Don’t say “Pumpkin”

There is a skill I don’t always have a strong grasp of. The ‘think and edit before you let words come out of your head and potentially stick your size 6 1/2 foot in your mouth” skill. Sometimes I feel like I have it sorted and in those moments I revel in a little rationality, a little patronising “I’m so grown up, calm and wise” moment. Other – more manic - times, there is just free-flow, a vomit of words and ideas pouring forth. Rabid in their intensity. The fella was kind enough to point out when this was happening the other day, I was talking about something (that was really interesting, insightful and entertaining, all at the same time) when I turned around and noticed not the gaze of admiration, respect, devotion and interest I was expecting but the eyes-wide-open, mouth agape, stunned bunny in the headlights confused look (which I may have seen once or twice before).
“What?”
“I just can’t believe how many words are coming out of your head. They just keep coming and coming and coming.”
Pause.
I was wishing there was a little more admiration and little less bunny in his reaction to my word-spew.
Then I decided – in the spirit of female partners world over, to ignore him and go back to what I was saying – in the off chance any of it might sink in.

Anyway…


It’s not that I don’t try, I have to practice this skill all the time in my job as a teacher. The “Don’t tell him he is an insensitive, ignorant pain in my ring” or “Don’t say for fuck’s sake” skill all day. But sometimes, in moments of distraction or tiredness, it switches off. And doesn’t warn me. You know like the empty petrol light in the car. That would be useful. And distraction and tiredness tends to be more prominent when teaching Special Education. They just wear me down to the bare, fragile, crumbly minimum. So many, many needs, all bunched together in little over-heated rooms feeding off each other’s needs like little, needy parasites that grow fatter with each;
“Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissssssssssss” I can’t find the ‘on’ switch for my computer!”
“Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissssssssssssssss I’ve lost all of my books”
“Miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisssssssssssssssssss why does he (the autistic boy) get to sleep on his desk and I can’t?”
“Huh?”


There’s a chance that the only reason I got my Masters In Education – Special Education is not just because I made the mistake of choosing too many subjects in Special Ed but that it was an online course and therefore no one actually met me or, particularly, saw me in action in the classroom.

Because sometimes, my “think before you speak tank” hits empty.

Pre- special ed qualifications I taught a boy in mainstream English who quite clearly, was not your “run of the milll” year 9 student. Whatever that is. Instead of slapping his neighbour over the head with his diary or aiming spit-balls at the ceiling he was sitting up the front of the room (voluntarily) putting his hand up to ask for clarification (before I’d actually explained anything), rocking to an internal beat in his chair. One day, after explaining/directing/re-explaining the writing task I asked them to start their work. He preferred to start banging his head on the desk, like some kind of arse-about Metallica fan.

I wasn’t expecting that at all, and it actually gave me quite a fright. Apparently my natural reaction to a bit of a fright is to act defensively and aggressively. And yellingly.

“STOP! THAT! IMMEDIATELY!”

Insensitive, but it did shock him into stopping.

“I will NOT have that sort of behaviour in my class.“Do it again and you’ll get DETENTION!”
Insensitive, but he never did it again.

I taught the same kid again three years later and tried to be a little more sensitive with a little more experience it was quite clear he had Aspergers, although not diagnosed. In preparing for his exams, we were discussing the difficulties he had with anxiety and behaviour in exam situations.

“It’s useless. I’ve always been like this, I can’t change.”
I was packing up my stuff and not practicing the very useful skill of think before you open your big fat mouth.
“No you weren’t, you used to bang your head on the desk, remember? “

Awkward, awkward, fucking awkward- I’ve insulted the Asperger’s student –pause.

Then: “Oh yeah”.

“Well…you don’t do that any more, so you have changed..”

Phew.

Sometimes, I have to makes sure I do heaps of swearing at recess and lunchtime – away from the students - to make sure I’ve used up my swear-word quota for the day and one doesn’t sneeze out of my head when my defences are down in class.

(This actually seems to work).

It’s always hard at the beginning of the year with a new class of modified English and you have to pick and sort through the behavioural issues, health issues, learning difficulty issues and “I hate this fucking place” issues. Using all patience while trying to establish relationships, motivate, engage and support students who I haven’t taught for a while, if ever. Being patient enough to get them on side knowing we have a whole year ahead full of inane questions and absent punctuation.

At the end of a class two weeks into term 1 where positive reinforcement seemed to be working on a particularly Emo 15 year old, I thought I’d take the opportunity to tell him I had recognised and appreciated an improvement in his attitude and work efforts. At least that’s what I should’ve said, but after a full day ending with 100 minutes of modified English, our little meeting aimed at developing a solid working partnership went more like;

You know how you were a total pain last week in class?
Ahhh..
It made me want to stab you in the eye with my pen.
Oh.
But you’ve been heaps better today, so let’s keep going with that.
Um..

That night the fella said he hoped the kid had a sense of humour otherwise I’d be out of a job.


