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| Sunrise, those colours are high art, just beautiful |
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
There Is A Great Sunrise
Sam got up at 4am and got ready. (Sam text me at 8am, just arrived in Brisbane, just as I started to write this)
I lay under the covers with a blocked, desperately in need of blowing, nose. I was awake. I was just going to drive out to Guido’s as soon as Sam leaves. I was awake, just go and get it. Fucken cold, I think!
Sam let Buddy into bed. It was good, he’d be out of the way in bed when I backed the car out.
I could hear Andy coughing up stairs, I wondered if that would interfere with my plans? Out of my way, no sick people.
Sam gets into the taxi at 4.30, and leaves. It parks in front of next door and it is only its red taillights I can see in the dark.
I got up and got dressed. I waited until 4.45am, figuring that was long enough that Sam wouldn’t come back to get something he’d forgotten.
There was nothing I could do about my car, it is loud, I couldn’t hide it. That sports exhaust sounds great in the day light hours, but in the wee, small hours when one is trying to make a discreet get away, it is not helpful. Andy was bound to hear me leave.
I listened to my new Labelle and Patti Labelle mixed tape on my headphones all the way out and all the way back. The roads were deserted. I got most of the green lights, I hardly had to stop, which was the reason I just wanted to get up and got and get it when I was awake.
I get to Guido’s at 5.10am. It all goes smoothly.
I follow the Lebanese boy from the Lebanese grocery in Smith Street all the way back down Nicholson Street. He must start early. He must live in the north?
I stop at the convenience shop on the corner of Nicholson and Johnston and buy a 20 pack of Peter Jacksons at 5.35am. “You better make it a pack of 30s.”
I decide just to bare face lie to Andy if he asks me where I went at 4.45am.
“Sam flew to Brisbane for work for three days,” I’d say. “Oh he so didn’t want to go.” Its not a lie, it is evasive, but Andy wouldn’t know it was evasive, he was unlikely to know how many people got into the car and backed out of the back yard. Andy’s bedroom faces the back yard, my method of exit. Sam went in a taxi out the front, which Andy was unlikely to have heard.
(Andy never asked)
I’ll tell Sam when he comes home, there won’t be any lies. What is it they say, sometimes it is better to act first and ask for forgiveness, than to get permission in the first place. I’m sure that is how it goes? And it doesn’t matter if Andy questions me later, I’d just say, Sorry, but I just didn’t feel like explaining myself at the time. So no lie to him either.
And, it means that Sam gets a taxi home on Wednesday night, as the company is paying for that too, so I don’t have to drive any where for 3 days. Sam comes home to stoned me, I can’t hide that, when everything will be revealed.
5.45am. Home.
I’m hungry, I get muesli and coffee.
There is a great sunrise at 5.50am’ish. Beautiful.
Buddy, as I suspected, hadn’t moved a paw, he was snoring away peacefully on my bed.
I was confident enough to wish Sam a happy flight message.
I sign into Facebook. The first thing that comes up is Fued, the Bette Davis and Joan Crawford Feud. Joan Crawford played by Jessica Lange, Bette Davis played by Susan Sarrandon.
I watch some great Bette Davis and Joan Crawford docos on YouTube.
The sun shone at 8am.
Sam text to say he had just landed in Brisbane. He asked why I was up so early. Had Buddy disturbed me?
I dodged the up early part. “Nah. We sleep like babies.” Buddy lies stretched out against my leg.
I sit on the balcony and smoke a joint. If Sam says anything about pot from now on, I’ll just say I went and got it. I just had to buy a few hours. I’m not sure if that makes sense? But, in these situations, it is never guaranteed until it is in your hand, I don’t care it was 5am, just get it and then no more stress for 3 days.
9am. I feel really exposed smoking a j on the balcony with half the slats missing. I should call Perry and ask him if he knows a good carpenter who could fix it?
Two cute tradies are comparing tools out of the back of the cutest one's Land Rover. One holds up a tool and the other one seems to place something over the other one’s tool, it is a very intimate act. The one who owns the Land Rover is a gorgeous blond. I feel like asking them if they are good with balconies?
Now what? My journal is up to date. And I am very stoned.
Back to Bette and Joan.
“You should never say bad things about the dead, you should only say good," said Bette Davis. "Joan Crawford is dead. Good.”
And,
"Joan Crawford has slept with all the leading men at MGM," said Bettie Davis. "All except Lassie."
Chuckle.
Then I watched a Katherine Hepburn doco and cried when Spencer Tracy died.
10.25. I’m sitting up in bed with bleary eyes. Buddy is snoring next to me, pig noises on the inhale, whistling on he exhale.
I watched old Mick Jagger interviews. I think he is great. I don’t think I ever thought Jagger was cute, though, I just liked his music. Some old shots he looks hot, now I look back at them.
I watched Pink, Me & Bobby Magee, she’s great.
And Joss Stone, Son of a Preacher Man. You’re listening to greatness.
Robbie Williams and Jonathon Wilkes. And I can’t really put into words what I picture them doing to each other. That Old Black Magic.
I watched Steve Tyler. Kennedy Centre Awards for Paul McCartney. Go watch it on YouTube. Such an old, rock diva.
How will I know if he’s gone, if I don’t see him go? Write a short story. I mull that over for a while. The title lends it to an Alzheimer’s story. Have I got an Alzheimer’s story in me? My mum just died of it. Too soon, perhaps.
I speak to Sam several times by phone in the evening, he doesn’t pick that I am stoned. I do have a cold by now, yes, yes, all points in my defence, I know. My mother always told me, If you have a cold, get into bed.
I go to sleep with Patti Labelle on headphones. 2am. I’m very pleased with my second mixed tape, of Labelle and Patti Labelle tracks, with 4 tracks she has done since 2006. And 2 from the Bluebelles that I already had on cd. I think it is good.
I can’t wait to wake up and go into town and buy the Miami Vice album, for the Patti track you can only get if you buy the entire album on line. My iTunes account is down to $4.35. I could order it, but then there is delivery. Nothing for it but to go into town and buy the cd, old school and the quickest choice at this point.
I lay under the covers with a blocked, desperately in need of blowing, nose. I was awake. I was just going to drive out to Guido’s as soon as Sam leaves. I was awake, just go and get it. Fucken cold, I think!
Sam let Buddy into bed. It was good, he’d be out of the way in bed when I backed the car out.
I could hear Andy coughing up stairs, I wondered if that would interfere with my plans? Out of my way, no sick people.
Sam gets into the taxi at 4.30, and leaves. It parks in front of next door and it is only its red taillights I can see in the dark.
I got up and got dressed. I waited until 4.45am, figuring that was long enough that Sam wouldn’t come back to get something he’d forgotten.
There was nothing I could do about my car, it is loud, I couldn’t hide it. That sports exhaust sounds great in the day light hours, but in the wee, small hours when one is trying to make a discreet get away, it is not helpful. Andy was bound to hear me leave.
I listened to my new Labelle and Patti Labelle mixed tape on my headphones all the way out and all the way back. The roads were deserted. I got most of the green lights, I hardly had to stop, which was the reason I just wanted to get up and got and get it when I was awake.
I get to Guido’s at 5.10am. It all goes smoothly.
I follow the Lebanese boy from the Lebanese grocery in Smith Street all the way back down Nicholson Street. He must start early. He must live in the north?
I stop at the convenience shop on the corner of Nicholson and Johnston and buy a 20 pack of Peter Jacksons at 5.35am. “You better make it a pack of 30s.”
I decide just to bare face lie to Andy if he asks me where I went at 4.45am.
“Sam flew to Brisbane for work for three days,” I’d say. “Oh he so didn’t want to go.” Its not a lie, it is evasive, but Andy wouldn’t know it was evasive, he was unlikely to know how many people got into the car and backed out of the back yard. Andy’s bedroom faces the back yard, my method of exit. Sam went in a taxi out the front, which Andy was unlikely to have heard.
(Andy never asked)
I’ll tell Sam when he comes home, there won’t be any lies. What is it they say, sometimes it is better to act first and ask for forgiveness, than to get permission in the first place. I’m sure that is how it goes? And it doesn’t matter if Andy questions me later, I’d just say, Sorry, but I just didn’t feel like explaining myself at the time. So no lie to him either.
And, it means that Sam gets a taxi home on Wednesday night, as the company is paying for that too, so I don’t have to drive any where for 3 days. Sam comes home to stoned me, I can’t hide that, when everything will be revealed.
5.45am. Home.
I’m hungry, I get muesli and coffee.
There is a great sunrise at 5.50am’ish. Beautiful.
Buddy, as I suspected, hadn’t moved a paw, he was snoring away peacefully on my bed.
I was confident enough to wish Sam a happy flight message.
I sign into Facebook. The first thing that comes up is Fued, the Bette Davis and Joan Crawford Feud. Joan Crawford played by Jessica Lange, Bette Davis played by Susan Sarrandon.
I watch some great Bette Davis and Joan Crawford docos on YouTube.
The sun shone at 8am.
Sam text to say he had just landed in Brisbane. He asked why I was up so early. Had Buddy disturbed me?
I dodged the up early part. “Nah. We sleep like babies.” Buddy lies stretched out against my leg.
I sit on the balcony and smoke a joint. If Sam says anything about pot from now on, I’ll just say I went and got it. I just had to buy a few hours. I’m not sure if that makes sense? But, in these situations, it is never guaranteed until it is in your hand, I don’t care it was 5am, just get it and then no more stress for 3 days.
9am. I feel really exposed smoking a j on the balcony with half the slats missing. I should call Perry and ask him if he knows a good carpenter who could fix it?
Two cute tradies are comparing tools out of the back of the cutest one's Land Rover. One holds up a tool and the other one seems to place something over the other one’s tool, it is a very intimate act. The one who owns the Land Rover is a gorgeous blond. I feel like asking them if they are good with balconies?
Now what? My journal is up to date. And I am very stoned.
Back to Bette and Joan.
“You should never say bad things about the dead, you should only say good," said Bette Davis. "Joan Crawford is dead. Good.”
And,
"Joan Crawford has slept with all the leading men at MGM," said Bettie Davis. "All except Lassie."
Chuckle.
Then I watched a Katherine Hepburn doco and cried when Spencer Tracy died.
