The Sky Is Blue

It is a lovely morning, warm and fresh. Spring is here. It is Friday, too. You've got to love that. No more working for the man. 

The birds are screeching in the big gum tree out in the yard. The birds, the birds, oh the birds. The noisy birds  They sound like Rainbow Lorikeets, a flock of Rainbow Lorikeets, chattering away. 

The gum tree is seeding, it is that time of year, my car looks like a lamington, parked underneath it. I look at it and think it looks like the most unloved car in the world.

The morning sun shines against the rainbow coloured feathers dancing in the leaves. The sky is blue. What lovely weather we've been having all week. There is no where in the world as nice as Melbourne on a sparkling spring day.

Start the Day Dry Retching

It was yet another glorious day in Melbourne. And a Tuesday, which means it is rubbish day. I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with the stinky bin.

I told Sam he’d have to do it, which he said he would. I told him he’d have to take the now stinky small bags out from the bottom of the bin and put them on top of the large bag, otherwise we risked them not being taken, and w'd be investigated for a dead body in the wheelie bin if they stayed in there through another hot week. 

He seemed less keen on that idea.
“No, you have to,” I said. “Sometimes if there are small bags in the bottom they just don’t get taken.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“You have to.” I was getting my thirteen year old voice back.

“I’ll do it, I’ll do it,” he said. "Don't worry."

I was the first in the shower, so therefore first to get dressed. I was sporting a classic Country Road look today, with camel coloured pants and a pale blue shirt. Sometimes, I just have to break from jeans every day cycle. It's good for the soul. I used to care so much more about that sort of thing once upon a time. I laughed at myself.

I got the bins and took them to the front yard. I rolled the big bins into the street and flipped the lids open. The smell was rancid. I walked away, took a big breath and then went in for the grab. There were three bags, two of which looked like they’d turned into some sort of slimy liquid. The pink of the plastic didn’t help the whole carnage aesthetic. It looked like a homicide specimen. I tossed them one by one into the top of the still open, kitchen bin garbage bag and then walked away for breath. I inhaled and, of course, got the waft of the "death" smell. I started to dry retch. My stomach convulsed like it twisted, I sweated, my eyes watered. The dry retching continued passed the point I expected it to. My eyes blurred with tears. I waited in the middle of the road for fresh air. I tried not to gasp out loud.

A guy coming along the footpath gave me a look. I looked away. He looked at the bins with trepidation as he passed them. I took another big breath and went in to finish the job. I pushed the offending bags further into the kitchen rubbish bag so I could tie the top of it over, but ran out of breath and had to walk back into the middle of the street again, where I dry retch again. I took my last big breath and went back in. I pushed the grisly bags further into the kitchen rubbish bag, I grabbed the edges of the black bag, tying them off quickly, as my breath ran out. I lifted the kitchen rubbish bag out of the kitchen rubbish bin and slid it into the big rubbish big and quickly flipped the lid. I walked away, gasped for breath, calmed myself, nearly retched, steady breathing, tried not to think about. Puppy dogs and kittens. The guy on the footpath looked back. I didn't care. Whatever?

I grabbed the kitchen bin and the recycle bin and headed inside. I could still feel my watery eyes.

“Did you do the bins?” asked Sam from upstairs.

“Yes,” I said.

“Did you vomit?”

“Yes,” I said. I raced up stairs to show him my watery eyes.

He rubbed my face with his fingertips to feel the moisture around my eyes. “Poor you,” he said.

I was on my own again today. Fatty had some family thing on.

And Here We Were Barely 48 Hours Later Disregarding Everything That Was Decided. Goodness Me

Fatty was away today. Apparently, boy fatty, who is home from hospital, didn’t want to be left alone, so Fatty stayed home to comfort him. He had an infection that turned his leg red and then very dark and swelled it to the size of an elephant, before they hit on the right combination of antibiotics, which bought him back from the brink just in the nick of time. It was all a bit desperate there for a time, but now the crisis is over.

But, as you know, it made no never mind, I like working on my own, so I was more than happy. Poor Boy Fatty.

I text Mazz early, telling her to have a great time in Canada. She was on the plane waiting to take off. I told her I was jealous.

I text Rachel, telling her I’d rather be travelling than working. “What do you think it would be like in Spain today? She text back with the Barcelona weather forecast. 18 degrees and sunny. Sell your house and go travelling, she said. She’s probably right, but who is that brave?

The day was so lovely that I walked home to have lunch, just so I could head out and walk in the sunshine. I’d, actually, already had my lunch by the time I made that decision, but I had the day to myself, so what the hell. It ended up being a two hour lunch, but what the hell, when you get to work at 7am more than one morning in the week.

There is the faint smell of death in our front garden, I can smell it as I come through to the front path. I’ve smelt it just a little, just recently. I thought that maybe Ollie had killed a mouse, or something and that he’d left the carcass in the under growth? Should I forage it out? Find it and dispose of it? What an effort? Why? I was sure it would rot quickly and disappear.

