Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Did I tell you about Sunday?

I went to visit my mum nice and early, you know, get it over and done with. Is that terrible? I slipped in next to her and sat with her as she watched the soccer on the giant TV. She looks so excited whenever she sees me now. It's sad and joyous all at the same time.
I forgot her mints, so we drove up to the shop to buy some. She loves going out for drives now. Small things... I guess we've all got it to look forward to. She looks so cute, when she buttons her jacket up to her neck and puts on her hat.

I went straight to Nicholas and Tim’s after mum. Nicolas has just picked up his new car and, of course, Tim doesn’t drive, doesn’t have a licence, so, Nicholas asked me to take him driving. He was good too, considering he doesn’t have many people in his life who drive. He’s done it all on his own, good for him. Tim hasn’t been very encouraging, it’s just not his thing, driving. He's not so good beyond his own interests. I think he holds Nicholas back sometimes, but, who am I to judge other people's relationships.

We dropped into see our friend Sara, who turned down our lunch offer. How's that? What is she like! She was the first to crunch Nicholas' door on the blue stone gutter. Scraunch!!!!!!! He looked distressed, I told him he just had to expect it. We had lunch in St Kilda, which Nicholas said was a perv-fest. Tim keeps the beautiful Nicholas on a short leash. He’s so funny when Tim isn’t around, much more relaxed. I ate chicken parmigiana, Nicholas had a BLT. Pineapple juice and coke. It was a lovely day sitting out in the sun watching the world go by.
We picked Tim up from our other friend Helen’s, later in the afternoon. They’d been to Chadstone shopping. Tim bought a new dinner set - he seemed more interested in that than the progress Nicholas was making with his driving.
We got back to their place around 6pm.

Shane sms’d me not long after, if you are home can you stir the soup. I was really ready to leave Tim and Nicholas’s, but I was watching a doco on deep sea fishing and had been just too lazy, up until that point, to get off my fat arse, despite the fact that their heating had been broken for a week and it was cold. Tim had wrapped himself up in a blanket by this stage, with a chardonnay. Natch! I took Shane’s sms as a sign and said I had to go.

I came home to the house full of smoke! The soup had, practically, turned black on the top of the stove, probably ready to burst into flames. It stank, with acrid smoke. It even stank up stairs. A thick plume hung over the lounge, once I switched the light on, a dark cloud hugging the ceiling. All that was missing was a few burly firemen appearing out of the haze.
Shane and Sebastian had left the soup on while they went shopping, but they'd hit a bar in Smith Street on the way back, getting rotten drunk on Montenegro (Vodka with Cacao) and, presumably, had lost track of time.

I thought, after what happened in the last few weeks, one would understand if I was a little sensitive about such things, as I threw the windows and doors open. I lit a fire, so then at least there was some heat being generated to counteract the cold gushing in.

Shane and Sebastian arrived home not long after, laughing and too drunk to care really, falling about in the kitchen, thinking it was a huge joke.
“Oh Jesus!”
“Jesus fuck!”
Ha, ha, ha, snigger, snigger, snigger.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Ms Hepburn

It's funny, when I talk to one of my mother's friends on the phone, I could be talking to Katherine Hepburn.
"She's better off, Christian," she boomed down the phone. "Better off. You have done all you can do."
I don't get the association in person, but on the phone, it is uncanny.
I feel like I want to call her up some days and ask her to talk about Spence for a bit.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Sparkling bright.
Beauty, the pool where radiance
lives momentarily.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Saturday, June 26, 2010

No Training Required?

You know what this idiot state govt has gone and done now? They've given Vic Roads men the same authority to fine motorists as the police. Clearly, no police training is actually required, one would assume?
Or is this a militia? The first sign of privatisation?
Surely the state can't be that hard up? I thought the economy was strong? Don't we have enough coppers? Is this a part of the continual droning on about law and order?
If we need more police, why don't we employ more police?

Friday, June 25, 2010

People are funny

Beck said to me last week that she wanted to take Monday off instead of today, as it’s her mother’s birthday on the weekend and she asked me if I could work. Sure, I said. Then today we were talking about stuff for next week that we’d get done on Tuesday.
“Am I working Tuesday?”
“Aren’t you going to be here?” She had that look on her face.
I just thought since I was working Monday that I’d take Tuesday off. Silly me. “Oh... I can be.”
“It’s the end of the financial year, you know, I’ll need you to work as much as you can.” Still that look and that tone Beck gets when she is stressed.
“Sure, okay.” I tried not to feel pissed off, but, you know, I was. So you're having your day off, but some how, I'm not. Beck has been complaining about people who only think of themselves all week. It was the end of the day and I left as soon as I could.

Never ceases to amaze me how funny... odd, people can be.

Then I walked out of the front door, putting a cigarette in my mouth as I exited, still fighting feeling pissed off. It was raining quite heavily, bouncing in big drops on the bitumen of Bourke Street. There was a heavily pregnant woman who jumped at the sight of my cigarette.
“Disgusting,” she said at me.
It’s just rude, really. The licence some people think they have. The fresh wind was blowing all around us, what did she think was going to happen? A birth defect because of my cigarette, quite possibly?
You know the type, thinks she is making a grand sacrifice to the world by reproducing, acts like she is the only woman who has ever been pregnant. Me, me, me, me, as pregnant woman so want to do now a days.
Oh, settle down, I thought. I walked passed her and lit it. I waited for her to complain, as I watched the rain fall. I was ready to laugh at her, if she did. But she didn’t and I didn’t look back.

Oh, maybe I was just tired, you know, end of the week and all. But...

Thursday, June 24, 2010

My cute man

Santo stayed last night, for only the second time. He came over after work and hung out for the night. We watched teev and ate Vietnamese and cuddled on the couch. Shane got more and more pissed, Santo thinks he's funny.
Shane likes Santo, I can tell. When I asked late if Santo wanted to go home, (the driver to the non-driver) Shane said, before Santo could answer, “You should stay, it’s too late to go now. Stay. Stay.” Or should that be, Shane slurred?
I don’t usually like sleeping with anyone... actually, that’s not exactly true. I don’t like sleeping with just anyone, but with Santo, it’s kind of nice. We fell asleep our heads touching on the same pillow. That must be saying something, huh?

