So I was at work the other day, selling christmas decorations and gifts, when I started to write this... It's largely unfinished but since it's Christmas, I thought I'd share it.

Joy to the world


If he could have, Johnny would have explained to his lovely aunt Cheryl how much he hated Carols by Candlelight. Somehow, perhaps because she routinely mistook his grimace for a smile, she had got it into her head he loved Christmas carols. Thus when she performed her annual sisterly-duty and took care of her nephew for one week at Christmas, this is what they did. It was a shame really, since she hated the obnoxious carollers almost as much as him. All she enjoyed were the candles. She got to hold two since Johnny couldn’t be trusted with his. This year she had been disappointed by the discovery that they weren’t even real candles, because apparently no once can be trusted with them anymore.

Johnny didn’t like the concert because everything was loud and chaotic. Children ran about screeching and leaping over his wheelchair. People always stared, even though they were supposed to be watching the stage. Cheryl seemed to think he couldn’t tell, but you don’t have to be a brain surgeon to feel people staring at you. Staring in that way that people do when they purposely look away.

“Gross, that man has drool all over his face.”

“Shush, we don’t say things like that.” We think them.

Johnny’s favourite person in the world was his carer Robin. Johnny called her “Ahhn.” She had been a carer at Johnny’s home for two years. He liked her because she always smelt nice, a bit like his mum used to. Robin called him Little John. “Hey Little John, how’s life treatin’ ya?” she’d ask. It made Johnny laugh, which unfortunately tend to make him drool more. He also liked her because even when she had trouble understanding what he wanted she was patient. “Water hun? Is that what you’d like? No? Ok then Little John,” she’d say, squatting down beside him. “Tell me again, I’m all ears.” His aunty only got frustrated when he asked for something. Frustrated because it made her miss her sister who had always seemed to understand her son perfectly, and frustrated because it made her feel inadequate when she didn’t know what to do.

“LLooo, derr,” said Johnny, pointing to where Robin was standing in the distance. He hadn’t know she would be there and he was excited to see her.

“Shush now Johnny,” said Cheryl. “We’re listening to the carols.”

**

“Mum, is Santa real?” asked Pippa. Crap ,thought Julie. Surely three years old was too young for this kind of philosophical question. Ask me anything else Pippa, anything at all. Ask me where babies come from, ask me why you have two mummies – don ‘t ask me to lie to you. Pippa of course knew exactly where babies come from, that was old news. Babies came from eggs. She had a pet chicken – it was as easy as one, two, five for her. She also knew why she had two mums, “It’s because I’m extra lucky,” she had told the inquisitive Frank at day care. She wanted to know about the fat man in the red suit.

“What do you think Pippa, you tell me.” Julie replied. Pippa looked very thoughtful for a second.

“I think so,” she said finally. “But he must get really hot in that suit.”

“Yes he does,” said Julie with relief. “That’s why he changes into his boardies and singlet when he gets to Australia.” Julie assured herself this wasn’t strictly lying, it was playing along. She shifted herself to a more comfortable position on the picnic rug and turned her attention back to the stage where South Bay Catholic Primary Schools year 4’s where singing Santa Claus is Coming to Town. The smell of burnt sausage was overpowering, Julie cast a wary eye over towards the sausage sizzle, just to check the tent hadn’t caught fire. Next year, she found herself thinking, there would be no Christmas. She’d simply buy a calendar that didn’t have it, and then Robin simply couldn’t force her into going to bloody Carols by Candlelight. Tradition gave her the heebie-jeebies. Robin had started calling her the Grinch.

“Mum, mum,” Julie felt a small sticky hand tugging on her sleeve. “The candy cane is stuck in my hair.” Julie sighed as tears formed in Pippas tiny blue eyes.

**

Ben had burnt the sausages. “Burnt the fucking sausages,” he cursed. “A god-damn moments inattention and you’re up shit creek without a friggin fire extinguisher.” His wife would probably sauté his balls if she caught wind of this. “Oh and Ben,” she had said not an hour ago, “don’t burn the sausages this year, please.” He resented the fact he had to barbeque at all. Give him a wok, he’d knock you up a killer stirfry. Give him a cartoon of eggs and it was one fine omelette coming right up, but barbeques and him just never seemed to get along. More than that, he was here to enjoy Christmas and he wanted to watch the Christmas carols. He resented that while his eight year old son with the freakishly angelic voice was up there belting out Away in a manger, he was sweating away and staring at onions. Pissed off, he scooped up the sausages and threw them in the bin.“Gary!” he yelled, suddenly seeing his opportunity to escape. “”Here mate,” he said, flinging the apron across the table. “It’s your turn.”

**

On the other side of the oval, in the dark that gathered at the edge of the scrub, Hamish was busy trying to hold Bec’s hand. Or rather, he was busy trying to not stuff it up. He was sitting so close to her he could feel her warm breath tingle against his face when she turned and spoke, yet it felt like the Grand Canyon lay between them. Do I just reach out and grab it? He asked himself. The sea breeze rustled through the scrawny gum trees overhead and a cloudfull of rain hovered nearby, waiting. Hamish, oblivious to anything else, was busying wishing the gum trees were mistletoe like they have in the Christmas movies. He really needed that little plant to step up and make the first move for him. “Jingle Bells, jingle bells,” Bec sang along whole heartedly, her Santa hat flopping around mischievously on her head. She smiled and despite the darkness Hamish knew where her dimples were and his stomach surged like a king tide. He wanted to take her hand, gently lock her fingers in his and lean over and kiss her right there on her dimple. Never before in his 17 years had he ever wanted anything so bad. Instead they sat there shoulder-to-shoulder drawing faint patterns in the grass with hot wax.

**

Harold wasn’t quite sure why he had insisted on coming. He wasn’t sure what had made him do it, but he knew as soon as he had unfolded his chair and eased himself into it that he had made a mistake. The empty space beside him where Mauve would have sat pressed into his heart like a knife. Harold supposed he should be grateful for the magnificent thirty years that they had spent together, for all the Christmas carols they had heard together on fine summers evenings in the park. But he wasn’t, he was drowning in his despair. It was the little things fondly remembered that hurt the most, the little places were love hid. There was no reason to tiptoe over the creaking floorboard in the hall in the early morning anymore. No reason to fill the teapot for two when just one teabag would do the trick. It had always seemed to him as if the house had sung when he arrived home. Now it just stood there cold and morose, almost as sad as he. The faint scent of her lavender perfume was slipping away, seeping out the cracks in the windows, slipping away from him just like she had. His study lay under a heavy layer of dust which Harold had noticed that afternoon when it occurred to him that it had never been that way before. It felt to him like even the bees had left their garden, it had no charm left. Harold opened his ginger beer and sighed. Suddenly he became aware that his breast pocket was ringing. “Dad, it’s me,” said his only son. “Barbara and I are here with the boys, where can we find you?” Harold couldn’t honestly remember the last time Shaun had brought his family to the carols. Before Mauves funeral, he couldn’t remember the last time they’d all been together in one place. Mauve had been in charge of remembering. “Here Dad,” said Shaun as he plonked his chair down in the space beside Harold. “Hang the rules, let’s have a real beer.”

**

Ben nearly hid when he heard the MC apologise for the temporary hold up at the sausage sizzle. He promised himself that next year he would refuse when his wife volunteered him for P and C duty. It was ludicrous that a school he paid thousands of dollars to educate his children should also need him to fundraise for them, he decided. In the meantime though, he thought it best to fly under the radar for awhile, to avoid his wife. Instead he scanned the crowd for his kids. Bec was nowhere to be seen, that concerned him a little. But he was distracted by the sight of his son wandering towards him, his pristine white choir-boy shirt now stained red from tomato sauce. “Geez Big Ears, you have made a mess of yourself haven’t you.” Tom grinned through his mouthful of sausage sizzle. “It’s not burnt Dad. Well done!” he said happily.

