Monday Monday

I woke up at 10.45, or thereabouts. It was nice and warm in my bed. I thought that Sam had added my Amish Quilt (my favourite and my dearest article of bedding that my mum made me, pretty much, as the last thing she did before her brain disintegrated) to the down doona and the wool doona we now have on the bed. I’m sure our weather is changing, has changed, global warming is real, as I have never needed such layers on my bed at night to feel warm.

I was toasty. I worried that my pumpkin had been cold in the night, having had to add the Amish Quilt. I don’t feel the cold, you see, and he isn’t so demanding on such things like that, until he is shaking, if you know what I mean.

Sam would point out to me later, when I asked him if he’d been cold, that the Amish Quilt was already on the bed and he didn’t add it to the bedclothes.

Oh yes, I remember, the Amish Quilt was on the bed Saturday night, when I hid the laptop under the pillows and pulled the doonas up around the pillows to hide my hiding spot, before we left for the beach.

I flattened out the large purple triangle and the smaller crimson rectangles and the green squares to make the pattern straight, as the quilt covered the bed. I remembered, as I lay in bed this morning.

I didn’t have to get out of bed this morning, so I didn’t. I got up and had a piss, but I raced back to bed straight away and dived back under the covers. Whoosh. Sloop. Pfffffff. Fttttttttt.

I poofed up the pillows (well, what else would you expect me to do?) and got the MacAir from my desk and sat up in bed and pissed around on line. I had to keep myself, pretty much, snuggled under the bedclothes, as it is still very cold in the mornings. I read the news. I don’t think I will bother reading the news if I have to pay for it online. I think when they start to charge for it online I will simply stop reading it, because it isn’t the news, lets face it. It is a collection of the worst things that have happened in the world that will sell the news services product and, hopefully, win the ratings. It is the world psyco drama, real or imagined, or manufactured, served up in such a way that will win whatever time slot it is presented in. If it was the news, it would be a well balanced representation of what had been happening in the world, which the “news” no longer is. The news should never have been included in the ratings war, because when it was it ceased being the news and started to be entertainment.

I had to cancel the wood delivery for Sunday, to head down to the beach. We are nearly out, and it is rapidly developing into an emergency situation. It certainly is for those among us who are from NSW. (it doesn’t take them long to convert to whingey NSW bastards, let me tell you) I was supposed to order it first thing this morning. Oh well. Bad me. Fuck it! I don’t have to work until Thursday. And I don’t feel the cold.

I didn’t have to get out of bed, even if Mark was visiting. I guess, it would have been good hosting, even if we have been friends too long for that. He does his own thing as it pleases him, which in turn means that I can do mine, of course. Sometimes, I wonder if it does work both ways?

It does with Sam.

I think that is what we all feel, however. We all feel that we don’t get to do our own thing, while the other people do. We all feel that? No doubt Mark feels that too. I guess, somehow, the realty is somewhere in the middle. That’s what life is, a compromise. That’s what life always is.

I chose not to feel guilty about staying in bed, so I didn’t feel guilty. It was warm and I was comfortable. I could lie there all day, if I chose.

Eventually, Mark came up and opened the door gingerly.

“It’s late in the morning,” he said. “I thought you were still asleep.”

“No, I am having a lie in.”

“A lie in?”

“Yes.” I kind of felt smug. I had no one to answer to.

“Don’t we have to order wood,” he said. He headed into the bathroom. “Get up, I am lonely.”

I was already getting up, when he said he was lonely. I had got out of bed once I had been spied lying in. It seemed only polite.

I came downstairs. Mark had made coffee. He was watching terrible midday television, as he likes to do. Mind rot television, that’s what I think. He had the lounge room fire roaring, despite the diminishing wood supply.

I put on thick socks, to match my tracksuit pants and thick woollen jumper. They were warm, woolly clothes for a warm, woolly kind of morning. Thick, comfortable layers, for a thick, comfortable day off. Soft, sloppy, thick, comfortable, wrapped up against the cold. I love that feeling, sloppy and layered and soft, it was that kind of day. I called the woodman, who would deliver on Wednesday. Wednesday? I drew in breath. Mark would be cold by Wednesday. I made mashed bananas on toast and more coffee.

Nothing to do, I love that feeling.

 

Enjoying the light show

Light In Winter And Then Waking Up By The Sea

Oh, Jesus, the road works are really too much. They are replacing the tram tracks and the thump thump thump thump thump of the big machine with the pointy thingamy hanging out the front digging up the old tracks woke me up on Friday night. Me. The person who sleeps the sleep of the dead. Me. The person who can sleep through a hurricane. (Okay, it was a bad storm, but you get my point.) Me. Who is woken by nothing on earth. Knock on my door, ring my doorbell, call on the phone, I won't hear once the land of nod has enveloped me.

