The Lone Cypress

Excuse me while my head spins Exorcist-style with excitement ...

2010-02-07T10:40:00.020+10:00

I'm an addict of Frankie magazine, especially because my friend, the ridiculously talented Benjamin Law writes luscious features for the mag. Take this month's for example - 'Bogan or Gay?', where Benjamin ever so eloquently writes about the myriad of bogan possibilities - CUB (cashed up bogan), what constitutes a gay bogan and signing off with an admission that he wears his underpants while crafting these uber-fabulous pieces on certain things not all of us would take the time to think about. Hail the man-child that is Dr. Law.

And so, I stumbled across the 'bookbook' from a previous issue which I had forgotten to share. Not because I'm greedy, but because my head exploded and I haven't been the same since. Check it/Behold teh gloreh -

So now I'm seriously thinking about buying a Macbook, just so I can shove it into one of these cases of awesomeness. I'm still having a love affair with my iMac, but as a writer who is seriously practicing her craft, I find myself in dire need of a Macbook.

On the subject of acquiring all things beautiful, in this month's issue, there's a little feature by Louise Bannister about one of the coveted fashion items any bookworm would sell a kidney for - a Book Bag. Cover your keyboard and prepare to salivate (I nearly fainted) -

My favourite novel of all time. Oh, Salinger ...

Steinbeck will never be the same ...

Proceed to faint or vomit with excitement.

pre-birthday poem

2009-12-30T12:21:00.003+10:00

The piano has been drinking.
It plays the tune of a whore.

I am the mess you made me leave behind
in a spillway where dry docks scar from salt.

Pour me a little more.
I know it's late, but pour me a little more
before my teeth catch words falling out of my mouth.

Waterbaby

2009-11-24T11:33:00.044+10:00

It's the end of November and last week marked two years since I underwent surgery for vadge cancer and the subsequent CCC (c**t cancer coma). I celebrated by starting my training programme for the Mooloolaba triathlon, but don't get too excited — I'm only doing the 1km ocean swim.

I was more than happy with my first session, as I had only planned to swim five hundred metres. After I'd swum/swan/swammed/swummed my desired distance I was feeling strong, having slipped into a comfortable rhythm. And so I thought, 'If I can do five hundred, I can do six hundred, and if I can do six hundred, I can do seven hundred' and so on, until I reached the eight hundred metre mark. I could have done the full kilometre, but didn't want to go bull at a gate Carls-style (it's genetic — thanks Dad) and end up eating pain cake the following day, thereby ~~sabotaging~~ ~~thwarting~~ hindering my training.

I did a lot of swimming training when I was a wee lass. I'm a born water baby, and exercise — particularly swimming — was encouraged* when I was growing up. As a result of this chlorinated goodness, I never lost my 'swimmers shoulders', even when I became reed thin pre-transplant.

And so the joy continued, despite having a kid who's probably not even aged in double figures yet, clawing at my feet like a buzzard. After willing him to pass (after rising from the water to death stare it him), he probably pissed in his wake to smite me. Squad swimmers: the bane of the casual lap swimmer.

I was doing some kick board work last week when I paused to adjust my goggles. I dipped my head below the waterline and listened. The wake of other swimmers lapped around my ears and I found myself in a place of perfect peace. The water buffeted my ears and purled around my body, shrouding all sound. I floated until all I could hear was my heartbeat and breath, then I closed my eyes and felt the joyous ache of gliding through water. I became aware of my breath and took in lungfuls of air. I then felt aware of how lucky I am to be able to gulp lungfuls of air in the first place. I have a close friend in Melbourne who is critically ill and waiting on a double lung transplant, so I took the biggest breaths for her.

F. Scott Fitzgerald — a master architect of the English language — once said, 'All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.'

Swimming under water, holding your breath; these things take practice and patience and develop over time. And so it is with writing and all that holds any substantial meaning for me.

I have always returned to the water and always will. It softens my heart.

Another thing I'm doing is a detox of sorts, except this is a long-term detox where I'm introducing 'raw' food while steadily reducing foods that are heavily refined. Suffice to say, my green grocer loves me. This is what I've been having for lunch and occasionally for dinner — green smoothies!

Blended!

Because I'm exercising, eating raw food and trying to cut refined food and sugar out of my diet, my life is one big salad. My BSL's (blood sugar levels) have dropped significantly and I've had to adjust my insulin which has lead to a couple of scary hypo's (dangerously low blood sugar levels). Some fine tuning of my insulin is all that's needed to avoid these and I always have fairy floss at the ready (it's the only time I get to eat it). In the meantime, I'm waiting for my sugar cravings to abate. When I do crave something sweet, I make a green smoothie and am so full that the very thought of junk food makes me feel horrendous.

I have a notorious sweet tooth (see fairy floss reference), but I'm confident that I'll be able to control my Diabetes with diet and exercise, with only the occasional injection of insulin. I've no doubt that my kidneys and pancreas will thank me.

I'm off to a fine start, am well and truly settled into my new pad and life is grand. ~~Going swimmingly~~. Fucking fabulous.

* forced

Untitled 'haibun'

2009-10-03T21:21:00.011+10:00

Salt shoots up my nose, ferried by the wind. Blasts of air, not sparing in their rhythm crawl over my skin and I pain for water. Untrammelled waves crush any sand that lays crumbling on the beach. I see the man I was with last night - a half-smoked cigarette cocked in his mouth.

He is still - kind of like he's stranded and doesn't know where to go; not sure about how to stamp one foot in front of the other, or even how to breathe. The cigarette recedes to his lips and he spits it onto the sand. I don't know who he is.

I walk to the bedroom, see the sheets and remember, nodding at the colours that have seeped through to the mattress. Worry abates, curiosity turns my lips upward. The wind shuttles between the terrace door and the kitchen table and I walk to where the kettle clings to the bench, closer to the edge than I would like. I push it back, smell him behind me and drop my head.

Salt on skin
like raw sugar
though not sweet at all.

5.9.09

2009-10-03T19:30:00.010+10:00

1.50pm @ Tallebudgera surf club (yes, I know - what. the. fuck.)

My day has been punctuated by sex. I've lingered on it too long; my tongue is sensitive and nerves sting when it brushes the roof of my mouth. Every appealing man is fair game, be they married, in a partnership, of age or otherwise. Even unappealing men; thicker, bearded, old, rough.

Sex.

I have grand designs of a penis puncturing my vagina. That - today, right now - is all I can think about. I want to be touched; I want someone to spread my legs, someone to push and spill into me so as create some sort of cheap mess.

Will I be able to eat my lunch? Fucking salmon.

Romancing the bone, or rather, postponing the bone ...

2009-09-04T07:46:00.004+10:00

Sick this morning from the arsenal of narcotics I've been ingesting. The bone scan will be re-scheduled. Thank you opiates and anti-seizure meds. No, wait - fuck you, and while I'm at it, FUCK CANCER. That's for my friend Renee who is fighting (and winning) a war on lung and brain cancer over in California.

I have nothing on this girl. To learn more about her extraordinary story, check out http://www.reneebensonbelieve.com

BELIEVE.

Waking up

2009-09-03T22:01:00.012+10:00

Of course I woke up. I did get to see daylight so my mum could take me to the hospital for some tests.

The sonography was not what I was expecting it to be, for the swelling and pain in my sub-clavian and axillary (essentially my clavicle and neck) was not a new DVT*. All the sonographer could see on the ultrasound was residual clot from the DVT I had six years ago and the one I had last May due to a radiologist dicking around for too long in my arm while inserting a PICC line.

A PICC line is inserted in a peripheral vein, such as the cephalic, basilic, or brachial vein; is advanced through larger veins toward the heart until the tip rests in the distal superior vena cava. Sounds complicated? Not really. It should take between 30-45 minutes to insert a PICC, but the radiologist who I took an instant dislike to before he even touched me, failed the first time, then stuffed around for nearly two hours with the line he eventually got in. Congratu-fucking-lations.

And so this clot stabilised, only to return in July when I was in Barcaldine. Fucking awesome. I self-diagnosed the clot and thought the Flying Doctors were going to have to land on Cumberland soil to spirit me back to Brisbane. Instead, Sue drove me to Barcy hospital, where the lovely Dr. Alfredo gave me some Clexane injections (anti-coagulants) for my trip home. Apparently I'm prone to being 'clotty.' How delightful.

Ten days after the ultrasound, a payload of narcotics which make me itch like a heroin addict and new anti-seizure medication which works with the pain receptors in my brain, it is just as painful and more swollen.

So there is no new clot and the pain hasn't developed into shingles.

It could be a crack or a stress fracture from sleeping in the wrong position, which despite my chalky bones, is highly unlikely. Another reason for the pain and swollen clavicle is something far more sinister.

Tomorrow I will have a bone scan where I'll be injected with kryptonite (radioactive material). Then I will wait for two hours so the nuclear medicine can soak into my body. I'll read, maybe see Dan and possibly fall asleep where I will dribble in public. I will then lay on a table as narrow and hard as a surfboard and I'll be shuttled into a strange, yet beautiful machine. Radiographers will study the images to try and form a diagnosis. If the bone scan is inconclusive, then an MRI or a PET scan may be neccessary.

I will laugh if I have bone cancer. I really will.

* deep vein thrombosis (something you don't fuck around with)

If I Die Before I Wake

2009-08-24T00:03:00.005+10:00

Tonight, or rather, today, I am frightened to go to sleep because I may not wake up. This comes with the territory of the unknown.

You may wonder why I am sending this out into the void as my shoulders stiffen from the cold and unsettling breath of the reaper. If I don't survive the next few hours, at the very least I want to share a sliver of how my life works.

On Saturday, it was eleven years since my transplant and I have been feeling very well. The nature of the beast that is post-transplant means that nothing is certain and your life can turn on a dime where you find yourself in a place you only thought existed in night terrors.

I will have tests today and whatever the outcome, I will be coming home. I will not stay in hospital. I am coming home.

Affection

2009-07-29T22:31:00.007+10:00

A soft gaggle rolled across the taut air of the morning. My lips fused to the vessel my coffee had been poured into. If the laughter were a fabric, it was velveteen. If it were a drink, it was a Merlot with fond notes of chocolate and berry.

I lay the flattering unction to one's soul*, rifling through the layers and seeing myself thirty years from now at peace, happy, grey, bespectacled and wearing polar fleece with pride. On second thoughts, hold the polar fleece - swathe me in cashmere and rabbit fur, but universe - please grant me the wisdom to embrace the silver fox within with a thick top knot bouncing around my sagacious head, and a head that has a satisfied mind.

I am already happy, bespectacled and content with who I am and where this journey is taking me. But back to that soft gaggle.

They laugh.

They are old friends and they are new friends. Five fine women and one man waving to passers by in between excitable banter, sips of steaming coffee and crinkly hands over mouths in mock shock. Perhaps someone lost a stitch knitting last night ...

My favourite lady has a topknot bobbing back and forth on her head; her body sheathed in purple polar fleece. She is a grand dame; a native apotheosis.

A stilettoed woman spoils the joy; her calves popping as though they're alive and trying to escape her chiseled legs. My attention turns to scalpels and excision. How I would appreciate cutting into those legs to see if those muscles really were alive. I would release them like one does with an undersized fish; grant them absolution in their desperation to escape her skin.

But slicing into strangers is a felony.

I've downed my second double shot of coffee and it's time to go and collect my copy of 'Blankets', an illustrated novel by Craig Thompson in all of it's 582 pages of black and white glory. And then there is the most anticipated book of the year - my friend and esteemed peer, Krissy Kneen's sexual memoir 'Affection'. It is being launched tomorrow evening at Avid Reader in West End. Krissy encouraged me to begin writing my own memoir, as well as to finish my verse novel which she has said many kind things about.

And so tomorrow evening. There may be nudity. There will be talk of vaginas, orgasm, fucking and fisting. There will also be wine.

Below is a sliver from Krissy's blog, Furious Vaginas. Buy her book. Re-discover your sex. Reclaim your desires. Rip open that bodice. Learn.

best anti climax

I remember rare moments of post orgasmic bliss. The times I have wanted to lie with it. The ones that lasted days, little jolts of memory. Instant replays unexpectedly. So rare. I remember the ones I have had. Wish I could have more. But this kind of thing would wear thin. I must wait for the sneak attack. Sex in the afternoon and the sun falling on my naked body. First time with a new lover. The consummation of something coveted.

*Hamlet

post-script

2009-07-17T21:21:00.002+10:00

Running couples. They seem so fucking organised. Everything is a routine. Do they have marathon sex? Probably. Do they time their marathon sex? Maybe. Do they plan for sex like they would a practice run for a marathon? I hope not.

Run, Forrest, run!

Fuck, Forrest, fuck!

Time

2009-07-17T20:49:00.008+10:00

Gold Coast Marathon - 5.7.09 6.35am

Human Indy.

Cattle call.

Restless as horses on the inside of the gate, scratching skin and bloodshot eyes.

Kids madly pedalling on a monorail that skims an inconsequential beach.

Maybe I’ll dance on the sand. I'll twirl, churning sand under my feet, mincing it between my toes. I'm listening to Dr. Hook’s ‘The Cover of a Rolling Stone’, after all.

People will surmise the departure of the ordinary and the strange nature of my movement, but they’ve been up since 4am, have been running hundreds of kilometres for months and have ligament damage they take fistfuls of anti-inflammatories for. Now THAT is strange.

I have a need for coffee. I’m in a place where desire has been outstripped by a blinding need.

Daylight now, the orange having been wiped clean from the sky, sucking Venus back into the orbit of the earth. The sun bursts through, tingling my skin until it blushes. A warm sweep. Kindle for a cold and aching body.

It bores heat into me; bouncing off my cheek, splicing light through my hair and seeking out my mandarin coloured scarf.

The sun climbs.

Men stretch limbs.

Women stride broadly.

People smile, wrapped in black rubbish bags to keep the wind chill at bay.

Children laugh and squeal – it’s all a big game. Silly grown ups wearing funny get up. There’s a leprechaun, a couple of Superman’s, permatans as far as the eye can see, popping muscles and people bending over a little too far – presenting themselves, Roy and HG Sydney 2000 Olympics style.

Daybreak lends itself to friendlier faces and fire dancers keep twirling, their flames now muted from the scowl of the sun.

I notice the proliferation of sports bandages and compression sleeves for arms, legs and bellies. Ah, yes – the running wounded. I have been up since 4.30am, walked in the dark to the starting point, ached to the messy roots of my molars and chapped my skin. Somehow, I understand and I have understood it before. I understand why there are morning people. I wish I was a morning person, but I’m a night owl. I do my best work at night and it is odd if I get to bed before 1am.

Morning. It really is perfect; unstained with the mess that becomes a day. It’s a narrow window where everything – and everyone – is clean; your connection to the earth pure and true. Try it. Grind your feet into the ground – sand if you have it – and slip into the brevity of quietude that only an early morning can give.

‘Hold the dawn close to your chest
to stop the sun climbing;
shredding lines of clouds where
sins are churned into sweetness
for a short while.’ (CJM 2008)

And so now I understand. I get it. I get the running thing. I can appreciate and respect why people lug their bodies forwards for hundreds of kilometres. Some do it gracefully, others not so. It’s a sweaty tangle of pumping arms and jerking movements of the knee, the leg, the shin, the ankle and the foot. It’s a jumble of iron will that ends with jelly legs.

Then there are skins, ITB rollers, orthotics, glucose jellies to suck on and electrolyte balance powders. And then there’s the socks ...

Eliza beat her PB by thirteen minutes. She has been training on her own, without the camaraderie of a running squad or the attention of a coach - two things that many people cannot get by without - and she smashed her PB by thirteen minutes.

All on her own.

To capture the elation is impossible, even with the photographs I took of my beautiful friend with her medal. Not even they can show what it meant to her – and to so many others – who finished the race.

What does one hour and five minutes signify? For Eliza, it was everything. It was happiness, grief, pride, humility, triumph and relief. She had proud flesh. A necklace of sweat had made its familiar passage down the hollows of her heaving chest as we both jumped for joy, high fived and 'fuck yeah-ed!'

And so I was inspired. I read a running magazine when we returned to our apartment (which just happened to house the most *amazing* couch in the world), and I circled a few races I want to try.

My mate Ed who three weeks ago received his second double lung transplant, decided that he would do the 10km Bridge to Brisbane. And so, Team Ed was born. There are quite a number of Team Ed members doing the Bridge to Brisbane in honour of Ed and our respective donors and their families. I suggested that we source a couple of Segways a la Gob Bluth with a soundtrack of ‘The Final Countdown’ on repeat to rip past people who are walking/running/doing the Cliffy Young shuffle. There has been much interest about the procurement of the Segway, but we really have no choice except to walk or shuffle the 10km unless we hijack some yuppies in New York. Yep - we're walking. There has been talk (mostly by me) that we be escorted to the Brekkie Creek Hotel by paramedics where we will be re-hydrated with IV fluids and beer. Or just IV beer. And steak. Still mooing steak with all that bloody protein goodness.

My eleven year Transplanniversary is fast approaching (it falls on 22nd August). I know certain information about my donor that I should not. Some readers may find the following information distressing, so please read with caution.

I know that I received female lungs and my donor was in her early twenties and died at the Royal Brisbane Hospital from a cerebral haemorrhage (a brain bleed). I also know that her family donated most of her organs and while I wrote them letters of thanksgiving, they moved on with no forwarding address which I both understand and respect.

Yes, I would like to meet my donor family and yes, I plan to go to Births, Death and Marriages before my Transplanniversary so I can rifle through the death notices for the 21st and 22nd August 1998. It used to be that my mum was far more curious than I, but ever since I hit a decade last year, I have become more insistent on knowing who my donor is.

I want to know her name. I want to know her parent’s names and if she has siblings or a partner. I have no romantic notions about my donor and while there is a part of me who doesn’t ‘care’ about what she did in her life, there is a far larger chunk of me that yearns to know what her life was like. What music she listened to, what books she read; what films she loved. Was she a student? Was she working? Had she been overseas? Was she happy? Did she have any premonitions of dying? Where did she collapse? Was it at home, at work, at uni, in the street? These are things I want to know, yet in all likelihood, never will.

The day after my Transplanniversary is the Brisbane Marathon and I’m competing (against myself) in the 8km walk which will be fairly cruisy. I walked 6km at the Gold Coast marathon IN MY CONVERSE and didn’t end up with shin splints. I’m sure that would be razor blades to any podiatrist worth their toenails, but I was damn impressed, as was the boy. I said to Eliza and her friends Libby and Pete, who did the 10km run, that getting up at sparrow's and being active made me feel alive – REALLY ALIVE.

It is nearly eleven years. We eat up time and time feasts on us. Time is an odd beast - it can be our ally and it can be our undoing. Time can soften pain and grief, but it at it's very core, it is predatory and brutal.

Time is not the same in every culture or circumstance.

Time is physical and psychological. It is growth, ageing, living and dying, sacrifice, penance, redemption and salvation.

Time is cyclical, calendrical and developmental.

What does time mean to you? Do you think about your time? Do you use it wisely? Do you analyse it, watch the clock or not think about it at all?

'As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.'
Henry David Thoreau

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!

2009-06-24T00:27:00.006+10:00

Today is my Dad's 60th birthday. Words do not come easily when I speak or write of my loved ones. Sometimes I don't know where to begin and if I do begin, where do I end?

So I will say this ... I love you, Dad. You have loved me unconditionally, fought for me when I could not and you never gave up when things were seemingly insurmountable. Thank you for loving me, protecting me and fighting for me.

Here are a few photographs that capture me and Rosco.

After my 'pre-designer vagina' party (maybe just a little bit drunk)

Good times at a C.F Ball ...

A few days after my c**t cancer surgery in November 2007. This was before the coma, when Dad fought for me when I couldn't.

More good times (very drunk)

Hello, hello, hello, hello ... goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye ...

2009-06-21T03:13:00.007+10:00

Leaves that are Green
(Paul Simon, 1965)

I was twenty-one years when I wrote this song
I'm twenty-two now but I won't be for long
Time hurries on.
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither in the wind
And they crumble in your hand

Once my heart was filled with the love of a girl
I held her close but she faded in the night
Like a poem I meant to write.
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither in the wind
And they crumble in your hand

I threw a pebble in a brook
And watched the ripple run away
And they never made a sound
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither in the wind
And they crumble in your hand

Hello, hello, hello, hello
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
That's all there is.
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither in the wind
And they crumble in your hand.

Too much information

2009-06-20T19:40:00.010+10:00

18.6.09 8.44pm

Being with a man who has lived a good, full life has many unexpected benefits. One that had me jumping around the room tonight was his record collection. Here are a few reasons why:

Hawks and Doves (Neil Young)

Back in Black (one copy was pressed in Australia and is quite rare)

Rumours (Fleetwood Mac)

Harvest (Neil Young)

A couple of others I set the needle onto included The Church, Gangajang, Do Re Mi and The Clash ...

Okay, so that was more than a few - the boy has milk crates stacked with vinyl. Records. They are tactile and real and my fingers tingle when I pull them out of their plastic slips and lay them down on the turntable. The boy and I had been talking about one of the strongest foundations of our relationship thus far – music. We met on a night dedicated to soul music and we're on the same page when it comes to what tunes we pepper our days and nights with.

So we began comparing concert stories after I had given him an unabridged version of what was Wednesday night which has turned out to be a highlight of my life, musically speaking (yes, there are many lives – music, reading, film, cars, typewriters etc.). Last night I saw something that I never thought I would get to see in my lifetime – Simon and Garfunkel live - and no further than ten metres away. These 'Old Friends' punctuated my childhood, adolescence and beyond - something which has essentially shaped me, like a plane on a surfboard to give it a decent curve.

My sister and I listened to Simon and Garfunkel in utero and my father courted my mother with their songs and would serenade her with ‘Sparrow’, 'The Boxer', 'El Condor Pasa' and ‘Scarborough Fair'. My parents have been waiting since the early days of their courtship to see Paul and Arty live and on Wednesday night they were reminiscing and holding hands. My sister and I agreed that it was nothing short of adorable. The first LP my father ever bought was 'Wednesday Morning, 3am’, closely followed by ‘The Graduate', which also happens to be his favourite film.

From beginning to end, the night was really quite extraordinary. Unto Rosco’s (Dad's) knowledge, my brother-in-law had organised a brand spankin’ new, eleven seater limousine to transport us to my sister’s and said brother-in-law’s house in style. We collected them for a night of overwhelming sentiment and reaction and thus began a night of *perfection*.

Murray, our driver for the night made us feel very loved and welcome - thanks Muzza! He had Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Live in Central Park’ DVD playing and gave us a directive to crank the (kick arse) sound system as we deemed suitable, and crank it we did. We took stupid, funny photos of ourselves in this cavernous car and by the time we got to Nik’s, we were really just warming up. My four nephews had to practically scoop their jaws off the ground when we arrived. They each had a climb through and marvelled at the buttons and funky lights. They took turns sitting in the driver's seat where Murray commandeers and steers this monster of an automobile, then Rosco basically had to drag poor little Sammy out so we could get on the road. Dad is convinced that Sam's first words will be, ‘I hate you, Grandad’. Que sera.

Nik and Paulie hopped in, we cracked some Becks, toasted the awesomeness that is Simon and Garfunkel and cranked the music. Now this was an extra special night for my Dad because he’s turning 60 next week. Did I mention that he bought himself an early birthday present in the form of a 1959 XK150 Jag? No? Well he did. Happy birthday, Rosco! I shall post some photographs of the beast when I remember.

I haven’t seen my Dad this excited for a very long time and he did totally unexpected and random things at the concert which I’ll get to later. So we’re still in the limo on our way to the hole that is the Boondocks (so very happy AC/DC is playing at ANZ stadium), all the while playing musical seats. Well, Mum, Nikki and I were, anyway. The boys sat up the end sucking back Becks and talking about man stuff. I’m guessing that that means they were talking about man flu, the price of beer, cars and asking questions like, ‘why do they do that?’ about us three who were sliding up and down each end of the limo taking crazy pictures. Because we’re crazy like three foxes. Or something.

The last time I was at the Boondocks was with my bro-in-law last February when Santana came to town. Santana were sublime and it was go good to see Carlos rockin’ out, much like Carole King did at her concert a couple of years ago. The woman has still got it. We decided to make a reservation for dinner on our way which was possibly the best decision of the evening because we ended up a little smashed. Smashed and at Santana. It was fucking great. But back to playing musical seats ...

We arrived at the Boondocks where the place was crawling with equal parts baby boomer and lapsed beatniks (my folks fall into both groups for which I am PROUD) and young folk, mostly Generation Xers. As we ascended the stairs, we literally ran into two women who had travelled interstate to see their heroes and man, were they living the dream. The mean half of my brain would say that it looked like Woodstock had vomited all over them, but the kind half of my brain was saying ‘interstate woman number one is a massive tie-dyed swathe of fabric and her friend has magenta coloured hair and is wearing bright yellow platform fuck me boots – COOL!’ And they were cool. Having waited thirty years to see these two prodigal sons from New York, nothing was going to stop these ladies. They had dressed to make an impression and that they did ...

I was wearing my folk vest in honour of Art Garfunkel’s penchant for all things vestie, so imagine my surprise (after I had stopped crying tears of joy) when I realised that there was NO VEST. No vest? Me publicly crying? Stranger things have happened. No, wait – they haven’t. I don’t do public crying. I’ve done it once this year, but would have called my personal integrity into question if I hadn’t when I found myself in the situation I did. I cried the other day when one of my closest friends told me she was pregnant, but that’s not really public crying because it was just with her and my Mum, and it was induced through joy.