Sam called to say he was in Harvey Norman and that he was looking at the egg-shaped speaker, which happened to be on sale.

What, I thought? We’ve just lived through the great Bose dilemma. Buying it. Tracking its somewhat delayed delivery. Sam bought it last Saturday week ago. He checked on it in Myer the following Monday, after which he could have carried it home. It wasn’t delivered for another week, during which there was much discussion. Then it was decided it was faulty, after much discussion. We only returned it to Myer last Saturday, after much discussion. Then it was decided that our Sound Bar was better anyway. And we were curious about why we ever bought it in the first place. And here we were barely 48 hours later disregarding everything that was decided. Goodness me.

“Should I get it?” asked Sam.

“Are you going to return it next week?” I asked.

“Ha ha,” he said.

I got home just after 4.30pm and had toast and was gearing up for my first walk in sometime, it was so lovely I couldn’t really make any excuses not to go. I haven’t been walking for a couple of weeks. Why? I don’t know. I was about to leave, when Sam called and said he’d bought the new speaker and that it was heavy and that I should walk in and meet him half way and take half the load, so I did.

“Come to Little Lonsdale Street,” said Sam. “It is heavy.”

I headed up Gertrude Street and then up Young Street and through the ACU, passed the storeroom with the misspelled metre door, across the courtyard, which I thought felt lovely, over Victoria Parade, by the fire station and down Albert Street to Parliament Gardens Reserve, where I pissed about taking some photos. Tra la la. The sun shone. I crossed Spring Street, I was enthralled with the historical photos of the Princess’ Theatre in the windows of the Princess’ Theatre for a time. I gazed up at the Little Bourke Street sign when it hit me, I was supposed to be in Little Lonsdale Street. Oops. I quick shot off a text and ran along Spring Street to Little Lonsdale Street. There was Sam standing on the corner with “that” look on his face. He bought his hand up to his forehead then shooting it up in the air, several times.

“A simple instruction,” he said.

“I know, I know.”

“Here, take this he said.” He handed me the large blue bag.

Charlie told him that Bose are shit and nobody is buying them, but the egg-shaped speaker, that was a different story. Bowers & Wilkins. It is English. I said the name over and over as we walked up Albert Street. It sounded like an English toffee company, or some such thing.

When we got to the front gate, I could smell that smell of death, yet again.

“Can you smell that?” I asked Sam. “It smells like death.”

He sniffed the air but didn’t say he could.

“Maybe Milo has killed something? But it just seems to be by the gate…” Oh, it suddenly came to me. The scallops and fish remains from the weekend that were in the bottom of the rubbish bin, that’s what it was.

We ate stir fried vegetables.

We turned the TV off during the evening and listened to the new speaker.

I watered the garden late. It was a lovely night.

Purple Evening, like a painting

Monday Headache. Bitch!

Fatty was in late. Monday morning. “She’s not reliable,” Jack’s words sound in my head on such occasions. What is reliable? I ask you? How many sick days are you entitled to take, do you have to take before your "reliability" is questioned? Of course, I am hoping she doesn’t come in, so I can work on my own. As it was hitting 9am, I was wondering if she was coming in at all, but she rolled in right on 9am. (I didn't mean 'rolled' because of her girth, I meant it just in the usual slang sense, but you know, now that I think about it...)

Chuckle. I'm bad.

She bought lemons. She’s really very nice. She remembered our discussion from Friday and my comment about how Sam and I are always looking for a lemons. "How we live without lemons," I said.

Well, apparently  she has a lemon tree that is abundant with fruit, that she never eats. She said she'd bring them in. And she did.

Recently, something was said about her original termination date, which was the beginning of November. She’s been playing it close to her chest, only willing to say that she was still "filling in." Really? Filling in? No comment had been made about a replacement for Kirin with only weeks to go. It wasn't believable. So I asked her straight out. “You are staying though, aren’t you?”

“Oh, um?” Still playing coy. She looked at me as if she was mentally reviewing the instructions thus far.

“You aren’t leaving, are you?”

She held my gaze. “No,” she cleared her throat. “No I am not,” she replied. Paddington was in the process of making her an offer. 

“Are you okay with that?” The fragility in her little girl’s voice suddenly became very clear. I guess we all want to know that we are wanted, no matter how important, or unimportant, it is to the final out come.

“I am more than happy with that,” I said. She knows her stuff. She is interesting. She is generous. And, in what would be an anti-point for most, she is away often enough to make life interesting. Yes, I am very happy for her to stay.

She smiled. “Oh, that’s good.”

