Vicious circle

Wake up.
Legs sore, achey and shooting pain from knees.
Take pain killers.
Feel nauseous.
Lie down until the nausea passes.
Inactivity makes legs ache.

Start again and repeat.

This is getting really really old, really really quickly.

A history of us, part 4

Part 3.

After the whirl-wind wedding, Ludwig and Maria settled down in their married life in Spain. Although they had secured a visa to Australia, they had to wait for a ship bound for Australia.

Married life took some getting used to. Maria had never cooked or cleaned in her life, always having servants to do it for her, so she quickly had to get used to cooking and cleaning her own flat and taking care of her husband. Her grandmother, Pillar, had taken Ludwig aside before their nuptials and said to him “You don’t know what you’re getting into, do you boy? The girl can’t cook a thing!” By Maria’s own admission, her grandmother was correct. But with practices comes perfection—she is now regarded by many of her grandchildren to be the ‘bestest cook in the whole wide world’.

Shortly after their wedding, Maria fell pregnant. Six months after falling pregnant, the couple received word of a ship bound for Australia. They went to the consulate to fill out the necessary paperwork to leave immediately to Australia. Upon entering the consulate the staff saw straight away that Maria was expecting. “How long have you been pregnant?” the official asked suspiciously. “Three months” Ludwig lied, in an astounding display of thinking on one’s feet. “Oh yes, sir, only three months” concurred Maria. “Ok,” said the official, breathing a little easier, “It’s just that we can’t allow women who are more than three months pregnant onto the ship. We aren’t equipped to deliver babies on the open sea”. “Of course” nodded Ludwig and Maria in unison, “We understand”.

Shortly after this less-than-truthful exchange the pair packed their few possessions, mostly clothes, into two shabby suitcases and boarded the ship that would take them to their new life in Australia.

As time wore on they sailed from Spain to Australia, and Maria became more and more pregnant until one day her water broke. Three months early, to the captain’s knowledge anyway. Their first child, a daughter, was born with the assistance of the (very flustered) on-board doctor. They travelled in the economy class section (think Titanic), and received, much to their shock, an envelope full of cash collected from the first class passengers equally three months’ salary. Soon after the birth, Ludwig was summoned to the bridge. He entered the room, hesitant, to find the doctor and the captain waiting for him. The captain proffered him a cigar and offered his congratulations. He smiled a wry smile and said “Three months eh?”

Upon their arrival in Perth their daughter, named after her mother, was checked by a midwife and pronounced to be in perfect health. A major newspaper ran a story on the new family, the clipping of which they still have. After the brief stop-over in Perth the ship sailed for Melbourne, where it dropped the new family before heading to its final destination in Sydney.

It was raining, as it so often is in Melbourne. Maria decided she could not live in a city in which it rained so often, so she begged Ludwig to pay the extra pound or two fare to Sydney. He agreed and they travelled forth to Sydney to start their new life with baby Maria.

To be continued.

A history of us, part 3

Part 2.

Twenty years before Ludwig and Maria celebrated their marriage in Madrid, another (seemingly unrelated) young couple wed in Sydney, Australia. Ron and Beryl met at a dance in Sydney in the 1930s and, as for Ludwig and Maria, it was love at first sight. They wed on the 6th of April, 1939.

Ron was the eldest of the three sons of Morton, a travelling salesman, and Vida (who, incidentally, could trace her ancestry back to convict origins—her great-grandfather was transported to Australia to serve a fourteen year sentence for embezzlement in 1818. A dubious claim to fame, yes, but an interesting one nonetheless). Ron grew up in the inner-western suburbs of Sydney, attending technical college as a teenager to become a draftsman.

Beryl was the middle child of seven, born in Cooma to Frank, a plumber, and Frida, originally from Germany. Frank was an excellent plumber but not a very shrewd businessman—he was always completing work at cost for friends and townsfolk in financial troubles. Frida called her children her “seven little Australians” because of the rife anti-German racism in the aftermath of the first world war (a tradition that carried over to Ron and Beryl’s own seven children).