“Thanks,” said Ben nervously. “ Hey you did great up on that stage Tom, you made everyone else look average in comparison!” He hoisted his son up onto his waist and messed up his neatly combed hair. “You have fun up there? What was the best part?” he asked.

“We got to wear make up!” said Tom proudly.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Ben under his breath.

**

“Found you!” said Robin as she collapsed onto the picnic rug between Julie and Pippa. “I tell ya, all I wanted was a bloody..”

“Don’t swear,” interjected Julie.

“.. a real candle.” said Robin, rolling her eyes. “Real candles are so much more fun than these plastic things Pipsqueak – oh hey, whats up?” she asked, suddenly noticing Pippa’s tear streaked face.

“She got her candy cane stuck in her hair,” said Julie.

“Candy Cane? In your hair? You’re supposed to eat it Pipsqueak.” Said Robin, tickling her daughter until she giggled.

“Now, beautiful girls,” she said kissing Julie on the cheek, “Let’s get this party started. Got some matches Jules?”

“Matches? Why would I have matches?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Don’t swear.”

**

Cheryl had struck up conversation with the lady next to her, who kept trying to watch the stage for her little granddaughter, but just couldn’t get Cheryl to be quiet.

“Ahhn,” said Johnny, flapping his arm out like he wanted to wave.

“Stop that please John, stop that now,” said Cheryl, gently pushing his arm down. Johnny of course wasn’t actually just flailing about, he was waving to Robin.

“Hey Little John!” called Robin when she caught sight of the familiar face in the wheelchair in front of her. “I didn’t know you were here! Enjoying the carols?”

“Oh yes, we’re having a ball,” replied Cheryl heartily. Robin looked at Johnny, decked out in a ridiculous Christmas shirt with an ugly elf on it. No, said the look in his eyes. Robin winked at him, if only that boy could talk, she thought to herself.

**

Not even the late hour and the ever growing darkness could give Hamish the nerve to reach out for her hand. Instead he found himself plucking the grass and dividing each blade into tiny pieces. Above them a clap of thunder sounded, drowning out the carols momentarily. The sky let one fat, heavy raindrop fall and it landed right on the end of Hamish’s nose. Shit, he thought. Not now. I might not ever get this far again.

“Oh man, it’s going to piss down.” Said Bec.

“Yeah, suppose we better go find your folks,” said Hamish with more than a touch of melancholy.

“No,” said Bec, suddenly sick of waiting. She grabbed his wrist and he paused, half way up and half way down. She stopped thinking for long enough to lurch forward and kiss him on the cheek. The fish in Hamish’s belly flapped around wildly and he was sure the thump of his heart must be audible. I love carols by candlelight, he thought.

**

Julie checked her watch, nearly 8pm, it had to be almost over. “Mum,” said Pippa, the sound of a question, “What’s this song about?” Julie’s eyes implored Robin to take over the question-answering, but she was intently watching her candle flicker and dance.

“It’s about the birth of a baby called Jesus, the son of God.”

“Where was he born?”

“In a manger, like the song says, with a donkey, some sheep and his parents Mary and Joseph. Oh and three wisemen that followed a bright star to see him.” Pippa rolled over and squinted the way she did when she was thinking really hard. Momentarily, but not for the first time, Julie wished her child wasn’t quite so curious about everything.

“Mum,” asked Pippa seriously. “Did that really happen?” Julie looked at Robin for help.

“I dunno pet,” said Robin. “What do you reckon?” Pippa thought awhile longer.

“I don’ think so,” she said. “Babies come from eggs, not mangers.” Julie suppressed a grin but Robin burst out laughing.

**

Shaun had never seen his Dad’s eyes so hollow, it scared him shitless. It made him thankful his wife had suggested they come to the carols. It also made him regret that it was the first time he had bothered in ten years. He didn’t particularly like Christmas carols, but he enjoyed the atmosphere. The smell of the barbeque, kids giggling and dancing, whole families stretched out on mountains of pillows. It brought back memories. It reminded him of his mum. Shaun watched the kids playing catch with their fake candles in front of him. A curly haired boy lost under a gigantic pair of reindeer ears flung his at his sister. Tears began to slide down her face just as the thunder clapped and the first drop of rain came gently down.

“Grandpa,” said the youngest grandson as he plonked himself down on Harold’s bad knee. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about Grandma.” Shaun inhaled sharply, studying his sons earnest face and his Dads eyes. “I miss her very much. Especially the times we did jigsaws, that was fun.” Little Sam clutched Harolds forefinger in his small hand. “Do you miss her lots too?” Harold tried very hard not to cry. The rain began to fall heavier, dampening the tomato-sauce stained boy’s singing. “Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright.”

“Yes Sam, I do.” Said Harold.

The End

 

I hope you have a lovely Christmas full of good cheer, grateful for the beautiful people you have in your life. Make a strangers day - wish them a Merry Christmas.

Back in the Garden.

Here we are again... Gardening vs. Lea, Round Two.

This time I have done more than throw a handful of stolen seeds in a hole, pat them and walk away. This time I am determined to be more successful. This time I bought mulch and seedlings. This time I used compost.

It has now been a week and my tomato, basil and lettuce are not dead. They have in fact grown. Presumably this fact is directly related to the fact that they have actually been watered. This is essential, as some dusty and previously unused old piece of information in my head informs me. You see I’m fobbing my way through this gardening venture using snippets of information gained from trusted websites like about.com and the instructions given to me in primary school bout how to plant things. I spent hours in Bunnings weighing up the odds – potting mix, mulch, liquid fertiliser, blood and bone or granulated plant food..... Shit. Fuck. Bastards. “Close your eyes and grab one.” I tell myself. Let me tell you now there are far too many choices to make in this life. And making decisions when you have no idea at all... well I just can’t begin to tell you how stressful the whole shebang is.

For example - If the tag says ‘harvest frequently to encourage growth’ I wonder do I take the whole stem? Or just the leaf? What if I take too much and it dies? Sweet jesus I don’t want to rape the thing!

If the tag says ‘keep moist’ I deliberate – what might that be code for? Once a day? Twice? I water it a little. Oh what if that isn’t enough, I wonder? Better give it some more. “Oh my god I’ve drowned it!” I yell, collapsing in a miserable heap on the ground.

It’s just the wellbeing of my plants I’m concerned about. And perhaps my dignity. By now it should be clear to you that I’ve invested just a tad too much emotion in this. This was made clear to me when I sat bolt upright in bed first thing in the morning and announced that I had to buy fertiliser, urgently. “Shut up,” said the look in my girlfriends eyes.

Its simply the fact that I know nothing about plants, soil or how to grow things that both intrigues me and stresses me out. That and the fact I just don’t seem to be a very chilled-out type. (An issue which is further compounded by the unpleasant experience of digging up the soil and unearthing all kinds of things that creep, crawl and slither.)

I suppose though that this venture is going to be much like learning to cook, or anything in life really – a matter of trial and error. The first trial was a clear error. The second will hopefully yield fruit. (Literally.)

I’m sitting in the dim of my room, early evening of a hot, hot day, begrudging the fan that only spins air that tickles and taunts, never really cooling. It’s only November and already summer has fallen down upon us like a ton of bricks. As I sit wishing I could throw my annoyance at the weather-gods, I wish I had spent my late afternoon at the beach or the pool, for then I wouldn’t be so prematurely weary with summer. Instead I spent my free time reading and snacking on tea and biscuits. And now I think of the time I’ve shamefully been a-wastin’, and all the thousands of other uses I could have put my afternoon to.