He kissed me bleary-eyed this morning. "See ya, gotta get to work."
I rolled over and looked at the clock one-eyed, it was 8am. My day off.
It felt good, you know. Nice.
"See ya handsome."
He smiled his sweet smile. I pulled the doona up to my neck and could feel sleep coming for me again. Santo waved from the door.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Sexting – Why Do We Lie To Our Kids?

Teenagers have been charged over "sexting" offences where explicit photos of students are sent around.
Police say charges are laid in only the most extreme cases while the majority were referred to the appropriate govt department.

The police minister said kids did not understand the seriousness of sexting.
"Children don't see it as a crime and fail to grasp the consequences of their actions," said the police minister. "They may think they are only sending an image to their boyfriend or girlfriend, but they could be sending that image to the world, ."
He said parents need to be more aware of how their children use mobile phones and other technology.

But the truth is that they are most likely not sending their image to the world, that they most likely are only sending the image to their boyfriend or girlfriend and there probably will be no long term effects, psychological, or otherwise.
Do we tell our children these lies because it is the cheapest method of dealing with adults hang up about sex? What does a bit of nudity really matter anyway? It is scandalous that teenagers would be charged with child pornography offences for this.
When did we become so, so ridiculous about sex? This is not a serious issue. Do the police and govt departments not have better things to do with their time. Here's a tip guys, go look for some real criminals. Here's another tip, stop making cheap political miles out of non-issues.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Monday, June 21, 2010

You Don't Have A Care In The World

I looked at my cat, Missy, just as I was heading out the back door with a million things to do, with her one paw out stretched, over the blanket she was snuggled up to, the winter sun shining in through the window forming the proverbial pool in which she was lying, as if in her very own spot light, one eye closed, one lazily half-open and I thought, you don't have a care in the world.

I wanted to be her.

I did spend morning tea in Brunettis drinking coffee and eating crème brûlée and afternoon tea in another establishment drinking tea and eating chocolate chip biscuits.

Santo text me eating brûlée or chocolate biscuits and said he was jealous. He came over last night and shared in our Sunday night dinner - I made a flourless French chocolate cake, because some of the gang have decided recently that they are gluten intolerant, as is half the world, so it would seem, now a days. I made it up to him for neglecting him last week, you know, with pats and licks. The way to a boy's heart, food and sex. I said I was sorry, as I gazed into his eyes and he said he was sorry too.
Truthfully, I didn't really think I had any thing to apologise for, it was extraordinary circumstances, last week. But, I was sorry that his feelings had been hurt. And, hey, an apology doesn't cost anything.
And he's got beautiful brown eyes.

The winter sun shone down all day and it was all quite lovely. Sunny winter days in Melbourne are really gorgeous like warm honey trickled over you, or fur lined slippers around your toes.

Missy was quickly wrapped around my ankles, when I got home late, meowing, meowing, meowing. Oh yes, I thought, now you've got a care, hey?

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Go On Ruin The Environment You Wanker

I went out to chop some wood for the open fire. The axe hit the first piece and that 'thwunk" sounded through the earth underneath me and I heard someone say, "Go on ruin the environment."
The voice was kind of at a distance, somewhere over the fence and far off, so it seemed. I didn't think much about it. Oh, that old peanut, I thought, if I thought anything at all.
I chopped some more. It was followed by, "Keep going you idiot, polluting the atmosphere."
I wondered where it was coming from.
I chopped the last pieces and the voice said, "You're a wanker, you are destroying the world."
I wondered who he was talking to? I picked up my wood and realised, he must have been talking about me.
He sounded angry, possible deranged. I thought it was some nutter. But who?
I laughed to myself, as I headed inside, imagine if he confronted me. I felt a chill up my spine, I have to admit, as I got closer to my back door, as whatever if was behind me got bigger and darker.
"Mate, I don't have any kids to leave anything to, let alone the world. I don't care about the environment, because nobody else does. Did you see what happened in Copenhagen?"
I wondered if he was unhinged enough to punch me for that comment? You know, the argument you shouldn't have. I wondered if he was one of those toothless types, who didn't understand any of it, but believed it all wholeheartedly?
"Yeah, but what about me fucken kids!!!!" (I kind of picture being held up against a wall with his spindly hands around my neck, spitting small droplets of spittle on my face as he shook)

I wondered if he'd buy,
the wood lets off just as much carbon if you burn it or if you let it rot on the ground. Which is true, I believe.
Australias' carbon emissions are negligible, so my open fire isn't effecting anyone.

It's the kind of confrontation where the dumb commit murder because they are passionate about something because the world has told them they should be. Understanding not required.
He sounded dumb.
I went inside and used two fire lighters to get my fire going. No, I didn't.

I thought that the deal was, that as long as we generate power from burning brown coal, burning wood actually pollutes less, or the same, or something?
Whichever, it's not so bad.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

I don't think he is really buying it

Santo is pissed off with me. It is to be expected. Well, I did, pretty much, ignored him all week. It's true. I looked after my mum, but ignored him. Oh, I didn't mean to. I didn't do it on purpose. I had lots of things to think about and lots of things going on. I had to make all of the decisions, which is fine, but it left me with little energy afterwards. It was all swirling there for a few days and I had to snatch at the information and make decisions fast. I was exhausted at the end of each day and just wanted to shut down, afterwards.

Problem being, I don't think he is really buying it. Oh well, best I make it up to him today. Or smack him one? Now which? I suggested that I might slap his arse, which he didn't respond to, which he normally would. That was an easy one to pick.
I've been very gentle so far, but he just wasn't sounding like he was in a forgiving mood, not entirely. I mean, he said that he understood, but his tone, kinda, said something else.


He wants me to stop smoking pot, too, which is probably a good call. And, you know, I don't mind boyfriends telling me what to do, it is a part of their charm, the tussle between their wants and my wants, but they have to make it to boyfriend status first. Don't you think?

Friday, June 18, 2010

The Novas are good, I can recommend them

I do like a good mandarin selection in the supermarket. Yesterday there were Imperial, Clementine and Nova. I was very happy.
I got Imperial, because I'm a bit of an Imperial boy and Novas, as I'd never had them before. I used to have this conversation with Tom. He was strictly an Imperial boy. Sigh.
The Novas are good, I can recommend them.