10.25. I’m sitting up in bed with bleary eyes. Buddy is snoring next to me, pig noises on the inhale, whistling on he exhale.
I watched old Mick Jagger interviews. I think he is great. I don’t think I ever thought Jagger was cute, though, I just liked his music. Some old shots he looks hot, now I look back at them.
I watched Pink, Me & Bobby Magee, she’s great.
And Joss Stone, Son of a Preacher Man. You’re listening to greatness.
Robbie Williams and Jonathon Wilkes. And I can’t really put into words what I picture them doing to each other. That Old Black Magic.
I watched Steve Tyler. Kennedy Centre Awards for Paul McCartney. Go watch it on YouTube. Such an old, rock diva.
How will I know if he’s gone, if I don’t see him go? Write a short story. I mull that over for a while. The title lends it to an Alzheimer’s story. Have I got an Alzheimer’s story in me? My mum just died of it. Too soon, perhaps.
I speak to Sam several times by phone in the evening, he doesn’t pick that I am stoned. I do have a cold by now, yes, yes, all points in my defence, I know. My mother always told me, If you have a cold, get into bed.
I go to sleep with Patti Labelle on headphones. 2am. I’m very pleased with my second mixed tape, of Labelle and Patti Labelle tracks, with 4 tracks she has done since 2006. And 2 from the Bluebelles that I already had on cd. I think it is good.
I can’t wait to wake up and go into town and buy the Miami Vice album, for the Patti track you can only get if you buy the entire album on line. My iTunes account is down to $4.35. I could order it, but then there is delivery. Nothing for it but to go into town and buy the cd, old school and the quickest choice at this point.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
What Could Go Wrong?
I was up at 7am. Stupid bird cheeping in the tree.
Sam was up at 8am.
I cooked toast and coffee for breakfast.
We heard Andy call in sick. He has had a cold. Now I have a cold. I’m not blaming anyone for anything, but it is curious timing when I am planning to spend 3 days stoned.
We walked into the city. Sam wanted to buy a new body trimmer, so he could trim his pubes. (I wondered why? But chose not to think about it) We headed to Harvey Norman.
Sam looked at the hair trimmers.
I text Guido to remind him. If I was going at 5am, I don’t want anything to go wrong.
Sam price matched the hair trimmer we bought it.
We walked down Swanston Street. I had to finally admit that I was getting a cold, and we went to Chemist warehouse in The Bourke Street Mall.
We headed to Sushi Train, in MidCity.
I had a hair cut, despite still having scabs on the top of my head. (from the balcony falling apart and falling down on top of me) I got the adorable boy and had to show him the scabs on my head. How humiliating. Not really, but…
We walked to Melbourne Central and got ice creams, green tea for Sam and Black Sesame for me.
We walked home and were fucked when we got there. We both curled on the couch and went to sleep.
We were woken by the doorbell, and where we just wouldn’t answer it normally, Sam did. He just went to look through the peephole, when he saw it was Jane. She had called earlier, saying she would drop in before the football, and we’d forgotten momentarily in our exhaustion.
Jane left for the MCG at 2.45 to meet her school sweatheart, who's still a hot boy around town, so it would seem. All the girls like him, but he has never found the one. Never got married. It is a common thread through Jane's life. (Jane's first boyfriend was killed riding his motorbike recently. He had never had another girlfriend, to speak of, after Jane. At the funeral, his mother told Jane that he had always held out hope that she and he would get back together, sadly, something he never told Jane)
We walked Buddy to The Fitzroy Gardens at 3.15pm. Of course, he wouldn’t cross Gertrude Street in all his bulldogishness he wanted to go to the off-lead at the Commission Flats. A group sitting outside The pub though he was adorable... which is really hard when you are speaking to him through gritted teeth.
Every dog in The Fitzroy Gardens seemed to be off its lead, so Buddy was off his lead and mingling with other dogs off their leads and having a fine old time. We met Andy and Ricky sitting on a seat, and it was very civilised just to be able to walk up and say hello and have Buddy walk up just as an entity all of his own and say hello, and Andy and Ricky enjoyed seeing him. Well, Andy did. I think Ricky did, but being the new guy he got Buddy’s attention wholeheartedly, which is kind of over whelming for some. Ricky did okay, if I remember rightly.
I put him on his lead around Captain Cook’s Cottage, where all the tourists mingle.
But even then, I’d just put him on his lead, and he was resisting suddenly being constrained, when two Jack Russell’s ran up to him off their leads. The Jack Russell’s owners seemed genuinely concern that Buddy was about to be nasty, mistaking the normal bulldog face as the dog in a bad mood.
“Is he scared?” asked the other owner, running up to protect his own dogs.
Him? “Nah,” I said. “I just put him back on his lead. He always has that face”
Buddy pulled his cutest facial expression, and lept to attention. He and the Jack Russell’s all sniffed bums and kept walking.
“He’s gorgeous,” said the other guy.
We sat on a seat just before we left the gardens, to enjoy it just a little longer. Buddy hung with us.
I offered to drive Sam to the airport, but he insisted that the company was paying for it so he would catch a taxi. I tried to talk him into it. I didn’t want to insist, or anything, he would be on to me in seconds if I did. I had to play it really cool. But he just decided that he was going by taxi and that was it.
This was after he’d given up the thought of forging a taxi receipt, getting me to drive him to the airport, claiming the expense and making money on the company. He tired to download a Silver Top taxi receipt, but couldn’t. I told him it was fraud, and that he really should reconsider. A work colleague told him it was okay and to go ahead with it, it should be easy. Charlie, said if the company found out, it would look very badly on Sam, especially as this was his first assignment, he would be never trusted again.
There was nothing he could do, he’d just have to let the company pay for him to catch a taxi.
What could go wrong, I thought?
Andy brings that cute boy, Ricky, back home. They sit out the back and drink tea. It is a nice day. They make plans to go to Ricky’s to eat and then go to Cinema Nova.
Jane arrived for a cup of tea at 6pm.
We ate spaghetti for dinner. Mitch came out and watched Shark Tank. Andy came downstairs and drank tea and smoked cigarettes. Mitch said he was going out drinking. I wondered if that would interfere with my plans to sneak out after Sam leaves for the airport in the morning?
Sam was up at 8am.
I cooked toast and coffee for breakfast.
We heard Andy call in sick. He has had a cold. Now I have a cold. I’m not blaming anyone for anything, but it is curious timing when I am planning to spend 3 days stoned.
We walked into the city. Sam wanted to buy a new body trimmer, so he could trim his pubes. (I wondered why? But chose not to think about it) We headed to Harvey Norman.
Sam looked at the hair trimmers.
I text Guido to remind him. If I was going at 5am, I don’t want anything to go wrong.
Sam price matched the hair trimmer we bought it.
We walked down Swanston Street. I had to finally admit that I was getting a cold, and we went to Chemist warehouse in The Bourke Street Mall.
We headed to Sushi Train, in MidCity.
I had a hair cut, despite still having scabs on the top of my head. (from the balcony falling apart and falling down on top of me) I got the adorable boy and had to show him the scabs on my head. How humiliating. Not really, but…
We walked to Melbourne Central and got ice creams, green tea for Sam and Black Sesame for me.
We walked home and were fucked when we got there. We both curled on the couch and went to sleep.
We were woken by the doorbell, and where we just wouldn’t answer it normally, Sam did. He just went to look through the peephole, when he saw it was Jane. She had called earlier, saying she would drop in before the football, and we’d forgotten momentarily in our exhaustion.
Jane left for the MCG at 2.45 to meet her school sweatheart, who's still a hot boy around town, so it would seem. All the girls like him, but he has never found the one. Never got married. It is a common thread through Jane's life. (Jane's first boyfriend was killed riding his motorbike recently. He had never had another girlfriend, to speak of, after Jane. At the funeral, his mother told Jane that he had always held out hope that she and he would get back together, sadly, something he never told Jane)
We walked Buddy to The Fitzroy Gardens at 3.15pm. Of course, he wouldn’t cross Gertrude Street in all his bulldogishness he wanted to go to the off-lead at the Commission Flats. A group sitting outside The pub though he was adorable... which is really hard when you are speaking to him through gritted teeth.
Every dog in The Fitzroy Gardens seemed to be off its lead, so Buddy was off his lead and mingling with other dogs off their leads and having a fine old time. We met Andy and Ricky sitting on a seat, and it was very civilised just to be able to walk up and say hello and have Buddy walk up just as an entity all of his own and say hello, and Andy and Ricky enjoyed seeing him. Well, Andy did. I think Ricky did, but being the new guy he got Buddy’s attention wholeheartedly, which is kind of over whelming for some. Ricky did okay, if I remember rightly.
I put him on his lead around Captain Cook’s Cottage, where all the tourists mingle.
But even then, I’d just put him on his lead, and he was resisting suddenly being constrained, when two Jack Russell’s ran up to him off their leads. The Jack Russell’s owners seemed genuinely concern that Buddy was about to be nasty, mistaking the normal bulldog face as the dog in a bad mood.
“Is he scared?” asked the other owner, running up to protect his own dogs.
Him? “Nah,” I said. “I just put him back on his lead. He always has that face”
Buddy pulled his cutest facial expression, and lept to attention. He and the Jack Russell’s all sniffed bums and kept walking.
“He’s gorgeous,” said the other guy.
We sat on a seat just before we left the gardens, to enjoy it just a little longer. Buddy hung with us.
I offered to drive Sam to the airport, but he insisted that the company was paying for it so he would catch a taxi. I tried to talk him into it. I didn’t want to insist, or anything, he would be on to me in seconds if I did. I had to play it really cool. But he just decided that he was going by taxi and that was it.
This was after he’d given up the thought of forging a taxi receipt, getting me to drive him to the airport, claiming the expense and making money on the company. He tired to download a Silver Top taxi receipt, but couldn’t. I told him it was fraud, and that he really should reconsider. A work colleague told him it was okay and to go ahead with it, it should be easy. Charlie, said if the company found out, it would look very badly on Sam, especially as this was his first assignment, he would be never trusted again.
There was nothing he could do, he’d just have to let the company pay for him to catch a taxi.
What could go wrong, I thought?
Andy brings that cute boy, Ricky, back home. They sit out the back and drink tea. It is a nice day. They make plans to go to Ricky’s to eat and then go to Cinema Nova.