More recently, my skills (or lack of) in shut upping have been tested even more. At the beginning of the year I unfortunately decided to read the background notes on my students. Experience has shown that really, this is either a waste of time as the “information” says something really useful like;
“has a literacy difficulties” Ah! I know exactly how to attend to this young man’s specific, unique and individual needs!
Or something that will mess with your mind for the entire year like:
"has autism…generally subdued (to the point of sleeping on his desk for most of the lesson) however will react physically and aggressively to the word “pumpkin”.

“Pumpkin”. I am totally serious.

Now, forget that some of the students know this and would set him off like a rocket last year for a bit of light hearted fun. Now I know his trigger word. I know the word that will turn him from a sweet, sleepy Special Education behavioural dream into a pumpkin-hating ball of autistic adolescent fury.

So now, even after 100 minutes of all patience and energy being sapped into the void of Year 10 Modified English, I HAVE to remain on the ball. Alert. In control. I can’t afford to let my foot-in-mouth guard slip. I have to spend 400minutes a week for the whole year saying to myself:

Don’t say “pumpkin”.

“Pumpkin”, “ pumpkin”, don’t say “pumpkin”..

Because of course that would be a real danger in this class;

“Don’t forget the capital letters in your pumpkin.”

“Open your diaries to write in your pumpkin.”

“How is the main pumpkin in the novel feeling at this point?”

“Remember to log off your pumpkins.”

Fucking arsehole pumpkins.

Only 5 months to go.

Life Lessons from Thailand

By the time we got off the plane, through customs, checked in to the Hotel, dumped our stuff and sat down at the restaurant, it was 2am Oz time. I was getting over the flu and the fella thought he had just started getting sick. It was a fairly miserable flight for both of us and I usually like flying. We were very happy to arrive. I was super happy to get hit in the face with the muggy, cloying heat and the smell of Asia as I got off the plane and walked into the airport. I'm going to be warm, I thought, for 10 whole days, I'll be warm. It was as peaceful as I ever feel. I could almost feel the snot and germs shrivel up. Although I'd had a big tapas lunch at the airport, a small and interesting lamb casserole on the flight I decided what I really needed to do was eat again. At 2am. More so than go to sleep. So what would a good meal be at 2am? Something light, bland perhaps. Or, something with kick-arse hot mutherfucking chillies in it. A well known recipe for sleep and jetlag.

Growing up inland, milk-making country Vic, there was not a lot of chilli in my life and when I met the hubby at age 28, despite having travelled the world a couple of times. I was not able to partake of the hot food. An authentic Laksa in beautiful Margaret River W.A cured me of my hot food weakness. I ate a big piece of a small bird's eye chilli and burned the fuck out of my mouth, rendering me speechless for 20 or so minutes (never accomplished before or since while conscious), and unable to drink the beautiful local wine for about an hour (also never a problem since.)

My first trip to Thailand cured me of any leftover reluctance to eat piping “Thai hot” soups and curries and created an addiction so strong I burnt my stomach asking for (and really getting) “Thai hot” in a restaurant once home. I now love it so much I'll happily have chilli for all meals, everyday. The fella has put the breaks on a bit after I made some Thai – ish food too hot for him to eat. So I do love getting back to the land of sunburn and tongue burn and getting back into chilli shape. I tend to think I'm pretty tough when it comes to chilli tolerance, but at 2am on our first night in Thailand I realized I was un-chilli-fit.

Two-thirds into my chicken with cashews and dried chilli dish I ate a whole, not so dried or seeded chilli. It was an amazing experience to have at 2am after the runny-nosed, asthma-wheezing, sleep-deprived 9 hour flight. My nosed streamed, I coughed, spluttered and gasped, tears ran down my face and (apparently) my eyes went red. It went on and on. Pain, shock, burning, everywhere. I couldn't drink my coconut juice, eat anymore food or talk – much. And then I started laughing, I felt so happy! I realized that - yes, I am a masochist - but also, this is what I love about Thailand, and about traveling; the total unexpected. I never in a million years would have expected to feel like this at 2am on a Wednesday morning. In fact, I'd probably avoid all aspects of it – being awake, eating anything that might provoke my insomnia, but here I was sweating like a mo-fo and laughing and loving it. Because it was totally unexpected, because it was something I so normally wouldn't be doing. The whole point of leaving home and traveling in the first place. And because something so little like a chilli can create such an explosion of feeling, you really know you're alive and kicking and that if it's happening at 2am in an airport Hotel with Kenny G saxing his heart out in the background, you're a long way away from your normality. Which is brilliant.

I promised myself once that I'd never go traveling to the same place more than once, because there are so many amazing places in the world to get to. But this is my 4th visit to Thailand, which made me feel a little uncomfortable when I booked it; was I wasting the opportunity to go somewhere new? To experience something and somewhere new? Was it too easy? However the chilli burn reminded me that there is always something new to take from any experience – holiday, work day, a new book, or dinner. We spend so much time preparing and setting goals, focusing on the future that it sometimes takes a big fucker of a chilli to make us stop and realize that this moment, this present tense, is life and there is always a lot to learn from it.