But I digress (again). We walked down to our seats and we were all of nine rows from front of stage *scoops up jaw off floor*. We knew we had seats of superiority, but this was just insane. The audience went ballistic when they trundled onstage, and when Art placed his hand on his heart, the lump in my throat rose up and into me like a tide and my cheekbones ached as it surged up to my head.

‘Old friends’ is the name of their current – and sadly, their last – tour, and so it was this revelation of a song that began a night of magic. As any aficionado would know, ‘Old Friends’ leads into ‘Bookends’. As fast as the tears of awe dried and fused to my salty cheeks, the rush came again when Paul Simon began picking through those familiar notes with his guitar.

There is a story behind ‘Bookends’, because there is always a story. In February 1996, I lost one of my close friends to infection which lead to multiple organ failure. The night cut through all of us who were with Michelle when she died in Intensive Care after she went into cardiac arrest - something she was never going to recover from. Michelle was a heart-lung transplant recipient and was with us for five years which for both her and us, was never going to be enough. She was to be married in the April and I was to be one of her bridesmaids, so instead of a wedding, there was a funeral. Michelle, in her stubborn nature, singlehandedly organised the first Cystic Fibrosis ball in 1990. She was a Mama Bear in the C.F family. The year she died, I was asked to be guest speaker at the ball and by that stage, my Mum had been organising the C.F Ball since the second in 1991. Mum put together a photo montage of Michelle that was presented after my speech, which was essentially a tribute to Michelle, and the song Dad suggested was ‘Bookends’.

'Time it was and what a time it was, it was,
a time of innocence, a time of confidences.

Long ago it must be, I have a photograph
preserve your memories, they're all that's left you.'

It was a night so raw with equal parts pain and love, people bled a little. Michelle's fiance was there, as were several of the people who were with her when her life support was withdrawn. That was the 11th February 1996. My grandmother was in the same hospital dying of cancer, so I was moving between floors that night, though it felt more akin to moving between worlds. My grandmother died the next day on the 12th February. It was a difficult week. Two deaths, one day of reprieve, then two funerals.

Now getting back to Simon et Garfunkel, what struck me was how repressed the audience was. People were just sitting, barely tapping their feet. We were on our feet, yelling and woohoo-ing; we were applauding with arms high over our heads. Dad was totally enarmoured and would stand and clap and wave and shout 'MORE'!

Then there was the sit dancing. Sit dancing is an art I like to believe I pioneered - though I'm fairly certain I did not - but hey, I took it and owned it well before I was on the transplant list. There were just some nights where I was too sick to get on the dance floor with my friends and get on down for a boogie, so my friends would find a chair/stool/tabletop for me to sit on and they would dance around me – kind of like my own little harem which brings me to how I will never understand how people can stay still when a there's a killer tune playing. We talked about the repressive nature of the Brisbane audience in the ensuing autopsy of the night of wonder. It’s not the first time I’ve seen people sitting in their seats like mannequins at a concert. There is little wonder why Rod Stewart got the shits with Brisbane when he last toured. As hard as he tried to work the room, people just weren’t responding. Thank gumdrops Wednesday night concert goers did , though there were still quite a few uptight twats who just couldn't cut loose ...

And so the boy and I talked about music and how it can run like a freight train through your heart. He gets it. He gets me. Nothing is too much trouble. He isn’t going to freak out and cower in a corner like a child if or when I get sick.

Slow burns are better than a flash fire, just like a tide is far friendlier than a flood.

I can’t wait to take him to see The Wilson Pickers and The Gin Club. I want to share with him what he’s shared with me. So as I sit here with a cup of tea, listening to some vintage Santana, I look to the cratefuls of vinyl and one of his surfboards, almost pinching myself with the last couple of days and indeed, about what I have here right now.

about a boy

2009-06-12T23:44:00.009+10:00

People say they have met someone and while this is partly true, I haven't just met someone - I have found someone. To the unassuming eye or astute ear they seem to be closely bound, but I find the two quite removed from each other. I've surrendered myself to the love and care he is bestowing on me and it's as if I'm on this long, slow slide into love. Not a descent - more of a melt.

He recites Keats and Orwell. He surfs, reads David Sedaris, makes me dinner and won't let me help him clean up. Instead, he makes me cups of tea and tells me to relax.

He touches me with meaningful hands and gestures of kindness. He is wise and has an enduring love for soul music. He makes me laugh. We make each other laugh. His hair is soft as lanugo and he has a vinyl collection that is not to be sneezed at. He is a man - a real one.

First Edition copy of 'Ariel'

2009-06-09T18:18:00.005+10:00

So I finally picked up my parcel today - a first edition copy of Sylvia Plath's 'Ariel'. Despite it not having the original dust jacket, it's in even finer condition than I initially thought and is therefore already worth at least ten times what I paid for it. A first edition with a dust jacket is currently listed at US$4,000 with James S. Jaffe Rare Books - not that I care about its monetary value. I'm a small time book collector, so the fact that the book is devoid of graffiti (aka pen and/or pencil marks), is an absolute joy.

Embarrassing closeup ...

With my copy of Andersen's Fairy Tales, published in 1891

Contents page

'Daddy'

perfect and brave

2009-05-12T17:36:00.001+10:00

A decade seems a long time, doesn't it? Try telling a family who have lost their child such a thing.

Today is all about Meagan Walker.

This day ten years ago one of the most beautiful people to grace the earth lost her fight with Cystic Fibrosis. There are only a couple of people I can say are truly perfect and beautiful. Meagan is one, while another is a friend who also died from C.F in 1988. In fact, Meagan and Ineka share many of the same traits - both tiny in stature, but giants of courage, beauty and spirit. They are the brave ones.

Meag's died about ten months after my transplant. The guilt was tremendous, simply because I had survived and she had not. Meagan grew up on the land in Barcaldine and we had both always wanted to spend some time out there together. I had heard of this 'Barcy' place, but it was only after Meag's death that I was able to get out to Cumberland - the cattle station where she had been raised with her two sisters. Like most people from the city, I had never been to the outback and while I wasn't - and never have been - hit with culture shock, everything changes when you leave the city. The silence really is deafening, as hackneyed as that sounds and I soon discovered (and have to remind myself every time I head out to Barcy), that it takes a week to settle into the moods and layers of the land.

Meagan's family welcomed me into their home and into their lives. I was introduced to the terrain and so began my love affair with the outback. I rode a horse for the first time and rode on horseback for the annual Meagan Walker Mini-Marathon which Meagan's Aunt Midge created to both raise money for C.F and to celebrate her life. I sure as hell wasn't going to walk for eleven kilometres and despite being unable to move the next day because I was on a horse for two hours and only for the second time, every trot and every stinking turd Sally the horse dumped on the road to Longway (Aunt Midge's place), it was all worth it.

I galloped through the gates of Longway like I was chasing down the dawn, knowing Meag's was looking after me as my tits nearly popped out of my singlet. I can imagine her giggling with her hand over her mouth saying, 'oh my god, Carly!' which is exactly what her Mum said. I'm not sure whether it was the threat of flying breasts or that it looked liked I had a death wish. I was flying, and not just because I hammered my feet into Sally's flanks. I felt I was setting my grief free with every single beat of a hoof that stomped the rust coloured dirt. I sent my regret over choosing to not see Meagan the day before she passed away out into the void where it belonged. I was no longer tied to it, yet I felt closer to Meagan.

When I am at Meagan's resting place which is where she grew up, I go on a writing bender. I've written some of my best work out there. For the final unit in my undergraduate degree, I was the only (idiotic) person who decided to write five thousand words of poetry. So I did. The poetry peeled away the layers of grief and cleansed me of the stink of the city. The poems covered all manner of terrain - pastoral themes; loss, hope, gardening, roo shooting, regret, trees, children, grief, string bikini's and Fleetwood Mac. Some of these poems have been published, as well as some of the non-fiction (which I will endeavour to post) I have written over the years while 'stationed' at Cumberland. There is one particular piece that I've not been able to locate despite it being published in book form. An old floppy disk will hold the key. Today has been hard to swallow. It is all hard to swallow. Meagan will never be far from me or my thoughts.

100th Post!

2009-04-27T19:01:00.003+10:00

Welcome to my 100th post on The Lone Cypress! Much thanks to all of you readers for your support over the last year. I hope to double the amount of posts from now until next year, but for the time being, here is a lovely Monday 100th post surprise ...

Here is the link to the Stylus Poetry Journal where one of my poems was chosen for their first of four annual issues - http://www.styluspoetryjournal.com/main/master.asp?id=915 (yes, I know - you have to copy and paste it again).

I subbed the piece in December but never received any notification of their intention to publish it, so surprise, surprise when I had a look at the latest issue and found my work there. I am in fine company, with other poets such as David Prater, John Kinsella, Jaya Savige, Mandy Beaumont, Sarah Holland-Batt, B.R Dionysius and MTC Cronin having been included in past issues. How delightful.

Again, thank you for reading, commenting and word of mouth-ing. One very special mention must go to Krissy Kneen and Christopher Currie for their friendship, guidance and inspiration.

My Baby's Milestone

2009-04-07T17:03:00.011+10:00

60,000 kilometres. That's right. On the weekend, Ms. Jay (my Jeep Wrangler - oh, how I love a wrangle), cracked 60,000 clicks, so naturally, I prepared a little photo documentary of the build up, the money shot and the aftermath. Here we go ...

At 59,990km - such a sexy number ...

59,995km - ooh, getting closer!

59,999km - I'm seriously about to pee my pants right now.

BOOYAH!!!!!

And this all happened in Derby Street, Coorparoo. Appropriate street to crack 60,000km, wouldn't you agree?

forgiveness through blinking

2009-04-06T16:25:00.003+10:00

I like to watch men blink.

It is soft and beautiful and makes everything better. Watching men blink is a return to all that is good and pure and true. It is like coming home – a return of sorts where they are little boys again. This saddens me and I have to look away, then it makes me feel happy; hopeful.

Sometimes it makes me feel dirty, for I question what lies behind those eyes.

I watch my father blink. He has lashes like a fringe and the eyes of a bloodhound. He is beautiful. Sometimes when I watch him blink, I cry.

I wait. I am a patient; a human being who waits. When I am waiting and my belly groans in the ascent to anger, I look for the nearest man so I can watch him blink.

Some people go to their happy place, which might be a garden or a memory of a lover, but if I have men, all I need to do is watch them blink. Like butterfly wings, watching the fast fall and rise of eyelids soothes me.

Some men don't blink as much as they should and I imagine their eyes drying like the labia of an old woman, so I seek another who blinks with a regular rhythm, for when a man blinks, everything seems to be forgivable. Where there was a mess, it is scoured away and all that is left is a man blinking. And it is beautiful.

Stuff you do when you get new lungs

2009-03-28T23:46:00.008+10:00

A few things I did shortly after transplant ...

- Re-learnt how to play the Cello
- Re-learnt how to tap dance
- Tried Tai Chi, got bored, so did boxing instead
- Went to my first Transplant Thanksgiving Service where I cried rivers
- Spent thousands of dollars on books I am still reading
- Talked to my Grandmother about sex, sex and more sex
- Found the perfect green peacoat
- Danced like a motherfucker at a Toothfaeries concert (and various other gigs)
- Went on a double date with my sister
- Found a lump in my breast
- Wrote 100,000 words of my first (and unfinished) novel
- Did a North African cooking class while in acute narcotic withdrawal
- Began writing to a prisoner in the United States
- Wrote a letter to my donor family
- Saw Raphael Wallfisch play Bach at St. Stephen's Cathedral (July 16, 1999)
- Went to The Red Garter and was shouted a lap dance (it was awesome, or rather she was awesome)

an open page

2009-03-28T20:28:00.003+10:00

It is written on the body. It is written in my sex. I wait for you to turn the page so we can begin.

We are in a safe place. A place where the wind stops so the world can listen. Flocks of birds rumble overhead, their dollops of shit raining on the roof while I sit on an afternoon, shouldering the silence.

*

The afternoon is as wet as my sex. In the morning and in the night I bind my legs around your thickly fleshed waist, my calves coming to rest on your warm back. I cannot seem to get you deep enough inside me so I hoist my knees up level with my shoulders while my lower legs drape over your shoulders just as the floppy neck of a dead goose would hang from a hunters hands. I pull them closer still and you know I need more of you – all of you – for in the darkness, I belong to your shadow.

Bone and muscle settle into the rhythm of sex. It is not a comfortable or reliable rhythm and this excites me. My spine arches as our swollen groins smash together with some strange grace. Skins slide up, down and across and the slapping of skin on skin is a familiar thud – like a thick rubber band flicking on your belly.

You cradle my body like a mother would a child in the water. I worry that I need you more than you need me and a sadness clots on my tongue in our humid intimacy. I sink my fingers into my wetness, then bring them to my face. I want to get drunk on the scent of our juices before you leave, reminding me that my survival rests on yours. Sundays make the body feel heavy and alone, but you would be a welcome strain, so drink from the cup of tonight so we can tumble into tomorrow.

*

Damp towels hang from doorknobs but like a feather on the wind or a prayer without a god, it matters not. There’s a sky out there filled with good intentions and strife that could swallow us.

You could shoot the sun out of the sky and I would still want you.

medicine

2009-03-19T21:51:00.003+10:00

I found a dampness in your absence, except there has never been an absence because we have not been together. It is a selfish love; a love so sharply cut it could shine as blood does at dawn. It hurts just as your jaw would have when it was scored by a switchblade.

You come to me at night time, where the colour of night melts into that cleft in your chin. Your ripe face and weighty torso unfold in awkward moments like a cat in a trap – this is how I imagine us to be. The cleave in your chin plugs with my juices; your humid and desperate breath pushing deeper into creases where a brush of your lips or a sweep of your tongue make me tug at your hair. So I do that, making you hungrier still, so the stubble on your chin roughs up my cunt.

I would be lying on my side, squashing your head with my thighs; your jaw in a lock where I can’t and won’t release you until I have gushed all over your battered face. I crave our early morning wrestles – such a good fight; one I can always win. But until you come to me, I’ll dip my fingers into my folds and taste my own medicine.

I itch with disappointment because I know my medicine will never be as sweet as yours.

Today I did normal stuff

2009-03-15T01:25:00.005+10:00

To me, this has been a perfect day. A normal day. Days which I yearn for every morning as soon as I prise open my gritty eyes.

The weather was too crap to go to the Powerhouse markets, so I snuggled instead.

I went to my 11am Pilates class which was invigorating and satisfying. So good in fact, I could have munched on it. That is how good it was.

I drove to one of my favourite book stores to pick up a beautiful edition of 'Ham on Rye'. It is Ham. On Rye. And it is beautiful.

I came home, started my afternoon of writing, but when my sister and her tribe came a visiting, they got into the pond and collected toad tadpoles, which led to backyard cricket, which meant going for swings on the Hills Hoist. We also had a boogie to the Sound Relief concerts and I drew a rainbow above each of the boys' buttons (belly buttons), because they wanted a rainbow on their belly just like Auntie Corn (that's me).

Tonight, with my dear Dan, I went to a friend's birthday party. You know who you are and I think you look fabulous for 35 ... I also had the pleasure of seeing another friend and her partners freshly shaved heads, and I can confidently declare that Michelle's shaved head is the sexiest crew cut I have seen in ... well, ever. While there are parallels to Sinead O'Connor, her 'do is way hotter, though I must say that her daughter was not the biggest fan of the new 'do and had a meltdown (she was tired and emotional and is battling through grade three with no nap time. I'd be cranky, too).

So while my day would sound regular, or maybe even boring to you, it was for me, marvellous all because it was normal. I look forward to many more after my last bout with the surgeon's knife towards the end of the month. And then, hello London, Spain, Italy, France, New York, Carmel-By-The-Sea and beyond ...

Furious Vaginas

2009-03-15T01:06:00.008+10:00

Just to let you know that the esteemed Krissy Kneen of Furious Vaginas fame, invited a select posse of writers to fill her daily blog posts while she is in the final stages of editing her book 'Affection', which will be published by Text in August.

Krissy kindly asked me to write some smut, or at least a piece which was sexual in nature, which can be found here -

http://www.furiousvaginas.com

I was also a 'sneaky celebrity writer' for the month of February at Christopher Currie's Furious Horses which can be found here -

http://www.furioushorses.com

Vaginas or horses? Horses or vaginas? Whatever tickles your fancy.

'The Book'

2009-03-05T17:14:00.014+10:00

Last year I was asked to do something extraordinary, something noble.

I was asked to write a book.

I have not been forthcoming about 'the book' because it is a project the size of nothing I have ever experienced. In fact, it's more manic than my M.A, which I will finish when my work in done with 'the book'. I have written about the dead more than most and while this story has an uneviable connection with death, at it's very core is an even stronger connection to life, hope and how we choose to live and to dig deep enough to scratch away at the marrow.

Last Saturday, it was five years since Jet Rowland died. On that day five years ago, his mother Anita and his older brother Bailey were on the Logan Motorway when they were hit head on at an estimated speed of 240km per hour. The driver of the other car had uncontrolled Epilepsy and had a seizure at the wheel. A seizure at the wheel of a car he should not have been driving. Jet, 22 months old, was thrown from the car, while Anita and Bailey were pulled to safety, both critically injured.

The impact of the crash severed Bay's spinal cord making him an instant paraplegic. He suffered horrendous internal injuries and was lucky to survive. As a twelve year old boy he is both beautiful and fiesty, and can play basketball faster in his wheelchair faster than you can run.

Anita also had a roll call of injuries including third degree burns on her legs from where the engine caught fire. Anita's husband, and my friend, Paul was not in the car. Life is irony. Paul was at the hospital the night of my transplant, and now I'm writing the story of how his family came to be where they are.

I have met Jet twice. Once, in nutero; the other, through rememberings and photographs and a collection of Jet's favourite things. On Saturday 28 February - exactly five years since Anita and Paul's 'baby man' died - I was invited to a balloon release with close family and friends to mark the day Anita, Paul and Bay's lives changed forever. What made it harder was that the anniversary fell on a Saturday, the same day of the crash.

Last week, Anita was working on a memorial card she sends out to friends and family each year. She should have been writing invitations for Jet's 7th birthday instead. My eldest nephew is about to turn seven. I'll be holding him extra close on his birthday this month.

Anita and Paul are both cops. I have a lot of cop friends, but since beginning this project, I have even more admiration for the police, in particular, the QPS as well as ambo's and paramedics. I've always had great respect for the police and what they do. What civilians fail to understand is what they see, what they hear and in the case of Paramedics, what they smell.

I have coroner's reports and inquest findings, police reports and photographs. I have been interviewing friends and family, emergency service people who were there on scene, witnesses and then there are people on the periphery. Other key players include intensive Care doctors from three major hospitals, the many nurses, surgeons, physiotherapists and other allied health. There is an overwhelming slew of data - both public and private - that will help me shape the story that is 'Jet's Lore'.

As much as this story is overwhelmingly tragic, it is a story of love and change. Last June, Jet became the name behind Queensland's first eponymous law - 'Jet's Law', whereby if you have a medical condition that can affect your driving, you must declare it to the Department of Transport and your doctor.

There is much to say about Jet and his legacy; about a mother who refused to accept her baby's death as an 'accident', how she would not stop questioning and how this family have pulled themselves out of an emotional mire reminiscent of tar.

For now, I have a story in my heart and in my head.

Hermes 3000, oh my!

2009-02-22T23:26:00.004+10:00

My darling Dan presented me with this piece of finery last week. A Hermes 3000 in perfect condition, with original lid, books and dust brush. It is a joy to write with, and like my Hermes 2000, will not just be an ornament. It's a fully functioning writing tool. Hose. Me. Down.

Kerouac's Scroll

2009-02-22T22:39:00.018+10:00

Re-surfacing from an involuntary reading hiatus always cheers me. Reading time is something I value, as much as my writing, for to be a writer, you need to be a reader. A certain academic coughed up that chestnut years ago, and even though I'm not a fan of his writing, I believe in the dictum that to be a writer, you need to read - and read lots.

The problem I have is that I don't know which book to attack. I have three skyscrapers next to my bed and the pile on my bedside table. I now need to buy a low book shelf that can double as a bedside table to literally support my habit. I also really need to look at the benefits of selling my body to pay for my compulsion. Change for a dollar?

This afternoon I started Sonya Hartnett's 'Butterfly'. By gum, she deserved that Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award. I'm also having a Beat writer love in with Charles Bukowski, Ken Kesey, Jack Kerouac and William Burroughs. There's something raw and sparse about these guys, in spite of how complex they were. I have the original scroll of 'On the Road' and after welcoming another typewriter into my collection last weekend from Dan (will post a photo), that Kerouac typed his manuscript on a single roll of paper in three weeks - a continuous, one hundred twenty-foot scroll of tracing paper sheets that he cut to size and taped together. The roll was typed single-spaced, without margins or paragraph breaks. Crazy motherfucker = motherfucking legend. The three weeks it took Mr. Kerouac to write 'On the Road' has been passionately contested and always will be, but care? I do not. Bring on the Benzedrine.

Check the photographs of the scroll, currently living at the New York Public Library and Kerouac's Underwood typewriter. I'm deliriously happy to report that I will get to see the scroll on my pilgrimage back through the States nexy year, post UK. I will salivate over the glass cabinet which some poor library person will have to deal with. Oh, well. Isn't that what those white cotton gloves are for?

I fucked up my stat counter

2009-02-08T18:33:00.003+10:00

Yes, I did. About a month ago I did something really n00b-ish and my stat counter has re-set itself. From memory it was over 2300. Fucking technology. I blame it on Mickey Rourke.

You might need rescuing, but I don't

2009-02-08T15:45:00.017+10:00

What happens when your life comes to an end? I'm not talking about death and I'm not talking about a 'part' of life. I'm talking about when something inside you dies; something within you. A friend has been living through this mess for a couple of years and has asked so many questions. Not just of herself, but of others.

When you're ready; when you eventually rise where you can see your life again, how do you know what to salvage and what to throw away? Is it all just varying degrees of flotsam where you grab onto what rises to the surface first? Too many questions. There will be parts you cannot remember, then later find in a box filled with notes and other paraphernalia of what your life was like before.

I still have the flower I plucked the morning Michelle died on the eleventh day of February in 1996. The following morning my grandmother died in the same hospital on another floor. I remember being in limbo that morning of the eleventh. I was racing between floors, but spent the bulk of my time in ICU with Michelle. That week was fucked. Two deaths, a day of reprieve, then two funerals.

I was slightly catatonic when I plucked a flower out of the garden as I limped out of the Mater around 5.30am. I still have it in a plastic bag inside a pencil case I stole from the Spring Hill markets when I was fourteen. It's the only thing I've ever stolen - from a shop, anyway.

In a way I've been a thief more times than most. I've stolen away with a new life, I've stolen love, time and fucked over death and I've made away with the spoils. Everyone has been a thief. Think back to what you last stole away with.

Which brings me to larceny.

Internal unrest can strike when you apportion your life to the public where intimate moments - through your choosing or not - become urban fodder. I can talk and write freely about having my cunt peeled like a grape, but there are other things that I will not share. It's a delicate balance when you put yourself on a platform and talk about bodily functions and the physical manifestations of a dis-ease but when other things happen, I choose not to share. With anyone. Even my closest friends. If I am sick in hospital I will not tell my friends because I have this thing. A thing you will never know about.

Along with presenting your health issues to the world, comes the whole 'I am not my illness' dictum, which has become more of a proverb. Illness has been a massive part of my life. No wait - illness has tried to interrupt what I do, but it is not what defines me. If someone believes that I am my dis-ease, they are to a point, correct. I knew from a very young age that to most people I'll always be 'Carly who has C.F', 'Carly who had the transplant' or 'Carly who [insert illness here]'. If I won an Academy Award, I'd be 'Carly who has C.F who won the Oscar'. I'll never be fine with that. It will always sit uncomfortably in my belly, but it's there.

I often wonder how my doctors and other medical practitioners see not just me, but other patients. Sometimes the illness is all they see. When I'm in hospital, I surround myself with the things that give me sustenance and purpose. Some people have photos on their bedside table, others have balloons and cards. I have books, music and all manner of writing paraphernalia spread across the room. And real coffee. Taking objects into hospital with me is often just as important as taking clothes. I do it so that when people come to see me, they're not just seeing a body in a bed that has nothing to say or nothing to give.

I have to be more than just a physical presence; I want to be something tangible. I don't do photos, flowers or balloons or 'Get Well Soon' cards. I already know that people's thoughts are with me so I find hospital-centric stuff like that ... insulting. I'm sorry, but I do. I know people are well meaning creatures but I don't want to be reminded (again) that I'm sick because I have enough reminders with blood tests, lung function, DVT's, stupid three and seven minute walks, having to talk to social workers, juggling meds with the pharmacist and possibly what I detest the most - engaging in banter with physios.

Physios are some of the grooviest people I've known in this life, but I find it strangely abhorrent when asked, 'so are you productive?' or 'what have you coughed up today?', 'what colour/texture/shape was it?' It reminds me of when I had C.F.