This permanent shadow of doubt that lingers over me, leaving me with a perpetual sinking feeling that there is something else I should be doing is much worse than the unwelcome heat. However I rack my brain I can’t think what it is I should be doing. And that, quite simply, is because there really is nothing else I should be doing. Yet despite no task being forgotten or mislaid, I suffer under the inescapable feeling that whatever is not work, is morally reprehensible time wasting. In those free moments in which I pick up my book, I am haunted by an impeccably guilty conscience drummed into me by years of study. Ill at ease I look over my shoulder, watching out for the essay that must be hanging over my head like an axe about to fall.

But there is nothing there, and so I begin to fret. Because surely, there must be something I have to rush of and do? Surely there must be something I don’t want to do but have to do, ready and waiting to disturb my free time?

Here I could begin my thesis, on the ultimate unattainability of true freedom, but instead, I think I shall devote my time to learning how to master the art of joyously doing Sweet Fuck All.

One Tragic Moment

I saw someone getting CPR today. Driving home we came to an intersection where a car and a motorcycle had come head to head in a way they were never designed to. A man lying prostrate surrounded by a crowd, his body hopelessly floppy as a stranger pumps at his chest, breathing for him on the kerbside. I didn’t see the accident, I didn’t see whose fault it was or how the motorcycle must have flown and skidded, flinging its two passengers aside. I didn’t see the witness hastily pull over and spring from their cars. All I saw was the chaos that ensued, desperate moments in which from one tick of the second hand to the next, someone’s life becomes a big flashing question mark. The scene is bubbling and boiling, spinning around a helmet and a mangled bike.

It stirs a mixture of emotions to drive past, a mere witness to calamity as I carry on about my way.

But imagine you were on your way home, driving up to a traffic lights, switching radio stations, hitting the indicator -then all of a sudden the moment is torn open by an enormous roar – the screech of brakes, metal on metal, skin on bitumen. Instead of carrying on home like all regular trips along this road, you become the difference between life and death for this motorcyclist, as you rush to his aid. Others stop, their way barred by blood and crushed metal. They call emergency services, direct traffic around the accident, stop the life from flowing out of someone’s arteries and onto the road. Will you walk away from this a hero? Will you walk away from this heavy with regret, despite the fact that you did all you could do, and nothing but God could have saved him?

Imagine instead you were driving straight along the street, you indicate right, turning when the way looks clear and then, seemingly born out of air itself, comes a motorbike carrying two people, and it is you that drives right through them. Their bodies crush the front of your car while the front of your car pounds the life from them. When the screeching ends you stand by the wreckage and you breath. You panic. You’re bleeding but you’re ok. You’re ok but you may have just killed someone.

In an instant, one tragic moment, your world and theirs become permanently entwined. Others drive past, deeply aware it could have just as easily been them, and carry on their way.

I hate apostrophes.


The plight of the poor, humble apostrophe seems to be the talk of the town. The demise of the proper use of the apostrophe is a reoccurring topic amongst grammar-nazis, practically every time I open a newspaper an apostro-freak or other grammar enthusiast is busy mourning the end of the English language as we know it. Today, buoyed by another violent disagreement with the evil piece of punctuation, I’ve decided to weigh into the debate just to register my opinion that I don’t give a damn that no one respects them anymore. I hate apostrophes. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some kind of radical anti-grammar anarchist, nor do I suffer from a lack of belief in good spelling (i just fail, time and time again, at exhibiting this quality.) But apostrophes baffle, bemuse and down-right abuse me. Despite getting top of English in high school and having a university degree (gloat gloat gloat) I still haven’t got the hang of the bastards. You may have already noticed, in fact it may be painfully, torturously apparent to you that I don’t really know what I’m doing with apostrophes but let’s (the little blue line that just appeared there informed me I was missing a certain ‘ )be frank, if I could go back in time and find the guy who invented apostrophes – he’d be dead in an instant. It’s not my fault really. It’s the education system, its the rise of the “Microsoft Word will fix it” mentality - society in general (but never the individual) is to blame for the fact that apostrophes, long division and the ability to spell tomorrow and tomatoes correctly and consistently (without spell check), remain outside my understanding. So, having got that off my chest, all I have to do now is sit back and wait for the day when the apostrophe finally ceases to torment me and passes firmly into the realm of antiquity...

blogging on the go-go

Hello all, Im testing my ability (or my phones ability) to blog on the go. Last night I sat down with the full intention to write a blog, but the urge and inspiration soon disolved into an urgent need to sleep. Now however, im in the mood to blog (or rather, im in the mood for some caffeine fueld waffle) but im miles from my laptop - tis a very first world, modern conundrum "oh gollygolly i just want to share my innermost, totally unimportant thoughts with the world, but im not in reach of my computer!" *whips out mobile* Global tragedy ever so narrowly averted.  I cant hit enter for some reason, if you're wondering. I assume that means i should have got an iphone. then again, merely existing today is sufficient reason to *need* an iphone like your life depends upon it. So what am I doing miles from my computer? (yes it does occur on the odd occasion) Well don't worry, im not driving a car (id have to actually own one) I am on a train. and i will be untill my arse is so numb it might fall off. ill be on this train until the end of time, or for the next 50mins that it takes me to cross the city, and end up in rockingham. and it occured to me that if i was in germany or anywhere in europe, or even just probably the other side of this rather obese continent, 50mins on a train would take me from some inconsequential (but no doubt picturesque) town to a diff city, and maybe through 2 other cities on the way. but here in perth, it just gets me to the other side of town. such is the sprawl of this urban land, and the relative emptiness of its surrounds. still, a timely thought presents itself to me, were i in europe right now, 50 minutes on a train might carry me to paris, or even to my favourite city berlin b ut I wouldnt want to be there, because rockingham (which i could spend hours deriding) has one thing neither berlin or prague has - my girlfriend. (group sigh) and on that note, having gone of on a complete tangent and adequately waffled my way through 50 mins, i bid you farewell.

Cycling

I’ve been reading a few bike blogs recently, which got me thinking about cycling and why I do it/ why you should do it. My blog, despite referring to my bicycle in its name, is not a bike blog, nor was it ever conceived as one. (It’s dedicated purely to waffle) Today however, I shall masquerade as a bike blogger as I ponder the pros and cons of day-to-day life on two wheels.

Cons

Hazards – Plentiful. Includes cars, trucks, planes, rocks, tree roots, pedestrians, bees, birds, buses, motorbikes, other cyclists, dogs, shonky footpaths, glass, potholes, pensioners, non-existent bike lanes and so on ad infinitum

Rain – there is the potential you will arrive at your destination looking like soggy toast. This can be avoided by some kind of spectacular rain-wear, but luckily in Perth, rain is a fairly infrequent occurrence anyway.

40+ Degrees in the shade – Unfortunately, bikes don’t have a very efficient heating and cooling system. Some day’s, the sun wants to burn you to a cinder, melt your tyres to the path and permanently stick your clothes to your body. You arrive at your destination smelling like you just poured a bucket of deodorant over yourself, in need of a shower and an ice bath. On the other hand, on a frosty winter’s morning you can lose all feeling in your fingers and toes, and feel like you could snap your nose off. Joy.

Wind – One benefit of cars is that they operate at pretty much the same speed, regardless of wind conditions. Cycling does not have this benefit. A vicious wind can make your trip take double the amount of time

Exercise – Cycling is technically a sport. You are required to do more than ‘press go’ to move anywhere. Some days, you simply cannot be bothered.

Groceries¬ – more than once I have got a little over excited in the supermarket that I’ve had more than a little difficult cycling home

Pros

Green factor- Theme song “Let’s get political, political”.