Oh, sometime in the early morning I woke because I needed a piss, to be truthful, to hear the boom boom boom boom of the before mentioned jack hammer. I tossed and turned for, oh, um, probably 10, or 15, minutes before I dozed off again, but that is long enough, too long enough. Well, it was enough for me to worry about sleep last night. The workers will be in full swing by then. As nothing really disturbs my sleep, something that does is a big deal. They were working right through until Monday morning, I asked one of the chaps in a reflective yellow jacket.

"Monday morning, everything must be back to normal," said the workman.

Oh?

So, when Jane suggested that Sam and I come to Ocean Grove with she and (father) Mark, I thought it was a damn good idea to get away from the now exponentially increased noise of the inner suburbs. One night down, one to go, as they say. The quiet of the country suddenly seemed so appealing.

We all took the youngest boy child of the family to see Despicable Me 2 yesterday afternoon at Melbourne Central, Mark, Sam and me. It was hysterical, we laughed and laughed. I love the way Sam laughs when he really thinks something is funny, it is pure joy. Mark and Jay ate McDonalds, because Jay is like most 9 year olds and he won't eat anything that he hasn't eaten before. Sam and I ate Sushi. Oh, the food court at Melbourne Central, it would be easier to name the food that you can't buy there.

The designers had tried to be stylish, they had given it a really good attempt but, really, it just ended up looking try-hard and a bit flaky, eclectic would be a kind description, but they nearly got it and full marks for trying. The place was full, there were people everywhere. I managed to pick a table next to two beautiful blonde girls who spoke incessantly and loudly in Finish, or Swedish, or one of those languages and they couldn't have been more annoying if they were trying to be annoying. We should have just farted loudly, or picked our noses and flung it, no eaten it, but, of course, we didn't and we just ignored them.

Then, afterwards, we wandered down Swanston Street to meet Jane and to watch the Light in Winter in Federation Square. Ah, the lovely boulevard that is now Swanston Street, it has been beautifully transformed into a lovely promenade, it is so much better without cars. It makes one wonder how much more of the city could be made carless. 

I like Fed Square now, when originally I hated it. But now I think it is charming and quite cool. The light show was interesting, but the music was uninspired and, quite frankly, boring to snores. The singers before hand were dull, the choir was rubbish. There was one terrific female singer who sang with the choir, who was fantastic, but the rest, shake of the head, not so much.

Then we escaped to the beach. Lovely. Buddy staid home, poor Buddy, as he loves the beach. He sat there and watched us all get ready and you could see in his face, that he knew something was going on and that somebody should be putting his harness on him and giving him directions to the car, but they weren't. He kept looking from one to the other of us.

Then it was a night drive down the highway out of the city. I love a good night drive, it is like an escape, it is like an adventure.

We lit the open fire and I fell asleep in front of it with my head on Sam's shoulder.

So, this morning, I woke to the lovely, sunny open spaces of a suburb by the beach. Ah, fresh air, breath it in. Yes, big breath. Ah, the light and the depth of the atmosphere, somehow, it is different in the country, it is different again by the beach. It is lighter and airier, it seems healthier and cleaner.

I could move to the country one day. I think I probably will, one day. Out of the rat race.

 

The old shot tower

We Should Stop Demonising The Commission Flats

I don't really understand all the negativity that surrounds the Atherton Gardens commission flats, no I don't.

I walk through the grounds quite often, with Sam and Buddy and on my own and I think it is quite nice. There are nice wide open spaces and gardens and a bridge to walk across. There are children playing on the ovals, seemingly enjoying themselves. The people I meet, as I pass through, always seem quite nice, like you would meet anywhere else in Fitzroy. Friendly, personable, chatty.

Okay, true, I haven't ever lived there, however, I did head up to Nicholas' cousin, P's, flat on the 19th floor late one night. The lifts seemed quite functional and clean and serviceable.  The corridors and walkways seemed quite well kept and respectable. The lifts didn't smell of urine, the walkways weren't rat infested and there were no signs of crack addicts laying comatose anywhere. It all seemed very normal. P's apartment was large and spacious and, quite frankly, it was nice. It was plain, sure, but perfectly okay other than that. The views from inside were quite spectacular.

I don't really get it? Why are they condemned so harshly? Is it our collective middle class guilt that makes us judge them so harshly? Or fear? That none of us want to end up there, so we criticise them so, making us feel better about ourselves.