Their romance, like that of Ludwig and Maria, was intense and enduring. They had seven children of their own (whether this was a coincidence or a plan I am unsure), and lived in the same house in the inner-west of Sydney for nearly their whole married life, which lasted for over sixty years, ending only by death.

They are both gone now (momentarily). Ron was a hero to many and an enemy to few; Beryl was a beautiful, calming soul. Their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren remember them. Constantly.

To be continued.

The good with the bad

Ever had one of those days for which the balance sheet of positive and negative aspects is roughly equal, and therefore you can’t decide if it was a “good day” or a “bad day”.

Monday started like any other: I woke at around 11 and lumbered out to bed to a jubilant Roxie who greeted me with barks and licks. I was feeling okish so I decided to hop a bus to the beach for some study. I chucked everything into my backpack, tore the map out of the phonebook so I wouldn’t get lost, and walked to the street for the bus. Halfway through the one minute walk to the busstop I realised I hadn’t brought my mp3 player or a towel but I thought I should just brave it. I had a great day at the beach on my own, reading heaps of stuff for a history essay, getting sand in my clothes and watching the cute boys playing football nearby.

At a bit after four, I walked up the ridiculously steep steps from the beach to the road and meandered over the bus stop to go back to Lala and Cal’s. As soon as I sat down on the bench at the bus stop I felt a sudden wash of cold, clammy nausea. I moved from the seat to the ground and sat with my back against a brick wall, willing it to piss off and leave me alone. After a while it became apparent that if I continued to sit there in the sun that things wouldn’t improve any time soon, so I picked up my bad and headed over to the nature reserve across the road. I walked ten or twenty metres down the path and lay on the cold ground and felt the nausea drain away. It occurred to me that I was lying down on the ground in what was probably a beat of some kind. Luckily I was able to get up unaccosted and get back to the bus stop in time to catch the bus.

I made it back in one piece but felt wiped out for the rest of the day. Roxie was happy to see my home thought; she lay with me on the lounge, her head next to mine, until the others came home.

A history of us, part 2

Part 1.

Maria was born in 1934. Her father was a wealthy businessman in Madrid, her mother the perfect trophy wife. They lived in a penthouse apartment in the middle of Spain’s capital—the apartment took up the entire top floor, complete with guest rooms and servant’s quarters in which lived a full-time maid, full-time cleaner and full-time cook. Her childhood was a happy one—she was well taken care of by her nanny and attended the finest schools.

By the 50s she enrolled at university. Maria attended her lectures and classes sporadically, at best—in fact she never attended any classes before midday so that she could sleep in. Here she met a young refugee, Ludwig, and the two began seeing each other. Although she was 18, her father ruled the home with an iron fist (he was, in Maria’s estimation, a “chauvinist pig”) and demanded her be home by 9pm, often meaning their dates consisted of dinner and the first half of a movie.

Ludwig lived in the dormitories at the university and spoke to Maria on the phone every night. It got to the point where the public telephone became known as “Ludwig’s telephone”—other students asked his permission before using it in case he was expecting a call from Maria. He helped her cheat on her exams (for which she had not studied) and she passed with flying colours. He did ok with the same answers.

After a few years, towards the end of their degrees, the two talked about marriage and emigrating to the United States. Ludwig popped the question; Maria said yes. However, legally speaking Maria was a minor because she was under the age of 25 and still living under her father’s roof, meaning that she needed his permission to wed. He was not happy about her marrying “beneath her class” to a peasant refugee who had no money or prestige so he denied her the permission she needed to marry Ludwig. “Ok then,” she said, “I’ll sue you”. “You’ll do what?” her father asked, taken aback. “I’ll sue you—you have no reason to deny me permission to marry—and I’ll call all the major newspapers and make sure that they know that Mr Big Businessman is being unreasonable!” He gave his permission.