Although, not much in a mandarin, apparently. They taste so good, but are inferior fruit to Oranges, which have lots of antioxidants that mandarins don't have. How could this be?
Pretty, they taste good, but with no depth. A bit like a blond.

Maybe, they are good to juggle with? Maybe?
I'm sure they'd be good to throw at cockheads, you know, people who drive every where at 40k's, but, why, when you can have mandarin juice running down your chin instead.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

No consequence

How sad it is when you get to the end of your life, it’s of no consequence. There is no great fanfare, no great party, just the possible end of somebody else’s burden.
That’s what it becomes and it’s not right. A comment on the current population is how they treat the elderly.
And she lived in the golden age of the planet. No one to step forward even with a cursory congratulations.
Just a declaration of confusion and I’ll send you the literature on the different places.
In the end, I could no longer make it right for her. Sorry mum. At least I still make you laugh.

I went to mum’s assessment. She didn’t go so well, pretty much solitary confinement, not too much doubt there. It's bread and water from here on out. Funny, no matter the education, no matter the wealth, we all end up the same... needing someone to wipe our arses.

I can’t stay here, said mum.
Why not, asked the assessment lady.
I might, I might, I might get to like it.

I, not only got the neighbour to feed the cat indefinitely, she's even going to go in and change the lights around. Whoo hoo! I just straight out and asked her. Although, apparently, I do have certain allure over middle aged women. I find I can charm, even just on half strength charm, not even the full throttle. They give me that look
... it's to do with the fluttering of the eyes, be it briefly and a certain smile...
and more often, than not, they respond to my requests. It's a recent power, I've noticed over the last number of years.
Life's like the TV series Heroes, more powers just seem to keep coming. (I'm sure, said by Forest Gump, on my sound track, anyway. I thought that was such a woefully bad movie, that it would, actually, keep me on my toes, you know.)

OMG! Life is precious. Don't get me wrong, foetuses aren't precious, there is a never ending supply of those. I mean real, place to be, a home where I belong, with family and friends who adore me, kind of life. People with lives. Because once it's gone, it never comes back.

I cried on my way home in the car. Is that what boys do?

Actually, I cried when I took my brother's call. I didn't think I was going to, but I did. No getting around it, couldn't hide it, sob, sob. Not exactly what a straight brother wants to hear when his gay brother answers the phone, probably worst nightmare stuff. He was cool, I called him back.

My dad and mum have now done their bit; the rest is, now, really up to me. Yikes!

Wednesday, June 16, 2010


I took a big breath and thought, so far, so good. Not bad. I backed the car out and headed into the day. I had to get out, as the cleaner had arrived. Eek! I hate that. Those sorts of things should just happen, I don't have to see it. Good thing I wasn't... hand movement waist height. I was off day.
I'm sure she changes the positions of the cat's bowls around when she comes. She does it on purpose, she knows I don't like her. Everytime I got on the phone, she seemed to get on the vacuum. Well, not her exactly, she's very nice, it's just the idea that creeps me out. I'm cleaner phobic, but it could be construed otherwise. David says I'm incorrigible. Anyway, I've just realised after she's gone, I'm always dumping Madam's chow in her water bowl. Right, left?
I hooked back into my sound track with Patti Austen and The Ability to Swing, in the car in Victoria Street. Every thing felt better after that song.

I haven't felt like thinking about Santo, not since all the drama unfolded. I've kind of shut him out. That's hardly fair, huh? I guess I should text him?
Just one problem at a time, I just haven't had the energy to deal with something extraneous. Grimace. I mean that in the nicest way. Just getting through.

I go to the nursing home, there's Lottie taken up with a blind and deaf woman, she said she was telling her what was going on on television. She said it was very nice there, despite the fact she was still going home after a week. Even if it was more of an enquiry than a demand, almost fading in it's intensity. Perhaps, it was my imagination, wishful thinking. But, she's already not quite sure how long she has been there. I guess it was all a very big drama for her, too.
She let go in the hospital, when she realised that the decision had been taken away from her. I saw a part of her fail as she gave in. My feisty, beautiful mother chose the better option meekly, she did not want to stay in that hospital. And I felt sad.
Now, there is a certain resignation. A definite bunnies-in-the-head-lights look about her.
Makes me sad.

I looked back at mum's cat gazing down at me from her back porch, like how many cats had done before her? I can count five, a tabby and a lot of black and whites, always black and white.
I thought, as we locked eye balls, Well, I guess your tenancy is up too, little Squirt?

I’ve got all my friends worded up, if they think of my mum’s cat, they should text me and remind me, you know, just in case. You just can't forget those things, you know.

The house stinks, Shane will be impressed.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

One problem at a time

7am. Alarm. Up, coffee on, muesli in bowl. Next problem ticked off, the nurses.
I called my sister at 7.30. She was driving to work. We briefly spoke finances. She wished me luck.
The hospital called, just as I was finishing my muesli. Good thing they did, I never know the etiqutte of these things. I’m just about to leave. Could I bring clothes. Yes, I could.
Detour to mums.
Lottie’s very agitated when I get to the hospital, but I get her laughing. The age care professional comes and has a word with me, tells me the process. Lottie can’t go home. We hear that mum is getting dressed and leaving. One thinks she has caught on.
She’s getting dressed and leaving, she was determined.
We sat her down and had a discussion about why she couldn’t go home. She protested a lot. So when it was eventually decided that she had to stay in the hospital, she finally piped up, in the silence of her stubbornness, okay, I’ll go to the other place to be assessed, but just for a week. But it wasn’t ego, it was defeat. She said she would do it for me.
We were in, she had agreed. The assessments would be less rushed in respite than what necessitates assessment combined with the running of a busy hotel. It made sense. She got that, she agreed.

I guess Lottie’s worst nightmare came true at around midday today, as I lead the poor little lamb in by the hand to a pale pink, with dark pink high lights, old age care facility.

