Saturday, August 30, 2014

I Didn't Want Anything Except To See The Look On His Face

I saw the teacher from my Kew boy's Grammar School, who tried to molest me, who certainly had it in his thoughts to molest me, when I was a kid. I hadn’t thought about him in years, and then just like that, there he and I were together, in that cafe in Kyneton, in country Victoria.

I heard his voice. I knew that voice. It hadn’t changed.

The sun was shining brightly, I could see blue sky beyond the windows. I’d been to the supermarket and I just stopped in for a coffee and a custard Danish.

He was older, of course. Fatter. But he still dressed the same. He still had the same haircut and that same ‘fay’ manner.

They all knew him, the girl's behind the counter dressed in white. He got thick sandwiches in a brown paper bag. He said have a nice day to all three of the girls behind the counter, as the three gathered together and giggled, as one handed him his lunch.

Peter Morrison, well I’ll be. I wondered what the late middle-aged “girls” behind the counter would think if they knew the truth.

I’d finished my coffee, I was done. The empty mug and the white plate with cream coloured crumbs sat in front of me. I had no reason to sit there any long and I had more reasons to leave, actually. So, I headed out after him. My feet led my brain. I wasn’t at all sure if I’d thought this through. He stepped to the curb and was looking each way to cross. “Um… er… Mr Morrison?”

He looked around. “Hello?” He stepped back from the curb. He was still that kind of gay effeminate, posh, well spoken, just a little too well spoken, but now he was fat and middle aged.

“Christian. Christian Fletcher,” I said. “Smithton. You taught me.”

He looked directly at me and kind of refocused as if going through his back catalogue of faces. I guess any man who taught at a boy’s school for any length of time would have to do the same thing.

“You used to pick me up from choir, on Sunday nights. We drank coffee at Brummells. You used to drive me home.”

“Christian?... oh Christian.” Recognition. Then recollection. “Oh… um.” Bingo, he knew who I was. I could see it in his face.

“You remember?”

“Yes. Christian. What have you been doing… er… since school?”

“Uni. Career. The usual thing, I did finance, um,” I said.

“Good career, finance. It is where all the big money is.”

“I found that rather than chasing the corporate round about of more and more, I have opted for a shorter working week and less money, of course. But a great work life balance.” I was just babbling now, I could hear my own voice. “Are you still teaching at Smithton?” I didn’t draw breath, I should have drawn breath, the sudden jump took him by somewhat of a surprise.

“No.” We made eye contact. He looked away. “I have taught at Gilmour, on the mount… for some years now.”

An exclusive girl’s school, practically a finishing school for snotty blue blood girls. “Probably best,” I said. I laughed, I didn’t mean to, it struck me as funny, it just came out.

“Yes,” he said. We made eye contact for a second time and there it was, laid naked in that snatched glimpse. He knew, that I knew, that he knew, exactly who I was. “I’ve found girls… um,” he looked away. “Less trouble.”

“I bet you have.”

He looked nervous, as though that particular topic of conversation should have been passed over by now and we should have got on to other pleasantries, like he did, I presume, with most of his other ex-students, you know, the ones, I presume, he didn’t try to touch.

It was the first time that he and I had been together as two men, as equals. Power shift, dynamic change, I could feel it and it felt oddly fearless.

Truthfully, I’d barely given him much though over the passing years, it hadn’t been that much of a big deal. But seeing him, so unexpectedly, in my new adopted country town, where I felt right at home, after so many years, it was now my stomping ground, I felt very at home there.

“Your car, your dirty magazines out the back of Royal South Yarra?” There used to be a car park, kind of at the top where you could park at all hours of the night. I don't know if there still is? I said it quietly, deliberately, as though I was just filling in the facts so there could be no misunderstanding.

There was silence, that seemed to ring between us for an inordinate amount of time.

”What do you want?”

I didn't want anything, I told him. “I don’t want anything.” And I didn't. I just wanted to see the look on his face. I cleared my throat. I just had to say it. “Do you remember what you did?”

