A 756km Roadtrip

"3X5" - John Mayer

Today was one hell of a road trip and I'm too tierd to explain why. I'll tell you that tomorrow. I'll also tell you more about the wedding. I'll probably tell you a lot more. There has been so much going on that I'm in a bit of a spin and can't seem to keep up with the writing necessary to keep you up-to-date. Not to worry. There's always tomorrow.

Since I'm so tired you're only going to get the bare basics.

Petrol - $45
Junk food - $25
Dinner with friends - $40
Not becoming a statistic - priceless.

After 756km, two near misses with trucks, being cut off by a four-wheel-drive and three close encounters with Canberra's wildlife, I'm still alive.

There's always something to be happy about.

JUST WATCHING THE WIND BLOW

"Deja Vu" - Something for Kate.

I should be writing. Instead I formulated a four-hour strategy to avoid sitting my butt down in a chair and going through my growing catalogue of rough drafts.

But, I tell myself, it's all about creating the right mood. So, instead of writing, I put together a RealPlayer playlist to ensure I'm not distracted. This took a little over an hour and consists of 107 clips including The Flaming Lips, Something for Kate, The Dave Matthews Band, The Whitlams, XTC, Barenaked Ladies, Ben Folds Five, The Starlight Mints and various other bits and pieces.

"But," you say, "That's only one hour accounted for". Well, the job itself took an hour however I managed to find a number of tasks to occupy the past five hours.

I washed up - all two dishes and three pieces of cutlery.

I cooked dinner - well it cooked itself but I had to get up and check it every five minutes.

I've read my entire list of favourite blogs - Ftrain; News, Rants, Solioquies and Reveries; Un; Vanessa Berry World; Southern Cross Words; Scribbling.net plus at least five others that I'll insert on republishing later but I'm sick of writing this paragraph now.

I've read almost every link leading from my favourite blogs - see above and times it by about five.

I've watched approximately 30 minutes of TV - that's not to say I sat down and watched it. I walked into the lounge room, looked at the TV for a few minutes, came back in an sat in front of the computer and then repeated at odd intervals.

I bit my nails - self-explanatory.

Sent emails to friends - see above.

Worried about two projects I'm working on - related to emails and nail biting but otherwise none of your business.

Drank three coffees - who needs sleep?

Ate my dinner - horrible.

Washed up my plate - from dinner.

It's the cycle of procrastination. I should be writing, we both know that. Yet I've just spent the past 20 minutes writing about the fact I should be writing.

I have the music, let's dance.

LIBERATION

"Best Imitation of Myself" - Ben Folds Five

"I feel like a quote out of context, withholding the rest, so I can be for you what you wanna see. I've got the gestures, sounds, got the timing down, it's uncanny, yeah you think it was me."

I've just spent three days with the extended family. Stretching the legs of this new Boswell. I'm still not sure if it'll stand up to the criticisms. My courage deflated, my objectives obscured by petty squabbles and misunderstandings.

But the extended weekend wasn't a total loss.

I have one cousin who I love more than air and who I haven't seen for about six years. The last time I saw him he was a child but over the years he has grown into a strong man. He is who he is. Self-sufficient, powerful in his presence and courageous in a way I one day hope to be. Of all of my family I had worried about him the most simply because he seemed the most overlooked and mistreated. But he has borne it on his broad shoulders and it has given him a strength of character that I am envious of.

I had thought about him in my darker moments as the one I most let down.

It shocked me to discover that he doesn't need me. I don't mean that he's discarded me, just that he can stand on his own two feet. He doesn't need anyone to complete him, to fix him or to hold him up.

Now I wonder if he isn't the luckiest of us all.

My family carries its share of burdens - depression, addictions, abuse (all of which I will explore when I am more confident here) - the typical swag. And each member has the scars to prove it. I can see his scars but instead of wearing them as proof that he's a martyr he wears them as a badge of honour. And so he should.

I don't know when I'll see him again. Not soon enough. But now it's ok. I'll no longer worry about him, I'm no longer concerned that he's fallen by the wayside.

That's not to say that I'm not here should he need me. Quite the opposite. If he asked me to drop everything and come running then I would. If he asked for my heart then I would give it to him willingly. No hesitation. No questions. I just would.

He's my cousin and I love him. I'm glad that I got the chance to say that to him, I'm glad I got to apologize for taking so long to say it. He quietly listened and let me unload my guilt at not being there for him when he needed me. Oddly enough I got the feeling he bore my guilt on those shoulders, easing my burden. All with minimal effort.

We said our goodbyes and I couldn't help but be eternally grateful for what he gave me. Though I don't know that he understood what a gift it was. I'm now free to love him without feeling responsible for him.

It's liberating to learn someone you love doesn't need you.

ARE YOU THERE GOD? IT’S ME BOSWELL.

“God” – Sean MacDonald

Ok, so we’ve discussed the nature of reality and philosophy. Let’s jump headfirst into religion.

God. Is there or isn’t there one?

If there is a God, who’s right – is he the Jewish God, Catholic, Christian, Protestant, Buddha, Muslim, Hindu, etc etc?

If there isn’t a God, then why and how are we here?

If you think for a second I have any answers, then think again, but these recently raised questions reminded my of an argument my father used to have with atheists:

“Who created the world?” he’d ask them with a mocking interest.

They would scratch their heads and give long detailed descriptions of how the world was created from dust particles in the universe.

“Where did those dust particles come from?” For some odd reasons these boffins would be so wrapped in their debate they couldn’t see where he was going. They’d tell him about disintegrating stars and the various forces of the universe, spilling forth a barrage of facts and figures and proof that their belief was founded in science and fact. Just for added proof they'd throw in how random events led to the emergence of human beings and how impossible it would be for anything similar to ever emerge again, anywhere in the universe.

“Oh,” he’d say and pause for the effect as though he had been struck by their argument. “Where did the universe come from?” The atheist would hesitate and give what little scientific knowledge was available but would have to admit science hadn't uncovered much on that, emphasising "yet".

“And these forces that created the universe, where did they come from?”

The atheist would pause, grappling for something to fill in the gaps of their limited knowledge and eventually have to admit they didn’t know. But they would remain adamant that it couldn’t possibly be an all-powerful being. And a guy with a white beard sitting on a cloud was just ridiculous. The atheist would huff and puff but their inability to have the answers would shake the foundation of their beliefs and they’d slink away. Deflated and confused.

In my eyes, my father's beliefs were stong, logical and impossible to refute and I used to love these conversations. Deep thinking debates that would not only prove that my father was a superior reasoner but also that he was capable of talking so confidently that anyone he dealt with was unknowingly cornered into one of his traps. This is a skill I now use to reason with myself, setting tiny traps as i go. The method weeding out any inconsistencies in my thinking.

Why tell you this? Everyone has to believe in something. Everyone. But I am trying to make my beliefs into a narrative and it just won't come. Remembering this story I wonder if I have to or if I even have a single, static core of belief.

Every species evolves and it stands to reason that the human should evolve too, not only physically but also emotionally and spiritually. Remember that old saying “the only constant in the universe is change”. I want to breathe it in and deal with the undeniable fact that whether I like it or not there is no answer to be found.