I had a headache for most of the morning. I was considering taking the rest of the day off, actually. I never take sick days, although once I start I can get the hang of it. I was trying to work myself up to saying that I was going home sick, but as pathetic as this sounds, I didn’t want Fatty to be prompted to think about my first sick day, which I still haven’t processed through the system. All the over time I do, it is kind of accepted that I wouldn’t have to, but, truthfully, that may only in my head. Oh yes, failures of old, have I leaned nothing? The terrible law firm had that on me when they terminated my tenure. Leave days not submitted, kill me now! (Which they did) Again, that was due to extra hours I'd done, but I digress. (That is all about as interesting as nail fungus, I realise) 

My headache steadily got worse and I had no pills in my bag. I was on the verge of saying that I was leaving, when Fatty reminded me that Tuesday was a holiday and that we had to get most things done by Friday, finalised. Damn! I thought. Then I quietly laughed at myself for damning a (public holiday, what have I become, and so quickly) day off. At that point, I went home and got headache pills.

“I’ve got Panadol,” replied Fatty. “Unless you want something else?”

My brain quickly processed the Panadol offer. “I want something else.”

“Okay,” said Fatty in her little girl’s voice.

I wanted to get out and stretch my legs and get some fresh air, maybe, just maybe, that would do me some good. I just wanted to get away, lets face it. Escape. Ah the never ending quest.

I resorted to comfort food too, buying my first muffin in ages on my way to get the pills. And a vanilla slice on the way back. Gug, gug, gug.

I had to buy lunch, dinner was a failure last night. Sam and I were tipping the muscles into a bowl when I commented.

"You sure put some vinegar in there." The waft of vinegar was strong, like chloroform at an all girl's schoolies week.

"Two cups," replied Sam.

"Two cups?" I questioned.

"Two cups of apple cider vinegar," replied Sam.

"Two cups?"

"Of apple cider vinegar."

"Two cups is a lot of vinegar," I said. "Show me the recipe."

Sam held out the recipe to me. "Um, two cups of apple cider."

He looked coy. "Oops."

The muscles just tasted odd.

Is that really the reason why I didn't have lunch to take to work today? I dunno, maybe not.

I bought a ham and eggs and sun dried tomato wrap, which I loved.

I took two nurofen.

My headache went away.

The day rolled on, until it rolled no longer.

 

Bunny Saves The Day

Bunny stood by the open door and looked out through the wire screen. She inhaled sharply and exhaled long and deliberately. "I don't like the look of that. I don't like the look of that at all."

"Relax, will ya," said her husband. He sat incapacitated on the couch, with the remote in his hand, as he now did most days. "Don't go gettin ya self worked up."

"It looks as though it is up on Fergusson's Ridge." Bunny turned to look at her husband, "like in 84."

"Bunny, Neil said he'd be here, so he'll be here."

"No dad, I've leaned a thing or two in my 80 years, and I am telling you, it is time to leave.”

"Oh Bunny... no! Neil will be here."

Bunny looked through the venetian blinds, they made a clacking sound when she let them go. "I'm sorry Carl, but I think I am right... on this occasion." She looked back at him waiting for his next dismissal. He stared back mute. Some of the life had gone out of him now a days, since... she looked away.

"I'll get my purse," said Bunny. She headed into the kitchen and picked up her large, brown purse from the speckled laminex kitchen bench. She reached behind the back door and got the bunch of keys from the hook on the yellow wall.

"I'm getting the car out..."

"Oh Bun..."

"Your sticks are by your chair..."

"Neil said, Bun..."

"Neil said, Carl? What did Neil say?"

"He said he'd be here..."

"So where is he Carl? Where is Neil?"

"I don't know Bun."

"So, the fire is coming over Fergusson's Ridge and you're telling me that Neil will be here at some stage..."

"Bunny, we'd be better to stay put so they can come and get us. They know where we are..."

"Carl, I'm getting the car out," said Bunny. Her patience was running thin. "Make your way out the front, I'll help you into the car."

Carl's eye filled with tears. "Bunny, I am too old for this."

Bunny walked over to Carl's chair. "Come on hon." She picked up his sticks. "Here." Carl struggled to sit up on the front edge of the chair. "We'll be right, dad. We'll be okay." She held out her hand. He pushed it away. "I can still get out of a chair."

"Sixty years, luv and we've done just fine," said Bunny. She lent Carl's sticks against the arm of his chair where he could reach them easily. "We're a good team, hon, we're a good team. And it doesn't end here."

Carl sat on the edge of the seat. He looked up with loving eyes. "Go on, get the car.” He tried to smile, but wouldn’t let himself. “What are ya still standing here for?"

Bunny let the screen door bang behind her. She stopped on the veranda and looked up at the orange sky and wondered if they had left it too late to leave. She took her phone from her purse and pushed Neil's number. There was no answer. She slid the phone back into her purse. The air was dry, she could taste the smoke on her lips. She took the handrail in her right hand and alighted the stairs. The gravel path crunched under her foot as she stepped on the ground.

She pulled one Brunswick Green garage door open, securing it on the wire hook on the fence post. She opened the second garage door and secured it on the other fence post hook. She turned and briefly looked in the direction of the fire. She pushed the curls out of her eyes.