The very nice lady running the place, said, you are cold. (not me, mum, you understand?) You should have a nice cup of tea and some lunch, to warm you up. And she took her away. I heard mum being introduced to the other inmates, as I stood at reception filling out the paperwork.
And there was my mother, sitting up drinking tea and eating lunch, chatting away. There she was, playing lady, the same eye flicks, the same round mouth when she was asked if she liked sausages. Oh no. The same finger twitches. The napkin was tucked in to her oldest gardening jumper.
She didn’t see me watching her.
She was off and chatting, as the sun shone in through the tulle’d windows.
She then just kissed me good bye, no tears, no glance back. Distracted with new things, so quickly. She thinks she is staying a week. Five days, as she counted out.

And I got a park right outside my hairdresser early afternoon and I had a haircut. I bought two pork salad rolls. I came home wrote blogs and smoked pot in between fielding calls from an assortment of health care professionals. I was beginning to fade by 18.30, I could hear it in my voice.

I called work. Poor Beck is hating to hearing her say she is going to resign for the very first time. So, with that on the cards, I gave her my sob story and asked for the rest of the week off. She agreed but I could hear it was what she didn’t want to hear. She hesitated before she said it was alright.

I don’t know if I’m terrible, but I got home and thought, Well, that wasn’t so hard, quite relaxed, really. Of course, it’s not done yet – raised open hands – not by a long shot, but so far so good.

And I rolled myself a great, fat j. And lit a fire and wondered what Shane was going to provide for dinner.

Next step meet the insurance assessor.
Actually, the next step is, put wood on the fire and then food. Safely home again.

Shane bought home healthy, organic take away. And wine. And we got shitfaced.

Monday, June 14, 2010

What Is That Noise?”

Santo woke up frisky. I tell you, a twenty nine year old is a walking hard on. So we fucked awake. We’d smoked an awful lot of pot and hadn’t slept much.

He slapped my hand when I reached for the potbowl. I made coffee. There was a glow, a day off.

I called mum, we were chatting. She was rabbitting on about something, I was rolling my first joint. I excused myself to close the machine up. Where's the lighter? Full attention back on her, Puff. Puff.
Mum started to pick up the conversation where she left off.
Puff. Puff. I heard a loud beeping noise in her back ground.
Mum had pick up the thread and was continuing full steam ahead.
“Um?” Mum? Hang on?”
“What dear?”
“What is that noise?”
“What noise?”
“That high pitched squeal?”
“Hang on.” Clunk goes the phone. She's gone for a moment. Back she comes, “It’s the smoke alarm, I can’t turn it off.”
“The smoke alarm?”
“It’s alright, though.”
“Alright? It’s not bothering you?”
“I’ll fix it when we finish talking.”
“You could go over the road and ask the male partner of the neighbours, live in boyfriend, to look at it, if you want it done right now.”
“No it’s alright.”
“I’d better come over and fix it before you go out for the afternoon.”
Then she said something about fluff.
I said fluff?
"Yes," she said. "In my eye."
"Not smoke?”
“No, no, don’t be silly. I had something in my eye. I’ll go and ask the neighbour.” And she hung straight up, as she has a tendency to do. Clunk.

I looked at Santo. I looked down at my smoking fingers, I threw the joint in the ash tray in disgust. What? I looked around. My head spinning. I said to Santo I had to go. I picked up my keys and left.

Fluff? Smoke? Fluff? Smoke? I tried to push out of my brain. No, couldn’t be. I’ll get there she’ll be fine.

There were two fire engines in the street as I turned the corner. Mum was on the front veranda in an oxygen mask. A lady walking by with her son, I gather teaching him about sounds and life in general, heard the fire alarm and she and her son investigated and they saw smoke inside the house. She called the fire brigade.

Inside. It was like a war zone, there were men in suits appearing out of no where in the smoky mist. But, fortunately, it was mostly just smoke.
And a hunking bunch of firemen they were too. Goodness. My joint was hitting, after all. The handsomest fire man said, afterwards, that I looked completely shocked... in the smoky kitchen. Trying not to blush at him, most likely.
I was shocked that I’d made a call and, in all reality, it was the wrong call. Smack bang. I was looking at a burnt kitchen full of smoke. It felt weird, as I don’t call shots wrong, generally. But, I just had. There it was.
Mum had put a crumpet in the toaster and it must have got stuck and it caught alight. Then it caught on the cupboard above. The problem is that she didn’t react quickly enough, she didn’t react to the fire alarm until I asked her what it was. And she tried to beat the fire out with the rolled up newspaper, making it twice as bad.
The brigade are the nicest bunch of guys, I have to say. One had found the insurance policy. They made sure I understood what it was I needed to do. They were really nice.
Mum was taken to hospital, because she had burnt the end of her finger when she tried to beat the flames out with the rolled up newspaper.

Then everybody was gone.

I called the insurance company and made the claim and got someone to come and repair the burnt power point, and to put the power back on. I didn’t have my glasses, I was blind without them.
Thank goodness the man over the road offered me a pair and a nice cup of coffee afterwards and a rendition of all the best coffee houses plus in Melbourne, with the history of coffee thrown in too. He made such a par larva about making the coffee with his machine that by the time he’d made his, I’d finished mine. I decided it was either me, or him, so, naturally, I won.
Oh, I shouldn’t say that. I just didn’t want to be talking about coffee, as my mind was reeling. What the hell was I going to do? He really is the nicest neighbour, would do anything for me, I couldn’t ask for better. I’m just terrible. I’ll go to hell.
“Cheeze, thanks for the coffee, that was great. Got a few thing to attend to – I’m not sure if I actually pointed, or if the metaphorical mean was enough – head flick, or not, to the burnt house over the road, it was a blue-chip reason for cutting and running, after all. Not every day...

It would be a couple of hours before the "make safe" man calls to say when he's coming.

I drove home and got my glasses. I just didn't feel I could be certain of tackling every job without them.
The hospital called me, as I hit the Victoria Street car park, and mentioned something about respite care, or staying just one night was possible, anything to help.
Santo text to say he’d get going soon. He’d been at my place all that time, I thought? I just thought he would have left when I did. I just text back, ok. I was on my way home, but thought he'd be gone by the time I got there.

The sun was shining when I got home. I gave Shane the low down. I rolled two joints. I got my journal, no electricity, no laptop and my haiku.
I got back to mums around 4pm to wait for the electrician.