But I can't just accept that. I want to evolve. I want to read more, write more and ask so many questions that I reach a point I can’t find an answer. Then I know I only have to find an answer to one more question and I’ll understand everything.

Only then will I know why I’m here.

"Boss of Me" - They Might Be Giants.

It's been a busy week. I mean busy. For someone who hasn't found a job yet I'm struggling to find a spare moment in the day (mind you I've always got those spare eight hours when other people are sleeping).

There's a lot going on. I've been writing, just not here. I've been talking with some really nice people about stuff I'm not ready to reveal just yet. I've been on the phone with second-hand dealers trying to off-load my stuff. I've been on the back of the lazy-arse real estate agent who is determined to keep me locked in my lease as long as possible. I've been discussing my future living arrangements and potential jobs for when I get back to Sydney.

I'd write more here and now but I've got articles to write (three which have real prospective markets) and two short stories which are shaping up nicely (which you may or may not get to see).

If I'm not going to tell you anything then why am I writing? Well, just to let you know it's working. And by 'it' I mean this blog. I'm begining to see things in narrative again. The writing itself leaves a lot to be desired and if I find one more error in an old post then I'll probably scream, shortly before republishing it.

I have to remind myself - stop rambling, don't over-explain, think quality not quantity. Start writing. It hasn't sunk in yet, but I'm working on it.

We've still got a long way to go but at least this is a strong first step.

ANTICIPATION

"Hold On" - Sarah McLaughlin

I have a friend in Sydney who called me last night. World-weary and tired.

"We'll be hit, it's inevitable," he says. His voice is heavy and I can tell it's something that's been playing on his mind.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, I'm only 30kms from Sydney and then there's Lucus Heights. I'm just waiting for terrorists to take out a street in Sydney or hit the nuclear facility and I'll hear the bang and be grateful I wasn't any closer. Then I'll feel bad because all these people will be hurt or dead and my first thought was `thank God I wasn't there'. Or I think that I'll be driving across the [Sydney Harbour] bridge and it'll fall away from under the car and that will be it."

We both went quite. It had been one of those undiscussed topics of the past 12 months. The anticipation of when Sydney's going to be next. While I had been able to pretend like it wasn't an issue, like the notion never entered my thoughts, he had been driving to work wondering if today was the day.

He broke the silence. "I can still see them," he admits, his voice fading. "Falling from the twin towers. I know it's been two years, but I can still see them. I look up at Sydney's buildings and then I think, we're next."

I really didn't know what to say. I didn't want to discuss this, I didn't want to consider that every day my friend drove into work I'd lose him. I didn't want to dredge up the memory of the six-month fog I'd lived in after the attacks. Instead, I bit my lip and tried to cling to the philosophy I'd constructed so that I could move on.

"You can't live your life in fear, I mean what if it never happens. Then you've wasted all that time worrying for nothing. Then the terrorists have hit you whether they plant a bomb or not," my voice is strong, confident, determined.

"I know and I try not to think about it," he sighs heavily. "But I'm still afraid."

THE CHEAP WINE WARS

“The Mayor of Simpleton” - XTC

The body’s utter rejection of cheap wine comes in three distinct stages.

At first it is more than accepting of the beverage of choice – in this particular instance a cask of dry white wine – the sweet golden flavour floating down the throat. Tingling the senses.

You’re chatty and friendly and largely happy with your choice. After all, you’ve saved a pretty penny by getting four litres of wine for only $10 and the picture on the box was cute.

But all is not well. Your body does no agree and rejection begins with olfactory hesitation. That is, the second you get wind of the chosen beverages sweet acidic scent by around glass five your eyes water a little, you lips purse and you’re finding it difficult to actually force your lips to part and accept the fluidic gift.

You’re chatty demeanour becomes thoughtful retrospection. But that’s OK, the room’s dimmed along with you and no one has noticed. And you’ve had enough to consider this a temporary setback and continue to gulp down the urine-coloured fluid that has taken on a slightly sour, burning taste.

The second stage requires the drinker to show their grit and determination in a force-feeding frenzy. Your eyes water, your nose runs, your throat closes. But you’ve come this far and by God you’re not going to let your body hold you back. Obviously, the process also affects your brain because through an inner dialogue you find the logical rejection of the drink by your body, illogical.

You’re chatty again but what you are talking about could be easily mistaken for verbal sewerage as your words link together, you become passionate about the colour of your couch and are willing to fight to the death that red is perfect and everyone else’s couches suck and you’re willing to get up an scream, “I think John Howard is doing a sterling job,” even though you’re a Labor voter.

At the end it’s your stomach that rules the cheap wine wars.

At first it merely makes you aware that all other sense may have been overcome and deceived but that it will not be dissuaded. Once the alcohol has settle and looks set to make a comfortable home coursing through your veins, your stomach points out, rather violently, that the mixture of cheap wine, ice cream and pasta just won’t cut it.

First it’s a burp. Little gaseous grunts that gurgle up through your throat and taste like dirt soaked in sulphuric acid. The burping becomes more pronounced and now your company, who until this point has been comfortable with the wine-induced transition now realise that it’s time to go home.

The wander off to their own lives. Taxis, walking or driven by the sulky designated driver who’s been glaring at you for the past two hours from their comfortable and healthy position on a high horse.

Now the house is dark and quiet. All that can be heard are the chirping crickets that seem to be getting louder and louder and louder still until you have to turn on the stereo to drown them out. The room is spinning and you find it difficult to navigate your way through the door. But it’s OK, you’ll be fine. You tell yourself – out-loud because your inner-monologue packed up and left around drink 12.

Stage three: complete and utter rejection is swift.

Your toes feel it first, curling under and pushing themselves forward. Your knees buckled by the full-body force that has swivelled your hips and pushed you into a horseshoe shape. You know what’s coming, you can feel the vacuum force.

Your stomach surrenders the cheap wine, ice cream and pasta combination with the assistance of internal organs who are pushing in unison against the tiny stomach and expelling its contents.

You know the rest so I won’t bore you with that. Suffice to say there was cleaning up to be done this morning and apologies to be made.

I also don’t feel so well right now.

RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU'RE UNWORTHY

"So Glad" – Boyd Tinsley

Ah, my darling D has come to my aid again. I know I've bitched about his inability to understand me but it's a gift to have a friend like this. The kind of friend that would put everything on hold for you. He may not have understood my passion for writing but that was my mistake, and I’m sure I’ve explained that in pointless repetition. Other than that he knows all of my secrets. It’s rare that you can meet someone who loves you when they still know all of your faults, fears and failings.

It’s at these times you realise just how blessed you are so: D, while I know that many a time I’ve been a massive bitch to you, I’ve said things and done things because I was going through a personal hell and didn’t think you would understand, this is my universal apology. I’m not saying it won’t happen again, I’m a complicated gal, but right now I want you to know that I love you and no matter what I say or do you are the most valuable friend I have ever and will ever have known. I know, because of you, that I am blessed.

(I really need to create my blog guidelines – but since I haven’t yet then I’m allowed to place personal messages. Get off my back.)