The waiting list to get a visa to the US was months long, but they had heard from friends that the waiting list for Australian visas was considerably shorter. They applied as a married couple, although they were still not yet married, and planned a small ceremony (small because although her father agreed to sign the piece of paper he refused to pay for anything).

One day Ludwig received a letter from the Australian consulate saying that the visa must be picked up within a week or two. This was a big problem because in those days, wedding intentions had to be announced in three consecutive Sunday Masses to give the congregation a chance to object. They didn’t have a month, they had a week or two at most. Ludwig went to visit the parish priest and explained the situation. “Well,” said the priest, “We can announce your intention on Sunday. Then, Monday, is All Saints day, so the entire congregation will be there so we’ll announce it then too. And Tuesday is All Souls day, so the entire congregation will be there again so we’ll announce it then too. Then you can marry on Wednesday.” Ludwig was incredibly grateful: “that’s amazing, Father, thank you!” “Well, Ludwig,” the priest replied, “I’m sure St Francis would appreciate 200 pesetas in the poor box on your way out.”

Ludwig gladly paid the 200 pesetas, and he and Maria were wed on the Wednesday and picked up their visa to travel to Melbourne the following week. It was a simple ceremony. Maria looked beautiful in her dress; Ludwig’s outfit had been thrown together by collecting various items of clothing from friends in the dormitories (including an elusive button that he stole from someone else’s jacket with the help of the matron and her master key).

Maria’s mother was present at the wedding but she never saw her father again.

To be continued...
The image on this post is Maria, Ludwig and their grandson Luke. I do have wedding photos at home that I will share when I get them scanned.

The cat is out of the bag

I'm feeling a little better, though still more drug-fucked than I'd normally like. Anyway I got this email from my uncle, who for the sake of clarity we'll simply call U2 (as opposed to U1, his brother, who I'll be talking about shortly in another post). I'm about to respond but I thought I'd put it out there. At first it came off very condescending but I've realised that that is just U2's way. Not to be condescending, just that this is how he writes and thinks. Maybe it's naievety maybe its a keen desire to keep the peace but I've chosen to take this as a heart-felt congratulations from a loving uncle. I'll post my reply below.

I'm still at Lala & Cal's but I'm going home on Friday. Lala and I just watched The Matthew Shepard Story and consequently balled our eyes out. Nice day together at home which does absolutely nothing for my history essay which is due next week!

Dear Dan,

It seems your cunning plan worked – I’ve let the cat out of the bag (as you probably hoped)!

I wanted to email you to let you know that I whole heartedly support your decision to openly be who you think and feel is you. To tell the truth I’ve pretty much always though you were gay and I’ve also suspected that your CFS may be related to your suppression or denial of what you probably always felt but may not have always acknowledged to yourself or openly to others. The mind is a very power thing and it can influence your body in many powerful ways. Who am I to tell you what may or may not be with you – but I can’t help myself, it’s one of the [family] traits as you’re well aware. Ok, I’m off my soap box now.

I’ll not pretend to know what you’ve gone through to get to this point. I can imagine all sorts of things and they all point to how courageous and brave you’ve become. Being a bright, my belief system sees no ‘sin’ or ‘abnormality’, but I know that not everyone sees things the same, so you can count on me as a supporter.

So, congratulations to you on this milestone in your life.

U2

My reply:

Howdy U2,

Well you’ve figured me out. That was the plan, and it seems it worked like clockwork. But to be honest it’s not like a lot of thought or preparation went into it, it’s just that I’ve gotten to a point where I don’t give a fuck who knows or what anyone thinks anymore and this was the easiest way to get it out there with minimal effort on my part. So while I don’t give a fuck who knows, it’s so much easier when everyone just knows and I can get on with more important things. That, and the whole “sit down I have something to tell you” scenario never goes well and I just don’t have the strength to do it. Mind you, of all such experiences ultimately they all turned out well, with the possible exception of one, and I just couldn’t imagine doing a major expose on my life to the entire family when it’s really no one’s business and I suspect that it would be more of a deal to them than me anyway.

