Lest we forget

This morning I was woken at 3am, merely two-and-a-half hours after having gone to sleep (an by now I should have known that “I’ll go to bed at nine” just ain’t gonna happen). I left the house at 3,30am. At the bus stop I met an elderly couple, Kay and Bob, and ended up staying with them for the morning.

I arrived at Martin Place cenotaph at 4am, one in thirty-five thousand. We tried to get as close as we could but in a sea of damp people it wasn’t easy. The service began at 4,30am because that is when ANZAC troops landed at Gallipoli.

Wending their way home after an ANZAC Eve function in the early hours of ANZAC Day 1927, ive members of the Australian Legion of Ex-Service Clubs…observed an elderly woman laying a sheaf of flowers on the cenotaph. One of them asked the woman if she would allow them to join her in tribute and all bowed their heads in silent prayers.

At a subsequent meeting of the Legion, it was decided that a Wreath Laying Ceremony would take place at the Sydney cenotaph at 0430 hours every ANZAC Day. This was the time that the first troops landed at Anzac Cove in 1915.

In 1928, 150 people were present, and in the following year an open invitation brought 250…By 1935, the 20th anniversary of ANZAC, attendance had reached 10,000 and in 1939, with the threat of another war, 20,000 were there.

As the speeches started, rain came down and a sea of umbrellas went up like a giant roof covering us all. After a short time I had to sit down on the wet ground, leaving half my right leg waterlogged and cold. At the end of the service the street lights were turned off as the Last Post played on the bugle—it has always given me the chills—followed by a minute’s silence.

I didn’t have a wreath to lay at the cenotaph, so I lay a sprig of rosemary for Pop alongside the wreaths. Kay informed me I was “obviously well brought up” for getting up at such a ridiculously early hour to go to the dawn service, and at my age no less. “Well”, I said, “the ANZACS will be dead soon. Then the WW2 vets, and so on. And someone has to remember them. That is why I’m going today.”

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

Lest we forget.

Not for the weak of stomach

Though as a general rule I am a very squeamish person, one who cannot tollerate any kind of blood on television (or off television for that matter), I am not usually one to actually dry heave when confronted with something particularly grisly. I’ve always considered this disinclination towards heaving to be my last saving grace in the iron stomach stakes. Until today.

I went into the kitchen today to fill up my water jug and was greeted with the strong smell of the Space Cadet’s dinner as it simmered on the stove. He had left a frypan full of baked beans on the burner, with some kind of very pungent cheese bubbling away in the centre. The smell was rancid. When I first caught a whiff of it, I remember thinking it was rather unpleasant. It wasn’t until I was over at the sink, next the stove, filling up the jug that I felt my stomach constrict as I dry wretched into my hand. I picked up the half full jug and fled the room, trying not to projectile vomit over the walls as I went.

In my room I could still smell it. I put the jug on the table, stuffed a scarf into the gap under the door and curled up in the foetal position on the floor in the far corner humming quietly to myself.

Just the thought of it unsettles me. I am never eating baked beans again.

The last straw

In my room I’ve got a makeshift washing line set up by tying a fluoro lime green cord from an air vent to the wardrobe door, and back up to the other air vent.

I set it up to dry some shirts about a month ago when it rained after I had hung the load out. Now, since it has been raining and generally miserable weatherwise of late, I was forced to do my washing and hang it all inside. I had two shirts, a pair of jeans, a few pairs of undies, three tea-towels, two bath towels and an assortment of socks to dry. I left the tea-towels in the laundry and started loading up the washing line in my room. I started with the heaviest items, the bath towels, at the bottom and worked my way out. The line filled up fairly quickly, so after the two bath towels, both shirts, the jeans and the undies were up I was left only with a few small spaces for the socks. I picked up one sock from the basket and laid it on the line. The wardrobe, in my peripheral vision, started leaning forward slowly, destined to crash into my TV. I removed the sock and righted the wardrobe. I placed the sock back on the line; the same thing happened.

I now understand the phrase “the straw that broke the camel’s back”.

Locked out

By Tuesday night I was feel pretty sorry for myself after The Talk and the ensuing pondering and analysing. Suddenly I realised that my Sister, whom I do love dearly despite our differences, is not going to change her mind or beliefs, in the same way that I am not going to change mine. I knew this all along, of course, but it finally hit me on Tuesday night and suddenly I was overtaken by a wave of melancholy, the likes of which I haven’t seen for some time. I plodded through the evening: cooking dinner, eating, washing up. I did it all silently and moodily. By eleven o’clock I was ready to crash into my welcoming bed, to sleep through the drudgery.

I went out the front for a final cigarette. With all the crap that’s been going on lately—living with the Space Cadet, suppressing murderous rages and whatnot—I’ve been smoking way more than is perhaps generally considered as healthy. But fuck it. Anyway I went out the front and sat on the chair on the front steps, watching the traffic roar past. The sound of traffic has always been calming for me, like waves on a beach. I stood, after extinguishing the cigarette, and reached into my pocket to get my keys out. There was nothing there.

I checked my other pockets, all were equally empty. I remembered putting my keys into my backpack, ready for the next day. I was locked out. I stood for a moment and assessed the situation: I had no keys, no phone, no wallet, no shoes. I swore rather loudly and started the journey around the block, so I could get into the house by the back door, hoping that the door to my bedroom was not locked too.