”I didn't do anything to you.” Technically, this is correct. I saw him going for it. He touched me between the legs, I guess. I said, “No,” And he stopped, he didn’t do anything else after I said no. But how else would he explain the thirteen year old in his car in a car park in the dark with him with pornography on his lap?

That kind of pissed me off, as we both knew what I was doing there, even if I didn’t at the time. “Oh yes you did,” I said. “You tried to…”

He laughed nervously to cut me off. ”Look… I don't really know who you are?” That came a bit late in the conversation to be believable, he suddenly didn’t know who I was?

”I was thirteen,” I said.

”I think you must have me mistaken for somebody else. Sorry.”

“Are you Peter Morrison?”

“Yes, yes I am.”

There was momentary silence.

“Look… I’m sorry… “ He shrugged. “I’ve got to go.” He gave me a please-don’t-let-there-be-anything-else, like I was hunting him down, this can’t be happening, kind of look. Funny, I thought, if anything, I was the victim in this situation.

“Look, I just used to drive you home,” he said in a whisper. “We ate cake some nights, sure, I thought you liked it.” He looked quite nervous, suddenly. “I just drove you home,” he said, as though he was trying to tell me the facts.

"Does that excite you?" and "Let me see what you've got there, I remember you saying that night… before you drove me home.”

He looked both ways up and down the street. He looked back at me as though he was going to give me the last word like, is that it, are you done, written across his face. It was almost a-nice-chianti-and-fava-beans moment, if his jaw had quivered, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

Scared, huh, I thought. I said nothing.

We stared at each other. He looked away. He crossed the road and walked away hurriedly. I could feel his hand groping me all those years ago, as I watched him walk away.

Well, there you go, I thought, as I turned away. I’d wondered once or twice over the years how it would go if ever I saw him… and now I knew.

The sun was shining as I walked back to my car. Peter Morrison, I thought, well how about that?

I guess I was groomed, as they say, I thought. Something that I hadn’t thought about before, I’d never thought about it that way. I sang in the church choir on Sunday nights and Peter Morrison didn’t really have a reason to be there. He said he came for evensong, and he just drove me home afterwards. But, some Sundays he’d just be waiting in the car park having not gone to the service at all. This went on for weeks.

Timing was on my side, however. As it turned out, coincidentally, on the night in question, the choir master had told my parents, during the day some time, that my voice was breaking and that that Sunday would be my last night singing in the boy’s choir. If I wanted to join the men’s choir at some time in the future I could, but I didn’t want to. I’d had enough. I’d enjoyed my time singing with everyone, but I wasn’t going to continue. I found this out when I got home, which kind of distracted me from Peter Morrison and his wandering hands. I didn’t tell Peter Morrison this, it never occurred to me to tell him.

I wondered if Peter Morrison was sitting in his car in the car park the next week waiting for me, who never turned up.

He wasn’t one of my teachers, but interestingly enough, he was one of the boarding house masters. (raised eye brows. Fox. Hen house. What do you reckon?) That was how I knew that he was gay, a couple of the gay kids used to go over to his room in the boarding house and hang out there. I never did, as I am not sure that I ever really liked him that much, as he was much too effeminate for me to want to hang out with him. (Talk about a neon sign gazing back at me) That was how our orbits came into contact though, one of the gay kids who was, for want of a better expression, a part of Morrison's circle took me over to the boarding house one day just out of the blue. (I remember his leopard skin jocks laying casually on the carpet) I wondered now, as I walked down the main street of Kyenton, if that was, indeed a matter of chance, as I’d always assumed it was. I guessed it must have been. I wondered.

The sun was still shining, the sky was still blue, when I got to my car.

Friday, August 29, 2014

One of the greats, Joan Rivers

A living fucking treasure. I don't think there is anyone who has made me laugh as much as Joan Rivers has. It's a very sad world when the comedians start checking out. Is that a plague on our house, or what?

The first thing I did this morning was check the news to see that she was alright.

Get better Joan, the world needs it's comedians more than it ever has. Get better Joan because you are fabulous.

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Sam bought fairy lights

I made pudding

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

We need an election to clear up the Liberal Party's Budget mess

I would just like to say that I would never join any team that Tony Abbott was on, Team Australia, Team Liar, or Team Middle Class Christian Bigot. 