When I said “I don’t give a fuck” it’s just that I got to a point, like with anything, where the hype and the hubbub got way out of control and I realised that there was really nothing particularly to be scared of in people’s reactions (or lack of in some cases, which was actually a little trippier for me than the teary or angry ones) and I just stopped caring about the reactions and started focusing on actually living life rather than reacting to it or reacting to other people’s reactions to my life.

So yeh. Thanks for the email. I was never “worried” about you or A2 though, although “worried” isn’t the right word. But you know what I mean. I’m still kinda drug-fucked from the Tegretol so bear with me ok. I did the whole self realisation thing ages ago, so long I can’t even remember when exactly, a few years anyway. Way too late at any rate. I won’t go into the nitty gritty of why it took so long, if you want to know I’ll tell you another time. And while I don’t think suppression or denial of self caused CFS it certainly made it worse and contributed to the depression and the suicidal self-harm shit but I’m over it now.

And thanks for the congratulations, although the truth is I don’t feel very brave a lot of the time… I feel a little slow-witted sometimes (Tegretol not withstanding) for taking so long. In that it literally took a decade to get here. But I’m here. Confidentially, when I told Mum (many many months ago, or so it feels anyway, I forget the exact date, early this year at any rate) she was very upset that I had done all of this alone but the fact was I was over it by that stage, I’d done the crying and the banging my head against a wall and I’d got it out of my system. But it was all new for her, and that she was upset over issues I’d long since buried. And I had to get used to that.

Anyway just wanted to clear that up… “I don’t give a fuck” has such a harsh tone to it and while I do still mean it, I don’t mean it absolutely.
You’ll have to forgive me, I’m still very cloudy and totally clogged up from hayfever. Some people see glorious spring days, I see pollen counts.

So thanks for the support. Talk to you soon :-)

Dan

The lift

Looong day today. Just a quick post to share a photo.

We went to the local bowling club so the boys could watch the football. We entered the lift and were confronted with the image on the right. Totally intuitive, right? Absolutely no question as to which button to press, right?

Yeh we thought so too.

Not myself

To say the last week has been strange would be an understatement. As the carbamazepine takes hold of my body it seems that normal function, on all levels, has been suspended. Lala called me at lunch time today to check on me—“How you feeling?” she asked. “Shithouse”. “Your legs?” “Nah actually my legs feel fine, it’s the rest of me that doesn’t fit.” It was then that the irony occurred to me: to kill the pain in my legs meant killing the (remaining) feelings of normality in the rest of me.

Would you want me when I’m not myself?

I’m still feeling totally spaced out and just not myself at all. It’s been an interesting experiment in who knows me well, actually, because those who do know me well have noticed the change. I now use slow, slurred speech and sluggish movements and everyone else doesn’t see any change. Should that worry me? The other night Lala was convinced that I was upset about something because I was being so quiet and evasive of her constant ‘are you ok’s. The truth was there was nothing on my mind. At all. I was a total blank slate: no thoughts, no emotion. But no pain! The drug is working!

Wait it out while I am someone else?

So yeh, on the up side, the shooting and tingling nerve pain appears to have gone—“for now at least” says the pessimist in me—and even the ever-present muscle ache has lessened considerably during the day, only rearing its ugly head at night. So who knows, it may just work yet. The question will be whether the current feelings of crapulence are my body getting used to having carbamazepine in the system, or whether this is how I am always going to feel while taking it. If it’s the latter then there’ll be some hard questions because while I love the whole no pain thing, there is no way I can live like this on a long term basis. Hey, “crapulence” is in the dictionary…no squiggly red line. How cool is that!?

Would you want me when I’m not myself?

I have to say though, this experience has given me a new respect for people who have to take hardcore pain killers on a regular basis to control their pain—the only thing getting me through this is the knowledge that it’s (hopefully) transient. I just wish it would hurry up and fuck off—I have homework to do!

Why did the insulin die in my pancreas?

It's been my privilege to work with Kate and her six year-old son, Lance, in setting up his very own blog--"Why did the insulin die in my pancreas?"--over the last week or so.

