Boy's Gossip

I walked into town with Jackson Wag. I was heading to the RACV to get travel insurance and he was heading to the CBD also. He chats away. He knows all the gossip around the place so I get to catch up on all the latest from around our neighbourhood.

He told me that my arch nemesis Sweeney Brett, from over the back of our place, has cancer.

"Sweeney has cancer?"

I digested that piece of information quickly. Now, even I know, with my lack of filter that I shouldn't call out yippee. "Really?"

"He had prostate cancer initially, but now he has it in his spine."

"Oh," was all I can manage.

"They say it is, you know, contained, but they keep upping his pain medication, so I'm not sure how well he really is."

"How do you find this stuff out," I ask. "Do you ask Anna?" (Sweeney's wife)

"I play cards with Sweeney..."

"You play cards with Sweeney?" Now that was a piece of news that I wasn't expecting. He fraternises with the enemy.

"Every Friday night."

"Really?" I was looking at Jackson like he was a traitor. Well, I was trying not to look at Jackson as if he was a traitor.

"He's a smart guy..."

"I don't doubt that." Begrudgingly, I said that.

"He makes me laugh."

"I find that hard to believe." Sweeney, that old blowhard.

"If I ever question the rules," says Jackson. "He booms away with his objection."

That is the Sweeney I know and... um... er... loath.

"But I always challenge him with facts and knowledge and he backs down."

Oh, that booming, know it all, Canadian accent. I felt a chill up my spine.

 

The Games Shop

Sam takes me to EB Games. It's like going to Mars. There is nothing in there that makes any sense to me, there is nothing that takes my interest. It is like a space where the walls are covered in land fill, a perplexing array of cheap art work and plastic packaging. I don't get it at all. My head spins at my inability to find something to peruse. 

Apparently, Super Mario is saving Princess Peach from a turtle? From a turtle? Who knew.

Sam just looks at me as if I have missed something important in life.

Me, "I thought he just jumped along a wall?"

Sam, rolls his eyes.

Clearly games are not my thing. We look at the shelves of merchandise. Sam says, "Oh, look, at this."

Me, blank. It looks like every other thing at which you have pointed.

People seem to be keen on the stuff. There are queues at the register, people are clearly keen on what they are selling.

I find a seat and start writing this hoping that I can... oh, I don't know what, not look too out of place. I just hope we can leave soon.

Bourke Street Melbourne, I'd say the 1930s

AIDS Memorial

When I read the AIDS Memorial on Instagram, which I do regularly, I find it is my way of remembering those people who might otherwise be forgotten, I tend to skip over the girl's stories. (I just caught myself doing it) I guess that is sexist?

I guess, not so much?

Looking at the AIDS memorial is, in part, sentimental, but it is also a dream, a dream of what may have been. Imagining, for me, how life could have been if all of those men were still in our lives. I find it fascinating to see their faces and read their stories.

Not that I am complaining about my life, my life is good, but it would have been different if Fergus and Robin and Ross and Blue and Steve and Doctor Bob were still alive.

And I'm lucky, I only had one really close mate, Fergus, and just a few other friends, who died. Some friendship groups were completely wiped from the face of the earth. Imagine that, all of your friends, and you, gone. It boggles my mind. The empty space, the void, and what it could have been.

So, I read through the names and look at the pictures and think about their lives and, quite often, feel quite sad. It's not a bad sad, I didn't know them, it is a warm, kind of positive, sad because just for that infinitesimal moment I remember them, for a fleeting moment they are alive again. I'm not sure if that really makes sense, but it makes sense to me.

Scruncher, or Folder?

I really don't know why I am telling you this, but I am a folder. The age old question. 

Something came up about it the other day at dinner - I know, pooh talk at the table, inexcusable Mark would say - and everyone present gave their answer, as people tend to do. I gave my answer with my customary chuckle to myself and said nothing more.

However, I am a folder of OCD proportions. The only person who really knows this, is my ex-boyfriend Mark. Sam is not one to share a toilet when the act that necessitates folding is involved. But, Mark and I were much more free about such things. In fact, back in the day when I shared my house with my best friends, we were all much more free with such things. I remember once, when my mate Fergus came into the bathroom when I was taking a dump, he caught me sitting there with a cup of tea in one hand and a joint in the other. He found it so amusing that the next thing the whole household was standing at the open door making comment on my behaviour. And nobody thought anything about it. Ah, for those days.

