Too Hot for a Bulldog

We've been taking Buddy to the dog park each morning around 6.30am, before the heat. There are plenty of dog owners there at that time, so Buddy gets to run around with the other dogs.

Then Sam goes to an air-conditioned office and Buddy and I sweat. Too hot for a bulldog. I've got a fan blowing. All the doors and windows are closed around 9am. Buddy is snoring next to me.

There are predicted rain storms from tonight, which will be nice, make sleeping much easier. They say we are going to get a month's rain in 48 hours, global warming anyone.

I'm entertaining myself by cleaning out kitchen cupboards, we've had a big clean up lately and this is the end bit. Every now and again the salty sweat runs down into my eyes stinging them.

Gotta luv a hot day.

This morning's, pre-heat, Buddy walk, 6 something am

Morning sun 6 something am taking Buddy for a walk

I love the sun on this old red brick wall

A friend of my fathers used to restore these Alfas when I was a kid. I sometimes used to sit in his garage and watch him, as he and dad drank a beer. He had two white ones and a silver one over a period of time, so I have an affinity for them.

Order

I like mismatched grocery in the kitchen. I have white plates. I have while plates with a large green floral pattern. I have white plates with green stripes. I have some that are predominantly green, but have other colours in them. I like an eclectic collection. I remember buying the white set, and the white set with the green leaves, but where did the rest of them come from? I think it is something about the randomness of breakfast? The randomness of breakfast, that sets up the day, the endless possibilities. Or, is it a stand against the constructed order in our life?

It is not a fondness any of my partners have shared. The mismatched plates, not the order of the universe. Maybe, I'm just mean with my money? No, I think I do genuinely like old things. I think this came from getting hand-me-down-clothes from my mother's friends sons. I was the youngest, so pretty much my older brother had grown out of them too, and I'd get the lot. I still remember holding the loot to my face and smelling the other boys, the older boys.

I put the dishwasher on, we're out of bowls. Okay, so it does look as though I am preparing goods for the charity shop. The dishwasher door shuts with a comforting click.

Time to take Buddy to the dog park.

6amers

After neglecting my Aloe Vera plant for years, to the point it had changed from its foppish green to a deathly beige, I repotted. Now, I have 10 Aloe Vera plants, which are slowly turning green again, now they are in proper soil, in some soil, not squeezed twenty into one pot. I keep moving them around the garden to get the full sun. The two on the windowsill, with my baby succulents, are turning green quicker than the ones in the yard. I move the ones around in the yard, morning and afternoon. Water them every three weeks, how the hell do you remember that? Of course, if I told Sam, I'd have it repeating in my calendar every three weeks for the rest of my life, in no time.

It was humid and steamy at 6am, a summers day on winter colours, until the sun comes out, if it ever does. We took Buddy to the dog park to run around. He knows all the 6amers by now. The white and black curly-coat. The caramel curly-coat. The caramel staffy. The puggle. 

A woman was there with a sick Labrador, she got very anxious every time Buddy approached. So, of course, he was the only dog Buddy was interested in. She wasn't very pleased about it, not at all. Oh yes, I could have been quicker, oh yes, I could have actually given a shit, but there is also a good argument to be had for not bringing your sick Labrador to the dog park. Buddy only wanted to say hello, if you’d have let him, it would all be over now, but no. I can move my arse just a little quicker, I grant you, to alleviate your anxiety, I could. I can see that look on your face. Yes, your Trixie-Bell is precious, I get that. How old? How much did you spend? Wince, at the thought. You don’t know what this brute is capable of, looking down at Buddy. Big grin, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. Really? Him? Neither do I, some of the time, I whisper. A real bulldozer. Not comforting?

Let's find out what's wrong with this Labrador, yes, that sounds like a fun game, decides Buddy.

Really? Bud? (You're letting the side down, little guy)

Yes, I’ve got him. See. Lead on. Click sounds his lead. "What is wrong with you?" We leave.

Buddy is exhausted on the walk home, Captain Slow at every corner.

Bud lays spread eagle across the kitchen tiles, bugger anybody else.

Kiss kiss, at the door. Wave till Sam is out of sight. He goes to work early, 7.30am is early. Is 7.30am still early? He’ll be in the office in 10 minutes.

Another coffee, of course.

