A Game of Solitaire

Compulsively, once more, I shuffle the deck and flip the cards one by one, sorting them into four piles, count the cards in each. Even. Reshuffle. Do it again. The cards always fall the same.


Spades

1) My job sucks the joy out of my soul on a daily basis

2) Relatively homogenous nationwide culture

3) Bogans

4) Prams

5) Cost of Living

6) Boring news programs

7) Lack of local meteorologists

8) Serious lack of tacos

9) Not belonging

10) Seasonal incongruity of holidays

11) Faded sense of adventure and discovery

12) Grocery store locations

13) Hugh Jackman


Diamonds

1) I work with a wonderful team of people

2) A great network of friends all across the country, a place to say in every Capital City

3) Career Opportunities

4) Sales Meetings

5) Decent health care that is not linked to my job, so I don’t feel trapped

6) Polite school children

7) Koalas

8) Not being afraid of the Police

9) Readily available and clean public toilets

10) Socially endorsed binge drinking

11) The Opera House and Harbour Bridge

12) 4 Weeks Annual Leave

13) Diminutive names



Clubs

1) Gun Violence

2) Dissipated relationships

3) Lack of healthcare

4) Rednecks

5) Fiscally insolvent national policies

6) Presidential campaigns

7) Stubborn stupidity

8) Dissipated relationships

9) Smog

10) Political Lobbies

11) Soccer Moms

12) Recession

13) Job hunting


Hearts

1) Halloween

2) Watching football during normal operating hours

3) Friends with history

4) The National Park System

5) Redwood Trees

6) Affordable and more frequent family visits

7) Localities with distinct personalities

8) The Star Spangled Banner

9) Corona Light

10) Mexican food

11) Taco Bell

12) Affordable Homeownership

…no matter what order the cards may land, the final card is always the same and she trumps them all:

My mother raised me to be an independent woman – but I am not. My existence is contextual, defined by my relationships and my impact on the world. She taught me to think for myself and made it very clear that none of my decisions ever be made solely to please her. In this regard, I am sure I have been successful. So I am being careful with myself, checking and double checking my motivation, testing to see if her present vulnerability is appropriately weighted against my own desire to be closer to her.

I survey my friends, colleagues, and acquaintances. Australians in general and Adelaideans in particular have a strong attachment to home and family. Though most wander, nearly all return home to be near their parents, some to take care of them, some to be taken care of. Any regrets? None - the most important and best decision they ever made…

All decisions are merely junctions and very few lead to real dead ends, save for those that end in genuine death. Yet, when facing a decision, especially a big one, I tend to think in terms of finality and inevitability, as if the consequences become destiny. This is, of course ridiculous, as each decision, each junction leads only to a new section of the map of life, where there will be more intersections, more opportunities, more decisions.

Sometimes, not all the roads are on the map. Sometimes, the map is wrong. Sometimes, you can’t see the next road until you turn the corner and walk a few paces. Sometimes, the streets aren’t marked.

Sometimes, you just need to follow your hearts.         

Goin' Bush

I was feeling rather feral when I walked through my front door, like a precious housecat who had been locked out for 5 days and comes home dirty, fur matted, covered in scratches and smelling of urine.  A bath, the first order of business – but I am rather proud of my filthy appearance and wish to show it off.  Alas, Kevin is not home – no audience for bragging, so I retire to a hot tub to review the weekend.

The plot begins with an invitation from Alison to spend the long-Easter weekend camping on her property near Bredbo in New South Wales – which, according to Apple Maps is 1270 km from my house and should take me 13 hours and 32 minutes to drive.  It took 17.  I was craving a long cross-country jaunt  – the landscape whizzing by, curious signs for mysterious attractions, new towns, truck stops, McDonalds – but 17 hours was pushing me to the brink of sanity, or rather, of insanity...maybe...

I met up with Alison at midnight in front of the Bredbo Inn and we camped in front of a cemetery at the end of a road leading to the river.  You’d think it would be a quiet location, but there was a considerable amount of action down that road into the wee hours, such is life in small town Australia.  The next morning, we (and when I say we, I mean, Alison) strapped my gear to the RumPig and splashed through the river and over the mountains on the other side. 

The road was rough enough to make the destination feel isolated, but the scenery was gorgeous and rugged  – except for the part where we had to stop and chat with some local colour.  Seems Jr. got a new rifle for his birthday and he wanted to shoot a fox, or a roo, or a deer, or a pig, or a wild dog, or a rabbit, (all of which inhabit the area).  Not a wombat?  Personally, I think they should spend their money on orthodontia, not ammunition.

After a few road-related mishaps, Michael and Bec and Cheryl  arrived later that day and we set up camp at the base of a large clearing near the shade of a small creek, which soon drops over a 300 meter cliff and joins the substantial Murrumbidgee River below.  Her property stretches along the river for 500 meters, and encompasses 2,000 acres all up – and, it has room for a helipad, as soon as Alison gets her license…

The next three days were a blur of laughter and activity, the busy resourcefulness that surrounds applying civilization upon untouched wilderness.  When it comes to camping accessories, Australians are world champions.  They had something for everything!  Lucky for me, since all I had was a tent and a coffee cup.  Since I could not contribute in materials, I put myself in charge of security and:

·         Defended the campsite from a kangaroo by chasing it through the paddock on a quad bike.