But it was Mark, before that, who questioned me on my practise. I tear off two sheets of paper and place it on my knee, repeating the process until I have, what I consider, to be the required number of sheets.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked Mark.
"What?" I replied.
"What are you doing with the paper?"
"What do you think I am doing?"
"That is what I am asking you," he replied.

You see, I had never been questioned about it before that, as before Mark it had been a rather private matter, and I had never considered what I was doing to be unusual, in fact, I had never thought about the practise at all. It hadn't occurred to me to question it. I guess, I must have done it since I was a kid, never realising what I was doing.

So, at dinner the other night, I simply replied, "Folder," chuckled to myself and the conversation moved on.

Dominic Thiem is an Austrian tennis player

Inverness to Applecross

Inverness to Applecross, is than an old nursery rhyme? It sounded like it to me, I'm sure, somewhere in the back of my head. Ride a cock horse and all that... I guess not.

Inverness to Applecross, Scotland. Picturesque, but apparently, it is the most dangerous road in the United Kingdom? I watched a show on the internet. It looked spectacular, but we won't have time to drive the road, but I want to. A week in London and then off to Amsterdam, won't allow us the time to go to Scotland.

And there is a great seafood restaraunt is in Applecross.

Ah the dreams of travelling. You just can't do everything, hey?

My favourite Begonia

Heading Overseas

When I was a kid, our family home had a sunroom, which I filled with indoor plants, it was my thing, my hobby. I loved nothing more than getting some cuttings from wherever and disappearing up the side of the house, where I kept my pots and potting mix and such things, potting them up and then taking them to join my sunroom collection. Every surface of that sunroom was covered in pots of green leaves and occasionally flowers.

I loved it. And I, seemed, to have green fingers as everything I planted grew. I found a lot of joy in those ever changing plants.

So, I guess, it comes as no surprise that my house now is filled with indoor plants. I even have one, I call it my first ever plant, a begonia, which now towers over our heads. I'd forgotten about it when I headed out into the world and discovered boys and dancing and a new life. However, some time ago now, mum and I were out in her garden looking around when I spotted a pot up the side of the house amongst the plants.

"What's that?"

"Oh, that is that old begonia," said mum. "I think it was one of your plants. Take it."

So, I did. It was worse for wear, with weeds growing out of it, but a repot and some attention and it grew easily. Now a days it is six feet tall, actually, probably taller. It is the plants which sometimes hangs down and scratches our heads as we walk under it, which Sam is always, "Cut this! Cut this!"

I have a glass roofed walkway between the front of the house and the back of the house, which is filled with indoor plants, which I call the lungs of the house.

So, going overseas I wonder how they are all going to fare? Will they all be all right? I give the big plants a litre of water a week, so over six weeks.... The maidenhair ferns are going to struggle. The big begonias, the big ficus, the fiddle leaf figs, the palms, the rubber plants, the devils ivy, the Red Dracaena will survive. The succulents and the aspidistras won't care. I wonder what state they will be in by the time we get home, though?

It will be winter here, though, so they need a lot less attention in their dormant period. I am guessing they will all be just fine. I hope so. 

I'm just going to have to find someone to look after my maidenhair ferns. (It belonged to a good friend of mine who killed himself 10 years ago, so it has a lot of sentimental value. And recently, I have divide off two smaller plants)
Funny, I tentatively suggested a friend of mine look after the maidenhair ferns, and he said, "No, I'd rather not, I don't want to be responsible for killing them.'
"You won't, and I wouldn't hold it against you even if you did," I said. "You're a better chance than leaving them here."
He looked nervous at the thought.
"All you have to do is water them," I said. "That is it. I promise."
I'll work on that.
Or, I just put them out in the garden, as I said, it will be winter after all. There would probably be enough rain to get them through alive, I suppose. I hope.

Little Red Corvette Brunswick Street this afternoon

Mr Perfect

My garden on a rainy day

Glasses

I haven't got used to the idea that I wear glasses yet. I haven't done the mental mind shift, I can feel it. I keep taking them off. And I am still slightly surprised that they are, actually, my glasses. Funny how the brain works. 