A bit of Gladys Knight, Since I fell for You...

It's Friday. Again. Good thing I write a journal, otherwise, not a clue.

God Bless The Child...

Monday morning, and Friday, they seem to be the two constants in my life at the moment.

Come Sunday, oh, come Sunday, that's the day.

Harry Nilsson

I discovered all of Harry Nilsson's albums on Apple Music. So instead of only ever playing Nilsson Schmilsson, I love the coconut song, and Without You, of course. It is interesting to hear his other stuff. That's todays soundtrack. Starting with Son of Schmilsson, the troubled album, riddle with farts and burps, I kid you not. 

I can’t listen to Son of Schmilsson anymore. He sounds like John Lennon. It’s a bit angsty, the music, really. I can sort of feel my anxiety levels rise as I listen to it. My fool proof question whenever I am listening to music, Would I want to hear this again?

No. Perhaps the next album. Pussy Cats, made by Harry and John Lennon, when they were out drinking together, partying in between sessions. They famously got asked to leave a Smothers Bros concert because of their heckling. How would that be, getting heckled by John Lennon and Harry Nilsson.

Pussy Cats sounds like John Lennon… because it is John Lennon, funny about that. Too confusing.

Next. Duit on Mon Dei. A play on… something. Opens with piano, that’s good for Harry Nilsson.

This is good.

the next day...

Sandman was good, so was,

... That's the way it goes

Knnillssonn and Flash Harry.

They have a whole new album of vocals set down. Harry Nilsson finished them just before he died. No music, I presume. How hard can it be? Give it to Paul Mccartney to write the music. Harry Nilsson is very Beatles.

The Seven Year Itch

The sun is shining, the sky is blue.

I'm getting chuffed and watching The Seven Year Itch. Busy morning, hey?

I've got the Misfits, which I love.
And Bus Stop, also good.

sometime later...
A load of old tosh, really.
Madonna's cone bras, on all the ladies, and lame, uninteligable  melodrama. It was as though all the writer's had a really bad pill addiction. There is a level of anxiety in the script.

Oh hang on, here comes the dress in the subway scene. It is all kind of pervy, as though the leading man could easily turn into a deranged, psycho killer by the end.

Sam got caught up at work and didn't come home for lunch.

Bullitt was the second feature for the day. Jacqueline Bisset, she's rubbish. Her acting always amounted to an apology. McQueen is dead. I'm guessing not many of the millennials know who he is? Sex symbol? He looked old. Green Mustang Mach 1, a yellow Porsche 356 convertible, the best ever car chase captured on film. 

Another load of dross, really.

It's Good

David is in NSW with Mark. Sitting on Mark's deck, touching down from his ever increasing international jet setting job. Bali, Berlin, Italy, Brisbane, Gold Coast. Stop.

Mark sent me a photo of madame lying out on one of the couches with a huge grin on her fat face.

I tell him he looks like a whale.
He said it was straight back onto paleo when he gets back to Melbourne.

Mark asks me if I was looking forward to lying on the couch too. At Xmas? It was the first time it has been mentioned since we argued. (We bought tickets to go visit him at Xmas the day before well fell out) It is good, we made up on the sharing of a photo, of a friend. (That must be pretty zen?) I didn't realise how stressed I was by it until that moment, it felt like such a relief. It's good.

My headphones battery goes flat, the music stops. My Parrot Headphones battery is flat. They have the better sound. (I can only wear them at home, otherwise they sweat in great pools on the sides of my head, sweat runs down my cheeks) Plug the headphones in, (am very thankful it only takes seconds to pull the right cord out of the pile of cords on the coffee table, sometimes it can take forever) I swapped to EarPods. You know, I can put the wrong pod in the wrong ear and it feels perfectly natural, just the sound is off.

Gladys Knight, So Sad The Song. (I think my phone must be on shuffle. Oh, no, it is the instrumental at the end. Kind of pointless without her vocals. Consider deleting that track.)

5am. How many matches do I have to use to have one smoke? My lighter died in the dark. Sitting outside in a t-shirt, you've got to love the approaching summer. I think that is when summer is at its best, when it is approaching. The hint of summer, is always so much more joyous than the 3rd day of over 40 degrees.

I play my Gladys Knight mixed tape from the beginning again. I don't ever get sick of hearing her voice. 