You know what I think, Tony, to put it bluntly, take your simplistic, meaningless slogans and shove them up your arse, you lying moron.

Considering that all Julia had to do was scratch her arse during her last term in government and One Term Tony would demand she hold an election, how long do we have to endure Team Abbot's incompetent failed budget before we have an election?

Going by the time frame One Term Tony set during the last government's reign, an election should have been called by now.

Mr Abbott, you now need to hold an election, your budget has been a resounding failure.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

I don't like it

Don't like gay marriage? Don't get one.

Don't like cigarettes? Don't smoke them. (Smokers can no longer smoke inside. Try and find some evidence that second hand smoke has any effect of other people in an open air space. Non-smokers, stop being great big whinny babies)

Don't like abortions? Don't have one.
Don't like sex? Don't fuck anyone.
Don't like drugs? Don't take them.
Don't like porn? Don't watch it.
Don't like alcohol? Don't drink it.

Don't like your rights taken away?
Then don't take away someone else's.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

What is that smell?

"What is that smell?"

"It is shit, Lady Gwenervier."

"It is what?" She sounded surprised.

"Shit, marm."

"Oh, really," ask Lady Gwenervier. He eyes widened noticeably  "Goodness me. How, Justin? Why, Justin? Where, Justin." She suddenly looked furious.

"It is down the back of your stockings, marm."

"It's what?" Her voice squeaked in the highest range.

"Your stockings."



She turned to look at the backs of her legs, which turned away from her gaze as she turned to look at them. "Oh my god no." She was doing circles pretty quickly, like a dog chasing its tail.

"Marm," said Justin, her right hand man. He grabbed her arm.

Lady Gwenervier stopped spinning, she looked up with tears in her eyes. "Oh Justin."

"Come with me," said Justin. "Everything will be alright." 

He led the grand dame up the curved staircase and out of sight. "I just can't believe it." Her voice floated in the entrance hallway.

"Don't worry, marm."

"How older woman would you say I am, Justin?"

"In your prime, marm, in your prime."

"Oh, Justin, you are too kind." Her voice sounded girlish.

"Thank you marm," replied Justin. "Now hold still, I have the sponge."

"Where are we Justin, tell me again where we are?"

"We're at the opera, marm, and you are just about to take your seat in the family box."

"Oh yes Justin, I do love the opera so."

"You are on the deck of the yacht."

"Oh yes, the yacht. We must go sailing, Justin."

"Tomorrow, marm, tomorrow.

"I'd like that."

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Tony Abbott would say whatever was necessary to gain power - Malcolm Fraser... so, in other words, the elder statesman of the Liberal Party acknowledges that Tony Abbott is a liar

It's okay to lie in Australia to get what you want.  It is okay to use dishonesty and deceit to get ahead, to get a job, because the Prime Minister of Australia made it okay. Every Australian has seen the Prime Minister's lies to get his job. They have seen him say whatever it took to get to the Prime Minister's job. He made it okay to lie to get ahead. So, it is now okay for every Australian to lie to get what they want, because Tony Abbott made it right, made it acceptable.

Why shouldn't any Australian lie on their tax, to lie to get the dole, to lie to their neighbour, to lie to their wife to get what they want, because the Prime Minister lied to get what he wanted. Clearly, it is now okay.

Joe Hockey lied about the economy to get what he wanted. There was no budget emergency. The Australia economy was healthy. Wayne Swan was named the best treasurer in the world, for heavens sake, for the was he handled the GFC. But to beat the opposition Joe Hockey lied about it. And he wasn't even a good liar, as he contradicted himself, he told the New Zealanders that there was no budget emergency in Australia, probably because he has trade deals with New Zealand.

It is the ultimate selfish act. effectively, Tony Abbot has taken every Australian down a morally bankrupt path to get what he wants. That makes every Australian morally bankrupt.

A government is supposed to bring its people together  not pull them apart. 

Friday, August 22, 2014

He he he

I went to visit my mother in the nursing home with my brother and sister. We were sitting on the couch at the end of a long line of poor old dears with drooped heads all staring, seemingly, at their navels, chatting, with mum next to us, not really sure if she was comprehending or not, when we heard the nurse's voice say, 

"Oh no, this one is dead."

