So devout catholic Mel Gibson doesn't believe in abortion or contraception or homosexuality, but some how the whole thou shall not commit adultery seems to have passed him by.
Why do we have to listen to these people bang on endlessly about their religious beliefs - Mel is quite vocal about his - when they don't even live by those beliefs themselves?
Off to the country. Out along the freeway, in the slipstream of everybody else getting the hell out of the city, fast, furious, door handles in alignment, all lanes are full as the freeway sweeps around to the airport turn off. A mass of red tail lights in front of me, beside me, behind me. Gone!
I'm not the only driver now who ignores the ridiculous new 80 kph speed limit, there is a line of us, bumper to bumper, accelerating up the Keilor Park Hill. Two of them are P platers. I shake my head. At least I'll only be fined.
My sunroof starts to filter in the crisp, clean air, so I know I have left the city confines behind. I wince as I remember I'd said to my ex-bf Lauri, I'd meet him at Sircuit. Oops. Too late now. Besides, that's what ex-bf's are for, tormenting. Nothing can spoil our relationship now, I think. The two of us have already made a good fist of that.
The fog comes down, somewhere near Gisbourne. My driving lights are good, European and made for such things, so I can accelerate up the hills, through into the clear, night air, like a plane breaking above the clouds. It’s like flying in the crisp, fresh air high above the cotton wool.
The hills look like sleeping dragons in the dark.
The freeway stretches out in front of me, as the wind whistles on the windscreen. Duffy sings the 60's almost as well as Amy. I'll soon be there.
It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining down in that crystal clear way that makes the whole world sparkle and seem full of clear, fresh air that hazes, just a little, above the concrete covered ground. Bright. Sharp, with a kind of gentle edge. The blue sky, the glowing orb of a sun; the autumn elves are dancing their last waltz in the final translucence of summer, as it slips completely from sight for another hibernation of winter.
Ben stopped his car at the tram terminus in the line of traffic waiting for the, three in a row, trams to dock in the terminus, or to continue their journeys to the city. Lines clicked this way and that. Staff changed shifts, one on, one off. Trams sat unmanned in the interim, the new roster weren’t, seemingly, as keen to start their shifts as the old roster were to be finishing theirs.
A mess of cars and a conglomeration of transport vehicles massed together in the mean time forming a knot outside the tram terminus.
People are stupid, Ben thought. They stop and wait like begging dogs, for a command from the tramways workers. It’s ignorance, really. Or fear, maybe. People don’t, quite, know what to do when confronted with a stationary tram. They let the fear of them getting it wrong paralyse any rational thought on the matter. Common sense should prevail. A stationary tram with passengers, as they say, alighting, getting off, should make sense. Stop. Nobody wants to have a body, with a shocked look, disappear under the front of their car, now do they? But, a stationary, sitting tram with no passengers at all… proceed with caution… how hard can it be?
Ben didn’t really care, though, as the warm sun was shining in through his driver’s window and he was in no hurry, really, to get any where. But stupidity annoyed him no matter what his schedule was. A tram heading the other way pulled up at the tram stop on the other side of the road. The new trams have big, picture windows, which frame the occupants well, like huge display cases, or exhibits at the zoo.
Josh’s eyes ran along the tram-car windows lazily.
Cute guy with vacant look. Girl with red frizzy hair pulled into a bun on the top of her head, also with a vacant look. She had to be smart or there was no god. Josh laughed to himself. Another cute guy, vacant look… no, refocused. Attention gained. Eyes connected with Bens. Smile. Ben couldn’t help but smile too. The stranger’s mouth pulled up into a grin at the same time Ben’s mouth did. Ben felt a small thrill surge down his spine.
They both looked away, momentarily. Is it because nobody wants to be caught returning a smile when it turns out that the original smile wasn’t, in fact, intended for them? “Oh hello,” they say as the embrace the person behind you. Is it because we are all essentially shy, well, upon first meeting. Ben thought it was fear, the worst thing that any of us can be guilty of was making a fool of ourselves. Maybe?