Every beat of my heart.

The birds begin to cheap, the sky has turned to ink blue. The sun is rising, 5.20am, the birds are tweeting its arrival.

The world is steadily coming into focus. I see my coffee cup, I hope there is still coffee in it. A full cup. Now that is truly joyous, a full cup of coffee, at sunrise.

Couldn't Sleep

I’m awake at 3.30am. As I glanced over at my watch, I really wished it had been later. 5am, perhaps.

I’d been dreaming about Dusty Springfield recording sessions. Hours of Dusty singing like a black lady. Endless questions about how black she really sounded. Endless listening to tape play back of her voice, as she stood in the recording booth very patiently. Endless recording studios, always filled with people. Big wide brimmed hats, flared jeans. Everyone smoking. The heat of LA and their afternoons where the shadows threaten to stretch to forever. The cold of winter, in crammed London recording studios setup in bluestone warehouses. Wide piazzas of Italy, sun drenched as if in honey. Hot and dank New Orleans, giant rubber plants and mangroves, eating fried donuts dusted with icing sugar. Strong coffee. Always coffee. All with a soul soundtrack playing relentlessly over the top.

What? Ah? Er? The bedroom was dark. Oh, its early. It was no good, I was awake.

I made coffee and rolled two joints. I sat out the back and found that a shelved album from 1971 was released a couple of years ago, making it her final album. It is called Faithful and it is not available on iTunes. Bummer. But I did find that a rarities album of Reputation, which includes four previously unreleased songs from that recording session. It is available on iTunes, and as I don’t have the album, Reputation, at all, I want it.

I came in and made a second coffee to go with my second joint.

I listen to the four extra Dusty tracks, and I can kind of see why the tracks weren’t included in the first place. Pity. But a 12 inch cut of In Private. Oh, even that is very 80s.

4.50am. I sat outside, listening to Reputation. Do I, actually, like this album? It’s very dated. Would I play it again once my current appreciation of Dusty dies down? Like, day light. $19.99. Dusty’s talent has to make up for the very 1980s arrangements. I would only listen to this, essentially 1990s dross, again for very few artists. He voice has to shine, to get me through it.

It is nice sitting outside in a warm summery kind of, almost, evening. Apex Gang home invasions withstanding. It has crossed my mind. Anyone could walk up with me in my own private LED screen bubble bliss, Dusty Springfield singing. Surely, nobody would get assaulted listening to Dusty Springfield, Black Sabbath, maybe. Oasis? (Just because of the angry one, punch him) I’ve got another joint to smoke before I get the scared-of-the-dark and scurry back inside.

5am. Well, I might as well smoke it and get back inside. 2 hours before I see anybody.

“I’ve been arrest by you, take me in.” I love this.

I want my third coffee, is that bad? I must goggle coffee drinking.

I don’t think I would listen to Reputation, much. But it is an important part of her anthology.

Oh, I could imagine listening to this in ten years, perhaps, and thinking, you know, that wasn’t a bad record. I loved it when it first came out.

Oh god, we have a house guest at the moment, a nice French lad. He was a friend of a friend. He must think I am the strange old man who is always sitting on the couch with his laptop, day and night.

I have been going for walks, which I will do again in 4 hours, I expect. An hours walk, everyday, it must be doing me good. Not that it is fixing my fat stomach. I am the BlobberMonster, at the moment, I can feel it around my stomach.

I must think about riding my bike. I can walk when I am stoned, easy peasy, it is kind of relaxing, really it is. But riding a bike, no that wouldn’t be smart.

I think it is a no to Reputation. Strictly an iTunes favourite. Apple Music, if I want to listen to it again, I think.

Monday Morning.

I go for a walk early, before it gets hot, says Sam. Am I someone's nana, I think.

Sam leaves 7.45am. So do I. We head in different directions, at the corner. We still wave until the other one is out of sight.

I walk for an hour. Love Never Felt So Good.

I smoke pot in the garden in the sun, listening to Michael Jackson's hits, His number 1s. All the good stuff. He is a musical genius. The sun is glorious.

Sam messages me for a mid morning update. I tell him I am meditating. Shhh!

