CHRISTINE
Start a Life – The Posies
I’m flexing my journalism muscles. I don’t want them turning to flab so I decided to interview Christine. What can I say, journalism is in the blood and the urge to report can become a little overwhelming. I interview people at parties, I observe and sit on the fence in any argument. I accept everything and believe nothing. So here’s my story on Christine because she's already gone through something similar to what I'm going through and I had a few questions. Since I also did a stint sub-editing I have given it a shitty, I mean pithy, little headline.
Generation’s swapping suit for sweatpants
Christine Nolan slumps casually into the chair and pushed back her hair. Dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt she looks a lot different to the last time I saw her.
“I’ve given up on my old life,” she said. “The cost was too high.”
Christine was born in Camden, NSW, and since then has traveled very little. Now she’s based in Guildford, merely an hour from her birthplace. The last time I saw her she was dressed in a smart suit and carrying a tan briefcase. Formaly an up-and-coming lawyer but quit her job after having “a total meltdown”.
“I had all these big dreams and big ideas. I wanted to travel; I wanted to meet interesting people. Above all I wanted to paint, to be an artist, but that just hasn’t happened,” she said.
When asked why she hadn’t painted she closed her eyes and sighed heavily.
“Because I didn’t. I didn’t paint. I know that I should have but I always talked myself out of taking that risk.”
That risk, she said, was too great. Married at 18 she pursued a career to satisfy the expectations of the people around her. Because she was intelligent, they had expected great things of her and she felt obliged to fulfill those expectations. At 23 she was divorced and studying for a law degree. Once she had that degree in hand she had been employed, straight out of university, for a small law firm but felt torn between her passion for art and her responsibilities.
“So I stopped painting because I just didn’t have the time,” she said. “Without the painting I had no outlet, no means of expressing myself. I didn’t understand why I was miserable. I mean I had everything everyone told me I should want. I had a career. I had had a husband. I had my own apartment and I had all the furniture.” She said.
Finally the pressures of being a 24-hour-a-day lawyer caught up with her and she found herself unable to sleep and not eating. At night, she said, she was walking around the apartment trying to figure out why she wasn’t happy. The situation became so bad that she had begun drinking and smoking heavily. Christine said the final straw was when she was so busy she forgot her mother’s birthday. She hadn’t called; she hadn’t answered the phone when it rang. Instead she had drunk herself into oblivion, driven her car and only by sheer luck avoided injury when she collided with a tree.
A couple of weeks later she walked into the office and quit without warning. “It was funny, I didn’t even know I was going to do it. I was sitting at my desk, looking at all the files in front of me and I thought ‘it’s not worth it’. So I just stood up, walked over to my boss and quit.”
Asked if she’d make the same decision again Christine hesitates and bites her lip.
“It really depends on the day you ask me,” she said. “Some days I’m sorry that I don’t have a career to cling to like I’m supposed to but I have time for my painting now and that makes me happier than a new car ever could.”
Christine said she wasn’t alone in choosing a new way of living with many of her friends also surrendering their careers in favor of something more.
“They’re writers or artists or musicians who put aside their dreams because everyone told them to succeed they couldn’t possibly follow that dream. They’ve quit or lost their jobs after years in their profession because they’re not happy and as a result not doing their job to the best of their abilities,” she said. “I think maybe it’s inevitable that I would take this path. There seems to be an entire generation of people who are beginning to see that there’s more to life than having a career.”
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
Exit Music - Radiohead
GOODBYE (part two)
A week later the first email came.
She sat staring at her inbox, motionless. The unopened message was filled with promise and she wasn't ready to open it and find he had already moved on. She wasn't ready to open it and find he had only been using her to kill time during the past 12 months.
Instead she chose to move from her seat and walk around the house looking for other things to do. The washing up received undue attention. She folded clothes, ensuring a perfectly symmetrical crease in her pants. All the while she considered the possibility of the email sitting somewhere in the ether.
But the moment came and she sat herself before the computer. Bracing for the worst possible news. Her hand felt heavy as she lifted it onto the mouse and clicked on the unanswered message in her inbox.
Hi AJ,
"Crap, oh crap," she thought. Over familiar. A nickname no one else had called her. She could hear him in her house, as thought he was whispering in her ear.
The flight was miserable but I'm back safe and sound in Vancouver. Nothing's changed - except me. Same old apartment, same office, same friends and family. But something's missing.
Her face was hot but she didn't cry. She didn't want to start that now because if she did, she wouldn't stop. For the past week she had begun rewriting her life to wipe clean the past. But there were moments when she lost her breath and ached for him. Other times she had wanted to scream but swallowed the sound. Almost choking.
I wish I could have stayed.
She hated him. Absolutely hated him. Why couldn't he have been a bastard? Why couldn't he have been nasty about all this? Why did he have to walk away and still be charming? Why was he so relaxed about breaking her heart?
She didn't cry but her face burned hotter still.
I miss you.
The anger rose to her throat but she swallowed hard. Pushing it down to the pit of her stomach. She shook and the burning she'd felt in her face traveled across her shoulders and down her now tingling arms.
His typed name lacked any kind of personal connection and she longed for the old handwritten notes he had left her from time to time. She wished she'd kept them now.
She turned off the computer, not bothering to reply tonight. She wanted to hold on to the hatred and anger. Those fiery emotions required so much energy that she didn't have to miss him. They filled the void that would have just ached unbearably.
Slipping out of her clothes she turned on the shower and let it run cool. The water rolled down her body and sizzled when it came into contact with her burning skin. It was a slow shower as she washed her hair with deliberation and rolled the soap through her hands until it was a white fuzz of froth. When all the duties were done she clung to the tiles and felt the cool smoothness against her face, the water shaping itself around her like a rushing river around a stone.
Turning off the water she didn't reach for the towel but stood in the middle of the bathroom and let the water bead and follow sensitive tracks across her skin. A breeze from the partially opened window filled the room, shaping itself around her form.
Standing there she could sense the world moving and breathing around her. Without her.
GOODBYE (part two)
A week later the first email came.
She sat staring at her inbox, motionless. The unopened message was filled with promise and she wasn't ready to open it and find he had already moved on. She wasn't ready to open it and find he had only been using her to kill time during the past 12 months.
Instead she chose to move from her seat and walk around the house looking for other things to do. The washing up received undue attention. She folded clothes, ensuring a perfectly symmetrical crease in her pants. All the while she considered the possibility of the email sitting somewhere in the ether.
But the moment came and she sat herself before the computer. Bracing for the worst possible news. Her hand felt heavy as she lifted it onto the mouse and clicked on the unanswered message in her inbox.
Hi AJ,
"Crap, oh crap," she thought. Over familiar. A nickname no one else had called her. She could hear him in her house, as thought he was whispering in her ear.
The flight was miserable but I'm back safe and sound in Vancouver. Nothing's changed - except me. Same old apartment, same office, same friends and family. But something's missing.
Her face was hot but she didn't cry. She didn't want to start that now because if she did, she wouldn't stop. For the past week she had begun rewriting her life to wipe clean the past. But there were moments when she lost her breath and ached for him. Other times she had wanted to scream but swallowed the sound. Almost choking.
I wish I could have stayed.
She hated him. Absolutely hated him. Why couldn't he have been a bastard? Why couldn't he have been nasty about all this? Why did he have to walk away and still be charming? Why was he so relaxed about breaking her heart?
She didn't cry but her face burned hotter still.
I miss you.
The anger rose to her throat but she swallowed hard. Pushing it down to the pit of her stomach. She shook and the burning she'd felt in her face traveled across her shoulders and down her now tingling arms.
His typed name lacked any kind of personal connection and she longed for the old handwritten notes he had left her from time to time. She wished she'd kept them now.
She turned off the computer, not bothering to reply tonight. She wanted to hold on to the hatred and anger. Those fiery emotions required so much energy that she didn't have to miss him. They filled the void that would have just ached unbearably.
Slipping out of her clothes she turned on the shower and let it run cool. The water rolled down her body and sizzled when it came into contact with her burning skin. It was a slow shower as she washed her hair with deliberation and rolled the soap through her hands until it was a white fuzz of froth. When all the duties were done she clung to the tiles and felt the cool smoothness against her face, the water shaping itself around her like a rushing river around a stone.
Turning off the water she didn't reach for the towel but stood in the middle of the bathroom and let the water bead and follow sensitive tracks across her skin. A breeze from the partially opened window filled the room, shaping itself around her form.
Standing there she could sense the world moving and breathing around her. Without her.
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
THE WORLD JUST HAPPENS
Deja Vu – Something for Kate
“Aunty Boswell, are you still a journalist?”
“No honey, I’m not.”
“Then what are you?”
I have withstood the screams and tears of a hysterical mother. I bore the condescension of close friends and the judgemental looks of people I barely know. I have defended myself against the mocking of a secure older brother. The lectures of a disappointed father left me unscathed. I have put my experience with an unsupportive boyfriend behind me. And I have faced the reality of losing everything I own.
But with one question my six-year-old niece knocked the wind out of me.
Sitting in a large cardboard box discarded from my father’s birthday present we were eating only the green Pez and talking about aunty/niece things. For the past two years she has been pulling a bandana over her head, sporting fake glasses and “playing Aunty Boswell”. Telling people she was a journalist just like her favourite aunt.
No doubt she’s heard the conversations I had with her mother and her mother has had with others over the past few weeks. She must have felt as though she was venturing into adult territory and had lowered her voice to ask.
My eyes began to well.
It was such an innocent question that it ripped through my illusions and left me raw and exposed. I scuttled from the box and locked myself in the bathroom under the ruse of having some stain on my shirt so I didn’t have to answer and so I could cry in peace.
My initial response would have been too much for my sensitive niece to bear. “I’m nothing.” Instead I had kissed her on the head and escaped from the box.
I had other plans for tonight. Other stories to write. Other things to think about but instead I am sitting here contemplating the tea I’ve made to help me sleep. Instead I’m considering the question of a confused child who I feel as though I have failed.
If I am not a journalist, then what am I?
Driving home I could barely see for the tears but the rolling road before me cleared my head. Flashing lights, a calculated changing of lanes and the cold wind rushing in through the opened window gave me something outside of myself to focus on. This elsewhere focus gave me more space to view my situation clearly. Now, watching the flames dance about the oil-refinery I can see from my bedroom window, I have an answer.
I am an aunty who loves her nieces and nephew with all of her being. I am a daughter, sister and a cousin who will drop everything for those she loves. I am a writer, albeit an average one. I am a person who feels deeply. I am a woman who loves life with a passion and can find joy in the simple things. I am an explorer seeking a way to create a life where I can be free and honest with myself.
I haven’t failed her. If anything I am making mistakes so that she can see that there is no set plan for life, that there is no guideline she has to follow. That she can be true to her heart and that she will still be supported and loved.
If I am not a journalist then what am I? I’m me.
That was a lot easier than I thought it would be.
Deja Vu – Something for Kate
“Aunty Boswell, are you still a journalist?”
“No honey, I’m not.”
“Then what are you?”
I have withstood the screams and tears of a hysterical mother. I bore the condescension of close friends and the judgemental looks of people I barely know. I have defended myself against the mocking of a secure older brother. The lectures of a disappointed father left me unscathed. I have put my experience with an unsupportive boyfriend behind me. And I have faced the reality of losing everything I own.
But with one question my six-year-old niece knocked the wind out of me.
Sitting in a large cardboard box discarded from my father’s birthday present we were eating only the green Pez and talking about aunty/niece things. For the past two years she has been pulling a bandana over her head, sporting fake glasses and “playing Aunty Boswell”. Telling people she was a journalist just like her favourite aunt.
No doubt she’s heard the conversations I had with her mother and her mother has had with others over the past few weeks. She must have felt as though she was venturing into adult territory and had lowered her voice to ask.
My eyes began to well.
It was such an innocent question that it ripped through my illusions and left me raw and exposed. I scuttled from the box and locked myself in the bathroom under the ruse of having some stain on my shirt so I didn’t have to answer and so I could cry in peace.
My initial response would have been too much for my sensitive niece to bear. “I’m nothing.” Instead I had kissed her on the head and escaped from the box.
I had other plans for tonight. Other stories to write. Other things to think about but instead I am sitting here contemplating the tea I’ve made to help me sleep. Instead I’m considering the question of a confused child who I feel as though I have failed.
If I am not a journalist, then what am I?
Driving home I could barely see for the tears but the rolling road before me cleared my head. Flashing lights, a calculated changing of lanes and the cold wind rushing in through the opened window gave me something outside of myself to focus on. This elsewhere focus gave me more space to view my situation clearly. Now, watching the flames dance about the oil-refinery I can see from my bedroom window, I have an answer.
I am an aunty who loves her nieces and nephew with all of her being. I am a daughter, sister and a cousin who will drop everything for those she loves. I am a writer, albeit an average one. I am a person who feels deeply. I am a woman who loves life with a passion and can find joy in the simple things. I am an explorer seeking a way to create a life where I can be free and honest with myself.
I haven’t failed her. If anything I am making mistakes so that she can see that there is no set plan for life, that there is no guideline she has to follow. That she can be true to her heart and that she will still be supported and loved.
If I am not a journalist then what am I? I’m me.
That was a lot easier than I thought it would be.
Monday, April 26, 2004
REVIEWING THE SITUATION
“It’s The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)” - REM
It’s been a long two months or so since this all began and I’m finally getting a grip on reality. But there are big chunks of time that I don’t remember or that simply don’t seem real. If not for the physical traces of emails, tOOleS and computer file notes then sitting here right now I would have no idea that they happened at all.
So I scan through my computer to see what I’ve done.
I have a file of personal emails I’ve stashed. These include everything from job applications to a two hundred page running dialogue with my brother over the MSN Messenger. It seems that I kept practically everything but I don’t know why. The precious words I’m clinging to now will come to have no meaning and I’ll look back through this file wondering what I was thinking.
According to my files, in the past two months I have undertaken several “research” projects. I have read, watched, studied, fraudulently participated (in a few selected arenas) and collected endless files on these subjects just for my own morbid curiosity. My only explanation of this is that you can take the girl out of journalism but you can’t take journalism out of the girl. One of the groups "studied" was almost cult-like with politics, stalking, obsession, mental illness and a whole swag of personalities. Interesting but otherwise pointless.
There is a folder in which I simply have bits and pieces of information I cut and past off the web. Random ideas I didn’t pursue or inspirational quotes that don’t have a home. Pictures without a point. Single lines of website addresses I haven’t returned to and I can’t even recall but at the time must have seemed crucial. I’ve also saved a couple of pages that are tOOleS’ template.
There is also a folder of song lyrics. Music that has meant something to me and as a result I decided to learn the song by heart. I’ve downloaded the lyrics and as I scan through the song titles I realise that I’ve actually memorized a lot of them. And that’s no mean feat – I’m particularly proud to know the words to REM’s “It’s The End Of The World As We Know It” although I don’t remember when or how I learned them.
Of course I have no idea what I’ll do with all of this knowledge or whether or not my stress addled brain has retained what I’ve crammed into it over the past couple of months. But it’s sifting through these files and folders and listening to an odd collection of MP3s I’ve downloaded that I realise I have no understanding of what’s just happened and how I managed to survive the upheaval. I realise that I should have fallen apart but instead I seemed to channel my energy, anger, frustration and confusion into some strange experiences and perceptions.
Of all my files the one project that makes the most sense is this site. tOOleS and my secret identity came from two books sitting on my desk. These scrappy-looking books are much more than their text to me. They marked the most significant moments in my life.
With everything that’s been going on it makes sense to me that significant moment number three is marked by my own story.
“It’s The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)” - REM
It’s been a long two months or so since this all began and I’m finally getting a grip on reality. But there are big chunks of time that I don’t remember or that simply don’t seem real. If not for the physical traces of emails, tOOleS and computer file notes then sitting here right now I would have no idea that they happened at all.
So I scan through my computer to see what I’ve done.
I have a file of personal emails I’ve stashed. These include everything from job applications to a two hundred page running dialogue with my brother over the MSN Messenger. It seems that I kept practically everything but I don’t know why. The precious words I’m clinging to now will come to have no meaning and I’ll look back through this file wondering what I was thinking.
According to my files, in the past two months I have undertaken several “research” projects. I have read, watched, studied, fraudulently participated (in a few selected arenas) and collected endless files on these subjects just for my own morbid curiosity. My only explanation of this is that you can take the girl out of journalism but you can’t take journalism out of the girl. One of the groups "studied" was almost cult-like with politics, stalking, obsession, mental illness and a whole swag of personalities. Interesting but otherwise pointless.
