, Shane holds down a good job, and lives a good life, so why should they worry. It is what kids do now a days.

Santo and I started to smoke crystal in our new glass pipe.

The day disappears. The night drifts away. Gone. As if unseen. Slipping away like the year itself. All on a white vapour mist exhaled through nostril and mouth.
Hold it in. Hold it in. Hold it in. Big sigh. Big exhale.

Next!

2011-12-23T23:55:00.001+11:00

More Xmas shopping

2011-12-23T23:43:00.016+11:00

I was up at 10am.
I headed to the city around midday, cursing that I didn’t buy the presents yesterday. I looked and decided what I should buy people, but I didn’t buy any of them. Why? Why, I was thinking today and not yesterday, is still a mystery. Still, it would have been too easy, too organised.

I went to Melbourne Central, to see if I could have another go at buying Santo’s present.
They sent me back to the Bourke Street Mall
Then I went back to Melbourne Central… In the busy hallways of Melbourne Central Xmas shopping, I felt like I was watching a plague of locusts devouring the earth.

Shane called while I was there to say the eagle had landed. It's always someone he knows for meth, who gets the best, who only deals to a very restricted clientele.

Shane's pepper grinder was the hardest to find. I searched all the shops and then I searched again. Homewear shops in the city are very scarce on the ground, shall we say.
I met Santo at the corner of Victoria Street and Gisborne Street, he is very happy about Shane’s news.

We wrapped presents all night. Shane still laments the absence of a wrapping room. He thinks one is essential. I think he is mad.
David came over with his presents. He demanded to watch both dvds that he was given for xmas. I bought him hand sanitizer.
Shane went out for a drink late. He is still desperately looking for a boyfriend.

2011-12-22T23:54:00.003+11:00

Making some attempt at Xmas shopping

2011-12-22T23:42:00.010+11:00

Up at 9.30, just after Shane leaves. I listen to Shane crunch his car into reverse and drive off. It makes me laugh, to tell you the truth. How can someone continually crunch their car into reverse and not want to try and stop it happening?

I read e-news all morning, wondering what else I am going to do with my life. What am I going to do? I can't dissaper into the internet every day for the rest of my life.
I should be writing something? I'm so uninspired.
It is a hot, sunny day in Melbourne.

I head into the city in the afternoon to make some attempt at Xmas shopping. I leave home at 4pm.
I meet Santo, and walk him to his train, he has things to do at his house.
I sit on the GPO’s steps in the late afternoon and watch the people pass by. I sit there for hours, it is kind of nice.
I head home at 7pm. It all went so fast this year. Where is my life disappearing to?

Cooking without love

2011-12-21T23:40:00.006+11:00

I was up at 9.45.
I had things to do today, pay bills, go shopping, make a cake. Sebastian insisted that I made a cake for tonight. It’s Project Runway night. Oh really, I thought. Insisted, demanded, both I respond to so well, as a rule. I kept it very cool and matter of fact.
“It has to be gluten free, of course. Or, there has to be a gluten free option.”
I’m not sure what is up Sebastian’s nose, but I’m sure something still is. Besides, you fucker, it is you who has offered to cook for everyone.

Anthony called, before I’d made coffee, when I was still thinking about the gluten free order. My voice was still gravelly. We laughed, as we always do. He left an abusive message yesterday, then he called to say sorry, he was in pain with his second broken shoulder blade. I told him, “Lovely, you get in pain and then you abuse me.”
“I’m sorry, luv.”
I smiled to myself. I’ve got two good arms, I’m hardly in a position to be pissed off.
“What are you doing today?”
“Making a gluten free cake.”
“What did everyone do in the past?” asked Anthony. “Before gluten free became so popular?”
“Fuck knows.” All those gluten intolerant types. “Self aggrandising, self focused, attention seeking, me me me types, who buy into a condition to gather attention for themselves.”

Mark sent me a message saying pack my bags I could go to Vietnam. But, I said no to Santo about going to Indonesia, because I couldn’t afford it… now, I could hardly turn around and go to Vietnam.
Santo leave for Indonesia on January 7th.
I spoke to Mark later, he said I didn’t have to pay for the ticket, as Jane will no longer be using it, that it could be the interest on the money of mine he has had for two years.

Mark said to speak to Santo. Mark thinks Santo is sweet and he wouldn’t mind. I dunno? He so wanted me to go with him to Indonesia.