In my current situation (the furniture is set to get sold tomorrow so that I can pay the rent) he has been my saving grace. As soon as I get out of this lease which I pray will be within the next month then I am homeless. I don't want to have to return to the parents. I don't want to be living out of my car (which would be preferable to the loving however suffocating parents). He, in his kindness, has offered me a room.

Now I know of the treachery here. Many a friendship has been dashed by living together:

"Did you take out the bins," she asks. "I forgot," he replies, margarine from soggy toast dribbling off his chin. "But it's full," she's standing there with her hands on her hips. "Don't worry, I'll take it out tomorrow."

She huffs and puffs and wants to blow his head off with reprimands. He's not pulling his weight and she's taken over all the household responsibilities. She wonders if he's ever even heard of the vacuum cleaner or if the blue-green mass of six-month old vegetable matter at the bottom of a fridge is about to develop sentience. She wonders how and when they became friends and if they'll ever be able to see beyond the mound of crap, in an ever-growing heap on the kitchen counter between them, to go back to that friendship.

Yes, I have my reservations. I'm terrified I'm going to piss him off. And to clarify, in that little excerpt, I'm the guy and he's the gal. I don't do well with the domestic duties. I don't do well with keeping track of the age of vegetables basically because if it ain’t frozen I don't know how to cook it.

But then it comes down to one thing – choices. I don’t’ have a lot of those right now and I need to rely on my friends. I’m lucky that I have them to fall back on. And I refuse to feel guilty and unnerved at the prospect of having to rely on these people. Everyone, at least once in their life, need to call for help. Why should I be afraid to put my hand up and call for the lifeguard?

Look at me guys, I’m drowning not waving.

I'M NOT SURPRISED, ONE BIT

"Bone of Contention" - I don't know.

Ah, hello, did anyone remember we went to war not so long ago?

There's just something about Australia's laid-back attitude. You're always guaranteed that no matter how passionately angry and frustrated the voters may have been with the current government's decision to blindly rush into a war with Iraq that after a few months, a few coddling words, they'll forget about it.

Or, at the very least, not feel that strongly about it to protest vocally. But that's OK, they'll show their anger at the polls, right? Right?

7000 people turned up at 12 month world-protest against the Iraqi war today - Sydney Indymedia - a pitiful turnout when compared to the 50,000 of last year.

If ever there was a clearer argument against compulsory voting then this was it - Australian's stand up and fight, twelve months later Australians sit down and frown about things, four years down the track Australians vote as their parents did.

I'm not generalizing. I'm not saying all. But for crying out loud - if those of you who were against the war with Iraq can't stand by your convictions 12 months later really, can you be trusted to vote with your conscience even further down the track.

THAT WAS JUST PISSING ME OFF.

SCREAM IF YOU WANT TO

"Hey Man Nice Shot" - Filter

"Hey, we've got a story here about and aunt who shut the jacket of her two-year-old niece in the door of her car and dragged her for 2kms." Editor calls back to international pages layout. "Do we have a pic of the distraught aunt or something?" Layout asks. "No unfortunately but I'd still like to give it a bit of prominence. How about a two-deck header on the lead page?" "Not a problem."

I'm sitting at my monitor reading through some dry finance material. Their words hit me like sledge hammer. That could have been me, my niece, my darkest hour.

"Damn," she swears. "There's been a bombing in Bagdad. 200 dead. Now I'll have to redo the layout for page 12."

Her casualness hits me in the chest and there's an ache that I can't place. Maybe I'm coming down with something. But I know it's not the flu. I could have known someone there, one of my friends could have been walking down the street and, now, he's a matter of frustration for a layout sub.

I've had enough of the death and dying and casual presentation of these "statistics". Doesn't anyone get angry any more? Doesn't anyone want to scream? Doesn't anyone want to consider, for a second, that these are human beings and not just headlines and numbers?

These facts are flying at us. Death, destruction, pointless antagonism. And no one's doing anything. Except trying to fit it into the appropriate space on a page or neatly cut between commercials for things we don't need but advertisers are trying to convince us we do.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

That's done. I've had enough. There's a colourful box in the middle of Canberra and I've been told if you scream at it it changes colour. That's where I'm off to. If you're in Canberra in the next 40 minutes - that person screaming is me.

I've got to lighten up. I've got to shake the cobwebs from my head and try, try to forget this crap. Try to forget being a journalist and that world. It's over. I've moved far away from it all and intend to stay this far away. I came to this state, or territory, to get away from that life.

I shouldn't be hard. They're just trying to cope too. The people I worked with were wonderful, compassionate people. They just had a gift for turning it off, because the "greater good was served" by what they did. They could see the bigger picture, but I seemed stuck in the moments.

I mean because of the prominence of the article aunts will be checking the door's clear and that there nieces and nephews are clear of a moving car. Redoing page 12 would mean people won't think of Bagdad as a possible holiday destination. I know why the media reports all this stuff, I understand. But day after day after day after day of looking at these incidents as merely page fillers became a dark way to live for me.

I could never turn it off. At 3am I'd be seeing that aunt standing over the mangled body of her niece with her face distorted in grief. And that baby, bloody and torn, was my niece. I'd cradled her in my arms but she wouldn't wake up. I'd screamed but no one heard. I'd done that, it was me. Sitting on a curb somewhere just staring at the lifeless form before me. And I'd cry myself to sleep knowing that in the grand scheme of things this beautiful creature was taken from the world while somewhere, someone was sitting back wondering if they had pictures.

Let the world spin without me for a while. I'm going on a mental holiday (of course I may already be gone in which case I'll see me there).

ELSEWHERE

“Where Do I Begin” – Jill Sobule

There’s this massive sense of isolation in this house. It echoes but the sounds that reverberate around the room aren’t mine. They’re alien sounds. The clip of my dog’s claws on the tiles, the crack of the house as it settles and the whine of the fridge as it mutters quietly to itself.

These are the voices that won’t let me sleep at night.

Adding to my distraction is the fact I can sense all these people around me but I can’t reach out and touch them. My friends move on with their lives in Sydney, Ontario, Queensland and London. They’re there and I hear from them regularly either over the phone or through emails. But in my own isolation I am beginning to picture their lives. I wonder what they’re doing, where they’re going. The mundane things like brushing their teeth and shopping. Or worse, I know what they’re doing I can feel them moving around me like I’m a ghost.

Right now it’s 5am in Toronto. I know that a friend of mine, J, is getting up and getting dressed for the early shift at Tim Hortons. I know he has a large black cat and that he runs his hand along its spine as it arches up to greet him. I know that he’ll have a quick shower and stand naked in his bedroom, freezing, as he tries to find his shirt that was thrown off last night with careless abandon. His pale skin all goose fleshed and the water is rolling off him but he’s focused on his task and just let the drops fall, wiping them occasionally from his eyes. He won’t even fold his arms across his chest to generate some warmth so he’s shaking like a leaf. He’s in too much of a hurry.

He only shaves every other day and today is the day he won’t. I know he has to walk 14 blocks to work and that he’ll run out of time for breakfast so he’ll have to grab a coffee and one of yesterday’s bagels when he gets there.