Is it because suburb clearing was one of the biggest mistakes a state government has ever made and we as a society have never quite got over it?

Is it political manoeuvring to sell the now expensive land the flats sit on? Because, quite frankly, I can't see a lot of difference between the apartment towers that are now being sold by property developers for the general public all around the city? In fact, if P's spacious flat was anything to go by, I know I'd rather live there than in one of the 400K motel rooms that property developers now offer the public.

If property developers got hold of the Atherton Gardens, they could probably double, triple, quadruple the number of tower blocks on that land and make a fortune in profits. They could conceivably sell the "penthouses" for millions of dollars.

I can't help but believe this is the reason for the constant condemnation of the commission towers, political parties making good for the political donations of their property developer mates. In 21st century political speak, it is far easier to change something like this if you create a problem that needs to be fixed in the first place. 

I also had a friend who was an immigrant to this country who lived in the South Melbourne Commission flats and she always said she lived with million dollar views. She said she always enjoyed her time in those flats?

She enjoyed living in the South Melbourne flats.

P enjoyed living in the Fitzroy apartments.

If they are so bad, why did the government just build more of them, ostensibly exactly the same in Brunswick Street just recently? They look the same to me.

I think we should embrace the flats and decide to like them.

Let's face it, they are no different to the apartment towers that are now being built on every spare block in Melbourne, sanctioned by the governments planning minister.

Still, what do I care about officious bitches in copper drag, it was a beautiful sunny day in Fitzroy and I had the day off.

The Nana State Police In The Parks And Gardens Of Our Fair City

Sam and I were walking through the park when we heard a voice, voices, behind us, saying something, I’m not sure exactly what now. They were indicating to us that they wanted us to stop. There were two of them, two women, for a minute I thought they were the police, by the way they were dressed. They were both holding up badges of some sort, you know, your generic official, law and order type badges.

Then they were asking about the dog and they were saying something about the dog not having a registration tag on him. Then the smaller of the two was asking, all official like, who the owner of the dog was and that she would need to speak to whoever the registered owner of the dog is.

She acknowledged that the dog was on a lead and seemed to congratulate us for using the lead while walking him. But that just seemed to be nonsense, as I always walk Buddy on a lead, there is never a question about it. She seemed to see fit to repeat the acknowledgment, I’m not really sure why. I wonder if it was a gauge to judge whether I was going to be abusive, or not.

“Yes, that is me,” I said.

“Why wasn’t the dog wearing a registration tag?”

“He doesn’t always wear his harness and he can’t wear a harness and a collar at the same time.”

“So is the dog registered?”

Yes.”

“Is the dog microchipped?”

“Yes.”

“Is the dog desexesed?”

“No.”

I wanted to say that I wanted to cry for this country if they saw fit to hassle a dog that is clearly under the control of its owner who is clearly being walked responsibly on a lead. Did they not have anything better to do with their time? However, they seemed to be taking this very seriously… so, I thought it was better just to keep my mouth shut and take whatever it was that this official mad, security ridiculous, nana’centric society wanted to throw at me. Just shut up, just lie back and take it for the good of the country, and take your dressing down and it will soon be over once these uniform wearing, trojans (big empty vessels that carry the official message) of big bother got out whatever it was they felt they needed to get out over the heinous crime of not having a small piece of plastic wrapped around some part of Buddy’s apparel.

“Do you have pooh bags?”

Pooh bags? I rolled my eyes, I couldn’t help it. “Yes.”

I made no attempt to produce them. Surely, that can't be a legal requirement, after all, they are available in most parks for dog owners use.

“Can I see them?”

“Yes.” I reluctantly pulled them from my rear pocket.”

“One, two, three. I always need three pooh bags per walk.” I thought that might prove that I always carry pooh bags with me, which I do, religiously. (I kind of like the association of shit bags with religion) I always pick up his pooh, even though there is a part of me that doesn't really agree with it, - it is biodegradable and surely we can't be that anal and uptight - because that is what is agreed that dog owners must do.

The appearance of the pooh bags seemed to lighten her demeanour, I’m not exactly sure why. (Farts are always funny?) There is no accounting for taste, I guess.

“I will be checking all of your details and I may, or may not, be back in contact with you?”

“Okay.” I mean, what was I to say to that? Lovely. Check what you like.

“Did you know it was a legal requirement for your dog to be wearing a current registration tag,” I think she said at this point, “while walking him in a park.” I think that is what she said, although I am not, exactly, sure now. 

I shrugged, looked confused, made big eyes - tick the appropriate box. Really?

“On this occasion I will be giving you a warning…” yadder, yadder, yadder, blah, blah, blah.