Arriving at the back of the house my heart sank. The bedroom door was locked too. I went into the kitchen and looked at the benches, hoping that I had absentmindedly put them there while doing the washing up, all the while knowing exactly where they were: in my bag, in my room. Finally I walked out the back to go and find The Optimist so I could borrow his phone. I guessed he was in the common courtyard, drinking and being rowdy (which, I might add, doesn’t bother me one bit except that there have been so many complaints that the housing office has called a compulsory meeting to discuss noise pollution for all residents…not happy about that at all).

As I stepped out the back door I nearly collided with The Optimist, and very nearly scared the shit out of him. (He got me back two nights later: I was standing in the space outside the back door, lighting a cigarette, when he rounded the corner, rather quickly. This made me yelp in a very unmanly fashion and jump backwards, crashing into the two screen doors and coming to rest against the wall, cigarette and lighter on the ground, heart pounding, mouth yelling “Where the fuck did you come from?? Make some fucken noise next time dammit!”)

I told him the situation and he said, very consolingly, “Ahhh shit man, that sux. Of course you can use my phone; you should come over have a beer with us while you’re waiting for them”. I called security and was given an estimate of a fifteen minute wait. I silently prayed that this would be fifteen actual-minutes, not fifteen tradie-minutes, which would see me waiting for two and a half hours (one tradie-minute is roughly equal to about ten actual-minutes.

In the end the security guy arrived after about twenty actual-minutes (or two tradie-minutes) and let me in. I was so awake now after the night’s drama that I took up The Optimist’s offer to go over to the courtyard and have a few beers (or water, in my case) with many of the people living in our street.

It was so nice to spend some time with people who know nothing about me or my melodramatic dramas, especially when they are in varying states of drunkenness. So at least the night had a silver lining, noise complaints notwithstanding.

Queer eye

On Sunday morning I woke at about nine o’clock. After a brief period of being pissed off that I didn’t sleep in when I could legitimately stay in bed until at least two in the afternoon, I got dressed and went off to morning Mass. As I was leaving I went to the bathroom that The Optimist and I share, there to find little smatterings of dry puke on the toilet seat and one of his shirts (also liberally slathered with the stuff) balled up in the corner. I shut the door and tried not to think of it, and left.

(Incidentally, I have yet to find a church around here that has comfortable seating. It is as if the designers of church pews had design parameters that demanded the seats be so uncomfortable as to prevent parishioners from falling asleep during homilies. Or, at the very least, uncomfortable enough that parishioners’ minds cannot wander because they are too busy trying to arrange themselves in such a way that their bums don’t fall asleep.)

When I arrived back home, at about midday, I went back up to the bathroom and this time discovered a book of The Optimist’s, soaked in a redish liquid and caked with little bits of pre-digested food. Stifling a laugh, I took a photo.

(Incidentally, I haven’t been taking my photos of the day over Easter with all the emotional and physical upheaval, but I have been doing so since the first of April.)

At lunchtime The Optimist and his brother emerged, looking decidedly seedy and hungover. I said hello and he grunted and told me this is the first time he has had a real hangover. I congratulated him and asked who had thrown up on the toilet last night, rather than in it. He shrugged and told me the last memory he has is walking into the common courtyard that the residence houses share, before apologising profusely. I told him I don’t care, I only mention it because I laughed when I saw it, and thanked them both for the entertainment value of the toilet, shirt and book combined. He told me he really liked that book too.

The next night, Monday night, The Optimist returned from the supermarket with a green bag full of groceries. He pulled out a bag of plan flour and told me that he is going to make pancakes with it, and marvelled that some people actually by pre-made pancake mix when all you have to do is add flour, milk and egg together in a bowl. Next he pulled out carpet deodoriser and informed me that someone (he didn’t remember if it was him or his brother) had puked on the carpet in his bedroom.

“That’s great, Optimist, but you can’t just chuck deodoriser on the carpet.” I said.
“Why not?” he asked, somewhat crestfallen.
“Well,” I explained, “you have to get the puke out of the carpet first, then you deodorise it. Otherwise you’re just putting it over the top and eventually the puke that is still firmly embedded in the carpet, will begin to smell again.”
“Oh…right…how do I get it out then?”
“Get a bucket of very hot water with a little bit of soap, dunk an old rag and then scrub the carpet,” I told him, “and then rinse the rag in the water and do it again until the stain is gone.”
He thought for a second. Then: “Would a saucepan do, do you think? We don’t have a bucket, that’s all.”
I shuddered. “I guess so, as long as you disinfect it before you use it to cook something.”
“Right.” Though he said the word with some measure of confidence, his face remained steeped in question marks.
“You want me to show you?”
“Yes please.”


After he had boiled some water in his saucepan, we went upstairs. I sat on his bed and watched as he dunked a tea towel in the soapy water, the steam from which carried the pungent stench of vomit, and scrubbed the carpet clean. After that he got the deodoriser and liberally sprayed it on the carpet and allowed it to sink in. With the job accomplished we went back to the kitchen where he promptly poured the brown water down the sink and sprayed the saucepan with disinfectant.

As I was directing him it occurred to me what a Queer eye for the straight guy relationship we have going.