I still have C.F, but it reminds of my pre-transplant days when the most stimulating conversation I would have on any given day would go something like this:

[GP - groovy physio, CJ - me]

GP - 'What colour have you been coughing up?'
CJ - 'Well, I wouldn't say it's a verdant green. More like avocado. And I coughed this plug up this morning which was kind of ...'
GP - 'Dark green?'
CJ - 'No. It was brown. Shit brown.'
GP - 'Have you coughed up any blood?'
CJ - 'Why, yes I have.'
GP - 'What colour was it?'
CJ - 'Do you want a fucking colour atlas?'
GP - 'What do you mean?'
CJ - 'My Dad's a painting contractor, so here are some pretty Dulux names for you.'
GP - 'Right ...'
CJ - 'The green stuff is somewhere between 'sea kelp' and 'hookers green'; old blood is just like 'ox blood'. Then again, 'red pebbles' comes close, while the half a cup of fresh blood I coughed up last night was just like 'scarlet ribbons'. Anything else?'
GP - 'Sure! Was it thick?'
CJ - 'Of course it was fucking thick. The shit I'm bringing up is like slugs. Or clots. No wait, they're like clotty slugs - see?'

I'd cough up a slug and turn the cup upside down to demonstrate that it wasn't going anywhere because it was like chewing gum. Sputum also smells. After my transplant, I couldn't cope with other people coughing even though I had been doing it in grand style for twenty-one years. If I cough anything up now, I feel disgusted with myself as a sex worker would who, after years in the trade, can no longer have sex, is celibate and will never have sex again.

Sex is good, though. Coughing up phlegm? Not so much.

a mood that passed through me ...

2009-02-07T23:07:00.006+10:00

I remember it well
the first time that I saw
your head around the door
'cause mine stopped working.

I remember it well
there was wet in your hair,
I was stood in stare
and time stopped moving.

I want you here tonight, I want you here,
'cause I can't believe what I found
I want you here tonight, want you here
nothing is taking me down, down, down ...

I remember it well
taxied out of a storm
to watch you perform
and my ships were sailing.

I remember it well
I was stood in your line
and your mouth, your mouth, your mind ...

I want you here tonight, I want you here
'cause I can't believe what I found.
I want you here tonight, want you here
nothing is taking me down, down, down ...

Except you my love.
Except you my love ...

I am invincible, so much so, I did a little mulching with an interpretative dance chaser ...

2009-02-02T15:54:00.023+10:00

I cannot help but express my surprise that I haven't yet been snapped up by ASIO to be a super spy. I have this thing where I can cut away faster than Keanu Reeves in The Matrix, surfacing with barely a bruise. Then there's that other thing - my theory that I'm impossible to kill (which may irk some people).

I came away from transplant clinic today with not so much as a graze. Nothing grew from Friday's cultures, my lung function was kick arse and my bloods were perfect. Kaching! *pops a beer* Now I feel as though Mickey Rourke and I are even closer than we were in the dream I had last night. No wait, that can't be possible, because I was shagging Hatchet Face like a smack addict who's in withdrawal. Just to let you know that it was a dream, not a night terror as several people had anticipated. I looked at some Mickey porn last night from 'Angel Heart' and the abomination that is 'Wild Orchid', so I was set.

So all I have to sort out is my snot situation so I can get over to London in March-April, which means surgery. Which is fine because I don't have a deviated septum and don't have to have splints shoved up my nose, which from what I've heard is like having paddle pop sticks rubbing on your brain. In English? The bone going down the middle of my button nose is straight, so even though it's touted as being 'major sinus surgery', it's a relatively pain free procedure.

I had it done a few years ago after a year of being on morphine for migraines. It was so acute I had my own supply of morphine at home, so when I felt a migraine coming on, I'd snap an ampoule (or two) and inject the good stuff into my thigh. No biggie - just intramuscular. The addiction? That became a biggie, but it's now a rarity where I'll say yes to morphine if I need it, because it makes me itch and keeps me alert. The pain relief effect works well - not as well as hospital grade Ketamine - but I seriously hate the stuff.

The sinus disease that showed up in my MRI looked like 'chewing gum' (that's verbatim from one of my docs), and now it's chockas again. Looks like I just need to make it a three yearly thing. After the surgery, I felt like I could run around the block, but chose not to because I didn't want to chance hemorrhaging halfway down Rode Road. That wouldn't be sexy at all. My parents couldn't quite believe I had had the surgery because I looked and felt so well. Okay, so I didn't look great with wads of gauze hanging out of my nose reminiscent of tampons, but if you took that away, I looked damn fine. Rip those wads of gauze out and I was bringing sexy back. Or something.

So yes, I did a little celebratory dance today, and some mulching. It was pretty intense. On a serious note, I saw one of my C.F mates who has been transplanted for over eleven years and he is having a kidney transplant on Friday. No, he hasn't tracked a donor match to assassinate for a kidney because his beautiful Ma is donating one of hers. Re. the assassinating people for organs, I'm serious - people actually think that is what happens when organs are needed - I shit you not. S deserves the best possible result, not just because he is a great guy and such a fighter, but even more so because he is a newly-ish wed and deserves to share a fulfilling life with K. I've know him since I was a whipper snapperess, so I'll be thinking of him on Friday and over the coming weeks. S is going to be fine, because that's the way the feather will fall. He's a fucking superstar.

Dodging bullets

2009-02-01T22:37:00.013+10:00

It's ironic how one day you are elated in the knowledge that you have dodged a bullet in the form and tough consistency of cancer, then the next, you're rushed to hospital after a rapid onset of illness and you find yourself in the ER, scared as all fuck.

Well that's what happened Friday. I had been loving it up at the coast and I had been feeling a little average, but upon waking on Friday, I was feeling a little like death. I tried to keep brekky down (we were out with some friends) and considering I can't vomit (google 'fundoplication'), I managed a little watery chunder back at the unit. It's weird. I get the frothing, the motion, and I vomit. Except nothing comes up. A projectile for me is a little water, which is great when you've been out on the juice and you're in a cab and you're not feeling so well. Having said that, the last time I was that incapacitated was October at the C.F Luncheon with my precious man, Dan who is probably reading this (hello, Dantastic).

But I digress, which you should be used to by now. I get to Emergency and I tell the nurses at the triage desk who I am and everyone sort of drops everything and before I can say 'resus', I'm in, well, resus. One of the poor transplant residents couldn't cannulate me and she was so lovely. I was giving her a major heads up while not telling her that I could still cannulate myself. I just couldn't do it. She was too sweet. I had some other tests, was given the the once over (which took around three hours, which I thought was a brilliant turnaround). I also had the pleasure of aesthetically pleasing medical professionals.

So tomorrow, I'll head to transplant clinic where they will tell me that I don't have a respiratory virus like the one I had in May which Rex* couldn't cope with. And I'll digress again. I remember how Rex came up to see me and he couldn't believe how sick I was. But I wasn't that sick, and I thought, 'fuck, what would he be like if the chips were really down?'. Dantastic came to see me several times. Rex came to see me once. He did pick me up for a day out which was a total disaster, but every visit and every phone call with Dan made me laugh and wonder about Rex's inability to cope with minor health infractions.

It made me think about his coping mechanisms - what coping mechanisms? One would say that if I had to choose a book title which reflected his life, it would be A.B Facey's 'A Fortunate Life'. Some people have incredibly sheltered lives. Which is great. I wish them well and hope they never steer too far away from what they know. I'm glad I've never lead a sheltered existence and feel blessed that I've been through what I've been through and seen what I've seen. Again, I wish those who have lived lives untouched by tragedy or hardship, luck. I really do.

Tomorrow will be fine. I feel better than I did on Friday and the days preceding that. Then again, I went to see 'The Wrestler' today and I want to shag Mickey Rourke's brains out, despite him having a face like a car crash. Unsheltered life? Tick. Balls? Tick. Guns 'n' Roses lover? Tick. A high tolerance for pain? Tick. Awesome body for an eighty year old? Tick. Sexy, hoarse voice? Tick.

Oh, Mickey, let's spend an endless winter in your trailer, basking in the heat of your peroxided hair and man muscle. Let's dodge bullets together and you can use my body like a bandage. And I'll use yours like a wound.

*Retarded EX

Launch of the 'Death Mook'

2009-01-30T23:07:00.003+10:00

This is the official invitation of the 'Death Mook' Vignette Press is publishing. A non-fiction piece of mine is in the anthology and it even has it's own eerie illustration. Just click on the invitation to enlarge ...

Don't Touch

2009-01-27T00:14:00.002+10:00

Being pregnant in summer; you can’t hide that through tentlike, cotton dresses.
I ache for winter where I can abandon threadbare dresses for thick coats.
It's as though someone has put a match to the eyes of strangers.

Drunken smiles painted on bland faces.

I wish people would just pass me by. Instead, they gush - pressing sweaty palms on my taut belly.

'What are you having?'

'A baby', I reply.

'Some people like a surprise,' they say, lips upturned.

My husband would spin in his grave if he knew people were touching my belly,
sizing me up like strange fruit from Africa.

Sad Water

2009-01-26T23:33:00.002+10:00

Ruby trapped butterflies in the morning. At night she would watch them flapping in her catcher, wondering where they would flap to if she had not caught them. One day when she saw the butterflies beating their wings as hard as they ever had, Ruby lay on her bed, crying.

Her father sat next to her, and she sniffled, 'I’ve got sad water on my pillow.'

'Why?' her father asked.

'I know where they really want to be flapping.'

Ruby and her father took the butterflies out into the garden and gently opened the butterfly catcher, setting them free.

Size

2009-01-26T23:28:00.003+10:00

Carol thought it best to throw everything away. The cream coloured couch, still bearing Joe’s baby footprints from afternoons spent twirling in the dirt, head pointed up toward the moon. He’d get giddy and fall. Echoing laughter. The fondue set and the slippers from Africa, now dulled from being wedged in the bottom of a cardboard box for years — they could go, too. Allen’s mother had bartered for them at a night market with a woman swathed in red cheesecloth. Carol never wore them. But she never wore Allen either, because it was uncomfortable. He didn’t fit.

waiting

2009-01-26T15:50:00.002+10:00

I am currently waiting on results. Please wish me luck and I'll see you on the other side.

If I only had a brain ... and I do

2009-01-19T20:40:00.007+10:00

I had my brain CT scan this morning and it's official - I have a brain. I saw the images myself, and it wasn't just half a brain, but a big fat one. What I don't have however, is a brain tumour. Which is good (which is a massive understatement).

What I do have is snot that is the consistency of chewing gum. Mmmmmmmm, chewing snot. I had major sinus surgery a couple of years ago and it changed my life. I was on morphine injections, and I even had my own little pharmacy at home where when I felt a migraine coming on, I'd snap the top off the glass ampoule of morphine, empty the contents into a syringe and then give myself an IM (intra-muscular) injection. Which would work beautifully. Then I became addicted to morphine - again. Addiction to narcotics is one of my special talents. The outside of my thighs were bruised and sore and I had hard lumps around the injection sites due to a build up of scar tissue on the muscle. Thankfully, the bruising and the mass of lumps passes.

The migraines and headaches I've been having are starting to become slightly unbearable, but more to the point, they're just freakin' annoying. They reduce my productivity on every level, which means my writing and quality of life suffers because the headaches seem to dictate what I can and can't do on a daily basis.

The sinus suction surgery will be welcome, and while it's a general anaesthetic, the risks outweigh the benefits and it's pretty much pain free. Oh, and my ENT surgeon is HOT.

Bahrain. Hope I have one.

2009-01-19T00:14:00.010+10:00

So tomorrow I have a brain scan and Tuesday, I'm having a sinus CT scan. I've been suffering (read: suffering) from shocking headaches over the last month and at one point, I thought I had had a seizure. I remember going to the toilet to throw up, which is odd, considering I can't throw up due to a surgery I had to have to stop me aspirating into my lungs. I did a projectile, which was around 10mls of water, then I woke up on the floor with a conk on my head, unable to move.

I spoke to the doctor about this when she performed a thorough neurological exam on me. I said, 'I thought I had a little seizure, but what it really was, was that I passed out'. Then she asked me how did I know if it wasn't a seizure. I didn't. I've since had a couple of wobbly incidents, like when I was walking on Saturday, I veered sharply to the right and I couldn't steer my body.

Aches in the head make me frustrated because I can't be as productive as I need or want to be with everything, and that means writing, reading, exercising, seeing friends and other people, particularly Dan who I so dearly miss. At least he always calls and comes to see me. He is wonderful.

On the 22nd, I'm off to see the Broken C**t doctors and I'm not expecting a good report. I may have to have more surgery or another course of chemotherapy cream, which is just great because it burns your skin and makes it peel and fall off and all that is left is red raw skin, much like a skinned animal carcass you see at your local butcher. Also, the possibility of having to go on an extended course of Oxycontin does not appeal to me in the slightest. It makes me itch, and while it can make me feel relaxed, it isn't the best pain killer. Often, it acts as a stimulant which makes me hyperactive, which leads to making stupid purchases like a cowhide rug. No, I did not buy a cowhide rug, but I wish I had have because I have a fetish for cowhide anything. I even have cowhide wedges. You get the picture. Times slows and if I'm going shopping for an hour, I'll often stay for three, unable to remember how long I'd been there because I'd be floating on a cloud of Hillbilly Heroin.

I could very well write a tome about the negatives of Oxycontin, but here are just a few words of advice. Never ever go on eBay or any other site where you can buy stuff. Even better, have a loved one hide your credit card. Or better still, freeze the bastard in an block of ice the size of a besser brick. Why? Because a few days later you'll get a bill and you won't be able to recall what you bought. Then a bowie knife will arrive in a postpak. Or something.

vinyl for music & art

2009-01-17T20:48:00.004+10:00

Here is a photograph of eight vinyls I bought that I am going to get my friend to frame. I think I'm going to go for two panels because then I can separate and rotate them. I'll be asking Dan for his opinion, having the eye for finery as he does.

I can listen to most of the records that are going to be used for art, apart from 'Erich Runz Sings Best Loved German Songs'. These are the others I bought to revel in the majesty that is a record ...

John Denver - 'Back Home Again'
Kenny Rogers - 'The Best of Kenny Rogers'
Stan Getz - 'The Best of Stan Getz'
Henry Mancini - 'Award Winning Hits'
Frank Froeba - 'Back Room Piano and His Boys' (a 33 1/2 LP)
Glenn Miller - 'The Immortal Glenn Miller'
20 Country Chart Stoppers' - including Johnny Cash and June Carter, Loretta Lynn, Tammy Wynette, Patsy Cline et.al.

I'm a whore, slut, tramp, mistress, tart and loose lover of books. But a skank, I am not ...

2009-01-17T15:06:00.020+10:00

Today I spent nearly five hours at the Lifeline Bookfest. I am spent. I had a trolley. Yep, I was one of those freaky, annoying people with a trolley full of books and vinyls. Evidence below ↓

It's taken just over an hour to transcribe the titles I swindled (not stole - swindled because they were so damn cheap). There are no less than twenty hardcover Enid Blyton's, a whole lot of Pooh, two Trixie Belden's and a couple of first editions. If you didn't get there, then suffer in your jocks, I say.

Enid Blyton

'The Magic Brush'
'Don't Be Silly, Mr. Twiddle!'
'Well Really, Mr. Twiddle!'
'Tales of Toyland'
'Tales of Brave Adventure'
'Merry Mister Meddle'
'The Folk of the Faraway Tree'
'The Wishing Chair'
'The Wishing-Chair Again'
'Brer Rabbit's A Rascal'
'Brer Rabbit Again'
'Come to the Circus!'
'Hurrah for the Circus!'
'The Adventures on Willow Farm'
'Tales of a Brace Adventure''Mr. Galliano's Circus'
'The Adventures of Pip'
'The Adventures of Mr. Pink-Whistle'
'The Children of Cherry Tree Farm'
'Adventures of the Wishing Chair'
'The Naughtiest Girl Again'
'Adventure Stories'

Jealous? Oh, yes, you should be!

Others precious finds

'Hoppity's House' Gwen Harrowsmith 1943 (in perfect condition found in the rare and collectibles)
'Andersen's Fairy Tales' - with original illustrations circa 1890's (cost 2 shillings)
'Up the Street and Down' - 1965 (perfect condition)
'Save Tarranmoor! Jacynth Hope-Simpson First Edition 1974
'Short Stories of Famous Men' 1948 (perfect condition)
'Under Milk Wood' Dylan Thomas 1956
'Uncle Tom's Cabin' Harriet Beecher Stowe (inscribed 'Wishing Willie a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, From Beryl Newp 1915')
'Trixie Belden and the Mystery on Cobbett's Island' Julie Campbell 1964
'Trixie Belden and the Gatehouse Mystery' Julie Campbell 1954
'Huckleberry Finn' Mark Twain 1978
'The Last of the Mohicans' Fenimore Cooper 1961
'The Three Musketeers' Alexandre Dumas (early edition)
'The Gun' C.S Forester
'White Holiday' Viola Bayley
'Lino Cuts: designing - cutting - printing' H.E.V Gillam 1947
'Golden Favourites: the little golden book library' 1969 (in perfect condition, all colour illustrations)
'School Friend Annual 1969' - part graphic novel, with full colour plates and short stories
'Schoolgirls' Story Bumper' - includes colour plates
'Boronia Babies' May Gibbs
'Ibsen plays' 1969
'Chatterbox Annual'
'Rupert' no. 54
'The Adventures of Tim' by Edward Ardizzzone
'The Big New Lucky Nicholas Book' 1957

A.A Milne

Collection of five -

'An expotition to the North Pole'
'Pooh invents a new game'
'Eeyore has a Birthday'
'A House is Built at Pooh Corner for Eeyore'
'Tigger is unbounced'

'When We Were Very Young' A.A Milne
'The World of Pooh' A. A Milne 1967

'The Scarlet Raider' Joseph B. Icenhower 1970
'The Swiss Family Robinson' Johann Wyss 1949 (bought from 'David Jones Book Shop'). Includes colour plates
'Poems of Wordsworth' 1963
'The English Poems of Milton'
'Mediterranean Chums' William Aitken 1967
'Xonnox' by Nathan Henderson (recent)

Adding to the stash, I came away with approximately fourteen Golden Books - old ones, none of that Disney crap - as well as a few other books that are gifts and shall remain secret squirrel for a little while.

post-script - I found a Disney Golden Book. It will be donated to the next bookfest ...

compassion

2009-01-07T23:36:00.005+10:00

Sometimes I was compassionate, and sometimes not. The anorexics would irk me, yet one would become - and stay - one of my closest friends. All the kids had to go to hospital school. Kids with broken bones, kids with C.F, kids with cancer, and the kids from CFTU (child and family therapy unit) would all go to hospital school. Every morning, an ice cream bucket full of fruit would be passed around and this one particular morning, and as an 'ana' was about to reach in to grab a piece of fruit, my friend Natasha said, ‘don’t eat that, you’ll get fat’. I proceeded to choke on a slice of apple and spat everywhere.

C.F’s struggle to gain weight. One diet staple was fat. Deep fried Mars Bar slice, tins of condensed milk, ‘special’ milk which was only 'special' because of all the fat and nutrients in it. Apart from that, it tasted like shit and I refused to drink it. I was lucky and rarely had a problem maintaining healthy weight. In fact, I would be teased by nurses and other C.F’s who would call me fat because I didn’t look like a starving child. This would dent me, and a couple of my other friends who had the same ‘problem’. There was a much younger C.F kid who called me fat, and I retorted with ‘well at least I’m not thin like you and am going to die.’ He died a few years later.

Whatever I came into hospital with – a chest infection, pleurisy, a pneumothorax or sepsis - I would not be treated the same as another patient who was much thinner than me. When I needed oxygen, some nurses would scoff and say I looked too well to need oxygen therapy. I wanted to kill them. Occasionally, I’d tell them how it felt – my chest constricted with shooting pains all through my chest and into the tip of my shoulder. When they gave me that ‘yeah, right’ look, I’d mumble ‘fuck you’. There were some nurses who I made sure could hear my salute and if they questioned me, I would simply cough at them and say, ‘nothing.’ Just because I didn’t look like a gust of wind would blow me over didn’t mean I wasn’t sick.

To my disadvantage, most of the time I looked healthy. I looked normal. I never had the typical ‘C.F’ look about me. I made sure my posture was always perfect, even though it hurt me. I was not going to have a hump on my back. I'd have to forcibly relax my shoulders; keep them down. At the beginning of a hospital admission, or if an infection was getting the better of me, the worse it was, the higher my shoulders rose. It was the only way to get air. I would gasp and rattle, and muscles and veins popped through the skin in my neck on inspiration. I couldn’t get enough air down my throat and raising my shoulders seemed to open it up, much like a frilly necked lizard.

Because I looked so well, I was treated differently. When I think about it now, I should be much angrier than I am, but I’m not.

My mother said that I lost my first C.F friend when I was three. It was a brutal and public death. There were no single rooms, so the curtains were drawn on the dying girl and her family. After a few days, she died.

The place to be was Turner Ward at the Royal Children's Hospital in Brisbane. There were five cubicles - A, B, C, D and E and the C.F’s were in 'E' cube, towards the front of the ward. 'A' cube was the cancer cubicle. There was a park outside the ward. It had swings, a jungle Jim and a rusty bus. Once, when my cousin was visiting me, he went out to play in the rusty bus and he climbed on the roof and fell off, breaking his arm.

Looking into 'A' cube from the park, the windows were blacked out. For us, this meant that either the cancer kids couldn’t stand sunlight or people looking at them.

Cancer in the early 80's was stigmatised much like AIDS. It was a death sentence; contagious even. The nurses station was just outside 'B' cube and we would sneak as far as we could up to 'A' cube until we were chased away or chastised by a nurse. The book cupboard was between cubes 'A' and 'B' and it was filled with mostly Golden books and old romance novels. I would check out as many books from the hospital school library as I could, as well as bringing in my own, but the main purpose of the book cupboard was to get close to 'A' cube so we could catch a glimpse of the cancer kids with their bald heads and barrelled chests. Nurses would emerge from the cube in standard issue green gowns, masks and gloves, and we surmised that this was because they didn’t spread any germs to the cancer kids, which got me thinking about the nurses spreading germs to us, which never seemed to be much of a concern.

Attached by a very short walkway to Turner Ward was Patterson Ward, which was the infectious disease ward. You would go there if you had a virus. When I was eleven I had shingles and had to go to Patterson ward. It was Expo '88. My friend Sean brought me up some things from Expo and I remember being in a terrible mood. The shingles made me itch and they were making their way into my left eye and the doctors thought I may lose sight in my left eye. I still have a couple of little dents along my hairline, but you need a magnifying glass to see the scars.

I think of those cancer kids a lot. Instead of a room, there are now entire wards filled with children who have cancer.

Many years later when a friend died, I went to see her. She had died in 'A' cube. I had seen dozens of dead friends, but this was different. Michelle had died in 'A' cube. Most of the black plastic had been torn down, but the stench of dead children hung in the air, sticking to my skin.

I cried over Michelle's body. I cried for her pain and for all of the unknown children who had died before her in darkness. By the time I saw 'A' cube, Turner Ward had all but been condemned.

the two million dollar chest

2009-01-05T21:19:00.004+10:00

It may not look like much, but this is my two million dollar chest. All natural with a little wire here and there holding my sternum together from where it was cracked. Due to demand on facebook, I have posted this photograph for all of the people who aren't on stalkbook. Enjoy ... I sure as hell am.

I like my old stuff better than my new stuff

2009-01-04T13:56:00.016+10:00

So there's the typewriter, and yes, I'll play typewriter nurse and state it's full name and model number - The Hermes 2000 portable typewriter. All hail the Hermes 2000 ...

And yes, I know it's terribly blurred, but here is a close up of the stamp. So pretty. If you look close enough, you can see that the symbol atop the '5' key is that of a pound, not a dollar.

So how's this for a massive digression? When I was on the waiting list for my transplant, I planned my funeral. Morbid? No. Practical? Yes. I still have my funeral plan in a big yellow envelope and printed on the front is 'To only be opened in the event of my death'. Very Pauline Hanson, except that I did this pre-white power resurgence. I'm so evolved. Then again, an ant is more evolved than that ranga.

I had chosen the priest who would conduct the service, and despite my strong agnosticism, I had it written that Father David Binns would be that priest. Now he has passed, I will have to amend a few things. Eleven years on, most of what I wanted hasn't changed. There were to be no prayers, yet I wanted my funeral to be held in St. John's Cathedral for it's sheer majesty, and still do. Music, order of service and things like poems - and the people who I want to read those poems - haven't really changed. I also wrote down what I would like to have happen at my wake. This also involved music, my favourite foods and a road train of piss.

I only ever showed my funeral plans to one person, and that person who was, and still is my closest friend, just happens to be David's daughter, Laura. I played her the final song and when she cried, I knew I had grabbed and pulled a nerve. Laura does not cry readily. Though she is one of the kindest an warmest of friends, Laura reserves her tears. I remember the night so clearly. We were in my room at Hargreaves (the house on the river) with the bay windows gaping open to catch the breeze sweeping off the water, and we were in muted light. It was January. I did not expect Laura's reaction. We hugged for a long time, as tears coursed down her face, making tracks for them to flow faster.