Ben looked back, to see the stranger staring back at him. The stranger smiled again, Ben did too. Their eyes danced with the delight of each other’s gaze. Stupid, self conscious smiles, like making faces in a mirror, or at young children. Kind of. Not really. Nice, what life’s all about. However, they were, by then, both looking at each other, any pretence of not doing so abandoned.
They were quickly making unashamed eyes at each other. Flirting. The attraction was obvious. The interest was keen. Palpable, even through thick picture window glass, some metres apart. Love on the tracks, Ben thought, which made him laugh, which made the stranger laugh, too. Like a reflection.
Beautiful, Ben thought. He’s beautiful.
Ben’s line of traffic moved forward a car length. Ben looked back, to see the stranger looking backwards towards him. Ben raised his hand, instinctively, and waved good bye, with a half wave, like the Queen of England might do. But, in Ben’s case, it was a sad waved, yes it was, Ben had to admit it. A good bye wave, a nice to know you, for the brief moment we knew each other, wave. Even a I-would-have-liked-to-have-known-you-a-little-better wave. So long, have a nice life, kind of wave.
Stupid really. Some people say that the people whose gaze you capture are the people with who you have unfinished business from a past life, and for the length of time you are connected that is the length of unfinished business that the two of you had. If it was only brief eye contact on the street, you know, just in passing, that was probably the finish of that relationship for all eternity.
Ben wasn’t sure if he believed that, but it always came to mind when there were people with whom he would have liked to have a longer relationship…no matter how tenuous the relationship was to start with.
Ben’s line of traffic moved forward again. Suddenly, he wasn’t thinking anyone was so stupid. He looked nonchalantly in his rear vision mirror, wistfully back at the notion of love, the possibility of, travelling away from him.
There standing in the middle of the brightly lit road was the stranger, jacket in one hand, bag in the other, pushing forward with his chest, moving through the almost stationary line of traffic towards Ben.
He was surprised.
The traffic in front of him cleared, lurched forward and the car in front was gone, going, accelerating away. It was Ben’s turn to do the same. He looked ahead. Looked behind. Looked ahead and then behind again. There was suddenly nobody in front of him, nobody stopping him, nobody impeding his get away.
Ben hesitated. He could feel his pulse quicken with surprise and, as Frankenfurter would have said, anticipation. No, couldn’t be. He shook his head. Was he afraid of making a fool of himself? The other guy had only just realised at the last minute that he was at his stop and got off. It was that simple. So, why was the stranger walking up the centre of the road towards Ben?
Couldn’t be. No.
Could be? Why else?
Ben wanted the stranger to wave his hand, make a gesture to allay Ben’s disbelief. Something? Like, now running up the centre of the road wasn’t enough of a gesture.
The car behind tooted. Ben refocused on the driver behind, who was gently swishing forward with her fingers over her steering wheel for Ben to move. He put the car into gear and revved the engine. Then he pushed his indicator lever down and pulled to the left. The woman behind gave Ben the “look” with the rotating head swivel as she drove past.
Ben tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, as the stranger approached his driver’s door.
“Hi” said the stranger. He stepped away from the driver’s door, nervously.
“Hi,” said Ben.
“You’ve got a nice smile,” said the stranger.
“Thanks,” said Ben. “So have you.”
“My names Will.” He smiled self-consciously, like there was a lot riding on it. Gone was the beautiful, relaxed smile through the glass.
“I’m Ben.”
“Like the flower pot men.” Will smiled.
Ben must have looked confused.
“Bill and Ben,” said Will almost as an exclamation.
Ben couldn’t help but laugh. “So…” Will was adorable. “Do you often get off trams for strange men?”
“No, never,” said Will. “Well, maybe not never.” He smiled that beautiful smile again, raising his hands up and down as if intimating a balancing act. “Never a tram and a car, though, in broad day light, in the street.” He shrugged. “But, I thought fuck it. Why not. You got to take chances in life and I never take enough of those. None of us do.”