Not that this lesson will keep me at home.

So, things I've learned in Thailand this time:

• There are still foods in Thailand that are hot enough to literally reduce me to tears.
• I have tight Achilles
• I don't mind having a strange woman sit on my feet, lean her arm in my bum crack or put her feet in my armpit and groin if it's in the name of a Thai massage
• I am a masochist (see anecdotes on chillies and massage)
• I tan really quickly – too quickly – I had 2 hours in the semi-sun the first day here with 30 plus on and had a tan. By the next arvo I looked like I'd been here a month.
• Just because it's happy hour doesn't mean I have to skull Mojitos...There's a chance I've learned this before but then forgot.
• The guys with the books of tattoo designs on the beach are selling marijuana, not fake tattoos.
• I have knots in my hamstrings. And my glutes. And I probably didn't need to know that – or feel it under the tough love masseur's hands.
• I cannot get sick of mangoes, chilli and, especially, coconut- in any form – I am eating, drinking and wearing coconut.
• I knew I was able to drink a lot (ie alcohol) but I really can put away a shitload of Thai food too. Every day I think: I'll have a light lunch or dinner ( I can always eat the world for breakfast) and everyday I change my mind.
• Really hot chilli can make you go foggy in the head. I don't know if that's good for you or not.
• Thai 15+ sunscreen doesn't work.
• I love scootering in Thailand
• Covering yourself (or having a massage lady do it) in Tiger balm and lying in front of a fan is very refreshing. And a little bit sexy. Until you see what it's done to your hair.
• It is possible to ride a scooter around Samui wearing a short denim skirt, especially if you have confidence in your bikini waxer.
• The guys with the hammocks on the beach are selling marijuana, not hammocks.

So much to learn, it makes everything so very worthwhile.

Regression

Initially the weekend away was hard. I had already been away for three days on yr 12 camp and was tired. Tired physically from a lack of sleep and tired emotionally from having sufficient self control for three days and two nights to not tell thirty five 17 and 18 year old boys…

• To stop being fucking morons and kick the footy away from the windows.
• To stop being fucking morons and stop shooting arrows from the archery sets at the kangaroos
• To stop being fucking morons and get the hell off each other
• To stop being fucking morons and not put mattresses on the roof of the cabins
• To stop being fucking morons and not smash golf balls at the kangaroos
• To stop being fucking morons and stop doing dorm raids
• To stop being fucking morons and daring each other to touch the electric fence.
• To stop being fucking morons and stop “Ray”ing.

So I was feeling pretty a little sorry for myself and finding it difficult to gain a sense of ‘this too shall pass”. The last thing I wanted to do was re-pack and take off again for another 2 days. But, of course, when our gang of people go away and stay in dorm-like accommodation, there is giggle-fitting to be had and sad moments are likely to be replaced by the following moments:

1. The boys will all go into a separate room with a TV and pretend they live on planet beerfooty, which is in a different solar system to ours.

Meanwhile:

2. The girls will begin playing the drinking game “begetables” which is never played properly or finished because we just like to say the names of vegetables with our lips over our teeth and laugh at each other looking like toothless geriatrics.

3. The girls get the giggle-fits over geriatric renditions of “Bok Choy Bok Choy” and “Alfafa Sprouts Alfafa Sprouts”

4. The girls will play 80’s music, sing and do interpretive (and sometimes liturgical) dance moves. I am the exceptions to this. I maintain that I hate 80’s music, regardless of how many times I’m told I love it.

5. The girls will write a list of words that have sexual innuendos (Can you believe we’ve done this more than once? Where do those lists end up?)

6. The girls have some kind of wine and vodka-fueled emotional regression and get the giggle fits over naughty words.

7. The girls might play some sort of game that involves cards or physical challenges or throwing things or knocking things over (such as Jenga – I fucking hate that game) and that also requires screaming, cheering, creative abuse and sometimes shoving.

8. The girls come up with the next dress up theme for the next gathering

9. The girls get the giggle-fits remembering previous dress up themed parties

10. The girls finally join the boys when the footy is over and the boys are momentarily confused by the high pitched noise and arguments and scattered conversation interspersed with singing.

11. The drinking reaches its climax – most of the boys and girls have the “shit I’ve got to pump as much into me before I go to bed because that seems like a very sensible idea at this stage of the evening and I love waking up at 4am needing to go to the toilet but being even more pissed than when I went to bed and not being able to get out of my sleeping bag” mentality.

