My mate Julien might becoming down from Darwin, where he is working with disturbed kids, many of who suicide. Gordon, my next door neighbour used to do it too. Gordon got out for exactly that reason. Eventually, it just got to me, said Gordon.
Maybe it’s because you are sixty and you’ve been doing it for forty years.
So I guess Julien has a way to go.
You know, as hard as it must be, you can only be there as a facilitator, you can only show people the better way, give them better options, but in the end you can't really stop any one from giving themselves the chop. I mean, of course you can. It's giving them things to live for, that's all you can really do.
I remember the few times, when I used to do telephone counselling, when the person on the other end of the phone said they wanted to kill themselves, it sent chills up my spine. And they weren't even serious about it, just using it as a figure of speech, as it turned out each time, so I can't imagine what it must be like. It would be fascinating, I suspect. Better than the over-pampered, over-paid, over-confident, incompetent, lying, back-stabbing bitches, I have to battle with daily.
Julien has given up drugs and is living healthy. (I must give it a go. No, I really must.) Oh yes, all that energy I used to feel just from giving up cigarettes. Sometimes I used to think I could just run every where because something intangible inside was beating at a million beats per minute. Lots of, what felt like, nervous energy. Oxygen. Air. Breath. It spun my head... in a good way.
Oh I am bored. Happy. Stoned. Fat. Pissed off with work. I quit two weeks ago, but they want to sort out the problems so I stay. Looking for a new adventure. Maybe a new boyfriend... if I could be bothered. That's out hunting for one and, someone who is a joy to be with. Falling in love. I want to fall in love. But truthfully, I'd need to get out and move my fat arse in a pair of gym shoes for that particular idea to be successful. Shed five kilos.
Thinking about buying a dog, much to Mark's dismay. Apparently, we'll fight when I take it up to Bolago... No. I'm easy to get along with. No, really I am. But probably not, as I'd decided on a British Bull Dog until I read what the inherent defects in the breed are. Bloody list as long as your leg. So I think I've lost interest again.
Lottie is okay. (She thinks I should have a dog) It's like I'm in an episode of Mother & Son, some days now with her. I scanned all her photos onto computer, a few months ago and then bought her over to my place and showed them all to her on my computer. A few days ago she rang, as she wanted a photo of my great aunt for a tribute to her, the dental school is doing on her. They say she was one of the first female dentists in Victoria. They say she may well have been the first, but they couldn't prove or disprove it. So I reminded her of the photo scanning and the fact that I still have the albums, to which mum said, Oh Christian, I forget things now a days.
What?
But that's good, she said. I've got to go. See you tomorrow night. Don't forget to bring the photo albums.
I stewed on this a bit. My god, this is worse that I thought. She'll be ga ga in months. Jesus!
When I went over there I was determined to have a word with her. I launched into her, with gusto, hugely stern voice, Mum if you can't seriously remember the fact that I scanned all of those photos and if you can't seriously remember that I took you over to my place to see them on my computer, there is something seriously wrong and I recommend, no encourage, you to go to a specialist and have it damn well checked out! Can you seriously not remember all of that!
She'd stopped still, frozen, with the peas in her hand. She looked at me, cocked her head and replied, Of course, I can remember you doing all of that, what's wrong with you? I just don't remember if there was a photo of Auntie Ada. Is there?
I haven't been up to Bolago since Mark and Luke got back from New Zealand. But I think I'm going to go this weekend. Except, I told my mum I'd see her this weekend. And I lied and said I went up there last weekend, cause all I wanted to do last weekend was smoke pot and do zip, which I did very successfully, actually. (I'd had a HELL of a week) I got caught out too. On Wednesday night she asked me if the new car was going any better with the new tyres on it. I relied, No, because I haven't been up to Bolago since I had them put on. There was an ugly pause, until I stumbled on with, (badly) I went up with a friend, last weekend. (nervous smile) One of the reasons I realised long ago that lying doesn't work. I only ever lie to my mother, now, only about whatever reason it is that I'm not visiting her for the weekend. And, apparently, I'm not even good at that.
Tim and Nicholas move into their own little love nest in Park Street on the 13th March. Then, I shall be a man of me own manor, living on my own for the first time in ten years, this year. When I first moved out of home in 1996, I wanted to live on my own, but couldn't afford to. It has taken me ten years, but here it is. Truthfully, I shouldn't ever live on my own, I know that from the few months between Tim and Aby, or was that Aby and Tim, I can't remember. I'm enough of a hermit when I do live with people. During those months, I used to scurry home like a little mouse, slam the door shut, ignore the phone and not come out for anyone. But I knew Aby was going to move in, so it wasn't like an open ended thing, more of a treat. But this time, it's just me baby. So, I've decided it's going to be liberating. Own place. Own life. Get a routine. Healthy living. Only food with the dirt still on it, sweetie. I'm going to be out and about, well, you know, Friday night at the pub, some weeks. Saturday out dancing, other weeks... You know, make a conscious, fucken effort. I think it will be good.
And my partner in crime is getting better.
Speaking of which, I'm off to Broome with Tom in a couple of months. He's still really thin, but now on the mend, from all reports. Every test he's been having, just lately, has been good. So here's hoping.
Ah the solitude of the top of Western Australia, I can’t wait for that battery charge.
And with Nicholas, the pot head, gone – I say that with the highest admiration for pot heads, don't get me wrong – not that I'm blaming him, not for a minute, I take full responsibility for my own pot habit, but, if I don't have any pot in the house, Nicholas offering me bongs included, I really don't miss it. Then the smokes.
You know when I worked in Sydney for those three months, I'd stopped the pot, given up the smokes by the end, was eating practically a vegetarian diet and I was jogging around the harbour twice a week. But I mean, if you have the harbour to jog around, you'd be jogging too. I lived in The Rocks, a beautiful part of the city world. It was bloody beautiful. Breathtaking really.
Carlton just doesn't quite stack up.
Mark picked and me up at the airport, drove me to Bolago, Luke rolled a joint, handed it to me... Yes, cheers, sweetie, thanks a lot.
So is the 13th of March the weekend you are talking about?
Julien’s new boyfriend’s name is Angelo? Shorter than Julien and hairy? He must be a chimpanzee?
Orretti. Angelo Orretti. He has to ask him his middle name and then just say it that way, always, whenever he talks to him. Italian's love that.
One with a life and things to do and places to go. That's the one.
Clipper him if he must, but... oh, I don't know. How they come, that's what I say.
Now I'm off to make coffee.
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