Still, what can I say. I was in the wrong, let's not forget that. I was putting the very fabric of our society at risk by walking my dog fully controlled and fully under my supervision, on a leash, which was noted several times for the record, without a small piece of red plastic attached to his neck where very few people would even be able to see it. People's lives were at risk... um... er...

 

Cool old Falcon parked in Gertrude Street early in the evening

The hot council boy, shame his head dipped behind the sign and that I was too slow to get a good one of him. He had the most beautiful brown eyes and the most handsome face

There Was Ice On The Grass This Morning

It is icy cold again today. 

This morning, at least, I got my lazy arse out of bed and walked Sam into the CBD, well, the edge. I stand on the La Trobe Street side of the Exhibition Gardens and wave him good bye as he heads into the CBD. I keep waving until he disappears out of sight, which is behind the wire fence of the meteorological measuring station. I guess that is what it is called. You know, where the measure the rainfall.

Then Buddy and I turn around and head home again. Buddy sniffs at everything between here and there. I must write to Cesar Millan and tell him that I have a bull dog that never stops bloody sniffing. And he pisses on everything else.

It is freezing again today. I guess, I say that as if I don't like it, the cold, which isn't exactly true. I find the cold quite bracing, invigorating even, and it is good to get out and walk in it, as it certainly moves you along, like a hand behind your back. While I don't, exactly, like it on my fingers and my feet and my nose and my ears, I don't mind it at all generally. I love the breath visibly puffing out of my mouth. I like wrapping myself up in my big woolly coats. I like being able to walk and walk and walk without sweating.

I like the seasons.

I love the winter sun.

In my lounge room where I sit on my computer, I have a window where the winter sun shines through at about 10am and it bathes me, no saturates me, envelops me, in the most gorgeous winter sun, it dazzles my eyes, as it is doing right at this very moment. It is just lovely really. I can tell the time by it this time of year. 

Buddy and I sit back in the sun and close our eyes and snooze. He snores.

Buddy just loves the sun, he follows it around the room. He's a sun baby.

Mark arrives at 3pm, he will hate the cold. Like all of them from NSW, he will complain. Oh well.

 

Buddy had crawled into my lap by this stage to get the full effect of the sun

Too Cold To Care

I did nothing all day, zip, nada, niente. I didn't even get out of bed and walk Sam into the city, I stayed wrapped up in the toasty warm bed clothes. Lovely. Then, I sat on my arse and the day slipped away. 

Wsssssssshhhhhhhhh. Gone.

That's what I told Sam when he got home. Woosh. Gone.

"It was like two hours passed as if it had been one. Just like that. I don't know where it went."

"Just like that," he said. He waved his hand through the air as if it was sailing away. He shook his head. "Just don't know."

"Just like that." I made a similar hand gesture. "No idea."

"Beautiful life," Sam says.

Of course, I blame the cold. It was icy this morning, like a zillion microscopic needles stabbing me through my clothes and piecing my skin by a micro millimetre... repeatedly. Yes, it was bloody cold.

"Lovely," says Sam.

When I Stopped Cleaning And Made Myself A Cup Of Tea, Buddy Crawled Under The Coffee Table And Put His Head In My Lap And Went To Sleep

He's like a hot water bottle

Sad Day

Oh, sad face, I have been cleaning up. I know... anything but, hey? Hands in the air, it only gets messy again, what is the point? Cleanliness is a mental incapacity, designed to give the bored something to do. However, be that as it may, it has now come to it... cleaning and tiding. Groan. So, I have been throwing shit out for a few hours. I am a few IQ points away from being an obsessive hoarder, so it has to be done from time to time. It started out with me filing my bank statements into their statement folder, rather than just throwing them on a shelf... and it just snowballed from there.  I have now thrown away all of my treasured car magazines, which I have collected over the last 20 years ago, or so, which I haven't looked at for um, er, cough, cough,  20 years, blush, in some cases. Oh, it is a sad day.

But, you know, it is time to embrace electronic storage. 21st century and all of that.

I have some big band music playing, that always gives me a hustle along, and I am getting stuck into it.

And a box of tissues, of course, at hand just in case. Ha ha. That would be for my years of inaction, really. I'm sure what I, actually, need is a stick of gelignite shoved up my arse. Being a gay man, of course, I might just like that...
... writhing around on the floor...

It is sad, really, now isn't it. I'll even sit here and write shit to get out of cleaning.

It Was Busy At The Exhibition Buildings This Morning... When Buddy And I Walked Sam To The City

Love those yellows and greens

You've got to love some autumn colours in your trees

The sun shines down

Its nice when we have the park to ourselves

Oh... the people