There is a folder in which I simply have bits and pieces of information I cut and past off the web. Random ideas I didn’t pursue or inspirational quotes that don’t have a home. Pictures without a point. Single lines of website addresses I haven’t returned to and I can’t even recall but at the time must have seemed crucial. I’ve also saved a couple of pages that are tOOleS’ template.
There is also a folder of song lyrics. Music that has meant something to me and as a result I decided to learn the song by heart. I’ve downloaded the lyrics and as I scan through the song titles I realise that I’ve actually memorized a lot of them. And that’s no mean feat – I’m particularly proud to know the words to REM’s “It’s The End Of The World As We Know It” although I don’t remember when or how I learned them.
Of course I have no idea what I’ll do with all of this knowledge or whether or not my stress addled brain has retained what I’ve crammed into it over the past couple of months. But it’s sifting through these files and folders and listening to an odd collection of MP3s I’ve downloaded that I realise I have no understanding of what’s just happened and how I managed to survive the upheaval. I realise that I should have fallen apart but instead I seemed to channel my energy, anger, frustration and confusion into some strange experiences and perceptions.
Of all my files the one project that makes the most sense is this site. tOOleS and my secret identity came from two books sitting on my desk. These scrappy-looking books are much more than their text to me. They marked the most significant moments in my life.
With everything that’s been going on it makes sense to me that significant moment number three is marked by my own story.
Sunday, April 25, 2004
OUT THERE
“If you don’t love me (I’ll kill myself)” – Peter Droge
It’s one of my favourite movies. I make no apology for that.
“I got robbed by the little old lady on a motorized cart. And I didn’t even see it coming.”
“That John Denver’s full of shit man”
“We’re there.”
Sometimes you just need to laugh and cry for no apparent reason and Dumb and Dumber does that for me.
D was on the town. Picking up some significant other for the night.
Instead, I was home alone enjoying a self-indulgent glass of wine and a bowl of strawberry jelly.
Single now, and really not looking, I am trapped in a world that doesn’t make a pinch of sense. Surrounded by people who are trying to give me back some sense of security. People desperate to see me "back in the game".
D tried to lure me out of the apartment.
“Come on Bos. You’ve been here two weeks. It’s about time you got out there.”
Out there. That mythical place that doesn’t really have a location but has a purpose I’m not ready for.
Out there. Something that implies I’m no longer tied to my past but looking for a future. And I can claim neither with any kind of confidence.
I'm still locked into my past and, for this moment, I can't see a clear future to cling to. I can act but I'm too tired to be "out there" and playing the game.
“Not tonight. I’m looking forward to having some time to myself.”
He pulled a face before donning his “fuck me” shirt. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“Just not tonight. I’m still adjusting to being home.”
He smiled, kissed me. I told him to be careful and call if he needs me. At 3am I went to bed and he was nowhere to be seen. No doubt curled with one of his conquests.
But I had Jeff Daniels and Jim Carrey. I had a laugh and a cry and a blissful eight hours of solid sleep. For the first time in two months I’m actually sleeping and while it is riddled with active and confusing dreams, any sleep is a welcome blessing.
I'm not ready to be "out there" just yet. Surrounded by my friends, who are adjusting, I've no doubt that "out there" will still be around when I'm ready for it.
But it’s the sleep, with its tangible dreams about flying and fire, that I need right now.
“If you don’t love me (I’ll kill myself)” – Peter Droge
It’s one of my favourite movies. I make no apology for that.
“I got robbed by the little old lady on a motorized cart. And I didn’t even see it coming.”
“That John Denver’s full of shit man”
“We’re there.”
Sometimes you just need to laugh and cry for no apparent reason and Dumb and Dumber does that for me.
D was on the town. Picking up some significant other for the night.
Instead, I was home alone enjoying a self-indulgent glass of wine and a bowl of strawberry jelly.
Single now, and really not looking, I am trapped in a world that doesn’t make a pinch of sense. Surrounded by people who are trying to give me back some sense of security. People desperate to see me "back in the game".
D tried to lure me out of the apartment.
“Come on Bos. You’ve been here two weeks. It’s about time you got out there.”
Out there. That mythical place that doesn’t really have a location but has a purpose I’m not ready for.
Out there. Something that implies I’m no longer tied to my past but looking for a future. And I can claim neither with any kind of confidence.
I'm still locked into my past and, for this moment, I can't see a clear future to cling to. I can act but I'm too tired to be "out there" and playing the game.
“Not tonight. I’m looking forward to having some time to myself.”
He pulled a face before donning his “fuck me” shirt. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“Just not tonight. I’m still adjusting to being home.”
He smiled, kissed me. I told him to be careful and call if he needs me. At 3am I went to bed and he was nowhere to be seen. No doubt curled with one of his conquests.
But I had Jeff Daniels and Jim Carrey. I had a laugh and a cry and a blissful eight hours of solid sleep. For the first time in two months I’m actually sleeping and while it is riddled with active and confusing dreams, any sleep is a welcome blessing.
I'm not ready to be "out there" just yet. Surrounded by my friends, who are adjusting, I've no doubt that "out there" will still be around when I'm ready for it.
But it’s the sleep, with its tangible dreams about flying and fire, that I need right now.
SEE RIGHT THROUGH ME
"Captain" - Casey Chambers
At this moment I am nowhere. Out to sea. Lost. But just for this moment, for these hours.
I know where I want to go but there is nothing to guide me. Nowhere I can hide to hear my own thoughts. No refuge.
I don't know why.
I don't know why I need it. I don't know why I've invested so much in silence. I don't know if it makes any kind of sense at all or if it's really helping.
What I do know is that without the blip I am awash.
Tomorrow I may delete this, just like a couple of my previous, no longer existent, entries. This is not something I feel the urge to explain but simply something which is making it's way out.
That's the problem with being a literal person. I mean what I say and I say what I mean and that leaves me open to misinterpretation. People seem incapable of dealing with someone who doesn't "mean" something by what they're saying. I offend when I am honest and even this is open to misinterpretation.
Perhaps I should drip with subtext like other people. Perhaps I should not come out an say what I mean but rather wrap it in niceties, in double entendre, in euphemisms. Perhaps I should learn to be more "strange".
But that's not me. I refuse to play that kind of game.
I can act. I can pretend to be someone else but only to a point, only in given situations. Friends and family and even those I meet in a social situation can always expect the consistency of honesty.
However one man's truth is another's subterfuge.
Believe what you need to. Whatever makes your world whole. Cling to that. Fuck the truth, it's all subjective anyway and no one really wants to hear it anyway.
Still I am compelled to tell the truth and you can accept it or not, it's up to you. I really don't care any more.
To that affect I offer you this.
I am not sending any kind of message to anyone other than myself. I need to hear my own voice at these times. G calls and I chat aimlessly to him for an hour. D invites me out and I dismiss him. I have an endless barrage of people to talk to.
But with everything I say I am not saying anything. At these times I need to write and I have so far. Two short stories in draft form. One letter to no one. Three poems that are nothing short of crap and which won't survive my critical eye.
And this.
But they are just words to remind myself that I'm still here (if I am).
"Captain" - Casey Chambers
At this moment I am nowhere. Out to sea. Lost. But just for this moment, for these hours.
I know where I want to go but there is nothing to guide me. Nowhere I can hide to hear my own thoughts. No refuge.
I don't know why.
I don't know why I need it. I don't know why I've invested so much in silence. I don't know if it makes any kind of sense at all or if it's really helping.
What I do know is that without the blip I am awash.
Tomorrow I may delete this, just like a couple of my previous, no longer existent, entries. This is not something I feel the urge to explain but simply something which is making it's way out.
That's the problem with being a literal person. I mean what I say and I say what I mean and that leaves me open to misinterpretation. People seem incapable of dealing with someone who doesn't "mean" something by what they're saying. I offend when I am honest and even this is open to misinterpretation.
Perhaps I should drip with subtext like other people. Perhaps I should not come out an say what I mean but rather wrap it in niceties, in double entendre, in euphemisms. Perhaps I should learn to be more "strange".
But that's not me. I refuse to play that kind of game.
I can act. I can pretend to be someone else but only to a point, only in given situations. Friends and family and even those I meet in a social situation can always expect the consistency of honesty.
However one man's truth is another's subterfuge.
Believe what you need to. Whatever makes your world whole. Cling to that. Fuck the truth, it's all subjective anyway and no one really wants to hear it anyway.
Still I am compelled to tell the truth and you can accept it or not, it's up to you. I really don't care any more.
To that affect I offer you this.
I am not sending any kind of message to anyone other than myself. I need to hear my own voice at these times. G calls and I chat aimlessly to him for an hour. D invites me out and I dismiss him. I have an endless barrage of people to talk to.
But with everything I say I am not saying anything. At these times I need to write and I have so far. Two short stories in draft form. One letter to no one. Three poems that are nothing short of crap and which won't survive my critical eye.
And this.
But they are just words to remind myself that I'm still here (if I am).
Saturday, April 24, 2004
“Love is Never Equal” – Jill Sobule
I’m not happy with the way I’ve been writing over the past week. It’s rushed and lacks focus. I’m working on that. This isn’t a testament to that sentiment.
GOODBYE
There was a moment, one second into the silence between them, that she had wanted to tell him the truth. Instead she sat there and waited the painfully long 30 seconds before he spoke.
His voice was soft and gentle. “Look, I was pretty clear when we first got together. This wasn’t permanent. I don’t have a choice, I have to go,” he scanned the horizon. She could see his gray-blue eyes rise and fall as though they were caressing the buildings on the other side of the harbour.
She kept her view closer to home. Turning from him she chose to face the opposite direction and focus on the murky shadows of the Opera House. Tourists made their way around the base of the landmark. The silent spectators’ mouths opened a little in stunned surprise. Other talked loudly about the feat of architecture and the sheer beauty of the now graying sails that towered above them.
“I understand.” She couldn’t face him. Fighting off the tears she was trying to show him that she wasn’t the typically emotional female. That she bore no ill will towards him and had understood their agreement.
She would let him go without a fight. She would keep the truth to herself.
He rose from the seat without taking his eyes off the horizon. Finally, for the first time in the conversation, he looked at her but she skirted his gaze. Instead she looked at his mouth as he said his parting words.
With one kiss on her forehead he turned and walked away, looking back only once. A sly look from the corner of his eye so that she wouldn’t notice the gesture. But she did and gripped the base of the seat to stop herself from jumping up to chase after him.
When he disappeared into the crowd she didn’t cry. Instead she turned and let her eyes caress the skyline. Wondering if the last 12 months had happened at all.
I’m not happy with the way I’ve been writing over the past week. It’s rushed and lacks focus. I’m working on that. This isn’t a testament to that sentiment.
GOODBYE
There was a moment, one second into the silence between them, that she had wanted to tell him the truth. Instead she sat there and waited the painfully long 30 seconds before he spoke.
His voice was soft and gentle. “Look, I was pretty clear when we first got together. This wasn’t permanent. I don’t have a choice, I have to go,” he scanned the horizon. She could see his gray-blue eyes rise and fall as though they were caressing the buildings on the other side of the harbour.
She kept her view closer to home. Turning from him she chose to face the opposite direction and focus on the murky shadows of the Opera House. Tourists made their way around the base of the landmark. The silent spectators’ mouths opened a little in stunned surprise. Other talked loudly about the feat of architecture and the sheer beauty of the now graying sails that towered above them.
“I understand.” She couldn’t face him. Fighting off the tears she was trying to show him that she wasn’t the typically emotional female. That she bore no ill will towards him and had understood their agreement.
She would let him go without a fight. She would keep the truth to herself.
He rose from the seat without taking his eyes off the horizon. Finally, for the first time in the conversation, he looked at her but she skirted his gaze. Instead she looked at his mouth as he said his parting words.
With one kiss on her forehead he turned and walked away, looking back only once. A sly look from the corner of his eye so that she wouldn’t notice the gesture. But she did and gripped the base of the seat to stop herself from jumping up to chase after him.
When he disappeared into the crowd she didn’t cry. Instead she turned and let her eyes caress the skyline. Wondering if the last 12 months had happened at all.
Friday, April 23, 2004
AN INDUCTION
“Bubbly Toes” – Jack Johnson
The dark mist hung low and heavy over Guildford this morning and when I first caught glimpse of it I thought, “that’s it, I’m dead.” After a few more minutes of lying there numbly cocooned in my bed I concluded that I wasn't dead but the world was ending and there was no point getting up. Finally, when I regained my senses, I recognised it for what it was. Another dreary day of job hunting.
By 10am I was showered and dressing for my second job interview in two days.
“Wear your blue shirt,” Christine calls from the depth of her bedroom. She’s still snuggled in the warmth. Fat with doona and blankets.
“It’s dirty,” I’m draped in a towel, rooting around in the laundry basket.
“So,” she calls. “Comment on how hot and humid it is today when you arrive and they’ll dismiss the scent as a result of your eagerness to get there.”
I’m franticly pulling clothes from every hiding place in the house and finally decided on my black pants, pink shirt. Christine grumbles about the creases in my pants but since I don’t iron I’m more than happy to ignore them.
“God I need a haircut,” I grumble at the reflection of the bathroom mirror.
Normally my hair is tightly cropped because I lack the feminine skill of hair sculpturing. As a child I was more interested in playing Star Wars with my brother in the backyard than braiding Barbie’s hair. My preoccupation with Harrison Ford meant that by the time I reached high school I had trouble neatly pulling together a ponytail. And now, it’s a lost cause. I had cut my hair short to conceal this failing but over the past few weeks it has become overgrown, a floppy mess I can’t control. Of all my problems, it’s been my hair that has bothered me the most.
Still, I had a fraud to perpetuate. I had to convince a room of strangers that I was confident and assertive. I had to convince them that I wanted to be there when I’d sell my soul to be on the side of a mountain counting train carriages right about now.
My pants were pinching and clinging to my legs. My shirt shifts dangerously, exposing altogether too much of my chest. I’ve got my keys in my hand. And pause. Think. Anything else?
“Nose ring,” Christine calls as I swing open the door. With one hand I unclip the ring and slip it out. With the other I pull the door closed behind me.
It’s 10 minutes walk to the station, train for eight minutes, change trains at Strathfield, on to Burwood. A short walk and I’m at the “induction” centre.
Waiting silently I size up the competition or potential co-workers. Some pace the floor nervously, a couple of teens gather together and chat, and two professional-looking men stand as stationary islands amid the stream of people. I hide myself off to a corner on a wooden bench and jot down some notes.
The induction involved being “observed” by management as we undertook group activities. It’s high school stuff to see how we get along, to label us management or workers. Role-playing, questionnaires, introductions.
I’m in my element. I'm assertive, confident, directing my table. We're tackelling all of our tasks logically and I'm friendly and personable. I'm answering questions without hesitation. Volunteering for duties, helping the people around me. "Need a pen? - here you go". I've effectively taken over the stationary and I'm handing out paper and pens and question sheets. The traditional teachers pet. And all with such sincerity and friendliness that not a soul can see that it's merely a strategic act to look like the best candidate for the job. It made my job so much easier that the others at my table were incredibly nice and friendly.
And it’s sitting there that I realise what I want to do with my life.
I’ve got the job; I’ve no doubt about that. During the one-on-one interviews I dazzled the manager with my forthright attitude and honesty (something that isn’t appreciated in my social life and which crippled my previous job). Unfortunately the job itself doesn’t start for a few weeks. Until then I’ve got a few prospects.
As for the rest of my life - you’ll just have to wait and see.
“Bubbly Toes” – Jack Johnson
The dark mist hung low and heavy over Guildford this morning and when I first caught glimpse of it I thought, “that’s it, I’m dead.” After a few more minutes of lying there numbly cocooned in my bed I concluded that I wasn't dead but the world was ending and there was no point getting up. Finally, when I regained my senses, I recognised it for what it was. Another dreary day of job hunting.
By 10am I was showered and dressing for my second job interview in two days.
“Wear your blue shirt,” Christine calls from the depth of her bedroom. She’s still snuggled in the warmth. Fat with doona and blankets.
“It’s dirty,” I’m draped in a towel, rooting around in the laundry basket.
“So,” she calls. “Comment on how hot and humid it is today when you arrive and they’ll dismiss the scent as a result of your eagerness to get there.”
I’m franticly pulling clothes from every hiding place in the house and finally decided on my black pants, pink shirt. Christine grumbles about the creases in my pants but since I don’t iron I’m more than happy to ignore them.