“None of us?”
“I don’t,” said Will. “Not nearly often enough.” He stepped forward and touched the side of Bens’ face with his open hand, through the car window. He rubbed Ben’s cheek, stroked Ben’s hair. He stepped back. “You know, like that.”
The two men smiled at each other.
“You can do that again,” said Ben.
“Ha, ha.”
“Where are you heading?” asked Ben.
“I guess…” Cheeky smile. “Where you are.”
“What if I’m going to a wedding… or a funeral?”
“I’m good at weddings and I have a hanky.” Will pulled an actual cloth handkerchief from his pocket. “Are you?”
“Well, no.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know,” said Ben. “Do any of us know?”
“Why do you think I’m standing here?”
“Do you want to come?”
“To… I don’t know?”
“Sure,” said Ben. “I here it’s lovely this time of year.”
“Count me in,” said Will. “Do you think it will lead any where?”
“Get in,” said Ben. “I don’t know, but if you never take a chance you’ll never know, hey?”
Will walked around the front of the car, holding Ben’s gaze as he did. He opened the passenger side door. “Do you often pick up strange boys in the street?”
“No,” said Ben. “This is the first time.
Will closed the door and smiled at Ben. “That’s gotta mean something.”
Ben reached out and touched the side of Will’s face with his open hand, rubbed Will’s cheek, stroked Will’s hair.
Will beamed.
“Gotta take a chance,” said Ben.
“That’s what they say.”
Mum's nurse told her that I was a wonderful son for the way I was looking after her.
It's amazing how your opinion of someone can just change like that. Ha, ha. God I'm cheap, completely turned around with a little praise.
Of course, the fun game of antagonising the nurse may have to stop now. Oh, not that I was really antagonising her ever, I just didn't want her to be telling me what to do all the time. She is just supposed to be calling in to supervise my mothers pill taking. Five minutes, in an out. The habit she had of leaving messages on my answering machine with the latest instructions for me seems to have stopped.
And she thinks I'm wonderful. Well, every second day I'm over there. Fuck, I'm not easily won over, hey?
I guess I've said this before, to watch my university educated, world travelled mother not being able to think of the words to construct a sentence, it's too much, it breaks my heart. There is nothing wonderful about what I am doing, she is my mother.
It's amazing for two boys who are "allegedly" lactose intolerant, how much of my milk was drunk while I was away in the country. Not that I care - I know it sounds like I do, but I don't really - drink what you like, I say. But they make such a point of it. Sad face. "Oh no, I can't drink that." Rub tummy. Big eyes. Actually, David is on some blood type diet which disallows milk for his blood type. For me too, we're the same blood type.
Can you be lactose intolerant only when you have to buy the milk?
Wheat, Glutton, seeds, pollen, nuts and now, I hear, fruit and vegetables... if you haven't got an allergy you are simply not a child of the 21st Century.
Whenever I hear of someone with a nut allergy, I just want to slip a peanut in their food. Their tongues swell up and turn blue, fill their mouths, like some demented Chow dog. It would be fascinating to watch. Ha, ha.
We all seem to be intolerant to something? More and more intolerant every day.
You know, I like the metaphor, it's for life. We're all becoming generally more and more intolerant. It's true. The clever, modern, super slick, smarty pants society is making us all sick - inside and out.
Is this the planet retaliating for us not looking after it, do you think?
You know, it would only be a millennium and the planet would wipe any trace of us from it's surface, that's how clever we really are.
Arrived from Bolago to mums about 10.30. The bitch nurse was still there, so I drove right on passed. Then I waited down the road, like a child, spying from behind another parked car, until she left. I was frightened about getting told off about the potential lack of the food in the house, as we didn't go shopping Friday, mum had her lunch, Saturday, as my sister was coming, and then yesterday I stayed at Bolago, instead of taking her shopping.
