I'd watch that
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Funny What We Think
As I stood on my balcony this morning, feeling the temperature and surveying the street for life, the beanie capped, kaftan wearing, bearded Muslims were gathering in the street across the road by two cars, one parked legally, one pulled into the driveway of the property where they live. I watched them as they pulled plump, fully packed United Airline travel bags from the back seat of the legally parked car and 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 prayer mat booty?
I laughed at the sight.
How many explosives could you fit in each of those airline bags, I pondered?
Could there be more of a clichéd, fear-provoking archetype of modern day, even down to the airline bags being United? I guess, the first thought rattling around in my brain is the result of “politics by the racial trump card,” which the conservative governments are so good at exploiting. And eleven years of John Howard has left us all scarred in that way.
What would the gullible people be thinking with those visuals? Are those “report a terrorist 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 the fear factor had been successful they'd be reaching for their phones, to call the agencies that now have an amazing raft of laws with which to protect us. Lucky us.
"Oh yes, myate, I'd like to report a terrorist." I'm sure said with that nasal drawl 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 what they were doing... No, nufink else... just that... don't you tell us to report anyfink we see that is suspicious... so I'm reportn it... no, nufink else... fanks."
Meanwhile the men in white dresses having completed their pow wow in the middle of the street, packed their prayer mats and their explosives... er, luggage into their car and drove in the direction of the airport... um… er north up my street.
I laughed. What a stereotype.
I'm sure it was all very innocent, although we don't know, do we? I guess even writing this just buys into the ridiculous stereotypes that have been fostered for political gain.
It just made me laugh, that's all I'm saying.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Something Nice For Breakfast
I woke at 10am, just passed it actually. It was my usual lazy morning in my usual lazy life. Upside down days in a more and more upside down life. All false, of course, unsustainable, sure. This is not going to end well, I’m wondering?
I was hungry. The day was bright beyond my room, out in the street. I stood and swayed a little, then stepped over to my open balcony doors to close them, being careful to stand just out of sight in my skanties, some mornings I just don’t think, not awake enough to think.
I thought about the jobs, which I found on line at 5am, when I couldn’t sleep. I think there were three, which I should apply for, no questions asked. (Don’t tell Sam) It all seemed so easy in the dim breaking dusk of light, so easy when the urgency of the situation had taken hold of me, that I felt a certain flush of confidence ebbing away the underlying stress of the future. Three perfect jobs, every thing about them was right.
In the morning light doubts began to creep in. OMG, I guess they will ask me questions in the interview. Oh! What is the tax treatment of… How is a payment made up when… What is the legislation around LSL accruals… Could I remember? I should have been studying up on these things while I was off. Studying up? This is what I know. I can’t remember, my brain is rusty.
I felt a shiver of terror run through me.
I could feel the stress return, as if it was an IV hit directly into my vein, and I felt it pulse through my blood, through my 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, I should have, I should have… What?
Breath.
I was hungry, I knew that. I wanted something nice, something interesting, something to dazzle my taste buds, something to make me feel good, something lovely and good and wholesome. Since weevils had infiltrated my muesli, I’d been eating toast in the mornings all week, but the thought of vegemite toast this morning just made me want to wretch! I wanted cranberries and blueberries and raspberries and strawberries and sunshine and light and happiness and contentment and, and, and, something like that shone and dazzled and exploded in a million possibilities.
OH! I closed my eyes and threw my head back and tried to feel that peace and calm deep down inside that has always been there, that used to be there, that was there once! That I have always had.
I stepped towards my window until the sun hit my eyelids turning the inside pink and orange and red.
I exhaled long and slow.
I would just walk to the supermarket and try not to think until after I had done that.
Food. Coffee. In that order. That is all I had to think of now. As a wise friend said to me recently there are only two moments that exist. This moment right now… and the next one.
It was such a lovely morning that I just had to get out in and taste it. It was a lovely day, really, not too hot, just nice. Another perfect summer’s day, I thought, as I stepped onto the footpath and headed towards Woollies. And it tasted good, bright and sunshiny, like sparkles and lustre and something shiny, like smiles and good intensions and good deeds. The sky was blue, the air fresh, I’m sure the birds were singing, lovely.
I love my street on such days, wide and straight, under the huge afro hair-like plain trees, round and voluminous, casting shadows dappled on the ground, over lapping some where near the middle of the street for me to walk under.
I could almost touch the fresh and bright.
I wanted cherry bites, or caramel bombs, or chocolate chews… well… fruity things encased in wheat wrapping things, small pillows of puffiness that dissolve on your tongue. Poof! I guess chocolate isn’t a breakfast food, unless it is wrapped in pastry and comes with a French name, that is. I patted my round stomach and thought there will be no pastries today.
There was a short rat-face woman with a voice like a squeaky door, I had on my car once, telling her fat little children that she 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 I was so interested, one might question.
"Did he leave his wife?" said the very camp voice of one, of the two, men walking towards me. The one speaking had one of those swivelling heads that was attempting to give the impression that he’s not at all interested in who may be sharing the isles with him, at the same time not missing a moment that someone might 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 over his glasses.
A girl with piercings 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’m not sure if it was my vomit or some one else’s. Yeah.”
I looked at the porridge and winced.
The back of her too 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.
Sam sent me a photo of a green bag with chicken head’s poking out of them. Not sure why now.
I never fail to think of those starving in the world (well, nearly always) when I am gazing at the rows and rows packed neatly with colourful packages and boxes.
The Plus Antioxidants with cranberries, blueberries and sultanas won me over as much as the Wildberry fruity bites. I think it was the 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 been thirsty the whole time it was just at the end of my shopping I allowed myself to think about my dry mouth, so I selected fruit of the forest fruit juice. It was really coffee that I wanted, of course, which I would be quaffing down as soon as I returned home with my booty.
What was I waiting for, I thought, as I walked home, bags in both hands. It is so often the weight of the shopping bags and 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 you are going in life, with the weight of your baggage present and apparent. What am I doing? Where am I going? I so don’t want to get a job, equally as much as I don’t want to rent out my two spare bedrooms, that is the impasse I continually find myself at. They are the two options and I don’t like either. So I guess it was a tattslotto win that I was really waiting for. Is that it? Is that what it comes down to? Some kind of delusion? Happy in it, until life gets desperate, being forced to act.