At some point, I check to see where Buddy is, his big brown eyes gaze back at me from his kennel. I say, “Oh, good lad.” Oh, he could have been on our bed. He could have been on the couch. “Good to know,” I also hear myself say. It was getting horribly close to lunch to be trying to drag him down from upstairs.

11.05am. I’m a bit wasted, still bopping to Michael Jackson, not a care, if I was really honest, he giggles as he writes that. The best we can hope for now, is leftovers. Think! Think! What did we have for dinner last night? We had crumbed chicken. It could easily be chicken and salad. I wonder. If I wasn’t so, ah... comfortable, or really cared for that matter, [chuckle] I could go and look in the fridge for clues? But really? Why? It will be what it is? That’s pretty zen, isn’t it? I can tell you, I’m feeling pretty fucken zen out in this perfect summer’s day, in the dapple sun shine.

My headphonebuds stop working.

I break out the headphones, full muff, and lose any semblance of having done anything all day, or indeed, giving a shit. I did the washing. I cleaned the kitchen. Did I clean the kitchen?

11.30am. Kitchen is clean. There is chicken curry in the fridge, I think we are saved. Going out could have been a bit of an effort.

A Day In The Country

We drove to the country for the day, to take Buddy bushwalking in a national forest. It was a beautiful day.

We stopped off to see LouLou, cup of tea, whatever (you know what ‘whatever’ is with LouLou). A block of chocolate, (always with LouLou) some pork buns, a rice dish steamed in a pandan leaf. 

Buddy was slipping himself into his own harness, and gazing at us from the door, in his final plea to be taken for a walk. He knew where he was. He knew the big wide woods were out there where he could run off his lead. He knows exactly how to tell us it is time to go.

The big park they have up there is gorgeous, you can walk forever. The sun shone. Summer is here.

Bring them to Australia because it is the right thing to do, it is the humane course of action, the current system is a huge waste of money, refugees shouldn't be used as political footballs, and Australia can stop being looked at as the country that shirks its responsibilities.

I went walking in the rain, it was that sort of day

I bought a bottle of red wine for the risotto I am going to make for dinner. I put the bottle of red wine on the kitchen bench when I got home from the supermarket.

I got the fan out of the cupboard last night using it for the first time since last summer. The fan was covered in dust, so I leant over to the power point to unplug it, so I could take it outside to brush the dust off it.

My arm moved as far as it takes to pull a plug out of a power point. How far is that? A few centimetres. My elbow just caught the edge of the top of the bottle of wine. Looking over my shoulder, I watched the wine bottle rock on its base, in slow motion, backwards and forwards. Then it rocked back, and over it went.

I watched the neck break off the bottle as it hit the granite bench top.

As though the jugular vein was severed, it was suddenly a crime scene, blood seeping quickly out from the body. I had wine going in all directions. Away from me, heading to the far side of the bench and the carpet in the lounge room. And it rushed back towards me. One water fall, two waterfalls, three waterfalls, as I caught one, another started to flow, down the kitchen cupboards and onto the kitchen floor.

I grabbed kitchen paper towel, unravelling huge strands, and dumping it in clumps on the kitchen bench to stem the flow of wine heading towards the carpet, as the water falls gushed over the kitchen bench pooling in great lakes on the floor at my feet. Looking back now, I think the ‘great lakes’ stopped the flow of wine onto the carpet.

“Ah! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Buddy ran to the back door thinking I was yelling at him.

I madly started lifting things out of the sea of blood. My phone, the wooden garlic bowl, the onion basket, envelops, jars with pens in them, tea tree oil, bills, biros, tweezers, scissors, air freshener, my wallet, a plate with Buddy’s red meat defrosting. I pushed the red wine paper machete towel dripping mess towards a supermarket bag I had grabbed, it clumped together as if it was clotting. More paper towel, more murder scene bandages.

The cupboards were streaked and I scrubbed them madly with a sponge so they wouldn’t stay that way.

The base of the wine bottle still contained wine, and it was cracked down all sides. I picked it up and it crunched and ground, like a body with all of its bones broken, a bag of skin threatening to let go of its remaining bodily fluids at any moment. 

Then there were the splinters of glass, shattered fragments spread across the bench top. I picked at them one by one. I got the vacuum and sucked them all up, once the fluid was gone.