Jane arrived for a cup of tea at 6pm.
We ate spaghetti for dinner. Mitch came out and watched Shark Tank. Andy came downstairs and drank tea and smoked cigarettes. Mitch said he was going out drinking. I wondered if that would interfere with my plans to sneak out after Sam leaves for the airport in the morning?
Thursday, August 25, 2016
Lou Wants Lemons
I woke early and couldn’t get back to sleep. It's the trouble with going to bed early. Sam always wants to go to bed early, 10pm and I can see him looking at his watch. It is why I call him Nan. So, I went walking at 6am, just as the sun was coming up. I was just going out to take some sunrise shots, but somehow I kept walking. It rained. It had already started raining, as I was leaving, but I thought, hoped, it would stop. It got heavier. I pulled my hoodie over my head, to keep my headphones dry, more so than anything else.
By the time I got home, it had stopped. And I was freezing. I stood in front of the fire in the lounge. I’d lit it when I first got up. Buddy licked the sweat off my legs. I always wear shorts whenever I go walking, whatever the weather. It tickled, Buddy’s tongue. The walking always warms me up.
I was just drying my hair with a towel when there was a knock at the back door, more of a rattle of the door handle than a knock, it was my neighbour Lou. Loopy Lou. Oh, I shouldn’t say that, I am an awful person. She has a heart of gold. She means well. But, she calls herself Loopy Lou.
“You been walking in the rain, again?”
“Again?” I asked. “Yeah, well, gotta do what ya gotta do.”
“It will lead to no good,” said Lou. “I’ve told you before. Pneumonia and death quickly after.”
“And I was thinking it sounded romantic…”
“It is a recipe for sickness and death…”
“Good morning to you too, Lou.”
“And a jolly good morning it is too.”
“I’ve got to keep it all trim,” I said. “I never know when I’m gonna catch sight of it.” I smiled for Lou’s benefit. “In a shop window.”
“Meditation,” said Lou. “I’ve told you before. Too much emphasis on,” she looked at my crotch, “ya thing…”
“Lou!” I laughed.
“Empty vessel, Chriso boy, empty vessel. You just end up chasing it around and your never ending wants leave you unfulfilled.” Lou’s right eye ticked, like she was winking at me. “Ends up driving you nuts. Driving you nuts, Christian.” She ticked uncontrollably for a few seconds.
She somehow had the wrong idea of me, something that was maybe true sometime in my inglorious past. “Walking is my meditation…”
“False god, Christian my boy, false god.” She pointed at the ceiling rocking her hand as if to some beat.
“It is when I relax…”
Lou held her hands out in front of her like she was holding the entire world in her hands. “You think,” emphasis on the think, as she pulled the world towards herself, “you are relaxing, Christian, but you’re not…
“But, I am…”
“No Christian, no Christian. No. Christian. No! You are still feeding your ego. You are doing it all for the wrong reasons. Vanity is never going to lead you to nirvana.”
“The wrong reasons?” I pretty much knew what the answer to this was, why I asked I don’t know.
“You want to be discovering inner peace, not outward beauty.” Lou’s shoulder rotated quite unexpectedly. Her fingers twitched. “Inner peace, Christian, not outward beauty.” She flattened her palms and slid them threw the air in front of her, out to each side. “Sanctuary is inside everyone of us.” She grabbed her chest. “We just have to take the time to look for it.”
There was a strange frozen moment where Lou continued to grab her chest, making big eyes, but she glazed over as though she was remembering some long forgotten memory.
“Would you like a coffee, Lou?”
She returned to behind of her ‘big eyes,’ as though the puppeteer had taken up the strings again. “The devils brew, Christian, the dev…il’s…brew.” She nodded her head on each syllable.
“Well, I was just about to have one.”
“Lemons,” Lou suddenly said. “I want lemons. I came in for lemons. Do you have lemons?”
I glanced over at the fruit bowl to see a number of the yellow fruit hiding amongst the mandarins. I swept my hand through the air in a big gesture. “Help yourself.”
“You are a prince, Christian, a prince,” said Lou. “What would I do without you?”
“What would I do without you, Lou?”
She stepped with one foot, and kind of slid the other one behind the first, like an awkward Tango, right up next to me. “You are not moving, are you Christian?” she asked almost conspiratorially.
“No,” I said, dropping my voice in mock fear that someone else might hear me. “What have you heard?”
Lou pulled back. “Nothing,” she said, as if she’d suddenly come to her senses, as if my words were accusatory.
“Good, because… I’m… not,” I tried to say with a slightly mysterious air.
“You wouldn’t move on me,” Lou glanced in either direction of the room, left and right, “would you Christian?”
“No plans to, Lou.” I looked one way in the room. “No plans to.” I looked in the other direction.
She glanced around, then looked back at me. “Good.” She looked at the fruit bowl and talked while still gazing at it. “I’m not sure if I could cope if you moved, Christian. Gordon and Joe and Douglas moved.” She looked at me. “You still banging that boy?”
I’m sure I opened and closed my mouth in surprise. “Um… Douglas?”
“Douglas.”
“No,” I said. I shook my head. “Not for a long time.”
“Not Rob and Sally, either.” Lou reached out to the fruit bowl and picked out three lemons, one by one. “Rob and Sally aren’t moving, are they?” Lou smelt the lemons.
“Not that I know of, Lou,” I said. “What have you heard?”
“I don’t want Rob and Sally to move either,” said Lou. “Um, er, I haven’t heard anything.”
I can’t wait for summer to see Rob in those small running shorts, his thick, hairy thighs are a sight to behold.
“I haven’t heard anything about them moving.”
Sally tells me how big her husband, Rob’s dick is and how much she likes it
"If you don't want me to picture your husbands cock, stop talking about it," I said to Sally.
"I don't mind you picturing Rob's cock," said Sally. "It is worth picturing. I'd get him to show it to you, if I thought he would." She shook her head. "But I don't think he would."
“Men,” I said.
Sally made big eyes and smiled.
Rob is allowed to fuck other girl's, but the deal is if he does Sally will fuck other guys and Rob couldn't handle Sally fucking other guys, so he doesn't.
"I don't see the big deal," said Sally. "It is just his cock, it isn't his heart or his head for Christ sake. I don’t want to fuck anyone else, anyway.”
By the time I got home, it had stopped. And I was freezing. I stood in front of the fire in the lounge. I’d lit it when I first got up. Buddy licked the sweat off my legs. I always wear shorts whenever I go walking, whatever the weather. It tickled, Buddy’s tongue. The walking always warms me up.
I was just drying my hair with a towel when there was a knock at the back door, more of a rattle of the door handle than a knock, it was my neighbour Lou. Loopy Lou. Oh, I shouldn’t say that, I am an awful person. She has a heart of gold. She means well. But, she calls herself Loopy Lou.
“You been walking in the rain, again?”
“Again?” I asked. “Yeah, well, gotta do what ya gotta do.”
“It will lead to no good,” said Lou. “I’ve told you before. Pneumonia and death quickly after.”
“And I was thinking it sounded romantic…”
“It is a recipe for sickness and death…”
“Good morning to you too, Lou.”
“And a jolly good morning it is too.”
“I’ve got to keep it all trim,” I said. “I never know when I’m gonna catch sight of it.” I smiled for Lou’s benefit. “In a shop window.”
“Meditation,” said Lou. “I’ve told you before. Too much emphasis on,” she looked at my crotch, “ya thing…”
“Lou!” I laughed.
“Empty vessel, Chriso boy, empty vessel. You just end up chasing it around and your never ending wants leave you unfulfilled.” Lou’s right eye ticked, like she was winking at me. “Ends up driving you nuts. Driving you nuts, Christian.” She ticked uncontrollably for a few seconds.
She somehow had the wrong idea of me, something that was maybe true sometime in my inglorious past. “Walking is my meditation…”
“False god, Christian my boy, false god.” She pointed at the ceiling rocking her hand as if to some beat.
“It is when I relax…”
Lou held her hands out in front of her like she was holding the entire world in her hands. “You think,” emphasis on the think, as she pulled the world towards herself, “you are relaxing, Christian, but you’re not…
“But, I am…”
“No Christian, no Christian. No. Christian. No! You are still feeding your ego. You are doing it all for the wrong reasons. Vanity is never going to lead you to nirvana.”
“The wrong reasons?” I pretty much knew what the answer to this was, why I asked I don’t know.
“You want to be discovering inner peace, not outward beauty.” Lou’s shoulder rotated quite unexpectedly. Her fingers twitched. “Inner peace, Christian, not outward beauty.” She flattened her palms and slid them threw the air in front of her, out to each side. “Sanctuary is inside everyone of us.” She grabbed her chest. “We just have to take the time to look for it.”
There was a strange frozen moment where Lou continued to grab her chest, making big eyes, but she glazed over as though she was remembering some long forgotten memory.
“Would you like a coffee, Lou?”
She returned to behind of her ‘big eyes,’ as though the puppeteer had taken up the strings again. “The devils brew, Christian, the dev…il’s…brew.” She nodded her head on each syllable.
“Well, I was just about to have one.”
“Lemons,” Lou suddenly said. “I want lemons. I came in for lemons. Do you have lemons?”
I glanced over at the fruit bowl to see a number of the yellow fruit hiding amongst the mandarins. I swept my hand through the air in a big gesture. “Help yourself.”
“You are a prince, Christian, a prince,” said Lou. “What would I do without you?”
“What would I do without you, Lou?”
She stepped with one foot, and kind of slid the other one behind the first, like an awkward Tango, right up next to me. “You are not moving, are you Christian?” she asked almost conspiratorially.
“No,” I said, dropping my voice in mock fear that someone else might hear me. “What have you heard?”
Lou pulled back. “Nothing,” she said, as if she’d suddenly come to her senses, as if my words were accusatory.
“Good, because… I’m… not,” I tried to say with a slightly mysterious air.
“You wouldn’t move on me,” Lou glanced in either direction of the room, left and right, “would you Christian?”
“No plans to, Lou.” I looked one way in the room. “No plans to.” I looked in the other direction.
She glanced around, then looked back at me. “Good.” She looked at the fruit bowl and talked while still gazing at it. “I’m not sure if I could cope if you moved, Christian. Gordon and Joe and Douglas moved.” She looked at me. “You still banging that boy?”