Well, what do I think the outcome is going to be?
I could probably not work for another six months, but then I would be skint, broke, be in a desperate financial situation. I would have nothing in the bank then. Is that what it is going to take for me to act?
Oh please universe give me the strength, and more importantly the desire, to do something before then?
My head spun a little with anxiety and stress as I walked the straight road to my front door.
I made coffee, poured juice and prepared a plateful of Wildberry Fruitybix, yum yum. I dragged the antique rosewood table outside and pulled up the wicker chair and switched on my laptop.
Coasters? It made me think about Sam. He is nuts about his glass coffee table and coasters. It always kind of makes me laugh.
Then the day just slid away. Ffffew. Gone. Over, pretty much. Vanished. The electrical equipment whirring away on the renovations next door the only mechanical intrusion in my garden.
I went for a walk around 4pm. It was a lovely day for a walk. Gorgeous. Perfect. I just don’t know about Mark and Luke moving north, 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 have been feeling the tell tail signs of my metabolism slowing, it’s been about a month since I completely stopped smoking. Done. Over. I have been feeling myself getting all blocked up. I have been feeling that some what “tight” feeling.
I have been eating lots of bran and I have been eating lots of fruit. Bananas. Nectarines. Oranges.
Then. Brahmmm!!!! Brahmmm!!!! Like a fucken trumpet, or the whole fucken brass section. Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!! But what an inconvenient place to start. Well, it had started earlier in the day in a slow and more subtle way, but the walk had sped it up. Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!! All the way up my street. Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!! I always find exercise is the best treatment.
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 child crossing his legs and raising his hand to be excused. Miss, miss, miss!
Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!!
After I got home, I decided to make tea, have a shower and retire to my boudoir.
It’s the one effect of stopping smoking that I find nobody tells you about.
I was supposed to go to diner with Shane, D and Sebastian, but my volcanic bowels trumpeting the 1812 overture made me want to stay home, not want to go out in public, for sure. So, I curled on my bed and stayed out of sight.
I found out the, shall we say, consequence all by myself the first time I quit the gaspers and I was quite surprised by it.
I wrote on my computer and read blogs until Two 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, the great 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 ship in the middle of Hong Kong…, which is a restaurant. Hong Kong is the richest city in the world with more millionaires per square metre.
Sam
OMG! You would be dead by now, if you were here. Gassed. You'd certainly have RSI of the finger from spraying the air freshener, certainly, as you clutched at your throat and scratched at the wall for relief.
I've been drinking metamucill everyday and exercising also, every day this week. Your metabolism slows down when you stop smoking, temporarily, the physical manifestation of this is a certain tightening of the stomach and a reduction in crapping, so much 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 just healthy, hey. The unfortunate bi product is even more gas than usual. OMG! I'm choking.
I was hungry. The day was bright beyond my room, out in the street. I stood and swayed a little, then stepped over to my open balcony doors to close them, being careful to stand just out of sight in my skanties, some mornings I just don’t think, not awake enough to think.
I thought about the jobs, which I found on line at 5am, when I couldn’t sleep. I think there were three, which I should apply for, no questions asked. (Don’t tell Sam) It all seemed so easy in the dim breaking dusk of light, so easy when the urgency of the situation had taken hold of me, that I felt a certain flush of confidence ebbing away the underlying stress of the future. Three perfect jobs, every thing about them was right.
In the morning light doubts began to creep in. OMG, I guess they will ask me questions in the interview. Oh! What is the tax treatment of… How is a payment made up when… What is the legislation around LSL accruals… Could I remember? I should have been studying up on these things while I was off. Studying up? This is what I know. I can’t remember, my brain is rusty.
I felt a shiver of terror run through me.
I could feel the stress return, as if it was an IV hit directly into my vein, and I felt it pulse through my blood, through my 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, I should have, I should have… What?
Breath.
I was hungry, I knew that. I wanted something nice, something interesting, something to dazzle my taste buds, something to make me feel good, something lovely and good and wholesome. Since weevils had infiltrated my muesli, I’d been eating toast in the mornings all week, but the thought of vegemite toast this morning just made me want to wretch! I wanted cranberries and blueberries and raspberries and strawberries and sunshine and light and happiness and contentment and, and, and, something like that shone and dazzled and exploded in a million possibilities.
OH! I closed my eyes and threw my head back and tried to feel that peace and calm deep down inside that has always been there, that used to be there, that was there once! That I have always had.
I stepped towards my window until the sun hit my eyelids turning the inside pink and orange and red.
I exhaled long and slow.
I would just walk to the supermarket and try not to think until after I had done that.
Food. Coffee. In that order. That is all I had to think of now. As a wise friend said to me recently there are only two moments that exist. This moment right now… and the next one.
It was such a lovely morning that I just had to get out in and taste it. It was a lovely day, really, not too hot, just nice. Another perfect summer’s day, I thought, as I stepped onto the footpath and headed towards Woollies. And it tasted good, bright and sunshiny, like sparkles and lustre and something shiny, like smiles and good intensions and good deeds. The sky was blue, the air fresh, I’m sure the birds were singing, lovely.
I love my street on such days, wide and straight, under the huge afro hair-like plain trees, round and voluminous, casting shadows dappled on the ground, over lapping some where near the middle of the street for me to walk under.
I could almost touch the fresh and bright.
I wanted cherry bites, or caramel bombs, or chocolate chews… well… fruity things encased in wheat wrapping things, small pillows of puffiness that dissolve on your tongue. Poof! I guess chocolate isn’t a breakfast food, unless it is wrapped in pastry and comes with a French name, that is. I patted my round stomach and thought there will be no pastries today.
There was a short rat-face woman with a voice like a squeaky door, I had on my car once, telling her fat little children that she 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 I was so interested, one might question.
"Did he leave his wife?" said the very camp voice of one, of the two, men walking towards me. The one speaking had one of those swivelling heads that was attempting to give the impression that he’s not at all interested in who may be sharing the isles with him, at the same time not missing a moment that someone might 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 over his glasses.
I felt violated.
A girl with piercings 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’m not sure if it was my vomit or some one else’s. Yeah.”