Recent bloodshed

The other day I bought a bookshelf for my room in an attempt to put some order to the piles of books currently occupying the floor space between my fridge and my bed. The shelf was a bargain, $39 and flat packed for my convenience, so I snapped it up at the local Officeworks and lugged it home: “Nooo, I don’t need any assistance, thanks,” I told the boy serving me, “I live just down the road.” But after carrying it for a mere twenty metres I felt every gram of its 8.2kg. Pretty pathetic right?

I opened the cardboard box with a key and removed all its many pieces, sorting the A pieces into one pile, the B pieces into another, and so on. I noticed the little screws were Philips head as I noted that I do not have a Philips head screwdriver, or any screwdriver for that matter, except for the small ones on two pocket knives (one of which is buggered). I searched my room for the pocket knife with the working screwdriver to no avail, adopting the frenzied practice of searching the same cupboards and drawers several times in a vain hope that the knife I was after would materialise solely by my will. Predictably, such a practice failed to turn up the knife.

I inspected the screws once more, considering the best path of action. I reasoned I had several options that I could explore, each with their own unique downside: I could a) walk to Officeworks to buy a screwdriver, however this would probably be very expensive considering I am only using it to put together one shelf; b) walk to Glebe to buy a new screwdriver from the discount store, which would be much cheaper, probably only a couple of dollars, however I was totally stuffed so the walk there and back would not do me any good; c) ask a housemate for a screwdriver, but everyone was out at the time and I am not very patient; or d) use the actual knife in the pocket knife to screw in the screws, which, while somewhat dangerous, was going to get the job done now. I chose to take path D.

I slowly assembled the shelf, using the knife to screw the screws into position slowly and carefully. I soon found that while turning the screws was an easy task with the knife, tightening them was considerably harder—as soon as the screws met any kind of resistance it became very difficult to turn and I was worried of twisting the knife—yet still I persisted.

As I was tightening one fateful screw with the knife, the screw met resistance fairly quickly, far too quick for me to stop the turning action of my hand. As my hand continued turning—the knife not turning anymore due to its newfound obstruction—the blade started to fold itself towards the knife casing, coming crashing down on the second finger of my right hand and gouging a deep gash into its flesh. The deep gash promptly bled like a fountain, dripping on the shelf and the floor.

After instinctively sticking my finger into my mouth, an action whose effectiveness baffles the logical mind, I wrapped it up in a bandaid and looked at my bed for guidance as my finger throbbed. “What now?” I asked my mute bed. “How the hell am I supposed to screw in the screws to make the shelf sturdy, and how, furthermore, am I to use the shelf when the screws are not tightened, making for a very rickety shelf indeed.” My bed, being inanimate, offered no advice. It did its best to entice me to lie down, however, and rest for a bit before worrying about the shelf and/or losing any digits.

I lay down and exhaled at length. Glancing over at my bedside table I saw the pocket knife hiding under a novel, silently mocking me with its proximity to the recent bloodshed. I opened the small screw driver, creating an awkwardly corkscrew shaped tool, and used this to tighten the screws. Bookshelf now set up, I loaded it with my books and DVDs, only to realise I would have to move it once the carpet is steam cleaned. Talk about suffering for small luxuries.

Quick update

A quick update…it has been five days since I smoked. There are thirty-five days of lent. I am craving them, sure, but I know I can (calmly) last the whole forty days with little temptation. The big question isn’t going to be whether I crack and smoke during lent, it is whether I will have a smoke on Easter Sunday and, more importantly, if I will keep it up or not.

I move in less than a week. On Friday the 15th to be precise. I have heaps of sorting and packing to do. More because my room is in such disarray than because I need to take a lot of stuff.

More to come tonight.

Wet

Ever had one of those days where you wonder why you bothered leaving the house? While Monday wasn’t totally unproductive, it was a bit of a wasted day. A wet, wasted day.

It began at 7am with Triple J blaring menacingly from my clock radio, followed by the cosy sound of pouring rain pattering outside my window. Such a calming sound, the pitter-patter of rain I mean, at least until you realise that you have to go out into the world of umbrellas, mud splashes, and raging torrents of water careening down gutters towards unsuspecting feet.

By 10am I was at uni, a little damp by that point, but I was ready to face the day head on. I had a small list of things to do: collect my disabilities services card, hire a mail box, sell old text books to the second hand bookshop, buy some of this semester’s texts from same bookshop, go to a meeting about a discussion panel they want to take part in, lodge some forms with Centrelink (for the non-Aussie punters, Centrelink is a little like the US’ Social Security, only less helpful and probably meaner). So simple really: just do each item in turn, cross them off, then go home unscathed.

I arrived at disabilities services and after a short wait got my new green card, no dramas. I arrived at the place where the mail boxes are let out and filled in the form. The guy at the desk then informed me that the woman who organises them was away sick and he couldn’t log into the computer to allocate one for me. He tried calling various IT “help lines” (I use this term very loosely), ultimately to no avail. The bookshop only took two of my books on consignment so I had no cash in the hand. The day was not shaping up well.

On the way to the meeting, I paused briefly under an awning to light a cigarette and noticed my backpack was open. The Centrelink forms were fast becoming sodden and as I stood at the lights on City Road the deluge intensified and I noticed myself becoming very wet. I looked up at the underside of my umbrella just in time for a giant drop of water to hit me square in the eye. The lights went green and I crossed the road, leaking umbrella in one hand and walking stick in the other. Just as I put my foot to the bitumen, a tidal wave rounded the corner and drowned my unsuspecting feet which were (admittedly foolishly) clad only in canvass-top shoes.