I’m sure I opened and closed my mouth in surprise. “Um… Douglas?”
“Douglas.”
“No,” I said. I shook my head. “Not for a long time.”
“Not Rob and Sally, either.” Lou reached out to the fruit bowl and picked out three lemons, one by one. “Rob and Sally aren’t moving, are they?” Lou smelt the lemons.
“Not that I know of, Lou,” I said. “What have you heard?”
“I don’t want Rob and Sally to move either,” said Lou. “Um, er, I haven’t heard anything.”
I can’t wait for summer to see Rob in those small running shorts, his thick, hairy thighs are a sight to behold.
“I haven’t heard anything about them moving.”
Sally tells me how big her husband, Rob’s dick is and how much she likes it
"If you don't want me to picture your husbands cock, stop talking about it," I said to Sally.
"I don't mind you picturing Rob's cock," said Sally. "It is worth picturing. I'd get him to show it to you, if I thought he would." She shook her head. "But I don't think he would."
“Men,” I said.
Sally made big eyes and smiled.
Rob is allowed to fuck other girl's, but the deal is if he does Sally will fuck other guys and Rob couldn't handle Sally fucking other guys, so he doesn't.
"I don't see the big deal," said Sally. "It is just his cock, it isn't his heart or his head for Christ sake. I don’t want to fuck anyone else, anyway.”
Lou had investigated the lemons as we spoke and she put one of them back in the fruit bowl and chose another. She looked at me. She grimaced. “It had a blemish, you don’t mind, do you?”
“Whatever lemons you like, Lou.”
“You’re kind, Christian, very kind,” said Lou. “You will always be alright because you are kind.”
“Thanks, Lou.”
“Gotta go. I’ll find that mediation book, for beginners,” she laughed. She took hold of the back door knob. “For dummies.” She cackled. She disappeared through the door. I turned towards the coffee machine and pushed the button to turn it on.
“Ah Christian…”
I turned to see Lou in the doorway again. “I didn’t mean you were a dummy, Christian. I didn’t mean that at all.”
The coffee machine whirred. “No problem, Lou.”
“You’re not a dummy, Christian.” She smiled. She twitched. Then she was gone.
“Whatever lemons you like, Lou.”
“You’re kind, Christian, very kind,” said Lou. “You will always be alright because you are kind.”
“Thanks, Lou.”
“Gotta go. I’ll find that mediation book, for beginners,” she laughed. She took hold of the back door knob. “For dummies.” She cackled. She disappeared through the door. I turned towards the coffee machine and pushed the button to turn it on.
“Ah Christian…”
I turned to see Lou in the doorway again. “I didn’t mean you were a dummy, Christian. I didn’t mean that at all.”
The coffee machine whirred. “No problem, Lou.”
“You’re not a dummy, Christian.” She smiled. She twitched. Then she was gone.
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
 |
| Nice piece of arse. This guy had. I followed him down Elgin a bit mesmerised by the way he filled his jeans. Like a puppy being lead along by a choice cut of meat, or a kid in a shop shown candy. The sun shone, the sky was blue. I didn't want to be any where but here. Maybe I'm a fool? But it is what you know, ain't that the truth. I'm not proud. Just trying to get fit, in the fresh air, around the block. I spend too many hours in doors, so what ever gets you out, is worth more... a second look. Score. Pull your tongue in, don't drool. |
 |
| Old man's car. Orange Lamborghini. There was a really old man behind the wheel, with Einstein hair. They are old men's cars, as only old men can afford them. Orange Lamborghini. Good times in Elgin Street. Dragging off the young guys, in a cloud of V12 exhaust smoke magic. Growl! Everyone sees you coming, everyone can hear you go. |
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Quince Cake and Coffee
I went to Rachel's for lunch and we ate upside down quince cake and drank coffee. It was lovely, too. It rained a bit, I love the rain, its tinkly sprinkly kind of wetting of everything. Drip, drip, drip, did the garden. On the deck we both stood as I smoked a cigarette under the eaves avoiding the rain drops. The sky grey, in an over cast day.
Rachel was waiting for a builder to arrive to look at the leaking shower in her en suite. The builder and I were supposed to arrive at the same time. Of course, the builder never showed up.
Rachel told me how my childhood sweetheart, ex girlfriend, Leah, is in town and how she'd wanted to stay with Rachel, but Rachel's kids don't like her. Rachel's daughter was listening and she said, "I guess that is awful."
"No, not awful," I said. "I don't like her either." I haven't spoken to her in 6 years, she is just too much hard work. I reckon she will eventually be diagnosed with some kind of mental disorder, her personality is so out of whack, and she'll be put in a home at a young age.
"Good to have kids to get you out of these situations," said Rachel.
It is kind of sad, as we were all teenage friends together, but Leah moved to Sydney and picked up the worst Sydneysider traits and that is she is so self-focusesd that she is totally blind, or doesn't care, about the effect she has on the people around her. None of the old group of friends like her any more, and she has no idea.
Rachel and I just shrugged, referring to Leah, as I left. "Oh well," I said.
"Whatever," said Rachel.
"We don't have to be friends just for the sake of it," I said. "She is a fucking nightmare, I can't be bothered..."
"Me either," said Rachel. "Life is too short..."
"If the only thing you have left is sentiment," I said. "Other than that all I got from her was pain and criticism."
"Lucky we're perfect," said Rachel.
"So lucky," I said.
We giggled conspiritualy, kissed, kiss, kiss, and I left.
Rachel was waiting for a builder to arrive to look at the leaking shower in her en suite. The builder and I were supposed to arrive at the same time. Of course, the builder never showed up.
Rachel told me how my childhood sweetheart, ex girlfriend, Leah, is in town and how she'd wanted to stay with Rachel, but Rachel's kids don't like her. Rachel's daughter was listening and she said, "I guess that is awful."
"No, not awful," I said. "I don't like her either." I haven't spoken to her in 6 years, she is just too much hard work. I reckon she will eventually be diagnosed with some kind of mental disorder, her personality is so out of whack, and she'll be put in a home at a young age.
"Good to have kids to get you out of these situations," said Rachel.
It is kind of sad, as we were all teenage friends together, but Leah moved to Sydney and picked up the worst Sydneysider traits and that is she is so self-focusesd that she is totally blind, or doesn't care, about the effect she has on the people around her. None of the old group of friends like her any more, and she has no idea.
Rachel and I just shrugged, referring to Leah, as I left. "Oh well," I said.
"Whatever," said Rachel.
"We don't have to be friends just for the sake of it," I said. "She is a fucking nightmare, I can't be bothered..."
"Me either," said Rachel. "Life is too short..."
"If the only thing you have left is sentiment," I said. "Other than that all I got from her was pain and criticism."
"Lucky we're perfect," said Rachel.
"So lucky," I said.
We giggled conspiritualy, kissed, kiss, kiss, and I left.
Monday, August 22, 2016
I Don't Want To Be a Girl
I had a dream that I'd had a sex change. I was feeling my crotch and I could feel that my balls were gone. Oddly, and I'm not sure what this says, I was walking down a supermarket isle at the time.
But, I don't want to be a girl, I said to myself. I don't want to be a girl. I don't want to be a girl. I don't want to be a girl. And I woke up with a start. It was 6am. The light was just starting to seep into the bedroom. Sam was snoring, as he does.
It was just a dream, I told myself. What do you think that means? I thought, as I lay in bed, in the warmth under the covers and tried to make sense of it.
And then the first thing that came up in my Facebook feed this morning was, 9 dream symbols you shouldn't ignore. Good thing I don't believe such stuff as having a sex change wasn't one of the 9 symbols not to be ignored.
Funny the things you dream, hey?
But, I don't want to be a girl, I said to myself. I don't want to be a girl. I don't want to be a girl. I don't want to be a girl. And I woke up with a start. It was 6am. The light was just starting to seep into the bedroom. Sam was snoring, as he does.
It was just a dream, I told myself. What do you think that means? I thought, as I lay in bed, in the warmth under the covers and tried to make sense of it.
And then the first thing that came up in my Facebook feed this morning was, 9 dream symbols you shouldn't ignore. Good thing I don't believe such stuff as having a sex change wasn't one of the 9 symbols not to be ignored.
Funny the things you dream, hey?
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Saturday, August 20, 2016
Cranky Noona
We headed to the Preston Market in the morning. The traffic was quite heavy, which is nothing unusual now a days. I wondered how long it will be before Melbourne stops winning the most liveable city in the world, is it, due to its traffic congestion, due to the over supply of apartments? (Of course, my cynical side wonders if we are just the country that pays the most money to the deciding board?)
We pulled into the market car park and waited in one of the parking isles for a car spot. That is what I always do at the Preston Market, just pick a spot and wait and eventually a car right near you leaves. No fighting. No arguments. I had inadvertently turned the wrong way into the isle, against the arrow. I waited for somebody to complain, but they didn’t, as people turn the wrong way into these lanes all the time. The cars seemed to be leaving the car parks at the other end of the isle, one by one, but none were leaving our end of the isle. So we waited. The cars coming from the correct direction cleared several times and once, or twice, there were no cars coming from the other direction.
Then a man finally came and got into a white Subaru right next to us. I put on my blinker and waited for him to leave. By this time a beige Laser had entered the isle from the other direction and was waiting at the far end. When I put my blinker on, she did too. She drove up close to the car spot. The Subaru backed out and turned in our direction, which was going to make it harder, than it otherwise would have been, to drive into the car spot. Missy Laser drove forward, I drove forward, the Subaru drove away. Missy Laser was determined and so was I, she had the advantage, but even if I couldn’t get in, I was determined that Missy Laser wasn’t getting in either. I drove forward in front of Missy Laser and she gave in pretty quickly.
She was an Italian Noona and she was shrieking something out her window. We parked. She remained stopped in the isle just behind us. I walked over to her window to offer her some words of advise. She was a barrel of a woman sitting behind the steering wheel just slightly off skew due to her bulk. She was gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, which, I would say, was from anger, rather than fear. She had various baubles and beads hanging from her rear vision mirror.
“I have been waiting for 15 minutes, you have only been here…”
“You were coming the wronga way…”
“I was here for a long time, at least 15 minutes.”
“It’s a nota your car park, you come the wronga way…” she shrieked.