Bike riding is a friggin political statement my friends. For exmaple, ever heard of Critical Mass? “Critical Mass is a monthly bicycle ride to celebrate cycling and to assert cyclists' right to the road.” http://critical-mass.info/  But it’s more than that, it represents an ideology which envisages a different world. Cycling on a day-to-day basis is an easier way to green up your world. Disowning your automotive says, “Fuck you oil barons and your wars, I am a non-carbon emitting, independent, carrot-fuelled prodigy. I reduce urban smog and stand up against peak hour traffic. I’m so ethical sometimes I surprise myself.” What can I say, I’m a fan.

(Here, an interesting article on Bicycles and social movements by Dave Horton (some random google lead me to) http://thinkingaboutcycling.wordpress.com/article-environmentalism-and-the-bicycle/ )

Economics – Cheaaaap. Which as a student, or underemployed bum, greatly appeals to me. Cycling means no petrol, rego, licence or parking costs. It means no parking fines, and limited running costs. Depending on your personal tastes, a bike could set you back between $50 for your 4th hand rust-bucket, and $10 000 for a fang-dangled carbon thing that floats like a bee and stings like a butterfly. After that, you’ve got the occasional spare tube to fix, brake pad to change, helmet to replace, water bottle to fill up...

En Vogue – Cycling, in my well sort after fashion opinion, is just a little bit ‘in’ at the moment. As with the surge in popularity of vintage clothing, an old school bike can be, if nothing else, a neat little accessory. For example http://www.copenhagencyclechic.com/

Exercise– the easiest way (and in fact the only way for me usually) to find 30, is to exercise whilst moving from A to B. Not only is it multitasking, it also means I arrive at work at 8.15 with a brain that has been properly oxygenated.

Slow the pace – you need to allow more time for pedal-power to get you around the place, but far from seeing this as a con, I enjoy the journey.

Picture from http://www.copenhagenize.com/

Rats can jump and other nightmares

I don’t really understand why people are scared of rats. Big, gross, wound-eating sewer rats withstanding, rats are cute, creative and interesting critters to have in your home. Strictly on a pet-owner basis that is. Personally, a lot scares me. I hate scary shit-in-your-pants and lets-hack-everyone-into-pieces type movies. I fundamentally do not understand the rationale that says these movies are enjoyable. I just don’t like the edge of my seat, or the view from behind my pillow, or waking up after having nightmares about long fingernail-wielding cannibal pensioners. Last night I had an uneasy sleep commandeered by nightmares. I awoke multiple times from nasty dreams full of running, hiding and murdering. The fear only intensified when I woke, whimpering like a 3 year old in need of a cuddle, terrified of the dark and the host of terrible possible ways to be tortured or killed it suddenly seem to have. Undoubtedly, I am an epic wuss. But rats? Scary? Lies.


Judge them by their Hollywood-esq reputation and you will find them dirty, evil, devilish bastards. But get to know one, and you’ll doubtless be converted. (And if you aren’t, I suggest you go right out and buy yourself a heart.) My rat Olive, who I may or may not have made frequent recent to of late, is anything but scary, even if she does tries to attack your feet whilst you walk. We’ve had 4 rats in this house over the years, and they have all had interesting and entertaining personal quirks and interests. Olive is nothing if not an adventurer. There is officially nowhere in my room that she cannot go. (And yes, I let her run wherever she likes in my room.) She has conquered my bookshelves, can negotiate her way onto my dressing table, knows all the ins and outs of my closet and, just recently, has become such a good jumper that she can hop from the rubbish bin, to my desk chair, and onto my desk in the blink of an eye. She may be a nightmare to keep track of, but let me tell you she is so much more entertaining than TV. (By the by, I am deathly sick of hearing about the new independent MP’s, anyone else?)This afternoon while lazing around sleepy from my nightmare-filled night, I have seen her climb, almost comically, inside a jar, climb up the fly screen on my door, happily shred the paper in my rubbish bin and sneakily make off with my strategically placed post-it notes, which she not-so-sneakily proceeds to destroy. I think perhaps in a previous life she may have been Sir Edmund Hillary, or Indiana Jones himself...

And I’m going to stop right there, lest I waffle another 100 words about how extraordinary my child is. Rat, I meant rat.

I have a confession to make. Despite all previous arguments to the contrary I now understand that you can be with someone 24-7 and actually not be in the least bit sick of their company. Furthermore I understand how you can spend hours just lying around talking to someone and then miss them like a whole week has passed when they are away for just one night. This in itself, is evidence of how much one person can change your life. I understand how an unresolved argument can feel like the Berlin Wall itself has been constructed between you, and nothing in the world feels right until someone concedes and bridges the divide. I understand how an hour between text messages can feel like an eternity in isolation. I understand how you can want to lock someone away in your arms, so that they may never hurt again and I know without a shadow of a doubt just how nice it feels to have someone get up ridiculously early and make your lunch for you because they love you.

I have, in fact, come to a whole new awareness of the deep and startling lengths that my own lameness can go. I guess after all, I am just a romantic in disguise. What can I say, people change.

I have one wish, and one wish only – it is a hat for every occasion. At first I thought this was an achievable wish, a worthy goal, but it seems there are so many more occasions than I ever accounted for. At first a hat seems perfect, versatile and open to new opportunities. But gradually I come to see, how it cannot be worn here, and it should not be worn there and there is nothing else to be done, but to purchase a new hat. Thus it became necessary to invest in a spring hat, since no other hat was quite up for the job. These spring days give me the shivers, not because they are cold but because they smell beautiful, and the sunshine tingles on your skin, and it takes a special type of hat, a spring hat nonetheless, to handle the joy of these fine days. So please take this as my excuse, for buying yet another hat.


And while I’m at it, it has been brought to my attention that my ears are forever mis-hearing and malfunctioning. Sometimes, ok mosttimes, if not alltimes, they are just downright useless. Generally, when they have twitched and turned this way and that and asked to hear the sentence again and still can’t decipher the meaning from the general background static, they just shut up shop and vacate the premises. Then my face concentrates on either looking very, very blank or smiling and nodding, based on the assumption that whatever was said was most likely funny. There are times when not hearing is a convenient, instantly believable excuse, and there are times when the creeping growth of deafness, is just plain frustrating, for me and the person whose throat is getting sore from yelling at me. Hence, here a disclaimer – I probably didn’t hear you.

Breathing life into old things

Away in a far off suburb known as Huntingdale rusted a noble old ten speed, wasting away her twilight years dismally in a corner of the family shed. Then one day two girls arrived and took her away to a better place where she was freshly oiled and greased and pumped full of air. Once again she got to feel the road beneath her tyres and hear the joyous chaching of her faithful old bell. Once again she got to cruise the footpaths with her basket full of purpose. She was, Yellow Betty whispered to her one evening, to be part of a revolution. In which old things weren’t just discarded, and the old proverb – Brave men cycle where lesser men drive – would finally become the universal truth it should be.

A Tale of Three Shelves

On my bookshelf there are the regulars, a dictionary, a bible and Harry Potter. There are a row of children’s books with big sprawling pictures, tattered spines and teeth marks from where Olive has began to snack on them. A cluster of Pony Pals novellas, a book ‘borrowed’ and never returned to its classroom shelf, books in german, guide books for far off places and other pages of tales. I pick up a book at random, an old favourite with pages edged in gold and engrained in my memory. On the shelf above live the newer books, they are fatter, wordier and less alluring to the eye. Political Theory, Philosophy of Religion - exposes on subjects I do not understand, but pretend to anyway. And then there is a large and higgildy-piggildy stack of books borrowed and given, waiting patiently to be read and I wonder if I had 100 more of these days, to lie about and do no more than read, would I ever actually finish them all? Perhaps, I decide, it shall be my life’s work.

Camping

We packed some bread rolls and cups, plates, wine, tinned food and a picnic rug and escaped. Vamoose. Up in the hills where the bush is flowering we pitched a tent in rocky earth. I sat there an eternity, while the minutes passed like blissful hours and watched campers come and go; bucket loads of children shovelled into cars at the end of the long weekend, replaced by pensioners who constructed their tent only after due consideration and much humming and haring. We wandered about the lake and forced ourselves into its cold, murky water. We read and snacked and lounged around, had a fire, ate marshmellows and returned home to find, as usual, things to be done and places to be.

