FAIR

These is this state some place between drunk and sober where I can actually think clearly. I can think broader thoughts and they can make more sense then when I haven’t had a drink. In this state most things are acceptable and have their reasons.

In this state these is logic and order to the chaos and exhaustion is actually a fuel for action.

I like being here. Not drunk. Not sober.

However, should you over step that mark. One drink too many, one drink not enough, then the smallest complication becomes a massive melodrama.

“Why couldn’t you just say no?” I scowled at Tom. I scowl at him a lot when he talks to me of his interactions with the ex.

“I just didn’t want to fight.” Seems logical enough but nothing is logical in the step-family environment. Everything to do with the ex is a transgression. Everything to do with standing up for his new wife is a transgression. And conversation about the step-kids is a painful reminder of a life he had elsewhere.

“Well you’re having a fight now. I guess it’s just a matter of which fight you’d rather avoid. Clearly you don’t want to upset your ex but you’re happy to upset me.”

Tom sighed heavily and I could tell he was fighting to not say anything that would enflame the situation further. So we simply both retreated.

I took my typical position behind the keyboard. He retreated with the kids into the lounge room and I’m glad for the peace but also painfully aware that it will always be like this.

Him and his kids and me and my computer.

We’re planning on kids and there’s a lot of room for “us” but, at least once a fortnight it is certain that there will be a painful reminder that, when the chips are down, it’s Tom and his kids as a unified force and me feeling more and more like an intruder on their life.

Then the alcohol wears off completely and I find myself still here behind the keyboard wondering why I make it into such a big deal. So what if he had a life before. So what if that past comes to visit.

I adore the step-kids but it hurts to be constantly reminded of that other woman. We both want the kids around but if only it could be done without her.

Nothing’s perfect. Nothing comes without some sort of cost. The price of my loving Tom is that we go and visit his past once a week.

My past, however, can be vocal almost every day. My past, my insecurities and my fears and my frustrations all create a tone in my voice that I detest.

Sometimes I think I got a raw deal. Sometimes I think how incredibly unfair it is that I have to tolerate visiting Tom’s ex-wife and I have to watch his guilt and overcompensation with the kids.

And thing I think sometimes it’s Tom who has the hardest lot. Me with my unjustified tantrums and the darkness I retreat into whenever I’m afraid.

Maybe it’s not a matter of fair and unfair. Maybe it’s something considerably less complicated than that. Maybe it just is.

Either way I have to toss up whether I’m going to prolong my disconnection and reach for another wine or whether to engage the conflict.

Tonight, it’s no more alcohol. Instead I’ll slip quietly into the lounge room and snuggle into Tom comfortable with the mutual understanding that this signals tonight’s battle is over.

BREAD

Cronulla, like some many suburbs of Sydney, has become a penitentiary.

Thanks a lot. As if there wasn’t enough fear in our lives. Now there is a curfews and increased police patrols. There are barricades to keep the residents in and unwanted guests out. Random car searches and home invasions backed by law.

For some odd reason seeing police on the streets doesn’t settle my nerves just like passing through the five custom counters to enter America didn’t make me feel safe.

Until I saw the troops of police patrolling our streets I didn’t realise I should be this afraid.

I have to say I loved the Telegraph’s spin on the issue. Police Blanket Thrown over Sydney as if the presence of increased security forces is a saving grace.

It’s not. I’m suffocating. My friends are suffocating. And there’s nothing I can do.

“God Boswell, please don’t go to Granville on your own. Make sure you’re with Tom.”

I hadn’t heard from Mick for ages but like any true friend he surfaces with words of warning when he senses I could be under threat.

“One of our neighbours had the side panels of his car kicked in by a gang of 6 Lebanese guys when he stopped at the crossing there. I don’t want you going there on our own.”

I want to tell him not to worry but there’s no point. Mick, for all his superior abilities, is a man prone to always thinking the worst. He’s a man acutely aware that evil lurks in the streets and at this time I’m more concerned about his safety than my own.

Sometimes I think the baser elements of society, the kind of mindless yobbos that are fighting over turf rights for Cronulla (and now Granville), can smell fear. Perhaps they’re more like rabid animals than human beings and they seek out either the weakest prey or the prey that is the greatest threat to “their” territory. They are incapable of simply being at peace in their environment.

If this is true then Mick must reek of fear and I worry about him. I guess that's what friends do.

“Ok,” I respond.

I want to put his mind at ease. If I can’t ease his nerves about what’s going on in the streets then at least I can take the worry of my safety off his shoulders.

Still, there’s nowhere I won’t go unless I choose not to. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete fool. I’m not about to throw a chunk of meat in front of the rabid beasts. I’m also not about to spit at the Police for doing their job.

Still, I will visit the Granville Woolworths because it’s the one closest to my home. It’s the one I’ve been going to for the past two years.

It’s not like I want to “own” the place. I’m not about to pitch a tent on the street and move in. I want to pick up a loaf of bread. If someone’s got a problem with that then it’s their problem. I’ll let them deal with their own issues.

If I’ve learned anything in this life it’s that I’d rather die having truly lived then live forever in an Ikea inspired prison.

And I will buy my bread where ever I want to.

Police state be damned.

IMPLOSION

I’m tired but it seems I’m not alone.

Sydney is slowly imploding. The pressures of pandering to so many minorities at the expense of the majority is finally rearing its head and the media is showing itself to be the biggest terrorist organisation in the world.