I looked at the porridge and winced.
The back of her too 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.
Sam sent me a photo of a green bag with chicken head’s poking out of them. Not sure why now.
I never fail to think of those starving in the world (well, nearly always) when I am gazing at the rows and rows packed neatly with colourful packages and boxes.
The Plus Antioxidants with cranberries, blueberries and sultanas won me over as much as the Wildberry fruity bites. I think it was the 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 been thirsty the whole time it was just at the end of my shopping I allowed myself to think about my dry mouth, so I selected fruit of the forest fruit juice. It was really coffee that I wanted, of course, which I would be quaffing down as soon as I returned home with my booty.
What was I waiting for, I thought, as I walked home, bags in both hands. It is so often the weight of the shopping bags and 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 you are going in life, with the weight of your baggage present and apparent. What am I doing? Where am I going? I so don’t want to get a job, equally as much as I don’t want to rent out my two spare bedrooms, that is the impasse I continually find myself at. They are the two options and I don’t like either. So I guess it was a tattslotto win that I was really waiting for. Is that it? Is that what it comes down to? Some kind of delusion? Happy in it, until life gets desperate, being forced to act.
Well, what do I think the outcome is going to be?
I could probably not work for another six months, but then I would be skint, broke, be in a desperate financial situation. I would have nothing in the bank then. Is that what it is going to take for me to act?
Oh please universe give me the strength, and more importantly the desire, to do something before then?
My head spun a little with anxiety and stress as I walked the straight road to my front door.
I made coffee, poured juice and prepared a plateful of Wildberry Fruitybix, yum yum. I dragged the antique rosewood table outside and pulled up the wicker chair and switched on my laptop.
Coasters? It made me think about Sam. He is nuts about his glass coffee table and coasters. It always kind of makes me laugh.
Then the day just slid away. Ffffew. Gone. Over, pretty much. Vanished. The electrical equipment whirring away on the renovations next door the only mechanical intrusion in my garden.
I went for a walk around 4pm. It was a lovely day for a walk. Gorgeous. Perfect. I just don’t know about Mark and Luke moving north, 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 have been feeling the tell tail signs of my metabolism slowing, it’s been about a month since I completely stopped smoking. Done. Over. I have been feeling myself getting all blocked up. I have been feeling that some what “tight” feeling.
I have been eating lots of bran and I have been eating lots of fruit. Bananas. Nectarines. Oranges.
Then. Brahmmm!!!! Brahmmm!!!! Like a fucken trumpet, or the whole fucken brass section. Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!! But what an inconvenient place to start. Well, it had started earlier in the day in a slow and more subtle way, but the walk had sped it up. Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!! All the way up my street. Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!! I always find exercise is the best treatment.
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 child crossing his legs and raising his hand to be excused. Miss, miss, miss!
Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!!
After I got home, I decided to make tea, have a shower and retire to my boudoir.
It’s the one effect of stopping smoking that I find nobody tells you about.
I was supposed to go to diner with Shane, D and Sebastian, but my volcanic bowels trumpeting the 1812 overture made me want to stay home, not want to go out in public, for sure. So, I curled on my bed and stayed out of sight.
I found out the, shall we say, consequence all by myself the first time I quit the gaspers and I was quite surprised by it.
I wrote on my computer and read blogs until Two 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, the great 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 ship in the middle of Hong Kong…, which is a restaurant. Hong Kong is the richest city in the world with more millionaires per square metre.
Sam
OMG! You would be dead by now, if you were here. Gassed. You'd certainly have RSI of the finger from spraying the air freshener, certainly, as you clutched at your throat and scratched at the wall for relief.
I've been drinking metamucill everyday and exercising also, every day this week. Your metabolism slows down when you stop smoking, temporarily, the physical manifestation of this is a certain tightening of the stomach and a reduction in crapping, so much 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 just healthy, hey. The unfortunate bi product is even more gas than usual. OMG! I'm choking.
(christian)
Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!!
I ate breakfast cereal all day and didn’t apply for any jobs. I want to do what Stephen Fry does, cruising up the Mississippi in a canoe, or Griff Rhys Jones does, shopping in Hong Kong, that would fascinating that would be interesting. How do you get those jobs?
Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!!
I feel sad sitting there in my room with the doors and windows open letting all the fresh air in the world, thinking that this time must finished.
Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!!
I got a message from Sam who said he feels bad 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 my sources.”
I reiterated to him that he is the only person who knows about my blog, I’m not sure if he realised. I just have to try to forget that he reads it, when I’m writing it.
I did tell Mark and Luke once, but it didn’t sink in with the two of them. And my mate who writes her own blog, but other than that I kept it quiet, as it affords a certain freedom in the writing, I’ve always thought.
Note to self
Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!!
I ate breakfast cereal all day and didn’t apply for any jobs. I want to do what Stephen Fry does, cruising up the Mississippi in a canoe, or Griff Rhys Jones does, shopping in Hong Kong, that would fascinating that would be interesting. How do you get those jobs?
Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!!
I feel sad sitting there in my room with the doors and windows open letting all the fresh air in the world, thinking that this time must finished.
Brahmmm!!! Brahmmm!!!
I got a message from Sam who said he feels bad 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 my sources.”
I reiterated to him that he is the only person who knows about my blog, I’m not sure if he realised. I just have to try to forget that he reads it, when I’m writing it.
I did tell Mark and Luke once, but it didn’t sink in with the two of them. And my mate who writes her own blog, but other than that I kept it quiet, as it affords a certain freedom in the writing, I’ve always thought.
Note to self
Cut down on bran and fruit
Increase water and exercise
Increase water and exercise
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Plenty of Air
I woke up just before 9am, to shut off the expected warm air flowing in through my open balcony doors now that the cool night had turned into warm day, but Missy looked so comfortable curled up on the balcony, one eye open to check what I was doing, I went back to bed without closing 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 I scratched my arse and drifted back to sleep almost immediately. My legs didn’t even have time to uncrinkle before I was horizontal again. Yawn. Stretch.
I woke again at 10.30, sure I'd heard Guadalupe arrive, 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 the possibilities.
I woke intermittently after that, not being able to hear any cleaning going on. Suspiciously cocking an ear towards my bedroom 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 for cleanerphobia?