I didn't know what to expect. I had written the plan for my funeral the way you would write a shopping list. It seemed to be the natural thing to do at the time because I was going to die, and passing through the eye of the needle was seemingly painless because I had been able to detach myself and just get the hell on with what needed to be done. Needless to say, the last song is still the last song, and this is what I was going to have engraved on my tombstone plaque thingy:

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

'Endymion' John Keats

My inclusion of The Keats stanza has not changed either. So yeah, I like my old stuff better than my new stuff.

Birthing

2009-01-01T23:05:00.010+10:00

Flashes of you crowd my head, but it matters not. Like a feather on the wind or a prayer without a god, it matters not.

Line a nest with intention and fill it with your restlessness.

Life pauses, blood congeals, muscles repel. I do not own this day, for it's a borrowed fortune.

There is a wheel. It has no one to push it. Like a toy without a child; a car with no engine, a bird with a broken wing and a silent song. A key missing a lock, a rosary with 107 beads and a train with no tracks.

Whittled to the bone, I ache to the roots of my molars.

A wastepaper basket in the corner whispers in paper tongues that we must carry our skins, even the ones we've shed out of necessity or through plain foolhardiness. We are never far from that slippery birth canal we shoot out of and the placenta that follows, dripping with juice and veins and marrow - the scent of a beginning.

Where there is blood, there is birth.

Where there is birth, there is blood.

girl in the water

2008-12-30T23:29:00.003+10:00

I wrote this today, my muse being the film 'Blue Velvet'

Girl in the Water

In the wardrobe, it is always night.
Through splintered light, pin-tucked dresses suggesting parted lips
drape loosely over shoes.

In the womb, it is always night
where the taste of broken dolls is spooned delicately into mouths.

A flickering candle, slow with violence, licks the air with good intentions,
while the laughter of a young boy echoes the sound of a thousand robins;
worms wiggling in their beaks, changing the colour of your sleep.

Lips like fat pillows swell the way ripened fruit does in summer
inhaling the scent of the afternoon,
giving way to concrete coloured skies, vapid skin and lost eyes.

Escaping the serpent’s stare wedged between your legs
is not as easy as you thought.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Dead man's hands suckle on the puckered rind of your being,
tying you in knots of humid breath.
Swimming through the foulness of the city - at first so thrilling,
thick with a thousand little lies -
now assaults your eye while blood beats an unfeeling tune around your ears.

Beginning, Middle, End

2008-12-30T20:32:00.009+10:00

Yesterday I officially started writing my memoir. I may or may not have written that I began my first memoir when I was ten. I then re-commenced writing about my life post-transplant but went about it in such a way that I would end up crying on the floor of my writing studio curled in the foetal position.

The memoir I am writing isn't a purge as such. The others were. They went into every death, or rather I painstakingly wrote down every detail I could remember and when I could not remember, I would try to make myself remember and this is where the trouble began. What I wrote yesterday poured out of me and spilled onto the page. It wasn't a struggle. It was easy, and today it was easy again. The time is right, my story has ripened and the fruit is ready to be picked.

Tomorrow is both the last day of the year and my birthday. This time last year was to say the least, trying. I was still weak from the cuntostomy and all that came with it, I had an ileostomy (a poo bag) and my dignity had been shattered into ugly, disjointed shards I never thought I would be able to put back together. I was left wondering what had happened to my life and it was one of those 'dark night of the soul' moments.

Even if I stay in tomorrow night, it will be enough. It will be plenty. Last year I was grateful to have come away with my life without brain damage. This year I'm grateful for so many things. The successful ileostomy reversal in January, reuniting with one of the loves of my life in March, celebrating my ten year Transplanniversary in August and being so productive with my writing for the whole year. I can't ask for anything more, but I will. A chalet in France would be lovely for my overseas sojourn in March, as would a gorgeous Scotsman waiting for me when I arrive in London. Oh, that's right - check! The Scotsman is taken care of ...

The Unofficial Fiction of Griffin Baker

2008-12-28T18:18:00.006+10:00

This is technically cheating, since this is old material, but I thought I'd post it to see how it's received (if at all). I haven't worked on this novel for my research M.A for a few years, but hope to return to it when the time is right. The novel is set in 1964 Chicago, a few months after the assassination of Kennedy and I was lucky enough to visit Chicago a few years ago to carry out research. I spent a lot of time at the Chicago Historical Society and fell in love with it and the city. As a city, I could easily live there, and plan on returning so I can get this baby in the can.

Everything changes. You can make
A fresh start with your final breath.
But what has happened has happened. And the water
You once poured into the wine cannot be
Drained off again.

What has happened has happened. The water
You once poured into the wine cannot be
Drained off again, but
Everything changes. You can make
A fresh start with your final breath.

‘Everything Changes’
Bertolt Brecht

‘I have found a city – a real city – and they call it Chicago’

Rudyard Kipling

Prologue

Truth be told, only time I feel like I know myself is when I’m sittin’ on the can. Don’t matter if it’s at home, school, wherever. Could be in one a those dank public stalls where piss, paper and clumps of tobacco melt into mounds of pulp, where men full with liquor, pants ‘round their ankles and heads steamy as engines, have pissed and missed.

I always go for the corner stall so I’m far away from unfurling shit. I can crap in peace, without the loose footwork and water damage from next door. If I’m real heavy with it and can’t stand up, I’ll sit on the seat and tuck my limp dick between my legs like those guys that wanna be girls. I’ve seen ‘em, you know. In the showers after gym class. They don’t know they’re doing it, but they are.

Sometimes knobs of shit’ve been rubbed onto the walls to gum doorknobs that never lead anywhere. If you got lucky, they’d harden, loosen and then crumble, just like old dog shit, but sure enough, some unlucky son of a bitch’d walk through the fresh stuff in his thirty dollar leather shoes. Probably freshly polished, too.

I’ve not led a very interesting life, so I’ll start off by sayin’ that even though I’ve had a sorta torn up seventeen years, sees the whiskey glass as bein’ half full. Only difference is, now and again, the ice in the whiskey glass jams the flavour—that burning tang plump in your mouth, slapping your cheeks from the inside when you swirl I around your mouth, ‘til it trickles down to your gut. I’m the opportunist, looking under the caps of empty soda bottles to see if there’s one of those gold stickers. Bottle caps, old lottery tickets, the unclaimed prize section at the back of the newspaper. Haven’t ever bothered to write on an envelope and send it. Checked anyways.

*

Now today I saw somethin’ I never saw before. I was at the gas station gettin’ a pack of cigarettes when a limousine swung into the exit.
‘Dunno why they do that, comin’ through the exit ‘stead of the entrance. They never come in, ya know,’ spat the lady behind the counter. I think her name was Rita, or Judy or somethin’.
‘Whaddya mean?’ I leaned in toward her, spearmint gum draped on her breath, cheeks filled out like apples. Oranges, even. Too much rouge.
‘They got an account’, she chewed, ‘Expect you just to know they’re there so you can put it on their tab. Can’t complain though, they always pay their bill on time. I wonder where they’re goin’ today?’ She leaned broadly across the counter, chicken skin elbows puckering under the weight of her arms.
‘Can you see anyone in there?’ I asked, hands fiddling in my pockets for change, as I flicked my eyes from the stretch to Rita, Judy or whatever her name was.
‘The windows—they make ‘em special, you know? They’re always too dark to tell. But once — you’ll never believe this, kid, but I swear on my grand-daddy’s grave — once, Laurence Olivier got out of a stretch — opened the door himself and everything. What for I don’t know. Maybe needed some fresh air, a cigarette maybe.’
I dug out two one dollar bills, my fingers slipping in between the shrapnel, thinkin’ the green stuff best stay in my pocket. She knitted her hands together, and I dribbled in a couple of coins. She seemed pretty tickled with that.
‘Thanks, sunshine,’ she spat through wrinkled red lips, gap-toothed grin, crushing that gum like her mouth and her gum was a mortar and pestle.
‘Have a nice day, ma’am’.
‘Thanks a bunch,’ she rattled.
Goodbyes were good, plain and simple. It meant I could get the hell away from people who liked to talk a whole lotta horse shit. Then I’d off-load, move ‘round, kinda like a game of chess. I liked her. Nametag said ‘Peggy’. Her name was Peggy. Red hair. Curly, too. She always had an ornament sticking out of her skull. Some days it was a paper umbrella you fish outta cocktails. Other days, she wore bow ties, plastic sticks, flowers. Always had a pencil tucked in her nest. If anyone ever came head to head with her, they’d be on the ground faster than you could smash a bottle of root beer with a baseball bat.

*

I got a dog, Duke. He carries ‘round the look of a mongrel on his front paws. You’d just as soon see ‘im and count his nose, picking him as a bastard dog; fathered by a line-up of other bastard dogs, ‘cept both his folks are Bulldogs. He’s got a good solid snout, eyes the colour of soot, and a wide, tight rear where his tail yo-yo’s to a kinda rhythm that we’d never know anythin’ about. Hunkering ‘round on his fat paws, he’d sweep that tail across your legs like crude brushstrokes, so he could clock up another belly rub.

Once in a while when I peg ol’ Duke, an uninvited lump pushes up from my stomach, anchors itself in my throat, spreading right up to my mouth, frothing like you do before you retch. It’s when I mull over what it would be like to have your dick lopped off. No anaesthesia. Just hold ‘im down on that frigid steel table at the veterinarian, for some college freshman in a starched lab coat to practice hackin’ off dog’s tails. My father couldda done it, ‘cept he’s such a fuckin' weed, he’d be puking his guts up before he even had a knife in his hand. Never had the grit to do it. He got no backbone.

So Duke’s my pal. He listens to me, yawns when I yawn, slobbers with me when I’m drunk, and like me, isn’t too fussed with my father and is just as frosty with Mom. I’ve got me some good friends, but instead of jabbering, Duke sprawls out on the floor like a flower that’s been stomped on, fat paws bolstering his head. Either that or uses me as a human pillow. He drools, and has foul breath and all. He’ll pin back his ears straining to understand what the hell I’m chewin' about.

As for Mom and Dad, I jolt and get to thinkin’ about what I did to deserve them. It’s not as if I’ve deliberately tried to mess up my life but then again, I don’t really blame them for all of it either. My Dad’s an alderman with the city. Lewis Theodore Baker. My mom, her name’s Lynda. Just Lynda. My parents want me to be a doctor or a lawyer or a dentist, but truth is, I’d rather ride in rodeo’s or pimp myself out. I’d sooner wash the paths of Lincoln Park with the palms of my hands covered in dog piss. Mom knows I’m not gonna do anything she tells me to do, and that’s a fine deal for the both of us. Sorts out the pecking order.

Mom’s a shadow. A shadow following my father ‘round the campaign trail. Splinter thin, frigid as a hummingbird. She smiles too much, makes a mean pie, and wears gobs of overpriced dresses. Mouth permanently smacked with lipstick. Not enough rouge.

Then there’s my saving grace, my little sister Missy, who I pretty much like a hell of a lot. She’s only eleven, but so sweet and smart. She always knows when I’m in trouble or lying — or both — but she’s never snitched. Missy’s so different from my folks. She’s gracious and kind and that warped judgement hasn’t grabbed her by her hair yet. The idea that we’re both adopted has crossed my mind. I’m not bad lookin’. I got a nice hide of skin — no spots or anythin’ like that — a good nose, blue eyes and eyelashes that cascade over my lower lid. My great aunt Evelyn says I've got lashes like Tom Thumb’s broom and that's how I know that I’m my father’s son — the eyes, the lashes, the inability to back down. So I guess that’s the start of me.

*

There’s always something to say. Truth be told, last weekend at the drive-in, Max Heinemann’s slit eyes wobbled over my body, his lips all bent like he’d just swallowed a quart of sour milk. Havin’ Heinemann goggling me pressed some buttons so I thought I’d better put his fat owl head back in place. When it was time to gash his ego, I drifted crookedly over to where he had parked his pick-up, leant into the window and whispered, ‘If you look at me like that again, I’m gonna smack you so hard you’re gonna find yourself five days from Sunday, and when you land, that’ll make it Friday, so your weekend’ll be fucked up too.’ Some popcorn fell out of his mouth, his lips went back to normal and his eyes stopped doing that wobbling thing that made me think of Jell-O. No wonder I don’t like Jell-O. If something reminded you of a weeping, bloody, robotic-looking eye, would you eat it?

My English teacher, Mr. Pratt, says I really need to settle down, but I don’t wanna do nothin’ to make corrections because that'd make my parents happy and that’s the last thing I want — a damn problem.

Joyeux Noel

2008-12-24T23:57:00.010+10:00

Christmas Eve 11.47pm

I have all that I need and most of what I want.

I have pretty things. Blocks of wood with deer and drooping branches punctured with text.

I have memento vivere ad augusto per angusta marked on my forearm. As the ink settles on my skin, it gives me sustenance; offering me refuge when the world begins to spin faster than it should be.

Christmas is upon us and I feel protected like the thumping beat of a soft and undeveloped fontanelle. It is a membrane like that dying blanket everyone has; it sheathes me from memories, some of which I can't forget; some of which I can't remember. Perhaps that is the beauty of this life, this journey and my destination, which makes me uneasy. Attempting to swim upstream through thunderous water, it pulls on my neck like a child would with a doll.

The levee will break and while I don't know how long it will last, I do know that it will cradle me. Just like that threadbare blanket everyone has.

Dreams are nothing more than wishes and a wish is just a dream we wish to come true ...

2008-12-23T23:51:00.016+10:00

Ah, Harry Nilsson's 'The Puppy Song' never fails to make me think about Christmas. Yesterday, I started - and finished - my Christmas shopping. No, I tell a lie. I did 99% of it yesterday and the remaining 1% today at Avid Reader. I find that preying on my spontaneity (other people call it disorganisation) works in my favour and here is why:

1. I work well under pressure.

2. As much as I enjoy meeting new people, when I'm on a mission, I generally don't engage in banter with shop assistants because I don't feel the need to know about their hangover/broken relationship/prick of a boss/STI. For these delicate situations, I use my iPod as a decoy. Whether it's playing music or not, it's an indispensable 'don't tell me I'd look good in a fluoro boob tube' tool. Tweeny shop assistants can't get a word in. It's a soft 'thanks, but fuck off'. GOLD.

3. I'm as far away from indecisive as a person can get. To quote my father, 'a quick decision's a good decision.'

4. Shopping for me is much like an Olympic event and on occasion, a blood sport.

Why trawl through shopping centres for days and/or weeks when you can attain the same result in four hours aided by caffeine? I enjoy shopping, probably a little too much, but I find it excruciating traipsing up and down shopping centres, particularly when you temporarily lose your hearing because of screaming tweens.

This time of year isn't the easiest to digest. It sits uncomfortably in my belly, but with that comes thanksgiving. I've been raking through a mulch of memories by resurrecting some photos of the disaster that was last year's cuntostomy. I was thinking today about what I want for Christmas, but I already have it.

I got it last year when I came away with my life.

Ink

2008-12-21T23:08:00.014+10:00

Above is a photo of my most recent tattoo, and although it doesn't do it justice, I've posted it anyway.

I both wanted and needed to commemorate my ten year Transplanniversary in August by having something of meaning inked on my forearm. There was a legion of reasons to commemorate and celebrate both of our lives, but the most important thing for me was to honour my donor and her family. It's a shared responsibility and because of their selfless decision to donate their daughter's organs under such horrendous circumstances, I fucked death over and lived.

How I yearn to meet her family, to thank them for my life, but this will never come to pass.

And so to the tattoo. Dan did a stack of mock ups with different fonts and we came to the conclusion that Garamond would look the most effective. And it does - it really is quite beautiful and I'm overjoyed with the result. I'm glad that I had the patience to wait and search for a studio who excel at tattooing text, so thank you to Nathan at Westside Tattoo in West End. I had three glowing recommendations from women who had all had text transcribed onto their skin, so if you feel the urge to decorate your body, be sure to check out the Westside studio. I did of course have to get clearance from the transplant team and couldn't help but notice that the studio was cleaner than any hospital I have ever been in.

Below is the translation from Latin to English.

Memento vivere - a reminder of life

ad augusto per angusta - to high places by narrow roads

Learn, learning, learned

2008-12-19T17:10:00.027+10:00

I have just re-visited Freud's 'On Narcissism' on advice from H. After reading it in my formative years, I recall it explaining pretty much everything about my first boyfriend, who was at his very core, a narcissist. As hard as it was for my most recent ex (let's call him REX) to cope with the fact that I am good friends with most of my ex-boys (don't get too excited - I'm no Annabel Chong), I was always going to spend time with them and dearly love 'the good ones'. Two of my 'good ones' both have the same initial - L - and they are still sweet hearts. In early May I attended the wedding of the boy who was with me before, during and after my transplant. I'm lucky enough to still have him in my life and as my friend. It was a wonderful reunion of friends and family from across Australia and the world. I posted a photograph of Lachie and Sooz's wedding in one of my August entries.

The other mannish-boy who I am still good friends with has just returned from travelling around the UK and Europe with his lovely lady, and we're having dinner on Tuesday night.

Yes, people, it is possible to be friends with people who were at one time or another, much more. Lachie and Luke are a part of who I am because they're an indelible part of my history and therefore my memory. So while REX may find it hard to grasp the fact that people can be friends after they have been lovers (cue: face of shock! horror!), I find it quite endearing and remarkably healthy.

On the other hand, ego, libido and cathexis are not. Oh, did I hear you say 'Oedipus complex'? You know, the stage in a child's development in which the child experiences an erotic attachment to one parent and hostility toward the other? Hmmmm. Having a close relationship with a parent is a very special connection, but when a relationship becomes tantamount to wanting (read: needing) to please one's mother or father by excessive means, everything from work to relationships to sense of self and beyond, is tainted.

I certainly make no bones about the fact that I am very close to my mother, which is another thing REX had an issue with, but my mother has effectively been my carer for my entire life. When I would be in hospital as a baby, a child, an adolescent and an adult, I have needed her support and she has been wonderful enough to lend me her strength, hope, beauty and love while being as gracious as any person could possibly be while under such a profundity of pressure - not to mention obligation.

I hazard a guess that if anything happened to either of my parents, I would stop breathing; my world would spin off it's hinges and I'd be in no man's land. I'm no astronomer, but I'm guessing that an axial obliquity would be disastrous for any single 'thing' that depends on an axial tilt, and though I've lost fifty-eight friends at last count, nothing can prepare you for the loss of a parent.

After my transplant, I was hoping that my Mum would get a well-deserved break after twenty-one years of nursing me, but this was not to be. While transplant saved my life (I literally had less than a week to live), it did not absolve me of other problems that are synonymous with being immunosuppressed.

The recovery was extremely painful and arduous, and while most transplant recipients are on paracetamol after a couple of weeks and have quite a fast turnaround in their quality of life, I was on morphine for at least six months for unexplained pain. I was eventually given a bone density scan - a routine test for transplant assessment which they failed to do. The scan I had six months post-transplant revealed osteoporosis so advanced that my results were compared to those of a seventy year old who had never had a glass of milk, and that is why my chest bones would crack whenever I moved after prolonged periods of time. Turning over in bed was a manoeuvre I mastered early on because when I did, I was met with chest pain similar to that of a blown lung. I would have to roll from the side I was laying on, slowly and gently onto my back, wait for all of my crap bones and muscles to crack and re-align, then slowly turn onto my other side and again wait for my crap bones to crackle and pop. The process usually took around four minutes.

I would wake of a morning in such pain that I would swig morphine out of the bottle - I didn't bother to measure it - and only then, once the pain relief had kicked in, could I actually get myself out of bed. After five years on thrice monthly infusions of Pemidronate, a drug used to re-build bone density, particularly with women after treatment for breast cancer, my life changed and the majority of my bone density scans from then on have been of an 'acceptable level' of osteoporosis. Whatever that means. And no - all the dairy and Caltrate tablets in the world are not going to help me because calcium does not have the ability to re-build lost bone density, but thank-you to everyone for their suggestions.

Being the tangent queen I am, I have digressed from the initial point of this post, so I shan't bore you with other medical miscellany post-transplant (for now), but shall return to narcissism, specifically narcissistic males.

REX smacks of being an archetypal narcissistic male and I don't say that with a bitter tongue. I say it with pity because he is never going to be consistently happy. Seeking perfection in everything and everyone is setting yourself up for disappointment and while I'm a big believer in both having and achieving goals, as well as having something to look forward to for the betterment of not only our own lives, but the lives of others, being so fanatically idealistic is going to be any one's undoing. I liken it to the ultimate betrayal of one's authentic self. I'm just relieved that I had the foresight to end it before I had made any real commitment. Yes, I made emotional investments, but I've shed a skin and learnt from it. I couldn't ask for more than that.

One final Freudian slip, Sigmund writes that all humans start out as narcissists, because human infants are exclusively focused on their own bodies and needs. From this original narcissism, expressions of narcissism in adult life are born, and this is where it becomes a slippery slope of retrogression which refers to a return to an earlier stage of psychological development sometimes occurring in response to external stimuli, in particular, trauma which causes individuals to return to behaviours and emotional patterns of a much younger age, such as an extreme dependency on others.

I must emphasise that this is not a bitter spray directed at REX, but revisiting Freud has helped me understand and acknowledge the sadness and perhaps even the blackness in his heart.

Post script - I am delighted to report that Mum has recently returned from five weeks in the U.S with one of her besties, a la Thelma and Louise. Thankfully, they decided against driving a Mustang over a cliff. What a waste of a beautiful automobile, I mean, hell I would miss her :)

This is what a totally f**ked lung looks like ...

2008-12-16T12:50:00.010+10:00

A photo of one of my old lungs - no wonder my oxygen saturations were often less than 60% ... anyone for steak with a mucous marinade? (thanks to E for that gem)

Open chest.

My favourite ICU nurse Alan, made each day brighter. I would dread it when his shift was over and he would often stay back to talk to me. Alan extubated me after three days on the ventilator and he was so was so great about it, explaining to me that it wasn't going to be comfortable. He was (still is) a gem of a nurse.

22nd August 1998 - transplant photo essay

2008-12-16T12:37:00.007+10:00

Here are a few photos of my transplant taken by Alicia Alit-Trevatt. These are photos of photos, so the quality isn't as crisp and cutting as the originals. Here, you are able to see what breast tissue looks like. Mmmmmmm, tasty, don't you think? I'll follow up with a few more.

Walshy, the sweetest cop in the world

2008-12-16T11:14:00.009+10:00

Here are a few shots of Operation Easter Egg Drop in March. Keep in mind that most of these guys had volunteered to do the Easter Egg run on their days off which speaks volumes about their character and integrity.

The photo of the motorcycle police (top) is just a sliver of the cavalcade that expedited us to the Royal Children's hospital that day. The photo of Walshy pointing to the camera with the little boy in the wheelchair is my favourite shot. This little darling had an illness that literally affects one in a million. He couldn't speak, but he could understand what you were saying and I had a chat with him, his Dad and Walshy. His father was relaying to us that he had crossed the bridge of death umpteen times and how he had survived, to which Walshy said, 'I met this young girl when ...' which was so sweet, but I've been through zip compared to this kid. I had it all, and still do - my health, happiness, love, beautiful family and friends, a rich past and a hopeful future.

This photo is testament to Walshy's soft and kind face and gentle manner.

The man has a heart of gold.

Latest posts

2008-12-16T01:03:00.002+10:00

A little note to recommend you read Saturday's post before Monday's to ensure fluidity :)

No Solace from Destruction

2008-12-15T16:47:00.031+10:00

My voice all gravel in it's breathlessness, ‘and here they are again'. I pushed my head to the glass where it rubbed on the window. My forehead pulsed and my neck prickled as each thud of the demolition ball ricocheted off the glass, vibrating my freckled face. It’s nearly fifteen years ago since I plastered my hands on that window as dust trickled down the glass, just as the anti-biotics were trickling into my chest.

Having a one and a half inch needle in my chest pumping anti-biotics - which made my urine smell like cat's piddle - into my jugular to tussle with a wayward chest infection was enough to piss me off. But to watch a few fat, bald men in hardhats and front end loaders demolish my childhood, I drew breath. With drizzling energy, I stood on a chair, pushed open the tiny window and bellowed from the bowels of my infected lungs - ‘you bastard motherfuckers! All of my friends who died in that ward are going to fucking haunt you for the rest of your lives!'

Thinking back, the tearing down of Adelaide Billing could have been a chance for catharsis; closure even, but it had quite the opposite effect. It's a place where I had spent my formative years being treated and mistreated and seeing friends die slowly in primitive conditions and with not nearly enough pain relief. The process of dying and how it was approached back in the 80's was primitive, so where catharsis should have been, a great rage swept through me, flash flood style. So enraged was I that when I reached a little too far out the window, the pole with my Ivac toppled over, ripping the needle out of my chest. Hadn’t felt a pull or twinge for the dust in my throat and the fire in my belly.

When they finished for the day, it was a welcome reprieve, but with every smashed wall I lost a little piece of myself; a piece of my history, my identity, my ownership of this dis-ease. Each morning I would wake to the sound of cracking walls. The top level of the new hospital was a magnet for anyone who wanted unspoiled views of the demolition. You could see the massive forms of the Deen Brothers – their dark medicine ball heads beneath hard hats, stomachs like weirs creeping over their King Gees. I was compelled to watch - wall by wall, brick by brick - as Adelaide Billing was torn down and stripped of her dignity.

I could be alone for hours at a time with my thoughts, anger and sadness while watching the building being so ungraciously dismantled. As it happens, I wasn’t the only one who cared, for one day there was a mother and her child who was ventilated with a tracheotomy who had spent time in the old ward and we had an Adelaide Billing love in.