I arrived at my meeting and inspected the damage. My shoes were totally sodden through; the white business shirt I wore over the top of a green t-shirt was also soaked. I removed the soaked shoes and peeled the formerly-white-and-now-lime shirt away from my body. The centrelink papers were salvable so I laid them out in front of the air conditioner to dry. My novel was half damp, its pages rippled with moisture. I put the shirt into one plastic bag and the papers and novel into another.

By the time I was on the bus I removed the shoes too because they were making my toes cold. I arrived at Centrelink shoeless and soaking wet. Luckily I wasn’t the only one. When I got home I took stock of my day: got mail box, uncheck, sold old texts, uncheck, bought new texts, check, disabilities card, check, meeting, check, Centrelink, check.

Maybe it’s my new lime shirt, but despite more checks than unchecks I still feel like it was a wasted day.

Twenty four oceans

Today I turn twenty-four. Twenty four years (and one day) ago my poor mother's water broke while she was at my grandparents for lunch...shortly after, the world changed for ever. I was born.

Today passed with little fuss...in fact I’ve only been awake for half of it since I woke up at 1pm. The plan was to wake at 10.30, because I need to stop sleeping in so much, but it failed abysmally. The next few hours are a blur...I don’t remember what I did today, except that before I knew it, it was seven o’clock and I had to get ready.

Mum, Dad, Sister and I went out to dinner at small local restaurant and I’m totally full now, with no room for a cake. I actually had a cake last weekend with the Family at Large, so this will be number two for the year.

Twenty-four oceans
Twenty-four skies
Twenty-four failures
And twenty-four tries
Twenty-four finds me
In twenty-fourth place
With twenty-four drop outs
At the end of the day

Life is not what I thought it was
Twenty-four hours ago
Still I'm singing 'Spirit,
take me up in arms with You'
And I'm not who I thought I was
Twenty-four hours ago
Still I'm singing 'Spirit,
take me up in arms with You'

I feel very dopey tonight, so there will be no witty remarks I’m afraid. I feel very huggy tonight...I’m hugging everyone I come into contact with. If I were a cat I’d be rubbing up against people’s legs and demanding attention. For the first time in many years my day actually started out being fairly ok on my birthday, pain-wise I mean, although as the day progressed it crept back. Before we left for dinner I took a largish dose of pain killers so I’m now sitting pretty (or lying pretty to be more accurate) watching One Tree Hill with Mum before bed.

The image with this post is a scan of the card Mum and Dad gave me…it sums me up quite accurately I think. And below are the lyrics to a song by Switchfoot, called Twenty Four, which was written on the eve of the lead singer’s twenty-fourth birthday. Such a beautiful song and so true of my life.

Anyway I’m off to watch some telly.

Yesterday I journeyed Sydney-ward to help out in the mentoring programme and to check out my new place at uni housing.

It took me three attempts just to get on the train: I missed the first train because I slept through my alarm, I missed the second train because I realised halfway to the station that I hadn’t taken my meds. When I arrived at the station for the third train I got out of the car and realised that I had no shoes. After he finished laughing, Dad leant me his (way-too-big-for-me) sandals.

I arrived to the chaotic melee of new students, parents, aunts and other assorted hangers on. “I’ve witnessed so many arguments between these kids and their parents today”, my team leader whispered to me conspiratorially, “so many arguments about subject choices and that kind of thing”. She has the most wonderful Irish accent that washes over you as she speaks. “This would never fly in Ireland; no parents at university at all, you’re an adult at university. You can be mollycoddled all you like in high school but it ends once you get to uni. I was helping a lady earlier who was enrolling for her daughter’s boyfriend for heaven’s sake!” I wandered around the tables, helping out the first years fill in their forms and offering lollies for two hours and then headed home.

On the way home I went past my new place. It’s a typical Sydney terrace: it looks like it has had a room added on every decade since it was built. I couldn’t go inside but from outside it looks nice enough. I move in on either the fifteenth or eighteenth...

Catch up

It’s been a busy week…

Sunday, I went to visit my grandparents with Mum, to pick up a quilt Mum had bought and had delivered there for reasons that didn’t make any sense to me when they tried to explain it. We had lunch and then sat down to watch a movie, Just Visiting, one of my favourites. I lay down on the lounge as Grandma entered the room bearing a small box of Ferrero Rochere with eight left. She gave them to me and told me that she had saved them for me. I ate three in quick succession then put the movie on. Five minutes later I had another two. Five minutes after that: another two. Ten minutes after that I fell asleep, waking in time to see the final credits and eat the final chocolate.

Monday, I spent the day researching online for a laptop for my mother and a printer for myself. I wanted to steer clear of Windows Vista if I could help it, simply because I don’t know it and didn’t want to be in a position where Mum calls me at uni, panic-stricken, to provide instant tech support over the phone, but it appears that new laptops running Windows XP are very thin on the ground these days. After quite some time a friend talked me into getting Vista anyway, promising it to be user-friendly, so I bit the bullet and found a suitable laptop at around midnight.

Tuesday, I travelled to the city. My first port of call was Chatswood, to the office, to tackle some more computer issues and have coffee with a colleague. I had to be at uni at 2pm to help out at enrolment in my capacity as a mentor.