“I have been waiting here patiently.”
“You pusha in! You taka my car park…”
“No, no I didn’t.”
“You have to gotta geta in the lane’a and a waita with everyone else.”
“No I don't," I said. "Besides, there was no line from your direction for some of the time.” I pointed to the far end of the lane from where she'd come.
“Vat you did is illegal! Its illegal!” she shrieked.
“Show me the rules that say that.”
"Oiy?"
"Show me the rules?" This was a stretch, I knew that.
“I’ll calla the police.”
“Call them,” I said. “Do you want me to call them?” I acted as if I was reaching into my pocket for my phone.
“You steala my car park.”
“I was here long before you…”
“You are wronga, it is my car park, YOU STEALA MY CAR PARK!” She was beginning to froth at the corner of her mouth.
“Ah, notit is not.” And at that point I walked away. She was still shrieking out her driver’s side window.
I should have said, “I bet you have cute grandsons,” but, of course, I didn’t. That would have shut her up… or lead to a round of homophobic shrieks, quite possibly.
We bought tattsLotto tickets. I told the nice ladies in the tattsLotto shop.
“She said it was because I’d driven the wrong way up the parking isle?”
“No, people do that all the time,” they said. “That is ridiculous.”
“I’m shaking,” I said. “Why am I such a wimp?”
“No,” said the nice ladies behind the counter. “It is not nice when people yell at you.”
I bought cigarettes as I was shaking from the run in with Noona. Sam wasn’t pleased about that.
We pulled into the market car park and waited in one of the parking isles for a car spot. That is what I always do at the Preston Market, just pick a spot and wait and eventually a car right near you leaves. No fighting. No arguments. I had inadvertently turned the wrong way into the isle, against the arrow. I waited for somebody to complain, but they didn’t, as people turn the wrong way into these lanes all the time. The cars seemed to be leaving the car parks at the other end of the isle, one by one, but none were leaving our end of the isle. So we waited. The cars coming from the correct direction cleared several times and once, or twice, there were no cars coming from the other direction.
Then a man finally came and got into a white Subaru right next to us. I put on my blinker and waited for him to leave. By this time a beige Laser had entered the isle from the other direction and was waiting at the far end. When I put my blinker on, she did too. She drove up close to the car spot. The Subaru backed out and turned in our direction, which was going to make it harder, than it otherwise would have been, to drive into the car spot. Missy Laser drove forward, I drove forward, the Subaru drove away. Missy Laser was determined and so was I, she had the advantage, but even if I couldn’t get in, I was determined that Missy Laser wasn’t getting in either. I drove forward in front of Missy Laser and she gave in pretty quickly.
She was an Italian Noona and she was shrieking something out her window. We parked. She remained stopped in the isle just behind us. I walked over to her window to offer her some words of advise. She was a barrel of a woman sitting behind the steering wheel just slightly off skew due to her bulk. She was gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, which, I would say, was from anger, rather than fear. She had various baubles and beads hanging from her rear vision mirror.
“I have been waiting for 15 minutes, you have only been here…”
“You were coming the wronga way…”
“I was here for a long time, at least 15 minutes.”
“It’s a nota your car park, you come the wronga way…” she shrieked.
“I have been waiting here patiently.”
“You pusha in! You taka my car park…”
“No, no I didn’t.”
“You have to gotta geta in the lane’a and a waita with everyone else.”
“No I don't," I said. "Besides, there was no line from your direction for some of the time.” I pointed to the far end of the lane from where she'd come.
“Vat you did is illegal! Its illegal!” she shrieked.
“Show me the rules that say that.”
"Oiy?"
"Show me the rules?" This was a stretch, I knew that.
“I’ll calla the police.”
“Call them,” I said. “Do you want me to call them?” I acted as if I was reaching into my pocket for my phone.
“You steala my car park.”
“I was here long before you…”
“You are wronga, it is my car park, YOU STEALA MY CAR PARK!” She was beginning to froth at the corner of her mouth.
“Ah, notit is not.” And at that point I walked away. She was still shrieking out her driver’s side window.
I should have said, “I bet you have cute grandsons,” but, of course, I didn’t. That would have shut her up… or lead to a round of homophobic shrieks, quite possibly.
We bought tattsLotto tickets. I told the nice ladies in the tattsLotto shop.
“She said it was because I’d driven the wrong way up the parking isle?”
“No, people do that all the time,” they said. “That is ridiculous.”
“I’m shaking,” I said. “Why am I such a wimp?”
“No,” said the nice ladies behind the counter. “It is not nice when people yell at you.”
I bought cigarettes as I was shaking from the run in with Noona. Sam wasn’t pleased about that.
Friday, August 19, 2016
Down Smith Street
I headed down the street to get a new packet of cigarettes, even after I swore that the last cigarette from my last packet was my last. I followed a guy back up Smith Street, who had a great arse. Dark blue jeans, a maroon woollen jumper and a checked shirt with the rear shirt tail hanging out as if to frame his sexy, beefy arse. You know those arses that are solid and square that compliment the curve of his hips. He had dark, thick hair cut short and olive skin. He would have been in his thirties, probably Italian, or something like that. I would have crossed the road, but his butt kept me on the same side as him following him down the street.
Halfway down the street, for some reason, he realised his shirttail was hanging out and he tucked it in with his fingertips and I got to see his dark green undies, with thick, brand elastic. Once I’d seen the green, cotton material of his undies, I could picture it hugging his arse cheeks. He’d have had a hairy arse crack. He’d probably had that hairy patch on his lower back just above his arse, where his arse hair would fade away to nothing.
I felt a buzz in my stomach, a certain flutter in my sensibilities, I have to say. Grrrrr! I wondered what he’d think about me perving on him? An evolved male would just think of it as a compliment. I wondered if he was an evolved male?
Halfway down the street, for some reason, he realised his shirttail was hanging out and he tucked it in with his fingertips and I got to see his dark green undies, with thick, brand elastic. Once I’d seen the green, cotton material of his undies, I could picture it hugging his arse cheeks. He’d have had a hairy arse crack. He’d probably had that hairy patch on his lower back just above his arse, where his arse hair would fade away to nothing.
I felt a buzz in my stomach, a certain flutter in my sensibilities, I have to say. Grrrrr! I wondered what he’d think about me perving on him? An evolved male would just think of it as a compliment. I wondered if he was an evolved male?
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Puppy
Sam has talked about getting a puppy all day. Sam has never had a puppy, remember, we got Buddy when he was a year old. Sam talked about getting a puppy all night, looking at puppy advert after puppy advert. He kept asking me if I want a puppy. I keep giving him the same answer, “I don’t need a puppy, I’ve had a puppy before, but if you want a puppy, lets get a puppy.” And yet he keeps asking me if I want a puppy.
Two dogs? Two British Bulldogs? Is that a good idea?
Oh, I remember having a puppy. So cute. Oh, so much hard work?
Sam thinks because I am home all day it would give me something to do, which is not altogether untrue.
Funny. It is the buying of the puppy that seems like the hardest part. Raising the puppy gets easier and easier with time. Once they are toilet trained, the rest is just constant and consistent training. (Buddy climbs into my lap and cuddles up as I write the last sentence)
Two dogs? Two British Bulldogs? Is that a good idea?
Oh, I remember having a puppy. So cute. Oh, so much hard work?
Sam thinks because I am home all day it would give me something to do, which is not altogether untrue.
Funny. It is the buying of the puppy that seems like the hardest part. Raising the puppy gets easier and easier with time. Once they are toilet trained, the rest is just constant and consistent training. (Buddy climbs into my lap and cuddles up as I write the last sentence)
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
Monday, August 15, 2016
Bins
I did the bins early, as Sam was leaving, 8.15am, Sam was leaving kind of late. The bins were emptied quite late in the day, for quite some time, but lately they have been coming early. Someone had put cooking leftovers into the recycle bin, I didn’t realise until I was pouring the kitchen recycle bin into the outside bins. It was all wet and sloppy and when “gloop” all over the empty bottles and tins, sliding down into the gaps like vomit. "Blooop!"
It looked like it came from our dinner, the other night, so it had nearly a week to rot and ferment, so it was stinky as well as slimy. It kept sliding down as I watched it, momentarily immobilised, as most of it slid out of sight.
What to do? Groan!
I had to tip the contents of the recycle bin onto our front walkway, and dig the food scraps out by hand, there was no other way to separate it out again. Tomato, what had been leafy greens, cheese and tomato sauce, possibly lasagne scrap scrapings, strawberry tops and the soft decaying strawberry flesh and the carcass of some animal that stank to high heaven. Possibly chicken. It all had that familiar smell of rotting, bad food.
There was nothing else for it but to pick it out with my hands and toss it into a plastic bag. I’m surprised, I didn’t dry wretch, that rank smell normally makes my stomach turn and its contents rise into my throat in direct relation to how long I have to smell it. Blur! Just don’t think about it, I thought, which, of course, made me think about it more.
Sam had to step over it. "I'm glad it is you and not me."
Me on my hands and knees. "Yeah, good onya," I said. Rotting food seeped into my nostrils, the slime stuck to my fingers like slime.
A lovely way to start the day, I thought. I started thinking about fruit smoothies, I giggled, but stopped quickly as my stomach went blurp and I could feel acid at the back of my tongue.
I wondered if the rubbish scum left on the walkway would be slippery, so I hosed it.
It looked like it came from our dinner, the other night, so it had nearly a week to rot and ferment, so it was stinky as well as slimy. It kept sliding down as I watched it, momentarily immobilised, as most of it slid out of sight.
What to do? Groan!
I had to tip the contents of the recycle bin onto our front walkway, and dig the food scraps out by hand, there was no other way to separate it out again. Tomato, what had been leafy greens, cheese and tomato sauce, possibly lasagne scrap scrapings, strawberry tops and the soft decaying strawberry flesh and the carcass of some animal that stank to high heaven. Possibly chicken. It all had that familiar smell of rotting, bad food.
There was nothing else for it but to pick it out with my hands and toss it into a plastic bag. I’m surprised, I didn’t dry wretch, that rank smell normally makes my stomach turn and its contents rise into my throat in direct relation to how long I have to smell it. Blur! Just don’t think about it, I thought, which, of course, made me think about it more.