My sister and I looked at each other some what alarmed, wide eyed. "It's facing head down," said the nurse. We looked up immediately to see that the nurse was talking about one of the fish in the fish tank in the corner. Roz and I looked back at each other not able to stifle our laughter.

Friday, August 08, 2014


There is a term called FUD. Fear, uncertainty and doubt (often shortened to FUD) is a disinformation strategy used in sales, marketing, public relations, talk radio, politics, religion, and propaganda.

While common usage of the term "FUD" is relatively recent and somewhat limited, the practice of casting unwarranted aspersions upon other persons, products or circumstances to further one's own goals may be as old as humanity.

New, old, it is still immoral and tantamount to lying, to basing your strategy on lies to get ahead. It is what is one of the things that is wrong with modern society.

It is what the anti-global warming lobby, the anti-vaxers, the christians, with everything that is against their narrow beliefs, and the politicians, do, to mention just a few.

It amounts to peddling second rate goods and ideas on people, rather than elevating your second rate ideas to something better. It is the strategy of the scoundrel, the con artist and the also-ran. It is lowering the bench mark to get ahead.

It is, essentially, building your success on a lie.

As the old saying goes,

You don't have to blow out somebody else's candle to make your burn brighter.

Thursday, August 07, 2014

First day off

It was my first day off, for ages. I wanted to sleep in as long as I could. And I wanted to do nothing all day.

I was awake at 7am. Sam got up and woke me. I needed a piss. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Bugger! All I could do was think about it. So, I got up. Bugger!

The piss fell loudly into the toilet water, standing there first thing in the dim morning light.

"Get out," said Sam, standing like a shadow in the doorway. He wanted to shower. And he is pooh-phobic, in other words, he needs the bathroom to himself.

I was happily ensconced behind my computer at the lounge room coffee table ready to piss the day away, when Sam stood in the kitchen, ready to leave. 

“Come on fat boy,” said Sam. He was smiling.

“Are you talking to me, or Buddy?”

Sam didn’t answer, he looked at the draw where Buddy's lead is kept and then he looked back at me, letting his eyes fall to my stomach, after which they slid back up to my face. Sam raised his eyebrows.

"It's raining," I said.
Sam took one step out of the kitchen and into the atrium and looked through the glass roof.
"Not now it is not.

It was rainy and cold. We walked to the park and back in between the rain falling. It was cold and grey out there.

The house seemed very quiet when I got home. I made coffee, upon my return, of course.

I paid mum’s care and posted my security pass back to Voula.

I messaged Jack to make sure Voula submitted my time sheet. I told him about posting the security pass. Jack said, good job.

I lit a fire, it was really cold. I burnt the malle roots, despite thinking they wouldn’t fit in the fire place, they really do burn for ages.

Sam messaged me and told me to go and buy dinner, since  I was home. That's twice he had disturbed my day off.

I drove to the supermarket in the rain to get dinner. Yes, I drove. I'm sorry about the green house gas I caused, but it was raining. 

I chose the moment to leave that I did, as there were workmen parked in the street making noise and I wanted to move them along. They moved right along. I'm sick of the growing trend of workmen commandeering parts of the road to park their trucks. "Bugger off, park some where else." It is just lazy. It is a sign of the times. I'm okay, mate, and fuck you. Well, sometime you just have to move them along and move them along I did.

The rain seemed to fall harder as the last of the workmen cleared away from my driveway and I reversed out into X Street and selected first for the 100 metre drive to the supermarket.

I was on the internet for the rest of the day. Snug as a bug in my cocoon  my house, my home. 
I ate fried rice for lunch.

I discovered that the only Patti Labelle album that I don’t have was remixed and rereleased in May this year. I ordered it on line from Amazon, it should take 10 days to get here. And then, for the first time in my life, I will have a complete Patti LaBelle album collection. Yay.

Oh yes, very busy here today. Two days off, what can I do?

Sam got home at 5.30. I made him tea.

We watched Teev all night.