“God I need a haircut,” I grumble at the reflection of the bathroom mirror.
Normally my hair is tightly cropped because I lack the feminine skill of hair sculpturing. As a child I was more interested in playing Star Wars with my brother in the backyard than braiding Barbie’s hair. My preoccupation with Harrison Ford meant that by the time I reached high school I had trouble neatly pulling together a ponytail. And now, it’s a lost cause. I had cut my hair short to conceal this failing but over the past few weeks it has become overgrown, a floppy mess I can’t control. Of all my problems, it’s been my hair that has bothered me the most.
Still, I had a fraud to perpetuate. I had to convince a room of strangers that I was confident and assertive. I had to convince them that I wanted to be there when I’d sell my soul to be on the side of a mountain counting train carriages right about now.
My pants were pinching and clinging to my legs. My shirt shifts dangerously, exposing altogether too much of my chest. I’ve got my keys in my hand. And pause. Think. Anything else?
“Nose ring,” Christine calls as I swing open the door. With one hand I unclip the ring and slip it out. With the other I pull the door closed behind me.
It’s 10 minutes walk to the station, train for eight minutes, change trains at Strathfield, on to Burwood. A short walk and I’m at the “induction” centre.
Waiting silently I size up the competition or potential co-workers. Some pace the floor nervously, a couple of teens gather together and chat, and two professional-looking men stand as stationary islands amid the stream of people. I hide myself off to a corner on a wooden bench and jot down some notes.
The induction involved being “observed” by management as we undertook group activities. It’s high school stuff to see how we get along, to label us management or workers. Role-playing, questionnaires, introductions.
I’m in my element. I'm assertive, confident, directing my table. We're tackelling all of our tasks logically and I'm friendly and personable. I'm answering questions without hesitation. Volunteering for duties, helping the people around me. "Need a pen? - here you go". I've effectively taken over the stationary and I'm handing out paper and pens and question sheets. The traditional teachers pet. And all with such sincerity and friendliness that not a soul can see that it's merely a strategic act to look like the best candidate for the job. It made my job so much easier that the others at my table were incredibly nice and friendly.
And it’s sitting there that I realise what I want to do with my life.
I’ve got the job; I’ve no doubt about that. During the one-on-one interviews I dazzled the manager with my forthright attitude and honesty (something that isn’t appreciated in my social life and which crippled my previous job). Unfortunately the job itself doesn’t start for a few weeks. Until then I’ve got a few prospects.
As for the rest of my life - you’ll just have to wait and see.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
THE ATTRACTION OF EARS
"Across the Sea" - Weezer
I'm still wearing my leopard ears. To date the responses have included:
"You should really be wearing a bikini with those." (I don't own a bikini for a very, very good reason)
Snickers and whispering from a neighbour and her two small children while I was putting out the rubbish.
"Why are you wearing those?" (from another neighbour who I find rather attractive and until now hasn't spoken to me. What followed was a five minute conversation on the therapeutic value of doing something silly. He said they looked "cute", not silly).
"Oooh, can I borrow them when A comes over?" (Christine's desire for a little fun and games with her boyfriend - and no she can't borrow them).
D continues to roll his eyes.
But I'm getting a pretty serious headache which I think is caused by the headband digging into my skull so I can't wear them for much longer.
"Across the Sea" - Weezer
I'm still wearing my leopard ears. To date the responses have included:
"You should really be wearing a bikini with those." (I don't own a bikini for a very, very good reason)
Snickers and whispering from a neighbour and her two small children while I was putting out the rubbish.
"Why are you wearing those?" (from another neighbour who I find rather attractive and until now hasn't spoken to me. What followed was a five minute conversation on the therapeutic value of doing something silly. He said they looked "cute", not silly).
"Oooh, can I borrow them when A comes over?" (Christine's desire for a little fun and games with her boyfriend - and no she can't borrow them).
D continues to roll his eyes.
But I'm getting a pretty serious headache which I think is caused by the headband digging into my skull so I can't wear them for much longer.
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
MAKING THE TIME
"Last Life" - The Whitlams
For three years I worked at Home Town Press with some amazing people. Among them were M and O. The two, rightly so, had teamed up and were married a little more than a year ago.
M was one of the women who made me choose journalism in the first place and even now, when journalism is no longer in my future, we have kept in contact. O had taught me to laugh while I was at work. He was one of the few people who had made me happy in my job while the rest of the office had been stale and self-absorbed.
Today M told me O had an aneurism. He survived the tricky operations and is now in months of intense therapy to regain his health.
“How’s his spirit?” I ask M when she first told me.
She tells me he’s frustrated. That the operation had damaged his eyesight and it would be some time to get it back. As a photographer the loss of his eyesight and mobility was a major cause of stress.
“And you, how are you coping?”
She’s riding a wave of numbness, just like me. Working on autopilot until what has to be done is done. Then, she agrees, she’ll fall into a heap on the floor and cry it out.
And then I’m back to that touch-and-go time with my youngest niece, 2, and how I had switched onto autopilot and done what I had to do.
I remember touching her cold leg in the emergency ward when she wasn’t coherent. I remember telling her it would be ok. I remember promising her distressed mother over bad coffee in the deserted cafeteria, the cleaners clunking around us, that it would be fine. Her eyes are glassy and her shaking hands clutching the styrafoam cup as she tells me what happened in my absence.
I remember lying to myself so that I could make it through those few, panicked hours.
I made phone calls updating nervous relatives - my voice was calm and collected. I told them not to worry, she’d be fine and that it was just a one off thing. The doctors had everything in hand.
She was flown to intensive care and while I was driving from hospital to hospital I sung along to whatever was on the radio so I wouldn’t have to think. Anything but think. I mimed REM; I ran a list of things to do through my head; I thought about work and I thought about how my family was going to react so that I could accommodate their needs. Anything but think about what was going on. Anything but face the situation.
I refused to accept that maybe she wouldn’t be around forever. I told myself everything was fine. I told myself that the doctors and other family members were over-reacting but I was stronger and more resolute. I told myself anything and everything I could so I wouldn’t have to face facts.
My niece was weak with a dangerously high temperature. She had convulsed in my brothers arms and passed out. They’d called an ambulance and she’d been rushed to the local hospital. No one could wake her and the doctors had been bantering around meningococcal, a disease that had killed three toddlers in our area over the past month.
Lying in that emergency ward bed I could see she wasn’t there, it wasn’t her and I was terrified. Her little body was limp and she was struggling to hold on. I had wanted to grab her and shake her hard. I’d wanted to scream at her to stop playing around. I had wanted to grab someone, anyone, and tell them that she was the most important person here and they should drop everything and be attending her.
Two weeks later I was standing in the kitchen of my dank two-bedroom apartment talking to my sister-in-law about how my youngest niece was thriving. She had come out of it ok, as though nothing had happened. The doctors said some virus had hit her hard and after a hefty dose of antibiotics she was fine. Her giggles around the house were soothing music to my ears.
I hung up the phone and dropped to the floor, sitting crossed legged in the corner of my kitchen. The cold tiles hard against my bare legs. I stared numbly at nothing and cried for the first time. Tears I though would never end. Everything came back to me. The emergency ward, her Red Cross trauma teddy and how I had clung to the misplaced shape of wool and stuffing. Asking nurses to make sure it was there for her. “Damn it, where’s her teddy. She needs her teddy.” I had idiotically called across the emergency ward. As though it were the most valuable part of her treatment. As though it was the teddy that would save her life. Because there was nothing else I could do.
M’s quiet for a few moments and I tell her it’s going to be ok because I know that’s what she needs to believe.
We change the topic to talk about happier things in a jovial tone as though O hasn’t been mentioned. Our conversation is an attempt to sing along to songs on the radio; write pointless to do lists; deal with work. The conversation is an attempt to do anything but think about what’s really on our minds.
And I know that when it’s all ok, she’ll make time to cry. So will I.
"Last Life" - The Whitlams
For three years I worked at Home Town Press with some amazing people. Among them were M and O. The two, rightly so, had teamed up and were married a little more than a year ago.
M was one of the women who made me choose journalism in the first place and even now, when journalism is no longer in my future, we have kept in contact. O had taught me to laugh while I was at work. He was one of the few people who had made me happy in my job while the rest of the office had been stale and self-absorbed.
Today M told me O had an aneurism. He survived the tricky operations and is now in months of intense therapy to regain his health.
“How’s his spirit?” I ask M when she first told me.
She tells me he’s frustrated. That the operation had damaged his eyesight and it would be some time to get it back. As a photographer the loss of his eyesight and mobility was a major cause of stress.
“And you, how are you coping?”
She’s riding a wave of numbness, just like me. Working on autopilot until what has to be done is done. Then, she agrees, she’ll fall into a heap on the floor and cry it out.
And then I’m back to that touch-and-go time with my youngest niece, 2, and how I had switched onto autopilot and done what I had to do.
I remember touching her cold leg in the emergency ward when she wasn’t coherent. I remember telling her it would be ok. I remember promising her distressed mother over bad coffee in the deserted cafeteria, the cleaners clunking around us, that it would be fine. Her eyes are glassy and her shaking hands clutching the styrafoam cup as she tells me what happened in my absence.
I remember lying to myself so that I could make it through those few, panicked hours.
I made phone calls updating nervous relatives - my voice was calm and collected. I told them not to worry, she’d be fine and that it was just a one off thing. The doctors had everything in hand.
She was flown to intensive care and while I was driving from hospital to hospital I sung along to whatever was on the radio so I wouldn’t have to think. Anything but think. I mimed REM; I ran a list of things to do through my head; I thought about work and I thought about how my family was going to react so that I could accommodate their needs. Anything but think about what was going on. Anything but face the situation.
I refused to accept that maybe she wouldn’t be around forever. I told myself everything was fine. I told myself that the doctors and other family members were over-reacting but I was stronger and more resolute. I told myself anything and everything I could so I wouldn’t have to face facts.
My niece was weak with a dangerously high temperature. She had convulsed in my brothers arms and passed out. They’d called an ambulance and she’d been rushed to the local hospital. No one could wake her and the doctors had been bantering around meningococcal, a disease that had killed three toddlers in our area over the past month.
Lying in that emergency ward bed I could see she wasn’t there, it wasn’t her and I was terrified. Her little body was limp and she was struggling to hold on. I had wanted to grab her and shake her hard. I’d wanted to scream at her to stop playing around. I had wanted to grab someone, anyone, and tell them that she was the most important person here and they should drop everything and be attending her.
Two weeks later I was standing in the kitchen of my dank two-bedroom apartment talking to my sister-in-law about how my youngest niece was thriving. She had come out of it ok, as though nothing had happened. The doctors said some virus had hit her hard and after a hefty dose of antibiotics she was fine. Her giggles around the house were soothing music to my ears.
I hung up the phone and dropped to the floor, sitting crossed legged in the corner of my kitchen. The cold tiles hard against my bare legs. I stared numbly at nothing and cried for the first time. Tears I though would never end. Everything came back to me. The emergency ward, her Red Cross trauma teddy and how I had clung to the misplaced shape of wool and stuffing. Asking nurses to make sure it was there for her. “Damn it, where’s her teddy. She needs her teddy.” I had idiotically called across the emergency ward. As though it were the most valuable part of her treatment. As though it was the teddy that would save her life. Because there was nothing else I could do.
M’s quiet for a few moments and I tell her it’s going to be ok because I know that’s what she needs to believe.
We change the topic to talk about happier things in a jovial tone as though O hasn’t been mentioned. Our conversation is an attempt to sing along to songs on the radio; write pointless to do lists; deal with work. The conversation is an attempt to do anything but think about what’s really on our minds.
And I know that when it’s all ok, she’ll make time to cry. So will I.
LAUGH FOR NO REASON DAY
"Caught in My Shadow" - Wonder Stuff
The leopard ears just weren't doing it for me anymore so Christine and I decided to torment the grumpy bartender at a local pub.
“Seriously, it’s a legitimate holiday. It’s all over the web,” Christine is leaning over the bar, using her cleavage as a bargaining chip to elicit compliance. “Go on, it’s a lot of fun. Give it a try.”
The bartender, who has been serving us for a total of two minutes and knows that we’ve only purchased the drinks in our hands, furrows his brow. “It sounds stupid.” His gruff barratone barks back. And it appears as though her cleavage is having no effect.
“That’s the whole point of it,” she giggles. “If everyone is acting a little silly then everyone feels better. But it only works if you can get a couple of people to take part. Old gloomy guts here won’t have a bar of it.”
I laugh. “bar, funny.” Laugh, laugh. “And we’re in a bar.”
“That wasn’t a joke,” she scolds, pulling a sour face. I laugh harder.
The bartender, at first confused, then seems to get the joke that isn’t a joke. Still I continue to explain. “I won’t have bar of it, while I’m in a bar.” I’ve actually generated tears. After a couple of seconds he’s taking my lead. Laughing at the absurdity of it.
Christine puckers her lips and says nothing. Her brow is furrowed and she’s squinting at me. Drinks in hand we move away from the bar and take a table far from the few scattered midday drinkers.
“What just happened? I didn’t say anything funny.”
“You underestimate my power.” I slip a sly grin across my face. “You were trying to make him laugh for no reason right. That was the whole point of today. Well, I did just that.”
“But it wasn’t the slightest bit funny.”
“Exactly, he was laughing for no reason. Or rather he was laughing with me because he thought he was laughing for the same reason I was.”
“Then he had a reason and therefore we failed.”
“Ah, I can see you don’t play the semantics game often enough.” Another drink and another sly grin. “I was laughing for no reason, right? And he was laughing assuming he was laughing for the same reason I was. Therefore…” I raise my hands in a wallah gesture.
“You truly are full of shit.” She says, downing her drink.
Still, I choose to take this as a minor victory and conclusive proof that a good bit of acting is better than boobage.
"Caught in My Shadow" - Wonder Stuff
The leopard ears just weren't doing it for me anymore so Christine and I decided to torment the grumpy bartender at a local pub.
“Seriously, it’s a legitimate holiday. It’s all over the web,” Christine is leaning over the bar, using her cleavage as a bargaining chip to elicit compliance. “Go on, it’s a lot of fun. Give it a try.”
The bartender, who has been serving us for a total of two minutes and knows that we’ve only purchased the drinks in our hands, furrows his brow. “It sounds stupid.” His gruff barratone barks back. And it appears as though her cleavage is having no effect.
“That’s the whole point of it,” she giggles. “If everyone is acting a little silly then everyone feels better. But it only works if you can get a couple of people to take part. Old gloomy guts here won’t have a bar of it.”
I laugh. “bar, funny.” Laugh, laugh. “And we’re in a bar.”
“That wasn’t a joke,” she scolds, pulling a sour face. I laugh harder.
The bartender, at first confused, then seems to get the joke that isn’t a joke. Still I continue to explain. “I won’t have bar of it, while I’m in a bar.” I’ve actually generated tears. After a couple of seconds he’s taking my lead. Laughing at the absurdity of it.
Christine puckers her lips and says nothing. Her brow is furrowed and she’s squinting at me. Drinks in hand we move away from the bar and take a table far from the few scattered midday drinkers.
“What just happened? I didn’t say anything funny.”
“You underestimate my power.” I slip a sly grin across my face. “You were trying to make him laugh for no reason right. That was the whole point of today. Well, I did just that.”
“But it wasn’t the slightest bit funny.”
“Exactly, he was laughing for no reason. Or rather he was laughing with me because he thought he was laughing for the same reason I was.”
“Then he had a reason and therefore we failed.”
“Ah, I can see you don’t play the semantics game often enough.” Another drink and another sly grin. “I was laughing for no reason, right? And he was laughing assuming he was laughing for the same reason I was. Therefore…” I raise my hands in a wallah gesture.
“You truly are full of shit.” She says, downing her drink.
Still, I choose to take this as a minor victory and conclusive proof that a good bit of acting is better than boobage.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
DINNER TABLE CONVERSATIONS
“Sing Along” – Blue Man Group.
Every night for the past week the conversation turns to my current situation:
“So what are your plans?” L came over for dinner on Sunday night, just one of many guests that have made their presence felt in my new abode. One of many who feel the need to show their support by telling me what I should do now that my life is effectively in the toilet.
“Well, I’m through with journalism.”
She puts down her cutlery. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’ve invested too much time and it’s a good career. You’re just a little disheartened.”
“Look, it’s not that I wouldn’t take up with journalism again. If a job drops in my lap then I’d take it. I’m just not actively searching anymore. Australian newspapers are under staff freezes and I have to make other plans.” I get defensive. I’m trying to protect my new, fragile set of beliefs.