She squeezed along the side of the car to the driver's door. Carl's Customline never really fitted into the old garage. She ran her fingertips along the pink and black and white paintwork as she reached for the driver's door handle. She never really liked the colour scheme of the car when it was new and it hadn't really grown on her in the fifty years of ownership, but Carl was much more of a look-at-me type than her. She missed her Super Snipe, but since Carl's illness they had had little need for 2 cars and since Carl couldn't bare to part with his beloved 59 Customline, her Super Snipe had gone to grandson Felix. Even though she had admitted it to nobody, Bunny had been quite touched when Felix had turned 18 and he'd said that the only car he'd ever wanted was Bunny's Humber. Felix was an artistic boy who liked nice things, so it was no surprise to his parents that he wanted his grandmother's car. Felix and his best pal Blake had taken a year off before they went to uni to study design and they'd taken the car for a trip around Australia.

"I don't think your car is the best choice to go four wheel driving in the outback," said Carl at the time.

"Hon, I doubt that Felix, or Blake, will be leaving the bitumen."

Carl laughed. "I suspect you are right," he said.

Bunny reached for the door handle, she pushed the button and the door opened with an audible clunk. She slipped in behind the steering wheel. She proceeded to slide the key into the ignition, but the keys fell from her hand onto the floor, with a rattle. She struggled to reach them under her feet where they landed, touching them with her finger tips but not quite being able to grab them. She stretched but no. She stretched again with a heave and a sigh and she hooked the ring with her pointer finger. She pushed the key into the ignition. She pulled on the choke. She turned the key, pumped the accelerator a few times and pushed the starter button. The big car woke lazily from its slumber. Er, er, er, er, er, er. The body rocked gently. Bunny pumped the accelerator again.

"Come on," she whispered.

She pushed the starter again. Er, er, er, er, er. The big V8 coughed. Bunny pumped her right foot. Er, er, er, er, er. The car coughed again and the engine came to life. Brup, brup, brup, brup, brup, brup, brup.

She pulled down on the gear leaver and the car rocked into gear. She adjusted the rear vision mirror, she looked back at the dashboard as she grabbed the steering wheel with both hands. She took a big breath. She pushed gently on the accelerator, the engine brup brup brup bruped quicker as it began to slide backwards out of the garage. The light slid through the car as it emerged into the sun. Bunny sat upright behind the wheel, looking up into the centre rear vision mirror. The sun shone down through the windscreen and then over the bonnet and off the front of the car. Bunny pulled down on the left side of the steering wheel and the large nose of the big car began to slide to the right. She pulled down hard on the wheel and the car turned sharply to face the house. She pushed up on the gear stick and the car rocked forward into gear. Bunny pulled down on the right side of the steering wheel, as she pushed down on the accelerator. The car moved forward and the large nose slid around to the right and up the driveway to the house.

Carl was on the front veranda, balancing on his sticks, one in each hand.

Bunny got out of the car.

"That's not looking good," said Carl. "It looks like it is on the main road."

Bunny opened the passenger side door. The big car rocked as it idled. She stopped momentarily and looked in the direction of the fire. "No, luv." She pushed the curls from her sweaty forehead.

She moved quickly up the stairs to her husband. "Come on luv, it is definitely time to go."

"Hang on, let me get my balance." She took him by the arm and guided him down the stairs. He shuffled to the open door on the passenger side of the car.

"Give me your sticks."

"Hang on a minute."

"Turn around backwards and give me your sticks."

"Just a minute, woman, I need to get my balance."

"I'll guide you..."

"I don't need your help..."

Bunny laughed. Carl stopped and stared at her. "Carl Robertson, you needed my help when we got married to tie your bow tie..."

"I don't think..."

"You needed my help every day when we ran this farm together."

"We made a great team, Bun..."

"And you sure as hell need my help now..."

Carl exhaled loudly.

"So stop resisting, turn the hell around, give me you damn sticks and park your arse on the seat of that car you have loved for years."

"Okay, okay, keep you..."

"And she and I will get us the hell out of here."

Carl popped backwards onto the leather seat. “She’s a she?” Bunny lifted his feet...

"I can do it, I can do it."

And she pushed his legs into the car with one great shove.

"Steady on, steady..."

“Put your seatbelt on.”

She pushed the car door shut with a thump. She could still see Carl's lips moving, but she could no longer hear him.

She opened the back door. "A man just needs to catch his breath..." She flung her husbands two sticks onto the back seat. "Watch the seats, watch..." The back door closed with the same reassuring thud as the front door.

Bunny hustled herself around the back of the car, hanging onto each of the rear mudguard fins to balance herself, grasping her throat with her other hand. She opened the driver's side door and climbed in.

"Are those sticks okay on the back seat?" asked Carl.

"Yes, hon, perfectly alright."

He held her gaze and she held his. She fished a tissue out of her sleeve and wiped her nose. She pushed the tissue back up her sleeve. She pushed the curls off her forehead. She could feel her heart beating. She could feel herself breathing.

"You okay luv?" she asked her husband of 61 years.

"Yes." He sounded a little breathless. "As well as can be expected."