We ate tomato and chorizo sausage pasta for dinner. It had a funny flavour. I must have pulled a face.

“So, you don’t like my cooking now?”

“I’m not saying that, I said. “It just tastes… a… bit burnt.”

Sam’s expression clearly changed. “It is a bit burnt,” said Sam. “Don’t complain.”

"That's all I was saying." Or not saying, as I hadn't really said anything. I just pulled a face, inadvertently  at the, unexpected, sour taste of burnt tomato rubbing up against my taste buds. But, I didn't, actually, say anything,  until I was asked,  that is. I know not what to say... and when to, actually, comment, about a partner's cooking achievements. I'm not stupid.

Wednesday, August 06, 2014

We don’t require your services any longer

I had my “magic drink” this morning. Metamucil, olive leaf extract, apple cider vinegar and a fish oil tablet. Why the hell not! I’ve put on 4 kilos since I gave up smoking a few weeks ago. I didn’t think anything could hurt at this point.

I left early, it is my second last day, after all. I wanted to get there at least on time, if not earlier. You know, put in some effort, best foot forward, so to speak.

I am still fascinated by Mick Jagger’s Goddess in the doorway, listening to it on the way to work, again.

I got there at 8.24. Voula was there, and of course so was Giselle, she would be. I can see it in her eyes, she’s a killer. You know, efficient to the fact that her self-worth depends on it.

Voula said good morning, Giselle didn’t, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from her screen long enough to say hello to the guy on his way out. Yesterday’s guy.

I need to sell myself better, I thought. Instead of Mr Laid back, I need to be more like Mr Efficient.

I got coffee.

I took a shit.

I went out just before 9am and had another cigarette, so much for putting my best foot forward. There was a girl out there with all her possessions spread out across the concrete with a rollie cigarette in her hand. A guy got out of a taxi and immediately asked her for some tobacco to roll a cigarette. Nerd. Conservative. Quietly spoken. Serious. Shy. (possibly the type to take a gun down the mall) She didn’t have any, but she offered to share her cigarette with him.

“You see, I deliberately didn’t bring my tobacco with me, so I wouldn’t smoke,” he said.

“It’s worked,” I offered.

“Pardon,” he said.

“It has worked well.” The first thing you did when you got to work was ask someone for a cigarette, buddy.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. (You’ll be the first I will squeeze the trigger on) I’ve got to be more careful with my humour, a lot of people don’t find funny what I find funny, I know that. He hesitated with what I’d said, slight change to the mouth in recognition, kind of a sneer and then he looked back at the girl.

The tray of pink iced buns arrived halfway through the morning. Tell me why I am leaving this job, again?

I’ve been pushed into the next partition now that Giselle has arrived. Pushed out, just like that. Actually, it isn’t bad at all, despite facing the door, nobody is checking on me and I have been writing my journal all morning. Lovely.

Maybe, I am slow, or just last week’s employee, or maybe Voula did tell me, but I suspect that Giselle has worked here previously.

Voula said she wanted a boy to work with, not a girl, when she was telling Christopher, the HR guy, but as soon as she and Giselle got together they seemed to turn into girlfriends.

They disappear off to lunch together without a word.

I want Giselle to fail, sure I do.

It’s 2.11 and I have done everything, such as it is. The filing is up to date. Voula and Giselle are checking the rest of the payrolls. Do you think I could do nothing from here to 4.30? It is possible.

Oh, I am bored. The last days are always difficult.

3.08. And the afternoon drags on, and all of the filing is done, even the extra amount Giselle handed me when I had, actually, finished, once they had finished the other payrolls. Shrug. Coy look. Glint. Shrug. Smile. As if to say she was sorry. My arse you are sorry, just thanking the universe that it isn’t your job this week. It will be soon enough.

OMG one hour and twenty minutes to go. It is so slow.

3.24. I’m going for another cigarette, I don’t care.

Giselle left at 4.20. Let’s face it, I didn’t have much to do for the afternoon. I don’t know what I am going to do tomorrow? So, I went and handed the keys to Voula and said I’d see her tomorrow. Voula doesn’t care, she said sure. So, I left at 4.20 something. I was on the freeway at 4.25 and halfway home by 4.30. Lovely.