I don't even like them very much, although they do make everything clearer, I have to admit. And I don't have to reach for reading glasses any more. So, I suppose that is good. No, it is good.

I guess, I am still getting used to them.

I have to admit, I can see Buddy's pooh amongst the mulch now when I'm down the back of the garden with a spade digging it up and putting it in the rubbish bin.

The pot is all gone. Sam won't let me get any more.

"Do you know how boring it is when you look at me bozz-eyed just after dinner, and then fall asleep on the couch for the rest of the evening?"

And I can see how boring that is. But, I like being stoned. Grrrrr! And I'm on holidays, essentially. And it makes me more creative, its true. Well, maybe not more creative, but it is easier, I can focus on writing on let the rest of the world fade away.

I'm puffing through the ciggies today, but I'll quit them tomorrow.

A Little Bird Told Me

8.30am. I'm out on the back veranda for a smoke. Sam has left for work. It is a gentle, cool morning, with promises of improvement, I can just feel it in the air.

An airplane flies overhead, I wonder where they are going? I look through my rejected poems so I can at least post something. 6 completed poems, all rejects for good reason.

I swear a bird is saying my name. Christian Fletcher. That's funny, I think. Bird's a clever how they can mimic. Christian Fletcher. There is is again. Christian Fletcher. Where is the bird, I try to see it in the tree.

That is uncanny.

Christian Fletcher. Christian Fletcher. It is uncanny. I start to message Sam, as I start to type, What are you doing? I realise it is Sam and that infernal security camera with its monitoring capabilities and its speaker.

Grrrr. A small part of me was disappointed there wasn't a talking bird.

Sam sends me a link to travel insurance. And then three questions on which to base my research.

Look at those, the bird says.

Walking in the park, yesterday

Going Overseas in 18 days

I’ve just looked at the calendar, we go overseas in 18 days. I smell bread and I taste croissants and butter and raspberry jam, and those little Aranciata soft drink bottles, sitting at a small table on a terrace, or sitting amongst many tables outside a cafe. Oh, and coffee. Lots of strong coffee. (I think that is from being from Melbourne and not so much to do with Europe.) I’m going to the Himalayas. I see wondrous mountain peaks. I see adventure. I see accomplishment. Oh… euw… I see dead bodies frozen in the ice. Ha ha, who am I kidding about my adventure threshold? Oh, and coffee. Lots of strong coffee…

Fucken hell I have done nothing, was my next thought.

Well, we have plane tickets, confirmed seats and current passports. All of the accommodation is booked. All internal air flights, on Dodgy Brothers Air, have been purchased. Tickets have been purchased for some iconic attractions in various cities. (Apparently, every big ticket European must-see is seething with people now a days. Oh, the pain) All we have to do is buy 2 train tickets, Rome to Florence, Florence to Verona and we have to book the Eurostar, Paris to London (Sam tells me that’s done). That is a hell a lot more than I have ever done for previous trips.

Don’t you worry, Sam would have a timetabled schedule, if I let him. (I’m sure there are going to be moments when I wished I’d let him)

Of course, there is a problematic election in France. (The alt-right tragedy that it may become) There are terrorist attacks being committed in Europe, not to mention the threat of nuclear war with North Korea. (what is it, 3 months into the job, and Tiny Hands has us on the brink of nuclear war. Who said this presidency was going to be a problem? Remember, this is a man who fails more often than he succeeds, in everything he has done in life. You just can’t go bankrupt from a nuclear war… [muttered] Little Dick) Oh yes, I can see why we’d be adventuring overseas right about now.

I haven’t travelled for a while… so, get ready, I have 18 days, the starters flag has now been waved. Erh! I’ll probably pack the night before and swish onto that plane with the minimum of stress. Yay, flying. I love to fly. Wallets? Tickets? Passports? A couple of t-shirts, a pair of jeans, a pair of shorts. A jacket. A second pair of shoes. Laptop, phone and cables. Packed. How hard do you want to make it?

I got over my fear of flying many years ago. I used to drive up to Bolago on Friday nights fast, because I just wanted to get there. I used to drive along those narrow country roads late at night at 120, 130, 140 kph and never think twice about it. And flying is much safer than driving. Anything could have fallen/jumped/blown/whatever, and I never gave it a second thought. So, I chose not to be scared of flying anymore and I haven’t been. But with all the recent trouble in the world, I can feel it creeping back in.

