Battle Lines

My sister mentioned in passing yesterday that the family is considering holding an intervention on me. Well there's some news.

Which of my many antisocial and problematic behaviours could they be planning to target I wonder? Could it be my relentless cynicism and brooding depressive belief that life is pretty shit and it is best to pretend otherwise so one doesn't spiral helplessly into an abyss of self destruction? Could it be my venomous and acidic disregard for my fellow humans and seething hatred for politicians, derivatives fund managers and smokers? Could it be my addiction to Spider Solitaire - that sensuous and seductive siren who lures me endlessly onto the rocks of lost time?

No. Apparently, these things don't rate a mention. The family takes it all on board with barely a flicker. There are bigger issues. Issues that threaten the fabric of my life if only I could wake up to their horrible implications.

I look again. Is it the dead lemon tree that I haven't removed yet from the barren (possibly poisonous) part of the yard? No. The trees need trimming? I Mean they're kind of touching those wire things at the front of the house again - that can't be good. No, not that, but yes, they do need a trim. The obsession with re-watching Chronicles of Riddick? Nope. Dodgy and worth keeping an eye on, but no.
What then!?

The evil that hides in plain sight gentle reader is this:
Too many books.

To come here I jettisoned about two thirds of my library, and I have culled and thinned and negotiated ever since. Sure there's a few "rainy day" reads put aside, there's a few in the "maybe read" pile that need to be evaluated, there's the "read once - possibly keep for re-reading" pile, there's the room full of books that fall into the "LOVED IT" category, there's the small collection of first editions, there's non-fiction and reference collection, there's the Batman collection. Very humble collections they are too! There's a few piles here and there I admit. But there are no books in the bathroom! There are no books in the hall! And there are only cookbooks in the kitchen! The shed has only 3 tubs of books, that's not bad considering how much room is in there, but I just don't trust the tubs to stand up to the bugs and pests that rule the kingdom of Shed. All the doors in the house open and close without hindrance. Oh, well, except for that one! But other than that I think the house is, frankly, thin on the ground for intellectual stimulation!

Too many books indeed!
There's barbarians at the gate. Raise the drawbridge! Fly the flags of resistance, rattle your swords in their scabbards, release the monsters into the moat! Prepare for battle!

(Oh, and if you're going to pop by, you're welcome to stay, just let me know a day or two ahead if you can so I can unearth the bed in the spare room, it just has a little "filing" on it for the minute.)

Didn't need the Evac Bag this time

Nature really ripped out a corker of a storm on Sunday arvo. It didn't seem too out of the ordinary where I was - windy, rainy, a bit of hail, plenty of water - pretty much a standard summer storm. But it turns out that I should be (and I am) very very grateful that my house still has a roof, because a lot of places don't. The storm was a lot more intense closer to the coast and the region has been declared an emergency zone. We got a concerned PM walking around and being emotionally empathetic with folks. The news told me that in Brisvegas it amounted to a Class 2 hurricane.
Holy Snapping Duckshit Batman!

Apart from the sensationalism and wow factor, the basic news is that Riley, Rumi and I are safe, dry and well. The house is a little musty from the humidity and all of us in the place at once, but there's nothing that a bit of cleaning on the weekend won't sort out.

Also, I've realised that my evac bag and process needs updating, but there were plenty of candles!!

Politics anyone? (Rated: MA)

Are you interested in politics? Well now, let me see if we agree what we're talking about here (English - such a sloppy language).

If we're talking about the bastard child of vigilante justice and corrupt management masquerading as leadership and patriotic paternalism, then yeah, we're probably on the same page, and my quick, accurate and honest answer is "no way". Am I addicted to it in the way of cheezy soaps and sleazy lying two-timing boyfriends - "way!".

It's my dirty secret, I don't think I'm worth a good life any more than the next sad, overweight, brain dead tv-addled moron. And I'm right. I get what I deserve, and I'm getting a lot of politics. And a new season of Biggest Looser - 6 nights a week. Alternated with "Big Brother". Right there in the juxtaposition of those two titles tells you all you need to know about the state of our country and it's info-tainment mindset. It's ok, you don't need to ask - yes I do feel dirty and hate myself for it. But that's the beauty of self-hatred, it's a perfect cycle, leading directly to self harm, self sabotage and indulgence in reckless behaviour - like reading the newspaper, watching the TV or just believing any guy when he says he'll call you.

I'm not even feeling especially bitter today, just bored with being bland, and sick up to the back pass with living in the suburbs. What fucking shit-holes we make for ourselves, and then squabble over the price of buying into them like sarky ill-mannered little rats. Ignorant, angry rats, gagging to hole-up somewhere and gnaw away at the wiring and stray dog kibble. Breeding as fast as we can so it's our bigoted, bored offspring tunneling away into the next natural area of our dwindling stockpile and roaming the streets bored and jacked up on cheap drugs and subsidised petrol looking for a new abuse to amuse for a few minutes. As long as it's not those icky fuckin rats from over the water. In the immortal words of Ms J: Fuck that shit.
Ex-xactly.