At home, sometime around 6pm, Jack called to say that Christopher had just emailed him to say that they won’t need me tomorrow. Oh? Oh well, it was hardly surprising. Okay. That’s that then. I’ll miss seeing the elastic waistband of Christopher’s undies riding above the waistband of his pants, I thought.

He wears Aussiebums. Is that usual for a straight boy?

He’s sweet and softly spoken, handsome and is considerate to all the girls he works with, always going out and getting them lunch, or buying them chocolate. As far as I could ascertain, he lives on his own in Prahran.

I told Jack about being offered the job. He said that was interesting. I told him that I felt like I’d get depressed driving there every day. Jack laughed and said he thought he’d get depressed driving there every day too. It is nice having Jack, he is such an ally.

We ate fried rice for dinner.

Tuesday, August 05, 2014

The right decision?

I don’t reckon it was quite as cold this morning, as it has been on more recent mornings. Track pants. Dressing gown. Thick socks. What could I feel anyway, up on my own before 7am?

Sam has been pissing around in the mornings, unlike him, usually he is up first. It is funny how the dynamic can change so easily. I’ve been up first for the last week, or so.

I sneaked a ciggie downstairs first thing, while Sam was still in bed and before I prepared my muesli and headed back upstairs for a shower. I thought Sam would smell it, but I drank coffee and slipped into the shower before he did. I was surprised.

I left a bit late. I don’t know why? Just because I did. I was hoping there would be no replacement for me to train; hopefully Jack hasn’t been able to find anyone. Hopefully. Crossed fingers.

The traffic was light. The drive was easy. It gave me time to think. I was beginning to wonder if I had made to wrong decision. Had I? They offered me a permanent position, originally a 3 day a week role, but (the HR manager) was trying to get up a business case for full time to keep me. What was I going to get offered to do 3 days, if I had kept my mouth shut and didn’t say it was too far to drive? Had I let (HR manager’s name) talk? Was she going to offer me a lot to do three days? Had I stuffed it up? Had I really stuffed it up? I’m sure I would get depressed driving to Notting Hill on a permanent basis. It is okay for a short time with an end in sight, yes. But every day, day in day out, drudge drudge drudge, I’d start regretting it.

Of course, it is an unprovable dynamic, as I can never know what it is like to go for six months and not go for six months, at the same time. I can only ever know the decision that I made and forever be ignorant of the opposite decision, because I never did it.

Could we call it the Decision Quandary?

It is (my new assignment) next Monday. An old, much loved, assignment that I am returning to. Don’t think about anything else … just let it go, here I come.

All things considered, I hope I am going to get something worthwhile from (my new assignment)? Come on! I deserve it! I have been loyal to you above and beyond… Watch this space? We’ll see. I guess not. It is just a job and I am just a temp, don’t get ahead of yourself, Christian.

Come on universe, how about a payoff. Isn’t it time that things went my way, just because they can? Have I been lucky enough in my life already? Half the world doesn’t have enough to eat, after all.

Why do these things always happen? My way ahead has always been cluttered with other stuff, for a few years now. In this instance, it is another job that I feel unjustified loyalty to. If I didn’t have (my new assignment), I’d have been happy to accept the Notting Hill job. Case closed.

Why do I have impediments in place stopping me from making, what may be, the best choices? Why? I ask? Why? 

Oh? Listen to me. Slap, slap. Shake of the head. I turned down the job. I’m just stressing if it was the right decision? So what? Shut the fuck up! It’s done. Onward! Don't be a fucking baby.

Of course, there was a new chick for me to train. Giselle. Voula doesn’t want to train anybody, as she knows she isn’t that great. Oh yes, Giselle was all smiles and enthusiasm, but she had fingers like spiders and a ruthless look in her eyes. I ran through things with her and pretty soon Voula put me on other jobs… jobs she didn’t want to do after I had gone. Giselle was trained up, apparently.

Very into it, very efficient, she was too.

I was pushed aside to do the filing.

Sam went for a haircut on his way home.

I forgot to get the milk and the bananas on my way home. It was given to me as a chore, the thing I had to do. Sam called after the haircut to check on the status of the chore completion.