The ward and the woman herself made fine fare for ghost stories and there was never a doubt in my mind she still walked the halls of the ward of a night time, taking temperatures, re-arranging toys in cots, settling sick babies - the list goes on.

With each level razed and with every fallen brick, I felt a little emptier, like someone had died. Another friend, gone. The sight of the cabinets in the kitchen being splintered into matchsticks was almost as horrifying as losing a friend.

The clincher was when the ‘dying room’ was levelled. Even though I was only fifteen, I had cared for friends during the final days of their lives. It was the place I went to say goodbye. It was the room where lights flickered from the ghosts of dead children who had died from Diphtheria. It was the room that had the unmistakable stench of death.

You hear about the stench of death but most of the time people file it away into their urban myth box. No surprises here, but it really does exist and it's a smell that never leaves you. A couple of days before my best friend Ineka died, I went to say goodbye. She was in the dying room. I always said that Ineka had been 'dying all her life' - she was always in hospital, often critically ill and could never seem to recover from recurrent chest infections and lung bleeds that plagued her. Ine was fifteen, and I eleven. After talking to her Mum, Trish, in the kitchenette, I opened the door of the dying room, then shut it gently. I pulled a chair over to the side of her bed, sat down, took her hand, weaving our fingers together like a basket.

'Ine, it's me.' She was laying on her side, lips blue and cracked from chronic and acute cyanosis. She had an over sized oxygen mask tethered to her head, covering her mouth and nose. Her eyes twittered as she whispered my name. I said, 'Shh, don't speak. I love you.' Her last words to me were ‘I love you’, and she managed to summon the strength to squeeze my hand one last time. I stroked her hair, brushed the back of my palm across her cheek, kissed her on her forehead and hand, then said goodbye. After leaving the dying room, my skin was sheathed with the stench of dying, and the bone crunching pain of final breaths.

I returned to the kitchen where my Mum and Trish were crying and Trish gave me a purple cardigan she had knitted for Ineka. She said, 'Ine wanted you to have this.' She gave me the cardigan and the three of us cried rivers. I remember Trish knitting that jumper with such love and care. I still have it and yes, it still fits me. I slept with that cardigan for a long time. It was a piece of Ine, and when Trish passed away a couple of years later, it became a piece of her.

In March, I returned to the Royal Children's Hospital for the annual Easter Egg run which is sponsored by Stefan. Queensland motorcycle Police are kind enough to take the time - most on their days off - to deliver Easter eggs to children who are in hospital over the Easter period. It was the brainchild of Senior Constable Dave Walsh who I first met when I was sixteen. He was dressed as 'Doughnut the Dog' and at the time I was in isolation due to MRSA. I gave him a big bear hug - he gave me chocolate. We chatted for a while and he asked me about the city views from my room, to which I answered 'I don't know about the city views, but there are some hotties down there on the building site and they're all half-naked.' Walshy has a soft, kind face and really is one of the good guys.

The day was not about me - it was about some awe-inspiring kids, but after the excitement had worn off from the Police car ride with lights and me pushing all the buttons for sirens, I slammed into a wall of overwhelming emotion. I said to Walshy that I could not walk into the hospital. Of course he understood. I thought my glasses were shrouding my wet eyes, but Walshy put his arms around me and I turned into his chest to soften the blow. I have some wonderful memories there, but at it's core it is a place of more tears than laughter. On this day in March I just couldn't do it and I'm uncertain as to whether I could ever walk through those doors again.

soaking

2008-12-13T20:44:00.037+10:00

Books. Words. Lexicons. Rhythm and rhyme - all fundamental parts of my life, much like oxygen. They bind me like a bandage on a fresh cut, and it's when you're bleeding that you most appreciate them.

Music comes close as a razors edge. If I had to relinquish my library or my collection of tunes, I'd wager that I would lose the will to live a life of passion and purpose. Yes, I'd be able to live without them, but all that would be is an existence instead of a life that thrives on the afore mentioned passion and purpose.

I had a bath tonight and for some reason or another, my mind stretched back to a time of joy. Most nights I would draw a bath in Robertson ward, rather than have a shower. In the bathroom there was a bath and two showers, so while Meag's and Natasha were having a shower, I'd sink into the soft water and stay in the water until I had taken on the appearance of a prune. After their showers, the girls would draw back the curtains and we would discuss the day's events and who and what was annoying us. There was a lot of boy talk, too.

My childhood, adolescence and adult life have been punctuated by death, and sometimes the channels of one's memory become clogged. Happiness is obstructed by the more brutal remembrances and these have a propensity to outweigh the joy. I'm a glass half full kind of girl and I don't dwell on the sadness as I've done in the past. The sadness should be acknowledged, but it shouldn't consume your life, or eat away at you like battery acid, but as the old adage goes - it's easier said than done.

The concept of memory is one that has always intrigued me. I remember the smallest details so vividly which adds to a compelling case (in my favour) that I am in possession of a photographic memory. Now this can either totally mind fuck you, or bring you closer to yourself and the pain of others. I'm uncertain as to how or why I remember these little nuances, but I think it's just the way I'm wired. Another chestnut is the phrase 'it's a blessing and a curse', which rings with an excruciating shrillness because it cuts to the bone, sucking on the marrow, bringing you closer to the truth - your truth.

Memory thrives on kindness and the beauty of the every day, but it's also associated with being wrongly done by which can lead to chronic anger. Anger - specifically grudges - are nothing more than bad energy, and I'm of the opinion that like attracts like. I will always forgive, but I never forget. It doesn't make any sense dragging out memories kicking and screaming so you can relive the pain and dissect every detail in that morgue of your mind. Don't ignore the pain. The secret is to acknowledge and accept what has happened in order to move on.

I have a bond with my friend E, who also has a photographic memory. E remembers being burnt by boiling water when she was a baby of nine months. She can recall the details with precision - from the red jumper she was wearing to her mother's reaction.

I have an analogy about memories and it goes something like this:

Memories are train tracks where lines have been permanently laid. They make such a fierce imprint on us which can manifest itself physically.

My paternal grandmother who is 88 and has some mild memory loss, has shared her stories with me about her childhood, who she dated, her role at the Army payroll office, her true love and it's consequences and the baby girl she lost after a horrendous labour. She remembers the doctor saying, 'put her out!', as in 'get her anaesthetised'.

I remember the exact conversation I had with my friend Ineka a day before she died. She was in the dying room. Mum and I went up to Adelaide Billing, the ward we would go into whenever we needed to go into hospital. We walked into the elephant of a lift, which would on occasion, stall and drop. I've had loads of dreams about this elevator. Dreams of it going sideways, up and down, around and through the roof. It had those lovely old elevator buttons. There were three black ones - G, 1 and 2 which had white letters and numbers pressed into them. There was also a red one for emergencies. We had a lot of 'emergencies' where we would press the button then run for our lives.

On ground level, there wasn't really anything other than a lobby. It had floors of black and white terrazzo. The first floor was abandoned, and had once been McConnel ward, whereas Adelaide Billing - a dead nurse who haunted the ward - was on level two which is where the C.F's were 'kept'. The ward was built in the early 1900's and was so old it had a 'Diphtheria' alarm at the triage desk. It was a fat red button with a lever to pull to sound the alarm. No one ever dared touch it, let alone pull the lever because we would have been throttled by the Nazi-NUM of the time.

There's a tangle of memories in that ward which was demolished in 1993. I watched as the Deen Brothers made quick work of it. I was bereft and mourned the loss of the mulch of memories that I had cultivated. I was witness when the kitchen was destroyed and I saw walls being torn down. I saw the ghosts of my friends. I saw myself as a little girl. I wrote about it about five years ago and have published it in a separate post.

Reckless

2008-12-09T22:35:00.005+10:00

A few months ago I found an acoustic version of 'Reckless' by Australian Crawl. I'd never really taken to them until I heard it unplugged on 'Packed to the Rafters'. Not surprising considering acoustic stuff floats my boat, is the horse for my course and, well - you get the general idea. I found it on iTunes and fell into the stark acoustics of the guitar, the sparsity of the lyrics, the melody which is loaded with simplicity, and the finely tuned instrument that is James Reyne's warble. You must find it, but in the meantime, here are the lyrics ...

Meet me down by the jetty landing
where the the pontoons bump and sway.
I see the others reading, standing
as the Manly Ferry cuts its way to Circular Quay.

Hear the Captain blow his whistle,
so long she's been away.
I miss our early morning wrestle -
not a very Happy way to start the day.

She don't like that kind of behaviour.
She don't like that kind of behaviour, so
throw down your guns.
Don't be so reckless -
throw down your guns
Don't be so ...

Feel like Scott of the Antarctic,
base camp too far away.
A Russian sun beneath the Arctic.
Burke and Wills and camels,
initials in the tree.

She don't like that kind of behaviour.
She don't like that kind of behaviour, so

throw down your guns.
Don't be so reckless -
throw down your guns.
Don't be so reckless

The Hamptons ...

2008-12-06T16:03:00.002+10:00

Yes, I'm in the Hamptons and you're not. Sucks to be you.

Hermes 2000 portable, oh my!

2008-11-28T22:10:00.010+10:00

Apologies in advance if the above post title is misleading, for I am not the owner of a Hermes tote bag circa 2000. I'll make no bones about the fact that I love fashion, but trends? Not so much. I've never owned a designer bag and find most of them hideously over priced, not to mention over designed to the point where I want to say 'your Guess/Gucci/D&G bag is raping my eyes.' I am however, the owner of an orange Birkin, which could easily pass a onceover by a discerning fashionista. It's elegantly understated and more suited to my academic forays due to it's size. It's also impossible to lose. I find it abhorrent that people can walk into a shop and snap up a $16,000 bag (entry level for a Hermes Birkin).

I could never justify buying a bag made of crocodile/alligator/raccoon/endangered species just to carry my stuff. The hideous cost of a designer bag is equivalent to supplying a small third world country food and medicine for a week. And besides, I don't need a bag that big.

Here's what I carry in my bag (it's actually a satchel) on any given day:

- Wallet
- Diary
- Drugs (trust me, they're not anything worthy of being mugged for)
- Mobile phone
- Eye drops
- Paw paw cream
- Lipstick (my only lipstick - a MAC berry-bloody red)
- Moleskine and pencil
- iPod
- Blush (so I don't look like a dying albino)

I don't believe these contents to be excessive. Correct me if you think I may be off the mark about my minimalist approach.

The Hermes 2000 that I am beside myself with excitement about is a typewriter from the 1940's. Wasyl the Apostle salvaged one for me at a place up the coast (I'm not willing to share the location at this point for purely selfish reasons), and it is in perfect working order. The black ribbon is slightly faint, but it will be easy to track down a replacement, while the red is beautiful and crisp. It was made in Switzerland and was superseded by the Hermes 3000, which was one of the last Hermes portables of that era.

It even has a 'ding!' when you reach the end of the paper.

Wasyl, being the Everyman that he is, cleaned and polished it up for me. What a find. It is in it's original case with a dusting brush, and as I carried it down to my studio, I had visions of what it would have been like to be a war correspondent or traveling writer when these machines were all people had. The first thing that popped into my head was that it's mother fucking heavy and you wonder how war correspondents would have lugged this across enemy lines, though they would have been used to it.

It made me realise that society - in particular, generation X and Y - are so desensitised to what is real and what is true. Our country, just like most Westernised nations share one common trait - a poor work ethic. People are lazy. People must have everything NOW.

From what I can ascertain, the only positive that will surface from the global economic collapse is younger folk (Gen Y'ers) are going to be taught a very harsh, yet timely lesson. You simply cannot have everything yesterday, today or tomorrow. You need to work for it just like our parents and grandparents did. I have a deep respect for high school and university students who manage to juggle work and study. Whether it's a job at McDonald's or Woolworth's, I admire their tenacity to rise to the challenge of having to deal with the bottom dwellers of society who place such unnecessary demands on them when they are doing their job, and their customers, a service.

And so I have typed my first words on the Hermes this evening. I had a 'moment' when I caught myself with this stupid grin on my face while I was getting busy banging away at the keys. The shrill nature of the sound spurred me to press on; to keep writing.

Some may say it's a kind of regression, this whole returning to a typewriter thing, but for me it's refreshing. It moves me. How Hemingway, who would place his typewriter at eye level while he stood and typed - yes, stood; Plath, who wrote her way through no less than four typewriters, and Kerouac, fast fingered and able to bang out 100 words per minute - managed to do it, I'll never know.

Having said that, they wouldn't have known any different. I salute them and look forward to adding to my collection, but for the time being I just want to enjoy the fully functional Hermes.

What secrets will it give up? What lies behind that sticky ink?

Time will tell.

Being a benign life form

2008-11-28T00:35:00.006+10:00

What a chance.

What a break.

A clean break from peril.

I'm in 'the green room' - a place I've never been; a place that calls on my courage, pulling on my nerves. It's a place - a moment - thick with fable and I languish, waiting to be cocooned by an unfurling breaker.

To slice through that tumbling gate of blue salt is as close to holy water as I'll ever get. The cadence, the rise and fall of my body in the sea so much more than treading water.

Surfboards grate against waves like feet on well-trodden floor boards; my lips crushed pink from a punishing kiss, my voice uneasy, yet spirited with hope.

The Slap

2008-11-26T22:56:00.004+10:00

It’s always at night when it hits. It's not so much a slap, but a mood that passes through me, swallowing me whole.

Everything is either illuminated or exacerbated at night. Sick people get sicker, desperate people become more desperate and lonely people ... you get the drift.

Some nights it is a slap where it is as though your body has been struck with the coldest backhand, leaving you with a sting on your skin. Other nights, it's a dull ache of a pummelling that had you in its grasp weeks ago.

Whenever it hits, it will come at night, you will be alone and it will be merciless.

Addendum

2008-11-25T18:29:00.007+10:00

Upon making myself a coffee this morning (that's REAL coffee because anything else is sacrilege), I found myself surrounded by coffee paraphernalia. There is the kick ass coffee machine that Mum bought Dad for his birthday last year, possibly the best birthday present we've ever bought ourselves - I mean him.

There's my coffee encyclopaedia which has mysteriously disappeared. Perhaps it went on a soul searching adventure in pursuit of its roots and is in Columbia, specifically Bogota. There are other instruments to keep me caffeinated (read: functioning) which include four stove top espresso makers from Italy - one of which I need to repossess.

You know who you are and I'm coming for it.

tickety-tap tickety-tap

2008-11-24T18:09:00.012+10:00

Stuff. Everyone collects it to varying degrees. I've long been obsessed with typewriters, particularly ones with a vintage bent. I stole my parents No. 16 Remington - the last of the great Remington's - which our friend Wasyl the Apostle rescued in the 1980's. When my family moved into a more modern house, I made it my business to make the typewriter mine, and presently it sits atop my one tonne Indian cabinet.

A few weeks ago I was asked by a group of kids I was talking to about transplant and C.F whether I collected anything when I was a child. I collected stamps and marbles. The stamps, I still have and I'd be interested to see know value. As an adult, I now collect books, shoes, books about shoes and books about books and typewriters. I'm sure there are other things I unknowingly collect. In fact, it came to my attention on a visit to T-Licious early last year that I have more than my share of expensive teapots and teacups. And then there are the dragonflies. I have a Pro Hart dragonfly original my Mum bought me, dragonfly cups and saucers, books, jewellery, dragonfly hooks, fabrics, boxes, Frank Lloyd Wright tiles, book marks and as of today, four beautiful hand painted coasters from my friend Mary.

Back to the typewriters. Much to my mother's horror, I have discussed collecting vintage typewriters. Not my fault, I say. I was led astray when I was ten and was lent a typewriter so I could write my first novel 'A Study in Detective' about Scarlett Holmes and her friend Watson (highly original) who are graduating from detective school. That's right - detective school. If it wasn't such a cute idea, I'd probably kill myself. And so one day during an admission to Adelaide Billing (the children's ward at the Royal Children's Hospital at the time), a lovely nurse called Meryl who was in charge of the ward on this magical day gave me permission to skip hospital school, instead letting me tickety-tap in the kitchen to work on my novel. My friend Ineka illustrated the front cover for me with her beautiful printing and a drawing of a magnifying glass. It was the fucking cat's meow. I remember putting a yellow glass plate in the microwave and it shattered. Stupid photographic memory.

So back to tickety-tapping. As far as typewriters go, this is my dream model list (so far) -

1937 Olivetti MP1 Portable
1949 Corona 'Speedline' Portable
1940s Remington No.5 Streamline Portable (in matte)

If you want to fantasise about hideously expensive vintage typewriters, check out www.mytypewriter.com - just make sure you've cut up your credit cards before you trawl for objet d'art.

So when I have a spare few thousand U.S dollars, I'll be in hibernation for at least one season while I tap away a la Hemingway. Just so you know, his weapon of choice was a portable Royal, specifically the 'Quiet DeLuxe' model, while the model he wrote his last works on was a Halda, made in Sweden.

If you have excessive quantities of anything, I figure you're a collector. Here are some things I have excessive quantities of and are hereby designated collectibles:

- Sylvia Plath and ironically, Ted Hughes
- Dead friends (seriously, there's 58 at last count and while it is not something to be celebrated, it should be acknowledged)
- Pencils
- Notebooks
- Frank Lloyd Wright china
- Lead light lamps (yep, my first one has a dragonfly in the glass and on the iron stem)
- Stationery

Far more interesting is an anonymous list of what different friends of mine collect -

- Art
- Dickheads (I can identify with that)
- Snow domes
- Pink stuff
- Retro phones
- Vintage cameras
- Fishing rods
- Porn (also identify with that)
- Tattoos
- Pigs
- Fabric
- Horses
- Guitars
- Buddhas
- Cigars
- Australiana, in particular, restoring old stoves (this one I can proudly share - Wasyl the Apostle who is going to open a museum. There is not a thing this can cannot fix. He would have made a *brilliant* surgeon)
- Spoons
- Surfboards
- Plushies (I don't get it)

My Dad collects chairs and expensive pens. He has thirty - yep, thirty - tub chairs from Lennon's in Brisbane which I have dibs on, as well as several Tessa chairs, two of which he has had fully restored, as well as an ottoman. There's no denying the man has style. He has the best car I've ever driven, too - a '71 E-Type Jag. All V12 of it. Oh, yeah.

'Always listen to that which you cannot hear'

2008-11-24T17:24:00.013+10:00

I found that chestnut yesterday when I was transcribing some writing from my notebook to my pc. I wrote it a few months ago and it's so aptly timed because sometimes, even if you're listening, you inadvertently neglect to listen to yourself, and so here it is again, this time presented with an ever so slight change but one that might make the blood beat around your ears -

'Always listen to that which you do not want to hear.'

This year has been a slippery slope for both myself and many of my friends. I can honestly say that I've reconnected with myself after losing some ground and momentum, and by reconnecting I also mean rebuilding.

I began the year as a broken woman.

After surfacing from the coma of November 2007 (if you didn't know, I was in a coma - literally - for about five days), I emerged as a shadow of the person who went into that operating theatre so full of bravado, yet hopeful of a good result. My transplant physician, Peter Hopkins (aka Hotkins) asked me if I was sure I wanted to go ahead with the surgery. I said yes. He warned me not to have it and said it was going to be rough. Really rough. I knew that I had to have several things done and that my recovery would be slow. The surgery was seven hours and their were a couple of teams of surgeons in the one theatre at any one time. There were the gynaecology oncologists, the plastics team and the gastrointestinal team.

Here is a simple list of what each had to do:

Gynaecology oncologists (cunt cancer doctors) - If you need to remove my clitoris, then leave me on the table to die. If not, proceed with the surgery like so. Deglove me from clit to crack, peeling me like a grape. Put the skin in a bucket that will go to next Tuesday's 'tumour board' for discussion. Make sure you get as many residents to look at your handiwork because you only do this surgery a couple of times a year and I'm the youngest person to ever have a radical vulvectomy performed in Queensland, if not Australia.

Plastics team ('make stuff pretty' surgeons) - finely shave 19cm x 13cm of skin from my inner left thigh just like delicatessens do with a ham. Roll the shaved skin through what looks like a pasta machine whereby the skin is stretched into a mesh-like pattern. Proceed to lay mesh-like skin over my exposed twat. Sew into place and cover. Hope for the graft to take because I'm immunosuppressed and diabetic. Please visit me every day to re-dress my designer vagina with various tapes and plasters with lots of young male doctors, most of whom is growing a moustache for Movember and looks like a paedophile.

Gastrointestinal team (shit doctors - they're not 'shit' shit - they're very good, but they deal with shit - they're 'the shit') - slice through my stomach, right next to my tattoo just to really piss me off, because that's the only part of my body which has remained untouched and unscarred. Until now. I didn't say no to having a PEG (Percutaneous Endoscopic Gastrostomy) - a feeding tube that goes into the stomach directly through the abdominal wall for supplemented feeding - for no good reason, apart from the fact that I was going to die with or without it pre-transplant. Yes, I'll be vain and admit that I didn't want another scar, especially one like this. Pull a couple of inches of bowel to the surface and attach to the outside of my body. Stitch into place and place bag over exposed bowel for poo to collect in bag. Reverse in three months. Don't fuck it up.

So it goes.

I've reasons to be angry and sad, but I also have every reason to be grateful. I had the best surgeons, a father who is the best patient advocate you could ever ask for, a doctor who so cared about me, came in on his day off to figure out what the hell went wrong. Then there is my mother, my sister, my friends.

The only thing I did get angry over was that because of some medical fuck-ups (not, I repeat, NOT by Hotkins because he saved my skin), I could have lost, and there was a lot to lose.

For starters, there was my life, which also meant all of the things I love to do - loving my family and friends, writing and reading; watching my nephews grow up, listening to music, dancing, playing tragic Bach on my cello (which I am tormenting my neighbours with at the moment), going to concerts, and the rest of those 'things' we build our life around.

When I was in Intensive Care, Peter said to Mum, 'I told her not to have the surgery' to which Mum said, 'How could she not have it? You don't just stop fighting after thirty years.' And that's it. You never stop fighting until you are ready. How do you know when you are ready? You just do. I knew I wasn't ready to surrender my life, so I certainly wasn't going to give the cancer permission to steal the life we had all worked so hard to protect and preserve. I was held hostage by cancer and it is a nuisance that will forever beat at my door. I just hope it stays that way - a nuisance, and not a death sentence. As I write I am waiting for biopsy results which I am not expecting to be good. Yep - I'm a cancer magnet, which is fine. I'll jump off that bridge when I come to it.

I may have arrived at this year a broken woman, but I'm going to be leaving it better, fitter, faster, stronger and smarter.

Angry Anderson - the only short man I'll ever trust

2008-11-21T21:50:00.005+10:00

Elevator shoes. I just saw them advertised, and they made me think of my ex. He needs elevator shoes.

And to detach from his mother's breast.

this one's gonna bruise

2008-11-17T22:35:00.007+10:00

'This one's gonna bruise' is a turn of phrase that sounds positively titillating. The weight behind it propels it into a dive of melancholia, while remaining elegantly ambiguous and sparse.

Be prepared to be disappointed, as I've not anything remotely intelligent to match the title. I just gave myself a Clexane injection (a blood thinner for the blood clot in my sub-clavian and axillary) and I hit a nerve. So yep - this one's gonna bruise.

I have around four injections a day - three that are insulin and that I rarely feel because the needles are the smallest possible gauge one could wish for, but the Clexane injections aren't pleasant. It's far from the worst thing in the world where the gauge of the needle is too thick, but the killer is that they're effectively blunt.

That's right. It's like Sanofi Aventis have purposely scratched the needles down a concrete wall before they're packaged. I give myself my flu-vax every year, and sometimes I have to have a couple of jabs before it pierces my skin because they're blunt, too. Flu-vax needles can tickle because the contents of the syringe are quite syrupy. The worst? Vitamin K injections. When I used to have lung bleeds where I'd cough up cups of blood, I'd be practically dying in my hospital bed chanting, 'no vitamin k injections - they fucking kill. Oh, hang on, I just coughed up a blood clot the size of Somalia, and no, I still don't want it.'

I remember having a minor lung bleed in grade twelve and that night I was supposed to be on stage for one of the principal singing roles (I played a prostitute in 'Bugsy Malone'. I wore suspenders. It was liberating). I started 'spittin' blood' a la Kylie Mole around lunchtime, so Mum took me to the Royal Kid's where I had a vitamin k shot, and I was on stage that night singing my heart out and showing the nuns in the front row (and the conductor who nearly had a stroke) what I had had for breakfast. It was fun. As I said, I got to wear suspenders and had free reign to be a total moll, but I digress ...

Clearly, Sanofi Aventis have a vendetta against all who live by the needle, so I am going to give them a spray, to tell them their needles are inferior and that my belly has been violated for long enough.

The Right to Die

2008-11-17T22:22:00.011+10:00

Right to Life groups are, in a nutshell, anti-choice.

Anti-abortion.
Anti-euthanasia.
Anti-stem cell research.

Right to Lifers, I say FUCK YOU. That's right - you can go and fuck yourselves with your lame placards.

What happened to owning our lives and the Right to Die?

This comes on the back of a story I have been following about Hannah Jones, a thirteen year old girl in Britain, who after having Leukaemia for most of her life now needs a heart transplant after extensive chemotherapy resulted in cardiomyopathy. Hannah has refused further treatment and does not want a transplant.