Since meeting only some short months ago, Kate and I have quickly become close friends and it is a friendship I truly cherish. Her son, Lance, has also quickly garnered a special place in my heart, being one of the smartest and most insightful six year-olds you are likely to meet. He has had severe type 1 diabetes since the age of one and continues to amaze me with his philosophical attitude towards turning a disability into an ability.

He has also become quite the outspoken queer activist! Kate bought two Matthew Shepard Foundation "erase hate" shirts--one for her and one for Lance--which they wear when out and about shopping. Someone asked them about what the shirts mean in the supermarket. He piped up "Matthew Shepard was killed just because he's gay. And gay people are people too you know. My uncle Dan, uncle Pete and uncle Zach [friends of his mother] could be your sons you know". Out of the mouths of kids, I swear. Similarly, when the new batch of workchoices ads came on TV he asked Kate "why don't they say you can't be sacked for having diabetes or being gay?"

This kid is going somewhere! He and Kate speak at public meetings about diabetes and he's always writing letters to politicians. He's even met the man we all know and loathe, the homophobic gnome John Howard himself (Kate told me she practically had to bight her tongue lol). So I encourage you all to check out his blog and comment on his posts.

Just call me Anna

I feel like Anna Nicole at the music awards. My head is spaced out—practically empty in fact—and my speech is slurred. If it weren't for spellcheck, this post would not be intelligible. I actually sound a little drunk and I can’t concentrate or think or in a straight line. At various points throughout the last three day I’ve been nauseous, my knees have been very inflamed (so much so that Mum could feel the heat emanating from them with her hand hovering a half-inch above the skin), I’ve been dizzy, very very tired, and just generally shit house.

Why? Well, I'm glad you asked. I went to see Dr KHS on Friday. The pain in my legs has been getting worse of late. It’s morphed from an ever-present ache in the muscles and bone to include nerve pain, both shooting and tingling (though thankfully it hasn't progressed to stabbing...yet...), and I was hoping for something—anything—to stop it. He gave me a month’s supply of another type of anti-convulsant drug which he advised I start immediately, and we discussed some other options for the future.

At the moment I take several different medications: an anti-depressant (sertraline—because we all know what happens when my depression gets out of control), a prescription anti-inflammatory (meloxicam—as needed), guaifenesin—a somewhat experimental treatment for fibromyalgia, and until recently pregabalin, which is actually an anti-convulsant (ie anti-epilepsy) drug that blocks pain receptors in the brain (I wrote about it here and here). This has been replaced with carbamazepine which does much the same thing. Fuck I hope it works better.

He suggested we could try me on a tricyclic anti-depressant, which would treat the pain and prevent migraines and depression, although he conceded that the sertraline is much better for depression than the (older) tricyclics. The only reason I didn’t say “yippee” and start right now is that it would take a month to change over—one week of sertraline at a low dose, two weeks of nothing, then one week of the tricyclic before it took effect—and I just have too much happening at the moment. Perhaps in summer I can do it.

I’ve written before about feeling trapped. Today I felt it even more keenly than ever before, like a twenty-three year old trapped in the body of an old man. I caught myself wondering if this is how Pop felt for the last few years of his life as his mobility became more and more restricted. We went for a family barbecue today, to celebrate family day, to which we drove down a winding dirt road. It was like being in a paint-shaker, every bump resonated through my body like thunder claps.

I feel like a fucking lab rat at the moment. There is so much more to life than this, it’s like I can see it from the sidelines and I just want to get out there and play.

A history of us, part 1

On the twelfth of September each year my family celebrates “family day”, the day my grandfather escaped from a communist country in Eastern Europe. This is my history.

It was the early 1950s. Ludwig had been imprisoned by the communist government in a work camp—there was no term of imprisonment, he would leave once he had “changed his mind”—so for countless days he worked in the coal mines. He was imprisoned not so much for his own beliefs but for those of his father, a prolific published author and journalist, who spoke out against the excesses of communism. One night, the night of the twelfth of September, he escaped.