Bunny reached over and touched Carl's face. The two of them were still momentarily. The big V8 grumbled as it idled.

"Best we get going."

"Best we do," said Carl. He waved his hand in front of himeslf with a flourish.

Bunny reached for her seat belt, she pulled it across her chest and clicked it into its buckle. She pulled down on the gear stick. The car rocked gently into gear. She pushed down on the accelerator, the rear wheels spun briefly on the gravel driveway and the big car moved forward.

Bunny pushed harder on the accelerator and the car picked up speed, as they glided down the driveway to the front gate.

They stopped at the main road. They looked right towards town, but the road was clouded in smoke.

"Best we head left to Milsons," said Carl.

"Yes, looks like it."

She spun the wheel to the left and they headed south towards their neighbours.

"You better give it some boot, Bun, I think we need to put some distance in," said Carl.

Bunny accelerated hard, the V8 engine made a thrup, thrup, thrup sound and the big Ford picked up speed.

The sky in front was blue, the sun sparkled.

Carl hit the button on the CD player and Verdi began to play.

"Really?" asked Bunny.

"It relaxes me."


Then there was a car heading towards them. A big silver sedan.

"Is that Neil coming to get us?" asked Carl.

Bunny guided the Customline into the gravel, without slowing the speed, the car rocked noticeably, the steering wheel jumped a bit in her hands, stones were hitting the bottom of the car. She tooted the horn, Carl's car always had a horn like a foghorn in the fog. She waved with her fingers at Neil as he passed them heading in the other direction. She got a glimpse of her son long enough to see him making a big O mouth. She guided the car back onto the bitumen, as the right hand back wheel caught the car fishtailed just a little. Bunny’s wrestled the wheel with skill. “Oh, oh!” She watched Neil's Mercedes do a U-turn behind them.

"Oh good," said Bunny. "Now I can relax."

“Giddy up, old girl,” said Carl.

Bunny pushed her foot down on the accelerator and the big Ford rocketed down the road.

She looked in the rear vision mirror to see the black smoke filled sky falling away.

Neil was still behind, even if he wasn’t, exactly, keeping up.

Lovely day

Today is a beautiful day. It was hot yesterday, but it rained over night and washed the heat away, and now it is cool and fresh and new. 

I love that fresh, morning air. It is a pure delight. It is the breath of living, it does the soul good.

In the soft morning light everything looks green. Greenish.

Todays not an early day for me, but Sam is off early to buy a new playstation so I can watch my new blu-ray On The Beach dvd. Apparently, Target has a sale on. 

Buddy lies by my side snoring, as I contemplate a shower. Ah, it is too nice a morning to get ready for work. Oh yes, brave words from me, so brave, since I know within minutes I will be scuttling off upstairs to get ready, before I grab the bins on my way out the door.  Sam gave me instructions.

Shrug. I just feel like sitting here all day. It is quiet, the morning is calm and serene. Enticing, really. A day to sit on the back veranda and drink coffee. Oh, it is to dream.

Can you feel the gust of wind as the tram whooshes by?

I was trying to film the guy doing squats, but I realised I was too far away

Hit Your Mark and Say Your Line

You know, I think life isn't that much different to theory on acting by the greatest actress to ever live. As Bette Davis once said, "You can make it really complicated, you can make it difficult, whatever you want, but when it comes down to it, you have to hit your mark and say your line. It isn't, actually, much more complicated than that."

We spend our live trying to make life more complicated than it really is. Why? I think we think that that gives it more meaning. Or is it the 24 hour news cycle making us crazy? The universe knows that the very worst thing that could happen in the 21st century is for us to lead boring lives.

But life isn't so complicated. Eat and shit. Find somebody to love, hold their hand. Look forward not backward. Hope for the best. Be kind to you fellow man. You know, that sort of stuff. 

The morning sun, a golden orb

Climate Change Denial

Climate Change, the unfolding catastrophe... like a car crash in slow motion. And we're all looking away, nobody wants to imagine the face of their child shatter on the windscreen of poisoned air. It is the only thing I can think of that justifies our collective denial.

We are all now like the string quartet on the Titanic.

The morning sun

On The Beach

I bought a copy of On The Beach (even if the cover says La Hora Final, yes, I had to resort to buying a Spanish copy) Gregory Peck and Ava Garner (one of the most beautiful woman ever born) shot in Melbourne in 1959, so I can see what Melbourne looked like in 1959 (the pinnicle of man's existence, 1959, it has been all down hill since that year, but that is another story) Yes, so I can yet again cry at the beauty Melbourne once was and, yet again, lament the Frankenstein Melbourne has now become.

At the exact moment I was sliding the DVD into the blu-ray DVD player, the said blu-ray player ceased to function and from all reports (read frantic googling) it is now cactus and all that remains is for it to be buried at the bottom of the garden.

So what should I take from this? Clearly, all new age thinking is telling me that the universe does not want me to watch this DVD? I should consult the cards, or the stars, the tarot, or Zelda and her crystal ball, clearly. I should have my guru on speed dial for occasions just like this. Maybe, I should make an appointment with my trans-personal councillor?