I head to the supermarket. Gordon, my next door neighbour, is there with some other old guy. I go pay my bills. I haven’t spoke to him since he suggested that I need to pay some money towards his sewer. Our sewers are connected and Gordon is on the other end of the terraces and is always having trouble with his blocking up and he thinks it is time I contributed towards the repairs.
“You are just lucky you are on the end that you are.”
Yes, but isn’t that the point?

I chat to Mark. We’re trying to sort Skype out. Ah, welcome to the 21st Century. I haven’t called by phone as I don’t want to have an enormous phone bill when we could sort Skype and not pay anything.

Later, I chat to Rachel by text. She wants to go and hide in Marshall’s Garden. I tell her about the small cottage on the property. She says that I am torturing her.

I make the cake. Hazelnut… with little love. I’ve got the TV and my lap top and I’m smsing the whole time I’m making the cake.

I watch Weeds. Season 7.
Santo arrived, before I get to the end of Weeds.
David arrived, doing his “look at me” dance in the lounge room, also before the end of Weeds. He wanted all of the attention on him... as he always does, sucks it away. Actually, he pretty much wanted all the attention on him all night... as per usual.
Sebastian and Nick arrived last. Nick’s his usual, unfriendly self. Well, when I say unfriendly, I mean surly, oh, stand offish, um, smart arse, oh, I’m not sure how to describe it. And Sebastian, well, I don’t know about him either. I’m just not sure about Sebastian any more. He seems hard-arsed and, what’s the best way to describe it, kind of pissed off, almost, unfriendly, now a days… like I did something to upset him but we are just not going to talk about it.

D comes over in the middle of proceedings and says he has a lead on pills for new year. We all order.

Email to Beck

2011-12-21T23:31:00.007+11:00

(Beck)
Well,
I've got one thing to say about high cholesterol, Fish oil. Oh, I guess that is two words. And stop eating cheese, apparently, that is the worst thing. My cholesterol is 7, but my good cholesterol is quite high, which is what fish oil promotes, which, apparently, cancels out the bad cholesterol. Which reminds me, I should take mine. (how many whichs was that?) My dad's cholesterol was something like 16 when he first had it tested and everyone was worried about him. But, he died of cancer, so go figure.
Heat is required for a blocked tear duct. And Johnston's baby shampoo, to wash your eye lids with. Oh, that actually might be a sty. I guess that is not the same thing, now is it? If it is the blocked ducts in your eyelid, which I think is different to a tear duct, what I said before applies.
I think you are right about Barb, she told me, "You know, nothing changes," when I asked her about (Name of company). But to be fair, she does say that I should come in and have coffee with her and then we can talk. However, "You know, nothing changes" is not even close to what you told me has been going on. I wonder what Christina thinks. Actually, the cyborg ice queen probably doesn't think anything, I bet that slag Karen manages to hide it from her. Although, having said that, I'm not sure how? I guess the lies have been coming thick and fast in a desperate attempt to save her Nazi concentration camp inmate style arse. But, surely, that Welcome Bitch sees the costs going through? Surely, she sees what a change there has been? But, I guess, fat and skinny have answers for it all.
I can just imagine how we are probably still getting the blame?
So, why is Liz leaving? Is it because of her sycophant, barely hidden, lesbian desires towards that Gord Whore? "Oh Renee, Renee, you are so lovely and beautiful." Her tongue shooting out of her mouth not unlike a lizard perched on a rock. Has she got any fatter or plainer?
So what has happened to Renee Bugg/Bushpig? What is she doing?
That's good news about Karen though, hopefully she will be dead soon. Do you think I am kidding... because I'm not? I'd so love to run into her... but, I guess I have been over that before, hey? So, let me say this. I hope she is in pain. I hope she is in psychological distress. I hope she is alone and miserable. I hope her life absolutely sucks shit. I hope she dies a long, slow agonising death. And while all of that is happening, I hope someone screws her over big time and her life is destroyed completely, as she hits 20 kilos and falls in a crippled, debilitated mess of puss and bile. Now, I don't think I have said that before.
I still have dreams about her. Mostly, I am punching her in the face. In the last dream, her face collapsed and my fist ended up in her slimy brain tissue and I couldn't get it out. As I waved it about, her stick like body waved about in mid air with my hand. I woke up in a start. Shocked, with my heart beating. And then I laughed and hope it was true. It was all a little maniacal.
And another baby for fat boy? Well? How about that? I can't even imagine Malcolm having a penis, let alone doing anything with it. I've always imagined his bloated, white swollen body with a tiny limp dick hanging between his legs, resembling a useless extra bit of skin. I could still imagine him to be intersex, so when he drops his pants no one can tell if he has a penis or a vagina. It would just be a mess of skin flaps and hair, the likes of which would scare small children and make grown men puke. Still, I guess, he is a nice guy away from (name of company). You know, I nearly believe that.
Mark and Luke have gone to Byron. They love it too. Mark says he has found his bliss, he is loving it, saying he can walk around, practically naked all day, the weather is so lovely. Luke says he is taking a little time to get used to the fact that he doesn't have to look after anyone any longer. Although, he was off to get a new tattoo today, so, I'm guessing, he is managing fine.
Mark's daughter is now giving him grief. You know how he sold his investment property in Northcote, which Jane lived in. Well, she is now carrying on about him buying her a house to live in. She seems to think that is what a real father would do and, apparently, that means Mark is a crap father because he isn't providing a house for her. I don't know what went wrong with his kids. She is now withdrawing the grandchild from Mark because she is unhappy with him.
Luke was funny, when he said, "At least Fen was up front with his hatred." I, actually, think that Jane is feeling abandoned by Mark moving away and she just doesn't know how to articulate it.
I feel like a pussy liking my paws, said Mark... talking about Marshall when I spoke to him today.
I'm staying in Melbourne over Xmas. It is the first year that my family aren't doing anything, as my brother is staying in Brisbane and my sister is going to Germany, actually, today.
Mum's okay. She still knows who we all are and she is quite aware of the here and now. Although, she is now having a decline physically. She has trouble walking around to the cafe, from the home, for lunch or a cup of tea, but we now have her a walker which helps.
I guess, I will have to go and see her Xmas day. I'll have to see.
christian