He, along with another prisoner who he allowed to tag along more for the convenience of having someone to look out for him than for any actual friendship, swam across the Danube River into Austria at 10.30 pm, under cover of darkness. He remembers the exact time because his watch stopped in the cold water.

Across the border, there were police officers and army personnel everywhere; they had the power to demand to see identification papers and make arrests for not having them. This meant that Ludwig and his friend had to be very careful not to get caught when they ventured into towns and villages. Camping in the forests of Austria, venturing into villages only for food, the two men lay low before applying for refugee status. During one such trip to town for food, Ludwig noticed a policeman asking to see the papers of several people on the street. Unperturbed, and much to the astonishment of his friend, he approached the policeman with his shoulders back and his head held high. “Do you know the way to the library?” he asked in perfect German. The policeman turned to him and gave him the directions. Before he had a chance to demand to see Ludwig’s papers, Ludwig was off in the direction of the library with his astonished friend in tow.

Once he had received refugee status, he applied for a university scholarship to study in Madrid, Spain. The scholarship was granted and he travelled to Spain. It was in Spain that he met and quickly fell in love with Maria.

To be continued…

Mistaken identities

Window 1
Kate: Hey sweetie, what ended up happening with that assignment?
Dan: Oh, its back on now…
Kate: What!? Can’t that woman make up her mind?
Dan: Apparently not, lol.

Window 2
Scotty: Hey Dan!
Dan: Hey hey, how you?
Scotty: Good, so what’s going on with that assignment of yours?
Dan: It’s back on…

Window 1
[scott has been added to the conversation]

Dan: Over here Scotty!
Dan: Kate, meet Scott. Scott, meet Kate.
Kate: Hi Scott! Charmed.
Dan: I’m adding you both in together because you’re both asking me the same thing and I’m getting sick of repeating myself!
Scott: Returns from the abyss
Scott: Hi all?
Dan: Ok so yeh, it was cancelled on Sunday and then suddenly this morning she changes her mind and it’s back on. Can you believe it!?
Kate: Unbelievable.
Scott: So what questions are being asked?
Dan: “What happened to the assignment?”
Scott: Oh I see.
Kate: So let me get this straight… You get an assignment. It’s got two graphs, both based on a research study. You found the study and noticed the graphs didn’t match up. You questioned it online.
Dan: Yep, all correct so far.
Kate: And then she comes along and says “you can’t use the internet, googling is plagiarism!” and cancels the assignment. How am I doing?
Scott: Oh man, I hate it when that happens.
Kate: Yeh I know, totally fucks up your whole weekend!
Dan: So then I wrote a post saying I don’t think it’s fair to have the assignment cancelled because she wasn’t specific as to what we could and couldn’t read, I mean it said we had to relate it to studies in class and to our own reading, and anyway I’m offended she automatically thinks I’d plagiarise.
Kate: Bitch.
Dan: And then this morning she reinstates it… It’s like knee-jerk reaction after knee-jerk reaction!
Dan: Anyway, my legs have been really bad today too… my day went like this:
Dan: Wake up at 8:40 to my dad knocking on the door saying “you ready to go yet?” Me getting dressed at record speed and leaving at 8:47. Left lunch in fridge. Got to town 1 min after train left. Went to PO then baker’s delight for 2x cheese/olive rolls. Got train 9:30, went to Town Hall cos the walk from Town Hall station to the busses is less than from Central to busses because my legs were about to fall off. Got bus. Got to uni, found out assignment was reinstated. Really fascinating lecture on sign languages. Went to city. Got there at 1:20, my friend arrived 1:40 (meant to meet at 1:30... why no one can arrive on time is one of this life’s eternal mysteries, I mean two people and neither of us at the right time!)
Dan: Grabbed some lunch. Went to Hyde Park and sat and ate. Hobbled back to Museum station, hopped a train home, met Mum and Sister at the plaza, went iron shopping and I bought a set of flannel sheets for my bed (double flannelette $16.88). I wanted to look around more but Sister had the shits. Got home at 6.
Kate: What was Sister’s problem?