Our bins hadn’t been collected by then, so I was able to take it all out to the street and have it taken away. Just as a side note, when I was out at the bin disposing of the mess, these two hot guys approached me, dressed in singlets and shorts. Hello, I thought, who are you? They were the rubbish guys. We have really hot garbage collectors in Fitzroy. I watched them collect the bins, momentarily… with a whistle on my lips. I watched them walk to the other side of the street. A silent whistle.

White roses on my morning walk. It was hot today, 35 degrees. I had to walk early, then I hid inside. I only ventured out to get cherry pie, for my afternoon coffee. Tomorrow, I will have to walk twice as far.

I Stayed up Late

I stayed up late and wrote poetry until just after midnight.

I've been walking every day. The weather has been great. I walk for an hour every day, that way I can sit on my arse for the rest of the day. That's 5 hours per week, sometimes more, like I walked last Sunday, but I don't think I walked every other day, now I think about it. But it must be good? Surely?

Out on the street. Is that a tragic story of loss? Or is it just rubbish put out for the council? Is that someone losing their money, their family and their home? Or is it just trash?

Apparently, you aren't supposed to walk across here, there are a plethora of signs telling you not to.

Sign, sign, everywhere a sign
Blockin' out the scenery, breakin' my mind
Do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign?

Walking through Carlton, crossing Swanston Street at Grattan Street, by Melbourne Uni.

How Many Hands?

I saw a guy walking towards me on Gertrude Street with a white stick texting on his phone.

That is not something you see every day, I thought.

He had a take away coffee, and a violin, and his white stick, and, of course his phone in his hands. I didn’t really notice until the last minute. I had just started walking, and I was just settling into my music choice, and I was just waiting for the pain in my right foot to subside.

As I passed him, I looked at my hands, how many hands did he have? Stick, phone, violin, coffee. Waving the stick and texting, all at the same time. What? How many hands? (Was he a blind octopus in disguise? How do we know they are not hidden amongst us. Momentarily, I saw through his disguise.)

I didn't want to look back, I thought that would be rude. Then I laughed to myself, he was blind. He was out of sight by the time I looked back.

First World Problems

I go and have a shower, today it was a shower, but other days it is something else, during which time Sam starts using my computer.

He never really understands why this might make me cranky, when he has exactly the same laptop just sitting there unused.

"Can I have my laptop back?"

"No, busy here," says Sam.

"How long are you going to be?"

"A few minutes..."

"Does that mean ten minutes?"

"No..."

"Realistically? I ask."

"More than 10," says Sam.

"Grrrrrrrrr!"

"Lean some patience."

"Ah! Learn to use your own laptop."

Sam is having trouble with his new Google assistant, he made adjustments for a 6 month offer from YouTube to have no adds and it blew all the setting on the voice activated Google assistant, so he is on the phone to some call centre somewhere. He's trying to get off the phone because yours truly is getting hangry, but the call centre professional in the Philippines, or Myanmar, or wherever the fuck,  is being conchie and persistent. (Can you tell I am hungry?) What a time for that?

It is grey and cloudy, threatening rain. The wind is blowing. What happened to summer?

We're going out to eat sloppy American sandwiches in Smith Street. American food, not usually the best on the planet, traditionally large, tasteless serves, but what the hell. We had it once before and it was okay.

Now, Mumbai, wants a promotional code. Go away, I'm hungry.

Just Another Mass Shooting in America

Another mass shooting in America. I'm sorry, but shrug? What are we supposed to feel? I don't even read the news on these shootings anymore. I know this is harsh, but America gets the mass shootings their gun laws promise them. I thought they were a smart country? They claim to be a smart country.

Until American changes its gun laws, why should we even be that interested in their gun atrocities? Surely, by being interested in these atrocities, we are investing a certain amount of energy in wanting a solution to the problem of mass shootings? However, when 26 kindergarten kids are blown away by some nutjob with a gun, and that still does prompt any action, I'm not holding my breath for change.

There will be all the usual arguments about gun laws. The pro gun lobby will say all the same nonsense, yet again, and nothing will change.

There will be another mass shooting, soon, that will probably be worse than this one, as sure as there is mom, baseball and apple pie. Shake of the head. Only in America, is that what they say? 

It's like watching an idiot parent's toddler continually banging its head against a wall, eventually you just have to look away.