Rachel was heading to Japan with a girlfriend, her youngest daughter, Oreya, and her boyfriend, Thumper. (Oh, I can’t remember his name, but he was a big, and boof, as David would say. I guess Thumper gives a negative connotation now a days. So, conservatives, this is how it is done. He shall be known hence forth as BamBam… er? Slugger. No. Chook. That is how political correctness works. Think of it as being polite to somebody else. See, it’s easy. Nothing to be scared of) Oreya had a panic attack at the plane entrance.

“Yes, we were THOSE people,” said Rachel.

No matter what they did, Oreya freaked out. Her biggest fear seemed to be not being able to get off, had she wanted to. It was a direct flight. Oreya had to stay home, so Damo (I’m just trying it out) stayed home with her. What a guy. (They have since broken up)

“Then, of course, they had to take the bags off, unaccompanied baggage and all that, which took another hour,” said Rachel. “We got looks, sweetie.”

I will be thinking of Oreya when I get on that plane in 18 days, don’t you worry about that. Shiver. And maybe, “NO, NO, YOU CAN’T MAKE!” with me clinging to those blunt edges of the front door surround, will probably flash through my mind, as I pass over the aerodynamic hearth. I’ll chuckle quietly to myself and smile.

Sam will say, “What?”

“Oh nothing,” I’ll say. “Where are our seats?”

A Short History of Easter

Easter Monday

8am. Sam puts on his PS4 to look at the dinosaurs. Buddy is leaping around thinking it is a great game.

“Do something with him, will you?”

I roll a joint, and just as Sam is all set up, lolly-pops in hand, I give him the signal to come out side for a choof. “Bst!”

All I hear is a long audible sigh, long and slow, as the faceless helmet stares in the direction of the, apparently tiny, TV screen. He sighs, but still to this day he has never turned a puff down. He says it is my bad influence, the argument goes on. Sam wants to buy a bugger TV. I don’t want to feel like I live in a cinema, the argument continues. The chatter of life. I’ve always looked at in a way that he who makes me laugh in the process, gets his way. If you amuse me, I am far more likely to change my mind.

It’s cold outside.

Sam is like a mute, animated, cyborg mannequin when I go back inside. Marcel Marceau and 3CPO’s love child, directed Doctor Who style. Half of me expected the Doctor Who theme music, but instead I get silence, with the octagonal clack of plastic, from either his hand controls, or his helmet.

Only Buddy can be heard grumbling bulldog style as he changes positions.


The graphics aren’t good on the new game, it gives Sam vertigo. Mr Return is already laying a plan to return it to the shop.

Take the dog for a walk, so we need a dog walking joint. We go early, before the tourists descend.

We take Buddy to the Fitzroy gardens. There are numerous dogs for him to run up to, assume the bulldog stance, sniff their arse, say hello to the owner, do a sweeping turn and continue following us.

Walking the dog wasn’t enough.

Having been cooped up in the house for the while Easter weekend – it is Monday, you say? – we attacked the side creeper. The side creeper that was blocking the view of the houses built next door, we hacked it down, and hauled it up the back yard like lumberjacks, regardless.

We were exhausted when we’d finished our frenzy of activity. Heading inside without cleaning up.

“That’s you job for tomorrow, to get it cleaned away before… trashed.” Sam looked at me in a daze.

“Before trash…” I could feel my eyebrows rise.

“You only have tomorrow…”

“Are you sure today is Monday?”

“For rubbish.”

"For sure."

We went inside and drank tea, and ate chocolate biscuits.

Sam buys a blackhead remover online. I tell him he hardly has any blackheads. He doesn’t.

Just as the kettle boiled, tea and biscuits is scuppered in favour of lunch.

Then there were complaints about me not having unloaded the dishwasher.


We had vegie and roast turkey, chicken broth with wantons and noodles. Yum. Sam excelled himself.”

“Truthfully, it was all leftovers.”

“You see, that is what I can’t do, look at a pile leftovers and make something edible out of it.

And then afterwards, a post lunch smoke. That quieten down the punters. It was like 3pm Xmas Day.