I woke again just before midday. 11.45 and I thought, well, I should get up then, nothing else for it. Lovely, 11.45, how could I sleep so late? So easily 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 in case, and swung my bedroom door open, to see the vacuum at the top of the stairs and to hear the tell tail scratching and the scraping going on downstairs.
“Damn!” Gotta get out. Gotta leave. Gotta go. Exit. Clear out. Vamoose.
I was in and out of the shower 2 ½ minutes later. 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 her jiffies. “Yes, yes, yes.”
I was half way to Smith Street 10 minutes after. It was 12 pm. If Guadalupe had, in fact, come at 10.30, I then only had… 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 a long 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 and settled in. The café was filled with people and surprisingly I wasn’t annoyed by 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 a thief in the night… er… day time home invasion, I guess, was more accurate, just before 13.30, turned the key like I was trying to hide my entrance, laugh, not really sure why, to be greeted by the whir of the vacuum.
“Grrrrr!”
I sat outside on the wicker chairs waiting for Guadalupe to finish. It was so lovely out there, but my laptop was hot on my thighs. What is that called? I’m sure it is a syndrome? But, I didn’t want to go inside. So, I got my mum’s antique rosewood table and set that up outside in front of the wicker chair. It was lovely too. Not that I really suffer from cabin fever, but with the wind blowing and the birds singing and the smell of lavender in my nostrils even the hint of being a shut in was lifted up and floated off me and away.
I read on the internet rather than writing myself. 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, I know, there are so many directions I could ride in, but I do like riding on a bike track. Cars and bikes really are not meant to share the same space and while the Aussie Open is on, I’m so happy to walk the footpaths and not to dice with 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. We sat 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, David had chicken salad, I had risotto. And the three of us decided that we would have the main serving of fish cakes to share as an entre.
A main serve of fish cakes to share between the three of us as an entre… did you get that? I would venture to say, that this 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 gym on Sunday nights who paraded around the change room with his enormous penis on show. It is huge, apparently, so much so that it stopped traffic, could be seen from out of space and caused grown men to stop and stare. Gobsmacked.
I was feeling deliciously lazy, so I scratched my arse and drifted back to sleep almost immediately. My legs didn’t even have time to uncrinkle before I was horizontal again. Yawn. Stretch.
I woke again at 10.30, sure I'd heard Guadalupe arrive, 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 the possibilities.
I woke intermittently after that, not being able to hear any cleaning going on. Suspiciously cocking an ear towards my bedroom 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 for cleanerphobia?
I woke again just before midday. 11.45 and I thought, well, I should get up then, nothing else for it. Lovely, 11.45, how could I sleep so late? So easily 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 in case, and swung my bedroom door open, to see the vacuum at the top of the stairs and to hear the tell tail scratching and the scraping going on downstairs.
“Damn!” Gotta get out. Gotta leave. Gotta go. Exit. Clear out. Vamoose.
I was in and out of the shower 2 ½ minutes later. 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 her jiffies. “Yes, yes, yes.”
I was half way to Smith Street 10 minutes after. It was 12 pm. If Guadalupe had, in fact, come at 10.30, I then only had… 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 a long 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 and settled in. The café was filled with people and surprisingly I wasn’t annoyed by 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 a thief in the night… er… day time home invasion, I guess, was more accurate, just before 13.30, turned the key like I was trying to hide my entrance, laugh, not really sure why, to be greeted by the whir of the vacuum.
“Grrrrr!”
I sat outside on the wicker chairs waiting for Guadalupe to finish. It was so lovely out there, but my laptop was hot on my thighs. What is that called? I’m sure it is a syndrome? But, I didn’t want to go inside. So, I got my mum’s antique rosewood table and set that up outside in front of the wicker chair. It was lovely too. Not that I really suffer from cabin fever, but with the wind blowing and the birds singing and the smell of lavender in my nostrils even the hint of being a shut in was lifted up and floated off me and away.
I read on the internet rather than writing myself. 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, I know, there are so many directions I could ride in, but I do like riding on a bike track. Cars and bikes really are not meant to share the same space and while the Aussie Open is on, I’m so happy to walk the footpaths and not to dice with 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. We sat 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, David had chicken salad, I had risotto. And the three of us decided that we would have the main serving of fish cakes to share as an entre.
A main serve of fish cakes to share between the three of us as an entre… did you get that? I would venture to say, that this 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 gym on Sunday nights who paraded around the change room with his enormous penis on show. It is huge, apparently, so much so that it stopped traffic, could be seen from out of space and caused grown men to stop and stare. Gobsmacked.
“Down to here,” said David karate chopping his leg at the knee, swivelling in his chair to face the pedestrian walking towards him. “Enormous!” legs spread and chopping his knee again, you know, presumably, in case the pedestrian had missed the gesture the first time. “You could choke on it,” he said to the back of the departing pedestrian, as David's head followed him.
Exclamation. “This big!” he said, swivelling around 180 degrees in his chair once more, scanning the footpath for another unsuspecting 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 footpath for 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 fucken glued to it!” He may as well have been on his feet, with his arm around the next pedestrian’s shoulders, intimately explaining the joys of cock flesh, such was his loud, animated enthusiasm.
I wasn’t sure if he was trying to pick up some random guy in the street with his antics, or if it was simply an extension of David’s chronic “look at me look at me” syndrome that we all love and hate him 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 the waitress. 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’ll be four minutes.”
Some time after we’d finished our mains the fish cakes arrived. You know, and the retail/shops wonder why people shop on line. I know, it's not quite the same thing, but really, hopeless. The service was hopeless. Actually no, it is not okay for the entre to be served as the desert. In which reality would that be acceptable? Call me old fashioned.
We went to Sircuit for a beer on the way home. David left quickly saying he had work to do. I will always admire that about David, he fits in socialising and then he gets down to it and gets his work done.
I don’t know how I grew up to be a one task a day type of guy. Why aren’t I driven and productive and successful like David.
Just a lazy bastard at heart, really, I guess.