I’d had a dream about the nurse chastising me, as I felt guilty about not seeing her Monday.
Pathetic, I know. I kept thinking what Jill would have said as I waited for the little white car to leave.
You should embrace my nurse, says Jill. You should be thankful that someone is taking an interest in your mother.
Oh, if it hadn't been for the time gap in the shopping and the possible lack of food in the cupboards, I would have walked straight in there. I want to meet her, we haven’t met yet and talk to her, otherwise it will become this thing, way bigger than it actually is.
Guilt over nothing too, I thought afterwards. Lottie can go to the supermarket and get food for herself, if she wants.
I see a lot of some where around forty, often peroxide blonde women driving 4WDs. Are these chicks so scared of life, they need tanks to drive around in to keep them safe?
It's interesting that I heard someone making the point recently that the 4WD is the midlife crisis car for women, like the red sports car is for men. It represents safety and it plays into all the fear factors that society portrays. Sensationalist headlines to sell newspapers. "War on whatever is current," govt line to convince society that politicians are, actually, doing something. Keep them fearful so manufacturing can sell more products, which of course, girls fall for more than boys. The fear thing.
The 4WD also represents everything their husbands and marriages are not; big, strong, faithful, enjoyable, dependable, built to last.
What is that? The equivalent of? You know man, sports car. A small cunt? No, small tits, I guess.
Since my writing has come to a halt, like the free lunch, or the water flow in the Murray, I've found I've been experiencing a new emotion. I've been wandering the house, feeling unsettled, fiddling with pens, trying to read, walking, heading out into the garden, heading back in, standing, staring, sweeping, cleaning, stopping, looking. Not even the contemplation of the destruction of the earth has distracted me. My, my, my, I thought yesterday, is this boredom? OMG! (shake head in disbelief) Well, if it is, I don't like it, let me tell you.
Is this what the dumbos talk about?
I've had such thoughts of, what am I going to do today? Oh, it's only 5pm - no daylight savings plays havoc with perception. The days going slow. I've got nothing to do? But the real kicker was the last couple of days, I've been thinking about what it would be like to go back to work. Ah!
Where do I sign up for therapy?
I think I have to take up smoking again. No, not cigarettes, but, as we all know, that's what it leads to. Kill me? At this point, all I can say is, good!
Where before - read with a little mary-jane - I could take one word and lovingly turn it into a story for the afternoon, even if it turned out to be ordinary. It didn't really matter, that's what re-wrting is for. Now, the well is dry. I've got nothing. Zip. I don't like this at all.
Grumble, grumble, grumble! He stomps off to the kitchen looking for food.
I got my hair cut. Finally. I was going for that 60’s look, all I needed was flares and a fur-lined jacket. Maybe some beads and round glasses. It's funny how when you have time on your hands, you don't always do the things you need to do. I guess, it's the ability to endlessly put things off. Oh, there is always tomorrow.
The old hairdresser went back to Iran. Shame, as he was cute. Ah, them middle eastern boys.
The new hairdresser and I seem to have trouble understanding what length I want my hair. Short, apparently, has a myriad of connotations. To avoid a long and in depth discussion on the subject, as we have had with the last two haircuts, I said to him.
“I think a number 2 on the sides and a number 3 on the top.”
“Last time, I think, I cut with scissors,” he said. “Is this a change that you now vant?”
“Oh, I don’t mind, scissors, clippers.” I said, casually. Smile. “I just used those measures as a guide for the length.”
He smiled nervously. I should have known then. He took the clippers in his hand and ran them right across the middle of my head, from my fringe to the back, as though he was scalping me. I thought to tap my hand on my pursed lips, wondering if he’d get the charade. I could suddenly see my shiny scalp.
It looked like a number 1 to me. It looks like a number 1 all over. Ah well, hair will grow, I thought, as I tried not to shake my head. Maybe, I can wear army camouflage for a while, it will make a sexy change.
How hard can it be? I ask you?