This morning, I read Bernadette Condren's piece from her 'Mum's the word' column in The Courier Mail about Hannah Jones. The more I read, the more disheartened I became, for Condren slathers blame on the law and is discourteous of the young girls' parents who fully support her (as does her social worker).

Hannah is thirteen, and Condren finds it difficult to accept that a person so young can essentially have what is a health care directive. She writes, 'There's the rank air of martyrdom around this story. Where's the pluck? The fighting spirit?'

The girl has had enough. Another element of the story that Condren failed to acknowledge, is that the immunosuppresants Hannah would have swallow every day post-transplant are cancer causing, and this I know from personal experience. Anti-rejection drugs make cancer spread like wildfire, so even if the transplant was successful, in all likelihood, she'd be dead within a year of having the surgery.

When I was thirteen, I practically had a degree in death, as well as a fairly advanced knowledge of Euthanasia. I've spoken to many friends prior to their deaths who have indicated their wish to be euthanised. Cystic Fibrosis is an awful death. It's often a long, slow slide and I would have Philip Nietzsche or Jack Kevorkian in my corner any day of the week.

I'm all for saving lives, but I'm also for ending them with dignity.

Two cases in point are that of Terri Schiavo in 2005 whose husband won a painfully drawn out court battle against his wife's parents, so her feeding tube could be removed. Over the last couple of weeks, Italy’s Supreme Court provoked the fury of conservatives by ruling that a father can remove the feeding tube that has kept his daughter alive in a coma ('persistive vegetative state') for nearly seventeen years after a car crash.

I'm fully aware that Hannah Jones is not of legal age to make decisions about her health care, but this doesn't mean she is too young to have made the choice to refuse further treatment. Condren writes 'Britain, it seems, has come out in favour of Hannah', which lends me hope.

What happened to journalists being objective? Hannah Jones may be thirteen, but unless you've experienced terminal illness and are in the eye of the storm, one cannot be too quick to pass judgement.

Omens, stigmata

2008-11-14T23:15:00.013+10:00

Omens and superstition; make of them what you will. I'm a part-time believer in omens and superstitions, but have a lifetime membership in the Karma club. A few years ago, I began a gradute diploma in Religious Studies. Religion fascinates me, but also holds me to ransom, inducing doubt and even anger. Christianity has left me in a state of perpetual faithlessness. The only religion that has ever spoken to me is Buddhism, though when looked at a little closer, it's more a philosophy than religion.

During a trip to the U.S when I was was 19, some friends took me to this magical place called the Bodhi Tree Bookstore on Melrose Avenue in West Hollywood. It was a welcome haven away from the vacuous glitz which seems to permeate every corner of Los Angeles, and was devoted to alternate spirituality (www.bodhitree.com) - and it still is. Bill and Pam bought me a book on Buddhism and when I returned home I read fairly widely about it and subscribed to some of its philosophies. Now I'm preparing to reinvent my 'faith' by studying the doctrines of Buddha. When I began my grad dip, it soon emerged that most of the teachers in the school of Religious Studies were either atheist or agnostic which I found highly ironic.

So, back to the omens. I'll not say what they involved, but they've rekindled my seeming need to finish my grad dip and who knows - maybe I'll shoot out the other side with some semblance of understanding and a little more tolerance.

The Book and The Bodhi Tree

2008-11-13T23:19:00.003+10:00

The Book and the Bodhi Tree is a new blog of mine. It's a place where I can send out words, thoughts and stories into the universe every day. Instead of 365 works of fiction, I stumbled on the idea of planting seeds of thought where by the end of the next writing year I will have a trunk, branches, shoots, leaves and roots. It's going to be anything but linear and will resemble a collection of thoughts, letters, ideas, stories and images.

This is a place where I can cultivate words and a way for me to nurture what I throw into the void. To see what I'm talking about, please drop by and enjoy. Comments are very much appreciated. In fact, the more brutal, the better.

http://www.thebookandthebodhitree.blogspot.com

Here's a story, of a girl named Carly ...

2008-11-11T23:36:00.007+10:00

Memoir. Life writing. Non-fiction. They're genres I've always had my fingers stuck in, but they always emerged with an unrelenting stickiness, with me in the foetal position on the floor. My much lauded contemporary, Krissy has just spent the year purging her sexual memoir and kindly recommended two pieces of memoir she described as 'must reads'.

Writing is competitive and has the potential to be vicious, much like a bloodsport, (I am yet to witness my first eye gouging initiation), but the support - particularly in Brisbane - isn't something you can put a price on. People need to feel the love, or at least feel another writer up (there's some ammunition for you, Ms. Kneen).

I've been floundering in a labyrinth about what memoir should be and how it has been defined, re-invented and screwed up. I'm now closing in on how I'm going to construct my memoir, and what a lovely existential brain fart that was. I've been sorting through some old writing and rituals associated with the dead, such as standing, sitting or laying down next to a grave, a plaque or some other place where friends have been laid to rest. I tell my friends what's been happening in this world, torture them with my womb to tomb sing-a-long; relive the good, the bad and the indifferent ('oh, remember that time we got blotto in the kid's ward and were placed under house arrest?') I know they're around, but I still tell them what I've been up to, how deeply they are missed and how they always will be - very much like a letter or a postcard being read out loud.

And so it goes.

This is how I arrived at the idea of how I'm going to 'chronicle' the life, the death, the joy, the pain and even the sex, which I may have to converse with sex-bomb Krissy about, because when it comes to writing about sex, it'd be a real cunt to fuck it up.

Candlelight Vigil at the Old Friary

2008-11-10T00:40:00.007+10:00

I wanted to believe. I so very much wanted to believe, but I just couldn't.

This afternoon was a homecoming of sorts. At the Old Friary at the Brookfield Spirituality Centre where David brought so many people closer to their God, I felt as though I had come home. Nearing the Old Friary, I had to remind myself to breathe. 'Just breathe', I recited over and over and over.

Once I reached the Friary, I stationed myself on the verandah, listening to some of David's (and mine) favourite music on my iPod. There was Ennio Morricone, Enya and Jan Garbarek's 'Officium'. I didn't get to Cat Stevens, but will endeavour to do so the next time I visit. I hadn't been to the Old Friary as much as I would have liked after Laura shipped herself off to San Francisco and then to London in April 1999.

There is one day I remember quite vividly, and one of my favourite photographs was borne from this particular day. With my parents and a couple of family friends in tow, we sat up on the verandah of the main house, drank coffee and watched the sun sink behind the mountains surrounding us like some verdant cocoon. It was one of my 'best days' and I still have the photograph of my Dad and I on display in my room, the back of the photograph inscribed 'one of the best afternoon's ever at the Old Friary'.

Tonight was something of a catharsis, with the service of Thanksgiving that was held in the pentagon shaped chapel. A painting of David's (the size of a small billboard) hung behind the alter, and while the man in the painting is Jesus, it's David all over. From the soft face to the beard and the way he has his delicate hands poised, as if to give, it looks more akin to a self portrait even though David was too modest to have deliberately painted it this way.

Then I remembered why I wanted to believe. Amongst that familiar smell of wax and incense and the chirping of birds, I was home and so was Laura.

We did most of our growing up at the Old Friary when David was stationed there as one of God's right hand men. We had some wild parties and I unequivocally fell in love with the place even though I didn't subscribe to any branch of Christianity. Nor did I feel that I had to.

I attended quite a few of David's services like Palm Sunday, Shrove Tuesday, Easter and Christmas Eve - not because I was religious, but because of David and how he could tickle you with the feather of faith, but was never offended when met with polite resistance.

Here is a parting memory. The Christmas before my transplant (1997), my parents and I attended a midnight mass at the Old Friary. The evening began with offerings of port and Christmas cake and by the time the herd moved into the 'pentagon', we were really quite sloshed. David's nephew, Charlie (now an Anglican priest himself), played guitar, while his wife Melissa played her flute. It was the best midnight mass I had ever been to and as I recall, Laura and I were particularly smashed and my Dad was drifting in and out of sleep. Six shots of port in quick succession tends to do that.

After returning to that place today - not just the space, but the memory - I remembered that I am blessed to have a peaceful refuge to enjoy on my own, as well as being able to share not only a place, but something tangible with people I love.

Tomorrow (which at the time of writing is today) will see a colossal outpouring of love, sadness, celebration, grief, joy and thanksgiving.

I want to believe, but I just can't. And I know David would understand.

Time

2008-11-06T23:49:00.009+10:00

You get to a point when you think you're all cried out, then the levee breaks and you're crying rivers. I'm finding it hard to grapple with the fact that it has been a year since I was nearly stripped of both my faculties and my life.

For the moment, I have nothing insightful to share - just questions.

Was it worth it?

Would I do it again?

One question I don't have is 'why me?'

I just hope there is a purpose as to why I am still here. I have purpose, but I'm constantly calling into question why I survived and fifty-eight of my friends are dead. There are days when I could stop breathing when I remember friend's like Ineka, Melinda and Meagan. I have to remember to breathe.

A blanket sodden with guilt is something I am used to like an amoral subterfuge. A reminder that despite being one of the more successful transplant recipients, I still have a terminal illness. This does not mean that I am damaged, but the majority of people who I meet - mostly men - believe that I am something of a human airport with the baggage I've accumulated from my past. I find this insulting. It insults my tenacity, my purpose, my intelligence, and further decays what pinch of faith I have reserved for shallow people who either won't or can't see the forest for the trees. I've said time and time again my only hope is that I have used the (borrowed) time wisely.

I am not defined by my dis-ease. It has shaped me, it has cut me, it has burned me. It is always going to be part of my identity - I just wish people would stop seeing me as a walking, talking illness.

What follows is a contradiction - I can't forget; but I can't remember. What I do know, is that I'll always have a soft place to land.

And here's a thought; the salt of living can never be matched by the sweetness of memory.

David Binns: his art, his truth, his faith

2008-11-06T22:28:00.001+10:00

[written in 2002, father binns was able to see my writing evolve over the nearly two decades we have been friends]

It’s at the old friary at the Brookfield Spirituality Centre where Father David Binns’ odd, yet stirring art hang like Holy lifelines from the walls. Paintings that have an odd edge, because this is art as we’ve never before seen it. The closest form one can link to Binns' art are paintings embodying the pre-Raphaelite movement created in 1848 by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, John Everett Millais and William Holman Hunt. Lashings of art nouveau are also prominent within Binns’ paintings, where influences such as the likes of Czech artist Alfonse Mucha, who shaped the aesthetic of the art nouveau movement at the turn of the 20th century, are clearly manifested. The bearing on Binns’ paintings from French art nouveau untouchable Eugene Grasset materialises with such velvet efficacy, one could be mistaken for believing Grasset was alive and well; shuffling his brush across a canvas, fresh from having his posters shown at the Salon des Cant in 1894.

Aeons away at Corinda in Brisbane’s west, David Binns’ magnum opus is on permanent display in the chapel at St. Aidan’s Anglican Girl’s School.

‘I happened to come into the school the chapel when it was being built in 1988 and completed in 1989’, David explains. ‘I took it upon myself with the headmistress at the time and with her blessing, I began planning the decoration of the chapel, which was bare at the time. It’s a small chapel, so I needed to do something that wasn’t going to be overwhelming.’

Up until this point, David had painted smaller paintings and so on a scale he had only experienced when painting sets for the local musical societies in Toowoomba.

‘I wanted to do three paintings reminiscent of the traditional triptych, but in a more contemporary form. Traditionally, there is a dominant centre panel and two side panels which would close in during Lent. It’s is usually hung on the back wall of the chapel, but we decided that it would be best hanging on the side wall so students, teachers and visitors to the school could see it. I wanted to do three separate biblical paintings of women, with St. Aidan’s being a girl’s school. I think women in the bible are more important than people are led to believe.’

David bypassed the traditional way of using grids to map out his paintings, so instead drew it into squares, whereupon he would enlarge and copy each square. The original size of the drawing was drawn on two pieces of A4 paper. David then made overhead transparencies and using a projector, cast the images onto the canvas panels fastened to the chapel wall. Images were then pencilled onto each panel, which stand ten feet high and seventy-five centimetres wide. Despite their size, it took David only one hour to pencil in the images.

For David, the most difficult aspect to decode was the gradient of blue for each panel, as it proved to be an awkward size. Before he daubed his brush on the canvas, he prepared a watercolour version in order to set the pitch of colour – much like a toile, except on canvas. With the help of a group of year twelve art students, the preliminary work, such as the design of the triptych took a year, though the painting of the triptych itself took nine months to complete, ‘just like the birth of Jesus,’ says David.

His focal purpose for the piece was to appeal to a wide range of people including the students, from grades one to twelve, as well as the staff. ‘I wanted to make it fun too. The pleasure of the colour was integral because I love colour. To me, colour is God.’

The panels of the triptych which bleed into each other mark the beginning of Christ’s resurrection. Evocative of Robert Campin's 1426 triptych, Annunciation, the first panel is devoted to the subjects of the annunciation – Gabriel and Mary. Gabriel lingers above Mary, announcing that she is going to bear the son of God. In the vein of pre-Raphaelite art, David features lavish birds and flowers; embellishing the role of the hallowed femme fatales with their almond eyes and wanting lips.

These women resonate the traditional image of Jesus with their elongated faces, where the depth of each gentle motion of each sweeping shift has a texture of its own. Traditionally in religious art annunciations, Mary holds a lily symbolising purity and innocence. Her long, angular features and mournful face tell a tale as her fingers caress the lilies, while a feminine Gabriel hovers amongst ostensibly spirited birds.

The second panel tells the story of Jesus visiting Mary of Bethany and Martha – the two sisters of Lazarus. A pharaoh-like Mary sits at the foot of the painting, reflective in her position, while a practical Martha, the hostess with her sagacious long hair chastises Mary for her abstraction. This is placed within the bounds of slow ritual where movement takes shape and where Jesus works as mediator, praising Mary for her reflective bearing and humility. Again, wattle features in the background to tie the three panels together, while a gangly cat sits with Mary to add some light to the painting.

‘The challenge was to fit all of this action into one dramatic format,’ David says.

The final expanse of canvas symbolises the resurrection. The three Mary’s mourn at the tomb in various stages of dismay and wonderment, as Gabriel says, ‘Jesus is not here.’ The tomb is a sepulchre of emptiness and only the shroud remains as a symbol for the lost man. Birds make way for butterflies; the traditional symbol for resurrection.

In this panel, David has repeated the theme of a lingering Gabriel, the angel who reveals truths. Whereas the first panel has Gabriel telling Mary news of exultation, the final panel has Gabriel laying bear his hopelessness at the emptiness of the tomb. Both show Gabriel inverted and looking down upon his subject, conveying his sanctified empathy.

The triptych is a chance for everyone to view the sacred. It’s for people who share the similar vocations and beliefs, and for the apostasy, to realise the value of David Binns’ craft. For someone who had to forfeit art school and didn’t come from a background of religion, David’s contribution to the Church has been immense.

He says, ‘I had a childhood belief where I had this idea when I was about five or six, that if you could go to the absolute extremity of the universe and look back, the earth has a human shape, and that was God. It’s still my core belief and it has a fundamental truth, but is not to be taken literally. Every galaxy and every atom is God.’

David was around five years old when that thought barrelled through his head. There were other incidences that led me to my priesthood, but as far as that goes, that was my core belief and still is. I don’t take it literally, but there is some fundamental truth and it’s a powerful metaphor.’

For David, there are three reasons why he paints; ‘the first is to express and give form to inner thoughts and emotions. The second is to communicate and the third is the craft of art where hands and materials are used to create. From my standpoint, which has become the most important, is the evocation of the Holy – to be an open channel of the Holy and to let it shine through.’

David also designed the wooden cross that hangs behind the altar, as well one in copper that clings to the front of the chapel. This is encircled by twenty-four white doves that symbolise the school’s motto, pervola sonata – born to fly upwards. The ten stained glass windows, which have been donated by various community groups over a period of time, were also designed by David.

For an artist who has sharpened his craft where his triptych is particularly reminiscent of Rossetti’s iconic Beata Beatrix and The Golden Stair, one could be lead to believe that David Binns is at the peak of his artistic calling after having had formal art tutelage, however this was not to come to fruition. Instead of art classes, David learnt industrial, trade and geometrical drawing. After graduating secondary school, David had lessons with his art teacher, as well as finding his way autonomously with an apprenticeship in photo-engraving where he made print blocks for magazines. He enrolled in night school and spent four year studying colour drawing in Toowoomba, then began work at the CSIRO as an illustrator. ‘This gave me a love of exactness and detail. I always liked trying to get movement and energy in my paintings.’

Each week, David leads services and workshops at the spirituality centre, as well as spending time at the easel working on a new three part series of paintings, each consisting of eight works of art, entitled ‘Saints in the Suburbs’. The first sequence will be about the infancy of Christ, the second about the Ministry of Christ and the third, about the Passion: ‘I want them to transport biblical and gospel stories into our own time and place,’ he declares.

Through David Binns’ paintings, which appear to be more fable than art, we are able to see what lies beneath the surface of the acrylic; what lies at the core of the canvas. Through the subjects angular features, the gentle motion of each movement, the energy of the art nouveau inspired simplicity of line and rhythm as well as the manipulation of colour, it evokes to the observer that perhaps David Binns was born to reawaken both the pre-Raphaelite spirits but more importantly, the story of the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

In Loving Memory of Father David Binns

2008-11-06T22:26:00.003+10:00

There have been no posts this week because there have been no words.

Late Monday afternoon, I received a text message from one of my closest friends, Laura, saying that her father was in hospital and was not expected to survive the day. He was on life support, so I rushed to the Intensive Care Unit of the Royal Brisbane Hospital, but was too late. Father Binns had passed away in the emergency department; he had gone to be with his God.

There are special people, and there are special people. I've known Father Binns since I was thirteen as he was our school chaplain. His daughter, Laura is one of my best friends and in all of my transplant photos, she can be seen either holding my hand or lingering in the background. Laura would take me out when I was too sick to go out, and was there for me every day post-transplant. She moved to London in the April of 1999. I will always remember her saying, 'when I finish school, I'm getting the hell out of Brisbane and I'm going back to England.' True to her word, she completed school and her degree, then went 'home' to London. Laura had been born in Essex, and her father had proposed to her mother at Piccadilly Circus.

There were two people who were instrumental in my decision to join the church. One was a young nun at our school, called Sister Leanne, and the other was Father Binns. You may laugh, but when I was thirteen, I wanted to be a nun - that is, until I discovered boys. He was also the sole reason why I went to assembly every day. His 'sermons' were more akin to theatrics, with a blackmail chaser. You see, the man was a chocoholic who would bribe students with false hopes of chocolate post-Lent.

After my transplant, I again considered getting thee to a nunnery, and seriously thought about joining the order of the Carmelite Nuns at Ormiston in Brisbane. When I dug deeper, I came to realise that religion made no sense to me and the notion of the universe having one great being was impossible. Still, I was confirmed when I was sixteen, and Father Binns was one of the two reasons I chose to be confirmed. I had not been confirmed as a baby as I was too sick, so by the time the opportunity came around, I was confirmed along with Father Binns' daughter, Laura. We were evil in confirmation class, yet Father Binns had the patience of a saint.

Father Binns is a magnificent artist and in 1988-1989, he painted a triptych which hangs in the St. Aidan's school chapel. I wrote a piece for my undergrad degree in 2002, which I will publish in a separate post.

I had always known David as 'Father Binns' and it always felt odd to call him anything else. I could never bring myself to call him David, even though he was a dear friend. The last memory I have of Father Binns is on the 31st August, when I was invited over for lunch. He had recently been diagnosed as being Diabetic, so I (also a diabetic) brought over cake, and after lunch when we tucked into dessert and coffee. Echoes of 'tut-tut-tut' seemed to ricochet off our sweets, but he said, 'what the hell!'. His son Martin, also a brilliant artist, gleefully said that his Dad had eaten Macca's a week or two ago and had imbibed something decadently chocolate just a couple of days before he moved on from this life.

I will endeavour to scan some photos of Father Binns art. His art, his words, his love and his integrity will be his legacy. I'm sending a massive 'thank-you' out into the universe, out into that void where Father Binns will always be. Everyone who knew him and all who loved him are blessed. My life is all the more richer for having shared it with David Binns.

I look forward to walking the 'Imagine' maze outside the school chapel tomorrow and having a chat to him where his triptych hangs. I feel so humbled to have been welcomed so lovingly by his family on Monday. I sat with him for a bit over an hour, stroked his arm, gave his forehead a kiss, then another. I worked out later that I kissed him twice for a reason. The first blessing was from me and the other was for Laura. I felt like the missing link between father and daughter and channeled her love - a bridge if you will.

I have been listening to Ennio Morricone and while there has been a steady stream of tears, I can't help but smile when I can hear Father Binns saying in exasperation, 'Bloody Hell!' The last time he said that to me, I went one further and said, 'how about shit?', at which he laughed before I said, 'it's fucked!'

Godspeed, David.

The Outback and The Sea

2008-10-24T23:18:00.018+10:00

'The cradle is soft and warm,
couldn't do me no harm.'

'Into Temptation'
Crowded House (as performed by Jimmy Little)

Nivea, sea salt, coffee and come. Wry faces with soil for blush, embryonic with some kind of pathological softening. Oil and diesel fumes coat my hair, and gears crunch with a rush of dust trailing in reverse like hot ochre rain. Which is foolish, because it never rains.

There's no room for avarice for thousands of miles and I can see for miles and miles.

Bush kava and mothers milk. Bulls with clotted horns and loose balls fossick 'round the fence with faces like forked cheese; brindle hides like Moquette. I'm swimming, watching them from the water, trying to see and hear their secrets. Dust rises around raw-boned flanks, smudging the air while hooves brand the ground. They don't know I'm there until I paddle to the rim of the water, sink under and push with my legs from the wall of the pool. I'm Superman, flying as I lean into a curve - arms out, slicing through the water. I jump up and they stop chewing on cud and snorting dirt, or drop their heads down from scratching their snouts in the trees.

Bovine skulls and necks twist my way. They're not bothered by the blonde bobbing in the water with a stupid smile on her face - a parting of the lips and vacant eyes coming from a place that I can't forget, nor remember.

Could just be because I'm out of the city in a little blue lake, shaded by a eucalypt sprouting sixty feet above my head.

Could be because if I turn my head I can see forty-eight rose bushes and a weeping willow which truly weeps. Its branches seem to droop with such sorrow. The leaves hangs low, touching the ground and the block of uncut granite where Meagan's ashes lay.

Could even be because outside the fence it's just brown and yuck and bull dust and rotting kangaroo carcasses, but if I bend my neck back far enough there is the big blue beyond.

You don't get that in the city.

You don't get that at the sea.

The ocean was nature’s version of myself. It would churn, then lull on the shore; churn and lull on the shore again. Flashing and flushing, not knowing where to go, what kind of mood to swing, where to hover or how to throw a punch, another tide would come; one more whitewash.

The sea would interrupt my confusion. It would unfurl, flowing out into the brown froth of a waning ocean wave. It was the only place I felt truly nurtured; a place that felt all of my sorrow with every crash of an angry wave. Except I wasn't angry anymore.

It would salve on the shore with ripples of understanding. The sand was a cocoon and the wind cruel with me believing that I deserved its stinging slaps. It was the only place where I could be me, without question, reservation, provocation or the undeserved care that would smother me like a blanket freshly drawn from the water to be spread over my skin.

It was a place where I was well and centred, a place where I could just be, for fleeting moments of joy and reconnaissance disarmed the siege between this disease and myself, if just for a little while. Still does.

You don't get that in the city.

You can't get that in the city.

*Endnote: the first photograph was taken at my folks place in Mooloolaba, while the second was taken in July at 'Cumberland' under the Weeping Willow. You can see the granite boulder and it even has a bench you can perch on to tell Meag's what's been happening

When a friend dies

2008-10-24T08:55:00.005+10:00

12.2.04 11.20-11.25am Prince Charles Hospital

Such a tapestry of variance and quiet discord. Me in one room; all pink and angry and alive, then a friend in another; blue and angry and on the cusp of not being here at all. Grew up with her. We misbehaved together, grieved together, got drunk together. She, always the healthier of the two (and the four), now clamouring for breath, rasping and rattling on a morphine cloud not really taking her anywhere at all, while I sit and breathe at will. Unyielding to dark passages with the taste of bitter cheese in my mouth, a full belly and a heaving chest of air, I press my palm on my chest.

Why be it this way?

If you go down to the (public) hospital today ...

2008-10-20T21:08:00.021+10:00

Public hospitals. Places of never ending intrigue and WTF was that? One such WTF is a posse of cigarette smoking patients in DVT prevention stockings in hospital for either (or several) of the following:

> Diabetic induced amputation of a major limb
> Alcohol induced liver failure (they'll also have their bottle of Jack with them - no joke)
> Obesity related Diabetes
> Obesity related heart condition which has required open heart surgery and a double/triple bypass
> Cancer

Within this vortex are all manner of people who seem to be unable to read or lack the ability to acknowledge signage because they're having a toke right next to the 'No Smoking' sign, or the perennial favourite belonging to Queensland Health - 'We don't smoke here anymore.' Right. So where do you smoke now, you stupid twats? What kind of fuckery is this? I've asked these people, 'Can't you read?' which leads to engaging in a dialogue or an all out argument over the state of the health system and how I don't give a flying fuck if they're addicted to nicotine or how smoking post-surgery increases the chance of a DVT. I've never ended one of these 'debates' on a positive note and have been verbally abused and threatened physically, which is one definition of funny. 'So cancer stick dick, you're going to rise like Lady Lazarus out of your wheelchair while attached to a drip feeding you expensive anti-biotics and chase me down - ooh, I'm fucking petrified!' I'm sounding a little Maddox (www.maddox.xmission.com -check it). Don't get me wrong - I'm a lover, not a fighter and I've been told that I'm one of the most calm and rational people around. I don't get rattled very often, but when I pop my top, you don't want to be there.