Gaining confidence

_________________________________

Confidence/n. Firm trust; feeling of certainty; self reliance; boldness.

1.Trust, belief, credence, faith, reliance,

2. Self-assurance, boldness, courage, self-possession.

_________________________________

Olive, my baby black rat, is curled up in the pouch of my jumper. Every now and then she pokes her head out and runs across my lap, sniffs at my desk and scampers back inside my pocket. It makes me coo and ooze sweetness like a new mother. Olive, with her patchy white belly and tiny hands is miniscule but daringly fast. If she were to somehow make it to the floor it would be nearly impossible to catch her. She’s wary of me, always ready to bolt. I have only had her four days and I am still gaining her trust. She approaches my hand slowly when I beckon to her to come out of her cage and speeds away when I try to pick her up, but if I lie down on my bed she will climb on me, sniff my face and nestle against my arm. She is very distracting, even just watching her sleep with her tail curled around her and her nose tucked down is addictive. Perhaps I just need a better way to utilise my time, but it occurred to me today as she tentatively approached the Milk Arrowroot biscuit I offered her, that just as Olive is gaining confidence in me, I am rediscovering my own confidence.

For instance, yesterday I made vegetable soup from scratch, i.e. without a recipe to follow step-by-step. (Do I hear applause?) As it turned out to be not only edible, but quite yummy, it shall go down in history as my first really successful cooking venture. If nothing else, it was confidence building. Now I’m sure I could make anything, in fact I am certain that my culinary expertise shall soon be sought after throughout the world by connoisseurs of humble veggie soup. This is doubtless an overreaction. Nevertheless the point is I am learning to not be afraid to make mistakes. I have been changing my mind a lot recently. When I finished uni I quickly jumped on the Tafe wagon. (More studying, just a different name.) Now it’s 4 weeks later and I’ve dropped out, because it’s not what I want to do or where I need to be, and I have finally gained the confidence to realise that, and trust my own decision. I thought i'd share that because it’s a feeling that makes me want to embrace the whole world with my outstretched arms in a happy, contented hippy-love-fest kind of way and grin like a Cheshire cat as Olive sits in the palm of my hand and nibbles away at the biscuit I offer her...

Peace out ya’ll

The life of an Idea

At its first conception the Idea is faultless. It is fresh and novel, invigorating like a cool morning flooding into your every cell, infectious in its inspired perfection. Your mind overflows with urgency, suddenly overrun by the need to make the idea become a reality. But as you iron out the details in your mind you begin to notice the ideas numerous flaws, just like a sentence which flowers beautifully in your head but comes across clumsy and clichéd on the page or a person who you had thought flawless that is somehow pushed from their pedestal. As the euphoria wanes the idea fills you instead with trepidation and doubt and if enough time passes before you cast your mind’s eye upon it again, you can barely begin to understand how you ever thought it was a good idea.

Tuesday
in three parts

It’s only the earliest days of August yet the deepest dark of winter has fully abandoned us. Perth’s winter days are often cold, clear, blue and cloudless but of late the weather has been gentle and warm like a beautiful September afternoon. Despite the prevailing good cycling weather, part of me has begun to despair for the rain that refuses to visit us and to fear the return of summer’s sickly stick before I am good and ready.

I currently dwell in the realm of an all surrounding, ever abounding happiness. But for some reason I fell into a god-awful mood this morning. Recently I have been plagued by such unidentifiable mood swings, easily stressed over goodness-knows-what. I have begun to wonder if the issue is that my life, shorn of any sense of pattern or regularity, is making me dizzy. Or perhaps my ups and downs are more due to the battle between self-confidence and self-doubt that rules my inner world as I strive to figure out what to do “Next.” Sometimes I honestly feel perfectly content with my present life. Sometimes I turn soft and mushy on the inside, letting other peoples words and expectations drip like poison into my heart where the seeds of doubt sprout and grow to forests that preoccupy my mind.

My girlfriend tells me I need a can of toughen-up.

And so, for that matter, do Australian politicians. Politics, being of vital importance to the present and future of our society, generally interests me. I like to be in the know, you might say. However, election media banter has begun to bore me incessantly. I have been listening to politicians vomit shallow policy at the mouth, and slowly slowly, the more attention I pay, the more apathy takes up residence in my heart. All I hear is “vote for me, because I’m not them”. Or better still, “they are sooo stupid”, therefore by implication, you should vote for me. I think I’ll vote green because purple isn’t an option and abstinence is not the best policy.

And when I doze in the kindly afternoon sun with Baloo, I’ll dream of a world in which politicians cease to be nauseating and I have the fortitude to stare down self-doubt. I suspect such a world would be populated by a modestly clad people known as Utopians...

Looking west

I’ll have you know I have become a chicken carrying pro in the past few days. The trick is to secure their legs between your fingers and nestle them firmly (but gently) against your chest. You pick them up when they are settled down for the night and they barely even raise a sqwark, they just quietly bok bok bok at you. My uncle has been endeavouring to re-settle his adolescent chooks. Great change is afoot in their lives, and they really don’t seem to like it. They are being shifted out of the cosy barn of their chickhood and being taught to roost in the chicken coop with the grownups. Only every day they strut and flap their way back to the barn and every evening, we pick them up and carry them back to the coop, hoping they will get the idea. Either they are resistant to change or their pee-brains really cannot fathom what it is we are trying to get them to do. Or perhaps, they just know were home is. Either way, I have recently discovered that not all chickens are cute and friendly. Some in fact, are vicious beyond their size and position in the pecking order. Yesterday evening for instance my aunty was attacked by a rooster. As she bent to fill their water bowl it jumped onto her head, sinking its talons into each side of her skull before running away behind the coop he shares with his three girls. I know now to avoid the rooster with white ear-flaps, especially when he’s at home. (Although let’s be honest, if he turns on me, I’ll get my chicken and cashew nut stir fry recipe out faster than you can say “I feel like chicken tonight.” Consider yourself warned Mr Rooster.)

The other day we packed up the mountain bikes, hiking gear, the two horses Katie and Sam and a picnic lunch and drove out to a National Park near Rotorua. Rotorua reeks of the sulphur steaming and bubbling up from the earths’ core that attracts thousands of tourists every year. They come to admire mother earth’s power – trust me, not even the worst fart compares to the stench she can emit. Holding our noses we wound our way past Lake Rotorua, its surface so peacefully undisturbed the mountains around it were perfectly reflected in it, and drove on up through some mountains, past a Redwood forest towards the Blue Lake. Only this funky smelling but otherwise picturesque story of our day trip ends here - on a patch of grass beside the road where we pulled over when the horse float brakes jammed on and literally brought the whole escapade to a screaming halt. Two hours later, with the brakes finally released, the horses were coaxed back onto the float and we turned around and headed straight home. Back on the farm Katie and Sam, stressed and sweaty from the trip, tore down the hill into their paddock and gleefully rolled all over the grass, glad to be out of the silly box on wheels and back in their paddock. Home sweet home, they seemed to say. Yesterday we took a drive out to where my mum grew up. The old family house was on Barrett Road, a road named after my family, who opened the first self-service supermarket in Tauranga in the early 1960s. The Barrett empire was a family affair, the supermarket and butchers were jointly owned by my Poppa, his two brothers, sister and their families. Long since sold off and renamed, the supermarket and butchers still stand there at the end of Barrett Road. It was an unfamiliar feeling standing in the butchers looking at the board of photos from 50 years ago of my Nana, Poppa and great aunties and uncles. It is unknown to me to have family history with stories going back two or three generations that connect me to a place. Although on my Dad’s side of the family it’s a similar scenario, our family lineage goes back to the pioneering days of the Waikato region. There’s so much I don’t know about this place, I’ve realised, although at the same time I am inextricably tied to it.