These things I know, I’ve seen him do them at least 80 times (I can actually quantify it – we lived together for 86 days.) And for part of the day I’m there with him, whether he knows it or not.

Each hour I look at the clock and I’m somewhere else, with someone else, stepping invisibly into the worlds of friends and families. That’s what isolation does. I miss them, their smells and their sounds. Everything. But I wonder about the nature of reality in these moments. Is it possible that I am there, that I have willed myself somewhere I so desperately want to be? Sometimes it’s almost tangible. My temperature drops and I shiver, I feel hurried and disorientated and then I see them and realise I’m supposed to be in this room as they wipe sleep from their eyes and drag themselves to the bathroom.

But the visits are brief and just as quickly I’m back here.

“Leave me Be” - Posies

Another short story written tonight in less than an hour. I'm impressed with myself.

AFTERMATH

His eyes were bleary. The alcohol and the hour had beaten him to the punch and he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

When he woke he peeled his face from the spittle-stained pillow and glanced around the room through the thin slits of his barely opened eyes.

The clock’s red digits screamed at him while, for a moment, he thought the DJ was talking to him directly. 7.45am.

He closed his eyes and ignored the shadows and visions that danced across his translucent eyelids. Dark and light, multicoloured swirls that pained him. Threads of his part dream-like, part conscious state.

He’d have to get up. He couldn’t not go to work again.

But as he dozed he let the debate rage through his head. He’d run out of excuses lately. He had the flu last month; his dog was hit by a car last week and they hadn’t accepted that but he stayed off work anyway. Yesterday he’d told them he’d broken his wrist. That was a good one except they’d asked for a doctor’s certificate and he hadn’t had the time to fabricate one.

They’d catch up with him sooner or later.

Again.

But his thinking was numb and it rolled through his skull without any attachment. He was able to process these thoughts without being fully aware of the debate that occupied him so thoroughly.

When he finally resolved to open his eyes it was already 8.

“Crap,” there was no one to hear the curse. Not since she’d left. It’d been two months since she’d had enough of his shit and packed her things and gone.

“What do you want me to say?” He’d asked accusingly. “Tell me what you want to hear and I’ll say it, I’ll fucking well say what ever it is you’ve been waiting for.”

She’d been at him for weeks to tell her what had been going on. She’d wanted him to open up and be honest and tell her why he was walking around the house like a ghost.

“What’s the point?” was her reply. She’d thrown her clothes and other bits and pieces into a red Roots bag. Moving through the house like a whirlwind and scooping up anything and everything she could in one quick motion. “We’ve been seeing each other for two years and you’ve got no idea what I want, what I need, from you.”

“You’re right,” he’d screamed. “Just tell me and then I’ll know. God, I’m not a mind reader.” Yes, he’d been distant. He’d been cold. There were ideas rolling through his head that didn’t have words. Concerns. No, not concerns, doubts. But they were about him, not her. They weren’t her problem and he didn’t want to appear weak in front of her. He didn’t want to admit to anyone that he was lost. That he feared he always would be.

He knew what she wanted but wasn’t in a position to give it to her. Not freely. Not without some sort of guarantee she wouldn’t run screaming from the building if she knew the truth.

She’d slammed the door when she left. Frustrated. He couldn’t blame her.

In her haste she had left behind bits and pieces that he now searched for whenever he entered the room. A magazine he’d never read, one shirt he had folded and placed in a draw, her mascara, a pair of shoes. These were stupid items that he had attached a degree of sentimentality to and couldn’t throw out.

And she hadn’t come back for them.

The snooze alarm penetrated his skull. He rolled over and looked at the clock again before slapping it until he regained comprehendible thought. It was 8.30.

If he got out of bed now then he would be late but he’d be there. He’d be able to occupy his day without having to walk around the house aimlessly. Washing up without need, mopping the tiles, making the bed. Work would mean he wouldn’t have to think about anything other than the task at hand.

But, he admitted to no one but himself, he hadn’t been concentrating there either. He’d walked around the office looking as though he was incredibly busy. All of his work was done, albeit sloppily. They couldn’t complain about that. Or they could but he wouldn’t hear them. He wouldn’t care.

What he couldn’t accept was that it was her at the root of his distraction. This was all about him. She was just another in a long line of women who didn’t understand him, who didn’t accept him for who he was.

Then, that voice, her voice, all of their voices, crept into his head and wouldn’t leave until he had swung his feet over the edge of the bed and felt the cold tiles beneath his feet. Until he had opened his eyes and scanned the deserted room.

“It’s not me, it’s you.”

He hated them. All of them. So much so that he had loved his past loves with a dangerous conviction. The women he had taken to his bed, into the public viewing area of his life, were everything he had ever wanted. He just knew they deserved better. Whatever that was.

8.45am. His eyes fixed on the red glow. 8.46. 8.47. 8.48. 8.49. Still he couldn’t find the strength in his legs to stand, to move, beyond that half-hunched position on the edge of his bed. 8.50. 8.51. 8.52.

What difference would it make? What difference would one more day make?

Still he couldn’t move. He couldn’t lift his legs back into bed and he couldn’t stand. There he sat like a statue. 8.53. 8.54. 8.55.

He decided to tell them it wasn’t a broken wrist. That he hadn’t had the flu. And that he’d never owned a dog in the first place.

He decided to tell them the truth.

But he’d need another day in bed to figure that out and another night drinking to try to create a new truth that he could hold onto.

WHO NEEDS SLEEP?

"Twoism" - Boards of Canada.

When it’s 4.30 in the morning and you haven’t slept for two days, this makes sense. All of it. The blurry screen and the nonsensical writing to no one. No one. Everyone becomes a fictional character and you're the only one who's real. My life is a story. The Matrix is real, the Matrix is real.

Anyway,

Things you can do when you have insomnia:

1. Search the names of everyone you know or have heard of on the internet. (which can be stretched for 5-6 hours if you're particularly dedicated) because you just have to know that.

2. Research insomnia so you have a full understanding exactly what they call the fact you’re awake for the third night in a row with only four hours sleep across the middle of the day.

3. Research hypervigilance – apparently the cause of your insomnia.

4. Consider writing and decide against it because you’re not exactly thinking clearly.

5. Try to catch a full, head-on look at the dark, other-worldly creatures that keep sliding out of sight in the corner of your eye. (That's right, I know you're there.)

6. Consider going to bed then notice you haven’t put out the garbage so your really should do that first otherwise it might attract cats through the gaps under the door or you might get an unexpected visitor tomorrow and they'd be shocked that you have garbage.

7. Consider going to bed but notice that you’re suddenly really, really hungry and need to make a tuna sandwich, maybe pasta or coffee because God knows you need caffine right now.

8. Right now is the perfect time to search for THAT song, you know the one that goes la la do do something-or-other. The chorus has been rolling through your head all day.

9. Read a book. Even if you’re not going to remember it because you’re exhausted and not so good with the comprehension skills right now.

10. Consider going to bed and then think, maybe I really need a list so I know what to do next time I’ve got insomnia. I mean it's not like I'm going to remember any of this if I don't.

11. OK right now is also the perfect time to run that hour long virus scanner or download some massive file off the net. And of course you'll have to wait until it's done to monitor its progress.