I smoked both joints. Ah, fuck it, I thought. I even went outside, to smoke them, despite the smell of the house.
I decided to concentrate on fixing everything just one problem at a time. Just think about the next thing you have to do, that's all you have to do. Get the power point fixed, get the power back on. Then, at least, the house is livable, if need be, again.
Waiting for the call, I sat back in the peace of my mother’s, oh so familiar, lounge room. I got my breath. The joints had both hit.

Two hours had passed so I called the electrician. He’d been given my wrong phone number. He’d been given the wrong street number.
Another couple of hours, no doubt.

I was hungry, I hadn't eaten anything all day. There was only ice cream and fruit juice, everything else kind of needed heat, so I ate a cornetto and drank two giant glasses of grape juice. I had such a wild sugar rush, it was too much and it made me feel nausea's.
So, I wrote haiku by the fading light, but it was no good and I had to go and lie down for an hour, or so. Because I was so stoned? Yes? I got horny thinking of Santo. I lay on my sister’s bed, mum had long since given my childhood bed away, and thought about him. (Ed note - in hindsight, it's a pity I didn't think to text him) And the world seemed calm.

Then I called the electrician back at six, as the light faded away altogether. He said he’d be there in an hour. No problem, as long as you are still coming.
Standing in the dark house, there was a cacophony of footsteps parading across mum’s roof. I went out once, or twice, to check, two cats and a possum’s beady eyes spied down at me. Two living creatures that share this planet, right there, eye balling each other. It seemed bizarre, not sure why? Each one of them sounded like a heard as they scuttled across the roof. No wonder mum was beginning to think there was people in the roof. Oh yes, that was new, just this last week, or so - everything I was hoping that the new care person would take care of... you know, with the three hours a week.
Hands in the air, raised eye brows.

The hospital called, as I smoked on the front step, in the shadow of the portico. Yes they could keep her over night. Another problem crossed off. The street was silent, still. I was nearly done.
The small gas heater worked in the sitting room and I found two candles, so at least I was warm and could see. Some people were scratching for water in dry river beds.

Then a lovely nuggety little smiley chap arrived with a bloody big torch and a tool kit. He was straight into it, smile, we’ll get this fix. Oh yes, that’s melted, isn’t it. He asked if I could get him a stepladder as the fuse box was high up,
"Not made for little blokes like me, mate, old houses like this."
I’d taken not two steps out to the garage and the lights all started to flick back on, one by one. And then he was gone. And there I was standing alone in my mum’s burnt kitchen, on my own.
Click, next problem is cancelling the nurses, 7am. Nothing to do until then. The house is safe and sound. I'd fed the cat, I could go home. Day done.
I closed up the house, as the street lights twinkled in the sky. I shut the front door. Silence. Calm.

The sound of my exhaust starting up echoed in the trees. There was icy dew on the windscreen.
I was home for pizza with Shane and Mark W., who I flirted with. I think I’m doing it on purpose now. It's a kind of a challenge, to get eye contact and then that look, small smile. Somebody stop me. I was just in time for master chef.

One splutter, maybe two

I taught Santo how to smoke joints. He's never smoked before in his life, come over to the dark side Santo. I laughed to myself, that must be a record, what is it, two weeks? Then I say after that, what am I talking about, I've never had a non-smoker before, all who come before him came pre-broken in potwise.

I wasn't going to mention it again, after I found out he'd never smoked before. I didn't think is was the healthiest thing to do to someone new in your life, just weeks after meeting. But, you know, I got pot for the long weekend, just a one off treat, you understand. We weren't going out any where all weekend. And Santo was keen.

He took to it like a duck to water. One splutter, maybe two. He kept saying that he didn't feel anything, so I just kept feeding it to him, one puff at a time. You can always have more, and you don't want to go to too much, oops, vomit. Trust me. The only thing he has to compare it to is e's two years ago. Maybe he thought it would be more. I kept saying to him it's not called the chill out drug for nothing, you know.

He fucked like a stoned boy, for hours and intently, not too many hours later. In the morning too, not normally my favourite, but he seemed keen.
He told me not to have any more, as I reached for the mull bowl in the morning, so, you see, still a little catholic boy guilt. Not a total lush, although... he said he liked it.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Candles burned, the open fire glowed red

The phone rang, late yesterday morning, it was Mark. When are you coming up, he asked.
I'd got up late, I think I was waiting for the coffee to brew. Go some where? Do something? I knew that I should understand these words.
Lolli and Adrianna are coming up, a girl's night. You said you'd come?
Did I?
Yes, I checked with you at the time?
Did you?
Don't tell me you're not coming now, they both wanted to see you?
No, I'm not saying... er... um - think, think - no, I'm not saying that.
So you are coming?
Actually, when I thought about it, I had no other plans, anyway. Good thing I filled the car up with petrol. And, I went to the country.

We drank red wine, we smoked pot, we laughed. People who you know very well, and not seeing each other for a while, it just kind of flows, from where you left off. Lol's kids have grown. Well behaved kids and you don't notice, it's never a problem.

There was a Seinfeld marathon on. The entire Seinfeld series, one after the other. I'd forgotten how good they were. Candles burned, the open fire glowed red.
Shane got really plastered and flirted with Rob, as Rob was saying good night. It was meant to be funny, quite possibly Shane was too pissed to pull it off, but it fell short of humour. It was a clear hit. Rob took it graciously and he and Lol headed to bed.
Shane passed out, we all raised our eyebrows.