Exclamation. “This big!” he said, swivelling around 180 degrees in his chair once more, scanning the footpath for another unsuspecting 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 footpath for 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 fucken glued to it!” He may as well have been on his feet, with his arm around the next pedestrian’s shoulders, intimately explaining the joys of cock flesh, such was his loud, animated enthusiasm.
I wasn’t sure if he was trying to pick up some random guy in the street with his antics, or if it was simply an extension of David’s chronic “look at me look at me” syndrome that we all love and hate him 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 the waitress. 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’ll be four minutes.”
Some time after we’d finished our mains the fish cakes arrived. You know, and the retail/shops wonder why people shop on line. I know, it's not quite the same thing, but really, hopeless. The service was hopeless. Actually no, it is not okay for the entre to be served as the desert. In which reality would that be acceptable? Call me old fashioned.
We went to Sircuit for a beer on the way home. David left quickly saying he had work to do. I will always admire that about David, he fits in socialising and then he gets down to it and gets his work done.
I don’t know how I grew up to be a one task a day type of guy. Why aren’t I driven and productive and successful like David.
Just a lazy bastard at heart, really, I guess.
The Last Word
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 commentator 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.
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 commentator 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.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
We Have the World on Our Side... Not Just The Congregation
"Politically correct education has masterfully escorted homosexuality out from behind closed doors, into the community openly and now is aggressively demanding marriage rights that are not theirs to take.
"The fact that the homosexual cry is, 'We can't help it, as we were born this way,' as the cause behind their own personal choice is cause for concern." – Margaret Court
In my opinion, at best, these are just nonsensical words that belong to the rhetoric of the last century, at worst they are carefully chosen to discredit and alienate. At best, they are designed as a smoke screen to confuse, at worst they are designed to engender hate.
The inference is that we are something nasty and horrible that should be kept behind closed doors and out of sight.
“Politically correct education,” is at best indicating we are getting treatment that we don’t deserve, at worst it is making a particularly ludicrous but nasty association between homosexuality and the young.
The fact that the homosexual cry is… blah, blah blah, gives the impression that there is something disingenuous to our call for equality, inferring that all of society should be worried about this.
Of course, Christians can only cast doubt with their words, because if they came out with the real reason, “the acceptance of homosexuality renders my Christian beliefs null and void,” society as a whole wouldn’t listen to them.
It is sad that the, who I like to call, flat-earthers – those whose view of the world hasn't progressed or evolved passed two thousand year old myths and superstitions – such as Christian bigot – those who cherry pick only certain ideas or passages out of the bible to discriminate against others – Margaret Court, feel the need to inflict their chosen and, in my opinion, outdated, views of the world onto the rest of society.
Ironically, her Christian views are her choice.
Australia is not a Christian country, rather it is a secular country and the majority of Australians believe gay people should have the right to marry. I think that the last poll that I saw put it at something like 61%.
It is almost funny that bigoted Christians feel free to talk about any topic they choose, even if they can’t possibly have any knowledge on the subject, when, of course, it suits their chosen Christian view of the world. Margaret Court mentions several times in the articles that I have read lately about her intolerance towards inclusive marriage, that being gay is a choice. What possible knowledge could she have that 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 their peers, they would, of course, choose the lifestyle that the likes of Margaret Court demonises and admonishes, because teenagers are like that, they would naturally pick the more difficult road.
Sadly, Margaret Court doesn’t even realise, in my opinion, what a fool she is making of herself, as I think nearly all Australians now understand that gay people are born gay just as straight people are born straight.
There aren't recorded cases of gay people being turned into a “straight” people, rather there are many recorded cases of ex-gays, gay people squashing down their natural gay feelings and desires by becoming born again Christians, I assume, for fear of hell and damnation and, sadly, family, who go on to live, what I can only assume, are tortured straight Christian lives.
What we need to do is ignore the Margaret Courts of this world and instead focus on the moderate Christians, who, I am sure, are the silent majority of Christians, who take Christianity to enhance their own lives and who are prepared to let other people live their lives as they see fit, without this illogical, you must join us, mentality.
I know it makes better head lines and sells more newspapers if we get some controversial comments, but we need to stop 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 – the radical, hardline Muslims, are giving the rest of the Muslims a bad name. It is the same with the Margaret Courts of the world and Christianity. We disregard fundamentalist Muslims, as we should disregard fundamentalist Christians such as Margaret Court.
If you don't believe she holds fundamentalist Christian views let me quote her.
Court was quoted describing advocacy of same-sex marriage as promoting "unhealthy" and "unnatural" unions trying to legitimise abominable sexual practices that include sodomy, which reveals our ignorance as to the ills that come when society is forced to accept law that violates their very own God-given nature of what is right and what is wrong.
"The fact that the homosexual cry is, 'We can't help it, as we were born this way,' as the cause behind their own personal choice is cause for concern." – Margaret Court
In my opinion, at best, these are just nonsensical words that belong to the rhetoric of the last century, at worst they are carefully chosen to discredit and alienate. At best, they are designed as a smoke screen to confuse, at worst they are designed to engender hate.
The inference is that we are something nasty and horrible that should be kept behind closed doors and out of sight.
“Politically correct education,” is at best indicating we are getting treatment that we don’t deserve, at worst it is making a particularly ludicrous but nasty association between homosexuality and the young.
The fact that the homosexual cry is… blah, blah blah, gives the impression that there is something disingenuous to our call for equality, inferring that all of society should be worried about this.
Of course, Christians can only cast doubt with their words, because if they came out with the real reason, “the acceptance of homosexuality renders my Christian beliefs null and void,” society as a whole wouldn’t listen to them.
It is sad that the, who I like to call, flat-earthers – those whose view of the world hasn't progressed or evolved passed two thousand year old myths and superstitions – such as Christian bigot – those who cherry pick only certain ideas or passages out of the bible to discriminate against others – Margaret Court, feel the need to inflict their chosen and, in my opinion, outdated, views of the world onto the rest of society.
Ironically, her Christian views are her choice.
Australia is not a Christian country, rather it is a secular country and the majority of Australians believe gay people should have the right to marry. I think that the last poll that I saw put it at something like 61%.