When all of this is done, repeat.

I’m thoroughly exhausted and I keep considering sleep. I think about it and think about it and think oh, look over there I forgot all about that. Think some more. Give up on thinking and let the brain stew pointlessly over things you can’t change right now. But you’d like to. Sort of. Then you admit to yourself that the reason you’re not going to sleep is not because physically you can’t but because you won’t let yourself. You refuse to. Physically you’re a wreck but you don’t care. You’re going to see that sunrise. You’ve already promised yourself that much. Besides, oh look at that, you really, really need to write that down straight away.

And there it was.

BLISSFULLY FLOATING DOWN DENIAL

“Never Do Anything” – Barenaked Ladies

All right, I think I’ve made it through all the stages of the initial shock of unemployment. I think it’s done with.

A few facts I have to face before I can get my act together:

1. I do not want to sell my furniture. I have too. The Waldon inspired notion of leaving it all behind is well and good but honestly, who really wants to lose the security of a well-furnished house? It’s not that I’m particularly materialistic. I think it’s more the fact I have to sell it rather than I’m choosing to. I’ve been trying to convince myself it doesn’t bother me. But it does.

2. I do not want to change careers. I like being a journalist and enjoy the pressure of deadlines, the power of the interview and doing research to uncover something about a person that no one else has. I liked the idea of a suit as a uniform of authority and only mildly minded taking out the literal nose ring. I loved fighting for that great story when the business pressures bore down on you. When I began journalism I wanted to find the metaphoric aliens under the White House. Those rare gems of information. I still do.

3. There are no journalism jobs available in Australia. We have three newspaper networks – Newsltd, Fairfax and Rural Press – all three are under staff freezes because they want to expand into other media avenues. The staff freezes are permanent. Therefore;

4. I have to find a new line of work. There are no alternatives at this point. While I will continue to look for journalism positions I will have to explore other avenues. Jumping the fence to PR, teaching English or secretarial work. I will also continue to work towards freelance jobs but that will take time and it’ll probably be a while before I’m making any real money.

5. I must continue with my writing and reading. Now that I’ve been given this back I can’t forget ever again. It’s the only thing that makes me truly happy.

So I need to rebuild my world, with a more balanced structure. Those romantic notions of becoming a writer, sitting on that hill and counting train cars and finding the meaning of life, are not only impractical they’re also pretty boring. You can only search for the unobtainable for so long before your mind wanders (damn Kafka). You can only find meaning in life by living – so it goes.

Simple pointers for the next time I’m unemployed – Waldon by Thoreau and The Castle by Kafka are two books to be avoided; ice cream and cheap wine is not a meal; popcorn is not a meal; shower once a day and eat more than once a day; when you start talking to the TV it’s time to get out of the house and meet with some real people; answer the phone occasionally and; if you box up everything you own in the first day you’ll just end up having to unpack it all again to get out the soap, shampoo and toilet paper.

Meanwhile my friends and family are all going crazy around me. I seem to be floating through this, riding the ups and downs like Tsunami waves, but they’re not dealing. They’re the ones who are drowning. It’s a case of them trying to show their support by telling me what I should do. It’s like being part of their life they need me to be a certain way so that their lives don’t change. They’re scared for me, I understand that. However, I can’t be responsible for their discomfort.

In contrast I am calm. This chaos seems to be coming into focus. Making sense. Pulling itself together to paint a new picture that I’m quite happy to be part of.

This isn’t something to be down about. I can literally do anything I want to do. All of the doors are open for something new and unexpected. It may be a friend or it may be a foe but it won’t be anything I’d expected.

How dull would life be if without these little deviations?

AN INTERVIEW WITH MR TOAD

"Sweet Surrender" - Sarah McLachlan

I had a job interview today and I had gone along with high hopes. It was a media marketing company that had expressed interest in my resume. I was farely confident because of the quick response but as the day began to spiral downwards I knew there was no way of walking away with my sanity, let alone a job.

I had dressed appropriately with smart black pants, a blue striped top (blue and white, it's not as hideous as it sounds) and a smart black jacket. As I pulled around the streets looking for the place I received a call. Potential Boss wanted to know where I was because, according to his diary, I was supposed to be there at 2.30pm. He had told me 3. He was smarmy "Well, I'll take your word for it this time." I already hated the guy. As I jumped from the car my resume slipped from my hands and scattered onto the car park asphalt. I swore but just threw it back into my car and decided to go it without supporting documentation. As I stretched for that final document, a testament to my years in the profession, the button popped off my pants. Not good.

So I jogged down to the building holding onto my pants that threatened to give in to gravity, my confidence all but sapped away.

When I arrived it was a nice looking place, an old converted cottage. Potential Boss approached me from down the long corridor with his soft white hand stretched out. I knew at that second nothing woulc come of this meeting. He was cold to the touch and I could swear I could feel him squelch when I squeezed his dead-fish hand.

He was a pug-ugly little bastard standing at least four inches shorter than me (I’m 5”6’) wearing a blue business shirt that flopped around the folds of his plump gut and gave the hint of man boobs. He had a balding head that would have been completely acceptable had he not taken that mass of wispy hairs and combed them neatly into the shape of a bird’s nest. The concave little hole a perfect frame for the bare white scalp beneath it. He wore no tie which was probably a good idea because it would have only accentuated that he had no neck and three, with the hint of a fourth, chins.

Now I'm no oil painting, that's a story for another entry, but he made me look stunning in comparison.

Squat little toad of a thing he hoisted himself up to sit in one of the puffy black leather chairs that slid in an undignified manner across the over-polished floorboards like a drunken dancer. His outstretched toes the only thing anchoring the chair in place.

His too-pale blue eyes peered at me through folds of skin that flapped together whenever he blinked. At any second, I was convinced, a long tounge would dart out from between his thin little lips and catch one of the two flies circling the room.

"Well, I'm just wondering if there's anything you'd like to add to your resume," He hissed.

"Oh yeah, did I mention those extra 10 years of experience I forgot to put in there," I thought sarcastically. "Um," I floundered. "What do you need to know?"

Then the interview went on. He didn't really want to know much just what I thought they did there and what I would bring to the office environment.

What pains me at this point was that the interview took five minutes and in that time he told me "well, you don't have the experience we are looking for but thanks for coming in." What the fuck? I walked out in a daze. He had my resume, he knew what I'd done, why in the hell had he called me in for?

I'd be miserable about it but i just can't. In fact I haven't stopped laughing. The image of myself scrambling for paper work, the popped button, the squelchy handshake and dancing chairs.

It's all too funny to be disappointing.

A LITTLE BIT OF PURPOSE

"Standing Still" - Jewel

I have this vague notion. I want to write. That's why I'm here, you know it and I know it. I have a non-stop inner dialogue that wants to be heard.

But it's a vague notion none-the-less. I am currently working to surround myself with writers I admire. To rebuild a world I let go to ruin over the past couple of years. And I've taken steps in that direction over the past couple of weeks.

The words are coming, slowly. And it's a constant battle to remind myself that these things take time. I can't expect it to all come flooding back in one massive hit. But now I'm just waiting and waiting for something to happen. I don't know what but something. Perhaps divine inspiration or an editor to walk in the door.