What happened next will go down in the history books as one of the most irritating public transport (mis)adventures ever. I apologise to those who do not know the city for the use of place names in the following account (I apologise because I get frustrated when people recount stories like this when I have no idea where any of the places are), but I wanted to put them in so that the Sydney readers can appreciate the amount of backtracking I did. I left Chatswood at midday, arriving at Town Hall at around 12.30. As soon as I walked out of the station it occurred to me that I had no idea where the bus to City Rd departed from. I knew it was somewhere east of George St, in fact I had it narrowed down to either Castlereagh St or Elizabeth St. Sadly, I chose the latter. When I got to the corner of Elizabeth and Park, I realised I was in the wrong place, but I saw bus with a sign in the window saying “Railway Square”. I thought to myself that this was better than nothing, because I could change busses there, so I hopped on board and set off. I suspected that something was amiss when the bus turned into Park St. I knew something was amiss by the time I got to Crown St (which, for those unfamiliar with Sydney geography, is completely in the wrong direction from both Railway Square and City Rd). I realised that the only places I knew of, for sure, where the City Rd busses departed were Railway Square and Circular Quay. I wasn’t going to Railway Square because far too much walking is involved and my legs were tired, so I walked back to St James station and hopped a train to Circular Quay, where I found the bus easily. I discovered the bus ran down Pitt St then Castlereagh St, so now I know what to do when I want to get to City Rd from the City.

I arrived at uni at around 1.30 with no time to run the few errands I had planned on doing before my shift started at 2pm. For the next two hours I mingled, giving out lollies, answering questions and basking in the many gorgeous guys who are enrolling this year. The rest of the day wasn’t very interesting at all.

Wednesday, yesterday, Dad and I travelled to Blacktown to buy the laptop, and to Windsor to buy a new DVD player and a TV antenna for me. I spent the rest of the night arguing with Vista over whether or not I wanted to do this or that, the fucking thing asking me to confirm or deny at every turn, until I worked out how to turn it off. This process continued into the wee hours of the morning.

Thursday, today, I have been continuing installing programs and such, with a brief break in the middle to meet a friend for lunch. I just got an email with the exact address of where I’ll be staying this year, so I’ll be able to check it out tomorrow, public transport debacles notwithstanding.

That’s about it.

I could be brown, I could be blue

And so the rollercoaster and mood swings continue. The peaks, dips and troughs are becoming more even, but they are still there. Some days I feel like I’m watching my life in third person: a detached, soap-opera-like viewer of life. It feels like I’ve lived the gamut of emotions, back and forth from one to the other, over the past two-and-a-bit weeks.

Carefree.
New years eve. Singing along to Mika, complete with falsetto voice and camp facial expression, with a bunch of strangers in varying states of drunkenness—“Everybody’s gonna love today, gonna love today. Any way you want to, any way you've got to, love love me, love love me, love love me”—I was having a great time, I was with friends and family, dozens of cute boys, and I was very very stoned. For one night, one brief nine hour period, I had not a care in the world.

Frustrated.
Last week some time. I was given a novel for Christmas which, while an excellent story, was very badly written. Actually, to be fair to the author, it wasn’t badly written as such, more badly edited. There were seven times when the author used the incorrect spelling for words like your/you’re, waist/waste, or fowl/foul. The name of the street on which the character lived changed halfway through the novel and then returned to its original name towards the end.

Ecstatic.
Monday. I was woken by the phone. This is a usually a precursor of a shitty day, and often if the phone wakes me I just won’t answer, but luckily I wasn’t thinking quickly enough to think to ignore it, so I answered it on impulse. It was the lady from the housing unit at university. She told me I have secured on-campus housing. That woke me up. I would have done a victory lap of the house, except I was still groggy so I sat in bed grinning like an idiot for a few moments before emerging to face the day.

Smiling.
Tuesday. I was on a downward swing, sitting on the lounge with Rox watching inane daytime television when I received an email from a reader of this blog. He was very complimentary and made my morning, spelling criticisms notwithstanding. He pointed out that I had mistaken loose and lose and bear and bare on a few occasions, but unfortunately no matter how hard I try I don’t think I will ever be able to tell them apart. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me, considering how hard I had been on the author of my novel the week before for a similar crime.

Pissed off.
Wednesday. I was arguing with a computer at the office and I was losing. I had to call the tech guy to get him to explain something to me, something I knew was very simple and demanded only a simple explanation, but he managed to complicate it. In the end I got the stupid contraption to do what I wanted, after a good deal of swearing and snapping at poor Lala, Roxie and Olly who were the hapless victims of my wrath, guilty only of being in the room as my anger rose.

Content.
Thursday. Today. I am back home now for a few weeks before I make the move down to Sydney to live at uni. My back is still giving me the shits with the mysterious lower back pains, so I’m lying in bed while the rest of the family watches tennis in the next room. All I hear is silence, punctuated by the occasional “aww” when something good or bad happens. To be honest, “content” is the wrong descriptor for today; perhaps “flat” or “ambivalent” would be better? It always amazes me how homesick I get when I’m away, only to be replaced with holiday-sickness when I return home.

Oh well, I’m off to bed now.

Summer lovin'

Summer time has always been my favourite season. I love it. Gone are the frozen tentacles of wintry muscle ache, the short days, the long cold nights where you can see your breath in front of your face, replaced by blistering heat, warm breezes and summer storms.