Looking westward whilst my uncle tossed chicken feed between the barn and the coop, trying once more to coax the chickens towards their new home, I watched the last bit of day disappear behind the distant pines. Here, surrounded by family I am at home. But even so I know that out west, far away west is my home. It is where I grew up, where I can pronounce the place names, where my heart lies and where right now, I most want to be. Home is a funny concept, so crucial to our sense of self. It exists at the nexus between people and place. The people that are dear to you can make you want to run away from a place and they can make you never want to leave it - they make a place home. Right now, gazing out my window at the westward bound mid-morning clouds, I know I belong were the day is only just dawning, where Yellow Betty waits and where still curled up in bed (quite likely with a hangover) lies a whole pile of happiness.

I seem to be full of potential beginnings. A hundred million so varied and diverse there is no conceivable way to follow all along their paths.

There are things I want to tell you. But I must admit I don’t know where to begin. This time last week, I was spitting blood. They were driving under spectacular clouds that day, going from nowhere to somewhere worse with intoxicating smiles. She was scared, she realised, of wanting more than she was wanted. Paul Mallet was learning how to “Get along with others”. Julie just wanted to put all the growing up business behind her and go back to being a 15 year old. She opened the conversation like you might open a door. When I walked away I left the flywire banging hopelessly against the door frame in the wind...

They could lead anywhere, take me everywhere, only with them, as with the threads of my life, I have no idea what to do. But that wasn’t what I actually wanted to write about today.

This morning, covered up to my knees in a potent mixture of cow shit and mud, I held a tiny chick, born only the night before. It sat meekly in the palm of my hand. It wasn’t scared at all, being too young to have been taught to fear big things without feathers yet. My Uncle, somewhat of a chicken collector, has 22 different breeds of chickens in all. From New Holland Blue, to Rhode Island Red, Andalusian, Campine, White Rock, Silver Spangled Hamburg, Buff Orpington and on and on. They are calm and docile birds, well cared for and happy to scratch around wherever they please. The chick, tucked safely against my coat, with its tiny wings and oversized feet made my sister and I coo at its cuteness. But in actual fact, it smelt terrible, like the inside of an egg I suppose. And that was even before it shat in my hand, a warm, runny brown liquid that dripped through my fingers. Despite its indiscretions against me, the chick and I have a deep and meaningful connection – we share the same birthday. Although it doesn’t feel like my birthday today. It doesn’t smell the way birthdays did when I was younger, the scent of excitement and suspense has been blown away by the wind. I guess that’s a sure sign I’m getting old.

Up here on my Auntie and uncles farm, like most of New Zealand, it has been raining and raining. But I’m still not sick of the steady stream falling from the sky yet. It’s distracting, or perhaps just relaxing, to stand and watch the rain roll off the shed. The drops fall in a perfect line every time, so much so that I can put my nose right up to where they fall, look out over fields at the pine tree pierced fog and stay perfectly dry. Small things amuse small minds. This morning’s work was to drench the larger mob of cows, steers if you want to be precise. My job really, was to watch at a safe distance. To me, city living vegetarian that I am, cows are quaint, milky smelling things that dot the rolling green hills of this New Zealand farm. They are also large, relatively dumb creatures that are strangely more scared of me than I of them. More to the point, they apparently don’t speak English. Considering that I can walk at them waving my arms and yell out “I am a vegetarian” and they will still try to high tail it over the fence. The irony seems to have escaped them. Now, in the afternoon, I am tucked away inside drifting away. I have been watching the flames flicker in the fireplace. The black smoke residue on the glass looks much like a dragon, wide mouthed and roaring, its tongue dancing in the flames. The cat is staring up at me with its bright beady eyes, requesting with the full extent of his politeness that I move my laptop immediately to make room for him. Unluckily for him, I don’t plan on being charitable. I’m trying, I inform him, to write a middle. But he knows I think, in all his cat wisdom, that I would be better off watching the flames, and waiting for these chickens to hatch before I count them, and really – who can argue with that logic?

If this is an end, I have no idea where to begin.

I’ve always wanted to have one of those moments, walking away from a place for the last time, when you know it’s the last time. When you’ve cleared your desk, painstakingly removed every post-it note you scrawled so fast god knows how long ago, handed in the key, walked down the stairs out of the building with the knowledge that you will not be returning the next day, or in a few months, or maybe not ever at all. In my head, there is music playing, there’s a slow turn-of-the head, a last glance over the shoulder and then that long, panoramic shot as I walk away, for the last time. None of that happened of course when I handed in my last essay at uni. I was entirely empty of feelings, nether excited nor sad, just occupied by a thought – how many pages upon pages of sentences answering obscure questions have I printed out (and then reprinted with my name spelt correctly), how many chapters have I photocopied (and then recopied because the photocopier stuffed it up the first time), how many pens have I chewed up here, how many staples, highlighters, bull clips? I can tell you exactly how many bull clips in fact; two - one to hold each copy of my unbound dissertation together. A dissertation surrended with only a little relief, and a lot of panic. Walking away I wondered to myself, how many books have I borrowed, ‘read’ in the cafe and returned late? How many words have I forced together with poor grammar and a complete disregard for the argument they amounted too? How many coffees have I had in this place, on the run, in the late afternoon sun, by the library moat; cheap and sugary, fuelling hours of procrastination and intellectual duals. I have probably spent months on buses and trains and cycling, back and forth. In storms, in searing heat, in wind and driving rain, wearing headphones, giggling at my book, highlighting countless journal articles... “And all for what?” I hear you shout, waving your arms, throwing exclamation marks. To learn, I answer defensively, to do what interested me, to understand the world a little better. To get cheap public transport, to lie under the trees by the river all afternoon discussing life in all its intricacies. I could console myself with the argument that my Bachelor of Arts with Honours in History improves my employment prospects, but that, at least most people would have me believe, is probably wishful thinking. So here’s the fact – at this moment, sitting by the fire in my aunties farmhouse in New Zealand, while it rains and howls outside, I have reached the very edge of my plan, and I have no idea what it was all for. I am goalless, ambitionless, with not a tiny blinking clue. I’ve only the vague notion that university for me, is now over, and the big questionmark of the rest of my life is in fact, the present moment.

To be continued....

“The beauty of the world has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.”Virginia Woolf

I’ve only ever been one person, and that is me.

It’s hard to decide what to do with nervous energy, so I’m typing. Fast, like a whirlwind, a flurry of taps. The noise is somewhat irritating. Much like waiting and worrying. I rode the train with my heart in my mouth, on my sleeve, beating haphazardly everywhere but where it was supposed to. It is a bad decision to drink coke when you are already nervous. But for want of something constructive to do, I cracked open a can and skulled 1/3 before I was really aware of what I was doing. I do not like this feeling, not that I suppose anyone really does. In fact I flat out hate feeling my guts spin like a washing machine while my heart pumps blood that burns like acid through every capillary. And there is nothing I can do. I’m fretting for someone else, for situations outside of my control.

It’s been a long time since I last wrote a blog, seems my time has been taken prisoner by deadlines and due dates that forbid even the most trivial procrastination. Or perhaps it is just that I’ve found a better way to procrastinate, namely by napping on riverbanks and falling away from negativity and into someone-in-particular. Someone-in-particular that has my guts twisted tight in little knots.

It’s amazing how much you can absorb someone else’s tension, be scared for them. It’s amazing to me anyway. It scares me in fact. What is that fear of? Fear of feeling I suppose. Of surrendering rationality to emotion. The fear is pointless of course, like most fear, but feeling is involuntary. It springs from some unconscious well deep within. Which is why it’s madness to chastise, persecute, mock or dare I say, hate, someone for something that they feel, or who they feel for. And yet we do, people do, and so people have to fear what people will think of them if and when they are honest about who they are.