12. The girls yell their conversation at each other because the alcohol has made them deaf.

13. The girls get the giggle-fits. For pretty much no reason or any reason.

14. The fun starts. What is it about brushing your teeth with friends that reawakens the 17 year-old in you? We had dorm rooms and a big, communal bathroom.
There were lots of teachers there. If we were telling ourselves off at 2am we would have had to yell at ourselves:

• Stop being fucking morons and trying to fart everyone out of the bathroom
• Stop being fucking morons and singing at the top of your voice (with a mouth full of toothpaste) to test out the bathroom acoustics
• Stop being fucking morons and keep out of other people’s rooms – especially those who went to bed 2 hours earlier
• Stop being fucking morons and get the hell off each other
• Stop being fucking morons and remember where your own room is
• Stop being fucking morons and avoid thinking the kitchen is a legitimate option for sleeping when you still can’t find your room (which you had to walk past to get to the kitchen.)
• Stop being fucking morons and doing bed raids to confuse the shit out of the drunk person who’s bed you’re hiding in (Deeva..)
• Stop being fucking morons and laughing so hard you spit water all over the floor

Thank god I decided to go away for the weekend with friends to relax and get over the stress of school camp.

Momentary

Tobias Wolff reminded me today (From his memoir This Boy’s Life) that one good – or fabulous – thing that comes with experience (age..) is that you know you won’t be stuck in a moment of pain forever. He reflects on not being able to see past a present moment as an adolescent and being consumed by it. That then, in youthful bliss and intensity, we believe a moment of joy, heartache, pain, anger, will be always, is the whole world, will hold us in its bubble of intensity forming a barrier to everything else. Older, we know “this too shall pass”. This is sometimes sad, our moments are always building to the end, like a nice, long-lasting orgasm that only exists in the first place to be at its end, to be finished, over, gone. We know this as we get older, we try to grasp the significant flashes of our lives and hold onto them, aware that they slip through and past so quickly.

But I have relief knowing this too shall pass. It has been a saving grace. Lightning stabs of ‘what will give my life meaning now?’ have been crippling the last few weeks. Crippling and pretty destructive. But tonight I was reminded of one of the reasons to always get out of bed – the chance that today I might get a fit of the giggles.

After a weekend away with some excellent friends, I was complaining at work of sore abs due to “giggle-fitting” all Friday and Saturday night. I was told by a friend at work that the reason I was suffering was due to the fact that I have a “low giggling threshold” that is, I can be reduced to giggle-fitting pretty easily. I took it as a compliment at the time – it wasn’t really meant as one, but we take what we can – and figured it just meant that I have a good sense of humour. But I’ve thought about it tonight and realised it’s not as simple as that. I do have a really good sense of humour, but more so, I have really, really good friends (and my hubby is included in this group, he is ridiculously funny, or at least, ridiculous) who make me really, really happy.

As always, out of the eye of the storm it is easier to be a bit more philosophical. There are times when I feel I can’t breathe because my bubble of pain is sucking all the oxygen out of the air, suffocating and paralyzing me all at once. But in the back of my air starved brain I do know that “this too shall pass”, that if I can hold my breath, close my eyes and just get though this moment, this minute will tick over, another moment will come. And hopefully it will involve one of my amazing friends giving me a giggle-fit, where I laugh so hard I break the bad bubble and suck oxygen so deep into my lungs that I get dizzy. This gives my life meaning at the moment, that I have these moments of joy with my friends, that with them I have laughed so hard I have smashed my head into my glass, fallen off my chair, cried, been rendered speechless (a difficult task..) and at one stage last weekend, curled up into a ball on the floor where my whole moment was one, all encompassing, wonderful giggle bubble.

Freedom

The freedom is making me giddy.

Having to make the decision to stop trying to have a family sucked balls, but there has been this slow, creeping slither of freedom sliding up my limbs and through my blood. It’s nice. Nice to plan a holiday , nice to have sex because you’re horny (or hungover) rather than because you have to, because it’s the right time in your cycle, nice to consider the possibility of adventure. To consider a bigger picture. All without the threatening clouds of doctors and pregnancy and miscarriage and operations governing and spoiling absolutely everything.

But sometimes the freedom feels like it’s blurring my edges, like without the restrictions of dates, drugs and tests and hope and pain and disappointment drawing lines around me, I’m dissolving. That all this possibility is a bit too big, a bit abstract and that I’ve lost some of myself. I guess that’s direction. In the process of having to design a new picture of me, a new future, new goals, I’m a bit foggy, unsubstantial until I can figure out what will draw a new outline, make me solid again. And I wonder how long that will take, and how much of a jelly fish I’ll be by the time this possibility becomes a little more tangible.

Hole where the hope was.

So after feeling a decent amount of relief, sanity, maturity, at the decision to stop trying – and failing, miserably - to have kids, I find myself teary and sad today. Again. Not so much for the loss of children I’ll never get to meet and love and know but for the absence of hope. Every time we tried, even though we tried to be as realistic, and pessimistic as possible – because sometimes is a horrible, heart-breaking monster, we still had hope. You just can’t help it. Brief – often clamped down on quickly - discussions about our possible future, possible names, possible gender, possible gene combo’s running around. And in deciding not to try again, we have made a deliberate choice to give up on hope. And giving up on hope is really fucking hard. As humans we seem to be programmed to continually hope and hope when all is burning to shit around us. That is our natural state. We’ve seen this, this resilience in people that means you can’t just give up, lie down and blissfully let it all be too much. We saw it in Thailand after the Tsunami, laughing telling their stories of running for their lives and the demolishment of everything they knew. It seemed crazy to us that they could survive and laugh about it, move on. But we do. So this choosing to move on from hope feels unnatural and has made the decision all the harder, hard enough to take 6 and 1/2 years, 9 miscarriages, thousands of dollars, 6 or so specialists, hundreds of tests, to make.