Sam had to step over it. "I'm glad it is you and not me."
Me on my hands and knees. "Yeah, good onya," I said. Rotting food seeped into my nostrils, the slime stuck to my fingers like slime.
A lovely way to start the day, I thought. I started thinking about fruit smoothies, I giggled, but stopped quickly as my stomach went blurp and I could feel acid at the back of my tongue.
I wondered if the rubbish scum left on the walkway would be slippery, so I hosed it.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Asian Grocer
We went to the Asian grocer. I got sick of looking vaguely at the shelves, waiting, waiting (don’t hurry me) and I went and sat outside on the seat provided. An Old Chinese man had the optimal position on the seat, at the end closest to the Asian grocer, and he was pissing around with something in his hand, packing and repacking grocery bags as old people do, at a glacial pace, and he wasn’t even enjoying the optimal view his position afforded him. I wanted his seat, could you guess, so Sam could see me as soon as he came out of the shop, as he was undoubtedly none too pleased with my defection to the seat out doors. The old Chinese man finally got up to leave, I was ready to slide over as quick as a flash. But not too soon, you can over shoot the take over bid, when they haven’t quite left and it is embarrassing for all concerned.
“Oh… er… sorry.”
Would you jump in my grave so quick?
But you don’t want to be too slow so as to allow a third person, in a track suit and not much of a clue, to take the seat from you. It can happen just like that, the timing has to be perfect here.
He took an age to get transfer his groceries from their plastic supermarket bag into a green environmentally friendly bag. Oh grab that side, now grab that side. No, the other side. Oh no, don’t pull it that way. Oh no, it has slipped out all together. Ah! Oh! Er! The plastic supermarket bag had slipped out again. I couldn’t watch any longer. But finally he got the job done and he shuffled off, and I slid across.
Just as I was sliding, I see what looks like the outline of a human turd, oh, hanging from one of the metal bars of the seat. I can always tell a human turd when I see one, they always look different from a dog turd, they are some how bigger and richer and meatier looking. I slid to a stop. (Ah!) I gaze down at it. WTF? Oh? Oh. I can see that it is, actually, the paper rapping from the underneath of what was probably a brownie. It still looks kind of like a turd, rounded on the edges and sausage shaped, but squashed. Did someone sit on that? The old guy? Annoying. It stops me from taking the very end of the bench, so I am in direct line of sight of the doorway to the Asian grocer. I slide a little closer to the edge, as close as I can get without touching the turd. I look around. The sun is shining there are plenty of people walking by. My cigarette gets to the end. I want that turd gone. I push the cake wrapper with my cigarette butt and it feels papery and dry, nothing like tooth paste consistency that my mother always asked me about when I was a child. It slides awkwardly up the seat bar as if it is not going to fall, as it is moulded, read squashed to, the seat. And then finally, after a few pokes and prods, it falls, the wrapper rustles, onto the ground. Ah. There is still some cake flesh attached to the seat, that still looks like shit, so I can’t slide right over, but I can slide along, up to it. The pooh was gone, the psychology of it all was altered. The small pieces of cake flesh that were left, would attached themselves to the next person who sat down, probably unnoticed, problem fixed.
The sun shone, a gentle breeze blew up Russell Street. Ah, lean back, arms outstretched on either side of me across the back of the seat. It was a victory, of sorts, and I had time to enjoy it. People walked by. I may have whistled, if I’d thought of it, if I was anything like a competent whistler, which I am not.
“Oh… er… sorry.”
Would you jump in my grave so quick?
But you don’t want to be too slow so as to allow a third person, in a track suit and not much of a clue, to take the seat from you. It can happen just like that, the timing has to be perfect here.
He took an age to get transfer his groceries from their plastic supermarket bag into a green environmentally friendly bag. Oh grab that side, now grab that side. No, the other side. Oh no, don’t pull it that way. Oh no, it has slipped out all together. Ah! Oh! Er! The plastic supermarket bag had slipped out again. I couldn’t watch any longer. But finally he got the job done and he shuffled off, and I slid across.
Just as I was sliding, I see what looks like the outline of a human turd, oh, hanging from one of the metal bars of the seat. I can always tell a human turd when I see one, they always look different from a dog turd, they are some how bigger and richer and meatier looking. I slid to a stop. (Ah!) I gaze down at it. WTF? Oh? Oh. I can see that it is, actually, the paper rapping from the underneath of what was probably a brownie. It still looks kind of like a turd, rounded on the edges and sausage shaped, but squashed. Did someone sit on that? The old guy? Annoying. It stops me from taking the very end of the bench, so I am in direct line of sight of the doorway to the Asian grocer. I slide a little closer to the edge, as close as I can get without touching the turd. I look around. The sun is shining there are plenty of people walking by. My cigarette gets to the end. I want that turd gone. I push the cake wrapper with my cigarette butt and it feels papery and dry, nothing like tooth paste consistency that my mother always asked me about when I was a child. It slides awkwardly up the seat bar as if it is not going to fall, as it is moulded, read squashed to, the seat. And then finally, after a few pokes and prods, it falls, the wrapper rustles, onto the ground. Ah. There is still some cake flesh attached to the seat, that still looks like shit, so I can’t slide right over, but I can slide along, up to it. The pooh was gone, the psychology of it all was altered. The small pieces of cake flesh that were left, would attached themselves to the next person who sat down, probably unnoticed, problem fixed.
The sun shone, a gentle breeze blew up Russell Street. Ah, lean back, arms outstretched on either side of me across the back of the seat. It was a victory, of sorts, and I had time to enjoy it. People walked by. I may have whistled, if I’d thought of it, if I was anything like a competent whistler, which I am not.
Friday, August 12, 2016
Tuesday, August 09, 2016
The Sickness of the Times We Live In
The sickness of the times we live in is dishonesty now passed off as the truth. Say whatever, claim whatever, do whatever to make a buck, or get ahead.
Super foods are a lie, nothing makes up for a healthy, balanced diet.
Detox is a lie. You cannot simply wash away the effects of bad living, it is simply not true.
Most vitamins you buy in a bottle at your local pharmacy don’t work, they are a waste of time. There is next to no evidence for most complimentary medicines.
Anti vaxxer's claims have no basis in evidence based truth and in fact this group of deluded people could be held responsible for the reintroduction of previously wiped out diseases.
Most advertising is lies, lies, lies. Truth in advertising finished years ago, if it ever existed. (So, just maybe, this one if not, particularly, of 'our' times)
Most govt promises, lies to get elected.
Trickle down economics, another lie, one of the biggest lies of the previous 50 years. It makes business owners wealthy, nobody else and has seen the divide of rich and poor increase, essentially started with Thatcher and Regan.
Let's not even mention the global warming denier lies. These people are willing to watch the planet die as they count their income.
Super foods are a lie, nothing makes up for a healthy, balanced diet.
Detox is a lie. You cannot simply wash away the effects of bad living, it is simply not true.
Most vitamins you buy in a bottle at your local pharmacy don’t work, they are a waste of time. There is next to no evidence for most complimentary medicines.
Anti vaxxer's claims have no basis in evidence based truth and in fact this group of deluded people could be held responsible for the reintroduction of previously wiped out diseases.
Most advertising is lies, lies, lies. Truth in advertising finished years ago, if it ever existed. (So, just maybe, this one if not, particularly, of 'our' times)
Most govt promises, lies to get elected.
Trickle down economics, another lie, one of the biggest lies of the previous 50 years. It makes business owners wealthy, nobody else and has seen the divide of rich and poor increase, essentially started with Thatcher and Regan.
Let's not even mention the global warming denier lies. These people are willing to watch the planet die as they count their income.
All lies. Our lives are now, predominately, built on lies. Business runs on lies. Politics runs on lies.
Non-evidence based truths are gaining traction, in a huge way. People can now accept propositions that have no truth backing them, in fact, they can accept propositions that have huge amounts of evidence disproving them. I don't accept that as true, is now a perfectly acceptable response to evidence disproving any particular belief a person may hold.
Telephone scams are becoming de rigour.
Internet dating scams, love over the net scams, rife with liars. Young, lonely 25 year old Russian girls usually turn out to be teams of Somalian men.
Telephone scams, helping you with your computer, relieving you of you money, with no consciences whats so ever.
Lies, lies, lies, everybody tells, business runs on lies. The way to get ahead is to tell lies, the new truth of our times is whatever suits you.
And lastly in this tale of woe, you can't believe anything you read in the newspapers any longer, now that news services are no longer classified as news and are now classified as entertainment. It is no longer about the facts, it is now about ratings and sales.
Even if you seek out opinion pieces, you never know what corporation has paid for it. Shock jocks and talk back radio stars are paid to give information that looks like opinion.
We are now post-truth, which means never, ever let the facts get in the way of a good story.
Non-evidence based truths are gaining traction, in a huge way. People can now accept propositions that have no truth backing them, in fact, they can accept propositions that have huge amounts of evidence disproving them. I don't accept that as true, is now a perfectly acceptable response to evidence disproving any particular belief a person may hold.
Telephone scams are becoming de rigour.
Internet dating scams, love over the net scams, rife with liars. Young, lonely 25 year old Russian girls usually turn out to be teams of Somalian men.
Telephone scams, helping you with your computer, relieving you of you money, with no consciences whats so ever.
Lies, lies, lies, everybody tells, business runs on lies. The way to get ahead is to tell lies, the new truth of our times is whatever suits you.
And lastly in this tale of woe, you can't believe anything you read in the newspapers any longer, now that news services are no longer classified as news and are now classified as entertainment. It is no longer about the facts, it is now about ratings and sales.
Even if you seek out opinion pieces, you never know what corporation has paid for it. Shock jocks and talk back radio stars are paid to give information that looks like opinion.
We are now post-truth, which means never, ever let the facts get in the way of a good story.
Monday, August 08, 2016
Buddy Stretches Out Next to Me Snoring
I lay awake at 4am, after getting up for a piss. It seems to be my new pattern. I’m not sure why I stress about it. I find I wonder if I’m going to get back to sleep, where those thoughts never entered my head in the middle of the night. If I am stressing about something else, I stress about being awake, if I am not stressed about anything, it is just a luxurious pause in my sleep and, truthfully, I feel like a pussy cat adjusting amongst the warmth of the bed clothes.