When the wine the pot and Seinfeld started winding up for Sunday morning, I had to put down the first glass of red, no, I've got to drive. Then Luke ambushed me for a momentary lapse and we smoked a joint. Then I had to watch two more hours of Seinfeld and trays of food coming out for lunch. Everyone in the kitchen was Italian, or a non-Italian cooking Italian.
All other pitfalls avoided, no wine, no dope, I left later in the afternoon than I expected. Nice though, what a lovely distraction. Fresh air, big skies, a sense of freedom just in your surroundings.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Out to lunch

The traffic was heavy on Burke Road, two lines halfway up the hill from Toorak Road. Do any of these governments that build these freeways have even the slightest understanding how freeways, actually, increase traffic, not the other way around? When are they going to realise that they have to start putting money into public transport rather than roads.
There were two huge trucks, at the end of the two rows of traffic, like apartment blocks, in the middle lane, as my dwarfed car slipped next to them on the outside lane, as the whole conglomeration inched forwards at a crawl. What did I really care anyway, as I was turning off to my mum’s at the next side street, which was now in sight and in reach? But it was the principal that mattered, and even though it wasn't affecting me right at this minute, it was going to increasingly affect every driver into the future.
Without another thought, I pushed my blinker stick down and turned the steering wheel to the left. Ah, the relative quiet of the side streets, nothing but an empty road in front of me. The only cars in sight were parked. Freedom was laid out in front.
Cough, cough. My engine missed a beat as though it was running out of petrol. That's strange, I though, as I glanced down at the petrol gage nonchalantly to see that the orange needle was bending passed the letter E.
Eyes out like boiled lollies on sticks in the best tradition of Bugs Bunny cartoons.
What? Oh crap! How have I not noticed that? I've never run out of petrol in my life. In fact, I always tend to be a little OCD about it and go the other way and fill my car up once it even looks like it is heading towards a quarter of a tank. Strange that I hadn't noticed. I usually fill it up before I head to the country and as I hadn't been up to the country for the last few months, I guess I hadn't had reason to look.
Cough, cough, the engine missed again, as I turned the next corner. Should I head straight to the service station now? Oh, maybe that was being just a touch dramatic. Or is that my usual complacent self? I always get confused between those two.
Cough, cough, it sounded again as I headed up my mum’s street and parked.

“Come on mum, let’s go have lunch. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she said.
“You better put your walking shoes on, as you may need to push the car.”
“Oh why?”
“Oh, I’m low on petrol…”
“We’ve got a tin for the motor mower, in the garage, perhaps we should go and get petrol in that, first.”
“Nah, come on, we haven’t run out yet.”
I started the car expectantly, you know, expecting it to go, what is it they say about the power of positive thinking? The car accelerated up the hill and around the corner without any protests. I turned onto Toorak Road and headed up the incline of the busy carriageway.
“Don’t want to run out here?”
“Oh, don’t even give it any thought,” mum replied.
We came up and over the rise. Cough, cough said the engine. The petrol station was in sight.
“We can roll from here.”
In we slipped next to the bright, white bowsers. Of course, they didn’t sell 98 octane, so I only put $10 in.
“We’ll have to go to the other petrol station now,” I said.
“Oh why?”
I attempted to explain the difference between 92, 95, and 98 octane petrol on the way to the next petrol station.
The car coughed and coughed and coughed as we headed out of the petrol station. I wondered, momentarily, if there was, actually, something else wrong with it and not a lack of petrol at all. But then he coughed his last and returned to purring like the kitten he normally is.
Note to self – I think that was really, fucken, close. Don’t do that again.

We parked the car in the far corner of the Camberwell car park. There was a bleach-blonde chick, desperately still trying to look in her thirties, in a Toyota Prado, wrestling the steering wheel doing a sixteen point turn to get her urban warfare vehicle parked. I don’t know, I thought as I strummed my fingers on my steering wheel, why do they drive these trucks?

We headed to our old favourite cafe for lunch, Cafe Moravia. The beautiful shaved-headed man, with the dazzling eyes, was still taking orders. He's amazingly good looking, just gorgeous. I melt just a little bit more every time I see him. We chose club sandwiches as they are a favourite of mine. Mum agrees with what I say. We sat in the window, so I can gaze outside. It's hard perving, though, with mum sitting opposite, as she watches me intently. She kept talking to me with her mouth full of sandwich crumbs, ugh!, so that I couldn’t understand her. I’d watch some cute man walk by to look back to the Muppet mouth with tumbling bread crumbs.
I gazed out the window, as much as I could. It's not that I'm not interested in what my mum says, but sometimes with everything being, them, that, those and you know what I mean, sometimes I need a respite.

There was a guy who came and stood outside the café, who had on a pair of light blue pants, that you would have had to have seen to appreciate, that fitted him so perfectly, his perfect arse and his perfect legs. You know, kind of chunky and curvy all at the same time. He looked a bit South American, Brazilian maybe; dark, black wavy hair, black eyes, white, white whites, dazzling smile... just beautiful. You know what they say about Italians and Brazilians… or is that just what I say? The two most beautiful races on earth. He was clearly waiting for someone, as he looked up and down the street and then made calls on his mobile phone. And when he turned around and looked back up the hill, the perfectly round plump bulge in the front… you know what they say, IQ over 100 and there is no fucken god.
Eventually, another good looking guy came up the hill to met him, who also looked Brazilian, maybe, and they smiled coyly at each other, reached out to touch but stopped short. They both stood and gazed momentarily. Did they want to embrace, but were being stopped by years of heterosexual oppression? Or was that just my imagination, my story writing brain – good to know I've still got it, if it is. They both headed into our café. Mr Cutie Pants ran his hand down the back of Mr Late in such a gentle caressing way, as he guided him to head through the door first that I rather decided that maybe I was not imagining any of it.
I looked passed them as they came in through the door and there was Carey Grammar boy walking up the footpath – cute, floppy-haired, blemish free, probably year eleven, or twelve. Now, I can tell you, the way his eyes looked intently, following at least one of those hot arses, he’ll have something to tell his mum and dad in the foreseeable future. He wasn’t just checking out the jeans Mr Cutie had on, you can tell, with that intensity of look and the way he looked back almost despite himself.
“What are you looking at?” asked mum as she tried to crane her neck around.
“Oh… um… just life. Guys being guys…”
Mum smiled, said something about that being nice and continued speculating about when my brother might be coming to visit next, crumbs plastered across her lips.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Why don't you have a blog?

Shane said the other day that he didn't understand why I don't have a blog. Just like that, out of the blue, no prompting. Oh, we were talking about the dodgy websites I go to, as Shane likes to joke. I don't really, but Shane seems to like to believe it was so. Just because I told him that I stumbled across a woman having sex with a big white dog. Hands in the air, quizzical look. I couldn't quite believe my eyes to begin with. What  are you going to do?

And then he asked why I didn't have a blog? I was tempted to just admit it. I nearly did.

