Gumboots and Umbrellas

Pinch, punch, first of the month.

We were both awake at 6.45am. It was raining outside, although that didn’t last long. At least the 36 degree days are over.

It is humid and grey and still. It is strangely quiet, although that may be in my mind, as we wait for the torrential rain that has been forecast. An alarm sounds in the distance just as I write that. Funny. A once in a life time weather event it has been called by the department of meteorology. Apparently, Melbourne is either going to be flooded, or washed away. Good thing I live at the top of a hill, you'd hate to be in a low lying part of the city around about now.

It is hot, and still and overcast.

Birds are singing in the trees.

I wonder what disaster we are all in for? The entire rainfall for December to fall in the next 48 hours. The news broadcasts have been ominous. It is like waiting for some kind monster to turn up. Godzilla is due soon and we all wait holding our breath.

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, which is kind of unusual as I'm not a big Dusty fan. 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. We’ve always done that.

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, when I get home. 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! I’m in no state, er, mood to be giving anyone an update.

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 style, (a couple of vaginas on either side of my head. I wonder if this is how straight boys feel in a threesome?) and lose any semblance of having done anything all day, or indeed, giving a shit that I haven’t done anything. 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.

I smoke another joint in celebration, and to get in the mood for chicken curry, you understand.

Then the afternoon just kind of evaporates. Oh, don’t ask me what I did. That’s pretty much what I said to Sam when he got home.

Ah Monday? Such a problem day.

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?