I’ve been worrying about Auntie Marie and the fact that I haven’t been to visit her since Uncle Ev died. How long ago was that now? June? I made all those promises at the funeral, but that was, truthfully, because I wanted the family history stuff, even if I did mean it at the time. Am I a terrible person? I suspect… I have plenty of time, I thought, and I could give her some company, as it must be terrible for people who lose their partners after 60 years of marriage. Aunty Marie went and visited Lottie after Alex died, which was nice of her. Of course, Lottie used to say,
“Oh, stupid woman all she ever does is bang on about religion, I’d prefer to not have someone come and visit me than that.” (Oh yes, there is more than a little of Lottie in me)
But be that as it may, I did say I’d go and sit with her, and I haven’t. Funny the things you think about at 4am in the morning. Truthfully, for all you insomniacs out there, I lay awake for 5 to 10 minutes.
Then it was 7.30am and Sam was getting out of bed to go to work. I could sense him looking over me and down at me, so I didn’t move. It is very hard to stay perfectly still when someone is staring at you, even if it is your favourite… person. A smile is the hardest thing to supress, because it is funny, not moving a nerve end. He left the room. Then I could stretch out across the bed. Then I could move my mouth. Sam did come back and stand in the doorway again, momentarily, checking to see if I was awake. Oh yes, very sneaky, I thought, as I lay perfectly still again, not moving an eyelid, not twitching my nose. Not even daring to open one eye to see if he was still looking. I just had to go on my sense of him and feel when he had walked away again.
I lay there and wondered about my sense of purpose? Sense of worth? No, sense of purpose, the two aren’t the same. Do I need a sense of purpose? I think I do? It is, apparently, one of the signs of happiness. I’ve got to write now, this is the time to do that. I must remember how to send my stories out there, how to enter competitions and, and submit them to be published. I have to remember that? I wonder if The Writer’s Market place is still a thing, or if it is all now online? I’m guessing it is online. Would it be online? What was the name of that writer’s association that I have belonged to but to which I have let my membership expire. The Writer something? Oh what was it?
Funny, last night I wanted to know the name of the author who wrote that great book of short stories and I could only remember her name was Bridget and the little of the book possibly had John in it. And up came Here’s comes John by Bridget O’Connor. You’ve got to love google. Then I was shocked, well surprised, disappointed – not as disappointed as she was, I am sure – to see that she had died of cancer at 49.
I snuggled under the blankets and luxuriated in the space.
All I had to do was wait for the huffing and puffing on the stairs and the clip clip of claws on the floorboards and the “Oomph!” and the paws walking across me.
I sat up and kissed him on the neck, at the same time smelling and remembering his flea poison application from yesterday, fortunately, I didn’t kiss him on the, actual, poison pool, only really getting the smell and luckily not the taste.
Sam bought me breakfast in bed, as he does.
The sun shone in brightly through the balcony windows.
I love the smell of porridge and strawberries in the morning.
I can’t sit up too long in bed, damn it, as I get a sore neck leaning forward. Bugger it! 10.30am, I’d better get up and go for a walk, get my hour of exercise in.
By the time 10.30am actually comes around, the sky has clouded over and the wind is blowing in cold. Buddy and I head downstairs as I need my laptop power cord and I need to get out of bed. I need to feed Buddy too.
I contemplate lighting the open fire, instead of going for a walk.
And then I feel hungry ... this is not going as smoothly as it looked half an hour ago, I think.
I open the dishwasher to find the serrated knife and my glasses are instantly fogged up from the steam. Now, if I didn’t walk around the house with my reading glasses on, I think. I toss them on the kitchen bench. I cut the Ciabatta loaf in thick slices and slide it into the toaster. I lash it with butter when it is cooked, hoping that all those reports of butter now being good for us are true. Topped with vegemite, Ciabatta, butter and vegemite, there is nothing better.
I think about Aunty Marie?
I shiver with the cold.
Then I look at the clock and see it is 11.30am and I hear myself say, “Oh, how did it get to that time.” And then I feel sad, as that is something Lottie would have said. I was going to go for a walk and Sam will be home soon for lunch.
My new rules of not working were, get off social media by 9am, that is plenty of time. Read, or write a bit until 10.30am, possibly 11am. Go for a walk for an hour. Have lunch with Sam around midday. Get back to reading or writing after lunch.
On the first day, it is a fail.
And stop spending so much time telling yourself that you can’t do it. That is very important.
I’ve been worrying about Auntie Marie and the fact that I haven’t been to visit her since Uncle Ev died. How long ago was that now? June? I made all those promises at the funeral, but that was, truthfully, because I wanted the family history stuff, even if I did mean it at the time. Am I a terrible person? I suspect… I have plenty of time, I thought, and I could give her some company, as it must be terrible for people who lose their partners after 60 years of marriage. Aunty Marie went and visited Lottie after Alex died, which was nice of her. Of course, Lottie used to say,
“Oh, stupid woman all she ever does is bang on about religion, I’d prefer to not have someone come and visit me than that.” (Oh yes, there is more than a little of Lottie in me)
But be that as it may, I did say I’d go and sit with her, and I haven’t. Funny the things you think about at 4am in the morning. Truthfully, for all you insomniacs out there, I lay awake for 5 to 10 minutes.
Then it was 7.30am and Sam was getting out of bed to go to work. I could sense him looking over me and down at me, so I didn’t move. It is very hard to stay perfectly still when someone is staring at you, even if it is your favourite… person. A smile is the hardest thing to supress, because it is funny, not moving a nerve end. He left the room. Then I could stretch out across the bed. Then I could move my mouth. Sam did come back and stand in the doorway again, momentarily, checking to see if I was awake. Oh yes, very sneaky, I thought, as I lay perfectly still again, not moving an eyelid, not twitching my nose. Not even daring to open one eye to see if he was still looking. I just had to go on my sense of him and feel when he had walked away again.
I lay there and wondered about my sense of purpose? Sense of worth? No, sense of purpose, the two aren’t the same. Do I need a sense of purpose? I think I do? It is, apparently, one of the signs of happiness. I’ve got to write now, this is the time to do that. I must remember how to send my stories out there, how to enter competitions and, and submit them to be published. I have to remember that? I wonder if The Writer’s Market place is still a thing, or if it is all now online? I’m guessing it is online. Would it be online? What was the name of that writer’s association that I have belonged to but to which I have let my membership expire. The Writer something? Oh what was it?
Funny, last night I wanted to know the name of the author who wrote that great book of short stories and I could only remember her name was Bridget and the little of the book possibly had John in it. And up came Here’s comes John by Bridget O’Connor. You’ve got to love google. Then I was shocked, well surprised, disappointed – not as disappointed as she was, I am sure – to see that she had died of cancer at 49.
I snuggled under the blankets and luxuriated in the space.
All I had to do was wait for the huffing and puffing on the stairs and the clip clip of claws on the floorboards and the “Oomph!” and the paws walking across me.
I sat up and kissed him on the neck, at the same time smelling and remembering his flea poison application from yesterday, fortunately, I didn’t kiss him on the, actual, poison pool, only really getting the smell and luckily not the taste.
Sam bought me breakfast in bed, as he does.
The sun shone in brightly through the balcony windows.
I love the smell of porridge and strawberries in the morning.
I can’t sit up too long in bed, damn it, as I get a sore neck leaning forward. Bugger it! 10.30am, I’d better get up and go for a walk, get my hour of exercise in.
By the time 10.30am actually comes around, the sky has clouded over and the wind is blowing in cold. Buddy and I head downstairs as I need my laptop power cord and I need to get out of bed. I need to feed Buddy too.
I contemplate lighting the open fire, instead of going for a walk.
And then I feel hungry ... this is not going as smoothly as it looked half an hour ago, I think.
I open the dishwasher to find the serrated knife and my glasses are instantly fogged up from the steam. Now, if I didn’t walk around the house with my reading glasses on, I think. I toss them on the kitchen bench. I cut the Ciabatta loaf in thick slices and slide it into the toaster. I lash it with butter when it is cooked, hoping that all those reports of butter now being good for us are true. Topped with vegemite, Ciabatta, butter and vegemite, there is nothing better.
I think about Aunty Marie?
I shiver with the cold.
Then I look at the clock and see it is 11.30am and I hear myself say, “Oh, how did it get to that time.” And then I feel sad, as that is something Lottie would have said. I was going to go for a walk and Sam will be home soon for lunch.
My new rules of not working were, get off social media by 9am, that is plenty of time. Read, or write a bit until 10.30am, possibly 11am. Go for a walk for an hour. Have lunch with Sam around midday. Get back to reading or writing after lunch.
On the first day, it is a fail.
And stop spending so much time telling yourself that you can’t do it. That is very important.
Sunday, August 07, 2016
Go To Keep Exercising My Lazy Arse
I was up at 7.30am. I left Sam to sleep.
No Fluff this morning, first morning without her. She’s a little character, I found myself looking for her at moments. I even missed the clip, clip, clip of her claws on the floorboards as she followed me out of the bedroom. She had to sleep inside, in our bedroom, as she has never slept outside. When she first came to stay I said, “Oh what rubbish, she can sleep outside like a real dog." But, it was cold and neither of us wanted to risk her freezing to death.
We say that Buddy sleeps outside, and it is true, he does. But, he has a kennel, which has carpet in the bottom, topped by a thin mattress, topped by a thick mattress, which is covered in a woollen rug, which is covered in a washable sheet and then he has a smaller blue fleecy blanket and then he has his thick cream blanket. And he has a woollen rug that falls down and covers the kennel door in the winter. So, it is true, he does sleep outside, but he is hardly exposed to the elements, not really. You should see him in there, all nestled down amongst the bedding.
I ate muesli and drank coffee.
For some reason the Facebook "describe who you are" field came up very big as if it was demanding me to write something this morning when I first signed into Facebook, I don't know why? So with my first-thing-in-the-morning bleary eyes and before I had spoken a word, with my just brewed coffee, I gave it a go, and when I had finished it told me that I had written too much and that I couldn't post it, of course, and just as I was about to hit the delete key, saying my first words of the day, "Oh for goodness sake," I decided to save it here rather than rub it out altogether.