The Perfect Murder?

Apparently, (presumably) a man can eat a Brazil nut and then that man can inseminate a woman, or presumably another man, who is allergic to Brazil nuts, which will, in fact, effect the woman's nut allergy.

People who are allergic to Brazil nuts have a unique problem, it’s the only allergic reaction known to be sexually transmissible. In other words, the semen of a man who has eaten brazils can trigger an allergic response if a sexual partner of his who has an allergy.

What a way to murder someone?

It makes a great premise for a story, I reckon. I guess, if the partner was known to have known that their partner had a nut allergy, it could be proven it was deliberate. But, what about a hired killer?

Sun rise, just on my way to work. It is on the early mornings that I see the sun coming up.

The Christian Agenda

I was reading One Million Cunts, oh, oops, One Million Moms seeing what they'd said about that adorable Campbell's Soup advert. Oh, it is just the usual out dated rubbish blah blah, blah. We wish it was the 1950s, blah, blah, blah.

It is so funny - not in the laugh out loud kind of way, but in the cringe and grimace kind of way - when Christians say that there is a gay agenda, when the only people who have an agenda is the Christians.

Could we call that Ironic Bigotry?

You know, I've always said that there is nothing wrong with Christianity, as long as they keep it to themselves and don't flaunt it in public.

The gay agenda, if there was one, would be to be treated the same as everyone else. That is really the extent of the agenda. 

The Christian agenda is to have everyone live differently, as per how the Christian's think everybody should live. Their agenda is to change society.

So really, who has an agenda?

(As I write this, my pussy crawled into my lap. Do you think that is a sign from God to repent my sinful ways? I think it must be.)

What A Lovely Morning

This morning it is gorgeous, warm like a summer breeze. i stood on my back veranda and felt the warm touch of 5am. It was a little barmy, a little wild, promising something more, that untamed heat one usually feels in an unfamilair city on an early morning when one's eyes are open to it for the first time.

I stood there in my t-shirt and felt my pours open and the goosebumps on my bare arms, it was through delight more so than climate, as I watered the garden early, before the sun came up. I've been falling asleep on the couch at night and forgetting to do it. Bring on the beautiful day, I thought. Let it all begin.

I've been falling asleep on the couch at night after dinner and I haven't been cleaning up the kitchen, after Sam has cooked, which is my job. The kitchen has two days of unwashed pots on the bench. Sam is poh-faced about it. I should have cleaned up instead of watering the garden, but the dishes aren't going to die from lack of water, now are they. Sam doesn't see it that way.

It was lovely walking to work in short sleeves, my skin bristles and I feel alive. Spring makes me feel alive. The down-jacket of winter has been thrown off and life shimmers with newness... every day.

Cold Morning

It is cold this morning. What happened to us all frying for the rest of the year? What happened to the El Ninia, or El Ninio, or El Nana drying us out like the skin on the back of grandma's hands? 

Not that I am complaining, you understand, I am sure "that" will all come soon enough and the steam will shimmy from the horizon. I quite like the cool, anyway. If I had to choose, I like it better than the heat. The really hot heat, that is. There is no place more beautiful than Melbourne on a sunny spring day, but that burning, hot 40 degree heat, ah, no thanks. Pass.

It is just that the weather this year really has been weird, weirder than weird. It has been cold until really late in the year, we were having open fires in September, for the universe sake! Then it got really hot for a few days and now it is cold again. Brrrr!

Climate change? Who believes that nonsense. Not me, I can tell you that straight up. "It's crap."

Tuesday Morning

Tum di dah. I'm just sitting here in the morning light, cuddled up to my bulldog, as the light breaks and shimmers, as I finish my first coffee. It is 7am.

The coffee machine makes a bup bup bup bup sound as Sam makes his coffee.

The sun is shining in the trees beyond the back doors, in many shades of green, like a Derwent pencil box. I can almost see the hand of god colouring them in. Almost. smile emoticon The mornings are lovely, this time of year, a great time to be alive. The trees are many shades of bright colour in the crisp morning light, a wall of leaves framing the world. The sky is turning bright blue. Mornings are clear and serene and alive and new, all at once. They shimmer with possibilities. What did my father used to say?

"You wouldn't be poor for quids." I'm not exactly sure why those words come into my head, but dad, I can still hear your say them. I can hear your laugh. (How did he like his apricot jam? I guess you'd have to be a Fletcher to know the answer to that one.)

I must get going, but it is just nice sitting here. Go get in the shower, scrub up and head to work. The mornings pick up speed once the light is shining all around. It was what I did yesterday morning, no doubt, it is what I will do tomorrow morning and the morning after that. The spinning wheel. The days repeat themselves so quickly, Monday, Wednesday, Friday and the weekend is over. But, the mornings are lovely, walking in the fresh, new air, breath it in. Breath bigger, greater, deeper. Lung bucketfuls. When I travel, it is the thing that I always notice, the smell of a city in the morning.