This is going to be very hard.

I crave movement, action, adventure. I always have and for the past five years have battled against the urge simply because it's something others didn't want for me. My family wanted me to find a man, settle down and have a nice secure little job. I never did. That wasn't for me. Still I did it, I was a good little girl. My friends wanted me to live the same life they had attached themselves to. 9-5 jobs with regular pay cheques and a house full of fantastic furniture. They're happy and I wouldn't wish it any other way for them. But I'm not happy in this world.

I love my family and I love my friends. They are remarkable and a non-stop source of inspiration for me. They have supported me no end. But they're struggling now and that's my fault. I have spent my entire life being who I thought I should be for them. I've never really been me. This new Boswell is something of a shock.

While I have attempted in the past to tell them this, to show them this side of me I gave up at some point and began to play a role for them. I can't do it any more.

I know, it's massively deep but that's why I'm here. I said when I began this blog that I didn't know what it's purpose was. Now I know. It's going to be, like so many others, the journey of someone who's about to find their voice.

What do I want to say? Now that's a good question.

DOWN WITH THE ROOSTERS

"Laugh in Their Faces" - Whitlams

The past two days have been amazing. My darling D came to visit and it was just wonderful having someone to run around town with. To be a little foolish in the face of my woes.

We spent Saturday in Kingston, sipping coffee, eating lemon meringue pies (the diet re-starts on Monday), stealing sugar sachets and criticizing the pretentious middle-classed Canberrans.

During our shopping spree we did what we could to confront the middle class bigotry - dressing down we ventured into "exclusive" shops and pawed through their valuable possessions. Slurring out words as we went and adopting our working-class names. I was Shazza he was Keith (Keith pronounced with an F. So Keif).

"Hey Keif, this toaster's $218," I said, rolling the stainless steel object from hand to hand. Leaving greasy fingerprints. "It'd match my $20 Tiffany kettle. I'd never be able to keep it clean though." "That's because you're a pig Shaz," he'd snort, twisting and turning the nobs of some offensively expensive blender.

OK, so it was perpetuating a stereotype. More of a sociological experiment really. It's cruel and meaningless fun to agitate these people. Something D and I have turned into an artform over the years. An expression of our contempt.

The woman behind the counter would jump from her stool whenever D would handle a smaller object. Her glassy stare following the pricey item for fear he was about to stick it down his pants and run out of the store. It was tempting. I mean I don't know how I've lived this long without a $45 avocado cutter or a $200 corkscrew? So we laughed at her nervous jumps and twitches. Completely aware she had relegated us to the "trash" heap and that we were not worthy of her precious possessions.

People like that make me sick and deserve to be mocked.

The piece of resistance was a $1089 rooster. The sterling silver cock fitted neatly into the palm of my hand and could have easily been thrust down D's pants. But then what would we do with it? What do you do with a $1089 rooster? Put it on the shelf, curl up beside it in bed, place it carefully in a security cabinet, or lock it in the safe?

Just another pointless trinket for those with too much money and too little in the way of brains.

Today was less bold. We drove out to the local deep space communications facility at Tidbinbilla. The 30-minute drive took us through some amazing Australian landscape. Golden hills, the green long gone from the drought ravaged grass, rolled beside us. Dark bulberous human-sized rocks scattered in the oddest places and balancing precariously on one another like overweight gymnasts. Mountains with sparse trees all scarred by a fire that passed through this region 12 months ago.

It was a beautiful sunny day and without anything on the car stereo we just talked. Nothing too deep, nothing strenuous. And we laughed. Looked at the massive white dishes of the tracking station. Marveled at the wonder of space exploration and how it fuelled our imaginations. Staring at a 3-dimensional pictures of Mars we wondered if one day we'd ever touch the soil with our own hands.

And then we drove back. Glad for some fresh air and some space that wasn't invaded by other people or pointless things.

So I say - down with the roosters!

LET'S NOT TALK

Oh, and I told my parents.
And that's all I want to say about that.

"Swing" - Ani de Franco

LIFE AND TIMES OF THE CASUAL WOMAN

Sleep, rise, eat, TV, Sleep.

That was it.

She had no need for intellectual conversation. Leave that up to the esoterics who are all talk she thought. Shuffling towards her destiny in sheepskin slippers and a terry-towelling robe. She had found her vocation in life and had no reason to deviate from the path she had chosen.

Sleep, rise, eat, TV, Sleep.

She was the Casual Woman.
.
Her parents disapproved of the choice. Her mother's words were caustic "Its been over a year, you should be out there meeting people and working. You're far too over indulgent. It’s time to put the past behind you." Yet their dislike for her life-style didn't deter her.

They had been hard workers all of their lives, she had watched for years as they laboured over their respective positions. The unrespected slaves, the robots programmed for particular tasks. Never appreciated. Her father a builder, her mother a nurse. Not for her, definitely not for her.

Sleep,

It was the welcomed branches of the unconscious mind that made this such a blessing. Unrestrained and free to roam along untrodden paths. The bouncing board for all concepts and higher cognitive functions. Whilst in this realm she would grasp and wrestle with thoughts she would not dare to touch in the waking. Mother, child, friend, enemy, lover. She played all the roles in sequence and the perfect relationships were forged. It was safe here in this realm. Here she would know what everyone thought and her thoughts were private. Here she was never abandoned.

Rise,

Dawn never followed darkness. It was not as it should have been. Ripped from the role-playing and thrown into the routine of cleansing, bathing and reflecting on the roles she had lived during sleep. Contemplating what her role was on this earth. Nothing, she had concluded, her role was to think and think
alone. Her life was to be devoted to defining herself, her boundaries, her life, everything in her world.

She would construct plans and develop strategies. Maintaining, for it was her duty, the wall which separated her higher intellect and the world. They would never know, could never know, of the thoughts that floated through her mind. Thoughts which were born from constant and vigilant observations of the outsiders. It was her duty, someone had to record these happenings, she was born just to watch, just to think.

Eat,

There was no pleasure to be found in this. It was to much of the physical world. This is where she was flawed, she needed their food and their sustenance. She could have lived without the needs of the physical side of her nature, without the eating and the sex. It was in the field of sleep, the soul releasing and in substance non-physical, that she revelled. She had no time for esoterics, they were too physical. They worked to exclude where
as she was already excluded; they knew nothing of the releasing and everything of the substance. Losing that was her greatest feat and it was with this watershed that her birth began.

TV,

Intriguing. The very source of all observation could be such a simple tool.
She locked her eyes to the screen and waited for the tell tale sign. It would come, the fall of their civilisation and the construction of her own. Not by her hand, she was no world conqueror, but by the very nature of man. They would see that things do not change by choice, or even desire, but through evolutionary change. Perpetual motion. Each soap played the same theme over and over. She was mesmerised by the delicate balance and stimulating interaction of the players on the screen. So like life, the lies would role, the fakery exposed and the perpetrator disappears. Click, and she gives them life to live. Click, they all fade away. She has such power that should the world discover her it would scream from sheer fear and terror. That she would keep to herself.