Transient, unimportant, recalcitrant, creative, cheap, insecure, selfish, imbued, Lavender, mercurial, eloquent, lazy, reclusive, diarist, truthful, uninterested, black humoured, grounded, perverse raison toast and nothing but baked goods in an old soul wrapped in cynicism
What is the adjectival version of lavender? I settled on lavenderial?
A few days ago, I posted a photo of a tree in the Carlton Gardens on Facebook pondering what the person thought 100 years ago when it was planted. A friend said that maybe it was sown from bird pooh, and maybe it wasn’t planted by a person at all, but maybe that wasn’t so romantic, she said. I’d been thinking about that since, so I tried to make it romantic
On a perfect sunny day, a bird's graceful wing feathers seemingly touched the sky as they beat in time to the earth's spinning rhythms, as the golden orb of sun, burning brightly in the perfect blue sky, kissed its tail feathers as it floated on a warm zephyr, its small pearl of pooh spun like a Catherine wheel, no, one fragment of fairy dust, gently shimmering down, twirling and skipping across the buttercup heads basking in the honey due of the burning sun, nestled in the verdant grass and the velvet clover leaves, coming to rest on the rich chocolate soil of the grassy knoll, just at the very moment a magical sun shower burst forth scattering crystals amongst the golden shafts of the sun’s rays.
Too much? Too much, I thought, they’ll love it. Too cynical? Perhaps, just around the edges. I remember, years ago, Aby and I decided that if your want to keep the GP happy, you just give them clichés. Yeah, I know, too cynical, but hey, they loved it anyway. It is what America gives them now a days. Clichés. Formula? What’s the difference?
Sam got up and cooked a big breakfast. I didn’t tell him I’d already eaten muesli, he’d have been cross. Oops. I forgot about the big breakfast when I ate the muesli. Sam would bring his fingertips to his forehead and then shoot his hands into the air making starbursts with his fingers. It is his way of saying, “What were you thinking.”
We sat at the coffee table on our laptops.
The sun shone in through the back windows.
Sam pissed me off with his nagging about it being cleaning day. Oh he does love to run the show and he never quite understands why I don’t jump to attention. Oh goodie, cleaning day. Grrrr! I got passive aggressive – I guess, I could have added that to my description above – and got my back up and stomped off for a walk for an hour. I’m not so sure if I was pissy about the cleaning, or guilty about the two breakfasts and needed to get out and walk it off. Perhaps, there was a combo of the two. I listened to U2.
I think it is reverting to a 10 year old, I’m not sure why? I’m a big boy now? Spoilt brattery? My mum making me wash the dishes? Put the washing out. Weed the garden. They were the chores that used to infuriate me as a kid. Infuriate, or drive me insane with boredom? The two emotions are very similar, almost the same. I remember distinctly being furious at the very mention of them, I’m not sure why. Immaturity, I guess? But my parents didn’t really make me do very many chores, not really. But I can still feel the residual childhood anger even now. I can go right back there, easily. I don’t really know why, because the chores I do even now don’t take long. I only have to vacuum 2 rooms and a hallway. That’s pretty much it.
We ate Caesar Salad for lunch. Andy had an old roast chicken in the fridge that needed to be eaten, so Sam turned it into quite a respectable Caesar Salad, the first one he’d ever made. I think, maybe, we are eating too much mayonnaise. I’d better do another hour walk.
We took Buddy for a walk to The Fitzroy Gardens. He walks so well off a lead now a days. When he meets people he just sits and smiles and looks up at them adoringly as they pat him and the people think he is adorable, a show stopper, as that lady once said, then he trots off after us.
We watched episodes of the Book Club late in the afternoon. I love the sound of the short story collection, Up The Junction.
We ate wraps for dinner. We’re gonna turn into wraps soon, ha ha.
I tell Sam that there is a part of me that is going to miss Fluff, and that prompts a whole new round of online puppy adverts and which French Bulldog would I choose? This one? This one? This one? I tell Sam that I can't go back to the puppy madness of a few months ago and didn’t we deicide that we were happy with Buddy and that we wouldn’t get another puppy?
“What about this one?” He shows me a black frenchie with a white flash up its face, my favourite. Weak as piss, I know.
Of course, I am no better than Sam really, as once I am looking at the puppy photos, I am never really able to say a definitive no. No! Oh Sam, we shouldn’t. We shouldn’t really? Should we? (Agree with me, because I am not at all sure) No… I am sure… I am… I… (that one is so cute. What harm could there be? What is the difference when you already have one dog? Two dogs isn’t twice as hard? Not really?) No… Sam… we shouldn’t…
No Fluff this morning, first morning without her. She’s a little character, I found myself looking for her at moments. I even missed the clip, clip, clip of her claws on the floorboards as she followed me out of the bedroom. She had to sleep inside, in our bedroom, as she has never slept outside. When she first came to stay I said, “Oh what rubbish, she can sleep outside like a real dog." But, it was cold and neither of us wanted to risk her freezing to death.
We say that Buddy sleeps outside, and it is true, he does. But, he has a kennel, which has carpet in the bottom, topped by a thin mattress, topped by a thick mattress, which is covered in a woollen rug, which is covered in a washable sheet and then he has a smaller blue fleecy blanket and then he has his thick cream blanket. And he has a woollen rug that falls down and covers the kennel door in the winter. So, it is true, he does sleep outside, but he is hardly exposed to the elements, not really. You should see him in there, all nestled down amongst the bedding.
I ate muesli and drank coffee.
For some reason the Facebook "describe who you are" field came up very big as if it was demanding me to write something this morning when I first signed into Facebook, I don't know why? So with my first-thing-in-the-morning bleary eyes and before I had spoken a word, with my just brewed coffee, I gave it a go, and when I had finished it told me that I had written too much and that I couldn't post it, of course, and just as I was about to hit the delete key, saying my first words of the day, "Oh for goodness sake," I decided to save it here rather than rub it out altogether.
Transient, unimportant, recalcitrant, creative, cheap, insecure, selfish, imbued, Lavender, mercurial, eloquent, lazy, reclusive, diarist, truthful, uninterested, black humoured, grounded, perverse raison toast and nothing but baked goods in an old soul wrapped in cynicism
What is the adjectival version of lavender? I settled on lavenderial?
A few days ago, I posted a photo of a tree in the Carlton Gardens on Facebook pondering what the person thought 100 years ago when it was planted. A friend said that maybe it was sown from bird pooh, and maybe it wasn’t planted by a person at all, but maybe that wasn’t so romantic, she said. I’d been thinking about that since, so I tried to make it romantic
On a perfect sunny day, a bird's graceful wing feathers seemingly touched the sky as they beat in time to the earth's spinning rhythms, as the golden orb of sun, burning brightly in the perfect blue sky, kissed its tail feathers as it floated on a warm zephyr, its small pearl of pooh spun like a Catherine wheel, no, one fragment of fairy dust, gently shimmering down, twirling and skipping across the buttercup heads basking in the honey due of the burning sun, nestled in the verdant grass and the velvet clover leaves, coming to rest on the rich chocolate soil of the grassy knoll, just at the very moment a magical sun shower burst forth scattering crystals amongst the golden shafts of the sun’s rays.
Too much? Too much, I thought, they’ll love it. Too cynical? Perhaps, just around the edges. I remember, years ago, Aby and I decided that if your want to keep the GP happy, you just give them clichés. Yeah, I know, too cynical, but hey, they loved it anyway. It is what America gives them now a days. Clichés. Formula? What’s the difference?
Sam got up and cooked a big breakfast. I didn’t tell him I’d already eaten muesli, he’d have been cross. Oops. I forgot about the big breakfast when I ate the muesli. Sam would bring his fingertips to his forehead and then shoot his hands into the air making starbursts with his fingers. It is his way of saying, “What were you thinking.”
We sat at the coffee table on our laptops.
The sun shone in through the back windows.
Sam pissed me off with his nagging about it being cleaning day. Oh he does love to run the show and he never quite understands why I don’t jump to attention. Oh goodie, cleaning day. Grrrr! I got passive aggressive – I guess, I could have added that to my description above – and got my back up and stomped off for a walk for an hour. I’m not so sure if I was pissy about the cleaning, or guilty about the two breakfasts and needed to get out and walk it off. Perhaps, there was a combo of the two. I listened to U2.
I think it is reverting to a 10 year old, I’m not sure why? I’m a big boy now? Spoilt brattery? My mum making me wash the dishes? Put the washing out. Weed the garden. They were the chores that used to infuriate me as a kid. Infuriate, or drive me insane with boredom? The two emotions are very similar, almost the same. I remember distinctly being furious at the very mention of them, I’m not sure why. Immaturity, I guess? But my parents didn’t really make me do very many chores, not really. But I can still feel the residual childhood anger even now. I can go right back there, easily. I don’t really know why, because the chores I do even now don’t take long. I only have to vacuum 2 rooms and a hallway. That’s pretty much it.
We ate Caesar Salad for lunch. Andy had an old roast chicken in the fridge that needed to be eaten, so Sam turned it into quite a respectable Caesar Salad, the first one he’d ever made. I think, maybe, we are eating too much mayonnaise. I’d better do another hour walk.
We took Buddy for a walk to The Fitzroy Gardens. He walks so well off a lead now a days. When he meets people he just sits and smiles and looks up at them adoringly as they pat him and the people think he is adorable, a show stopper, as that lady once said, then he trots off after us.
We watched episodes of the Book Club late in the afternoon. I love the sound of the short story collection, Up The Junction.
We ate wraps for dinner. We’re gonna turn into wraps soon, ha ha.
I tell Sam that there is a part of me that is going to miss Fluff, and that prompts a whole new round of online puppy adverts and which French Bulldog would I choose? This one? This one? This one? I tell Sam that I can't go back to the puppy madness of a few months ago and didn’t we deicide that we were happy with Buddy and that we wouldn’t get another puppy?
“What about this one?” He shows me a black frenchie with a white flash up its face, my favourite. Weak as piss, I know.
Of course, I am no better than Sam really, as once I am looking at the puppy photos, I am never really able to say a definitive no. No! Oh Sam, we shouldn’t. We shouldn’t really? Should we? (Agree with me, because I am not at all sure) No… I am sure… I am… I… (that one is so cute. What harm could there be? What is the difference when you already have one dog? Two dogs isn’t twice as hard? Not really?) No… Sam… we shouldn’t…
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