I'm glad I don't have children

2011-12-20T23:40:00.028+11:00

I get up make coffee and muesli. I set my computer up on the kitchen bench and proceed to read all the online news, as my coffee boils and my muesli soaks up its milk.

I read about Kim Jong il watching clips of the population of North Korea crying openly about his death. This is hysterical crying, physical shaking and grief. Bizarre, brainwashing on display, surely?
Some of the most bizarre claims in his bio are, he scored 11 holes in one when he first played golf. He doesn’t produce urine or feces. He was born on a sacred mountain, when the reality is that most likely he was born in a Russian military camp.
It is very strange. Are the people of North Korea that stupid and that simple?

I read about Molly Meldrum, who opened his eyes momentarily after the sedation for his induced coma is reduced, after his fall at home where he hit his head.
Everyone, so it would seem, love Molly. How times have changed, I think, with a great love for some old fag.

I read about Princess Bridge Station. And I looked up photos of the original station, which, of course, I think was lovely. A whole city lived and breathed this train station and now the younger generations would not even remember it.

It is a lovely, sunny day. Blue skies and a cool breeze.

Luke calls, we have a nice chat. He’s good. He says it’s lovely up north, all of their stuff has now arrive, so Mark is out mowing on his ride on.
We chat about Jeff and Raymond. They have sold their house, finally, and are looking to possibly rent for the next few months, maybe in Brisbane, until they find a home in Melbourne.
“Back in Melbourne just in time for the Melbourne winter.” The reason for moving up north in the first place. Um, Raymond, the cold hasn't changed.
Luke states what we all think, "They can keep running, but wherever they end up they will find themselves there."

We chat about Jane. Apparently, unbeknownst to Jane, she was on loudspeaker when she delivered her, as Luke put it, manipulative, delusional tirade last Saturday. Luke said it was unbelievable, he had to keep leaving the room as he was sooooo disgusted.
“I don’t need the glitz and glamour of going to Vietnam, I need you to be a proper father and buy me a house.” (Jane delivered words to this effect) Mark paid for her trip.

Hey
Yes it's all going... well, swimmingly really, and have LOTS of those in my pools of bliss, down at the river of bliss, in my blissful nakedness.
Life is, well, bliss actually, and I think I'll make a film and call it just that... BLISS ACTUALLY... don't think it will fly though... hoomans aren't too comfortable accepting bliss as they're natural state... I think because they're worried that it's gonna come to an end… so why go there...
Me... on the other hand... I intend to avoid anything that is going to bring me out of mine... selfish little cunt I am... hehheh
Hugs to you and Soo, Cri Cri... Moo

I thought about the problems that Mark is having with Jane and the up coming trip to Vietnam, which Mark and Luke are going to have to endure with the pissed off Jane and thought, oh fuck it. So, I sent the following email, really, as a joke, a joke that has a serious side. Not that I have any expectations of being invited to go to Vietnam… but, I thought I would just apply Jane style tactics and but in just for the effect. Funny me.
There is a serious side to this however, Jane is not going to cool down and be nice any time soon, certainly not before they go to Vietnam. She believes she has the god given right to be feeling badly done by. She is going to be a pissed off bitch for the entire time. She doesn’t think any where beyond herself to allow the trip to be all peace and harmony.