Sleep.

It would not return soon enough as again she readily travels the untrodden roads. A new game to play and another life to live. It was here that she became sure of what she wanted. Here that she knew of her calling.

She was the Casual Woman.

Always the vigilant observer. Her duty was to the one thing that gave her hope. Not a God but a faith in the things that no one else could control. A faith in something that was intangible and undefinable even by the esoterics. She believed, against all odds and all scathing and cruel comments, in herself and in her duty to discover exactly who she was without him. Kicking of her bathing suit she stepped into the cool water of her pool. It was not cold and she did not shiver from the change in temperature but because she was filled with the knowledge of who she was. It was a warmth that heated her to the core. Her tears were washed away, by the sting of the chlorinated water, along with the grief and self-doubting.

A new feeling enveloped her, a feeling which liberated and isolated her. Freedom, mind and spirit, complete control, mind and spirit. She was one. Casual woman, eternally relaxed emotionally free. Unattached in all manner of speaking. She could smile now and for the very first time since his death, she laughed with her soul.

I STINK, BAD

"Burning Bridges" - Sons of Maxwell.

I’ve been tearing around this house boxing up all my stuff so I can sort through what I want and what I don’t need. So far it’s a 50/50 deal I’ve got going on here. Three big boxes of stuff to sell and three big boxes of keepers. That ratio could change.

I’m sweat drenched and stinking. But I feel like a million dollars. Pure adrenaline is pushing me forward at an alarming rate. The computer room and garage are almost done. Books are gone, CD’s culled down considerably. Paper thrown out with reckless abandon.

My clothes are divided into three distinct piles on the lounge room floor. Keep. Throw away. Maybe. The throw away pile is winning by about four inches which is thrilling to me. Dealing with the maybe pile seems like too detailed a process right now (trying on, thinking about) so I’ll leave that until tomorrow.

And now I’m here, sitting at the computer writing quite contently. It’s been a million years since I’ve felt moved to do this. My fingers are a blur my head is completely focused on this page and on these words. It’s all I want to do right now. The hunt for a job is a secondary thing, finding the money to pay my bills and my rent is also far from my thoughts.

This. This page. These words. This is where I am. I feel like someone’s ripped off the top of my head in one painless motion and allowed my thoughts to escape. I’ve got seven short stories on the hop in various stages of development. I’ve got a list of competitions and publications that I’m hoping to send my stuff of to. I’ve got a dog that sits on my feet and a roof over my head and way, way, too much stuff to offload. But I’m here.

How can I be happy in a world spinning wildly out of control? Oh, that’s right, because I’m writing again. Because I’m inspired to write. I have been inspired and I’ve allowed myself to remember who I was, who I really am.

Because I am happy and I’m just going to go with that for the moment.

DENIAL IS NOT A RIVER IN EGYPT

"Something's Missing" - John Mayer

You know there’s no falling gracefully from the middle class. But where you end up isn’t that bad. I’m now free not to give a crap whether I’m on time or not. Free to sell all this stuff I bought and free to travel again (I really did love that). Free to do whatever I choose. I have no obligations.

Of course, I’m one month away from being thrown onto the streets with my stunning Ikea furniture. Furniture that I believed was essential to maintain a `proper’ life. Who am I kidding, I’m not this person. I’m not coordinated towels and matching teak bedside tables. I’m not a widescreen TV and five different remotes. I’m not the 15th floor, I’m the second floor. And while that doesn’t mean anything to you it has profound meaning for me.

Thoreau was right all of this stuff ends up owning you. So I’m having a Walden-style revelation. ``Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts’’.

I’m actually wanting to keep the lease on this place, a place I can’t afford, because well, where would I put all of my stuff? Huh. How about the local dumpster.

What I NEED:

Books (there are five I cannot live without – Walden by Thoreau; Boswell by Elkin; Confederacy of Dunces by John O’Toole and I’m sure someone’s brain out there is clicking over on that; The Castle by Kafka and Don Quixote by Cervantes). For everything else there is the library.

Clothes I need five pairs of pants; three skirts; six shirts; six t-shirts; underwear; one formal jacket; one winter jacket. Shoes – well two pairs is more than enough. Formal and casual. Although you could always just get a semi-formal shoe and be done with it.

Music OK, this is my one indulgence. I need my CD walkman and my CD collection. Although with the event of the MP3 this is only about 12 CDs. This is the one luxury I will allow myself.

Photos I know, these aren’t essential either but I figure a small box of photos is essential for me. For my connection to the past. A dozen photos at best.

Pen and Paper Of Course. Hard to be a writer without them. A computer is not essential. You can, once again, rely on the library if you have to print anything up.

And then I think, and think, and well, I can’t think of anything else I NEED. There are the odd bits and pieces that I would like but they’re not essential.

I’d like my flute; a couple more books; a couple of sentimental items; jewellery; I’d like a computer – maybe my little laptop.

See, even when I allow myself this luxury I can’t think of that many things. This stuff is swallowing me and I hate it all. Let it burn I say. Not by my hand of course. I’d rather free my cash and shed myself of all this stuff. Garage Sale, here we come.

HELP, I NEED SOMEBODY

"Sing Along" - Blue Man Group (feat. Dave Matthews)

I have a puppy that sits on my feet as I write. I can feel her rapid little heartbeat shooting up my toes like a faint massage. Her warmth is comforting. Each breath she takes as makes her rise and fall gently. But I don't respond, don't wiggle my toes or say a word to my companion. She already knows. Words such as good dog, nice dog, thank you, won't mean much to her. It's just enough to sit here. Me typing away, her breathing sweetly to the rhythm of my fingers' tap and clatter across the keys.

I give myself over to this world. White page, black spilling text that has a life of its own. Just like my life it is bound by its own set of constraints - grammar, tense, and punctuation - these are the borders of its life. But there is still so much more freedom here. Its borders are more flexible. I choose. To write as though these constraints are merely suggestions. If only I could find the same flexibilities in the boundaries of my own life. Perhaps they are there and I'm just too afraid to push.

The goal here is to not fall apart. My world appears to be crumbling and if anything emphasises that then it's the visit to the Social Security Office. Sitting there I was surrounded by a wide spectrum of people. Intelligent professionals who shifted uneasily in their seats. Arrogant, above those around them. Embarrassed and belittled by the bureaucratic process. The losers, and there's no denying these people are losers. They know the drill by rote, slur their words, say fuck as though it were the vernacular. Well, it is for them. Single mothers with screaming children. The freaks, talking to themselves. Mumbling ''we're late, we should be in there by now'' ''shut up, shut that kid up'' ''shit''. Jumping from their seats as though preparing to launch into space.

Then the induction seminar to tell us everything we already know. That they're no help what so ever. "You're on your own bub," their pitying looks say. "Crying won't change anything," a half frown. "Seriously, it's policy and I couldn't give a crap anyway," Her cold, dead eyes see right through me.

I am currently stuck in a lease and any assistance I will receive from the Government is exactly $30 short - which means food, clothing and transportation to look for work are pretty much out of the question. I have to lose the lease and some of my stuff. But I'm giving myself the rest of today off. Well, not that there's much left of it.