And not just the giving up on hope, but I realized today I actually have to figure out what to hope for next. And probably something more than enough money for a room with a few cats while senility takes my own name and everything about my life. Therefore, the plans for what next. Where next. How next. And the realization that comes with it: this what, where, how is not the same path we have had in mind for the past 8 years. It may not be the same path for us. It is very likely to be a totally different cross country experience for us. We’ve had the same goals – ish and the future of children and never ending debt and sacrifice has kept us moving forward together – ish. As much as you can be when you’re two very different people of the opposite gender. Now however, now it is a little different. Now our paths are about to divide significantly and we are both in agreeance that we are committed to each other and in pursuing our own next hopes. Mine O.S and his completing his PHD. It is a significant juncture. It is a difficult juncture. Which is why, when I thought things might be getting a little easier, requiring a little less “courage”, it seems it’s still time for tears.

Searching for mojo.

So here’s the thing. I have just turned 38 and things have not quite worked out to plan. Not that I had really planned things up to this stage, but as women, we have a fair idea of what we’ll be up to at this point in our lives. We will be mums.

During yr 12 I had to plan my future. That was hard. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, what I didn’t want to do, I had no idea of what I was good at (Don’t we love the shitty of self esteem as a 17year old) or really, what I was even bad at - other than picking decent boyfriends and saying no to crappy sex. Not much to work with. But I did know I had to go to university. My cousin and I were the first generation of women to do this. It was up to us to set the feminist trails blazing, at the age of 17 and 18 we were to rock the academic world with our brilliance. We were to be career women. Then I was going to be a mum. That was the plan.

I had an image of myself as an independent, working woman who travelled the world and potentially managed to look pretty funky while living out of a pack. I had an image of myself as someone who worked and travelled, then at some point had children. I didn’t even really imagine myself as wife, but definitely as a mother. I think that for most women, at least my age, it was the same. But that hasn’t happened and although I’ve made an excellent, if occasionally erratic effort at being a wife, I’m not likely to be a mum. So now the question is;

What’s the fucking plan? I have to adjust the image I had of myself, the energetic woman walking the pram down to the clifftops to walk her bab/ies along the beach. The woman who sleeps little but is happy having a break from work to be at home with beautiful, demanding bubs. The woman who could talk to other women her age about breastfeeding, teething and sleep patterns. Who hung around with other women in mother’s groups and occasional coffee catch ups, living and breathing in a nice, nurturing, sleep-deprived world of women and babies. The woman with a bond to other women and her friends that their partners can’t totally share. The woman who has a priority in her life other than work and who has something to devote herself to other than work.

Because ultimately, work isn’t enough. I love it, I appreciate it, I enjoy it most of the time. But it’s not enough. It’s like biologically I’m programmed to need something else, and now that I can’t have it, I’m a bit at a loss. I have to re-design the image I have of myself and I’m not sure how to do that.. What to replace the slightly dishevelled, yawning woman reading stories to her kids, with.

And it annoys me a bit, surely as a woman who grew up in post-feminist times I should be able to think of something else I would like to do other than have kids. Surely, in 2010 I can have an identity that does not tie me to nappies and breast pumps. Surely I can find meaning and worth in something other than in reproducing some slightly dodgy genes. Except, so far, I can’t. I don’t know if this is the same for other women who have found their lives have turned out differently to what they expected. But I am surprised to find that fundamentally, my hopes and dreams haven’t been that much different from those of my grandmother, or the great grannies who came over from Ireland, making the lace for the baptism gowns that would be handed down through generations. Is it always that many women go through the motions a bit, just biding some pretty interesting time until they become, as predestined, mothers?

We were told we “could have it all”, but as many women have discovered, we don’t want it all. It is a recurring concern in our society at the moment that women don’t hold as many high powered-positions in the workforce as men, that we aren’t paid the same, we aren’t in corporate control. But that would seem to be, because for the most part – making some generalisations I know, but that is my world at the moment, women don’t want those positions as much as men. Their wants are the same, biological, emotional wants that they have always been for women. They were my wants.

Reminders

When she was around five years old her mother had made her wear red woolen tights to church with her black velvet dress and black patent leather Mary-Janes. She hated those tights, the itchy scratchiness of them, the way they bagged between her thighs, pulling them together, needing constant hitching. All her life since, she had avoided wearing anything that itched her, had avoided tights. Now she just wished someone cared enough to want her legs to be warm. And a tough pair of ill-fitting tights keeping her thighs together wouldn’t be a bad idea either.