I’ve been staying with Lala and Cal since late December, enjoying a relaxing holiday of reading, watching trashy TV and a Queer as Folk marathon with Lala. They are both complaining about the oppressive heat—at thrity-something degrees—while I am relaxing enjoying the balmy temperature. It’s way hotter at home, yet I’ve still been lying around in boardshorts and no shirt with the fan going.

I’ve made a few trips to the city, to the office of the Society I volunteer for, to help out configuring the new computer system and tidy up after a move. The building has a piss-ant air conditioning system that barely has the horsepower to push the tepid air through its ducts. On Thursday I spent nine hours in Chatswood, working for six of them—I splurged and took a two hour lunch-and-shopping break). A third trip is on the cards for this week since one of the terminals was DOA—it looked like it had been dropped from head height—and there have been major issues with the email server. But it’s good to get out.

The emotional rollercoaster of the drug changeover has started to hit a plateau in the last few days, after a fortnight of mood swings. At one point I felt like I was drowning, other times I was flying. The pain in my legs has definitely lessened though—great news—but the mysterious back pains have resurfaced. To be honest the back pain is better in a way because pain killers actually kill it, whereas with leg pains they only take the edge off.

I called the uni housing office on Thursday to ask if my application had been successful, since I hadn’t heard from them. The woman who answered the phone sounded like she’d rather fuck a rhino with a strap on than be working. “HellohousingofficehowcanIhelpyou?” she droned. I asked if I was successful. “What’s your name?” she asked. I told her. There was a silence, then she asked, “when did you put in the applicationin?” I told her late October, I think, and that I had done it in person because I was applying for special consideration. She put me on hold while she conferred with the lady to whom I submitted the application. “She says she’ll contact you next week” she said, then “she’ll be doing special considerations next week”. This makes no sense to me; surely the special considerations are done before everyone else? I suspect my application was never lodged properly and that the woman is now waiting for someone to bow out so I can have a place.

The only problem with this vacation bliss is that Olly, the resident mini poodle, has taken to pissing on my bed. I have been here for two and a half week and have had to change my sheets ten times. Last night we all went to Tom and Amber’s for dinner, coming home at 2am. I jumped straight into bed, pulled the blankets to my chin and felt a damp patch. I silently prayed that it was my overactive imagination but my nose was telling me that it was exactly what my I first suspected. I leapt out of bed, turned on the light and saw a wet patch on my bed. I swore, several times, and then stripped the bed, stuffing the sheets into the washer and turning the matrass over to deal with in the morning.

The next morning I got up, went out for a smoke, and then came back to my room to find another wet patch on the bed. I swore, again, and put the sheets in the wash basket ready to go into the washer once the first load was finished. Cal and I took the matrass outside and, after disinfecting it, laid it on a table in the sun. Shortly after we turned it over, like a steak, so that the sun would dry the other side. Enter summer storm: we went outside to retrieve the matrass as soon as the rain started falling but the damage was done…my matrass was soaked. It is now lying atop the dining room table.

Apart from the copious amounts of dog urine and mysterious back pain, the holiday has been a blast…I’ll be so sad to go, but I have stuff to at home and besides, I’ll be back here in February for Lala’s 25th birthday part and a trip up the coast with the Beach Crew.

Back to reality on Thursday.

Happy new year

We had a party here for new years eve last night. It was a great night; a great time to catch up with new friends and enjoy a care-free night. One in which I was the only one not drinking. But then I had the advantage of certain chemical enhancements—totally medicinal of course—so it’s not like I was the only sober one. It was nice to let go, for once.

The day began in the same way most days-of-parties begin: with bedlam. Cal and Ade were working out the front clearing up the front yard (with noisy power tools), Lala, Tia and I were clearing up the house, Ade and Mary were setting up the sound system, and, later, Bin and Alex clearing the backyard. The neighbour leant us his party lights. Once the yard was prepared—with tables covered in their festive “Happy New Year” table cloths, music pounding and enough fairy lights to confuse low-flying aircraft—we all had showers (sequentially, don’t get too excited) and waited for the guests to arrive. I won’t give you a running commentary of who arrived when, party because I don’t remember and party because I’m running out of pseudonyms.

There were several amusing moments. The first was being in being introduced to a friend of Lala’s. We waved at each other and I saw her mouth move to form the word “hi”. “So are you the fruity one?” she shouted at me during a slight lull in the music. “What?” I shouted back. She repeated herself: “So you up for a big one?”

The second was watching Lala making margaritas while plastered. She got the blender base out and set it on the bench, then dug out the jug and its screw-on blade housing. She filled the jug with six shots of tequila, two shots of orange triple sec, and was just about to add the third shot of lime juice when she realised that there was nowhere near ten shots in the blender. Slowly it dawned upon those present that the liquid previously in the blender was now running down the sides of the base. We were astonished (this is a new blender after all) and attempted to investigate the strange occurrence until Amber realised that Lala hadn’t put the blade or the rubber seal into the blade housing.

There were many laughs, and I even lasted until 2.30 before having to flop into bed. This morning we all got up and had eggs and bacon for breakfast, cooked by the still-drunk Cal.

The image above was taken at about 1am this morning. I decided to follow in the footsteps of Liz and Kate, who are taking a photo every day for a year to raise awareness for type 1 diabetes, and take a photo every day of 2008 myself and publish them every Sunday. I've also decided it would probably be a good idea to some kind of diagram of my family and friends that I mention on here, so stay tuned.