Things are looking good in one aspect - maybe I can push these boundaries. I just spent six hours scanning in my poems (I had more than 100 which I had typed up a couple of years ago before I had a computer). I'm entering a few competitions and sending a few off to publications. Maybe my boundaries can be. As flexible as the text I write. I just have to be willing to push.

And no, I haven't told my parents yet.

BREAKING THE NEWS

"Army" - Ben Fold Five.

Last night I told two people I was unemployed and the responses were antipodean.

One, told me not to worry. That something would turn up and that I should look on it as an opportunity to do something I had always wanted to. ``You’re in a good position right now,’’ A said. ``Maybe you should just look at this as a sign that you’re supposed to be doing something else.’’

But my closest friend, my darling D, was full of woe. He surprised me somewhat, how little he knows me after 13 years. I told him of my plans to begin freelance writing. ``Writing?’’ he asked. ``That’s fine as a hobby but you have to have a career,’’ he said sternly. I was stumped that he didn’t realise how much my writing had meant to me. Then I asked him, somewhat stupidly, why everyone was so obsessed with being stuck in the one place for 30 years. I mean surely it was enough to have a job and pay the bills on time with a little left over for fun and security and what not. ``When you’re single that’s all you have and you have to hold on to that, otherwise you don’t have anything,’’ He was emphatic on this issue.

Is that true – am I nothing without a career? Are single people so starved for a connection that they assume having a relationship with work is meaningful? I have never been inclined to think of my job in the media as meaningful. That was beaten out of me in the first year. Truth, justice, revelations are not the media’s business. It is driven by a group of people who are so overworked they don’t have the time to do the job they set out to. They don’t have the flexibility to pursue truth and justice. They only have time to rewrite press releases and ask the odd question of their subjects. But in-depth research and printing the complete truth is far beyond the media’s reach until they have enough reporters to do the job. Until that happens, it’s only scratching the surface.

It’s true. I don’t know what I want to do anymore. I had gone into journalism trying to do some good. To use the fact I can write, research and interview effectively, to reveal the truth about what’s really going on.

What difference does it make? If there’s anything I’ve learnt it’s that most people only want to be told they were right. They’re essentially always going to believe what they want to believe.

Anyhow, you'll note there is no parental response. That's because I haven't had one yet. I'll tell them when I'm ready to feel depressed and belittled.

YESTERDAY

``Damn it feels good to be a gangsta'' - Ghetto Boys

I am on the verge of being fired. Not for doing anything, specifically, but simply because I honestly don't know what I'm doing. I had expected something in the way of training at this new job as a sub-editor at The Same Old Same Old Publication, but, as it is anywhere, they're too understaffed to afford the time to train me.

Today's meeting with the boss to discuss my `options' was a real eye-opener about the way of tactful dismissal.

``Well, what do you want to do?'' he asked with a pitying look on his face.

``How about not lose my job,'' I thought. ``Well, what are my options?'' I said.

``Fire your ass,'' he was thinking. ``Well, we can extend your probation for another three months but do you think you'll be able to get it in that time?'' he said.

``Fuck no'' I thought. ``Well, I'm really eager to learn this, I really want to get it right so I can do my best,'' I said.

``Damn it, just quit already,'' he thought. ``Look, why don't you think about it overnight and then we'll talk about it tomorrow afternoon.'' he said.

``Why? It's not like I'm going to come in and say `OK, fire me now','' I thought. ``OK,'' I said.

Then I left his office. Thrilled I hadn't cried or gotten angry and told him to shove it. Kind of blissfully aware that everything I have is on the line but not caring one bit. What's the point of worrying - we'll see how this meeting goes and maybe I can secure myself enough time to find another job. I don't want to but these are my only `options'.

I am quite willing to accept what happens, happens. I have no power over this particular area of my life. I'm sure he's already made his decision, however I have no intention of making it easier for him.

But once this is done and dealt with the question really is - what do I want to do with my life? I'm 28, have I left the run too late? Well, there's only one way to find out.

TODAY

It took a hell of a long time to prepare for work today, obviously I had something on my mind - the looming axe. Showering, choosing my clothes with deliberate attention, dressing and smoothing my crumpled shirt as I went. Slipping on shoes and then feeding the dog, turning on the appropriate lights. Shutting doors and windows. And then sliding into the car. I arrived, as always, 15 minutes early and sat at my desk staring intently. But, as is always the case at The Same Old Same Old Publication a meeting of management's minds was running late and there was nothing for me to do.

An hour passed and still nothing. I tried to get enthusiastic about a game of solitaire on the computer but found it about as stimulating as squeezing imaginary pimples. I thought about reading something on the net but had been reprimanded for that (God forbid there would be intellectual stimulation) so decided against it. So I stared.

Finally, management's meeting ended and the Boss walked into his office, called in someone else and closed the door. I waited, another 15 minutes while they talked. I missed exactly when the door opened, turned my head to put things into my handbag, turned back and Ahhh. He was standing right against my shoulder.

I bounded in after him with the confidence of a gangsta (thus the song). We talked, basically the same conversation. He said he had to `think' about it. But I'm no idiot, despite what they think. His decision was already made yesterday.

So I sat and stared at my computer for another five minutes. Then called me into his office again and told me what I already knew. Sad, puppydog eyes from Boss. Big grin from me. ``You have my number if something more appropriate for me comes up,'' I said. Confident, gangsta-like.

What the hell, if the axe is going to fall there's no reason to lose your head.

You can always turn it into a nice little piece of fiction. Well, you didn't think for a second I was going to let you know the real reason I got fired. Did you? Trust me, I'm simply too smart to post something like that in the public eye.

THERAPY - THE NEW ART

``Do You Realize'' - The Flaming Lips.

Therapy, a single person's saving grace. I spent today blathering about my problems, about my discontent in my current job and situation. Nothing I will bore you with here and it's not the real point of me writing this. I began to consider therapy, I began to wonder why and how it's helpful to anyone. How can airing your problems - sending them out there into the universe - be of any help? Really. But then art, music, writing. It's the same thing. Musicians have something to say otherwise they wouldn't sing. Artists are riddled with agnst or awe otherwise they wouldn't punish the clay or slash the canvas. And writers, they all have something to say, something to figure out. Writers bash their keyboards or scribble into a book the same way musicians belt the drums or strum their guitars and artists shape clay. It's all about giving the thoughts form. So, what does this have to do with therapy? I'm wondering if it isn't the modern artform. With so many pressures to be in the perfect job, with the perfect family and your Ikea furniture package there isn't a lot of time left over for the musician, artist or writer - these people are now secretaries, journalists, accountants, bus drivers and their days are full, their nights ladden with responsibility of family and friends and social clubs. But once a month, or more often if they're even more repressed, they can be an artist. They can shape their thoughts into form, into artworks. Pulling from the chaos a single thread or pattern and then following it through. It's like a game of pick up sticks - rummaging through your mind, trying the stratagize what you want to pull at and what you want left alone so it doesn't all for down around you. Really, for those getting therapy, it's finding clarity when really you shouldn't be able to amid the mess that is life. An artistic vision, for only $100 an hour.