Yesterday, another doorway, such a comfort

We walked into town and ate sushi train. We bought a case for the new iphoneX, because phones always need cases. Myer only got them in today, so they said.

Buddy's Swollen Face

When we woke up this morning, Buddy came in with a swollen face, he looked like a boxer who had done 12 rounds. We both looked at each other and then looked back at Bud. 

"What the hell?" 

So it was off to the dog hospital first thing to have him looked at. It was not a good way to start the weekend.

It is most likely that he was stung by a bee. The upside is that it most likely means that he is not allergic to bee stings, as dogs can be, otherwise, I am assuming, there was a good chance we  could have woken up to a dead Buddy. So, at least there is that.

He had some injections, antihistamines and a steroid shot, and he is fine now.

iPhone X

Sam and I decided a couple of days ago to get up and do the phone queue thing for the iPhone X. Sam suggested it, kind of half joking, and I think he was somewhat surprised when I said I go and wait in line.

"But you'll never queue for anything," he said.

"I won't queue an hour for the Russell Street Ramen shop, when there are many good Ramen shops in the city. I won't queue like that. people queue for dumplings and I automatically thing loser.

But, a one off, for a new phone, a few hours, why not. The fact that I am getting Sam's iPhone 7 with double the capacity of my now short of capacity iPhone 5 has little to do with it. No, it doesn't.

The first tram was 5.15am, but that was too late. So, we got up at 4.15am, drank coffee, and walked into the CBD. Of course, it rained as we headed into town. Of course, it did.

"Really? Rain? That wasn't meant to be a part of the deal." I kind of wondered how much later the tram would have made us.

We both had on black hoodies, so we pulled the hoods up over our heads and water drops sprinkled down upon us. Did we look like a couple of crims passing through the shadows of the morning? There was one girl dancing on the footpath, completely out of it, looking at a bin as if it were her dance partner. “I guess Thursday night out is still a thing,” I said. Sam shrugged. There were a few other guys tripping along as thought they’d had too much to drink, appearing like lost souls in the murkiness of the night turning to day.

The homeless people seemed to be increasing, they seem to be in every second doorway. It is a very sad indictment on a wealthy city like Melbourne. The most liveable city in the world, I wondered if the homeless would agree?

“If you were homeless, wouldn’t you make your way to Brisbane where, at least, it is warmer to live out in the open.”

“Do you really think homeless people have those choices?”

“I think, I’d be able to manage that…”

“If you had no money?” said Sam. “Really?”

“I’m guessing it would be a one way trip,” I said. “Surely, I’d always be able to afford a one way trip to Brisbane?” I wondered?

It was cold and wet in Melbourne, being out in it would be miserable. Then I wondered which part of homelessness wouldn’t be miserable?

I tell you what, though, 5am is the time to go to work. No traffic, no people, none of the really annoying things of the usual morning traffic. Yes, I know, that is the people.

We'd were in the city last night to eat dinner and check out what was what with queuing for a phone? The Myer staff told us they had 200 units and that people needed to be lining up, physically present, chairs with bags and notes on them weren't good enough. People were already lining up last night.

It was still dark when we got there, at 5am, this morning, and the line was around a different way to last night and there were many seats, some with people actually sitting in them. We were informed by a couple of people who were assuming captainship of the whole operation, it would seem, that there was now a list and we had to put our name on it and the list would be checked by Myer staff at 6am and if your name wasn't on the list, you were out, or if you weren’t there, your name would be removed from the list.

That seemed very different to what we'd been told last night, but we reluctantly complied. We were 57 and 58.

Who put you guys in charge, we thought?

There were lots of people, playing supervisor, with lots of people giving their opinions. There were nice guys in the queue who were chatty and friendly. My iPhone 5 was probably the oldest phone in the queue. It was the first time I have queued.

“There, you get to hang with the nerd boys,” said Sam. “How was it?”

Eventually, the lovely Myer Apple Lady turned up and, after that, it all ran pretty smoothly.

In due course, we were given numbers, we were 49 and 50 respectively. And when we checked there were 60 units of the phone we wanted, so we were going to get what we wanted. Yay us! Yay Myer!

The Myer staff were lovely, they gave us coffee. Anybody who gives me coffee is alright in my book. The whole process was relatively pleasant.