I'll know next time to say, “Number 2 sides, number 3 top, with scissors, please.” Big smile. Who would have thought it would be so hard?
I guess, there are many different versions of short, I should be fair to him, like, I guess, there are many different versions of, let's say, white. Hey? Or would that be many diferent versions of beige, just look around at the general public. You know, cast your eye around on a tram. Oh, public transport, suddenly I miss it, the freak show on the 86. I must go for a tram ride. Get up early and experience it at is cream, early morning rush hour.
Apparently, X went out into the state forest and hanged himself from a tree. It's a boy's method, hey? He was found two days later. Imagine, the body just hanging there still and alone, turning blue, going stiff. A silent sentinel to trouble gone, or breath extinguished.
Day, night, day, night, his neck twists on the rope, as his skin drains of colour, as his eyes stare unblinking.
If a body hangs quietly in the forest and nobody sees it, does it really hang at all?
But, of course, someone did see it. Can you imagine being that person? I can't, I hope I never can.
Shane came home last night and we sat up until 3am drinking 2 bottles of red wine and smoking pot.
Back to smoking pot, Shane's first day back. Not a good sign.
Mum has gone to get her hair done. I’m waiting for her to call saying she’s finished, so I can go pick her up. Then we are off to buy “the lockable box” to keep the bitch nurse happy. We’ll get mum some socks, as the nurse wants them for her too. Apparently, mum doesn't own a pair of socks. Who’d have thought. Then we’ll go buy the ingredients for the bumble bees, yet a fucking again, thank you Lucy and we’ll make a new batch, for mum’s lunch on Friday.
I’m wondering if mum has called the nurse and told her she will be out this morning? I don’t really care, it’s the nurse’s problem. I don’t know why the nurse has pissed me off quite so much. And I know I’m being unreasonable, childish even, taking out my, what is sure to be, pent up anger at mum being sick on the nurse. Actually, quite possibly she is copping all my anger at feeling a bit like a failure, right at the moment, not being able to write – you know, this is what I wanted to do, thought I wanted to do and nothing’s happening.
I know, I’m feeling bored with my life, at the nothingness. David says I have to give myself a chance to get over the addictions I've quit. He says that may take a while longer, you know, to feel normal again. Maybe the nurse is copping all of my frustrations. Oh well, this morning I have decided antagonising the nurse is a great game to play.
She left a message saying she wants me to call her.
Not a chance sister, is all I can think.
I’m feeling very unsettled today. Nervous. Anxious. Out of sorts. I wish I felt well again. I seem to have felt like this ever since I quit cigarettes and pot. Maybe David is right. David says it takes time. I hope it’s soon.
Another buddy of mine who has also quit a daily pot habit says the doctor told her that it will take at least 3 months to get over it.
I also realise I have tinnitus.
I waited for an hour for mum, on the footpath at our meeting spot, after her hairdresser called at 2.15 to say she’d be there in an hour. The traffic was crap in the city, banked up and I certainly wanted to escape before peak hour. If I knew she was going to be so long, I could have gone and got all of the stuff I needed to get, then I could have picked her up, instead of waiting all day for her call. Why I gave her my home number and not my mobile, less to remember, she has particular trouble with numbers. But, she said at 8.30am when I spoke to her, that she’d only be a few hours, certainly ready by midday.
Here it was 4.15, I’d been waiting since 3.15.
I was leaving, had enough, heading to my car, not sure if I had got the information wrong, or if she’d left without me, if she was still in there. I was thinking, if she calls when I’m home she can just get on the tram. I looked back as I was heading to the car, one last time and there she was.
I stopped and watched her for a time, wondering if I’d leave without her. She looked old. Of course, I wouldn't, but I was pissed off and, I thought, it helped me cool down a little. Then I crossed the road and got her. I couldn't hide my anger, she copped it. Pissed off! We drove home in silence.
I threaten to leave her in Swanston Street, saying I was too pissed off.
Well, get yourself out of the bad mood, was her reply.