With her mouth full, L continues to try and "help" me see the light. “I think you’re giving up too easily.”
“Well, you're not standing in my shoes. I don't have any choices here.” And I don’t. Bridges are burnt. Mistakes were made. The ugly truth was told when I should have kept my mouth shut.
“Yes you do, you can get your career back on track, settle down and build up some security. I mean, you’re almost 30.”
Almost 30, it seems to be a signpost for most of my friends. They're anchoring themselves to the ground, wanting families, minivans, pension funds, careers and antique furniture in nice quiet suburbs. I'd want that too if I thought for a second it would make me happy. But I'm not there yet. I'm not their type of 30 just yet.
"Why? I'm single and I've got the flexibility to do whatever I want. So what's wrong with exercising that freedom?" While L has attacked the food, I'm downing wine at an alarming rate.
"Because if you don’t get your act together then you’ll die alone in some Government retirement village," L chews her food without looking up. She's using the fork to paw over the pasta layers and drawing tracks in the cheese.
“So I should sell out all of my todays for a tomorrow that might never come?” Even I’m shocked by how coherent that came out but L looks distressed.
“I can’t believe you’ve got such a reckless attitude towards your future.” She’s scolding me like my mother.
“And I can’t believe you’ve given up on living so that when you’re 80, if you live to be 80, you can say you owned lots of stuff.”
L’s offended. I’m offended. We change the subject but the ghost of the conversation lingers. We are now effectively opposite sides of the same coin. She can't see what I'm saying.
I am lying to myself.
I miss journalism and my lifestyle but I have to convince myself, and everyone around me, that this is ok. I need them to believe that I’m going to be ok. That I wasn’t meant to be a journalist and that there’s something else out there for me. I need my friends and family to support these new beliefs so they don't crumble under scrutiny and me along with them.
It’s a weak illusion I’ve conjured and it will only remain intact if it goes unquestioned.
“Sing Along” – Blue Man Group.
Every night for the past week the conversation turns to my current situation:
“So what are your plans?” L came over for dinner on Sunday night, just one of many guests that have made their presence felt in my new abode. One of many who feel the need to show their support by telling me what I should do now that my life is effectively in the toilet.
“Well, I’m through with journalism.”
She puts down her cutlery. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’ve invested too much time and it’s a good career. You’re just a little disheartened.”
“Look, it’s not that I wouldn’t take up with journalism again. If a job drops in my lap then I’d take it. I’m just not actively searching anymore. Australian newspapers are under staff freezes and I have to make other plans.” I get defensive. I’m trying to protect my new, fragile set of beliefs.
With her mouth full, L continues to try and "help" me see the light. “I think you’re giving up too easily.”
“Well, you're not standing in my shoes. I don't have any choices here.” And I don’t. Bridges are burnt. Mistakes were made. The ugly truth was told when I should have kept my mouth shut.
“Yes you do, you can get your career back on track, settle down and build up some security. I mean, you’re almost 30.”
Almost 30, it seems to be a signpost for most of my friends. They're anchoring themselves to the ground, wanting families, minivans, pension funds, careers and antique furniture in nice quiet suburbs. I'd want that too if I thought for a second it would make me happy. But I'm not there yet. I'm not their type of 30 just yet.
"Why? I'm single and I've got the flexibility to do whatever I want. So what's wrong with exercising that freedom?" While L has attacked the food, I'm downing wine at an alarming rate.
"Because if you don’t get your act together then you’ll die alone in some Government retirement village," L chews her food without looking up. She's using the fork to paw over the pasta layers and drawing tracks in the cheese.
“So I should sell out all of my todays for a tomorrow that might never come?” Even I’m shocked by how coherent that came out but L looks distressed.
“I can’t believe you’ve got such a reckless attitude towards your future.” She’s scolding me like my mother.
“And I can’t believe you’ve given up on living so that when you’re 80, if you live to be 80, you can say you owned lots of stuff.”
L’s offended. I’m offended. We change the subject but the ghost of the conversation lingers. We are now effectively opposite sides of the same coin. She can't see what I'm saying.
I am lying to myself.
I miss journalism and my lifestyle but I have to convince myself, and everyone around me, that this is ok. I need them to believe that I’m going to be ok. That I wasn’t meant to be a journalist and that there’s something else out there for me. I need my friends and family to support these new beliefs so they don't crumble under scrutiny and me along with them.
It’s a weak illusion I’ve conjured and it will only remain intact if it goes unquestioned.
Monday, April 19, 2004
LINKS
"It's all Understood" - Jack Johnson
GOTHAMIST - I particularly loved the interview sections and apart from being a pretty cool site overall I've chosen Gothamist as my first link for, well, personal reasons. And by personal I mean it's something only a select few know about. Having this as my first link always makes me smile, or sigh, or hate myself - depending on how the day is going.
FTRAIN - I don't have to explain this one to anyone who's been acquainted with Ftrain and the stylings of Paul Ford. If you're not familiar with Ftrain then leave right now. Go. Enjoy. The only thing I really have to explain is why it's second. But if you knew the story of the first link then you'd understand. But you don't, so deal with it. Ftrain simply is superior writing, superior design, superior accessibility and superior linking.
THE MORNING NEWS - The best publication on the web that I can find to date. The Morning News has a variety of daily stories about life in New York. It's always got something which will give you a good laugh and be stuck in your head for the entire day.
NEWS, RANTS, SOLILOQUIES AND REVERIES - Nicholas' blog offers not only a witty running commentary of a novelist's angst but useful and effective tips on optimising your blog's effectiveness.
(SOUTHERN CROSS) WORDS - Short but sweet. Basically if you want to know what's going on and what's really important then check out this site. Plus you get interesting grabs into the life of the site's owner.
LYPTON VILLAGE - Some amazing pictures that capture life in Sydney. Shutterfly is one of Australia's best photobloggers and always has a witty take on what's going on in her life.
I'm sure more links will come and go and whatever - but for now that's what I'm working with. I go to these sites every day (sometimes more than once) and having the links on my own blog means I can alleviate the pressure on my bulging favourites list. It also means I get to share them with you. And it's all about the sharing.
Here are my two latest decisions. I don't like discussing this stuff, it's not what I want to write about. So this is the last time I'll be discussing design and linking. It's not like I'm going to say anything that's a revelation to anyone.
So, that's all I'm going to say about that.
"It's all Understood" - Jack Johnson
GOTHAMIST - I particularly loved the interview sections and apart from being a pretty cool site overall I've chosen Gothamist as my first link for, well, personal reasons. And by personal I mean it's something only a select few know about. Having this as my first link always makes me smile, or sigh, or hate myself - depending on how the day is going.
FTRAIN - I don't have to explain this one to anyone who's been acquainted with Ftrain and the stylings of Paul Ford. If you're not familiar with Ftrain then leave right now. Go. Enjoy. The only thing I really have to explain is why it's second. But if you knew the story of the first link then you'd understand. But you don't, so deal with it. Ftrain simply is superior writing, superior design, superior accessibility and superior linking.
THE MORNING NEWS - The best publication on the web that I can find to date. The Morning News has a variety of daily stories about life in New York. It's always got something which will give you a good laugh and be stuck in your head for the entire day.
NEWS, RANTS, SOLILOQUIES AND REVERIES - Nicholas' blog offers not only a witty running commentary of a novelist's angst but useful and effective tips on optimising your blog's effectiveness.
(SOUTHERN CROSS) WORDS - Short but sweet. Basically if you want to know what's going on and what's really important then check out this site. Plus you get interesting grabs into the life of the site's owner.
LYPTON VILLAGE - Some amazing pictures that capture life in Sydney. Shutterfly is one of Australia's best photobloggers and always has a witty take on what's going on in her life.
I'm sure more links will come and go and whatever - but for now that's what I'm working with. I go to these sites every day (sometimes more than once) and having the links on my own blog means I can alleviate the pressure on my bulging favourites list. It also means I get to share them with you. And it's all about the sharing.
Here are my two latest decisions. I don't like discussing this stuff, it's not what I want to write about. So this is the last time I'll be discussing design and linking. It's not like I'm going to say anything that's a revelation to anyone.
So, that's all I'm going to say about that.
Sunday, April 18, 2004
SOMETHING STOOPID
"Iced Cooly" - Boards of Canada
While I dragged the final two garbage bins to the curb, D just looked at me and shook his head. "So how long are you going to wear those things?"
I am wearing leopard ears. I've been wearing them for more than four hours and I'm not taking them off.
Why? Because I want to. Because when I do it makes people laugh. Because when I do it makes me laugh.
So far I've made three children laugh, a service station attendant wink an eye and given teens in a thunderously rockin' car an interesting anecdote.
"I don't know exactly, but I'm thinking three days." Even the rancid smell of this Sunday night ritual can't dampen my enthusiasm.
D rolled his eyes and walked away.
"Iced Cooly" - Boards of Canada
While I dragged the final two garbage bins to the curb, D just looked at me and shook his head. "So how long are you going to wear those things?"
I am wearing leopard ears. I've been wearing them for more than four hours and I'm not taking them off.
Why? Because I want to. Because when I do it makes people laugh. Because when I do it makes me laugh.
So far I've made three children laugh, a service station attendant wink an eye and given teens in a thunderously rockin' car an interesting anecdote.
"I don't know exactly, but I'm thinking three days." Even the rancid smell of this Sunday night ritual can't dampen my enthusiasm.
D rolled his eyes and walked away.
FOR AS LONG AS I'M BOSWELL
"Smartest Monkeys" - XTC
Ok, I'm done with the little tweaks for now. tOOleS is now looking the way I want it to. I've got the colours I want for the moment, my links are up (and I'll explain why I've chosen my links later), I have my email address accessible and the archives are visible.
The comments board.
I've struggled with this. I'm not a fan of the comments board however email means I know who you are. So this is the deal. As long as I'm Boswell here then they'll stay so that people who don't want to use their real name or don't want to give out their email address can do so.
But the second I use my real name, they're gone.
Anyway, back to the self-praise. This wasn't as hard as I first thought it would be. In fact, it was simple once I actually sat down and looked at the template.
If I can be bothered some time in the future I'll go into more depth. Perhaps when I've got some money and I can afford to pay for the service with all of the bells and whistles.
Until then, I'm content with the way it looks.
"Smartest Monkeys" - XTC
Ok, I'm done with the little tweaks for now. tOOleS is now looking the way I want it to. I've got the colours I want for the moment, my links are up (and I'll explain why I've chosen my links later), I have my email address accessible and the archives are visible.
The comments board.
I've struggled with this. I'm not a fan of the comments board however email means I know who you are. So this is the deal. As long as I'm Boswell here then they'll stay so that people who don't want to use their real name or don't want to give out their email address can do so.
But the second I use my real name, they're gone.
Anyway, back to the self-praise. This wasn't as hard as I first thought it would be. In fact, it was simple once I actually sat down and looked at the template.
If I can be bothered some time in the future I'll go into more depth. Perhaps when I've got some money and I can afford to pay for the service with all of the bells and whistles.
Until then, I'm content with the way it looks.
Saturday, April 17, 2004
WALKING WITH GHOSTS
“Waiting for Superman” – The Flaming Lips
I’m waiting to begin.
I’m waiting for the phone to ring. I’m waiting for emails. I’m waiting for divine inspiration. I’m waiting for a sign to tell me that there is a reason for the course my life has taken. I’m waiting for someone to show me that losing my job and effectively ending my career wasn’t a huge, universal fuck-up.
In this state of mind I have to talk to myself to get anything done:
“Boswell, get up.” And I drag myself from bed. Despite the persistence of this voice it will take more than half-an-hour to finally leave my room and face the day.
“Boswell, brush your teeth and hair.” Occasionally I ignore this voice and settle for simply smoothing my hair down with my hand. As a last resort I pull it back in a bandana. And lets face it, it's not like I'll be kissing anyone in the near future so it's ok that my teeth are furry.
“Boswell, eat something.” I hover at the fridge and look at the abundance on offer thanks to my housemates. It takes me 20 minutes to decide on nothing. Then decide I have to eat something and make a tuna sandwich.
“Boswell, shower.” If this voice wasn’t there then I would literally stink my way across the apartment.
In between these conversations my brain is constantly doing the math of my situation. My mind is draining bank accounts and scraping money from behind the mental couch. But whatever way I look at it I can’t stretch the $900 I’m getting a month into $1640 and there’s nothing left to sell. My subconscious is tying itself in knots and the tension running up the back of my neck is making it difficult to turn my head, clicking and crunching and causing a screaming pain.
And from out of nowhere, Christine reaches from behind the couch and smacks me across the back of the head. A flat palmed hit that doesn’t hurt much in my current numbness. “Get out”.
“What?” I had been staring at the oyster light on the ceiling for an hour, watching the shadows stretch themselves across the stark white. Trying to unravel the mess of my life. Waiting.
“You heard me, get out of the apartment. Go for a walk. Do something.”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
She grabs my left arm, supporting the elbow, and pulls me from the couch.
“It’s not an option you depressed sack. Go!” She’s pulling me towards to door with one hand and scooping my handbag with the other. She throws the black bag at me once I’m standing, shocked, in the hallway. “Man, you know we love you but this self pity crap – enough already.” With that she slams the door.
And I hit the streets to walk among the living dead.
After an hour I come to two conclusions: 1. she's right, enough already and 2. some people just don't know how to dress.
“Waiting for Superman” – The Flaming Lips
I’m waiting to begin.
I’m waiting for the phone to ring. I’m waiting for emails. I’m waiting for divine inspiration. I’m waiting for a sign to tell me that there is a reason for the course my life has taken. I’m waiting for someone to show me that losing my job and effectively ending my career wasn’t a huge, universal fuck-up.
In this state of mind I have to talk to myself to get anything done:
“Boswell, get up.” And I drag myself from bed. Despite the persistence of this voice it will take more than half-an-hour to finally leave my room and face the day.
“Boswell, brush your teeth and hair.” Occasionally I ignore this voice and settle for simply smoothing my hair down with my hand. As a last resort I pull it back in a bandana. And lets face it, it's not like I'll be kissing anyone in the near future so it's ok that my teeth are furry.
“Boswell, eat something.” I hover at the fridge and look at the abundance on offer thanks to my housemates. It takes me 20 minutes to decide on nothing. Then decide I have to eat something and make a tuna sandwich.
“Boswell, shower.” If this voice wasn’t there then I would literally stink my way across the apartment.
In between these conversations my brain is constantly doing the math of my situation. My mind is draining bank accounts and scraping money from behind the mental couch. But whatever way I look at it I can’t stretch the $900 I’m getting a month into $1640 and there’s nothing left to sell. My subconscious is tying itself in knots and the tension running up the back of my neck is making it difficult to turn my head, clicking and crunching and causing a screaming pain.
And from out of nowhere, Christine reaches from behind the couch and smacks me across the back of the head. A flat palmed hit that doesn’t hurt much in my current numbness. “Get out”.
“What?” I had been staring at the oyster light on the ceiling for an hour, watching the shadows stretch themselves across the stark white. Trying to unravel the mess of my life. Waiting.
“You heard me, get out of the apartment. Go for a walk. Do something.”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
She grabs my left arm, supporting the elbow, and pulls me from the couch.
“It’s not an option you depressed sack. Go!” She’s pulling me towards to door with one hand and scooping my handbag with the other. She throws the black bag at me once I’m standing, shocked, in the hallway. “Man, you know we love you but this self pity crap – enough already.” With that she slams the door.
And I hit the streets to walk among the living dead.
After an hour I come to two conclusions: 1. she's right, enough already and 2. some people just don't know how to dress.
BUSTED STUFF
“Say Goodbye” – Dave Matthews Band
It’s a tangible memory.
Harris Park by the Thames in London, Ontario on a clear summer night. The grass is cool and damp beneath us and I run my hands through its lushness slowly, savouring the sensation. It's sweet relief for my burning skin.
J is playing his guitar and I’m taken by the music. Calm beside him I watch as his hands become a blur and he loses himself in the passion of the piece. Those long fingers dancing across the frets as though he’s possessed by the music he’s playing.
I’m floating and free. The music is seeping into the pores of my skin and he and I are wrapped together by the passion but we’re worlds apart. Lying back I have given myself over to the moment and it’s a seamless transition as I’m drawn into the stars.
For the first time in my life I start to see shapes. I make out a butterfly, pentagram and an elaborate snowflake. It’s a revelation I share with my companion.