So Happy New Year all. This year will be a good year, if I have to kill (or mortally wound) someone to make it happen.

Four days

I am spending a few weeks on the Central Coast with Lala and Cal, so updates won’t be that forthcoming over the next few weeks, but I’ll try to get on now and then and do some posting. Here’s the last four days.

After the almost-perfect-Christmas, I was wrecked on Boxing Day (link included for the benefit of American-and-other-non-commonwealth-country readers).

When Liz moved away I inherited her technical support role with her parents, aunt and grandmother, so I spent the morning of the 27th, a Thursday, with Liz’s parents, fixing odd problems with their various pieces of technology around the home. After we were done they drove me to my doctor’s appointment, where I explained the new-and-fun back (and now chest) pains and answered “yes” and “no” dutifully when he asked “does it hurt when I do this?” He told me that if there has been no trauma to the area, which I’d have remembered anyway, then it is likely Bornholm Syndrome. This, he explained, was caused by a viral infection of Coxsackievirus in the chest wall which has inflamed it causing the strange pain I’ve been experiencing.


To rule out any trauma that may have slipped under my radar, x-rays were ordered. Because I was due to leave for the coast the next day, we rushed down to the radiographers for shoulder, lung and spine x-rays. Predictably, they showed nothing abnormal except for a slight “twist of the spine” (my doctor’s words). So I can now add Bornholm to my long list of ailments.

On Friday, Dad drove me halfway to the coast, where Lala met us in Cal’s ute. We’ve just been hanging out, watching movies, shopping and catching up with friends. We are preparing for a big party here tomorrow night for new years eve. Lots of people are expected, lots of alcohol is expected to be consumed, fun and merriment will be experienced by all.

I will do a better “catch up” post next week, when I’m feeling a little more coherent. Happy new year everyone.

¡Feliz Navidad!

Christmas is, by far, my favourite time of year. This year’s was the most perfect in a long time (except for one teensy incident which is a topic for another post, tomorrow).

During the week leading up to Christmas I was saying the age old mantra to myself—five sleeps till Christmas, four sleeps till Christmas, etc—and then it finally came!

My family celebrates on Christmas Eve. As a child this meant that I got my presents a full 12 hours before my friends at school. Now I see it as a celebration rich with family tradition and ritual. This year we had 25 people celebrating together at Grandma’s: my two grandparents, my parents, Sister, me, three aunts, two uncles, nine cousins and five partners-of-cousins.

Everyone arrived at Grandma’s, the doors to the dining and lounge rooms securely locked from the curious eyes of the little children, and we sat around and had a chat with drinks before dinner. As children we were not allowed into the room with the Christmas tree until the dinner bell was rung. Nowadays, most years Sister and I go down a few days before the 24th to set up the tree, the outdoor lights and the decorations, so some of the mystery has been lost for me, but the look of awe on the faces of the children makes it all worth it.

When the dinner bell sounded, we all assembled before the nativity, a fifty-odd piece scene carved and painted by my Grandfather, to pray. After the prayers everyone wished one another a Merry Christmas and my Grandfather read the Christmas story in Slovak, followed by the same reading in English by Rick. After this, everyone sat down to dinner, which was followed by the Opening of the Presents.

My baby (two and a half year old) cousin is a present opening machine. She opened every gift within her reach, whether addressed to her or not. We had a great night simply revelling in each other’s presence.

After dinner I called my seven year old nephew, Lance, to wish him a Merry Christmas. I explained that my family celebrates on Christmas Eve, not Christmas Day, that we had 25 people here in the one house, all having fun and he asked "Are there any cute guys there?". I was stunned. Has his mother passed down a recessive fag-hag gene that we were unaware of? I answered that since everyone is my family I don’t look at them that way and quickly changed the subject. Of course, the truth is that yes, there were cute guys: Cal was there, of course, as was Bin’s boyfriend, Alex, who are both gorgeous; my cousin Ade has a rugged Latino look that is gorgeous too. And then there’s me. But apart from that, the men of my generation aren’t anything special in the looks department. Shallow, yes, but it was Lance who asked, not me, and he knows that there can be a disparity between outer appeal and true inner beauty.

Anyway, I went to bed slightly after midnight, feeling the luckiest guy around; even though I was in a lot of pain all night, on the constant (and sadly ever-increasing) drug carousel. Every four hours. I see the doctor on the 28th.

But I am one of the lucky ones with the gift of such a beautiful, if somewhat dysfunctional, family that I love dearly, despite its faults.

Merry Christmas to you all.

It’s good shit, but I hate it nonetheless

It’s been a rough weekend. I am coming off Zoloft (sertraline hydrochloride), slowly, slowly, and starting Endep (atriptyline) next week. It’s an antidepressant too, but it should, hopefully, block some of the pain signals. I’m concerned about stopping Zoloft because I am petrified about a relapse in depression. I’m also cutting down the codeine. Withdrawals are unpleasant. Yesterday I was hot, sweaty, lying in bed, feeling like death. My legs were killing me. I went to mass and sat down for the entire service, rather than standing, sitting, kneeling, standing with everyone else.

Last night the pain was bad. I took a lot of codeine and anti-inflammatories and doped myself into a nice floating state, just so I could sleep.

It’s good shit. But I hate it nonetheless.

Pain in the...

Well that was, for the most part, a waste of time. I went to see the neurologist yesterday, and while he was a nice enough bloke the appointment wasn’t very productive. Ultimately he didn’t really tell me anything I didn’t already know.