So, 4 1/2 hours from getting out of bed, to walking up Bourke Street with our new phones, we bought one for a buddy, I didn't think that was so bad.

Sam went to work. I've been home half an hour.

The Body Count Is Growing

Seems to me that I am ditching friends like I peel off soiled jocks and discard them, there now seems to be a trail of them across the bedroom floor of my life. I really do have the ability to turn my back and walk away without ever glancing back, I know that about myself.

Mark seems to be the latest. I think that makes all my ex's estranged now. He hasn't contacted me since we had our falling out, a week ago. Nothing. No messages. No emails. No phone calls. I'm guessing this is serious then. I did send him a terrible message telling him exactly what I thought about the situation, which I now feel was regrettable. I so wanted to send him another message telling him how sorry I was for the previous message, but as you can tell from the last sentence, there has been too many messages and I decided that it was time just to keep silent, so I have. (My judgement isn’t always sound, of course)

I still haven't told Sam. I haven't told anybody.

I'm no longer friends with any of my ex's where I used to be friends with all of them. Like ducks in a shooting gallery, bang, bang, bang. I'm wondering what is going wrong? We've been friends for so long and then bam, bam, bam, not friends any more. I can tell it is serious with Mark this time, I can feel it.

My sister and brother last year. They pissed me off with the winding up of all my mother's stuff. They just didn't seem to care about anybody but themselves. Get rid of everything, like it was a poisonous rag needing to be disposed of quickly.

Perry. You know, and I shouldn't say this, (I’m not exactly sure why I shouldn’t say anything on my blog, but there you go) but Perry was always just too much of a country hick for me. We persisted for 20 years, yep, 20 years, but really his simplistic look-at-me antics really are just nauseating, if I am truthful. His goofy attitude is why so many people like him, but, for the most part, it just made me groan.

Sebastian, well, maybe not Sebastian, not yet, he hangs on to our friendship by a thread. We'll have to see how that one pans out, when Shane gets back from OS. I do feel sorry for Sebastian really, but not sorry enough to call him up and say let’s do coffee. He fell out with David (another friend I've still got) when David fell out with Tully, which meant David fell out with Shane, because Sebastian can't keep his mouth shut and he reported back to Shane and Tully what David had been saying, or something like that. I never really did follow it in the first place, but I digress. Sebastian has lived with James Wang ever since I have known them, 25 years, and Sebastian and James were a part of our group when we were younger and drug taking party queens, 20 years ago, back in the days when it was all more clandestine, and way more fun than it is now, I can only assume, as I don't do it now. Well, James was one of the ones who didn't make it out of that period unscathed. There were a couple, James, my ex Anthony and Fergus who died. (almost an ex, Robert Gamble, although he is still around, but damaged. Sexy Robert Gordon… and beautiful Anthony Orrontello, both dead) Collateral damage to lives lived large. Well, anyway, James has been in mental decline ever since, for years and Sebastian has really looked after him for all this time. Well, apparently, Sebastian has finally had enough and wants out. Poor Sebastian.

Dante. Except Dante isn't going to be around for much loner, did I tell you, he got busted for dealing ice? And with the current mood, the alleged ice epidemic, that ain't gonna go well for him, I am thinking. Dante lost his business, and pretty much everything else, in the GFC. And while he had a job for a short time after that, more recently, he has not been able to get a job. Long term unemployment led to dealing, you know, as it does. (I don't really mean that, but that is what has happened for Dante.) We had a misunderstanding, more recently, so I headed over there on my bike to sort it out, one sunny morning. The last time I saw him, actually. Perry came to get a deal and Dante pulled out this box from a lower section of his coffee table, which had rocks of, I guess it is called, crystal. I was a bit surprised at the time, I remember thinking, I'm guessing that is an awful lot. I don't know, I don't know what a lot of that stuff is, I've only ever seen it like salt in a small plastic bag. So, if he had that much when the pigs kicked in his door, I'm guessing he'd better be getting a really good lawyer. (I’m guessing Perry’s friend Pug, the lawyer in Sydney, who defends all the gay boys who get caught has been wheeled into action)

Adrianna told me (there's a friend I still have) about Dante, she'd had lunch with Sebastian who told her in the strictest confidence, and she told me and Sam. "Don't tell anybody, will you?" said Adrianna.