And J says, "That’s the trick. You don’t look at the stars, you look at the space between them."
At that moment, I was convinced I’d discovered the meaning of life.
“Say Goodbye” – Dave Matthews Band
It’s a tangible memory.
Harris Park by the Thames in London, Ontario on a clear summer night. The grass is cool and damp beneath us and I run my hands through its lushness slowly, savouring the sensation. It's sweet relief for my burning skin.
J is playing his guitar and I’m taken by the music. Calm beside him I watch as his hands become a blur and he loses himself in the passion of the piece. Those long fingers dancing across the frets as though he’s possessed by the music he’s playing.
I’m floating and free. The music is seeping into the pores of my skin and he and I are wrapped together by the passion but we’re worlds apart. Lying back I have given myself over to the moment and it’s a seamless transition as I’m drawn into the stars.
For the first time in my life I start to see shapes. I make out a butterfly, pentagram and an elaborate snowflake. It’s a revelation I share with my companion.
And J says, "That’s the trick. You don’t look at the stars, you look at the space between them."
At that moment, I was convinced I’d discovered the meaning of life.
Friday, April 16, 2004
ANYTHING TO SAY?
A comments board. Don't get too attached, they'll only be staying for a little while until I get something else set up. So if you've got anything you want to get off your chest - speak now or forever hold your peace.
I'm fighting a battle on whether to keep these. I mean, this isn't really the stuff you comment on, is it? I'm not running a think-tank here.
And I know it's not much but look, see - I've changed colours, comments, added links and have the ability to add an email contact in the side bar.
I'm no longer on first readers - I'm at least a grade one.
(And yes, I edited this post.)
A comments board. Don't get too attached, they'll only be staying for a little while until I get something else set up. So if you've got anything you want to get off your chest - speak now or forever hold your peace.
I'm fighting a battle on whether to keep these. I mean, this isn't really the stuff you comment on, is it? I'm not running a think-tank here.
And I know it's not much but look, see - I've changed colours, comments, added links and have the ability to add an email contact in the side bar.
I'm no longer on first readers - I'm at least a grade one.
(And yes, I edited this post.)
THE STORY OF THE WATCHES
"If I Should Fall" - Barenaked Ladies
As I reconstructed my bed, kindly returned to me from Canberra, D sat on my bedroom floor pawing through my jewellery box.
“You’ve got a lot of watches,” he said, pulling one from its knotted hiding place. “But I’ve never seen you wear one.”
I didn’t look up from my work, balancing a cross bar on my knee, holding the bed head with one hand and tightening the bolt with the other.
“I don’t wear a watch.” I said between grunts and curses.
“Then why do you have so many of them?”
By now he’d pulled them all out and placed them side-by-side in a straight line across the carpet in front of him. I put down the half-completed bed and my tools and stood over the line of watches.
As if by instinct I rearranged them. Seven in all. And I had arranged them chronologically so I could tell the story of my watches.
“The watches are a testament to my relationships,” I laughed each word.
“Watch one was given to me by my parents when I was in high school.” The watch was a simple, gold-faced Timex on a black band. I’d worn the watch for six months.
“It used to bite into my wrist and left a green stain. Whenever I was in class I would watch it tick slowly and finally I just stopped wearing it. That’s when I decided I didn’t need to know that my life was slipping away. I didn’t want to have something attached to my wrist that compartmentalised my life so thoroughly. I wanted to think not in seconds but in full moments, full experiences.”
I was in full flashback mode and D, who is usually bored to death by my philosophising, examined each watch from my colourful collection as I told a short story for each.
A multi-coloured Swatch Watch from my brother, a watch from each of my failed relationships and a smart blue-banded watch I bought for myself at a time when I forgot who I was.
“The watch is a signpost for me. If a guy gives me a watch then I know the relationship is doomed.”
D looked up from the collection. “But G_ didn’t give you a watch.”
I smiled, knowing the secret signpost had been put in place. “No, he didn’t. But about a month ago he’d told me `I’m going to buy you a watch for your birthday, that way you don’t have to keep asking me what the time is’. That’s when I knew we wouldn’t last”
By now I was back to building my bed, a careful balance of cross beams, bed ends, slats and bolts barely holding the frame together as I tightened each to breaking point.
D went quiet for a few moments. “Did you mention to any of these people why you didn’t wear a watch?”
“None of them cared enough to ask but I always made it clear ‘I don’t wear a watch’ I never once said ‘I don’t have a watch’. They all just assumed that I didn’t own one. But how clueless are you to think that a grown woman wouldn’t have a watch if she really wanted one?” The final bolt in place.
“So all of your ex-boyfriends gave you a watch and that’s why you’re not together?” D’s voice was almost mocking. He never did understand my reasons for breaking up with a couple of my previous partners.
“No, that would be ridiculous. I mean obviously there are situations where it’s not an offensive gift but if I’ve been going out with a guy for more than a year then it’s an indication of a bigger problem. It’s the fact he isn’t seeing me for who I am.
“If my magical 'one' exists, he’s the one who is actually interested enough in me to notice the simple quirks of who I am. Someone who will see that I choose not to wear a watch.”
Finally the bed’s assembled and I starfish across its queen-sized mattress.
Watchless and alone.
"If I Should Fall" - Barenaked Ladies
As I reconstructed my bed, kindly returned to me from Canberra, D sat on my bedroom floor pawing through my jewellery box.
“You’ve got a lot of watches,” he said, pulling one from its knotted hiding place. “But I’ve never seen you wear one.”
I didn’t look up from my work, balancing a cross bar on my knee, holding the bed head with one hand and tightening the bolt with the other.
“I don’t wear a watch.” I said between grunts and curses.
“Then why do you have so many of them?”
By now he’d pulled them all out and placed them side-by-side in a straight line across the carpet in front of him. I put down the half-completed bed and my tools and stood over the line of watches.
As if by instinct I rearranged them. Seven in all. And I had arranged them chronologically so I could tell the story of my watches.
“The watches are a testament to my relationships,” I laughed each word.
“Watch one was given to me by my parents when I was in high school.” The watch was a simple, gold-faced Timex on a black band. I’d worn the watch for six months.
“It used to bite into my wrist and left a green stain. Whenever I was in class I would watch it tick slowly and finally I just stopped wearing it. That’s when I decided I didn’t need to know that my life was slipping away. I didn’t want to have something attached to my wrist that compartmentalised my life so thoroughly. I wanted to think not in seconds but in full moments, full experiences.”
I was in full flashback mode and D, who is usually bored to death by my philosophising, examined each watch from my colourful collection as I told a short story for each.
A multi-coloured Swatch Watch from my brother, a watch from each of my failed relationships and a smart blue-banded watch I bought for myself at a time when I forgot who I was.
“The watch is a signpost for me. If a guy gives me a watch then I know the relationship is doomed.”
D looked up from the collection. “But G_ didn’t give you a watch.”
I smiled, knowing the secret signpost had been put in place. “No, he didn’t. But about a month ago he’d told me `I’m going to buy you a watch for your birthday, that way you don’t have to keep asking me what the time is’. That’s when I knew we wouldn’t last”
By now I was back to building my bed, a careful balance of cross beams, bed ends, slats and bolts barely holding the frame together as I tightened each to breaking point.
D went quiet for a few moments. “Did you mention to any of these people why you didn’t wear a watch?”
“None of them cared enough to ask but I always made it clear ‘I don’t wear a watch’ I never once said ‘I don’t have a watch’. They all just assumed that I didn’t own one. But how clueless are you to think that a grown woman wouldn’t have a watch if she really wanted one?” The final bolt in place.
“So all of your ex-boyfriends gave you a watch and that’s why you’re not together?” D’s voice was almost mocking. He never did understand my reasons for breaking up with a couple of my previous partners.
“No, that would be ridiculous. I mean obviously there are situations where it’s not an offensive gift but if I’ve been going out with a guy for more than a year then it’s an indication of a bigger problem. It’s the fact he isn’t seeing me for who I am.
“If my magical 'one' exists, he’s the one who is actually interested enough in me to notice the simple quirks of who I am. Someone who will see that I choose not to wear a watch.”
Finally the bed’s assembled and I starfish across its queen-sized mattress.
Watchless and alone.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
CRAP, CRAP, CRAP
No, there's no song. I'm just pissed off. After trying to rearrage my links, for some magical reason, I've lost my archives. Maybe I should go back to journalism and forget this world of the mysteriously uncooperative ether.
But I know there is a logical reason, only I can't see it. Not now. I'm too tired and as only first reader (UNDER CONSTRUCTION) I don't get why adding and aditional link is creating such a problem.
I should put it off until tomorrow but I can't. I need to know why this beast is rebelling against me. I'm not someone who can happily lie down and admit defeat.
If the problem isn't resolved then you can deal with it, but me I will have nightmares about the fact this doesn't look exactly the way I want it to.
-- ok, it appears as if one of my links was not entirely happy to be there. Sorry. But because I am very smart I had saved the previous template changes I made and the result is that I could restore most of my settings.
For the more talented I'm sorry to be making such a mess of the simple process of creating links.
But for me - well done. It all has to begin somewhere.
-- ha. And a colour change to boot.
But nothing is etched in stone yet.
No, there's no song. I'm just pissed off. After trying to rearrage my links, for some magical reason, I've lost my archives. Maybe I should go back to journalism and forget this world of the mysteriously uncooperative ether.
But I know there is a logical reason, only I can't see it. Not now. I'm too tired and as only first reader (UNDER CONSTRUCTION) I don't get why adding and aditional link is creating such a problem.
I should put it off until tomorrow but I can't. I need to know why this beast is rebelling against me. I'm not someone who can happily lie down and admit defeat.
If the problem isn't resolved then you can deal with it, but me I will have nightmares about the fact this doesn't look exactly the way I want it to.
-- ok, it appears as if one of my links was not entirely happy to be there. Sorry. But because I am very smart I had saved the previous template changes I made and the result is that I could restore most of my settings.
For the more talented I'm sorry to be making such a mess of the simple process of creating links.
But for me - well done. It all has to begin somewhere.
-- ha. And a colour change to boot.
But nothing is etched in stone yet.
IT’S ALL ABOUT THE BUCK
"I Have the Touch" - Heather Nova
I spent two days on the road. My trip included travelling to Canberra to reduce the three-bedroom dream home from a fully embodied dream to a skeleton frame. Now it’s a $250 a week mill stone around my neck.
The last to go today was my fridge and washing machine.
“I’ll give you $120 for both the fridge and washing machine,” the boy said. Standing before me was a wiry framed child of a man. The boy was a front for an evil second hand dealer trying to diddle desperate people out of a fair trade for their electrical goods.
I stood firm, despite the fact I was more than aware my foundations were built on sand.
“I paid $700 for the fridge and washing machine from you guys less than four months ago. There’s no way I’m taking $60 for each of them.” It was a false bravado. I have no money. For the next two weeks I’m living on -$50 which is pretty abysmal. At least that’s what I’m calling it so I won’t have to face the word “impossible” which is being bantered around by family and friends.
“We have overheads,” the feeble boy begged. But he didn’t stand a chance.
Desperate people do desperate things and I considered offering him sex in return for a fair deal. Then I withdrew that consideration and offered him intellect instead.
“Look, I know business, after all I spent three years studying business practices (lie, lie, lie). I’ve already done the math. We’re talking at a massive estimate $20 per hour for labour, not to mention the rent and taxation issues and the issues of petrol and so forth – you’re looking, at the price you’re offering, a profit of 60 per cent.”
The poor child before me looked wide-eyed and lost. He was a little shocked and completely unaware I had no idea what I was talking about. Which, incidentally, I didn’t.
“Now, while I understand we’re all in a society where profit is the primary goal you’ve got to understand that I don’t want to feel like I’ve been ripped off.”
The boy still looked flushed. “You know, they only authorised me to offer $50 per item,” he sighed. “I told them this was in mint condition and that you’d want more.”
I didn’t want to get mean, I knew this poor kid was underpaid, overworked and on the firing line every day. I knew he was used by his employer to elicit pity and concern and I had no animosity towards him. Instead of insults I used common business sense.
“Well, I completely understand that, but how about you ring your boss and tell him that I’m not your typical customer. Tell him that being someone who has worked in the business for years I know how this works and that I feel I’m being taken advantage of. Tell him his choices are this – I could use this knowledge to get a fair deal or I could simply bad mouth him as a crook to everyone I meet. I will tell people on the street, in supermarket lines, at bus shelters.”
The boy pulled his mobile phone from the back pocket of his pants and dialled. I gave him space to talk freely and eves dropped from the garage.
“Yeah, it’s in mint condition.
“Um, no, she’s not.
“Well I think she’s asked for a fair price, not that.
I knew the gaps that filled that conversation.
“Does it look ok?” (yeah it’s in mint condition)
“Is she gullible?” (Um, no, she’s not.)
“Try to talk her into $250.” (Well I think she’s asked for a fair price.”)
The boy came out of the kitchen; his face was drawn and pale.
“I’ve been authorised to offer you a bit more,” he said, holding the cards close to his chest and looking for some sort of reaction from me.
Still, I knew at the end of the scale I was being ripped off but I didn’t have any choice, I still don’t. “Look,” I said. My voice softening. “I understand you’ve got the rough end of the stick here. They send you out to face the customer and then dictate the price and you have to wear the consequences of that.”
Motherly. While my mother had never mastered this skill I had learnt, from wanting it from her, how to accommodate the needs for understanding of the child before me.
“How much did they want you to offer?”
The boy looked as though he were about to cry. “They said $250.” His eyes were downcast as though he had broken a sacred trust.
“Well, how about we tell them you talked me down to $280. It’s the middle ground. You’re not happy. I’m not happy. But we’re both not completely miserable either.”
The boy looked up at me as though I had offered him a lifeline.
“Is a cheque ok?”
"I Have the Touch" - Heather Nova
I spent two days on the road. My trip included travelling to Canberra to reduce the three-bedroom dream home from a fully embodied dream to a skeleton frame. Now it’s a $250 a week mill stone around my neck.
The last to go today was my fridge and washing machine.
“I’ll give you $120 for both the fridge and washing machine,” the boy said. Standing before me was a wiry framed child of a man. The boy was a front for an evil second hand dealer trying to diddle desperate people out of a fair trade for their electrical goods.
I stood firm, despite the fact I was more than aware my foundations were built on sand.
“I paid $700 for the fridge and washing machine from you guys less than four months ago. There’s no way I’m taking $60 for each of them.” It was a false bravado. I have no money. For the next two weeks I’m living on -$50 which is pretty abysmal. At least that’s what I’m calling it so I won’t have to face the word “impossible” which is being bantered around by family and friends.
“We have overheads,” the feeble boy begged. But he didn’t stand a chance.
Desperate people do desperate things and I considered offering him sex in return for a fair deal. Then I withdrew that consideration and offered him intellect instead.
“Look, I know business, after all I spent three years studying business practices (lie, lie, lie). I’ve already done the math. We’re talking at a massive estimate $20 per hour for labour, not to mention the rent and taxation issues and the issues of petrol and so forth – you’re looking, at the price you’re offering, a profit of 60 per cent.”
The poor child before me looked wide-eyed and lost. He was a little shocked and completely unaware I had no idea what I was talking about. Which, incidentally, I didn’t.
“Now, while I understand we’re all in a society where profit is the primary goal you’ve got to understand that I don’t want to feel like I’ve been ripped off.”
The boy still looked flushed. “You know, they only authorised me to offer $50 per item,” he sighed. “I told them this was in mint condition and that you’d want more.”
I didn’t want to get mean, I knew this poor kid was underpaid, overworked and on the firing line every day. I knew he was used by his employer to elicit pity and concern and I had no animosity towards him. Instead of insults I used common business sense.
“Well, I completely understand that, but how about you ring your boss and tell him that I’m not your typical customer. Tell him that being someone who has worked in the business for years I know how this works and that I feel I’m being taken advantage of. Tell him his choices are this – I could use this knowledge to get a fair deal or I could simply bad mouth him as a crook to everyone I meet. I will tell people on the street, in supermarket lines, at bus shelters.”
The boy pulled his mobile phone from the back pocket of his pants and dialled. I gave him space to talk freely and eves dropped from the garage.
“Yeah, it’s in mint condition.
“Um, no, she’s not.
“Well I think she’s asked for a fair price, not that.
I knew the gaps that filled that conversation.
“Does it look ok?” (yeah it’s in mint condition)
“Is she gullible?” (Um, no, she’s not.)
“Try to talk her into $250.” (Well I think she’s asked for a fair price.”)