Our newspapers, radio and television conglomerates have branded this our “race” wars. Whatever, it’s fodder for the cattle at Newsltd/Fairfax and co. They’re spreading fear and mistrust with every misquoted word and every edited image. As usual the deeper truths are ignored in favour of the most superficial and spectacular reason.

These riots have been a long time coming. Cronulla is just the tip of the ice burg. Soon it will spread into the greater Sydney area until the anger burns itself out.

Personally, I don’t care if you’re black, white or brindle – you attack my friends and family and make me feel unsafe in my own streets then I’m going to fight back. If you try to change my world and dismiss my right to live my own life then I am going to resist.

Does any of what I say matter? Would anyone from an ethnic background believe me – after all, I’m white I must be racist. But I don’t care what people think, I only care that I am honest to myself.

I know for a fact that when a group of eight to 10 20ish ethnic guys come barrelling onto the train that I clutch my handbag tighter. I also know for a fact I have exactly the same reaction when it’s a gang of white guys.

I know for a fact that when I’m walking along a street on my own and an ethnic guy walks behind me I quicken my pace. I also know for a fact that if it’s a white guy that creeps up behind me that I’ll do the same thing.

Above all I know that if anyone decides they’re going to tell me what I can and cannot do that they had better have the power of law behind them or there’s going to be a fight.

For the past 10 years or so the minority trouble-makers have had the law on their side because even the law is afraid of creating ill-will with a minority organisation and being labelled racist. But now even having the law on their side is not enough. The unfortunate thing is that innocent people are getting caught in the crossfire.

A woman on the other side of this office is Muslim and she’s probably one of the most vivacious women I know. She’s funny and smart and in all honesty I haven’t thought too much about her ethnicity until today.

Just one of those insidious, fear-mongering emails claiming that there were signs of escalating tensions at the Parramatta Train Station and that the violence had also flared up at the nearby Granville and Merrylands stations too.

I ignored it. Or tried to ignore it. But no matter how rational you are it’s only natural to be afraid when irrational violence is on your doorstep.

I watched as her eyes scanned the room. I watched as she slumped into her chair.

“Are you going to be alright tonight?” I asked. She had the late shift. She’d be all alone with the wolves at the door.

“Yeah. I’ve got someone picking me up.”

I don’t know why I asked. It wasn’t any of my business. But beyond the battle of good and evil there was this one, single woman, as far removed from the fray as possible. Someone I saw day-in and day-out and who I talk with and spend my lunches with without a second thought.

Now she was under attack and I was taking it personally.

But the utterance that came next surprised me. With the ongoing slanging matching from people who are ashamed to be “Aussie” (and don’t even get me started on this particular reference in the papers because it would go on for days) this woman just shook her head.

“Lebanese boys are so stupid.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Anglo boys are so stupid.”

“See,” she laughed, “We’re more alike than anyone would know.”

Under the skin. That’s where it counts.

When this war is over they’ll be another to take it’s place but the mob mentality doesn’t appeal and I’ll be watching from the sidelines. The sheer stupidity of it all is too exhausting for my tastes.

From my friend’s response I get the feeling I’m not alone.

PETTY

Mum spat venom through the phone and I could feel the darkness creeping into my veins. But this time I refuse to give in.

“Can I go now?” I switched off. It’s the only defence I have left that is effective against their attacks. It’s the only way I can stop myself from becoming involved and trying to find a solution to a problem that isn’t mine.

“Yeah, sorry I shouldn’t heap this on to you. But thanks for listening.”

I want to tell her it’ll be the last time, like I’ve told her so many times before but I know damn well that it won’t be and I can see no point in engaging her when she’s this pissed off.

“Ok, bye.” I pull the phone from my ear and hang up quickly to prevent any chance of interjection.

It’s on again. For young and old. The young being my brother and the old my mother. Their similarities making their relationship akin to dynamite. Things can be fine for a long time but inclement weather and the passing of time make the relationship unstable and the slightest movement, the most insignificant of sparks, and explosion is inevitable.

And the spark responsible for this war? Fajitas.

Mum was babysitting and grumbled that she didn’t want to make fajitas for the kids because she’s bad at it. And then my brother went off (as he’s prone to do) accusing her of not being reliable and so on and so on.

At least that’s my mother’s version of the story. From my perspective it’s just so incredibly trivial I find it hard to care.

“But that’s it,” she’d told me earlier in the conversation. “I’m through with them. Never again.”

I want to laugh at her and tell her that she’s promised me she’d never again drag me into a war that wasn’t mine yet here she was asking me to take sides.

It’s not going to happen.

My mother is one of the least instinctual people I know. Her inability to interpret the meaning behind what’s being said is dangerous at the very best. It’s always an attack, it always means someone doesn’t trust her or love her or want to be around her. Then again, who would when every word that comes out of your mouth is going to be so badly misinterpreted.

My brother is exactly the same with the added burden of being arrogant and insecure. Every utterance you make is either an insult or an indication that you don’t know what you’re doing (the fact you may know more than him is not only unthinkable but another attack on his fragile ego so there’s no point arguing with him.)

Between the two of them I seem well adjusted.

Life is too short to be hung up on the little things, the insignificant things. It’s taken me a lot to get here. I sacrificed my entire childhood to being a peacemaker and I’ve decided I’ve done enough. My mother and brother are both amazing people in their own right if they could just stop caring about what other people think and do.

I’m going to pass the burden to my mother and brother who are both responsible for the direction of their own lives.

If they want to waste time fighting over fajitas and imagined insults then let them.