Buddy snuggles in and rests his head on my leg, almost as if he can feel me getting ready to get up. I rub his ears, they are soft like velvet and I can feel him relax against my leg again.

Better finish my coffee. What is it that my mother used to say. I can hear her say it too.

"Must get a wriggle on."

smile emoticon

7 Suicides Per Day

Seven people committ suicide every day in Australia. I was surprised to read this. Is that a lot? It seemed like a lot. That is one every 3ish hours. One person has killed themselves since I got out of bed. I'm guessing an ambulance has been dispatched. Will six more ambulances be send before I go to bed? I'm guessing, at least, one of them will not be missed straight away.

I guess that means, at the very least, that some one is considering it as you read this. Does that mean they are shaking the pill bottle, rattle rattle, or cocking the gun, click, right at this minute? How cold does the end of the barrel feel on their lips, do you think? They are on the top floor of the building peering over. What do you think they are thinking? "That should do it?" They have just thrown the rope over the beam and are giving it a tug, you know, as you do. Perhaps, they are swish, swish, swishing, the knife on the knife sharpener, as I type. The roller door is up and they are holding the vacuum tube in their hand staring at their car exhaust pipe.

Heart beating fast. Mentally saying their good byes. Taking a last look around. Taking a big breath. Is that what you do?

The sun doesn't shine for everyone everyday. Not everyone smiles as they head out into the world. The future isn't always bright. Life isn't always sweet. There isn't always tomorrow to look forward to, for everyone.

As usual, if anybody reading this is experiencing distress in their life they should call LifeLine. 13 11 14. (Sam made me write that)

I'd say, Really? If you want to, go ahead, but tomorrow could be great. Hands in the air. Shrug. You never know. And everybody forgets too quickly. A coupla weeks and everybody's life moves on, it's true. Life has to, it runs to the never ending beat of time. Forever forward. So... stick around buddy, surely its worth another shot... 

Bang! Oops. No, not that short of shot. Bad choice of words. It is my sense of humour. You've got to laugh.

Mind Altering is Good, Surely?

The deal with drugs is that they make you believe that your fantasies are real, make hem feel real, certainly for the time that you are affected. Especially, your sexual fantasies, which is why gay men love drugs so much. It turns them into the filthy whores that they want to be, no inhibitions, which is great, certainly for the time they are affected. None more so than crystal meth. That is why people love crystal meth, that is why gay men love crystal meth, that is why I loved crystal meth. (passed tense, I got bored with it, but for a time, it was great) I called it the ‘dirty mind.” The places my imagination went when affected. That was amazing and i loved it.

(Give a gay boy crystal meth and Viagra and he turns into a zombie with a hardon, so goes the familiar criticism, by some, by many, I'm not exactly sure. I’m assuming, criticism of the gay boys who “he” won’t let touch his hard on)

The drug experience is the drug experience and the non-drug experience is the non-drug experience, the two are different, the two will remain different forever. One doesn’t replace the other, it never can. And you can’t have one without the other, this is the important point too that many people miss. Unless you have the non-drug experience, the drug experience quickly means nothing, you end up permanently fucked up.

So you have to be pretty strong to indulge in this mind altering experience. You have to understand the difference between the drug experience and the sober experience. I think people who took recreational drugs understood this. Well, certainly the traditional takers of recreational drugs, the smart, the hip, the cool people. The club kids who love the music and love to dance. The gays, who party and who support each other in the drug experience/fun to be had. The people who have meaningful lives to who drugs are just one part, are the people called recreational users. They know the difference and are able to tread both realities. The recreational drug users take drugs to have fun. They take drugs for the experience to experience the mind altering state. In a sense, they know the experience is temporary, they know they will return to their normal lives once the experience is over.

The drug user and the drug addict are different. It is a blurry line, sure, but there is a difference between the two. It is like talking about the drinker and the alcoholic. To say that all people who take drugs, even crystal meth, are drug addicts, are like calling everyone who drinks is an alcoholic.

The problem we have now is that we have the naive, the unworldly, the inexperienced people taking drugs, particularly crystal met. You have these people who have, perhaps, nothing in their lives, who are not smart, who are not cool. Do they understand about the difference in the drug and non-drug experience? Maybe? Maybe not? They can so easily become engulfed by drugs, totally consumed, become addicts.

I guess these would have traditionally been the pisshead/potheads. These people may not have much going on and so easily drugs become their lives. That first hit of meth is the best they have ever felt, or ever will feel, escape from their unhappy lives, from their alcoholic mothers, their absent fathers and their creepy uncles who touch them, and they spend the rest of their lives trying to regain that feeling, which they never will, until they end up toothless and scabby-faced and broken.

You have the people who are taking drugs to escape, to runaway from their unhappy lives. These people would be closer to the old heroin addict, they want something with which to replace the pain, to blot out their unhappiness, to make them not feel what they normally feel.