The problem is that Shane is an Administration/IT guy and he'd find it in no time flat, if I corrected his misapprehension. Not that you'd have to be an IT guy, my computer isn't pass word protected, any idiot could look at my browser history. Easy as.
It's funny, it amuses me some times, as all of my close fiends know I have kept a journal for years it's just something writers seem to do. They  have all joked how they'd be scared if ever I published it. One day I might just come out with, I do have a blog and you are all in it. You know, just to see the looks on their faces.
Not that I say anything really awful about any of them. Maybe they all think they are more interesting than they actually are. ha, ha.

I was taken a back with Shane's question though, I wasn't expecting it. I think I stumbled, momentarily, so if he'd been fishing he'd have pick up on that, but I don't think he was.

Shane drinks a bottle of red wine a night, minimum. He says he can't sleep otherwise, now we've given up sex.... um, er, that's a slip... pot.
He has bareback sex because he's positive. He's beat his meth habit, even if he always did front up for work Monday morning while he was doing it.
He has an annoying laugh, according to some.

What else can I say, you know, in case he ever reads this?

He cooks, or organises, my dinner, pretty much, every night - he has to eat because of his HIV medication, so I've got nothing but nice things to say.
Big fucken smile. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, after all, isn't that what they say? Or is that to his silence?
Besides, we've been friends for years.

Wednesday, June 09, 2010

Just Go With It

Santo is really lovely. Gorgeous. Handsome. He likes me a lot. I kind of like him too. We’re spending a lot of time together. Monday night, Saturday night, you know what we were doing. We have lunch most days, just coffee yesterday, after he’d been for a job interview. He sat opposite me and gazed at me as I ate my lunch. We kiss without reserve in public as we part. We hold hands across the café table. It's nice to touch, skin.

Wow, fuck me. If you told me I’d be going so full on so soon, a few weeks ago, I’d have laughed at you. No way! Ha, ha. But, you know, holding back where does it get you? I mean, what could possibly go wrong, short of Santo becoming a stalker if I said I didn’t want to continue, not that I feel that. Not that I think he would. What is there to be scared of, really? You know, I’ve got a happy life I can return to, this is the icing we all want to add to the top of it. It is. Yep. Big smile.

Tuesday, June 08, 2010

Out Medium Density Myth

The out of control medium density development in Melbourne isn't working. You can't drive around in the inner suburbs any more without experiencing peak hour traffic delays, pretty much, at any time of the day and you can forget about weekends. Bloody hell! This idiot govt is destroying Melb by being in bed with the property developers, it's that simple.
They say that Melbourne has a housing shortage and it cannot keep spreading its boundaries out further and further so we need to accept medium density. But my question is, why does that translate to huge over-development in the inner suburbs? Often, huge development in the very best locations in the inner suburbs, land that property developers will make millions of dollars from to the detriment of the locals?
Why doesn’t medium density mean the use of the all existing suburbs? Why doesn’t it mean – and I’m sorry for the people who aren’t familiar with Melbourne – building two houses per block in all suburbs? You know, for example, Box Hill, Blackburn, Nunawading, Mitcham, Vermont, Ringwood, Croydon, Bayswater, Boronia, Lillydale and the like. The whole lot? Why does it mean ugly ten story, and more, blocks of flats in Nelson Place Williamstown, or Napier Street Fitzroy. It is because this has so much less to do with the good of Melbourne and so much more to do with the good of property developers.

I don't know how many people have said to me lately that Melb traffic is out of control!

Let’s look at Victoria Street Collingwood, for instance. Pretty much any time of the day, the traffic is unmanageable, rows of cars stopped all the way along, in both directions. And yet, there are four more huge developments going ahead.
Do we have to get to gridlock in the inner suburbs before the government realises that its policies are not only not working, but they are destroying Melbourne.
Remember when Melbourne won the most liveable city in the world award… not any more. I'd say that is history.

But remember, there is an election this year. You can tell this state govt directly what you think of their housing policy.
I know I intend to.
Time to go Mr Brumby... you and your idiot housing minister.

Monday, June 07, 2010

Shame on Australia

It's a shame that Australia is such a racist country, otherwise Tony Abbot’s barbaric Pacific Solution could not be used to give him a boost in the polls.
Fancy Australian's putting an idiot ahead like Abbot for proposing racist strategies to increase his political chances. It defies belief?
I mean, I know all the politicians are just abysmal, self serving, lying crap now a days, (hung parliaments in England and Tasmania, do you think people are catching on?) but that’s no reason to be going for a 1950’s throw back. Tony Abbot is a complete idiot.
The man famously said, Global warming is crap.
Go Greens! That’s all I’ve got to say.

Oh bless... makes me just want to run over and rub his...

Sunday, June 06, 2010

Gotta Stop Thinking For One?

I was supposed to take Nicholas to look at cars. He'd seemed so keen, almost insistent, last week, that I made sure that I didn't forget for this weekend.

Last night early, Santo said he had to go and he headed off home, without even staying for dinner, when Shane had specifically said that he must stay and that he would cook burritos. I had a feeling that it may have just been nervousness and that, maybe, I should have insisted that he stay, but you know, I'm not so very good at the beginnings of relationships. I'm too laid back, too full of the everybody-should-do-what-makes-them-happy vibe about it all that I am often guilty of missing the more subtle signs of some one saying the opposite of what they are hoping might happen, you know, insist that they stay when they say they must get going.

So, after I'd had breakfast with my mother, I sent a text to Nicholas saying, lets go look at cars. He called back to say he'd already been and that he'd found a Peugeot that he was interested in. As I've got a Peugeot, I was particularly interested and I asked him what model. He replied, I don't know, a model with 4 doors. I didn't ask any more questions after that.

So, I headed home and spent the afternoon writing on my computer.

When I text Santo late in the afternoon, he did seem a bit miffed that he'd headed home leaving me free to do what I had already organised to do with Nicholas. We could have spent the day together, he said. He'd been in Carlton too. If I'd messaged him earlier then maybe we could have spent the afternoon together. Oops. I'm going to have to re-hone my boyfriend skills, I can see that. I mean, not that he's a boyfriend, of course, we've only known each other for a couple of weeks, but...