It is almost funny that bigoted Christians feel free to talk about any topic they choose, even if they can’t possibly have any knowledge on the subject, when, of course, it suits their chosen Christian view of the world. Margaret Court mentions several times in the articles that I have read lately about her intolerance towards inclusive marriage, that being gay is a choice. What possible knowledge could she have that 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 their peers, they would, of course, choose the lifestyle that the likes of Margaret Court demonises and admonishes, because teenagers are like that, they would naturally pick the more difficult road.
Sadly, Margaret Court doesn’t even realise, in my opinion, what a fool she is making of herself, as I think nearly all Australians now understand that gay people are born gay just as straight people are born straight.
There aren't recorded cases of gay people being turned into a “straight” people, rather there are many recorded cases of ex-gays, gay people squashing down their natural gay feelings and desires by becoming born again Christians, I assume, for fear of hell and damnation and, sadly, family, who go on to live, what I can only assume, are tortured straight Christian lives.
What we need to do is ignore the Margaret Courts of this world and instead focus on the moderate Christians, who, I am sure, are the silent majority of Christians, who take Christianity to enhance their own lives and who are prepared to let other people live their lives as they see fit, without this illogical, you must join us, mentality.
I know it makes better head lines and sells more newspapers if we get some controversial comments, but we need to stop 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 – the radical, hardline Muslims, are giving the rest of the Muslims a bad name. It is the same with the Margaret Courts of the world and Christianity. We disregard fundamentalist Muslims, as we should disregard fundamentalist Christians such as Margaret Court.
If you don't believe she holds fundamentalist Christian views let me quote her.
Court was quoted describing advocacy of same-sex marriage as promoting "unhealthy" and "unnatural" unions trying to legitimise abominable sexual practices that include sodomy, which reveals our ignorance as to the ills that come when society is forced to accept law that violates their very own God-given nature of what is right and what is wrong.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
So, Why Do I feel... Um... Left Out?
While Sam 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 Sam 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 Sam.
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.
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 Sam 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 Sam.
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.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
Not Even Midday and I Have Ruined My Diet
I had dinner and watched dvds with Jill, last night. Dinner and a show, if you like, except we traded party frocks for a couch each. The Green Lantern was okay, a bit dark and the cinematography was a bit muddy, but any movie with Ryan Reynolds in it, especially running around his 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 I could use it as a template for a story of my own. Bridesmaids, which was my least favourite of the three, just a little too American to be too enjoyable for my tastes, even if it did have some funny moments.
We had ham and salad and a chocolate and caramel tart.
As I was leaving, Jill handed me a packet of The Natural Confectionary Co "Party Mix", "Here, take these."
"Why?"
"Well, I have already eaten the other packet that I bought and I don't want to eat this one."
Jill has weight issues. If I hadn't been in her car, often, I might suspect she is one of those fat chicks who surreptitiously drives through fast food drive-throughs, hiding the wrappers, the evidence, in the back footwell of her car.
I know, that the mince pies over Xmas caused her and Jenny Craig to part company, recently.
Of course, I could have said no (to the bag of lollies) and in the real world I only have myself to blame, I realise that, but it is something that one often just accepts, says yes to and doesn't think about until sometime later.
Like this morning, Oh, there is that bag of lollies on the kitchen bench. Yay!
Yes, well thanks Jill, not even midday and I have already inhaled most of the packet. All of the packet. And now it has started to rain just as I was about to go for a bike ride. (smile) Do you like my excuses? (wink) Oh yes, I am full of them. Sam loves it. (nervous smile) And, I hope, that he will go on loving me despite them...
However...
What is the mentality here? (with giving me the bag of sweets, are you keeping up?) I (Jill) have already ruined my diet, so now I am going to take you (me) down with me? Or is it less thought out than that, do you think?
"AH!" Throw the remaining poison at the nearest person? Take no prisoners? Every fatty for himself? Here! Catch! Help?
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Missing Him?
I haven't stopped talking to Sam – 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 a result of eating too much chili, the admission of which could get him thrown out 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.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Off To Find Out About My Poor Tooth
I was up at 8am, 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 the problems in the world today, too much talking and not enough silence – until I want to puke, or throw the radio at the wall, or slash my wrists, or all three. (What would I look like after that?) It is the only time I listen to the radio, it wakes me up.
I switched it off. Silence. Easy, I thought.
Shane has been doing early yoga mornings with David and all the other airheads in Prahran, but his bedroom door was closed, which may indicate that he has missed class this morning and is still home.
I had to be at the periodontist at 10am. I'm hoping I have the morning to myself, which means no Shane, so I can take it leisurely.
I’m just going to make coffee and then have a shower straight away, then, when I am dressed and clean and ready, I can piss the time away and be able to leave within a moment of deciding it is time that I left.
I was feeling depressed this morning, depressed about my tooth – you know with a front tooth missing I could perhaps have banjo music prerecorded to play whenever I enter a room? Depressed about selling my mum’s investment property in a weak market – I hate real estate agents, lying, blood sucking bastards who still managed to get us to sell it below the price we vowed not to go below. Depressed about the prospect of getting a job – throwing my life away doing something I don’t love. But probably, primarily, I’m depressed about my tooth, truthfully. The presenting problem. I was sure that the periodontist was going to say that the tooth had to come out.
I made coffee and prepared my muesli. My stomach churned on slow grind.
I switched on my computer, despite telling myself not to until I had had a shower and got dressed. I started reading the news, despite telling myself that I wouldn’t. Ben Cousins is having drug problems again, apparently. He was taken to hospital after a fall in rehab. He’s in rehab? “Fragile Ben, all of his friends are worried about him.” I thought, lucky Ben, doesn’t have to worry about the world and the troubles there in. I wondered how long it was going to be before we read the headlines, “Ben Cousins dead at 33. Troubled star succumbs 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 has some idea that he is in hospital, but probably doesn’t understand what has happened to him yet.
I wonder 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. I should go and have a shower. I should... I should... I should...
I hear the front door open and close. Shane walks in, back from yoga. He starts to prepare his breakfast.
He’ll want a shower, I must go and have one first, which I do, before he fucks up my schedule, such as it is.
I hear Shane come up the stairs as the water is still falling on my back. I have a certain satisfaction in being in the shower and being able to hold him up rather than the other way around.