So, here I am. Sending out to you from the impacted colon of the arse of Australia. Since the Roman senate, politics has been about paying off the noisiest interests and distracting the dimmest or least powerful interests. The only fracture in this process at the moment - sport disappearing off the free-to-air. Bring back our circus! Riiiiiight. Not the creeping corporatisation of our public services, not the preventable diseases and deaths from reckless driving or the huge amount of money we as a country piss away in corrupt defence contracts or "lost" armaments, or the fact that our literacy levels are heading towards the same levels as Nelson's approval rating. No, we're pleasantly distracted by Guillard's haircut (or lack thereof) and the liberal party failing to grow a new head.

Well I don't have any answers. I'm part of the problem and I know it. I am disillusioned, cynical and fed-up. I've got more than half of my life in front of me - almost enough time to make sure that if I work 'hard enough' I can "self-fund" my decrepitude. Gee, thanks. It's not like I can even plan to do the reasonable thing and top myself when the time comes. That's been outlawed. Good thinking guys. And can anyone give a real reason for the criminalisation of self-responsibility in one's end days that isn't soft wet hand-wringing? No? I didn't think so.

I'm no more interested in politics than I am interested in the practise trepanning to relieve back-ache.

Suburban Rituals: Mowing

Over the weekend, I attempted to mow my yard.
Note "attempted".

There are many things I struggle with in life, far too many really, and sadly, this list is only being expanded by my half-hearted first foray into home ownership.

Since I moved in two months ago, every weekend has been pierced at various (read: early) hours of the day by the cacophonous mating call of the lesser two-stroke mower. A popular Queensland variant of this creature features an unusual symbiont - a weedy thin human male clad only in short short stubbies and the old style thin things. Hat/sunglasses are optional, as is a half-smoked durrie and blurry blue old tatts down the forearms, but accessories do make the man. Lawns are as close as Suburban Queensland seems to have to a soul. Gardens are nice, but you really just need a lawn. The "inifinity" lawn look is popular too - from the edge of your house to the kerb in one smooth unbroken golf-green.

Well, since it rained, I have been pleased to watch a variety of green things sprout and thrust their way competitively into the sunlight in my yard. Some resulted in yellow swaying flowers, some in tiny blue ones - leaving a very pretty haze of almost lilac blue, some just in giant woody tendril structures keen to make a bid for control of the house. I like the idea of a garden, eventually, but it has been a long way down the energy-consumption-priority list lately and I was happy just for it to be green.

When I lost Riley in the yard and had a minor freakout that the thing that lives in the bowels of the Deathstar had grabbed him, I realised it was time to mow. I borrowed the mower from Ma & Pa, got long pants, boots, hat, leather gloves, ear plugs on, over and in. Fired her up and commenced battle.

What an ordeal.

Painful, noisy, uncontrollable, rough, endless.

When the machine over heated after 20 minutes having done about one twelfth of the entire yard I was in complete concurrence.

This is going to take more planning. If I can only do a twelfth at a time, and the grass continues to grow at the current rate, then my initial computations suggest that I will be mowing this lawn for... roughly the REST OF MY NATURAL BORN LIFE.

So there's got to be some other options. Today I am trying to figure out what second job I can get so I can afford to pay to have the whole thing paved, or turned into the set of Narnia, or adding decking to every side of the house over the damn thing, or dug up and put to useful cultivation...

But I don't really have the energy for that either. It's all a bit much. Time for a cup of tea and a crack at the crossword.

Touching Base

Ma often used to say "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all" and it got to be ingrained. That's not a handy habit for a writer. Life's going on all around, but I don't want to seem like a whinger, so the habit is to clam it up. Swallow it down and get on with going through the motions.

Ma does it herself - a phone call will run out of steam, and she'll say "well, there's nothing else to report" as though we're talking just to entertain me. This last month or so, I've been doing that to myself. Not talking just to be in touch and shoot the breeze, no, it's been a bit "nothing to report" as though there has to be something newsworthy going on in order to say - hey - what's good for dinner? or how funny is it that Dumbledore's meant to be gay? Or, man, I am bored! It's tough to heal the breach when you're not talking to yourself. There's no-one to be the go-between.

The thing I like about this time of year is that there's a push to be in touch *anyway*. If you're into the G-d thing one way or the other, or summer solstice, or just the end of the year (please, please, let the next one bring the good stuff!!) you can just send a message saying "I'm thinking about you, and wishing nice things into your life" and I think that's just brilliant.