This place is pretty busy, do you mind if I sit here? I think I’m the only Aussie in this whole place, full of poms and Micks – makes for a good bit of fun though, huh? Oh, you’re Aussie too? Must be fate! I’m Richard, don’t call me Dick, I fucken hate it. So what are you doing here, traveling too? Oh, a local? I’m stopping for a few days before I head further north. Got me van all kitted out, bit of a surfing safari gone wrong. Took a wrong turn - nah thought I’d see a bit more than the usual west or east coasts. You been here long? This weather’s a fuken pearla, I’m from Vic, fuken freezing down there this time of year. Wanna beer?

She had good friends – great friends - but now they had partners and kids. Once they laughed over Cleo’s “10 best sexual positions” and compared hangover cures – coffee Big M versus Gatorade, pies versus Vegemite on toast. Now conversations were punctuated with vocabulary out of her reach: fixed or variable loans? Colic and croup (was there a difference?), baby slings vs backpacks, nipple chap, stitches in places too unbearable to think about. She wanted that, and didn’t, see-sawing between love of her freedom and loneliness. She found it difficult to drum up enthusiasm over stories of toilet training success. Smelling like her friend’s breast milk when their babies threw up on her shoulder did not feel like bonding. But it did feel like something, it did tug at her breasts and heart, made her abdomen tighten.

She justified it easily – they were tied by mortgages and toddlers, extensions and in one case, a nasty separation, while she was tied to nothing and no one. They envied her life, she knew that. A couple were somewhere overseas, raking in big cash, but her skills were not that sought after O.S and she felt too old for backpacking now. She had done it years ago but would be the equivalent of a geriatric in any hostel. So there wasn’t much keeping in touch, nothing in common but their youth and all its silliness. It was like looking back on an old, dated movie.

I like girls with short hair, I read once that it means they’re more confident. I like a girl who knows what she’s about. My last girlfriend had long hair, spent more time fucken washing and doing shit to it than she did on anything else – what a waste of time! Lucky I’ve got two sisters so I’ve got more patience than most guys I reckon, I grew up waitin fucken hours for the bathroom. Not a metro sexual, never developed the habit of usin mirrors much, cause Kate and Sally would always be hoverin around them. But you don’t seem so high maintenance, you look more sporty – what do ya do? Surfin for me, but I don’t mind the odd run if I can’t get out in the water.

She had a good family life growing up – she was loved, accepted, spoilt. Had she been loved too much? Is that why these men she’d loved could never love her enough? Why she pushed them away because they couldn’t/wouldn’t continue to prove their dedication to her? Why she moved on when the passion waned, before they forgot to remind her that she was special?

And now where was her family? For twenty years she’d been trying to prove how independent she was, emphasizing her need for freedom, to not be tied down. So now she wasn’t. She was loved from afar, her life – sent in emails and brief phone calls – provided anecdotes for family gatherings she was always too busy, too distant, too scared to attend. Her life was much more interesting when re-told by her father – a renowned storyteller. If she turned up she’d ruin her own reputation. They’d all notice how tired, lost, cynical she was. She didn’t have the energy or inclination to be the life of the party any more. She couldn’t be fucked holding a smile.

So what do ya do here? That’s pretty cool, are you from here? Oh, a southerner too, what made you decide on this place? Yeah, I love movin around, although I usually only make short trips, but I’ve been a few places O.S – Bali, Thailand, New Zealand. I tell ya though, all that shit that’s been going on in Indonesia has put me off a bit, that’s why I’m up here for this hol. I like these traveler bars, ‘cause you can meet up with a few people for a drink pretty easy.

She hadn’t had a bad life – travel, jobs she loved, friends she trusted, lovers who had made her sad and happy. She had boxes of photos to prove all of this, to remind her when she couldn’t remember; where she was, what she was doing, who she was. She’d had a great life, but at 36 she was totally fed up with it. What had been important to her? She’d done everything she’d wanted, had everyone she’d wanted, even if just for a while. But what was left to want? To burn for? As she moved and moved and moved she’d dropped pebbles of passion along the way, now there was little left but fleeting flashes, easily snuffed out. She used to get so excited about the smallest things, a photo, her job, a new pair of shoes – the joy of shopping! The possibility of a trip somewhere, a new movie. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to see a movie, bought new shoes.

So what do you do in your spare time? There doesn’t seem a lot to do up here other than get on it. I used to play in a band, just covers, but it was a bit of fun. It was a great chick magnet of course. Have you ever played an instrument? What sort of music do you like? I love that the old Aussie classics are back in fashion – you can’t beat a good bit of Chisel or Acka Dacka. Shows your age though, huh? How old are you? Bit hard to tell in this light – late 20’s? I’m a young 33, but they say guys never really grow up..

The promise, the potential that came to nothing – drawing, guitar, swimming, good looks…What do you do when you’re too old to get better at something? When the possibility of being in a band, an artist, a something, is so thin it can’t be stretched any further? She’d grown up in the post burning bra era. She had been the first female in her family to go to university. Apparently this meant you could do anything you wanted, they’d told her this growing up. She had all the opportunities her mother and grandmother hadn’t, she wouldn’t be tied to a house or family, she would have a career, be a strong, independent woman. And hadn’t that worked out just peachy.