I harrumph at her.
The next thing, a little hand comes across the car full of cashews. “For you,” she says.
I don’t want any, I grumble, like a child. Her child, I guess.
We've got to go home and make the bumble bees, she says. You know that was such a ridiculous thing for her to say, after the harping she has done about them, only to let Lucy attempt to make them only to muck them up, so I had to repeat the whole fucking process. I nearly screamed.
We drop into the chemist in Burke Road to see if they have a locked box. They didn't. The say there is a Bunnings in Burwood Road. Lottie and I head over there.
“Why do we need this locked box?” Lottie asks.
So the nurse gets your pills from the chemist and then they are no longer delivered in a Webster pack. So the R. D. Nurses can administer your pills themselves. They need the box to lock all of your pills away from you, so you don’t over dose on them.
“What?” says Lottie. She makes those exasperated eyes, as if the world is mad. It’s vintage Lottie. “Ridiculous. For goodness sake. You don’t have to do everything the nurse tells you, you know.”
I laugh. Where do you think I get it from.
We get a box and go home.
Lottie is having a lunch Friday. It has consumed all of her thinking, to the point of distraction, for the last month. She has nearly driven me mad with the constant updates. You see, where once she would put on a spread, now it is up to me to do all the cooking, so the chatter about it has been constant and never ending.
The effort to find a Bumble Bee recipe has nearly bought me to insanity. You see, in the past Lottie had such things in her head and she’d just whip them up without a thought. But now the memory is failing, her several, read every time I have seen her in the last month, attempts to write a recipe down has amounted in 30 variations on the ingredients. Finally, a friend of hers sat down with all the variations and pulled one recipe together.
So, finally, I went and bought the ingredients, only to have Lottie give them to my niece to make, who promptly fucked it up.
So, after all the palaver, some how I have to go to the super market, yet again, to get the ingredients for the bumble bees.
“Well, you are not having the trifle then.”
“Oh yes,” says Lottie, looking at me with pleading cow eyes. “I need the trifle. I have to provide the desert.”
“What are the bumble bees for then?” I could hear my tone rising up an octave.
“Oh, they are just to have with a cup of tea, afterwards.”
“What!” Count to ten, Christian. Count to ten.
“Oh no, I need the trifle.”
“Okay!” I say. “Alright. If I can get pre-prepared jelly.” I knew I could get pre-prepared custard. The sherry was in the cupboard. This will be the most instant trifle you have ever seen.
“I’ll come,” says Lottie. “You’ll need me to sign for the ticket.” (she means credit card)
“No, give me your keycard, I’ll be quicker without you.”
I dash to the supermarket, get all the ingredients, whizz home.
“Here, you stand here,” I say to Lottie. I stand her next to me at the kitchen bench. “Chop the dates, the cashews and the raisins, here's the sultanas, the coconut and the condensed milk. I’ll construct the trifle.”
“I can use scissors for the dates, can’t I?”
“I guess,” I say.
At which point she pulls out the all-purpose, cut every thing scissors.
“You have cooking scissors, don’t you?”
“What?” says Lottie. She holds up the scissors, as if I’d asked to inspect them.
I open and close my mouth. Oh, who cares, I think.
I make the trifle, it’s huge. Lottie declares it a triumph with a clap of her hands. I whizz it into the fridge, disappointed the black current jelly and the strawberry jelly are the same shade of brown, so the colour variation wont be obvious. Lottie chops all the ingredients for the bumble bees. I mix them together. It bares no resemblance to the failed mixture Lucy made. I cook them in two lots. They come out of the oven looking like Lottie's snacks of old. I look at them sitting oblivious on the oven tray. It's been a journey, I think.
Lottie says she is sorry for upsetting me many times.
I say I’m sorry too. I give her a big hug. My father used to hug her all the time, I guess she must miss it. I've got to be nicer to her. I can’t get pissed off with her.
We eat pies.
I love my mum.
I leave around 7pm.