Window 2
Scotty: So why is it back on then?
Dan: Huh? I already told you!

Window 1
Dan: Hold on… which Scott is this?
Scott: Yes, I’m somewhat at a loss.
Dan: Scott from Melbourne?
Kate: Haha.
Scott: Nah, Adelaide Scott.
Dan: Right. Hold on.

[scotty has been has been added to the conversation]

Dan: Over here Scotty!
Kate: Lol
Dan: Right. Now we have Adelaide Scott, Melbourne Scotty and Kate... Sorry Scott, musta been confusing.
Scott: Just a little.
Scotty: Yes well…
Dan: Here’s what happened… Scotty and Kate were both asking about this assignment. And I added Scott, who I thought was Scotty, by accident. Then the three of us talked for ages, all the while ignorring Scotty who had no idea what was going on.
Scotty: Hang on for a second. Who’s here?
Dan: I got suspicious when Scotty asked me in a private window what happened and I was thinking “aren’t u reading the other window?” And then I realised.
Kate: Lol.
Dan: So here we all are… three people who only know each thru me :)

The moral of the story: Make sure you know the identity of those whom you invite into chat. Oh, and make sure you can read your lecturer’s mind to avoid stuff ups like my linguistics assignment.

Faith and reason...and a little bit of semantics

I was reading blogs yesterday when a link on Best Gay Blogs caught my eye. It read “ten arguments against gay marriage”. Intrigued, I followed the link to a post which outlined ten reasons why gay marriage is something to be feared and rejected. It occurred to me that anti gay marriage groups are fuelled not only by vicious right-wing rhetoric, malicious homophobia, and a penchant for complex and confusing sentences, but also by a serious case of irrational logic.

The post was a summary of an article on another site, No Gay Marriage (if you want a link, go to the post on Teresa Centric’s site; NGM aren’t getting a link from me). Teresa posted the summary to shoot them down, some were actually a little funny and most if not all were totally unrealistic anyway. It would have been amusing if it weren’t so appalling. I can’t say I was surprised—I’m way too jaded for that—but I was appalled nonetheless. Reading the article got me thinking about how faith and reason seem to be mutually exclusive on this issue and how semantics play a big part in its interpretation.

At this point, I should point out that I am Catholic. Increasingly, the term “gay Catholic”—and “gay Christian” or any “gay any-other-religion” for that matter—is becoming oxymoronic, from both sides of the fence; each thinks that you can’t be one if you are the other. But I disagree, strongly.

Obviously my conception of what it means to be a Catholic differs sharply from that of the anti-marriage lobby. Christian fundamentalism is constitutionally rule-governed; tradition and biblical “evidence” (I use the term lightly) always win out in their arguments. For me, religion is more spiritual: a connection between your deepest self and your Creator in which rules have little place or authority. Even on the question of morality, rules are fairly moot to my mind; if I followed the rules simply for the sake of avoiding punishment rather than for doing the right thing, am I really a good person? Or just a coward who doesn’t have the intestinal fortitude to do the right thing for its own sake?

God is love. The bible says this in plain black and white. So how could God possibly hate people who are, among a long list of other things, gay? If hate is the absence of love, then surely it must be impossible for God to hate. I’m not for a second saying that God is not angered at times, nor do I suggest that he blithely condones everything like some bearded grandfather figure sitting on a cloud while his angels play the hard, but I certainly don’t see how love between two people who happen to be of the same gender can be wrong. Love is amoral. It is neither good nor bad, morally speaking. It just is.

They argue that gay marriage will result in the end of the family—the building block of society—and as such must be stopped at any cost. But what is a family? Personally, I feel that family is a state of mind. I consider my close friends to be part of my family; I feel that a family composed of two dads or two mums with children to be of equal value to one with a mum, dad and children. Why should a family that does not conform to their notion of family be any less family-like? If each group is a family, then gay marriage will in fact help entrench the family unit into society more concretely because in each model the parents of the children will be bound together in matrimony. Even if one does not accept my assertion that same-sex couples with children constitute the hallowed family, why should their marriage affect any other family unit? Unless, of course, they want it to. Don’t like gay marriage? Don’t marry someone of your own sex and shut up.