So, ya wanna check out me van? It’s pretty cool, pretty tidy too? Sure, I’m easy, yeah, it’d be nice to get out of the van for a night. Wanna last drink?

Yes, she’ll go with this guy – Dale? Phil? Whatever. The sex, the hangover will remind her that she is alive, make her feel something other than hopelessness. Clinging to her chance that a spark of passion will be enough to remind her to keep breathing.

carrion/scavenger

I sneak looks at you.
You are round and rosy
laughter peals through your stories
your eyes shine,
We are pulled towards your centre.
You are ripe
luscious
You are woman.
I am sharp
angled edges
I am empty-
the crow tearing strips
from your garbage.
I teeter
at the edge of your
possibility.
I don’t have it
I am not it
I am the cold shade
in your shine.

an itch.

Here I am
wanting 4 walls
and locks
and bars
and restriction.
Because
here I am
wild inside
the bubbling
troubling
rage and hate
The need to run
and roar
and hurt
and bleed
that needs
to be contained.
4 walls
and locks
and bars
to stifle
and save
what I am.

mistaken

I turned around before,
looked up into your face
and didn’t know who
the fuk you were.
So this is it
I look around
and there I am-
living someone else’s
life.
And no- one
not even me
missed me.

chance

I missed
my dark-eyed hope –
For meaning
For the desperate desire
to cling to youth
to hope
to joy
The possibility of
something
The possibility of life
is you
Dark-eyed something
More than love
More than possibility
the chance of more

crone

I stand outraged.
The three girls shine in their
youth
they are blond, smooth and tan
and full of possibility.
I stand awkward
I stand in self pity
I stand bloodied and dried
I stand disappointed.
They glow.

Warning

I glimpse her
as I turn my head
to dry my hair –
in the mirror
In a moment
in a second
she fleets,
A tease
I glimpse the girl
at 20
at 25
30
and wonder.
What would I warn?
What would I tell?
Keep going.
You will not have to pause
You will not have to stop
You won’t be a provider
trapped by obligation,
by family –
You’ll just be trapped.
Keep going
Keep travelling
Don’t stop.

sharp.

I am
fragmenting glass
sharp, smooth
subtle pain.
I cut you
slowly –
you don’t realize
at first
how deep ‘till
your blood flows
deep, thick,
full
and I kill you with
my shards
piece by piece
cold, heartless
torture
without sound
without care.

Loss. 3

My little girl
my little boy
run ‘round my legs
laughing
gurgling
fat dimples
fat limbs
faces full of light
of love
of me and you.
My little girl
my little boy
run ‘round me
but their voices
are just echos
that haunt
and taunt
and tear
and are gone.

Loss. 2

I let you go.
You ran
down my legs
I felt your
heart beat flow
my boy
my joy.
I let you go
because
I’m not strong enough
to hold you
keep your
heart beating
but I love you
I miss you
I hear you
always.

Loss.1

I wanted to
hold you, hear you
but you were dying
to see you
be with you
but you were dying
know you
watch you grow
watch me in you
find out who you were
but you’ve gone
before you were ever here
before I could say
hello,
I love you.

chuckles

I laugh at the joke.
Inside I scream.
I scream
I rage I cry I yell
I moan I tear I rip I roar.
Inside I rent and crack and rage
I rage
I rage
With a smile
And a linking sentence.
I hide behind chat
I sip
And seethe.
My sorrowful schizophrenia
Keeps me mute, serene, passive
But in my world
I cry
I loathe
I hate and I rage
I hate

fivesies

I don’t know how
To be still
Without pouring
the blindness down
my throat.
How do I keep from
Twitching?
How can I keep the
visions away
without that
beautiful, numbing
liquid sanity?
It makes me quiet,
immobile,
plausible.

drought

I want to cry
but I’ll dissolve in
my self pity
self loathing
self loss.
I want to cry
but I know I will
never stop.
It will consume
suffocate
destroy any will,
any chance
any hope.
Then how will I fight
Will I speak?
Will I move?
How will I be what
you expect? Need?
I stay dry
hard
empty
for this life.

reflections

I glimpse
in my rear view mirror,
the storm clouds
and in them is my past.
I am filled with longing
not for the youth
but the desperate desire,
the want,
need
that filled and fuelled me.
The lack of it
makes me sterile
empty.
I miss it.
Tears for me seep
through my pores,
blurring the rear view world
behind me.
I miss me.

psychiatry

Fuk him-
the guy who
patronises,
says it’s OK
to be this fuked up
but holds my head down.
And pushes
to keep me steady
Fuk him
to think he knows me;
knows nothing
will never
I won’t suk for you
anymore.
Fuk you

bittersweet

I ate my heart today
shaped like a
strawberry chocolate.
It tasted sharp and full,
strawberryish
but not ripe.
Interesting
but not delicious.
I’m hoping now for peace,
the end to restlessness
the end to my life
being dictated by
emotion.
I’m waiting for anguish
to disappear
with the aftertaste.
I hope I’ve eaten my fury.
Eating my heart
wasn’t great
even as a strawberry chocolate
but I think I’ve done
myself
a flavour favour.