Just Buddy licking something.

Piano music to drown out Buddy's scratching. Way to go Bud.

He crawls into my lap and rests his head on my left arm. My left thigh when I take my arm back to type.

Sam snores on the couch.

I can see red and orange leaves through the trees in my back yard.

Sunday, Is Of Course, Cleaning Day. Let Us Not Forget

I got up early, of course, as is my want. Well, strictly speaking it is not my want at all, damn early rising. And he rose up on the third day.

I re-wrote yesterday’s blog. I do that a lot, go back and completely rewrite. I got that done early.

Sunday, Is Of Course, Cleaning Day. Let Us Not Forget.

Being Sunday, Easter, or not, it is cleaning day. You know the drill! Zieg heil! Zieg heil!

Is that offensive because of Easter? You know, the Jewish connection.

Just a minute, if the Jews believe in the Old Testament, surely, they do not celebrate Easter.

No connection, hopeful look, not offensive.

It's just that it is cleaning day, at my place, and we all know that means Sam turns into a Sergeant Major.

Good thing, I have done my chores. Oh, get it done and get it done early is my mantra. It is an easy way to avoid cleaning grief,

Sam's fingers stop twitching when all the chores were done.

Must go and empty the bag. Well, strictly there is no bag, what can I say, it is bagless. I must empty the 'goddam thang' before Sam gets onto me... um... er... about... ah... that.

One can only sit outside in one's tranquil garden one's laptop writing nonsense, for so long... eyebrows up... after all.

Lunch was Indian in the CBD.

Then a sniff around EB Games, bought a 3D dinosaur movie for the PS4. A couple of t-shirts in Big W. A mosey around Harvey Norman, looking at a new couch, which we are not getting, and a bigger TV, which I could soften on. And, of course, the Asian grocer to finish off. Drama of the day, Chinese cabbage.

The afternoon is sparkling, sun shining down with dapple light falling to the ground. Sam falls asleep on the couch. Buddy snores between my legs, under the coffee table.

A-list queens queuing for pilates. No chocolate eggs for them, strictly tuna and rice.

Sun Rise

6am. The sun is coming up. It is suddenly cold. The birds are singing off in the distance. They still got their songs on low volume. The dark is lifting, day light is peaking through, I love that moment. There is still wonder to be glimpsed in that moment.

The security camera falls to the ground, as I adjust it to point back out to the back yard. Oh gosh, it would be a real crime if it broke. What if it really was broken, I think. At what point do I realistically have to own up to it? Hands balancing in the air. Once it’s been discovered, that is the best plan, a pre-emptive strike would only get me into trouble, even, as is most likely, the camera is in perfect working condition.

Sam wants to buy food for dinner.

I just want to sloth about.

I don't specifically roll one to calm him down, specifically. I just know that the next one will do the trick.

Sam lazily turns on the TV. There is a show about dogs, he is instantly captivated. So am I.

And I get to write for a few hours. It's only lunch time we get particularly raggy.

Have a shower, have a shower, registers in Sam’s voice over the period of the morning.

We wafted down to Victoria Street, well, I wafted. Sam moved fast, until I accused him of running. “It’s okay for you, you ate breakfast.”

“Hang on, what’s the implication, you can’t eat when you first get up?”

“You know that,” says Sam.

“But you have been up for four hours.”

“You know when you move at a glacial pace,” says Sam. “How much it thrills me.”

What affect have I had on Sam. A perfectly placed Devil Wares Prada line to amuse me and distract me.

We ate yum cha. Prawn and ginger dumplings, scallop wontons, turnip cake.

We did the grocery shopping. A quick sniff around Aldi. I don’t have the Aldi gene, but Sam does. Fruit, veg, meat, that is the order we are going to tackle the shopping in according to Sam. I buy apples and pears to stew, that is pretty much my contribution to the shopping. I’m very… wafty, I giggle a lot, I think most things are funny, which always thrills Sam. By the time I have finished, I have bought three different varieties of apples, I’m not really sure why? “What are you thinking,” Sam asks exasperated.

Shopping is such a bore, if you don’t find something to laugh about it, it is dreadful business. People do it as an interest in their lives? “

“I love me children. I love a bit of a flutter on the horses. I love a drink down the pub, and, of course, I love shopping.”