I hear him come up the stairs again a short time later. Oh, what am I doing, I think? I turn off the water and get out. What is wrong with you, I think? Shane has to go to work. I don’t know how my mind works, sometimes. I've got a mean streak, to be sure.
I dry myself quickly and leave the bathroom.
I hear Shane head into the shower almost immediately.
I get dressed and head down stairs.
Shane leaves for work.
It is 9.15 when I switch on my laptop again. It’s an easy walk, it shouldn’t take me more than fifteen/twenty minutes to walk it, to the top of Collins Street. What number Collins is it? Twenty something.
At 9.30, the wind picks up outside and starts to blow the garden around. A short time 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’m heading to the front door, I'm starting to panic, a little. I’ll have to catch a tram, I think. I look into my wallet, as I head out the front gate, to see I have silver coins only. Groan. That’s it, no gold? Dam! I keep walking. I shrug and raise my hands in the air, what it is that I am going to do?
You are going to catch a tram with no money? Is that the plan? Really? WTF?
I head back inside and get an umbrella, telling myself that I have no choice but to walk now. Move! as Sam would say to me.
I head up Napier. At Victoria there is a tram, just sitting there with its doors open, waiting. The universe is telling me to get in, clearly. So I do. The tram moves off. At the next stop, I have my wallet out and am looking for the coins I know I don’t have. A woman in the first set of 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 into Gisborne. I’m not sure who I am acting for? I look up and pretend to be pissed off, annoyed that I don’t have any coins, as though they should have been there but some how they had been spirited away. I’m acting for any inspector secreted away amongst the passengers who may be watching, ready to pounce? The woman starts to look in her handbag. I wonder if she is going to offer me coins. I check the rest of my wallet and then my pockets. The tram moves off from Albert Street. The woman closes her bag and rests her hands on top of it. I presume my apparent difficulties have given her reason to check where her own ticket is and not prompted an act of generosity on her part. I shrug and pretend that I am resigned to getting off the tram. The woman is still looking over at me. I get off one stop before Collins, one stop before my desired destination. It's easily walkable from here, no use pushing my dishonesty.
Silly the things we do, hey?
I find the building in Collins Street. It is one of those old ten up style buildings, which I’m sure scum of the earth property developers want to get their hands on and, no doubt, will one day to enhance their private banks balances at the same time making the city poorer for their efforts. I look at the directory on the ground floor, I can’t remember who it is that I am seeing, as the periodontist I was referred to isn’t the one I am actually seeing. He moved to his 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.
It is 10.05. I consider that to be on time.
I switched it off. Silence. Easy, I thought.
Shane has been doing early yoga mornings with David and all the other airheads in Prahran, but his bedroom door was closed, which may indicate that he has missed class this morning and is still home.
I had to be at the periodontist at 10am. I'm hoping I have the morning to myself, which means no Shane, so I can take it leisurely.
I’m just going to make coffee and then have a shower straight away, then, when I am dressed and clean and ready, I can piss the time away and be able to leave within a moment of deciding it is time that I left.
I was feeling depressed this morning, depressed about my tooth – you know with a front tooth missing I could perhaps have banjo music prerecorded to play whenever I enter a room? Depressed about selling my mum’s investment property in a weak market – I hate real estate agents, lying, blood sucking bastards who still managed to get us to sell it below the price we vowed not to go below. Depressed about the prospect of getting a job – throwing my life away doing something I don’t love. But probably, primarily, I’m depressed about my tooth, truthfully. The presenting problem. I was sure that the periodontist was going to say that the tooth had to come out.
I made coffee and prepared my muesli. My stomach churned on slow grind.
I switched on my computer, despite telling myself not to until I had had a shower and got dressed. I started reading the news, despite telling myself that I wouldn’t. Ben Cousins is having drug problems again, apparently. He was taken to hospital after a fall in rehab. He’s in rehab? “Fragile Ben, all of his friends are worried about him.” I thought, lucky Ben, doesn’t have to worry about the world and the troubles there in. I wondered how long it was going to be before we read the headlines, “Ben Cousins dead at 33. Troubled star succumbs 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 has some idea that he is in hospital, but probably doesn’t understand what has happened to him yet.
I wonder 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. I should go and have a shower. I should... I should... I should...
I hear the front door open and close. Shane walks in, back from yoga. He starts to prepare his breakfast.
He’ll want a shower, I must go and have one first, which I do, before he fucks up my schedule, such as it is.
I hear Shane come up the stairs as the water is still falling on my back. I have a certain satisfaction in being in the shower and being able to hold him up rather than the other way around.
I hear him come up the stairs again a short time later. Oh, what am I doing, I think? I turn off the water and get out. What is wrong with you, I think? Shane has to go to work. I don’t know how my mind works, sometimes. I've got a mean streak, to be sure.
I dry myself quickly and leave the bathroom.
I hear Shane head into the shower almost immediately.
I get dressed and head down stairs.
Shane leaves for work.
It is 9.15 when I switch on my laptop again. It’s an easy walk, it shouldn’t take me more than fifteen/twenty minutes to walk it, to the top of Collins Street. What number Collins is it? Twenty something.
At 9.30, the wind picks up outside and starts to blow the garden around. A short time 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’m heading to the front door, I'm starting to panic, a little. I’ll have to catch a tram, I think. I look into my wallet, as I head out the front gate, to see I have silver coins only. Groan. That’s it, no gold? Dam! I keep walking. I shrug and raise my hands in the air, what it is that I am going to do?
You are going to catch a tram with no money? Is that the plan? Really? WTF?
I head back inside and get an umbrella, telling myself that I have no choice but to walk now. Move! as Sam would say to me.
I head up Napier. At Victoria there is a tram, just sitting there with its doors open, waiting. The universe is telling me to get in, clearly. So I do. The tram moves off. At the next stop, I have my wallet out and am looking for the coins I know I don’t have. A woman in the first set of 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 into Gisborne. I’m not sure who I am acting for? I look up and pretend to be pissed off, annoyed that I don’t have any coins, as though they should have been there but some how they had been spirited away. I’m acting for any inspector secreted away amongst the passengers who may be watching, ready to pounce? The woman starts to look in her handbag. I wonder if she is going to offer me coins. I check the rest of my wallet and then my pockets. The tram moves off from Albert Street. The woman closes her bag and rests her hands on top of it. I presume my apparent difficulties have given her reason to check where her own ticket is and not prompted an act of generosity on her part. I shrug and pretend that I am resigned to getting off the tram. The woman is still looking over at me. I get off one stop before Collins, one stop before my desired destination. It's easily walkable from here, no use pushing my dishonesty.