Rationality

My head and my heart have
had a falling out.
My head won,
which is good
and bad
it’s unfair and right.
But never think
I don’t want you
or care
or love
or miss.
And you have a place
which,
when I’m old and reflective,
remembering my special,
ridiculous life,
will mean more
than fleeting touch.
So all’s not lost.

Illiterate.

I’m staring at you
daring you to see
eyes the colour of
ferocity and lust,
a mouth outlined
in anger and a love of
the absurd.
Eyebrows that draw
cynicism, nostrils
twitch to show a lie.
But you smile with
no meaning,
a flicker of confusion.
You have not read
me.
I am no more special
than any other face-page.

Nostalgia

With certain vulnerability
the virus can spread;
blood buzzing
nerves alert
to the point reached
where one word
a smile
an old song
a town passed through
are sign points
to who you once were
where life once was
and with whom.
The present gets lost
overcome by
once-upon-a-times,
mistakes not learnt from.
A non-productive
disease
tearing holes in the soul.

Ghost

When I go to bed
and close my eyes
I hear my footsteps
in the hall
and my sighs
from outside.
There’s my laughter
on the phone
and crying
in the mirror.
I smell sweat
from running
and feel the pain
in my head.
Hope whispers
through the house.
A restless spirit
haunts
an empty body.

Newborn

Your innocence
is dazzling beauty,
you grip my hand and
I love you.
Completely, shamelessly,
without knowing you.
You hold the truth
and my immortality,
I’ll give you
everything
and you’ll help me.
With mystery
in every movement,
Never-ending joy
in your smiles.
You
are magnificent.

Losing

Anger at petties,
frustrating nothings
consume me.
Cells change and
I’m the hag in my heart
Trying to smile up positives but lacking confidence.
Metamorphosis –
voices now so irritating
the forced grin becomes
an enraged, deadly
scream.
It shreds my world
cuts through goodness
becoming the cry voiced only
through other’s pain.

Loser

Cowardice
is pausing,
holding back giggles
and behaving
as you should.
Stupidity
is thinking you know
not trying
to understand.
Cruelty
Is choking others
and yourself
with wavering expectations.
It makes me sad
when you forget
your dreams.
It makes me angry
when you forget
who I am.

The moments.

Sometimes
stars talk to me
whispering wonders,
sometimes I breathe
fragments of hidden
desires.
I’ve known magic.
Sometimes
music makes me
someone else.
Sometimes I wake
from reality
and live in dreams.
I’ve known insanity.
Sometimes
I’ve got confused
and found myself.
Sometimes I’ve been
happy.

Out 4 lunch

It’d be better if you didn’t
talk to me right now,
I’m not myself.
I’m currently walking
on deserted beaches
in unknown countries.
Naked.
Eating chocolate fudge ice-cream,
drinking tequila,
I’m singing in tune
and feeling horny.
I’m floating in warm waters
and chatting with elephants.
I’m completely out of control-
writing madwoman poetry,
listening to all my favorite songs
at once.
I’m perfect,
I’m laughing.
Come back later.

tell me

Always there
always loved
always wanted.
Then,
you’re beauty
trembling
my longing
scared,
huge.
Yes.
Make it real-
equal affection.
Finally.
But I didn’t know
how much, how little
I would have
held you tighter.

unemployed

Mother
The elder
The responsible
The carer.
Became lover
Became wanted
Became needer
For a moment
For a reason
That never stays
That never gives.
Now over
Now walked away from
Now separate
No longer purpose
No longer desire
With lust out of tune
With lips dry
With what
The alone now
The loser, lost
None.

Headache

I’m screaming your name
in my head
because I chose not to have you
because you were never mine
to have.
But when I close my eyes
I can see all of your face
I can look into your eyes
and feel your shoulders
and chest
and tongue
and
I’m screaming your name
in my head
because I chose to never
scream it aloud.
But when I close my eyes
I miss you.

soul stunting

in never letting
a soul experience
all, all
it remains
'till death
a slice of
possibilities;
underdeveloped
weak
easily corrupted
dislexic

out of focus

‘Over and over’
my heart screams.
‘When the fuk
will you stop.
Look at what you are.
It’s not
what you wanted
it’s not
that hot.’
Fear is stronger
it drowns
my truths
so I am
a lie.

halt!

What if I just stopped
looking into the faces
of frustration
I Stopped
writing
explaining
‘shush’ing
battling
coping
blinking
breathing
giving a shit
just stopped
who
would I be?

ionesco

Can't apologise
for laughing.
Absurdities tickle,
worm into the brain
cells.
And in wonder,
shock, disgust
at the farce
surrounding us
that we breathe,
accept, fuk,
I roar a cheap laugh.
And enjoy.