Hey, are you still going to take Jane to Vietnam with you? Why don't you take me instead? I can guarantee you that I won't spoil your holiday, like I am predicting that Jane will.

I’ve been thinking about Mark’s difficulty with his children today. Why is it that both of Mark’s children, essentially, have the same problems with him? As Luke said today, “At least Fen was up front with his hatred.” Why do Fen and Jane, essentially, feel the same way about Mark’s role as a father? What is the common denominator here? Where would they both get their similar views? Who had the major influence over both the children as they were growing up?

As Mark said to me recently, upon reflection, it was Mary who used to scream and yell at Fen telling him that he was no good, just like the other men in her life. She used to say that he would never amount to anything… that he’d end up in jail like his uncle. (This is probably a reasonable fear, but what came first?) Is it fair to say that while Jane wasn’t in the direct firing line, as such, she would have been watching and listening to all of this. It was Mary, after all, who went nuts and had to be locked away in a psychiatric hospital for twelve months. I know this had a detrimental affect on Fen, but what about the affect it had on Jane. In Mary’s non-coping with life, whom do you think she blamed all of her troubles on? What kind of insanity preceded her institutionalisation? Apparently, she used to behave like a mad woman, appearing practically deranged, so often.

It was Mary, after all, who came from a home that was diabolically dysfunctional… still is dysfunctional, lets face it, with the recriminations regarding Sharon claiming to have been sexually abused by Ivan (their jailbird brother) as a child. Most of the siblings don’t want to face this fact and, apparently, most of them deny that it happened, shunning Sharon in the process.

And it is Mark who I know so well, who is a lovely, caring, thoughtful, considerate person who is generous with his time, and with his children, his money as well.
The Mark I know has been nothing but generous with both his children.

So, although, I wasn’t around during the kids childhood, I have to conclude that it is Mary who is more likely than not the one who has been a bad parent.
Sure, Mark was an absent father, at times, from all accounts, but no more so than so many fathers of divorced couples.

Mary was bitter about the sale of Northcote, snubbing Mark at the open for inspections and the sale. Mary accused Mark of selling the house from under Jane, so who do you think reinforced this idea in Jane?
Well, Mary, you buy a house for Jane then.

I sent Mark an email of what I thought.

What do you mean, Cri Cri and Lee Loo?
You rand... er... rang who? She, from the bitch...er... beach, who must be obeyed?
Your missive made me laugh. Selfish cunt indeed. I don't know why you are made to feel selfish for doing the things you want to do, when everyone else does what they want to do, blame free, what's more. It actually got me thinking about all it today... why would both your children suffer from unreasonable, delusional expectations of you? Why both of them? Why? What is the common denominator here? Or should I say, who? Add to this, what you told me not so long ago about how Mary treated Fen when he was growing up. "You're no good! You'll never be any good. You'll end up in jail just like... blah, blah, blah." And really, let's face it, it was Mary who went nuts on your two children, after all. You, yourself, saw the bitterness in Mary when you were preparing Northcote for sale. So, my conclusion is, knowing you to be a generous and caring and bloody wonderful person, that you should stop thinking of yourself as a bad father and start to acknowledge the fact that Mary, on all evidence at hand, was a rotten mother.
Too strong? Do you think?
It was my reason for sending you that email about me going to Vietnam. Why would you want to take Jane to Vietnam with you when she has the hates on you? But, speaking of which, as much as I'd love to go, I don't really think I could, as I turned down the trip to Indonesia with Santo, who really wanted me to go with him, citing the fact that I couldn't afford it. I suspect he could be upset with me if I did go with you guys.
Even if I spoke to (Vietnamese friend) last night on Facebook and he was asking if I was coming with you guys to his wedding.
So, there you go. Be happy and love what you are doing. You deserve your bliss. You deserve to be deliriously happy... not selfish... not selfish at all. Bliss in rivers. Bliss in nakedness. Bliss in mowing. Bliss in the lovely warmth. Fuck all the bitter bitches who are trying to bring you down to make themselves feel better.
Christian