“Oh, no, I didn’t get it.”


I told him to go to the milk bar on his way passed and get milk. And maybe a banana – I had to think about the morning. He said that I needed to walk my fat arse and Buddy needed a walk too and besides the milk at the milk bar is too expensive. “Twice as much!”

We were going to the supermarket when he got home, did I have a problem with that? No honey, that’s fine.

“No, honey.”

We walked to Woollies, Buddy, Sam and I. Milk, bananas, papa dams and ‘you know what’ cigarettes. It couldn’t have been easier.

When I came out of the supermarket, Sam said, “Let me look in the bag, I have to check what you have bought.”

He’s funny.

We ate noodles with mince meat for dinner. Those multi coloured rice noodles, you know, the ones that kind of have a filling. I guess I should ask Sam and stop sounding like such a dope.

Monday, August 04, 2014

My fingers are like ice

On these cold mornings – and by god hasn’t it been cold these last few mornings, that cold-like-I-am-cutting-you-with-a-blade Melbourne cold. It’s been cold ever since I read the department of meteorology say that the cold winter weather was behind us – Buddy likes to climb into my lap as I sit at the coffee table at my laptop. He cuddles right up to get warm. It is really cute until I loose all sensation in my feet, and my legs start to cramp, then he is usually, very unwillingly, slid to one side.

I’m drinking coffee and eating kaya toast, wrapped in a blanket.

There is a milky, morning sun. It is freezing.

A coffee, sweet breads, my beanie, my bulldog, my thick woollen jumper, we could be in a Paris cafe. Cobble stones, 2CVs. The clank of early morning. There are always whistles and car horns. The smell of a damp, big city, before the sun hits. Paris smells like rotting sandstone and the smell of fish mixed with dust.
 First thing in the early morning, when the big city is just basting in its own big city juices, before the early morning sun hits and the day breaks and the smell of bread makes it all new again.

Good morning. 8am.

Buddy and I wrestle for the blanket. He is like a hot water bottle against my left leg.

Jean Carne sings Love lessons.

Buddy snores. 8.30. He has some how rapped himself in most of the blanket, leaving me a very short corner. He doesn't object when I pull the blanket off him. He moves his head around, for quite some time, under the blanket like some crazed dwarf ghost, as we adjust, before he comes up for air. Big brown eyes. Big pant. Followed by a herumph and a collapse to the ground again, still with most of the blanket. 
My fingers are like ice.

We're almost out of fire wood.

I text David, Siberia. He was just telling me that he didn't think he could live through another Melbourne winter. He's thinking of moving north. Going to Mark & Luke’s at Xmas is a part of his research into finding work up there. He’s met some Guru who is willing to take him on, or something. You know, tap into the school of the hopeful, in the area, whatever dialect he chooses. Yoga. Transpersonal whatever. Then he’d think about buying a house in the area. Living up there, working down here, or something. It doesn’t really matter where he lives if he keeps doing the retreats. They are all out of Melbourne, often overseas. He’s away, then he’s home, it doesn’t matter where he comes home to.

Karise Eden sings Halleluiah. The 10am sun shines through my window and I am blinded. The joint smoke catches in the bright sun’s rays and curls and curls in a smoky veil.

I catch my bespectacled reflection in the laptop screen, Stay with me baby roars out of the speakers, Where did you go… 
My lip curls in the brightly lit reflection, the only discernible movement. Another billow of blue smoke obscures the screen.

I pull away. I am blind. My face is warmed. My world turns silver in the bright glow of the morning sun, shiny sparkling crystals dancing in my corneas.

Friday, August 01, 2014

Just because he is pretty much perfect...

... and because I have an undies fetish.

Do all gay men have an undies fetish? I think so. I'd like to think so, why the hell not. What is there not to like, I ask you? Men dressed only in small pieces of cotton / elastane / lycra / nylon / polyester / lurex / bamboo, what's not to like?

Or shirtless just in a pair of jeans, that's hot too. I love the way the waistband of the jeans fits across the top of the arse.
Free speech

Sam and Buddy comfy in front of the fire