Silly the things we do, hey?
I find the building in Collins Street. It is one of those old ten up style buildings, which I’m sure scum of the earth property developers want to get their hands on and, no doubt, will one day to enhance their private banks balances at the same time making the city poorer for their efforts. I look at the directory on the ground floor, I can’t remember who it is that I am seeing, as the periodontist I was referred to isn’t the one I am actually seeing. He moved to his 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.
It is 10.05. I consider that to be on time.
It’s one of those dingy old professional suites... narrow hallways, small rooms, mostly painted grey white.
“Have my records been sent from my dentist?”
“No.”
Of course not. “Should I reschedule then?”
“No that won’t be necessary.”
I don't want to waste my time. “But he will need 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 call and see if we can have them sent over electronically.”
"I see."
I fill out the new patient form… less than convinced. The only question I give an answer to other than “no” is the smoking question. I write that I am an ex smoker.
I’m ushered in to see the periodontist. He is older than I expect, grey-haired, although that can happen to a twenty something, seemingly not far off retirement. He looks like a kiddie fiddler, although doesn't everyone 2nd person now a days. Around every corner, hey?
He glances at 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 I have smoked on and off.” Last month.
“Are you 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, or so, maybe… but I was an enthusiastic smoker.”
He laughed. “I’ve never heard it quite put like that before.”
My dentist'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 my gums, 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.
“You haven’t given up smoking for too long, there is evidence on your teeth of recent smoking.”
“Oh… um.”
He said my tooth was saveable. “Of course, it depends if you get in that seat when I tell you to.”
“Oh, I will.”
“And if you turn out to be a non-smoker, that would help a great deal, of course.”
He reminds me of my next door neighbour, Jackson. It is a little disconcerting.
“I’ve stopped smoking cigarettes pretty much, it’s just been joints lately, over the last few months.”
“Don’t put tobacco in them.” He smiles.
I was a bit taken aback, I didn’t expect him to say that. “Well, it’s difficult when I have friends who roll the joints with tobacco.”
“I’ll need to see you every four months to start with. Then I will be able to assess how often I will need to see you after that. Okay?”
"Okay."
"Any other questions?"
“No, that sounds fine.”
“It will be an on going maintenance situation, though. Don’t think there is any kind of quick fix.”
I head out into Collins Street. I go to the pharmacist and get brushes to clean between my teeth.
The sun is now shining, I head towards home. My stomach is still in a knot. I’m still stressing, I can feel it.
In my street, 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 old newspaper and an accumulation of leaves. I move the blockage with the spiky end of my umbrella and the large pool of water starts to run down the street towards the big drain. I find it strangely satisfying. Another blockage dams it up a bit further along the street, so I walk back down the footpath and unblock that with the end of my umbrella, as well, and the large volume of water starts to move again. There are several more blockages before the drain further down the street and I unblock them too. I head down to the drain itself and clear away the build up of leaves at the entrance to the drain and the water makes a gurgling and splashing sound as it falls freely into the large grated cavity. I clear away the build up of leaves on the other side of the large square drain and water splashes into it noisily. Not since I was a kid with sticks in the rain have I played dam busters in the gutter, I feel like I have achieved something.
I think about folding paper into boats.
“No.”
Of course not. “Should I reschedule then?”
“No that won’t be necessary.”
I don't want to waste my time. “But he will need 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 call and see if we can have them sent over electronically.”
"I see."
I fill out the new patient form… less than convinced. The only question I give an answer to other than “no” is the smoking question. I write that I am an ex smoker.
I’m ushered in to see the periodontist. He is older than I expect, grey-haired, although that can happen to a twenty something, seemingly not far off retirement. He looks like a kiddie fiddler, although doesn't everyone 2nd person now a days. Around every corner, hey?
He glances at 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 I have smoked on and off.” Last month.
“Are you 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, or so, maybe… but I was an enthusiastic smoker.”
He laughed. “I’ve never heard it quite put like that before.”
My dentist'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 my gums, 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.
“You haven’t given up smoking for too long, there is evidence on your teeth of recent smoking.”
“Oh… um.”
He said my tooth was saveable. “Of course, it depends if you get in that seat when I tell you to.”
“Oh, I will.”
“And if you turn out to be a non-smoker, that would help a great deal, of course.”
He reminds me of my next door neighbour, Jackson. It is a little disconcerting.
“I’ve stopped smoking cigarettes pretty much, it’s just been joints lately, over the last few months.”
“Don’t put tobacco in them.” He smiles.
I was a bit taken aback, I didn’t expect him to say that. “Well, it’s difficult when I have friends who roll the joints with tobacco.”
“I’ll need to see you every four months to start with. Then I will be able to assess how often I will need to see you after that. Okay?”
"Okay."
"Any other questions?"
“No, that sounds fine.”
“It will be an on going maintenance situation, though. Don’t think there is any kind of quick fix.”
I head out into Collins Street. I go to the pharmacist and get brushes to clean between my teeth.
The sun is now shining, I head towards home. My stomach is still in a knot. I’m still stressing, I can feel it.
In my street, 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 old newspaper and an accumulation of leaves. I move the blockage with the spiky end of my umbrella and the large pool of water starts to run down the street towards the big drain. I find it strangely satisfying. Another blockage dams it up a bit further along the street, so I walk back down the footpath and unblock that with the end of my umbrella, as well, and the large volume of water starts to move again. There are several more blockages before the drain further down the street and I unblock them too. I head down to the drain itself and clear away the build up of leaves at the entrance to the drain and the water makes a gurgling and splashing sound as it falls freely into the large grated cavity. I clear away the build up of leaves on the other side of the large square drain and water splashes into it noisily. Not since I was a kid with sticks in the rain have I played dam busters in the gutter, I feel like I have achieved something.
I think about folding paper into boats.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Rusty Brain
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?
Sunday, January 08, 2012
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