You would think that any reasonable person could see these arguments for what they are, but in my experience reason has little to do with the arguments of the anti-marriage lobby. They are veiled in the rhetoric of biblical prohibition and moral superiority and few within the fundamentalist camp are willing to question such dire predictions when they are framed in the rhetoric of “traditional marriage”. They ignore, of course, the fact that until recently, historically speaking, the emphasis of the marriage contract has shifted from one of ownership (one in which the wife became property of the husband) to one of mutuality and commitment.

It seems to me that it often boils down to a different interpretation of “family” and of the nature of God. There isn’t much I can do about it—despite what I think, say or believe, the anti-gay-marriage lobby will continue spreading its message of hate. I just don’t see how they can justify such hatred and exclusion by invoking a God of love and inclusion.

On the train

I’m sure it’s happened to every man in existence at one time or another. It’s certainly happened to me on countless occasions since the beginning of the hormone saturation that is puberty. It happened to me on Monday.

I was sitting on the train beside a man of about seventy, reading my novel, when I felt a familiar and alarming stirring in my pants. This was not completely unexpected considering the book I was reading was describing, in rather graphic detail, the sexcapades of the two male protagonists. I tried to rearrange myself surreptitiously, trying not to disturb the gentleman to my right (who was busily reading the newspaper). It wasn’t easy. In fact, it wasn’t even possible. The more I tried to extricate my rapidly swelling penis from its surrounds, the more entangled (and consequently noticeable and uncomfortable) it became.

I closed my eyes and pondered the situation: not only is a boner on a train (or any mode of public transport for that matter) totally awkward, but it is totally useless, since you can’t do anything with it (or about it) when you share a carriage with fifty other commuters. I took a deep breath to steady myself and then yawned, moving my whole body with the yawn in such a way that I could deftly grab my dick and push it clear of any obstruction in a devastatingly cunning manner.

Now that my erection had been freed, it continued to sit there, content with tenting my trousers slightly as it reclined on my abdomen. I employed the century old book over the lap trick, laying a newspaper over my lap until it subsided of its own accord, something which takes a considerable amount of time in these circumstances.

That’ll teach me to read a sexy book on the train about gay men. Not only was it a potentially embarrassing situation, but a totally wasted hard-on.

The last of the firsts

Yesterday was father’s day. Usually a celebration, yesterday was somewhat subdued by the conspicuous absence of Pop. So far we have done the first Christmas without him, the first new year’s day without him, my first birthday without his calling me, his birthday without my calling him, Easter, winter break, and now father’s day.

Dad and I went to the cemetery where his ashes are to say hello. I thought it would be harder, but I was pleasantly surprised to see that while it was difficult it wasn’t as insurmountable as I had expected. We arrived at Rookwood, the largest cemetery in Sydney, at about 130pm. It seems the rest of the city had the same idea because the traffic on the small lanes inside the 700 acre cemetery was gridlocked. Small vendors set up flower stalls and took the mourner’s money hand over fist. It was a little sad to see such crass commercialisation. We brought our own flowers—a small bunch of violets from our garden.

We parked the car near his plaque at the crematorium. He and grandma were both cremated; their remains now resting side by side with twin plaques. Together forever. As we rounded the corner, scenes from the funeral came flooding back to me. We sat down on the garden bed opposite their plaques—Dad took out his hankie and cleaned them as I contemplated. “Happy father’s day, Dad” he said, as he put the flowers in the small vase in the wall. We sat in silence for a little bit, I sighed deeply, and then we left.

It was cathartic, very cathartic. The last nine months have felt so intangible, but yesterday I had something to touch as I said happy father’s day, something real to look at and interact with—not a photograph of the real thing; something tangible, real, there.