The boy came out of the kitchen; his face was drawn and pale.
“I’ve been authorised to offer you a bit more,” he said, holding the cards close to his chest and looking for some sort of reaction from me.
Still, I knew at the end of the scale I was being ripped off but I didn’t have any choice, I still don’t. “Look,” I said. My voice softening. “I understand you’ve got the rough end of the stick here. They send you out to face the customer and then dictate the price and you have to wear the consequences of that.”
Motherly. While my mother had never mastered this skill I had learnt, from wanting it from her, how to accommodate the needs for understanding of the child before me.
“How much did they want you to offer?”
The boy looked as though he were about to cry. “They said $250.” His eyes were downcast as though he had broken a sacred trust.
“Well, how about we tell them you talked me down to $280. It’s the middle ground. You’re not happy. I’m not happy. But we’re both not completely miserable either.”
The boy looked up at me as though I had offered him a lifeline.
“Is a cheque ok?”
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
"1983" - John Mayer
- title after the song. You know what that means. Short story time. But don't get too excited, it's not that good.
THE MURAL
Karen’s eyes watered.
“Wanna get somethin’ to eat?” Simon intentionally scuffed his shoes on the footpath. The boy, who turned 7 in a week, had been bouncing along beside her as they walked through the streets of Guildford.
“You just ate something,” she scolded. Finally she stopped and let the heavy shopping bags she was carrying rest on the underpasses damp ashphalt ground. She arched her aching back and watched as Simon scanned the mural.
“Why is that lizard bigger than the dingo?” he asked. “I don’t know,” she responded.
He continued to stare at the mural and she watched him exploring the dank cavern under the train tracks. He had always been a handful. His mother, her sister, had asked her to take him for the weekend so she could get some rest.
“I just need a break,” she’d pleaded. “He’s at me all the time and since his father left I can’t control him. I just don’t have the time to get everything done.”
Karen assured her sister that that was what aunties were for. To baby sit. But to this day she’d never understood why Simon was becoming so difficult. He had always been a typical child.
Now he had a “behavioural problem”.
Sure, for the past 48 hours he hadn’t shut up. He’d been disobedient and wouldn’t go to bed when he was told. He’d refused to eat dinner but had no problem with dessert. He’d fought Karen when she’d tried to get him to take a bath. But she had no problems with this behaviour, he was, after all, a child and he was behaving childishly.
“Why is the lizard bigger than a cockatoo?” turning his head to look back at her, he closed one eye as though the world would make more sense that way. Karen didn’t answer him and he bounded of around the corner and out of her sight.
His sudden disappearance made her worry and she heaved on the bags to see where he’d gone. By the time she’s walked four paces he was back around the corner.
“There’s a panda around here with a leopard and a rhino – why? I thought rhino’s and Panda’s came from different countries. How can they be in the same field?
Karen called him too her. “Maybe the artist got confused, or maybe he just wanted to draw a panda with a rhino. I don’t know.” She didn’t want to move. Her feet ached and Simon was occupied.
This handful of a boy bounced continually, running his hands along the dirty wall around her. He ran back and forth along the underpass, taking in the mural with a keen eye.
But then he suddenly stopped.
“Aunty Karen?” he had his back to her and was staring intently at the picture of a crocodile which had been crammed by the artist into a small space. His voice was suddenly heavy and Karen was a little alarmed by the change in tone.
“What is it sweetie?” she left the bags sitting on the ground and moved to him.
“Can I come a live with you?” he squatted down and was patting the crocodile as though it were an old friend, as though it were the family dog he had grown up with all his life. Tenderly, thoughtfully.
“Why?” Karen really didn’t want to know the answer.
“Mum doesn’t stop. She won’t let me pat the crocodile.” He turned to Karen who by now was finding it difficult to keep her composure. “She says she doesn’t have the time. But, I think the crocodile’s lonely over here and likes it when I stop.”
The boy smoothed his hand over the crocodile’s concrete skin.
“Well, your mum would miss you too much. But, how about I make sure I come over and say hello every time I go past. And when you come to stay with me we can come and see him together.”
Karen squatted down beside him and touched the cold concrete to show Simon that she understood. He smiled.
“I can come and visit more if you don’t want to talk to him on your own.”
“You can visit and call as often as you like.” Karen assured him.
“Then he won’t be so lonely?”
“No Simon, he won’t be lonely.” She hugged the boy and kissed him on the head.
Crossing the road he took her hand and didn’t let go when they reached the other side.
- title after the song. You know what that means. Short story time. But don't get too excited, it's not that good.
THE MURAL
Karen’s eyes watered.
“Wanna get somethin’ to eat?” Simon intentionally scuffed his shoes on the footpath. The boy, who turned 7 in a week, had been bouncing along beside her as they walked through the streets of Guildford.
“You just ate something,” she scolded. Finally she stopped and let the heavy shopping bags she was carrying rest on the underpasses damp ashphalt ground. She arched her aching back and watched as Simon scanned the mural.
“Why is that lizard bigger than the dingo?” he asked. “I don’t know,” she responded.
He continued to stare at the mural and she watched him exploring the dank cavern under the train tracks. He had always been a handful. His mother, her sister, had asked her to take him for the weekend so she could get some rest.
“I just need a break,” she’d pleaded. “He’s at me all the time and since his father left I can’t control him. I just don’t have the time to get everything done.”
Karen assured her sister that that was what aunties were for. To baby sit. But to this day she’d never understood why Simon was becoming so difficult. He had always been a typical child.
Now he had a “behavioural problem”.
Sure, for the past 48 hours he hadn’t shut up. He’d been disobedient and wouldn’t go to bed when he was told. He’d refused to eat dinner but had no problem with dessert. He’d fought Karen when she’d tried to get him to take a bath. But she had no problems with this behaviour, he was, after all, a child and he was behaving childishly.
“Why is the lizard bigger than a cockatoo?” turning his head to look back at her, he closed one eye as though the world would make more sense that way. Karen didn’t answer him and he bounded of around the corner and out of her sight.
His sudden disappearance made her worry and she heaved on the bags to see where he’d gone. By the time she’s walked four paces he was back around the corner.
“There’s a panda around here with a leopard and a rhino – why? I thought rhino’s and Panda’s came from different countries. How can they be in the same field?
Karen called him too her. “Maybe the artist got confused, or maybe he just wanted to draw a panda with a rhino. I don’t know.” She didn’t want to move. Her feet ached and Simon was occupied.
This handful of a boy bounced continually, running his hands along the dirty wall around her. He ran back and forth along the underpass, taking in the mural with a keen eye.
But then he suddenly stopped.
“Aunty Karen?” he had his back to her and was staring intently at the picture of a crocodile which had been crammed by the artist into a small space. His voice was suddenly heavy and Karen was a little alarmed by the change in tone.
“What is it sweetie?” she left the bags sitting on the ground and moved to him.
“Can I come a live with you?” he squatted down and was patting the crocodile as though it were an old friend, as though it were the family dog he had grown up with all his life. Tenderly, thoughtfully.
“Why?” Karen really didn’t want to know the answer.
“Mum doesn’t stop. She won’t let me pat the crocodile.” He turned to Karen who by now was finding it difficult to keep her composure. “She says she doesn’t have the time. But, I think the crocodile’s lonely over here and likes it when I stop.”
The boy smoothed his hand over the crocodile’s concrete skin.
“Well, your mum would miss you too much. But, how about I make sure I come over and say hello every time I go past. And when you come to stay with me we can come and see him together.”
Karen squatted down beside him and touched the cold concrete to show Simon that she understood. He smiled.
“I can come and visit more if you don’t want to talk to him on your own.”
“You can visit and call as often as you like.” Karen assured him.
“Then he won’t be so lonely?”
“No Simon, he won’t be lonely.” She hugged the boy and kissed him on the head.
Crossing the road he took her hand and didn’t let go when they reached the other side.
Monday, April 12, 2004
EAT, DRINK AND BE NUMB
“Slide” – Dido
I spent the day with D’s friends. They were a bubbly bunch that spoke in code. Using people’s names that didn’t mean a thing to me. Wildly funny stories that made me cry with laughter but to which I had no connection.
Still it was nice to be carefree for six hours over a barbecue and an endless flow of wine, champagne and aimless chatter.
We talked about Australia’s social policy, about music and about the media (a topic I was more than happy to be vocal on).
“So, where do you work?” D’s friend asked me from across the table.
“I don’t,” what else was I going to say? “I just lost my job and D’s putting me up until I get back on my feet.”
His friend was silent for a few seconds. Eyeing me, not quite sure how to respond. Finally she reached over a poured me another glass of wine. “Ah well, you’ll find something.”
Still, I babbled on with the flow of conversation. Happy to ask for more stories about D’s drunken escapades and for clarifications when they laughed at stories I didn’t understand because I hadn’t been there. And then I laughed with them.
We sang and danced to songs from our collective history as children of the 80s.
When D and I got home the answering machine had one message.
“Hi Boswell, it’s G.” Pause. “Just wanted to wish you a Happy Easter.” Pause. “Um, I’ll call you next week to see how you’re going.”
D stood there staring at me, waiting for some indication on how I’d respond before he could react. He bit his lip.
Christine, who had been loitering around the apartment all day, said, "fuck him," and huffed off as though it were her heart broken
I reached out and pressed delete.
“Slide” – Dido
I spent the day with D’s friends. They were a bubbly bunch that spoke in code. Using people’s names that didn’t mean a thing to me. Wildly funny stories that made me cry with laughter but to which I had no connection.
Still it was nice to be carefree for six hours over a barbecue and an endless flow of wine, champagne and aimless chatter.
We talked about Australia’s social policy, about music and about the media (a topic I was more than happy to be vocal on).
“So, where do you work?” D’s friend asked me from across the table.
“I don’t,” what else was I going to say? “I just lost my job and D’s putting me up until I get back on my feet.”
His friend was silent for a few seconds. Eyeing me, not quite sure how to respond. Finally she reached over a poured me another glass of wine. “Ah well, you’ll find something.”
Still, I babbled on with the flow of conversation. Happy to ask for more stories about D’s drunken escapades and for clarifications when they laughed at stories I didn’t understand because I hadn’t been there. And then I laughed with them.
We sang and danced to songs from our collective history as children of the 80s.
When D and I got home the answering machine had one message.
“Hi Boswell, it’s G.” Pause. “Just wanted to wish you a Happy Easter.” Pause. “Um, I’ll call you next week to see how you’re going.”
D stood there staring at me, waiting for some indication on how I’d respond before he could react. He bit his lip.
Christine, who had been loitering around the apartment all day, said, "fuck him," and huffed off as though it were her heart broken
I reached out and pressed delete.
Sunday, April 11, 2004
UNDER CONSTRUCTION
"Whistling In the Dark" - They Might Be Giants
For those of you out there who have been doing this for years it may be no big joy to learn something as basic as how to create links. But for me, an ex-journalist who has been working within one program for five years, it's a minor miracle.
All of those little strings of letters and symbols. All the terms and abbreviations which had previously been so confusing to me are beginning to come together like a novel.
At the moment I'm on the first readers. I'm not struggling with them but it's a foreign concept. Still, I've always been pretty quick at picking up new things so next it'll be getting the colours I want and attaching a comments board (or not).
At this early stage I haven't made any firm decision on what links will stay, which will go and what others will be added. I'm too tired right now to make any firm decisions.
I guess this site itself is a fitting metaphore for what's going on in my life. Under construction. This is all about learning new things and relearning all of those things I had forgotten. Still, I'm pleased to see there is some progress.
It's all-together too dark in my life at the moment so I'm taking what victories I can.
"Whistling In the Dark" - They Might Be Giants
For those of you out there who have been doing this for years it may be no big joy to learn something as basic as how to create links. But for me, an ex-journalist who has been working within one program for five years, it's a minor miracle.
All of those little strings of letters and symbols. All the terms and abbreviations which had previously been so confusing to me are beginning to come together like a novel.
At the moment I'm on the first readers. I'm not struggling with them but it's a foreign concept. Still, I've always been pretty quick at picking up new things so next it'll be getting the colours I want and attaching a comments board (or not).
At this early stage I haven't made any firm decision on what links will stay, which will go and what others will be added. I'm too tired right now to make any firm decisions.
I guess this site itself is a fitting metaphore for what's going on in my life. Under construction. This is all about learning new things and relearning all of those things I had forgotten. Still, I'm pleased to see there is some progress.
It's all-together too dark in my life at the moment so I'm taking what victories I can.
Saturday, April 10, 2004
A PIECE OF HEAVEN
“Leave Me Be” - Posies
Tonight one of my new neighbours, a tall, blonde Albanian refugee who had moved to Australia only a couple of years ago, leaned over the space between our balconies.
“Here, try some,” he said warmly.
On offer was a plate of four barbequed cutlets. I reached out to take one.
“No, no,” he said, pushing the plate towards me. “Take them all.”
I resisted, knowing this particular family was fighting its own financial battles and couldn’t afford to be feeding an already overstuffed ex-journalist.
Finally I took them, seeing his weakening arm bending dangerously under the offer. “Thank you,” I said feebly, eyeing the meat gluttenously.
The complex I live in now is ethnically diverse and walking through the halls at around 5pm you are greeted by a warm flow of aromas. Opening the unit’s door this afternoon I was envious of the barbecue that had begun next door.
My options tonight had consisted of a tin of spagetti, a macaroni cheese concoction left over from D’s meal last night, soup or frozen hamburgers. Now D and I were considering a plate of real, flavoursome meat.
I bit into the cutlet slowly, savouring each chew as though the cutlet was a piece of heaven itself. As I ate I thought about the offer. To me the meat was the most divine meal I have ever had. Herbs and spices brought out the best the meat had to offer. Not overcooked, not undercooked, a perfect medium. The juices soothed my throat and dribbled down my hands and warmed my entire body. It was the gesture of pure kindness that had given this meal its significance.
With each bite I savoured the sticky mess and was resistant to wash it away when the meal ended.
“Leave Me Be” - Posies
Tonight one of my new neighbours, a tall, blonde Albanian refugee who had moved to Australia only a couple of years ago, leaned over the space between our balconies.
“Here, try some,” he said warmly.
On offer was a plate of four barbequed cutlets. I reached out to take one.
“No, no,” he said, pushing the plate towards me. “Take them all.”
I resisted, knowing this particular family was fighting its own financial battles and couldn’t afford to be feeding an already overstuffed ex-journalist.
Finally I took them, seeing his weakening arm bending dangerously under the offer. “Thank you,” I said feebly, eyeing the meat gluttenously.
The complex I live in now is ethnically diverse and walking through the halls at around 5pm you are greeted by a warm flow of aromas. Opening the unit’s door this afternoon I was envious of the barbecue that had begun next door.
My options tonight had consisted of a tin of spagetti, a macaroni cheese concoction left over from D’s meal last night, soup or frozen hamburgers. Now D and I were considering a plate of real, flavoursome meat.
I bit into the cutlet slowly, savouring each chew as though the cutlet was a piece of heaven itself. As I ate I thought about the offer. To me the meat was the most divine meal I have ever had. Herbs and spices brought out the best the meat had to offer. Not overcooked, not undercooked, a perfect medium. The juices soothed my throat and dribbled down my hands and warmed my entire body. It was the gesture of pure kindness that had given this meal its significance.
With each bite I savoured the sticky mess and was resistant to wash it away when the meal ended.
Friday, April 09, 2004
A MOVING SAGA
"I Will Survive" - Cake
The sweat pools in the small of my back. My arms, burning from the weight of the box I cling to. My knees rebel as I push, yet again, up the five flights of stairs to my new home. I’m angry. I’m angry no one is helping me, not really. I’m angry that I’m here in the first place.
I want to throw the box off the top floor and let it spill its guts – one less pointless possession for me to worry about.
But I have to mask my anger because it’s more important I convey how grateful I am that D has taken Christine and I in. I am not angry with him, although my tense tone may inadvertently lead him to think so.
I bite my tongue and use the anger to give me strength to lift massive boxes, backpacks and computer equipment.
With my hands full I use my hips to push open the door of my new abode. For now it’s nothing more than a refuge where I am squatting until I can raise some money.
It’s spacious. A three-bedroom apartment owned by D. His warm, dark brown furniture curves out the void. Cream, lush carpets I am terrified of soiling. A kitchen with faux-granite benches cleaned of any signs of being used.
I drop the box in the first room I come to. My room. Containing three boxes, a backpack, a computer resting on the floor next to a single cot that will be my bed for the next few weeks.