Sebastian came over and cooked home made pesto gnocchi with a fennel and orange salad. It was great. Shane bought caramel slice for desert. Just as well, as I was supposed to cook a flourless chocolate cake, but I didn't. I let the kitchen down. Grimace. Would you believe, I forgot?

Saturday, June 05, 2010

The Saturday Morning Fuzzies

I want to write something. I need to write something. I've got to write something. I'm a writer who doesn't write. I feel like a writer with nothing to say. I've got to find a voice.... what do I need to say? What do people want to read? I don't know? Why don't I know? I don't think I have much of a clue? Clueless? Fuck me! Is that why barely nobody reads this? Could be? Maybe? Probably? Most likely? Huh? Bugger!

Maybe, I'll just sit here and play with myself, ha, ha! I'm good at that, after all. Better at that than anything else I do, except perhaps sleep. But then again, what boy isn't?

Actually, Santo is coming over later and he's good at it too. It's why I like him, after all. Oh, it's not the only reason I like him. He's smart and sweet and sensible and normal and quite lovely too. And he likes me, which is half the battle, don't you think?

And I like him, which is, quite possibly, more important. I recognise the barriers I put up previously, that I didn't even realise I was putting up, you know, all that over processing stuff. Is it going too fast? Are we getting too close? Do I want this? Don't I want this? Where is this going? What if... what if... what if... I've relaxed and I am just letting whatever happen happen, no fear.

Although, he doesn't drive, which is a black mark, to be sure. And a downer last night when I was trying to entice him over to my open fire, my cozy couch and me. Yes, he wanted to come, yes, he knew where he'd rather have been, yes he knew he was being lazy, but, the two trams and quite possibly a train on a cold, wintry night was just too daunting. And we're both northern suburbs, not so far as the old crow flies, but just not connecting quite so easily in tracks on the ground.
Grrr! is what I thought.

Shane and I got stonkered on red wine, and ended up falling asleep in front of the teev by midnight. But, not before, Mark W. came over tweaked off his brain and he and Shane had an argument, (In one corner we have the pissed and in the other corner we have the drugged... and no where will logic come together... real pretty) which I felt compelled to leave the lounge room for. Ex fucking boyfriends, and all their baggage. Egads!

When I found myself in my room wondering what to do, I thought, this is ridiculous and I marched back down there and... offered them tea. It's as good as anything, to make them stop and think.
Shane said he was sick of Mark W. getting off-chops on the weekend and then coming down like a bitch mid week, wanting Shane's help to do so. But, I saw that look on Shane's face, maybe it was that Mark W. didn't bring any to share?

So, as I sit here just freshly out of bed, wrapped in my dressing gown, with the sun shining in through the window and my cat rubbing her warm pelt against my legs, slurping on my first coffee, I think about what to write and I think about how I can kidnap Santo from the far northern suburbs - actually, the middling northern suburbs, but it might as well be... - to get him here now, so I don't have to get up, leave my couch or get changed, or, in fact, stop thinking about what it is I'm going to write. You know, like Samantha, I'm wriggling my nose, but...
Maybe, I could write about his brown eyes? His olive skin? His cute smile? The way he looks at me? Or, in fact, the sexy way he fills his jeans? Or maybe, as I've said previously, I might just keep that to myself.

Maybe, I'll write about something completely different? Masturbation, sleep and procrastination, the three things I excel at. Ha, ha! I'll work it into a story?...
Oh, maybe I just need some more coffee?

Santo just text. I'm going to (my) Mark's house auction, Santo is heading to the CBD with his housemate, a couple of hours and he'll be all mine. Big smile.
Who cares about writing any thing. I'm going to have a shower. Have a nice day, I know I will be. Big smile.

Thursday, June 03, 2010

Talk About Economising

I saw that my milk bar sold my brand of muesli and I had run out at home. I was aghast that it was $6.50 rather than the $3.99 that I pay at the supermarket, for 650 grams, so I didn’t buy it.
But, I still haven’t managed to get to the supermarket.
So, the last three mornings I have paid $4.90 for small plastic cups of muesli from Nashi. It’s very nice muesli, but I’ve now paid $14.70 for a fraction of the muesli that I could have bought for $6.50.

Talk about economising. The logic is astounding, don't you think?
Hands on hips at the realisation. Oh no, too girlie, hands down. Arms folded. Arms unfolded. Hand to the forehead. Idiot! Ouch! Too hard.

Wednesday, June 02, 2010


Sometimes I Walk Around My House In The Dark

Sometimes, I walk around my house in the dark. I don't know why, but I've always done it. Maybe, I'm a bit weird, I'm willing to accept that. But, I just haven't always seen why I need to light the place up like a shopping mall when I can manage without it. I hate bright lights, I much prefer soft lighting. Maybe, it's rebellion from growing up with a father who loved fluros? Of course, I've lived here a while so I know where everything is.
Sometimes, I even got to the toilet and piss in the dark. Today, my cleaner came, I forgot. I went to take a leak without putting the light on. My cleaner had closed the lid to the toilet, like the girl she is...

... I cursed her as my piss ricocheted at right angles onto my legs like water from a sprinkler. The sound wasn't right, just a strange silence and a weird thrum as the liquid sprayed on my track suit pants.

I felt a shiver vibrate up my spine.

It was David's birthday today. I sent him a text.
You're getting old you fat cunt!

Then I sent him another a bit later
Or is that, Your fat cunt is getting old?

He's in Greece.
What do I care if I upset him.

Except, I knew I wouldn't.
He replied, the latter and thanks for remembering.

He likes it when I talk dirty.
Big smile.

speaking of cool...

Everybody should have a camouflage Bentley at some point in their lives, don't you agree? I know I want one.

Tuesday, June 01, 2010

Apparently, I Don't Smell Any More

S came over after work, it was the first time he had been to my place. He and Shane met for the first time.
We lay on my bed together and he said straight away, "You've stopped smoking?"
Six days. He could tell instantly.

Shane cooked dinner. We watched teev. I played with S's iPad. I can see why Shane and S laugh at my lap-top and call it a dinosaur. The iPad is like a note book, as thick, lighter. It's always on, you don't have to wait for it to load up, ready to go. I don't usually care about such technology, but the iPad is pretty cool with what it can do.