So I went out to Charlies (The Prince Charles Hospital) this morning to have an ultrasound on my subclavian and axillary for my DVT or SE. For non-medical people, that's an ultrasound - and a whole lotta gel - of my collarbone, armpit, chest and arm for a deep vein thrombosis or spontaneous emboli after being on the receiving end of a stuffed up PICC line.

Yes, everyone should have one - a thrombus, that is. I was in the ultrasound suite for nearly an hour. Suite?. Why yes. But not just any suite. It had a bed, probes and gel, a babe in a uniform and dimmer lights. Did I mention the cameras and gloves? Oh yeah ... ultrasound suites ---> the latest home for swingers.

Swingers, white supremacists - they're all the same. In the waiting room was a man who had done his fair share for his country. From what I could tell, he was a war veteran. Without being age specific, I guesstimated that he would have served in Vietnam. His arms were dipped in skank, I mean, ink (deliberate slip up to share with you one of my favourite turns of phrase 'dipped in skank'. I thought it slutted, I mean, slotted in beautifully. Yeppers people, I'm on fire.)

Anyway, I thought it a *little* ironic that this man was wearing a t-shirt and hat bearing the Australian flag (with some little ditty about immigrants) and how the shirt and hat would have been made (and possibly designed) in China. He's been conscripted to Vietnam and served his country - a war he probably knew nothing about when he was called up, and unfortunately would know everything about post tour of duty. Also, the ink used on his tattoos was in all likelihood 'Indian ink' or 'Chinese ink'. I thought it sad that his passion for patriotism had somehow failed him. He could very well be a jaded war vet and I have to say that I can't blame him.

Post swingin' ultrasound, I hotfooted it (read: lead footed it) to the Royal (that's the Royal Brisbane and Women's Hospital), and for once I wasn't going there to see the broken cunt or digit cancer doctors. It was to see my dashing ENT surgeon. It's always nice to drift off in a haze of Propafol looking at eye candy while reciting poetry from your teen angst era, or just generally talking crap. This is because there's nothing worse than drifting off into the slumberland of general anesthesia when you're looking at a 'handsome' woman or a scary looking (usually in the form of a hairy backed male) doctor. That is, unless you die and the last thing you see are the former and/or the latter.

The last major surgery I had in January, I drifted off to some really pissed off anesthetists, because they had such trouble cannulating me. Well, shit - I had told them at the pre-admission clinic that I was practically impossible to get venous access without a central line or a cut down. Google 'venous cut down' - it's messy. Telling off people with lots of letters after their names (MBBS FRACS) is something I do well. I also excel at screaming down clusters of men (who have seemingly endless reams of very important looking certificates with the afore mentioned letters trailing after their names) in front of their peers and young charges. It's becoming more of a hobby than a habit or borne out of necessity. This is the only time I get angry - when someone stuffs up. I have the right to curse and shout because it's my life they're dealing with. I'm not an illness. I'm not just a body. Having ranted about the bad eggs, most of the doctors I deal with are magicians for all the right reasons. Just keep the clowns away from me ...

My advice is always choose an uber-gorgeous doctor, say for example, Peter Hotkins, I mean, Hopkins, and if you die on the table, then at least the journey has been worth it. I'm not happy if I'm sedated before I see Hotkins. I have to see Hotkins. Truth be known, I can honestly say that if he was the last person I sucked face with, I mean, looked at before I died, I would die a satisfied woman with a satisfied mind. He holds the line, stays the course and has saved my life. Considering the issues I have with death due to the monumental fuck up of last November's cunt cancer surgery, if I could have Propafol and Pete on a plate for my last supper, then that would be my order.

For some time it has been clear to me that I know too much about things I really shouldn't know about such as: sedatives, anti-biotics, anti-coagulants, anti-rejection drugs (that's a whole lotta 'anti'), cannulation techniques, how to stick a needle in my chest, how to cannulate a fellow human being (on the first go, thank you very much), finding a vein for a phlebotomist, automatically de-bra-ing/free boobing for x-rays, telling anaesthetists that I'll need a payload of drugs to get me even slightly drowsy and so many other things that aren't coming to me at the end of a long day bound in the red tape of hospitals.

It's sad when you know the 'universal precautions' by the time you're ten years old (gloves, goggles, gown, surgical hand washing etc.) but that was my reality. Still is. I'd never 'un-C.F' myself. I really wouldn't change a thing - apart from scoring a syringeful of Propafol so I can rape Hotkins*.

I feel safer in a public hospital than in a private one. It never ceases to amaze me how people are so deluded when they presume that private hospitals are the better of the two. A private hospital essentially killed my Uncle. If he had been at Charlies, the leading heart hospital in Queensland, I suspect that Garth would still be sailing his yacht 'Kaos' and would be a proud grandfather. The universe could not have taken a more beautiful person, and while this happened well before I hit my teens, it still stings. It will always sting. Stuff like that sticks and the grief only fades ever so slightly over time. So my message is this - don't assume that any private hospital is better than a public one, because that's just an elitist load of crap. Public hospitals are a freak show, and for that alone, I love them.

And if I still haven't made my point - get yourself a hot doc. A hot public hospital doc. Trust me ... I'm a patient.

* intended as a joke**

** um, not really ...

END NOTE: If you haven't already, you simply must listen to one of the sexiest songs of all time - 'Wild is the Wind' sung by Nina Simone. I would be on the verandah at Hargreaves (my family's old place on the river), swinging to this song, bending to Nina's voice as it snaked out of those big B&O penters. It's a song that wraps around you; like a mood that passes through you. Drench yourself in it on a windy day on the apex of the bike track on Nadine Street, Graceville. If that doesn't get you tingling, you're as good as dead.

'You touch me,
I hear the sound of mandolins.
You kiss me.
With your kiss my life begins.
You're spring to me.
All things to me.
Hmmm, don't you know you're life itself?'

Books & Crushes

2008-10-14T16:56:00.005+10:00

Here is an updated list of books I have on the go right now ---

'Aria' by Sarah Holland-Batt (She won the coveted Thomas Shapcott Prize for Poetry). I remember going to one of the shittest masterclasses I've ever been to - wait, let me re-phrase that, it was the shittest masterclass I've ever been to, and one of her pieces way back then was pretty fucking good.

'The Boat' by Nam Le

'Gilead' by Marilynne Robinson (for the second time)

'The Complete Western Stories' by Elmore Leonard

'The Best Australian Stories 2007' edited by Robert Drew

'The Guernsey Literary & Potato Peel Pie Society' by Mary Ann Shaffer, who so sadly died before the joy of this book swept across the world. Everyone has fallen in love with it, and to think Mary Ann would have had so many other stories to tell.

On an endnote, I'm still trudging through 'The Great War', and yes, it's still brilliant. Les Carlyon is my historical non-fiction guru, which gets me thinking about crushes. Here are my current crushes --

Intellectual crush - Andrew Denton

Medical crush - Dr. Charlie Teo

Political crush - Malcolm Turnbull

Girl crush - Sarah Palin - joking! I do not find her sexy in any way, even when she has a firearm. Although, I have to say that she does look more alluring with an AK-47because there's a fair chance that she might actually blow her own head off. So, my girl crush is reserved for Carla Bruni. I've been an avid listener to her music for a while, and find it intriguing that she is now the First Lady of France. C'est le bon!

Papa's Got a Brand New Bag

2008-10-11T16:48:00.010+10:00

Well, not exactly ... I am going to buy myself a new wallet, though not for reasons listed in my previous post (lost wallet). Happily, I have received the good news (actually better than good - more like fucking awesome) from the Sofitel saying that they have my wallet - quadruple yay!

In an effort to curb my 'losing shit when I drink' tendencies (it happens about thrice a year - getting drunk, not losing stuff), I'm thinking of going for something decadent and elegant. A beautiful fashion forward piece like this (nausea-vomitus) --------------------->

C.F Luncheon

2008-10-11T15:21:00.007+10:00

Yesterday I went to my seventeenth Cystic Fibrosis luncheon. Of course this is a cause close to my heart, but yesterday was a rabid tangle of ironies. My mate Dan and I glammed up, frocked up and proceeded to get just a little hammered - not unusual for a luncheon. But there was a different vibe yesterday, as none of my other C.F luncheon centric friends could be there for varying reasons - work, weddings and the like.

I remember last year's luncheon quite vividly, even though I was off my face on oxycontin. It was just before the cuntostomy, and looking at photos from then to now I'm finding it hard to swallow that a year has gone, and here I am. Until I had a few drinks under my belt (actually, it was a bodysuit), I couldn't help but feel as though something was missing. That something was a 'someone', but not just any 'someone'. My Mum Jewel pioneered the C.F Luncheon's and the C.F Gala Balls, and the day felt a little empty without her there. It also sucked because I couldn't say how proud I was of her, and how in the midst of illness, death and raising a family, for some reason she was able to rise, creating something that is truly great - a legacy of sorts. A spate of migraines will slow anyone down, even someone as tough as my Mum, but there is always next year. I think Dad felt a little lost without her, too.

Yesterday was Dan's maiden luncheon (luncheon virgin, no more) and we had a super day and evening (until I lost my wallet - oh, the horror). A friend met me at the Sofitel after work, and by the time he arrived I had pretty much sobered up and entered premature hangover territory. We talked for a while, then went on the hunt for food, ending up at Oriental Corner (which is where I've lost my wallet me thinks), chomping down noodles. After being lulled into a false sense of hunger, my appetite waned after a few gobfuls.

I totally dig the photos Dan and I took yesterday, because apart from feeling like I'm in a really good headspace right now, you don't have to look too closely to see that everything seems to be clicking into place - my health, my writing and other miscellany. The photos are also a timely reminder of how lucky I am to be tripping the light Dantastic. Everyone should have a Dan, so I both encourage and wish you luck, because he's the real deal and the world needs more of them. Oh, and that big white box above this where there should be an image? It's a link to the Kathleen Noonan story from last Saturday's Courier Mail.

I always fancied myself as a page 3 girl, but 36 is the new 3 (or so it seems)

2008-10-04T22:39:00.011+10:00

If you haven't already, make sure you pick up a copy of Saturday's Courier Mail (that's today, tigers). Kathleen Noonan has written a kick-arse feature in her column 'The Last Word', which can be found on the back of the ETC (arts) section. Page thirty-six to be exact. You can also check it out here if you copy and paste the URL -

http://www.news.com.au/couriermail/story/0,23739,24464579-5012506,00.html

It should be posted either tomorrow or Monday. If in doubt, Google 'Kathleen Noonan' and there will be a link to her column where the story should pop up. I read her column every week, and there is one that still rattles in my head. It's about a cop who has seen both the best and worst of humanity. Simply put, Kathleen fucking nails it. And not just on the odd occasion - she nails it. Let me rephrase that - she nails it EVERY FUCKING WEEK.

This week has been a gravitron of emotion, particularly for my Mum, Jewel (who really is a jewel). From revisiting photos of my transplant to interviewing and subsequent writing for 'the book' (which is coming together at a rate of knots), it's been a little topsy-turvy. It is one thing to 'look' at the photos of my journey in 1998, but it's rough territory when you sit down and digest them, and then hear untold stories about what was going on while I was sleeping (I believe the correct medical term is 'induced coma').

Learning new things ten years post-transplant is like biting into a strange piece of fruit. It's a mood that passes through you and I cannot help but marvel at how lucky one person (et moi) can be to hear these intimate anecdotes from family and friends and doctors (now peppered across the country and indeed the world), who were here at the time, sharing the journey. In between the layers of these stories, there are private moments that no one will ever know about and I think it's a good thing to have something to lock away that is just yours. It's another layer, and even if people or circumstance chip, chip and chip away the way you would hack into the heart of an onion, it's going to sting and they'll never get to it anyway.

Despite my ardent agnosticism, there's an element of truth (sense and sensibility?) in the following Beatitude - 'blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth'. I'm not sure about the earth, but I did inherit lungs and for that, I am humbled, and not just in a 'thank-you' kind of way. It's a 'I'm on anti-coags kneeling on broken glass and will walk across hot coals to show you my level of gratitude' way of thanksgiving.

I could write a thousand pages about the selflessness of my donor family, but often when something of such power and consequence has you in it's fist, it is the simple things that have the most meaning and pack the greatest punch. Like getting busy with life. You should try it.

I See Dead People

2008-09-21T20:51:00.003+10:00

What keeps you awake at night?

Is it easy to sleep with what you're hiding?

Who will save you when you can't save yourself?

Where will you go when it's all over?

Will you remember to breathe?

Another Barcy poem

2008-09-08T01:25:00.004+10:00

Birthing Stall

Calves with eyes like moons,
mothers with angry mouths and snouts;
wild horses with jersey hides and bull rush tails.

Jilted bovine pride
wear down the hands of time
while a jury of vultures sit on the fence
wondering when the placenta will pass.

Sow, sweet thing, sow.

Poem for Meag's

2008-09-08T01:16:00.005+10:00

A piece I wrote for my friend Meag's when I idiotically volunteered to write a suite of poems (over 4000 words) for one of my final assessments for my undergrad degree. Meagan is the connection between Cumberland Station in Barcaldine and the friendship I have with her family. I need to do a re-write of this poem; I haven't touched it for about five years. I'm hoping to get back to Barcy in October.

Stopping

The cars are outside.
The cars are outside.
There's something wrong.
Never was.

The clocks have stopped,
the rooster crows.
Always will, and besides,
she's gone.

The trucks don't work,
The planes won't fly.
perhaps they'll land and never return.

The strawberries won't grow.
I pick the root between my teeth
and feel its crunch.

The mulberries, too.
The worms have stopped spinning,
not twirling their silk;
the leaves in piles.

She won't come back.
Won't say hello.
I didn't say goodbye.
Never will.

Rataladeeeee Kate

2008-09-08T00:30:00.006+10:00

One of my closest C.F friends who I grew up with, celebrated her one year transplant anniversary on Friday, otherwise known as a 'Transplanaversy' and/or Happy Lung Day' (yes, I famously coined both terms - fuck, I'm clever).

As I've written in an old post, I don't get the celebrity obsession (or is that an illness in it's own right, being celebrity centric?) There are many people who inspire me, but they're not people who can swim up and down a pool, run fast or score a try. It enrages me how these people are called 'heroes'. Heroes are people who fight for their country; heroes are people who fight for their lives and for others and never give up or surrender hope, and this is the essence of Kate.

Kate works, she has travelled and drank her way across Europe; she's fire danced, done a moto-x course and broke her wrist when she came off a skateboard (rock on!). The only advice I had for her when we spoke the other day was to enjoy it. And she is. My only hope is that I have used my time wisely because it's borrowed time. I've realised that these lungs aren't mine. I may not have 'raised them', but I've been able to honour my donor and their family by respecting and caring for my gift. The lungs have joint ownership because they're not just mine. They're my donors and mine, and with that comes a duty of care and a degree of guilt.

The story of The Lone Cypress

2008-09-07T23:38:00.009+10:00

I really should have taken the time when I initially created this blog to tell you about The Lone Cypress; a 250 year old tree, which seemingly sprouts out of rock. In recent years, The Lone Cypress has had to be anchored with steel cables to prevent it falling into the sea.

One of the first things I saw when I woke up in ICU after my transplant was a fax from George with a sketch of his smiling face and another smaller drawing of The Lone Cypress. We can't remember who pinned it to the wall - it doesn't matter. All that mattered was that I knew I was alive. George has often said that I have an inextricable connection to The Lone Cypress, because of the storms it has weathered and it's propensity to not give up. I liken its steel cables to the wire in my chest holding my sternum together.

I have seen The Lone Cypress once since my transplant and could not have asked for a more perfect day. It was the Pebble Beach golf open and all of the tourists had made a mass exodus to the Pebble Beach golf course. George took me to see my tree and we were the only people there. I was going to climb over the fences and barricades, but considering I had a pneumothorax (collapsed lung), I didn't have time to be arrested as it wasn't in the best interest of my health. Next time will be different ...

After my transplant, I locked myself away in my writing studio for about eighteen months where I wrote over 100,000 words of my first (and still unfinished) novel about my tree. It's a labour of love which I would love to return to, and possibly will this year. It needs a brutal edit so I can begin again. Those 100,000 words mean so much, as the idea for the novel was born from a short story.

I've posted some photographs of the afore mentioned trip to Carmel which include snaps of George and I outside his gallery, The Lone Cypress, and one of my favourite images - George's palette. These were taken on my last trip to Carmel. There is a massive history between George and I that stretches back to when I was twelve, but it's too involved to write in a single blog post. One day ...

There are two minute noodles, and there are two minute poems

2008-09-07T23:09:00.005+10:00

I dragged this old chestnut out I wrote the morning I left Whistler to fly to Monterey where I was able to spend some time with my beautiful friend George Bleich who lives in my spiritual home, Carmel-By-The-Sea. Please take the time to visit his website at www.bleich4art.com. I wrote this poem around 4.30am the morning I left, and it was very rushed. From memory, I think it took me around two minutes, so please forgive any naff-ness.

Firs Only Sleep

when branches
are draped in white.
frigid arms droop, then fling upward
when sun passes through them
like a mood; never knowing to swing a
bitter heat to pat down the ground below;
dense and trudging.

firs only sleep when concrete skies
close over like a lid.
the sky only yields to a day hue,
leading to sapphire skies
peppered with stars and Luna,
until the spring, when they are free.

Clearly sick in the head

2008-09-01T17:43:00.020+10:00

It seems that I have an acquired brain injury because I've been listening to Chicago (the band, not the musical). The wiring in my brain has short circuited. A couple of months ago, I realised that my judgement had not just become clouded, but I had been caught like a kangaroo with a shottie in its snout at sunset.

At last, it feels as though the universe really is in my corner. One of the most worrying things post-relationship, was that I had inadvertently abandoned an awesome pair of stilettos; red Steve Madden's with a _wicked_ gradient. I am delighted to report that 'Operation Hot Shoe Retrieval' was a resounding success and that I have had the pleasure of wearing them to Mercedes Fashion week where I was front row at the menswear parade - oh, yeah. I've had quite a few boys comment on the (pictured) killer heels - both gay and straight - and I'll be pulling them on again tomorrow night at another fashion show. My Dad's cousin Peter has a fashion label 'Philosophy', and I get to go backstage tomorrow night and dress and undress both male and female models. Jealous? Yep, you should be.

Upon reflection, perhaps the ABI never happened, because I'm also listening to Newton Faulkner, Jason Mraz, some vintage Talking Heads and Alice Cooper, DHC (dance hall crashers - find some and listen - DO IT!), and some new AC/DC stuff which is superb.

While on the subject of superb, I'm gearing up for the Brisbane Writers Festival where I'm doing a masterclass with Nigerian writer, Chris Abani. His book, 'Song for Night' is my choice for best work of fiction for 2008. It's shocking, disturbing and pulchritudinous. It's a feast for every sense so if you haven't read it, do yourself a favour and beg, borrow, buy or steal a copy. I'd even go as far to say that it's worth prostituting yourself for, and I don't say that lightly.

I'm going to wrap up this post with a tidbit from 'Good For Nothin'' by the Dance Hall Crashers. If you can get your paws on any DHC, it's guaranteed that you will be cooler by proxy.

'I guess your friends are just as fooled as you,
and you talk and talk but you ain't doing nothin''

And so, I have sub-consciously implemented a system, whereby to be worthy of being either my friend or shag partner, you now have to pass the 'Dan Test'.

I've been through far tougher stuff than this, and I've been doing it for thirty-one years. I feel safe in the knowledge that I am cocooned in the arms of the universe. There's a saying that people come into our lives for a reason, a season or a lifetime. For me, this has never been more pertinent.

** please check out my official wesbite in all of its official-dom at www.carly-jay.com My mate Dan who heads Clear By Design (www.clearbydesign.com.au) has done some awesome work.

Time to Say Goodbye ...

2008-08-16T21:07:00.005+10:00

Next Friday 22nd August, it will be ten years since I received my new lungs. This picture of my sister and I was taken by my great friend and outstanding photographer Alicia Alit-Trevatt as I was saying goodbye to my family and friends before heading to theatre. I remember screaming down the halls for my Mum and Dad and sister and the friends that I didn't think I'd ever see again. I also remember dying on the table and my maternal grandmother sending me back, saying 'it's not time; you're not ready.' It would have been so easy to walk back into that white light, but Nana just wouldn't have it ...

Books I am reading

2008-08-14T21:25:00.010+10:00

I'm a self-confessed book whore. I find it near impossible to walk into a book store and not leave without buying a book, and that is why I have several skyscrapers of books next to my bed, on shelves, scattered around the house and in my car. I've come to realise that reading is more about quality more than quantity, and although I have between fifteen and twenty books on the go at any one time, I'm the first to admit that I'm not a fast reader.

Some people think I'm a fast reader, but it came to my attention a long time ago that I am anything of the sort. Yes, I devour books, but I do not and will not 'skim'. I savour every word and often re-read passages that speak to me. Here are a few I have going at the moment, with a (very short) opinion of each ... I'm too busy to do reviews right now, what with 'the book' and other exciting writer stuff happening :)

'Twilight' by Stephanie Meyers - apparently I am the last person on the planet to read this book and while I'm totally down with the YA vibe I think this book (written by a Mormon woman, so there is an endless cycle of URST - unresolved sexual tension) is littered with hideous cliches, an inferior narrative and ... more hideous cliches.

'Swallow The Air' by Tara June Winch - shamefully, a novel I did not read upon publication. In short - fucking brilliant.

'Breath' by Tim Winton - what else is there to say but mother fucking brilliant? Delectable economic writing, proving the theory that less is more after all.

'McSweeney's' 25 - delicious.

'The Savage' by David Almond - twisted story with awesomely disturbing illustrations by Dave McKean.

'Crime and Punishment' - Fyodor Dostoevsky - oh, the shame of never having read this classic! I wish I had read it many moons ago; the narrative is so evolved for it's time; the language so rich.

'Life in His Hands' by Susan Wyndham - this true story of young pianist Aaron McMillan and controversial neurosurgeon, Charlie Teo is incredibly affecting and beautifully written. It could have come off as contrived, but Susan Wyndham has closed ranks around the genre of biography/life writing.

'On Chesil Beach' by Ian McEwan - again, reticent to read one of last year's shortlisted books for the Booker. Sparse, economic writing - less is more.

'People in Glass Houses' by Tanya Levin - being the agnostic girl that I am, the expose about the Hillsong cult is simply written, though with a driven narrative.

Re-reading 'Winter's Bone' by Daniel Woodrell because it was one of my favourite books of 2007. Also re-reading Ken Kesey's 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest', one of my life 'must reads'.

Annie Proulx everything ... can't get enough of the Newfoundlander. Looking forward to reading her new one this month.

'The Time Traveller's Wife' by Audrey Niffenegger - I love this woman on so many levels. Check out her graphic works, 'The Three Incestuous Sisters' and 'The Aventuress'. The Chicago based woman is a freak (of genius, that is).

'Rock 'n' Roll Tuxedo' by Julie Beveridge - one of the Brisbane poets first poetry collections. Check out 'Home Is Where The Heartache Is'. Beveridge's first collection of haibun is stunning and far superior to most of the poetry I've been reading over the last couple of years, aside from Sarah Holland-Batt, MTC Cronin and Nathan Shepherdson.

'The Great War' by Les Carlyon - this book makes my heart ache. It is a devastating portrait of what our (and other) soldiers endured during World War One. Poignant and elegantly written, Carlyon manages to present the brutality of war so eloquently, without a hint of sap or cliche. Everyone should read this book. It's a brick, but it's a brilliant brick.

There are probably many others, but this skyscraper will feed me for a wee while. There are a lot of other books that I'm reading, but I cannot stress the importance of quality over quantity.

Now I want to know what you are reading. I want to hear about the good, bad and the indifferent.

Finally, one cannot help but love poet Cicero, who around 55BC declared, 'A room without books is like a body without a soul'.

Sylvia Plath reading 'Daddy'

2008-08-12T22:30:00.010+10:00

I've been reading Sylvia Plath since I was a wee lass. As culture and age dictates, this obsession with Plath is certainly not an uncommon rite of passage for any angsty teenager. My love, admiration and sorrow for the woman has grown with each passing year, and I always discover something new when re-reading her novels, poems, children's books and journals.

Being an avid collector of her works, I have a sky-scraper of her books stacked on my big Indian cabinet. I stumbled across this on the weekend - a soundclip of Plath reading of one of her most famous poems, the brutal and tender 'Daddy'. I felt a compulsion to post it on The Lone Cypress, but because I'm slightly retarded with posting things other than photos here is the URL - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6hHjctqSBwM.