Perhaps I’m talking in circles again, perhaps you know in essence the fear of which I speak. The fear that you will not be accepted for being yourself. For believing there is a god, or that you should be able to wear purple socks with green shorts or that Frank can love Scott without the whole-flippin-world disintegrating into a thousand sinful pieces. People just want to tell you how to live your life, at each and every turn. Them, they, the unspecified bulk of people I’m rampantly generalising about, don’t accept others for who they are because they have some conception of who they should be instead. Fuck knows how they could think that would be better. The only person they have ever been is themself, so why should they expect differently of others?

Perhaps, I’m sorry, I’m just thinking out loud again, speaking in type-fulls. The world, I think, is only ever terrible and wonderful at the same time. Two hands linked by the finest thread of heartstrings should be rejoiced in, but in some eyes there is only a checklist of what is right and wrong, what is accepted and normal, and what is therefore abnormal, unaccepted. Tolerance, acceptance – what are they, curse words? I know people, good people, people who live their lives with open hearts, and whose friendship and acceptance I cherish. If only, if only, the rest of the world had eyes like them.

People change, the world changes, and yet it all stays the same. In the History of the World according to Lea, the last 100 years have been a progression towards an ever more inclusive world.

Maybe in another 100 years the word ‘normal’ will be irrelevant and only ‘human’ will be heard.

Summer is over,

February is gone

March has a bite to it I’d rather not know

I walked past a shop window today and my heart leapt at the prospect of winter, jeans, jackets, scarves, yet summers hot breeze blew through my hair, persistently

Still, as usual Time is about its business, passing as it does
So I go about mine, filling it, chronicling it, wasting it, chasing it, remembering it...

I got a tattoo this summer,
It’s a spiral shape
A spiral because it is a symbol that is common across many cultures through time
It’s never ending cycles are supposed to symbolise growth, change, the cycles of life

This particular shape, to which I can attach so much meaning, is a fusion of old and new
It means something to me because it resembles how I view the world, and if i forget in my old age, it will at least represent my youth

I look at it every now and then and think shit, that’s there forever, or as long as I am.
And that’s ok. I hope I’m here for a long time

I fell out of love this summer – finally
I did not write my whole thesis like i had promised myself i would
But I did live this summer, for once I really did.

And now summer is over, and I'm more or less glad
because even if March has a sharp bite
Winter is coming, and that makes me smile.

It’s easy to avoid yourself when you’re busy, often you don’t even realise you are doing it.

But after a moments calm, when the pace of life slows for a time, the sound of silence fast becomes overpowering. Amidst the silent drone all you hear are those thoughts that bedevil you most, that yip and yap and fizz in your ears, altering the chemical balance of your brain, causing a mood swing so fast you practically clothesline yourself...

...someone makes a joke at your expense, when you are feeling just a tad too tired, a little bit over it, and like they pressed the eject button, you find yourself thrown sideways into a hall of mirrors...

You open your eyes and can’t avoid catching a glimpse of yourself - In an instant you are reacquainted with your insecurities, irrationalities, paranoia.

and like a guillotine it slices through you. You realise that despite being happy, alive and confident in your shoes; that same feeble, scared and battered being remains within you.

Thus you haunt yourself in the silence, in the dark and the quiet,

and in broad daylight your soul feasts upon itself, despite your most sincere protests.

I lie to hippies.

I’m walking along the street when I see them standing up ahead, almost looming tall above me, looking menacing with their fisherman’s pants and clipboards, I dance one step left, two steps right, but bam, he has me cornered.

So I tell them I’m already a member of their organisation, or some other organisation that does what they do, but a little differently... Why is that? Is it just because I haven’t factored the awkward little chat with dreadlocked hippy-harry who wants my money into my day? Surely it’s not because I don’t support what they do, and yet despite my glaring Hug a Tree T-shirt I know I don’t want to give them my money, not even so they can more productively show the trees some love.

I told Matt I had to admit, I have never heard what Greenpeace has actually achieved. I know what they try to do, what they want to do, what they protest against, but what have they actually done?

Well they got Kleenex to agree to stop using the Amazon Rainforest for manufacturing snot-rags,

That’s impressive.

They are on the ground in Papua New Guinea, teaching locals more sustainable logging practices

Ok...

They have a seat on the International Whaling Commission

(Hope it’s a comfortable chair...)

And they are active in campaigning for proper labelling of Genetically Modified foods in Australia

The list, he implies, goes on.

I don’t own a car and choose to cycle as much as possible. I’m vegetarian partly because its greener, I’ll sign petitions and espouse green views but I feel uncomfortable giving them my money, or paying Virgin Blue extra money so they will supposedly pay someone to plant trees to absorb the carbon emitted by my flight across the country. I’m cynical about ‘carbon neutral’ 4WD’s, whose owners have paid some company to plant trees so they can keep burning heaps of fuel and of political leaders who bicker incessantly over which of them will be the one to save the world. Should we have the Prime Ministers emissions trading scheme or the opposition leaders ‘practical policy’ of supporting renewable energy, or did we just want to take the Greek salad after all? I’m cynical about them because it’s obvious to me we need both. And its obvious to me, the more political rhetoric I absorb, that politicians are as useless as ‘tits on a bull’, to quote my mother.

And yet, I still don’t want to give Greenpeace my money. And let’s face it, if I lie to them, if even I who gives a shit about trees and climate change, about whales and baby orang-utans won’t give them my money – who the fuck will?

All this and more was running through my head as I walked away, but the thought that begun to take over, to annoy me no end, is pure frustration that there is always something in the back of my mind that seems to prevent me from believing wholeheartedly in anything. A permanent division inside that has me always hedging my bets, doubting, distrusting.

An allem ist zu zweifeln, said Karl Marx. Doubt everything.

But must I really?

[I regret to inform you that this blog will be left inconclusive]

Inhale the day.

It stinks of wastage.

Midmorning bed tangles smell like pillow and cosy blankets, spiced with a teasing lateness. You’re once again late, but for nothing in particular, except life in general.

The absence of a clear and logical approach to the day has a very particular fragrance, it smells of rambling bambling bumbling through the house. Picking up socks, putting down mugs, chewing toast, pressing play, shuffling papers. Much like the smell of dust it tugs at your nose hairs until you sneeze, Ah-choo.

The smell of avoidance floats through you head as you spray and wipe to clean out your brain. Dusting off the shelves, rearranging files... even as I close my eyes and turn the music up, tickling my nose is that scent, the insipid odour of wasting time.

It smells worse than the lady who crosses my path looking like a bottle of beer, all hips and fat neck and smelling like a cigarette packet. I, engaging in random acts of consumption, trace the smell of donuts to its source. The scent of a fake shopping mission billows after me and mingles with the sweat of other-peoples-productivity to only vaguely disguise idle spending.

The afternoon is heavy with the off putting aroma of regret and guilt and soon, the smell of a wasted day festers and simmers into the stench of a whole week that reeks sour of idleness and procrastination. The distinctly nauseating scent of failing no one but yourself burns as it rises through your nostrils. It causes a trickling, stinging nose bleed that masks the smell of holidays and chases away the light airy fragrance of a casual summers evening, leaving you sniffing, snorting, smelling blood.

No my dear, it doesn't make sense at all.

I’m sitting here listening to sweet music while wind sweeps around my head, like these thoughts sweep around my heart, my head, my deep

What are they? I don’t know.
I know I don’t trust enough sometimes to trust even myself

- Let alone other people

You are always scared people will lie to you, when you lie to them.