“Where do you want me to put this?” Christine is standing in the doorway of my new room. I am motionless, a statue. Barely concealing my anger and frustration. Shaking and sweating. My skin is burning.
“Anywhere, I don’t care. Just dump it on the floor.”
Christine has the room next to mine. She’s got a job, her relationship is solid, she’s paying rent.
Both D and Christine agreed that they would support me at this time. “It’s only temporary.” And, while I appreciate their friendship and kind gestures of buying me food and so forth, there is part of me that resents it.
I resent that it’s all ok for them. I resent that they’re in a position to support me. I resent being the object of care like some invalid or charity case.
No, it’s not resentment but embarrassment. All of my life I have been the strong one. I have stood on my own two feet and dealt with whatever came my way. I overcame death and depression. I fought in long drawn-out wars, each engagement named for that particular relationship, and survived. This wasn’t meant to happen to me.
For now this is where I live, but it’s not home.
"I Will Survive" - Cake
The sweat pools in the small of my back. My arms, burning from the weight of the box I cling to. My knees rebel as I push, yet again, up the five flights of stairs to my new home. I’m angry. I’m angry no one is helping me, not really. I’m angry that I’m here in the first place.
I want to throw the box off the top floor and let it spill its guts – one less pointless possession for me to worry about.
But I have to mask my anger because it’s more important I convey how grateful I am that D has taken Christine and I in. I am not angry with him, although my tense tone may inadvertently lead him to think so.
I bite my tongue and use the anger to give me strength to lift massive boxes, backpacks and computer equipment.
With my hands full I use my hips to push open the door of my new abode. For now it’s nothing more than a refuge where I am squatting until I can raise some money.
It’s spacious. A three-bedroom apartment owned by D. His warm, dark brown furniture curves out the void. Cream, lush carpets I am terrified of soiling. A kitchen with faux-granite benches cleaned of any signs of being used.
I drop the box in the first room I come to. My room. Containing three boxes, a backpack, a computer resting on the floor next to a single cot that will be my bed for the next few weeks.
“Where do you want me to put this?” Christine is standing in the doorway of my new room. I am motionless, a statue. Barely concealing my anger and frustration. Shaking and sweating. My skin is burning.
“Anywhere, I don’t care. Just dump it on the floor.”
Christine has the room next to mine. She’s got a job, her relationship is solid, she’s paying rent.
Both D and Christine agreed that they would support me at this time. “It’s only temporary.” And, while I appreciate their friendship and kind gestures of buying me food and so forth, there is part of me that resents it.
I resent that it’s all ok for them. I resent that they’re in a position to support me. I resent being the object of care like some invalid or charity case.
No, it’s not resentment but embarrassment. All of my life I have been the strong one. I have stood on my own two feet and dealt with whatever came my way. I overcame death and depression. I fought in long drawn-out wars, each engagement named for that particular relationship, and survived. This wasn’t meant to happen to me.
For now this is where I live, but it’s not home.
EIGHT MONTHS, ONE WEEK, THREE DAYS
"Plenty" - Sarah MacLachlan.
We'd been going out for exactly that long.
"Look, I'm sorry, I just don't feel the same as I used to,'' G stood leaning against my car.
"You've changed, I've changed. We don't want the same things."
I'd turned over the ignition without saying a word. How could he think that, how could he think for a second that I no longer wanted to be loved?
Backing out of the driveway I fought the urge to scream at him and tell him that he had no right to tell me how I felt, I fought the urge to throw my car into drive and run him over. I fought the urge to swerve my car into a light pole and end my own life. But at least I was fighting.
Our troubles began when I was fired. They began when I told him how I honestly felt about my job and how I wanted more from life.
Our troubles began when he realised who I was and when I stopped trying to be who he had wanted me to be.
But these are my battles. They always have been. A war with a force of one.
"Plenty" - Sarah MacLachlan.
We'd been going out for exactly that long.
"Look, I'm sorry, I just don't feel the same as I used to,'' G stood leaning against my car.
"You've changed, I've changed. We don't want the same things."
I'd turned over the ignition without saying a word. How could he think that, how could he think for a second that I no longer wanted to be loved?
Backing out of the driveway I fought the urge to scream at him and tell him that he had no right to tell me how I felt, I fought the urge to throw my car into drive and run him over. I fought the urge to swerve my car into a light pole and end my own life. But at least I was fighting.
Our troubles began when I was fired. They began when I told him how I honestly felt about my job and how I wanted more from life.
Our troubles began when he realised who I was and when I stopped trying to be who he had wanted me to be.
But these are my battles. They always have been. A war with a force of one.
Monday, April 05, 2004
SO TIRED OF "I"
"All This and Nothing" - Sponge
Like many bloggers I open my own site and look at the text I have deemed suitable for your eyes. I read and re-read it looking for errors and for some sort of thread to follow.
There is one thing I’ve noticed.
I, I, I. I’m (there it is again) sick to death of it. So, to stop that happening I (and again) need to bring together text and the narrative so that I (and yet again) become irrelevant.
To this end the goal is to write at least one entry that doesn’t feature “I” –
ENTRY BEGINS HERE:
The problem with the desire to talk about other people is that my world is currently devoid of people. My time is spent within these walls, the great flow of the internet. At least until my lease ends and a room becomes available in Sydney.
However, there is still something going on here that bares some description.
It has become clear that, due to my isolation, my brain has decided to create a number of fictional characters for my viewing pleasure.
Of course my housemate, Christine, is real (luckily she’s ok with me using her name “why the fuck not.” her rhetorical response to that question). However she’s so infrequently here that it’s impossible to consider her a companion. My friend D (who doesn’t know this blog exists so hasn’t been asked if his name can appear) visits from time to time but he’s up in Sydney and can’t be here to hold my hand during the late night panic attacks. Everyone else is scattered across Australia – as though my friends and family were confetti distributed by heavy winds.
So, to fill the void, my sleep-deprived brain has come up with a wide selection of fictional characters. As though the dreams of mortal men walk the streets and inhabit the inanimate.
The fridge creaks and talks to me.
Its hisses and sighs and cracking are the cries of a tormented creature. Crack. Through the silence its outburst is offensive. Hiss. Grrrrrrr. Suffering from whitegoods terrets – a debilitating disorder which not only makes it impossible for a fridge to socialise but means it is incapable of holding down a steady job with frustrated owners abandoning the noisy white boxes at dumps across Australia. (And if you think this is mockery then think again. If my delusional way of thinking is correct then this fridge is the embodiment of some sleeping soul and they’re having a serious nightmare.).
Around me the walls breathe.
In the silence the house inhales and exhales. My eyes have trouble focusing on the sharp edges of the walls as it rises and falls like the chest of some hollow beast. Being inside is disconcerting and it takes all my strength not to run from the building to stand outside and watch it. Late at night, or rather early morning, the house’s heartbeat can be heard faintly beating. Holding my breath its pounding becomes more evident but slows. During the panic attacks its heartbeat becomes rapid and deafening. However, despite my ongoing efforts, the house’s heart hasn’t been found. Mind you, what would you do if you found a house’s heart?
There are thieves and killers and rapists lurking in my backyard.
Sure, you can’t see, hear or feel them. But they’re there. These characters are always a composite of every single bad guy you can imagine. My personal terror comes courtesy of Twin Peaks. You remember Bob, right. Bad guy Bob. That imagery where he moves towards you like the room/street/wilderness has its own strobe lighting. In these delusions Bob will suddenly appear from nowhere to cut me into little pieces (that being cut into little pieces is a bit of a theme at the moment). So, he’s out there in every shadow. Bob is the cause for every rattle of the windows, every creak of the house is his clumsiness giving away an attempt at entry. He’s just waiting for the right time.
The people on the television begin to talk directly to me.
Suddenly my house is filled with people who know me. They love me. We laugh, we cry, we dance (usually to Rage on Friday nights). Of course we don’t always get on and there are issues to be resolved. Hal is being a total idiot turning his back on Rosemary and it’s up to me to point that out as loudly as possible (Shallow Hal) because that’s what friends do. At Initech Corporation my co-worker Peter Gibbons has had enough and wants something more from life so he’s adopted a new approach to work (Office Space). He gets my full support. And The Dave Matthews Band just had the Central Park Concert in my lounge room and, blissfully dancing, it's easy to become wrapped in this world.
Tomorrow Christine is taking me out to lunch. That’s probably a good idea. A bit of fresh air, food, people. Mind you, what the fridge will get up to in our absence worries me.
My name is Boswell and this is my decline of reason.
"All This and Nothing" - Sponge
Like many bloggers I open my own site and look at the text I have deemed suitable for your eyes. I read and re-read it looking for errors and for some sort of thread to follow.
There is one thing I’ve noticed.
I, I, I. I’m (there it is again) sick to death of it. So, to stop that happening I (and again) need to bring together text and the narrative so that I (and yet again) become irrelevant.
To this end the goal is to write at least one entry that doesn’t feature “I” –
ENTRY BEGINS HERE:
The problem with the desire to talk about other people is that my world is currently devoid of people. My time is spent within these walls, the great flow of the internet. At least until my lease ends and a room becomes available in Sydney.
However, there is still something going on here that bares some description.
It has become clear that, due to my isolation, my brain has decided to create a number of fictional characters for my viewing pleasure.
Of course my housemate, Christine, is real (luckily she’s ok with me using her name “why the fuck not.” her rhetorical response to that question). However she’s so infrequently here that it’s impossible to consider her a companion. My friend D (who doesn’t know this blog exists so hasn’t been asked if his name can appear) visits from time to time but he’s up in Sydney and can’t be here to hold my hand during the late night panic attacks. Everyone else is scattered across Australia – as though my friends and family were confetti distributed by heavy winds.
So, to fill the void, my sleep-deprived brain has come up with a wide selection of fictional characters. As though the dreams of mortal men walk the streets and inhabit the inanimate.
The fridge creaks and talks to me.
Its hisses and sighs and cracking are the cries of a tormented creature. Crack. Through the silence its outburst is offensive. Hiss. Grrrrrrr. Suffering from whitegoods terrets – a debilitating disorder which not only makes it impossible for a fridge to socialise but means it is incapable of holding down a steady job with frustrated owners abandoning the noisy white boxes at dumps across Australia. (And if you think this is mockery then think again. If my delusional way of thinking is correct then this fridge is the embodiment of some sleeping soul and they’re having a serious nightmare.).
Around me the walls breathe.
In the silence the house inhales and exhales. My eyes have trouble focusing on the sharp edges of the walls as it rises and falls like the chest of some hollow beast. Being inside is disconcerting and it takes all my strength not to run from the building to stand outside and watch it. Late at night, or rather early morning, the house’s heartbeat can be heard faintly beating. Holding my breath its pounding becomes more evident but slows. During the panic attacks its heartbeat becomes rapid and deafening. However, despite my ongoing efforts, the house’s heart hasn’t been found. Mind you, what would you do if you found a house’s heart?
There are thieves and killers and rapists lurking in my backyard.
Sure, you can’t see, hear or feel them. But they’re there. These characters are always a composite of every single bad guy you can imagine. My personal terror comes courtesy of Twin Peaks. You remember Bob, right. Bad guy Bob. That imagery where he moves towards you like the room/street/wilderness has its own strobe lighting. In these delusions Bob will suddenly appear from nowhere to cut me into little pieces (that being cut into little pieces is a bit of a theme at the moment). So, he’s out there in every shadow. Bob is the cause for every rattle of the windows, every creak of the house is his clumsiness giving away an attempt at entry. He’s just waiting for the right time.
The people on the television begin to talk directly to me.
Suddenly my house is filled with people who know me. They love me. We laugh, we cry, we dance (usually to Rage on Friday nights). Of course we don’t always get on and there are issues to be resolved. Hal is being a total idiot turning his back on Rosemary and it’s up to me to point that out as loudly as possible (Shallow Hal) because that’s what friends do. At Initech Corporation my co-worker Peter Gibbons has had enough and wants something more from life so he’s adopted a new approach to work (Office Space). He gets my full support. And The Dave Matthews Band just had the Central Park Concert in my lounge room and, blissfully dancing, it's easy to become wrapped in this world.
Tomorrow Christine is taking me out to lunch. That’s probably a good idea. A bit of fresh air, food, people. Mind you, what the fridge will get up to in our absence worries me.
My name is Boswell and this is my decline of reason.
Friday, April 02, 2004
WHEN I GO OUT WITH ARTISTS
“Back, Back, Back” – Ani DiFranco
I resent my normalcy.
Hovering over the kitchen sink is a massive burden. Taking the squat positioning necessary to clean the bath fills me with apathy. Pushing a broom and bringing together the refuse of my dust-encrusted feet leaves me aching.
Brushing my teeth the toothbrush is heavy in my hand. Pulling my hair into a ponytail takes altogether too much strength. Even watching TV has become a drain and my attention wanders to all the normal things I should be doing.
I want to be doing something else. I crave the depths of a meaning-soaked conversation about art and literature and politics and religion.
For two months I lived that life. Surrounded by artists and musicians. I was TV-less and liberated. Discussing the meaning of life and listening to obscure music riddled with importance. In this world all of these normal chores took on some relevance, some importance.
Nothing lightens the load of washing the dishes like an accompanying conversation about Sartre, Hume, Conrad and Anais Nin. Listening to a soundtrack composite of Peter Gabriel’s Passions, Ani DFranco or the Boards of Canada.
We would stay up until the wee hours of the morning discussing ethics and our contempt for modern capitalism. Tearing down the materialistic nature of the world around us. Two months of just being and feeling and seeing things through those eyes again was like taking my first breath of fresh air in years.
I was rusty, five years of journalism had all but crushed my passion for life as an artistic experience, but once I got into the swing of things I was truly happy. Probably for the first time in my life I was blissful and nothing weighed me down.
Then I returned here to the job I had abandoned with good reason 12 months earlier. And I’m not happy. I miss the freedom and the passion of the artist’s sensibilities.
I want to live in that world – but for now I have to hang out the washing.
“Back, Back, Back” – Ani DiFranco
I resent my normalcy.
Hovering over the kitchen sink is a massive burden. Taking the squat positioning necessary to clean the bath fills me with apathy. Pushing a broom and bringing together the refuse of my dust-encrusted feet leaves me aching.
Brushing my teeth the toothbrush is heavy in my hand. Pulling my hair into a ponytail takes altogether too much strength. Even watching TV has become a drain and my attention wanders to all the normal things I should be doing.
I want to be doing something else. I crave the depths of a meaning-soaked conversation about art and literature and politics and religion.
For two months I lived that life. Surrounded by artists and musicians. I was TV-less and liberated. Discussing the meaning of life and listening to obscure music riddled with importance. In this world all of these normal chores took on some relevance, some importance.
Nothing lightens the load of washing the dishes like an accompanying conversation about Sartre, Hume, Conrad and Anais Nin. Listening to a soundtrack composite of Peter Gabriel’s Passions, Ani DFranco or the Boards of Canada.
We would stay up until the wee hours of the morning discussing ethics and our contempt for modern capitalism. Tearing down the materialistic nature of the world around us. Two months of just being and feeling and seeing things through those eyes again was like taking my first breath of fresh air in years.
I was rusty, five years of journalism had all but crushed my passion for life as an artistic experience, but once I got into the swing of things I was truly happy. Probably for the first time in my life I was blissful and nothing weighed me down.
Then I returned here to the job I had abandoned with good reason 12 months earlier. And I’m not happy. I miss the freedom and the passion of the artist’s sensibilities.
I want to live in that world – but for now I have to hang out the washing.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
INTRUDER
"Leave Me Alone" - Jerry Cantrell.
I'm no longer in the house.
About 4.30 this morning, as I tossed and turned and tried to sleep, someone had managed to make their way into my garage through the flimsy roller door. They had overcome the mechanism I used to disable the internal door and entered my kitchen. I heard the bang and clatter as I cowered in my bedroom.
My heartbeat became a deafening soundtrack to my terror. Smacking itself against the inside of my skull and the blood pumping furiously through my body caused every limb to ache. I shook and waited, the anticipation more frightening anything the intruder could have dished out.
Because I am an idiot, I had left my mobile phone in my handbag sitting on the dining room table and the only possible weapon I possessed was a can of fly spray - at least I'd be able to blind him before he cut me into little pieces.
Then, after about five minutes the bang and clatter stopped. Silence. More terrifying then the identifiable presence of someone in my house is knowing there is someone there but not being able to see or hear where they are.
I waited, shaking hard and bare-knuckles clinging to my can of fly spray for dear life.