I think, its the inexperienced people are giving drugs a bad name, worse name than is necessary. That's harsh, I know, but the essence is true. It is these people's experience the media is hyping up in its hysterical headlines. People have been doing ice for years without too many problems. I certainly know lots of people. But then you get the less worldly, the less capable doing it and suddenly, "something has to be done."

There is a huge difference between the recreational drug user and the drug addict. There is a big difference between the drug experience and the non-drug experience. There is a significant importance to why people, actually, take drugs, if it is not for fun, then...? Is it to escape your shitty life? I know I have been relatively lucky, that my life has gone well and I have advantages other's don't have, and I am able to take drugs starting from a position of relative happiness. I feel sorry for those who don't have that.

I am constantly amazed by the talk around the lunch room table, listening to people discussing Ice who clearly have no idea about Ice other than the hysterical headlines they have read on the front page of the HearldSun.

Sunrise, pretty in pink

Sunrise this morning, on my way to work

Day Light Savings

And the clocks all seem to change by themselves, now a days. Kind of spooky. I plug my Nike band into my computer and that updates too. Just the clock in the car and the clock in the kitchen and I think we are done.

The sun sparkles. It is a glorious day. It shines. We take Buddy for a walk early, before it gets to hot for the little precious. He stinks. We should wash him.

I lie on the floor and listen to music. It is warm, spring is here. I open the doors and the windows and the warm spring air blows in.

Sleeping Well

And very nice sleeps we've been having. No need to mention, I don't think, that the bulldog likes the memory foam mattress too. I slid my hand underneath him and there was the shape of a bulldog, indented in the foam.

Of course, Milo thinks it is his bed and he sleeps there all day. He is positively put out when the door closes him out at night. He is often sitting at the door when I get up. It was a beautiful sun rise this morning, all yellow and orange. Custard in the sky with ice cream and mango.

Grand Final public holiday breakfast. I'd personally like to thank Victoria for this historic horse race for giving us the day off. Yay Victoria. Its a kind of do nothing kind of long weekend. The weather is dazzling. The warm sun falls in the garden like warm honey.

Time for a New Mattress

We bought a new mattress. Sam reckons the old one was giving us bad backs, but, I think that was because he found out how old it was. Still, they say, they need to be replaced after a certain time, (the mattress, not the boyfriend) and this mattress' time, by all accounts, was up.

We went to a couple of shops and lay on all of the beds.

“Oh yes, take your time,” said the pregnant shop assistant about to burst. “You won’t know unless you try them all.” 

A sea of quilted cotton fabric lay stretched out in front of us.

Hard, soft, inner coil, individually sprung, outer coil, posturepedic, thick, thicker, thicker still. Seals, King Kong, ortherpedic, pillowtop, muffintop, some as wide as the lesbian florist’s arse on Victoria Parade, but prettier, some as thick as the effeminate barista on Gertrude Street, except smarter. It gets a little confusing. 

"Um, er, did we lie on that one?"

There are so many to choose from. How many do you think you can lie on before you become numb to it all and just a little confused?

All of that information, so many mattresses with so many names. Romeo, Conquest...

They've all got thicker and thicker and thick, and thicker, until they remind me of old Auntie Pat's horse hair mattress’ in her country mansion that looked like Victoria Falls when I peered from the top of them as a kid. The way they are going, we’ll be back to the past with step ladders to climb into the cot. Apparently, the depths of the fitted sheets have got deeper and deeper and deeper, like some ho boy's arse down Shakespeare Grove, to accommodate all of that extra girth.

"Do they have to be so thick?"

"They have got thicker?"

"I like thinner beds." I laughed. "I always fancied a futon." (Ever since I moved out of home, how many years ago?)

"Why don't you lay down here then."

She was pointing at a plain white nondescript mattress, which I didn't pay a hell of a lot of attention too. Head spinning, decisions, decisions. I wasn’t sure I could lie on another mattress, still it seemed a relief to lie on one just for a rest. We lay down on what they call a memory foam mattress to take stock.

"Ah, this is nice."

"These are the best," said our pregnant friend. “I lay here between customers to get some relief from this.” She rub her stomach.

“But much more expensive,” I see.

“Yes, there is that,” she said.

Still the sales were on, so now was the time.

Another weekend, another mattress shop to visit.

“Is there anything I can help you with,” said the sales boy.

Well, hello handsome Keaton. He was very attentive. We tried all of his beds enthusiastically. When we lay on the beds, and Keaton stood next to us giving us the spiel… well, at that angle, in those black trousers… he got the sale. Not that he really influenced us all that much. We had decided on the memory foam mattress, the others just didn’t seem to compare. It is like sleeping on the top of a cake, it is so dense, it is like sleeping on your very own brownie. It doesn't move as you get on it. I can't feel Sam move. I sleep well on it. It hugs you. Ah memory foam, zzzzzzzzzz.

Here I am running around in the dark with a camera. Kinda sounds like how young pretty blond things get sold into the slave trade, now doesn't it. No, I guess it doesn't, hey?