So this morning I feel like I'm back talking to myself, and we're patching things up. She's given me some chocolate and said sorry, and I've promised not to shut her out and pretend like nothing's happening. Yeah, it's getting better. Our world seemed to shrink a lot this year and that's quite a weird experience. I think we've passed through the worst of the transition now, and starting to find a way to inject a bit more imagination and humour into things without resorting to outright denial and escapism will be good. (Note future tense there - still learning!)

Anyway, from us and Riley to you and yours, for no reason at all, have a great weekend!

Meet Rumi

The horrid case of cold feet and near panic from yesterday has drained away. Much lighter today, and almost whistling and tra-la-laah-ing except, of course, I don't want to draw attention to myself.

Intending to go and look at a dog as a companion for Riley, I have come away from the pound a rather proud new nearly-owner of a beautiful long-haired Turkish Van cat whom I have named Rumi. He's only a young 'un and is at the vet getting his bits nipped off. I really hope I'm not allergic to him - I've never kept a long haired pet. I don't have a photo of him, but he looks almost *exactly* like this cat, but thinner and younger.

Between Riley and the Fig Tree (blooming and blooming) I am feeling very nurturing and content.

Also, some of my not-very-creative (I thought they were dull) ideas are getting through all the hoops at work and some of them (they did spawn like toads) may make it to print!

Praise be! A good day finally!! I shall be taking a long weekend to clean, paint and nest in the new place. I am planning next weekend as well, but as I have so little stuff, it may all be over this weekend. We shall see.

The Ram may have touched the wall but we are secure, and have faith in our resilience.

However, a lot of rain would really really help as well.

Dullsville, thy name is Ipswich

OK. This is it. My last night as a free-wheeling, happy-go-lucky bohemian type with no debts, no responsibilities and nowhere to live.
By this time tomorrow I shall burdened and shackled to an odious mortgage. Haunted by the towers of formal papers and hounded in my dreams by the marching column of compound interest I shall wither away into an ever-narrowing dullness. My only conversation will be of painting, furniture or food coupons.

Or, it could be really good. Don't really know.

One thing is certain, Riley doesn't want to leave the farm. Cruel of me to even ask him to give up his ute, his spot in the sun, and especially the wallabies - dead or alive, he loves them all.
"Riley," I say to him "we all have to make sacrifices in this Brave New World." and he wags his tail and runs to my father.

C'est la vie, eh?!

Conferences

A conference last friday and saturday over-loaded me. The ideas were good - nothing too wild - it was the crushing reality of the limitations of the workplace. I normally enjoy learning something (anything) just for the sake of it, and sitting there making notes on a saturday morning about museum visitor profiles I just realised that there are things I would rather be doing. Really. Rather. Be. Doing.
Particularly when I know that no matter how simple, practical or obvious any idea I take away from this conference is, the answer will be - "well you do it, but not at the expense of anything else". which is code for "we can't run this place as it is, just focus on the right-here, right-now". I had a cynicism and wage-slave overload.
The conference itself was great, and I will write a bit more about it later in the week, when I can perk-up from this little low.

Also had a conference with the house-buying team. Sit-rep is good on all fronts. Structure = sound. Finances = approved. Working Bee Flex days = accrued. ETO (estimated time of ownership) is 3 october.

Finally, conference with the new medical guy. Not quite so great. Had a "please explain" for taking myself off the meds. He seemed pretty good about it at first, but then ordered bloodwork to "check" a few things - I got the message. But no, he wasn't done. The man has pre-printed pads and he's not afraid to use them. He replenished my supply, and then added a script for *suppositories*. You heard me. Double punch! ONE - bloodwork! Bam! TWO - pills for your arse! KA-BAM! This guy's not kidding around. Needless to say, I haven't rushed off to the chemist just yet.

It's been a week alright, and it's only Monday.

As a treat, I got myself a dvd "Throne of Blood" by Kurosawa. No pun intended.

Going Share-sies with a bank

The urge to have a backyard is very strong. Many of my daydreams have been about playing in the dirt with the radio on in the background. Mabye watching the dog sniff at things and interact with the world. Some have been about painting walls with strange colours or murals without regards for bond money.
Well, all these dreams have faded into the background as I learn about contracts and percentage points and fine-print and signing things. The business of buying a box of one's own is unpleasant, has many steps and costs large amounts of money. So large in fact that a bank or other institution will play a large role in the process for the next 30 years.
As someone who was never convinced I would make it to thirty, I never expected to have a mortgage of my own. Every year since that time has been something of a surprise, and as they seem to be ticking around pretty regularly now, I thought I'd hedge my bets and see if I could get a box of my own.
So on saturday I offered a lady some money for a house, and she said yes. It still feels pretty hypothetical, given that I don't have that money, but I now have three weeks to find it. I like the idea that I'll find it - possibly under a cauliflower in the vege patch I guess.