Then the tell-tale sign of an exit, a banging door. Was it a trap? Was he standing there in the hallway waiting for me to stick my head out so he could hack it off?
I kept my post, curled up in my wardrobe behind a door blocked by my shelving system and a locked ensuite. I waited for three hours like that until I could see the sun and hear the idle, relaxed chatter of school children heading for busses.
Then I chose the only exit left to me - I opened the bedroom window, pushed out the screen and made a break for closest populated location. I was told by the police that it's all clear, a harmless prank by a couple of kids. That it looked as though only a few things were taken, including my handbag with mobile phone and wallet inside.
The house, they tell me is safe and secure. I'm not convinced so I'm staying right here, curled up on the couch of an accommodating friend.
My friend, who has my eternal gratitude, reminds me that even after midday you are at complete liberty to point out that it's April Fools Day.
Really, do I have to point out the obvious?
"Leave Me Alone" - Jerry Cantrell.
I'm no longer in the house.
About 4.30 this morning, as I tossed and turned and tried to sleep, someone had managed to make their way into my garage through the flimsy roller door. They had overcome the mechanism I used to disable the internal door and entered my kitchen. I heard the bang and clatter as I cowered in my bedroom.
My heartbeat became a deafening soundtrack to my terror. Smacking itself against the inside of my skull and the blood pumping furiously through my body caused every limb to ache. I shook and waited, the anticipation more frightening anything the intruder could have dished out.
Because I am an idiot, I had left my mobile phone in my handbag sitting on the dining room table and the only possible weapon I possessed was a can of fly spray - at least I'd be able to blind him before he cut me into little pieces.
Then, after about five minutes the bang and clatter stopped. Silence. More terrifying then the identifiable presence of someone in my house is knowing there is someone there but not being able to see or hear where they are.
I waited, shaking hard and bare-knuckles clinging to my can of fly spray for dear life.
Then the tell-tale sign of an exit, a banging door. Was it a trap? Was he standing there in the hallway waiting for me to stick my head out so he could hack it off?
I kept my post, curled up in my wardrobe behind a door blocked by my shelving system and a locked ensuite. I waited for three hours like that until I could see the sun and hear the idle, relaxed chatter of school children heading for busses.
Then I chose the only exit left to me - I opened the bedroom window, pushed out the screen and made a break for closest populated location. I was told by the police that it's all clear, a harmless prank by a couple of kids. That it looked as though only a few things were taken, including my handbag with mobile phone and wallet inside.
The house, they tell me is safe and secure. I'm not convinced so I'm staying right here, curled up on the couch of an accommodating friend.
My friend, who has my eternal gratitude, reminds me that even after midday you are at complete liberty to point out that it's April Fools Day.
Really, do I have to point out the obvious?
"The Book of My Life" - Sting
I know, it's too passive. It's too clumsy. I'll come back later and edit. But, as far as short stories go, it's got a chance. I think. Edit one. And literary devices only go so far. Edit two.
Too tired to write, I've asked my housemate to give an account of the past two days so that I can go to bed without feeling neglectful.
BOSWELL'S BOLD ADVENTURE
Boswell walked and talked herself around the apartment.
"I'm not going," she'd declared. "I mean, it's not like I really need to be doing this. I'm not going to get anything out of it. I don't owe these people anything."
I was a redundant participant in this conversation. Her rhetorical questions didn't call for a response so I sat silently and watched her make coffee, talk, pack and unpack her bag for a trip to Sydney.
She outlined the reasons she couldn't or shouldn't go. She was unattractive. She was ill equipped to answer any questions. She didn't need the attention.
"You know nothing good could come of this, nothing. I'll make a complete fool of myself," she paused and looked at me. She'd been rambling for 40 minutes and this was the first indication she knew I was in the room.
"What do you think?"
"I think you're looking for an excuse because you're scared," I fixed my attention on the milk froth swirling on my coffee to avoid looking up. But I could sense the darkening look, a brewing storm, creeping across her face.
"So what if I am?" a defensive Boswell snapped. "It's a terrifying prospect being put under the microscope."
I wasn't in the mood to tolerate her self-indulgent rambling. "God, you're always whining that no one listens to you and now someone wants to and you're making the lamest excuses I've ever heard," I looked up at her hardening face, squinting eyes, hands on hips and pursed lips.
"You look fine, you believe in what you're talking about, a good dose of attention won't kill you and who cares if you end up looking like a fool. At least you'll be able to say you overcame your fear and did it."
By the time I'd finished, Boswell had left the kitchen and stomped into her bedroom. I didn't follow. Whenever Boswell stormed out of a room it was because she didn't want to admit she was wrong. So instead of following her I sat back and basked in my righteous glow.
___________________________________________________
"Get up," Boswell's voice pierced into my light and fuzzy dream (something about flying and then landing in a room of pillows). I grunted and rolled over to face the wall. Still not awake.
"Come on, if I'm doing this then you're coming. You haven't got anything on today so get up and show some support for your housemate. Otherwise I"ll be moping around the house for months."
This wasn't a threat. Boswell didn't make threats. It was a fact. She would be moping around the house for months if I didn't show her a little support. Hell, she would mope around the house for a month if I forgot to buy the milk. But our relationship had always worked on the understanding that that was just the way things were.
I grunted again. Still not awake.
"If you don't get up then I'm going to call your mum and tell her what you did on Saturday night," Boswell chirped.
I was awake and dragging myself from bed as she jumped around me with an unnatural energy for 7am.
"I've decided I'm going, so get your shit together and we'll hit the road," she bubbled.
I don't really remember how but I was in the car half-an-hour later and we were making our way along the highway, embarking on a 4-hour trip from Canberra to Sydney.
__________________________________________________
The streets of Sydney were teeming with university students and police cars. The aftermath of a protest over a massive hike in HECS fees. But neither Boswell nor I had the time to delve into the debate. We circled the Ultimo block twice before finally finding our way into the ABC car park. False bravado abounded in the car as I declared who we were here to see and that we had a parking permit waiting for us.
The curt security guard grunted before handing us a piece of paper and informing us we'd need to fill it out and leave it on the dashboard.
I was giddy and excited. Boswell was chewing enthusiastically on her fingernails.
Through the front doors, across pristine tiles and up to a rather cute security officer behind the desk.
"Ah, Boswell Elkin to see ... " I walked away and scanned the building while Christine continued her request for authorisation.
The building was clean, modern, and sleek. All whites and greys with the odd dash of fawn. Bleached and sanitized. I half-expected to see orderlies rushing about, their white coats flapping, while someone screamed "stat" and others babbled about plasma. But instead it was library-quiet.
Behind the security desk there was a circle of plump, black couches and four massive TV screens showcasing the ABC's programming and merchandise.
"Here, you need this," Boswell slapped a nametag onto my shirt with unnecessary force.
We walked and sat on the plump leather chairs. I watched the TVs and wondered how long it would be before the winter-inspired couch would give me frost-bite.
Boswell continued to bite her fingernails.
“You know, it's not too late to turn and get the hell out of here," she looked at me hopefully. Her brown puppy-dog eyes all weepy and pleading.
"Yes, it is. I didn't come all this way for you to back-out."
"You came all this way because I threatened to tell your mum about what's-his-name," she said deadpan, turning her attention towards the doors and her impending doom in front of a TV camera.
_____________________________________________________
We were taken to the ninth floor and led into a small room with a blue screen and introduced to the interviewer, sound technician and cameraman.
Unlike the pretentious foyer the room was tiny. Perched on her chair Boswell looked as though she was just kicking back at a barbeque in a friend's garage. Equipment was scattered across the floor, there was a squat shelf in one corner and empty bottles of coke and water lined up against the wall like soldiers before a firing squad. The only thing out of place was the iridescent blue screen behind her and the interrogation-style light shining directly into her eyes.
Equally unlike the foyer the three men were friendly, funny and relaxed. The sound technician hunched over a dark box, the cameraman lurking somewhere in the background and Boswell's interviewer, the only one she could see from her swivel chair, sat directly across from her.
It appeared as though the environment allowed Boswell to forget why she was there, or at the very least that there was a TV camera pointed at her.
She laughed a lot and stopped biting her nails.
She answered the questions she could, fumbled through the ones she couldn't and was honest about her unhappiness at some of her responses.
When the interview came to a close the interviewer repeatedly told Boswell she did ok. She smiled, shook his hand and said her farewells.
As we made our way through the maze of cubicles and back to the elevators I joked "You know, he probably has to say that to everyone." Boswell stifled a laugh, "Yeah, I know, but I appreciate that he went to such an effort to convince me it wasn't a total car wreck."
Boswell pressed the button for the elevator, "I think I just had fun," she said as we stepped through the cold steel doors. Pausing for effect, or possible a comment from me. Then as we were sealed off from the ABC offices she said, "Nope, actually, IÂ’m pretty damn certain that was fun."
Once again, I took a moment to savor my righteousness, "told you so."
___________________________________________________
Three hours later, on a dark stretch of road beyond Goulburn, she laughed into the silence. "What?" I startled.
"Why is it that you always have the best answer to a question when there's no chance of being able to answer it? The interviewer asked me what relationship I have with my readership and I was stumped but now I have the perfect answer."
"And, what's the answer?"
"What I should have said was that I don't have a relationship with my readers because this isn't about having readers, I'm not looking for an audience. This is about what I want to find out about, and for, myself. This is about finding my own voice and learning to speak up about the things I believe in. And for the readers it's about learning to see the world through someone else's eyes and seeing the person beyond the appearance and the income."
"That's a pretty good answer."
"Yeah. I just wish I'd said it out loud at the right time."
"Well, you're still learning. You can't expect to have a perfect voice the first time you open your mouth."
I know, it's too passive. It's too clumsy. I'll come back later and edit. But, as far as short stories go, it's got a chance. I think. Edit one. And literary devices only go so far. Edit two.
Too tired to write, I've asked my housemate to give an account of the past two days so that I can go to bed without feeling neglectful.
BOSWELL'S BOLD ADVENTURE
Boswell walked and talked herself around the apartment.
"I'm not going," she'd declared. "I mean, it's not like I really need to be doing this. I'm not going to get anything out of it. I don't owe these people anything."
I was a redundant participant in this conversation. Her rhetorical questions didn't call for a response so I sat silently and watched her make coffee, talk, pack and unpack her bag for a trip to Sydney.
She outlined the reasons she couldn't or shouldn't go. She was unattractive. She was ill equipped to answer any questions. She didn't need the attention.
"You know nothing good could come of this, nothing. I'll make a complete fool of myself," she paused and looked at me. She'd been rambling for 40 minutes and this was the first indication she knew I was in the room.
"What do you think?"
"I think you're looking for an excuse because you're scared," I fixed my attention on the milk froth swirling on my coffee to avoid looking up. But I could sense the darkening look, a brewing storm, creeping across her face.
"So what if I am?" a defensive Boswell snapped. "It's a terrifying prospect being put under the microscope."
I wasn't in the mood to tolerate her self-indulgent rambling. "God, you're always whining that no one listens to you and now someone wants to and you're making the lamest excuses I've ever heard," I looked up at her hardening face, squinting eyes, hands on hips and pursed lips.
"You look fine, you believe in what you're talking about, a good dose of attention won't kill you and who cares if you end up looking like a fool. At least you'll be able to say you overcame your fear and did it."
By the time I'd finished, Boswell had left the kitchen and stomped into her bedroom. I didn't follow. Whenever Boswell stormed out of a room it was because she didn't want to admit she was wrong. So instead of following her I sat back and basked in my righteous glow.
___________________________________________________
"Get up," Boswell's voice pierced into my light and fuzzy dream (something about flying and then landing in a room of pillows). I grunted and rolled over to face the wall. Still not awake.
"Come on, if I'm doing this then you're coming. You haven't got anything on today so get up and show some support for your housemate. Otherwise I"ll be moping around the house for months."
This wasn't a threat. Boswell didn't make threats. It was a fact. She would be moping around the house for months if I didn't show her a little support. Hell, she would mope around the house for a month if I forgot to buy the milk. But our relationship had always worked on the understanding that that was just the way things were.
I grunted again. Still not awake.
"If you don't get up then I'm going to call your mum and tell her what you did on Saturday night," Boswell chirped.
I was awake and dragging myself from bed as she jumped around me with an unnatural energy for 7am.
"I've decided I'm going, so get your shit together and we'll hit the road," she bubbled.
I don't really remember how but I was in the car half-an-hour later and we were making our way along the highway, embarking on a 4-hour trip from Canberra to Sydney.
__________________________________________________
The streets of Sydney were teeming with university students and police cars. The aftermath of a protest over a massive hike in HECS fees. But neither Boswell nor I had the time to delve into the debate. We circled the Ultimo block twice before finally finding our way into the ABC car park. False bravado abounded in the car as I declared who we were here to see and that we had a parking permit waiting for us.
The curt security guard grunted before handing us a piece of paper and informing us we'd need to fill it out and leave it on the dashboard.
I was giddy and excited. Boswell was chewing enthusiastically on her fingernails.
Through the front doors, across pristine tiles and up to a rather cute security officer behind the desk.
"Ah, Boswell Elkin to see ... " I walked away and scanned the building while Christine continued her request for authorisation.
The building was clean, modern, and sleek. All whites and greys with the odd dash of fawn. Bleached and sanitized. I half-expected to see orderlies rushing about, their white coats flapping, while someone screamed "stat" and others babbled about plasma. But instead it was library-quiet.
Behind the security desk there was a circle of plump, black couches and four massive TV screens showcasing the ABC's programming and merchandise.
"Here, you need this," Boswell slapped a nametag onto my shirt with unnecessary force.
We walked and sat on the plump leather chairs. I watched the TVs and wondered how long it would be before the winter-inspired couch would give me frost-bite.
Boswell continued to bite her fingernails.
“You know, it's not too late to turn and get the hell out of here," she looked at me hopefully. Her brown puppy-dog eyes all weepy and pleading.
"Yes, it is. I didn't come all this way for you to back-out."
"You came all this way because I threatened to tell your mum about what's-his-name," she said deadpan, turning her attention towards the doors and her impending doom in front of a TV camera.
_____________________________________________________
We were taken to the ninth floor and led into a small room with a blue screen and introduced to the interviewer, sound technician and cameraman.
Unlike the pretentious foyer the room was tiny. Perched on her chair Boswell looked as though she was just kicking back at a barbeque in a friend's garage. Equipment was scattered across the floor, there was a squat shelf in one corner and empty bottles of coke and water lined up against the wall like soldiers before a firing squad. The only thing out of place was the iridescent blue screen behind her and the interrogation-style light shining directly into her eyes.
Equally unlike the foyer the three men were friendly, funny and relaxed. The sound technician hunched over a dark box, the cameraman lurking somewhere in the background and Boswell's interviewer, the only one she could see from her swivel chair, sat directly across from her.
It appeared as though the environment allowed Boswell to forget why she was there, or at the very least that there was a TV camera pointed at her.
She laughed a lot and stopped biting her nails.
She answered the questions she could, fumbled through the ones she couldn't and was honest about her unhappiness at some of her responses.
When the interview came to a close the interviewer repeatedly told Boswell she did ok. She smiled, shook his hand and said her farewells.
As we made our way through the maze of cubicles and back to the elevators I joked "You know, he probably has to say that to everyone." Boswell stifled a laugh, "Yeah, I know, but I appreciate that he went to such an effort to convince me it wasn't a total car wreck."
Boswell pressed the button for the elevator, "I think I just had fun," she said as we stepped through the cold steel doors. Pausing for effect, or possible a comment from me. Then as we were sealed off from the ABC offices she said, "Nope, actually, IÂ’m pretty damn certain that was fun."
Once again, I took a moment to savor my righteousness, "told you so."
___________________________________________________
Three hours later, on a dark stretch of road beyond Goulburn, she laughed into the silence. "What?" I startled.
"Why is it that you always have the best answer to a question when there's no chance of being able to answer it? The interviewer asked me what relationship I have with my readership and I was stumped but now I have the perfect answer."
"And, what's the answer?"
"What I should have said was that I don't have a relationship with my readers because this isn't about having readers, I'm not looking for an audience. This is about what I want to find out about, and for, myself. This is about finding my own voice and learning to speak up about the things I believe in. And for the readers it's about learning to see the world through someone else's eyes and seeing the person beyond the appearance and the income."
"That's a pretty good answer."
"Yeah. I just wish I'd said it out loud at the right time."
"Well, you're still learning. You can't expect to have a perfect voice the first time you open your mouth."
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