Her voice makes my chest ache, and she pronounces her vowels so beautifully! While I have heard many of her recordings, if you can't sense that fire in her voice, check your pulse because there's a fair chance you're dead. From that you can grasp the kind of relationship she had with her father, Otto. The poem also articulates the tender subject of her first suicide attempt in 1953.

Make of her reading what you will. For me, it's a fusion of anger and sweet resolve.

P.S - Ted Hughes was an arsehole.

Oh, by gum!

2008-08-11T23:43:00.011+10:00

After having a tooth extracted (read: ripped out with pliers) last Wednesday, I've been feeling a little worse for wear. Saturday was great. I went to the Powerhouse markets early, had a very social day with my friends Dan, Bec & Dylan, Levi the chocolate lab and Little (real name Isaac, who shares a birthday with my Mum). Then there was Cate and her two whipper-snappers and one of her poodles, Ginger, and Lachie and Sooz - my friends who were married on a Pier in Sydney in early May. I finally got to meet their puppy Captain Kishore - I can't remember the exact breed, but he is a terrier and has one of the most gorgeous faces. Sooz had her new iPhone with her - yes, more new tech - and I have to say that it suits her because Sooz is very evolved and uber cool. The above photograph is just one of the stunning snaps from her and Lachie's wedding, taken by none other than brilliant Brisbane photographer Mel Osbourne.

As per usual, I have digressed, so I'll get back to the fuck-off pain of the tooth extraction. I've had a double lung transplant, I've had my cunt peeled like a grape and the skin grafting that went with it. I've lived with a chunk of bowel outside my body for three months but I was just about shitting myself when I had to go to the dentist in expectation of a root canal. Instead of expected root canal, I had the tooth pulled, which is great because the tooth fairy arrived in the form of my mother, who paid the bill of $140. Root canal quote? $1200. One thing that immediately sprung to mind, is that teeth are ugly - mother fucking ugly, in fact. The extraction itself was very straightforward, but the recovery has been a little below par.

I began anti-biotics the following day, and after informing the transplant team that I had had a tooth pulled, they flipped their wig, saying that I should have been on anti-biotic cover before I had the procedure done. I know my body and had the foresight to start on some big gun anti-biotics. But yesterday, I started spiking temps - just low grade ones, but temperatures all the same, which is not great when you're immuno compromised. My mouth was really sore and I've been on the receiving end of some headaches from hell, so I've been popping panadeine forte like tic-tacs and have started on a second anti-biotic.

On Friday, my dentist packed the crevasse with some anti-bacterial stuff, and for the next twenty-four hours I had the foulest taste in my mouth - every single morsel of food I ate tasted of this disgusting anti-bac packing. Friday night was brilliant, despite looking like a chipmunk (well, half of my face). As an early birthday present, I took Mum to see David Helfgott play at the Conservatorium at Southbank. He was such a joy to listen to and to observe his quirky nature. What a beautiful soul he is. Oh to be in the front row - he shook hands with everybody after the end of each piece, and two chicks got to suck face with him!

I don't suffer from celebrity worship. In fact there are only a few people who I would love to meet, because they truly inspire. Most are ordinary people who do extraordinary things, and on Friday night I added David Helfgott to my very short list. The concert beat watching the robots at the opening ceremony of the Olympics, and Mum absolutely loved the concert. We had a sublime dinner, awesome gallery seats and it was a night that was just so full of joy.

And so to the tooth ... yesterday I thought I was on the road to septicaemia, which is always a little unsettling. After feeling crap today and having so much to do for 'the book', I'm getting a little frustrated. I need to organise interviews and will make some calls tomorrow. I was supposed to go to see the Australian Chamber Orchestra tonight, which was going to be a cello feast, but couldn't go which was disappointing because not many concerts are dedicated to the cello, and I ache for that instrument being a former player. I not only want to begin playing again, but need to. I just have to buy a new bow.

I'm looking forward to making inroads this week with 'the book' in terms of organising interviews and creating a 'family tree' model of the many people who are connected to this story. The one theme I continue to return to, is that I feel humbled to have been asked to write 'the book'. I'll endeavour to post more tidbits about this incredible journey.

Remembering

2008-07-31T23:31:00.017+10:00

Wild winds have a way of tugging on the memories of my adolescence. It's a gravity of sorts, then comes the traction serving as a perpetual reminder of things done and said, things you wish you could undo and the deafening silence of words not spoken. I did most of my growing up in the RH (river house), so fortunate enough to spend my time water ski-ing, swimming and writing. I remember when I would sit almost level with the waterline. I'd lay on my belly at high tide and meditate so that I felt like I was laying on a bed of mud coloured water. I have such affection for both the river and the RH. There was high school, my first love, sex, rum, university, the business of life and death and everything in between.

These squally winter outbursts create a warmth in my belly and I've had the challenge shoved in my face to find somewhere that makes me feel as settled as the RH did. Re-possessing thoughts of the past, the cogs in my head begin to tick over and I can go to a place where everything really was okay. At the place before the RH, I remember when afternoons of gusts would shake the leaves off the two mango trees that shaded part of the house. They littered the pool and I'd pluck them out, one by one; making sure they were free from spiders that had spun their webs, all sticky like moths with wet wings. From my room at the RH, eucalypts speared into the sky for what looked like hundreds of feet and I could see across to Indooroopilly Island where a colony of bats quite literally hung out during the day, waiting until dusk so they could fly. Even in winter when the sea had swallowed the sun, the night sky surrendered to flapping wings. A different story for earth - bats shit, and they shit big time. Trivia ... bat shit is highly acidic. You could (and still can) see them piercing the sky. They can also be heard beating their leathery wings, ‘whoosh, whoosh, whoosh’.

The bougainvilleas across the river, untamed with their rambling pink and purple flowers, so fat full of colour, sprawled so far and oh, so high. I could see them from every room in the house, and I had a bird’s eye view from where I sat at my desk, which is where I wrote. Coincidentally, I still write at a desk.

The eyes are a marvellous tool for understanding, not just for observing and ‘seeing’. It would happen fast and I don’t know if anyone in my family remembers this one BBT (big brown tree) which could have looked out of place if it wasn't such a striking contrast of verdant green. A black splotch on a blank canvas is one lame analogy (it's late). The BBT was suffering from the black sheep syndrome – it’s there, but it’s as though it’s spoiling an otherwise perfect image. I fell in love with that particular black sheep. My soul ached when the leaves turned brown and gold, because I knew that everything would be okay.

Where I live now, there are a couple of things and places that give me peace. Armed with the knowledge that everything will work out and whatever is meant to be, is meant to be, is serving me well. I’ll not be revealing where these places are because they’re an intimate part of my being, and it is a part of me I don’t want tarnished through memories and people who have a blackness in their heart.

This week I am feeling lucky. Even though the cancer has manifested itself elsewhere (not my yin-yang), the marvel of modern medicine is on my side, as are my family and friends and my drive to write. What else can I say, except that I really am so fucking blessed?

A few weeks ago I travelled to Barcaldine on the ‘Spirit of the Outback’. It was seriously one of the *coolest* things I’ve ever done. Despite having to cut my stay short because I found another clot in my sub-clavian and axillary (neck and arm), I’m planning on going back out in September with Mum so we can participate in the ‘Meagan Walker Mini-Marathon’ (Fuck walking, I'll be getting myself a horse) in memory of my beautiful friend Meag’s who passed away from C.F about nine months after I received my transplant. Survivor’s guilt ... now that’s another story.

My Mumma has never been to 'Cumberland' which is the cattle stud Meag’s family has. It’s one of my favourite places in the world. Meag’s is there so I never feel alone. She may no longer be with us bodily, but she never left this earth because her presence hangs thickly in the air and she is there on the faces of her family.

'Rest little one, rest'

Adventures and ventures

2008-07-10T23:31:00.020+10:00

Ahhh, the month of July. I have excellent news - I am no longer taking the rat poison that is Warfarin :) I began bleeding, and as gross as it sounds, I was losing cupfuls of blood and it was sucking the life out of me. It was surprising I didn't need a blood transfusion because I seriously thought I was dying. Seriously. The smaller things in life are often the most marvellous. No more needles three times a week; I'm not bruising like I was and I feel a little more than sub-human again. Well, I actually feel incredible and very human. Much has happened in the last few weeks. I have been asked to write a book for a family who were in a horrendous car crash (99.9% of the time it's a crash, not an accident). Their 22 month old son was killed, his older brother is a paraplegic, and their mother suffered horrific injuries that would churn the gut of any nurse, paramedic or cop, and they come from the Police family.

I feel incredibly honoured that they have entrusted me with writing about the crash, the implications, the ripple effect. So far, it has been an uplifting experience, because the last thing we want is the story to reek of negativity. I have to say that this will be the most noble 'thing' I will ever do. And it's progressing beautifully - moving at a rate of knots in fact and from the beginning, before I took the book on, I found myself already consumed by the sheer magnitude of the project and the beauty of redemption.

I'm boarding the 'Spirit of the Outback' out to Barcaldine on Saturday. One of my very close C.F friends Meagan, who died about six months after my transplant, I go to see her beautiful family who have a cattle station in Barcy. Meag's had always wanted me to go out, as did I, but either she was sick and in hospital having intensive treatment, or I was. Her resting place is under a striking weeping willow; her ashes in a granite boulder. I did my first trip to Barcy about 18 months after Meag's passed away. I feel such peace when I am out at Cumberland, with Meag's folks and her two sisters. I've been out nearly every year since, although last year and 2006 had, unfortunately, not been kind to me health wise. Now? I feel refreshed, excited and happy. The Walker's have a pet sheep called Mare, who loves being fed rice crackers and bleats when I or anyone else make a show of hands to symbolise that we're out of crackers. It's her favourite snack food :) And then there is the beef - Santa Gertrudis, baby! Here is a photograph of Meag's at her 21st birthday ...

I'm hanging to go horse riding, whether it's mustering or just giving it a good run around the property. This place that I am so fortunate to visit exudes calm and peace. Meagan's family are truly amazing. They have lost their daughter, but they are never short of a laugh - such beautiful souls, just like Meag's. It's not entirely strange, but I can feel Meagan there, both in the house and in their *amazing* garden. Who would have thought that such a magnificent garden with it's rambling rose garden and arbours could survive in one of Queensland's hottest cores? The Walker family are both humble and proud; it is simply not in their nature to back down or quit. Their lives go on, and I say that with affection because it could come off as sounding cold. But lives do go on.

So with my new HP mini-note (it's the size of a clutch bag), I will board that train on Saturday where I will read, write and maybe get a little drunk in the dining car. The silence at the homestead is like a little aural haven - that is until I get out the shotty and go stalking kangaroos. This time I'll be wearing more than a string bikini and RM's. Maybe.

I'm looking forward to writing out there - my writing seems to be pushed (or pulled) in so many directions, in that the narrative and tone twists and turns into unexpected veins. It's sensitive territory, writing about the dead. It's inextricably personal; sacred and intimate. That's enough introspection for one night. I am uber-excited about picking up my new tech tomorrow - thanks Dan!!!!

Frieda and the Friendly Elephant

2008-06-06T14:14:00.004+10:00

This is a fairytale I wrote for my best friend Bec's birthday (that's a lot of b's) a few years ago. Enjoy ...

The sun was but a fable he had once heard from the mouth of a gypsy, and the moon, a light which shone on Frieda’s face. There were nights where the moon was so white the elephant could see the stain on Frieda’s plump face, which looked like she had been clout; a rose coloured slap that played upon her cheek as it danced in the light of the moon. Frieda’s skin was reminiscent of the palest of goat’s milk, and as bright as the moon and the stars in the sky. Her hair was scarlet; cropped close to her head for the lice that ravage her. Once upon a time, Frieda’s hair was long and thick like soft velvet ropes. It would fall over her back like a winter coat, while the wind would pick it up to lick the air in summer, much like the flames licked the crest of an inglenook, when fires burned at their most searing. When the ringmaster snatched Frieda from the orphanage, after he had her milk the cows until her fingers were raw, he had her hair shorn, and with that, no longer could she hide from view her rose coloured slap. And so Frieda had a rose coloured scalp and a rose coloured slap. She had been pushed and pulled out of her mother’s womb with that red mark of a hand across her milky face, and every morning at three thirty seven, the moment when her betrothed mother willed her daughter out of her raw and bloodied canal, Frieda would feel the burn on her cheek. She’d raise her hand to touch it—to salve where it ached the most—her hand itself an unguent to the smouldering beneath her cheek.

Though there were the nights when the elephant couldn’t see anything at all; not even the outline of his own trunk, let lone the shadow of Frieda’s body. The elephant’s belly had been spared the wrinkles and coarse hair that came with his ilk, so each night he would lay on his side—his weary leviathan frame, flattening hay and mounds of wood chips—and Frieda would concertina to the ground for sleep, where the narrow camber of her back swathed against the hearth of his soft underbelly. Never had she been so near to anybody since she was held so heavily and unwanted in her mother’s swollen womb. She would burrow into the warp and weft of the elephant, for his plump belly soothed Frieda, as did his odour. Peculiarly, the elephant was pleasant smelling, unlike the other animals of the circus. Frieda would forever marvel at how he smelled of neroli. And so, each day was just as it had been the day before, save for the nights that were sprinkled with stardust and scattered with powder from the moon.

♠ ♣ ♥ ♦

The circus. It was a home where misery burrowed itself into the oddest of places. A garland of rusty bells would hang from the elephant’s neck, tied together with threadbare ribbons with some strange intention of embellishing his furrowed trunk. The tin bells would clang and clink, and were more suited to a jersey cow than a circus elephant. The peasants would clap and cheer as he balanced one foot on a rotting wooden stool, head up facing the top of the tent in mock pride, trunk gathered so taut that he ached from the thick of his neck to his drooping jowls. The ringmaster would crack his whip, signalling the elephant to shake his head from side to side and up and down so the bells would spin and clang. The peasants believed the elephant to be a ferocious beast, and one to be feared when he shook his head about so violently. The louder the bells and dismally made carillons clanged, the more the peasants clapped and cheered. The more the peasants clapped and cheered, the sharper the whip that lashed at his hind.

♠ ♣ ♥ ♦

One fair day in autumn, the village was buzzing with talk that Princess Lahfayelle was to call upon the circus. Why she was to call on Saul’s pitiable circus was a mystery. There was talk in the taverns, parley in the parlours, and even the monastery had not escaped, as prayers were paused to wonder aloud as to when and why the princess was visiting Saul, the filthy ringmaster.

Princess Lahfayelle was notorious throughout the kingdom for reputedly being the unkindest and greediest of princesses any kingdom had ever known. Saul had received a telegram from the Royal palace, requesting Saul’s elephant in exchange for two tigers. Two tigers the ringmaster did not have. Two tigers the ringmaster coveted.
‘She can ‘ave whatever she pleases. Who needs an elephant when I can ‘ave two tigers or lions, or whatevah the ‘ell she’s givin’ me?’
‘No, you won’t give him to the princess … you can’t!’ cried Frieda.
‘This is none of your bizness, you ‘lil wench!’
And with that, Saul dragged Frieda along the gravel to where the tigers would be caged. Hastily he unlocked the cage, picked Frieda up, threw her in and locked the enclosure.
‘I’ll not ‘eer a peep outta you or I’ll throw you to the tigers when I get ‘em!’ he spat, then;
‘You’ll always be ugly,’ and he laughed wickedly, echoing so loudly through her body that she thought she might break. Snap like a pine needle underfoot.
Frieda knotted herself into a corner, so faint that she would never see her elephant again she did not know her knees were a mixture of blood and dirt.

♠ ♣ ♥ ♦

Saul scrubbed the dirt off his face and hands for the impending arrival of Princess Lahfayelle. He had never seen her, but had heard many stories about her beauty. From her shining black hair, to her bee stung lips, Saul was eager to meet her in person, and he planned to draw as many pennies from it as he possibly could. He’d charge the villagers one by one to tell them the story about the day the princess came to see his circus, and buy his finest elephant.

It was common knowledge amongst the villagers that Princess Lahfayelle was infatuated with youth. She had a Swiss alchemist under her employ who made potions and tonics to drink, ointments and balms for her to rub on her face and polish her body with. She bathed in goat’s milk and rubbed gold dust on her cheeks. Queen Marguerithe, a kind woman who had governed an enchanted kingdom had died many years ago, and the princess remained a princess, for she despised the mere thought of being called a queen, for kings and queens were old, and she was not, nor ever would be.

It was in the afternoon, when the air was fresh and the trees were flailing in the wind that Princess Lahfayelle and her consorts arrived. The princess was carefully guided out of the carriage, and once the chief consort had laid out a square of the finest silk for her to stand on, move she did not.
'Welcome to the greatest show on …’
‘Show me the beast at once! I’ve no time for idle chitter-chatter,’ she said tartly.
‘He’s the finest elephant I ‘ave, milady.’
‘He’s the only elephant you’ve got, you dimwit!’
‘Of course, milady. Right this way, milady,’ Saul gestured.
‘Ahem. Milady will not be going anywhere. You will bring the beast to her,’ said a servant in starched pantaloons, holding a parasol over the princess.
‘Of course. I’ll go get ‘im,’ said Saul, bowing as he went.
‘I’m sure they’re fine tigers, but they’re eating all of my pheasants, and I’ll not have that. And besides, I want the beast so it can carry me around the grounds of the castle. I have these…’ she said, her neck jerking towards her hollow-looking consorts, ‘but they’re too unsteady. And they’re rough. They have no idea of how to carry a princess.’
‘Of course, milady. And you can ‘ave peace of mind that the only thing this ‘un eats is ‘ay. No pheasants for ‘im.’
‘Well, that’s settled. I shall have the tigers brought to you as soon as I have the beast.’
‘Thank-you, milady, thank-you,’ and he gestured and bowed countless times until she was steered into her grand coach, the parasol snapped shut and the coach door closed. Saul curtsied until the princess and her courtiers had disappeared into the dense back wood from whence they came.

♠ ♣ ♥ ♦

By the afternoon, the elephant was restlessly walking around his darkened quarters, knowing that something was terribly wrong, for Frieda had not come to see him. Suddenly the ringmaster was upon him, circling him like prey, the shadows under his eyes like black crescent moons, fierce with envy; alive with madness.
‘Fancy that, eh? Livin’ the rest of your days out with a princess, lucky bastard of a beast. Stupid ‘lil girlie’ll miss ya though, won’t she now?’ he laughed. ‘She’ll be locked up in ‘ere all by her ‘lil self, just like the wench deserves!’
The ringmaster turned his back and walked away, the sound of his wicked laughter echoing in the elephant’s droopy ears—ears Frieda would stroke after his macabre circus act had come to an end for the peasants, drunks and gypsies who drifted in and out of the village.

Once the ringmaster’s laughter could no longer be heard, the elephant began to circle the pen in fury. He swished his trunk from side to side and stamped his feet, hoping Frieda would feel the vibrations, so she would know that he was coming for her; to take her away from the torment of the circus.

♠ ♣ ♥ ♦

As the sun sank below the mountains and the moon rose in the sky, climbing just high enough so he could see, the elephant drove himself through the tent, splitting the canvas. He trotted heavily through the circus, squashing everything in his path, until he saw he tiger’s cage. The steel pen gleamed under the light of the moon and Frieda jumped to her feet.
‘What are we to do? What will become of us?’ she whispered, salty tears trickling down her cheeks. ‘What will the princess do with you?’ she asked, and with that the elephant wrapped his trunk around the bars and began to pull, his body lurching backwards and forwards as he tried to pry the bars apart, he body so strong and his will, so loyal.
‘Harder, harder! You must pull as hard as you can!’ cried Frieda.
‘What the ‘ell’s goin’ on ‘ere?’
It was the ringmaster, his face beet red with anger.
The iron rods on the cage were beginning to bend and soon, all there was to see was a gaping hole and en empty cage. With his trunk, the elephant whisked Frieda up onto his wide back, and he turned to see Saul standing on his own and seething. The elephant approached and saw that the ringmaster had his whip wrapped around his soiled hand.
‘Run, run!’ cried Frieda, and that is what the elephant did, trampling Saul, the devil himself, as they dashed out away from the canvas tents. The evil ringmaster was dead.

♠ ♣ ♥ ♦

They walked for days; perhaps it had been a week. They would never know. They would rest on grassy knolls and lush hummocks where the undergrowth was so soft, Frieda found herself wondering if this was what it felt like to sleep on the finest of goose down. Afterward, they would walk some more—sometimes Frieda would walk close to the elephant; so close they almost touched, for she was afraid of being captured by the evil ringmaster, so she never ambled too far away. With the soles of her shoes paper thin the elephant would carry her on his back; her fragile body swaying back and forth, back and forth as they travelled onward.

With Frieda on the elephant’s broad hind—so lofty like standing at the top of a tower—she could easily catch sight of where their next stop would be, which was for the most part, waterholes.
‘Over the ridge,’ Frieda pointed; ‘just past that thick patch of elderberry trees!’ she would squeal with joy. Once they arrived at a waterhole, she would slide down the elephant’s trunk, always minding to keep her legs straight as planks so she would not clip his tusks. Frieda would use her hands as a cup, while with his trunk, the elephant drew in what seemed to be pails of water with which he would spray himself and Frieda with delight, only after he had quenched his thirst and rolled around in the mud on the sodden banks of the waterhole.

The elephant trumpeted only when he could be certain that he and Frieda were safe from harm; far away enough from the madding peasants and the evil princess and her legion of soldiers and servants, who would fuss and founder, cuss and quarrel over her every whim. Many years ago, the elephant had believed princesses were kind and beautiful. To many, Princess Lahfayelle was beautiful. To the elephant, she was the ugliest woman he had ever seen, because she was as such on the inside.

Meandering through the moors and thickets, with untrodden leaves, pine needles and brushwood crackling beneath the aching heaviness of his feet, without a word, Frieda and the elephant would dream of lands full of juniper and magnolia trees, flowers, birds and butterflies and a kingdom where water would fall from cliffs into clear ponds below.

♠ ♣ ♥ ♦

One day, as Frieda was plucking daisies from their stems and crushing lavender between her soft fingers, they came upon a shallow river. The elephant and Frieda heard laughter. They could also hear trumpeting sounds.
‘It couldn’t be, could it?’ asked Frieda, looking at the elephant. She dropped her daises and lavender and clambered up onto the elephant’s trunk so he could hoist her onto his back. With her hands still sweet-smelling from the lavender, they crossed the river, quickly setting out form the water as soon as the elephant’s giant feet touched dry land. From where she sat aloft the elephant, Frieda had to rub her eyes for she could not believe what she was seeing.

Hundreds of little girls with hundreds of elephants. And not just any elephants – pink elephants! Suddenly, Frieda felt something on top of her head stirring and before she had time to bring her hand to her head, up sprouted scarlet coloured hair! Each second, an inch would spring from her bald crown. Frieda waved her head around, feeling the long lost man of hair across her back. Soft like silk, she ran her fingers through it. Then to her utmost surprise, when Frieda went to slide down the elephant’s trunk, she looked down and saw that he had turned pink!

‘If only you could see yourself! You’ve gone and turned all pink! Really, you have!’ she chirped as she glided down his trunk. The elephant had noticed something different about Frieda, too. The ambled over to a pond so clear they could see their reflections. Frieda gasped, for her rose coloured slap was nowhere to be seen.
‘It’s gone … completely disappeared,’ she said, ‘and you’re pink. And … I have my hair again.’

Indeed the elephant was pink. He rested his trunk on top of the water and it gently rippled across the pond, making mirrors of the two friends. And that is when he knew he and Frieda had found their home. They turned toward the other little girls and elephants and saw that the girls were dancing the maypole. Dancing in the wonderland where all girls have faces like cloudless skies. No rose coloured slaps. Just milky faces and pink elephants.

♠ ♣ ♥ ♦

Friday post which was supposed to be for Thursday

2008-06-06T00:55:00.003+10:00

Had a very late night tonight, so please accept my apologies for not posting earlier. I will endeavour to create two brand spankin' new pieces that are supposed to be written for Friday. Which is today. Or this morning. Oh, the joys of sedatives ... nightie-night ... I'm off to slumberland.

Wasabi Woes

2008-06-06T00:10:00.004+10:00

With chopsticks that were giving me splinters, I picked up the lump of avocado that sat expectantly on my sushi plate. I squished it with my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth, swished it around, licked my lips, and like all good avocado, swirled the remnants of it across my gums one more time before I swallowed. There was a rush. And the realisation that it was wasabi. I picked through the cucumber on my plate, stuffed rice into my mouth, peeled pickled ginger from its neatly formed pile, and doused everything else on the plate with soy sauce. Water. One would think water would be some sort of salve; except that the water seemed to feed the fire that was filling my mouth and throat. The fire brigade passed by, and I think that perhaps I should have hailed them. Surely they'd have drugs for this kind of thing. Anti-wasabi drugs. The same brigade had passed by just fifteen minutes before the calamity that was wasabi in my mouth. Choking in front of other patrons sends palpable signals that something is wrong. Or not quite right. ‘Suck it up’, I told myself. Except I sucked it up too hard and I vomited all over the deck. Children whined, ‘oh, look Mummy, the girl bomited!’ (it’s how small children who should be seen and not heard say ‘vomited’). Mothers looked on in abject horror. A lady who had seen better days from several bouts of chemotherapy then started to vomit in sympathy. I had a sympathiser. Everyone needs one of those. My lunch partner had a panic attack and the birds continued to twitter their winter song, despite the deluge.