Dad I were siting in the waiting room and when Dr Neuro called my name I stood and walked towards him. He motioned towards Dad, asking “is that your Dad?” I nodded. He signalled Dad over, saying “why doesn’t he come in with us?” I was about to tell him that I haven’t had a parent come in with me to see the doctor since I was seventeen but gave up before I had even started speaking, opting for the path of least resistance.

We sat down in his office and he introduced himself. He was a short man with beady eyes and an awkward demeanour. He saw Dad’s work name tag and asked Dad if he did indeed work there. Dad replied yes and the good doctor proceeded to ask Dad many questions about his work and about gardening. I was thinking “Hello! Who’s appointment is this?” when the subject turned to me.

After a brief history (in which he had a blank look on his face when I said “I’ve had ME since 1999), a physical exam and a neurological exam, he told me that codeine is not good for the long term and suggested a referral from my GP to the pain management clinic. We discussed some different drug (of the non pain killer variety) therapies and that was about it. The pain is still idiopathic (of unknown origin) and now the doctor doesn’t even want me t take pain killers.

I’m getting a little frustrated to be honest. Are answers too much to ask for??

History, sadness, and the hot chemist

I’ve been busily family historying for the last week. I am drowning in photographs, old letters, documents, and mothballs.

One person I’ve been concentrating on lately is my great uncle. He was my father’s mother’s younger brother, who was killed in the Second World War at the age of 19, on the 14th of July 1943, while flying in an RAAF mission over Belgium. I have a swag of documents from the RAAF from 1943 relating to the circumstances of his death (including some incorrect ones) and a journal that he kept daily between January and April 1943. I got hold of a letter he sent to his older brother that was written three weeks before his death. It said “guess I wont be home for the arrival of the little one but I’m damn sure I shall be there for the first birthday”.

So sad. Such a senseless loss of life.

I do have a few posts half written. They’re on the way, my friends, just bear with me. In the mean time, here’s a word verification I’ve had on my desktop for weeks, waiting to be posted.

I’m still on the nasty pain killers which make me nauseous and constipated, so although the pain has lessened, I can’t really enjoy it that much. Today I went to the doctor and she wrote another script to tide me over until N-day, when I see the neurologist on the 28th November. After the doctor I ambled over to the local shopping centre, where I picked up the first season of Smallville from the video store, because I have always had a thing for Tom Welling and I need some diversion. I went into the chemist and was met with the gorgeous chemist, who caused me to become a little breathless I have to say. After composing myself and getting what I needed to buy, he rang up the sale and took my card. He swiped it and asked, without skipping a beat, if I was constipated with the pain killers. Trying not to appear shaken, I answered, truthfully, that it is all under control. He gave me my card and receipts back. I’d gotten cash out and he asked if two tens was ok, or would I like a ten and two fives? I said “what the hell, give me two fives, I’ll grab an ice-cream on the way home”.

He smiled impishly as he handed me the cash, and I nearly came on the spot.

CT, done. X-ray, done. Exam, done. Uni, done.

Yesterday I went to the radiology office for the CT scan and the x-rays. It was fairly uneventful and nowhere near as scary as I thought it would be.

After having my name called, I followed a cute blond guy (who would have been named “Rusty” if he were American, or so I thought on the day) through the maze of corridors to the CT room. He asked me where the pain was and I showed him as he uh-huhed and marked it off on a diagram of the body, asking me about the type of pants and underwear I was wearing (I was a little taken aback, but realised soon enough that it was a question of metallic objects ruining scans) and peppered his speech with the word “mate”. By the end of my description there were more green-coloured pain areas than white areas. He had me take my shoes off and empty my pockets before getting onto the bed of the machine, which was blissfully donut-shaped and not at all vaginal in any way, shape or form.

I had my knees bent over a foam prop and my head on a pillow. The bed began to move up and into the donut-hole, until my body had gone through completely, leaving my body on one side and my head on the other, starting up into the internal mechanisms. Lights came on, little buzzers went off, things whirred and beeped and before I knew it Rusty was standing beside the machine telling me I could get up and go to the x-ray. I hopped off the bed, in a totally ungraceful way, and put my shoes back on and collected my things. I was ushered into another room, this one much the same as the CT room, except (unsurprisingly) this one had an x-ray machine.

CT scan, done.

The x-ray technician also asked after my underwear and instructed me to take off my shirt and lie down on the bed of the x-ray machine. Another lesser technician, who was probably a trainee because he either had to ask the other guy what to do, or have it shown to him, came in and started fiddling with knobs and dials. The x-rays, about five in all, were taken quite quickly and I was soon ushered back out into the waiting room to go home. As I stepped outside I thought to myself “well that was painless, why was I so worried!?” The results will be in Monday.

X-ray, done.

Today I had my history exam at 9am. Dad drove me to the uni at about 8, giving me a little under an hour to hunt down an open coffee shop and madly read over exam revision notes before going in. Just as I was about to go in I was hit by a sudden tide of nausea, brought on (somewhat belatedly, I now realise as I write this) from the pain killers I had taken at seven. I felt hot and clammy so I lay down on the cold stone floor until the feeling passed, then hobbled over to the building and found my room. I think I did well on the exam, definitely a pass at any rate, and I am now free.

Exam, done.
First year of uni, done.