I’m sitting in my thinking chair
which is now my drinking chair,
which has been my crying chair, once when it was cold
it’s a wardrobe chair, most days of the week
and it would be a smoking chair, if
only if,
I had a pipe.

It’s a chair for poor poetry or sloppy prose
a chair for loneliness and happiness
hopelessness and fears
but right now it’s just a drinking chair
an I-won’t-cry-for-nothing chair
a chair to hide in,
to hope in
a wondering chair that doesn’t wander

And then the words escaped him, all of them – just left.
They slammed the door in his face and he was alone facing a wall, a blank wordless wall with not a clue what to do in their absence, after all, what was he without them?

All tubes and heartbeats and surging nameless nothings inside him...

Where do you turn when you don’t know where to begin,

how do you speak when there are no words left inside you?

How do you even breath without a name to call that which you inhale?

What am I, without words?

It’s just a crumbled page full of drunken words, she whispered. Stop reading so much into it.

Under the sea

Today was a Saturday.

I fully intended to get up with the sun and greet it, drink some lemon juice, snort some energising herbs and pull some muscles pretending I am a yogini.

At 7 I thumped my rude alarm clock in absolute disgust.

At 8.30 I rolled over surprised to notice it was bright in my room. That inconsiderate sun, thinks the whole damn world revolves around it.

At 9.30 I woke with a start. “Whythefuckamistillinbed?” I yawned.

At 10am I disentangled myself from my sheets and leapt ungracefully from bed. I should go snorkelling, I decided.

And I did. A phone call, some frantic searching for my bathers and cursing that I could not find my flippers later, and we were cruising along the coast in all its vast blue splendour. And it was particularly vast and blue this morning, not least because my eyes were still blurred with sleep.

My nose was still blocked from my recent bout of summer swine/bird/monkey flu, my voice sounded like someone elses entirely, but under the sea, in the water, I found that little piece of heaven we search for in the everyday.

*Everybody sigh*

Yes under the water, with the seaweed and the sand and the total lack of breathable oxygen, is a wonderful place to be. Time moves differently, or perhaps I simply stop noticing it because before my very eyes, a whole-nother world, so beautifully far removed from the world of history research... Whilst here, as a passing tourist in the underwater world, life is as simple as breathing, in and out. As simple as watching the fish watch me and drifting along seaweed cliffs...

Waking up underwater was all I needed. The rest of the day the memory of the morning carried me through. I did absolutely nothing I intended to do with my Saturday, and I had a tremendously wonderful day.

Amen to that ;-)

"Under the sea
Under the sea
Darling it's better
Down where it's wetter
Take it from me
Up on the shore they work all day
Out in the sun they slave away
While we devotin'
Full time to floatin'
Under the sea"
From the Little Mermaid (she should know)

The Dogwalker.

It is probably only on this street, in this neighbourhood, in this particular city, that a girl wearing headphones and ill-conceived shoes whilst walking a giant Labrador could be a recipe for disaster.

Yes, I think it’s only here, in this park, under these trees that people could see a shuffling figure in the distance, trying to walk while a large dog bounces around her in a tight circle slobbering “Ball, Ball, BALLL!!!!”, and practically scream for someone to stop them, stop them before they come any closer.

When I can’t think, I’m angry, sad, hung over, elated, confused, bored, procrastinating, tired, asleep, or even perhaps just feel like exercising, I take my dog for a walk. It doesn’t really matter when, how or what I’m wearing when I walk out of the house with the intention of taking Baloo for a walk, he knows it, like he feels it in the air, and before I’ve even grabbed the lead he’s gone stir-friggin-crazy.

He must sit at the gate though, or we won’t go. I have rules you see, and I’m in charge. But after he’s sat still for almost a whole second while I clip the lead on and open the gate, it’s all go again and as soon as the gate is open far enough for him to fit his fat head through, he leaps down the stairs like a horse over a jump and I lurch out after his wagging tail, every damn time.

First stop upon arrival at the park is to pee on this stump tree, and then this particular fence post, at which point he starts kicking up the dirt behind him, proudly proclaiming his presence in the park. Baloo loves the park. Whether the park loves him or not, is undecided. In the park there are friendly dogs with grumpy owners, mean dogs with apologetic owners, ugly dogs with kooky owners, ladies with matching dogs, dogs with tennis balls, owners with poopy-bags and the odd dogless walker or kid playing footy. And then there is Baloo, who I think, considers himself the welcoming party. Because Baloo is a happy dog, a non stop tail-wagging, infinite source of bounding energy that dashes across the park in a heartbeat to say hello, sniff-sniff, wanna play?

Which frankly, not everyone appreciates. Sadly, not everyone see’s the beautiful side of a gigantic Labrador sprinting at them, their toddler or worse still, their football. This is about when they scream stop, don’t come any closer.

But there’s no stopping the love, folks.

Except when daddy’s at home. Because sometimes, on very rare occasions, I decide I want to go for a walk and Baloo doesn’t actually agree, because Dad’s at home and Dad’s not coming. Not being one to take that kind of rejection, I insist we go anyway, and drag the strangely unenthusiastic Baloo out the gate. It doesn’t work out to be much fun for me, but the other people in the park must breathe a sigh of relief, because when they see that crazy kid and her big dog arrive at the park, and she lets the dog off the leash and turns around to change the song on her mp3 player... he sprints back home.

That poor crazy kid, the last they saw of her she was sprinting through the park, headphones bouncing around her neck, in pursuit of a golden Labrador, that menace, nightmare, child-licker, cutie, pretty boy, beautiful big, poo eater.

Waiting on the breeze.

I have given in to the heat. It’s been enveloping me all day, as it tends to at this time of the year, when it falls down upon this city for days at a time. I have succumbed to its bidding and ceased to try and do anything productive today. Instead I’m trying to keep exceptionally still, to concentrate on being immobile, and searching inside my mental world for an icy cold oasis, sweet like an icy pole, cool like the very opposite of the space within these four walls. I’ve sat at my desk, rested on the floor against my bed, positioned myself upside down and sideways on my couch, and from all angles it has become painfully apparent that the most productive thing my ceiling fan can do is make the shadows and the light flash spectacularly on my grey white ceiling. The pictures on my wall have risen, curled at the edges like the thoughts in my head. The numbing tones of Leonard Cohen are helping me keep still, still like a mouse, a dead mouse rotting in the putrid heat. Even the dog has been let inside, to rest on the tiles near the tired old air conditioner, which whirs away at the end of the house, so loud you can hear it trying, humming in its brackets from across the street. If you were stupid enough to go outside that is, and you’d have to be stupid, stupid like mad dogs and Englishmen.

Yep, you gotta love summertime.

Got to love those summer afternoons when you take one step outside the door and you’re bathed in sweat, when you venture outside to hang just one t-shirt on the line and your pale Anglo complexion is already rosy red and the shirt is not only covered in fly shit but dried crusty and faded from brown to yellow. When you roll down the street on your bicycle and you’ve got sweat coming out your ears, your thongs have melted into your feet and the tip of your nose, let alone the road, is hot enough to fry an egg on.

Summertime in Perth, a time not of love, but of rising tensions when it is as if, as I once heard someone say, God were trying to burn this city from the surface of his earth. Or at the very least, this is where his missus does the baking.

Right now while I try so hard to not exist I only sweat more, the wind outside is hotter than the air itself. I’m waiting for the wind to change and the breeze to arrive for the afternoon. For it to swing away from the steaming hills and race across the ocean, up the hill, through the park and in my front door where I will wait for it, like a long lost friend, with my nose pressed to the flywire, wait for the breeze to blow the mist from the sprinklers in against my skin...and when this oppressive heat is gone, perhaps to these stifling thoughts.

[This blog goes out to anyone freezing their arse off in the Northern Hemisphere, trust me if I could, I’d spam this heat to you.]