“Even Dave is keen on a bit of shopping now a days.”

“I wasn’t sure at first.” Dave laughs. “Not at all sure at first.” Dave’s face turns bright red. “It wasn’t until Sharon show me really how to do it…”

“That was after we got home,” Sharon squeals.

“Yeah, but it got me interested in shopping.” Dave breaks out in a huge laugh. “You know what I mean.” Raucous laughter from Dave.

“Where do you want to spend your holidays, kids?” asks dad.

“Chadstone, Chadstone, we want to go to Chadstone,” Jack and Sienna carol together from the playpen.

Those shorts sure do look GOOD on that guy, god damn.

There’s a cute baby-daddy pushing that pram, I say.

“The kid is a month old,” says Fergus. “Dad’s most needy right about then.”

“Give them drugs,” says Tom. “There’s none of them that can’t be turned with an E.”

“You can smell the sperm,” Julien would say with his customary nose twitch.

“I’ll have a bit of that,” says Simon in his nasal tones.

But, I digress. (Oh, I’m just adding the dead friends the next day, when I am editing rather than writing something new)

This is the narrative that is going through my head, as I waft around the shops, trying to look interested, stay focussed.

Well, the first bit, not so much the dead friends. Not that Julien is dead. Not sure why they all suddenly came into my mind? (And no I don’t think it is because I think Julien is about to join them, it is much more likely that he was a good friend to them all, and I would just naturally group them together, as if they were all still alive.)

We wafted home again. We hadn’t left the shopping Centre and Sam starts his traditional whinge about having the heaviest shopping bags to carry. Until, as always, we have all the shopping bags on the ground while Sam feels the weight of each bag, always managing, at this point, to pick up the lightest bags and walk off.

I want a jeep, but Sam won’t even entertain the idea, apparently, you can’t be two fags with a jeep in SamWorld, and yet he still complains about the weight of the purchased produce.

We drank tea and ate Easter eggs. I wanted chocolate coated scotch fingers, but apparently, it is Easter, and we are going to partake in the myth. So, how exactly do Easter eggs fit in? That seemed to be the question over Easter. What relevance do chocolate eggs have in the Christian myth of Easter? I could have googled it, but I really didn’t care that much.

We sat in front of the TV, Sam making rice paper rolls for dinner. One by one Sam handed them to me to eat. Yum, yum.

We watched everything we had recorded. Big Bang Theory. Modern Family. SVU. 60 minutes. Graham Norton.

I fell asleep on the couch, of course.

Ah, To Be A Tranquil Goat Herder

Half of the problem of the world are the terrible things done by self-interested border-line criminals now in charge of certain countries.

The other half of the problem are the news agencies battling for rating, orgasmically bring us the latest tragedy in full glorious technicolour.

I envy the tranquil goat herder on a mountain somewhere completely oblivious.


How come we globalise terror, (because it sells bombs and guns and adds to the GDP of any number of countries), but we don't globalise humanitarian work? (Because we are better off without the world’s poor, who aren’t an economic contributor to the world’s economy.) 
I think, as I drive out to Guido's.
Sam wasn't too upset, matter of a fact, he hardly said anything.

The mosque was quiet on Bird Road, Broady. Yeah off to the Broady compound. So far west that the block over the road is paddocks, over which the long afternoon sun shines. So clearly Easter isn’t a big deal to the Muslims. I know, I know Easter is Christian, but aren’t they just different points of view of the same story? Probably the result of illiteracy, if the truth be known. “Ay? What you say?” says the toothless old scribe. I’m surprise, aren’t they all the same faiths, the Abrahamic faiths? There must be a birth myth and a death myth in Islam, a flood and a virgin birth too, isn’t that the formula? These are religions created on the same myth paradigm. 

Later... Coconut juice in front of the TV. The Project. I reckon Lehmo would have a big cock. He just looks as though he would have a big sausage, you know. Thick, worth a squeeze, you know, if you were in the same change rooms, and it was suddenly, out in front of you. Sometimes you can’t help those things.

Some time later we watched Fantastical Beasts And Where To Find Them, load of bollocks. I had trouble understanding any of it. Was their a story? Or just some ponce leaping about amongst CGI.