That is one thing I have always been good with, if you tell me not to tell anybody, my mouth is like the Bank of England (I walked passed it earlier this year, it is still like a fort) I won't tell a soul.

Which is quite a shame, as it is the goss of the year and I can’t tell David. Oh well. (David is in Italy with Italian Sebastian) Earlier this year I told David, straight-faced. “Dante is dead. Drug overdose.” And David was so shocked. Then I said, “Ha ha, kidding, you should have seen the look on your face.” And we both laughed heartily. And now I have the real goss and I can’t say anything. Grrr! 

I so wish Tom was here, he’d have a lot to say about Dante. He’d call Dante up without any hesitation. “Sister, what’s going on with you?” he’d say. I so miss Tom. (I tear up when I think about him)

And then there is Josh and Manny and Jude and shit! So many ex-friends. There are some I have probably forgotten too. (You must know that you never really counted as a friend, if I forget you when I am compiling a list of friends I have lost?)

Me and Sam and Buddy and a bag of pot. Pffffff, what else do I need? Except, Sam won't let me have the bag of pot.

"You are too boring for words when you are stoned," says Sam. “I know you think you are delightful, but in reality, you are incoherent.”

Now, if I could just make him a pot-head, he'd be the perfect boyfriend, but alas, he won't be turned. Damn him!

So, the thing is, in a long-winded round about way, I'm good on my own. I am good with my own company. As fat Rod Scampton said about me in high school, "Christian is a loner." I was a little shocked as a 17 year old to hear that, but ever since I have taken it as a bitter way of saying that I am very happy with my own company and so therefore don't specifically need the person who uttered such words in my life. Rod and I are no longer friends, but that isn't a recent thing. And, I am guessing, that this is the reason I can walk away from friendships. My friendships tend to be long term, but that seems to be no guarantee that they will survive “forever” as they say. I read somewhere recently that if you are friends with somebody for over 7 years that friendship will last a life time. Leah, Perry, Dante, and now Mark, all friendships that have lasted many, many years passed 7 that seem to be failing now. (Good thing he has lots of friends to lose, good thing he made lots of friends in his social butterfly twenties, he says nervously)

And it is probably me, you know. My levels of empathy are not really high. I don't have sympathy for the usual things for which people seem to have sympathy. I have sometimes wondered if I could get myself tested. I read psychological profiles of psychopaths and sociopaths with trepidation, I tell you. I have never really matched up with any, but I do wonder sometimes which... path I might be. But then again, that is also why people love me in the first place, because I come from a different place, so people tell me. (I choose to take that as a compliment.) You know how your best quality is also often your worst quality. Yep, bingo!

Facebook

I think Facebook is probably a huge time waster. Well, a distraction. An efficient passer of hours, days when you add them up. It is the electronic equivalent of a stocking filler in the great celebration of living. We're glued to it when we should be doing other things. It has just really occurred to me that I have been distracted by it. It doesn't really do anything for me. It connects me to friends, who I should probably be calling, or going and meeting face to face anyway.

I have been on Facebook, every morning, every day, looking for likes, I guess. And that, if it is anything at all, is kind of sad.

I just suddenly found myself mindlessly looking at my feed, at memes, or funny dog videos, or barn find cars on the other side of the world, or some petition, ban Adani, ban the right wing bigot, ban people who say unpleasant things, or looking at some news about America, guns and violence, or racial unrest, or bigotry, or old priests filling with young boys, or, or, and, and, in other words nothing that really directly affects my life, just distractions. Time wasters. I'd be better off jerking off, at least that is meant to be healthy for me. 

I just had a what-am-I-doing moment? You know those small moments of clarity where suddenly you can feel every cell in your body and you can see the world outside in full detail, and you can hear the noises of everything beyond your walls and you think what am I, actually, doing in all of this, right now, here, at this very moment?

I should be writing something, even if it is bad, better than continually hitting the like button on stuff.

What positive things is Facebook contributing to my life? When I really give it some thought, the answer is, very few. Facebook is not really contributing to my life in any meaningful way. 

So, I am going to start concentrating on my blog again. That is what I am going to do. More writing. More poetry. I've got poetry for the whole year that I haven't published, I must get on to doing that.