Beach Boy And Beach

 

The Nurse Says I'm Wonderful

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.

 

All Sick of Something

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.

Circle Untitled

The Bitch Nurse

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.

Chicks and 4WDs

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.

 

Country Hail Untitled

The more stuff mantra for living

I'm lying in bed gazing out at the gum trees waving in the breeze, the endless forest before me, the bracken, the undergrowth, many diferent shades of green, beside the steal gray, gravel driveway snaking through.
It's funny that I think about the city, only once I'm resting in the country. Ah, to be human is a contradiction all of its very own.

You know, I think the world financial crisis could be a positive thing. Maybe we'll all learn to live with less and then there will be more to go around, for all the planet's children. I think we are all conned into believing that we are all much wealthier, we need to acquire more and more stuff to make us happy. And, I think, for the most part it is a con. The more stuff mantra for living only, really, benefits politicians and leaders of business, to further their political careers and to make them even richer than they were before. I, actually, think that the more stuff you have, the more unhappy it makes you, maintaining that stuff - paying your bigger mortgage, paying your bigger credit card balance, paying all of your debt. You work harder and harder to maintain your empire and you work harder and harder to then acquire even more stuff than you had before. Nicely keeping society subdued, burried, with less time to think about about anything beyond the "normal paradigm."

One question Mr Politician, If we are all wealthier than we have ever been, why is persoanl debt at record levels?

It was just a thought, as I lay back in my big, comfy bed watching the majestic gum trees stretching skywards, waving their leaves in the fresh country breezes, towards the over cast sky, as the rain falls. The browns, the greens and the greys are deeper with the wet sheen covering them. I pull the blankets up, as the light blushes golden in my room.

Beginning of Time

 

I've been reading Richard Dawkins

I Don't Like It

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.

 

Who Wants To See A Couple Of Army Boys Get Off?

 

Hair Today...

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. 

Hangman

How Do You Do It?

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's Back

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.

Arvo with Lottie

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.

Tits & Arse

Two Things...

I asked Shane how he is? (Recap, he's been staying on the central NSW coast with a friend, X, for a month) He replied, Oh good, except for the rather surprising thing X did the afternoon after I left.

What was that?

He killed himself.

Fuck me, that's pretty surprising. I laughed nervously.

He was a mess when I got there. I think I must have kept him going for an extra month, said Shane. No wonder he was angsty as I was departing. Shane laughed nervously.

Sometimes I think it's a brave thing, I said. I'm never really sure on that one. It is certainly taking control of your future, though.

Shane and David are now in Sydney together. Shane will be back tonight.

Mitchel may be making a return. He sent out an Easter message to, I assume, his phone book - which yes, is grounds for dumping him, sure, never the less - about which I made a comment to David (presently, driving his nieces canary yellow Mercedes around Sydney from sex on prem venue to sex on prem venue, high as a kite) Oh, he sent out a message to all his friends, forgetting to delete me from the list, I assume.

I cheekily replied, may all your eggs be big, sweet and plentiful. To which he replied, hey sausage, (cutesy pet name) good to hear from you. To which I replied, (fuck it, I thought. My usual aloof attitude is getting me no where) Do you want to go out for a drink sometime, to which I got the answer, Sure do! (Are you keeping up?)

So, how about that?

Which reminds me, I'd better call him and make it for tomorrow night.

one last thing...

I saw Dylan Moran last night, he was excellent. Very funny. Jill and I went together.

Feeling Good, Who'd Have Thought?

I settled into read a book on my balcony, Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion, around midday. Quite civilised, I thought. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, - my favourite topic, the stupidity of people who believe in god - it was just beautiful sitting there. Even a gentle breeze blew.

As I sat back on my chair, I could feel my stomach, not something I'm used to feeling, you know, kinda full. Since I've quit smoking - how long is it now, I think this is my fifth week - I've felt myself putting on weight. I mean, I'm not really sure what putting on weight feels like, exactly, but, I presume, that if I can feel my stomach, when I don't usually, that must be a fair indicator that I'm starting to expand.

Oh, I so wanted to sit back and put my feet up and get lost in my book. Enjoy the day, be lazy and gay. Ha, ha! But, my, I will say nagging, still small voice wouldn't quit.

You'll be sorry if you don't.

You'll regret this decision.

Prevention is better than cure.

Your metabolism is going to slow down with quitting the fags, you know exercise is the way to speed it up again.

Do you want to turn into a fat bastard!

Do you want to look in the mirror and have the only word that comes to mind being, hideous! (As David would say)

Ah, will you just shut the fuck up! I'm comfy, I thought. I adjusted my seat and turned the page.

Um, actually, no, I won't, said Conscience, not until you get off your fat arse and get on ya bike, soon to be a fat boy.

I can afford an hour, I thought, begrudgingly, with my still small voice shaking it's head and tutting, as it tapped its finger on the inside of my skull. Okay! Okay! I could be back here by 2pm. Easy, peasy.

Does anyone actually enjoy exercise? We enjoy the results, fitter, faster, leaner, more attractive, but does anyone actually enjoy the doing? Or is being obsessed with it the best we can hope for? I know I've been obsessed with it in the past and that obsession is a great motivator. I need to get obsessed with it again, because looking for the enjoyment in it just doesn't work.

So, I dragged my sorry arse out into the um, er, exquisite day. Yes, I know, hard as it sounds. Yes, I could hear the fucking violins too. Along the river, with the water sparkling. Around the bike path, with the spunks a jogging. Under the dappled light cast by the Elms. Through Studley Park, with the birds a twittering. I know, but someone has to do it. I know, I could be in Somalia. And back up through the delightful Victorian architecture of the inner suburbs to home.

Now, my rather long winded point is that when I was standing back on my front veranda fishing for my key in my bum bag, where usually I'd be heaving for breath, that last hill up to my front door would make sure of that, where my legs would normally feel like jelly, I actually wasn't gasping for breath and my legs didn't feel as though they were going to go out from under me.

I have to conclude, even after only five weeks of not smoking, I'm feeling considerably fitter after exercise than I ever have. Who'd have thought?

And today's the day to quit my bottle of wine with dinner habit. Enough is enough, I say to myself. I don't want to be shitting my liver out my arse in pieces anytime soon, hey?