·         Defended the campsite from rogue beer cans by shooting them with lead pellets.

·         Defended the campsite from wasps by building a trap from a Coke bottle and a plastic bag.

·         Defended the campsite from pirates by performing a shoreline survey in kayaks.

·         Defended the campsite from amorous possums by cowering in my tent yelling, “What the fuck was that hideous noise?”

·         Defended the campsite from the ground by repeatedly shooting arrows into it.

·         Defended the campsite from Yabbies by making sure they stayed in the river and not in my net.

·         Defended the campsite from stray branches by incinerating them in a 55 gallon stove.

·         Defended the campsite from drunken poachers by chasing them through the pitch black darkness on a motorcycle  - oh wait, that wasn’t me, that was Alison…

The drive home took a total of 24 hours, with some dawdling and some sleeping.  As a rule, Australians do not drive at night, and for good reason.  It is a problem that does not get much attention in the public forum, and one which clearly plagues the nation.  I have decided that it is time for me to take action.  I am going to initiate an awareness campaign to help shed light on the debilitating effects of marsupial depression.  Each night, thousands of depressed marsupials march to the edge of the highway, hopeless, dejected, and fling themselves into traffic in a desperate bid for relief from their sufferings. Please visit my website, www.beyond-roo.org and help support the mental health of Australian Outback Wildlife. 

Birthday Reflections

I am not prone to wallowing in superstition, especially Chinese superstition, which seems to be the most abundant variety.  Nonetheless, I am experiencing a disproportionate feeling of relief to bid farewell to the age of 44, the Chinese pronunciation of 'four' closely resembling the sound of the word for death.

It has been a rough year, and while there is no particular reason to be more optimistic about the year ahead, I cannot help but feel a hurdle has been crossed.  Is it odd that I still feel that middle age is some vague destination that lies ahead of me, despite a deep knowing that I am indeed beyond the mid-point of my life?

Birthdays are a natural time for reflection, a time to pause, take stock of the past and see what resources are available for the journey ahead.  To check the map, the compass, and the weather maps.  Why bother?  Impossible to chart a course when you don't have a destination.   So hard to choose a direction to travel when you have learned, through trial and error, that it doesn't really matter where you are, neither physically nor figuratively.  There is but a singular conclusion to Life.

But instinct and philosophy point to the inescapable notion that *something* matters, and it seems to have far more to do with 'how' than with 'what'.  Not what you do or what you accomplish, but how you do it.  The most important texts in this world all deal with the how of living.  Generations have been sacrificed for arguments over the religious and secular details of the 'how'.

When I reflect on the 'how' of my life, I get a mixed commentary from my internal Luddite, and all my single-sided dialogues come down to one-word conclusion : whimsy.

Why did I let whimsy slip so quietly out of my life?  I miss giggling and silliness, and decisions made from sheer frivolity.  The last few years have been heavy with departure and seriousness.  The weight of circumstance and the consequences of actions have squeezed out the best defence I had at my disposal.  And it feels like personal failure.  I have lost my weird.  I want it back.

Thus, I do here by declare my intentions to cultivate whimsy,   In my life, in my mind, and in my wardrobe.  I am going to go through my closets, my shelves, and my psyche and throw out everything that does not cause me to experience complete and utter delight.  Ugly pants that don't quite fit but are practical and safe?  You're outta here.  Sticky non-stick frying pan?  You're outta here.  Guilt, shame, regret?  Into the bin with you.  Hipster Zombies?  I have had quite enough of your shenanigans, get lost.  Cranky husband?  Well, you're on the watch pile.

Yellow panties?  You're in!  Possum skull? A place of pride awaits you hanging from my rear view mirror!  Joy, lightness, goofballs?  Get into my belly.  Cat in the Hat?  Come on over...

...and clean my house before you leave.  A whimsical home doesn't have to be messy.

Unresolved

Perhaps I was merely the victim of an effective marketing campaign or maybe my young tastebuds lacked discrimination, but in the early stages of our alcoholic career, Kevin and I were quite enthusiastic about Miller Genuine Draft.  One year, I saved up box tops and sent away for an inflatable floating island with built-in can holders.  We would anchor the island in the middle of the Stanislaus River, lash a cooler to the side, and laze away Central Valley Summers in the paltry plastic shade of the attached inflatable palm tree.

When we moved to Portland in 1992, we relocated our portable resort to Sauvie Island on the banks of the Columbia River, where we would ride the ripples of the giant tankers as they steamed out to the Pacific. The captain would blow the horn in passing, and the beach volley ball game would pause and everyone would wave emphatically - this image is far more amusing if I point out that this was a nudie beach.

The nudie beach at Sauvie Island was particularly sociable - far more so than the clothed beach up river where everyone kept to themselves, even as they inspected each other thoroughly, if not surreptitiously although it was clearly not as sociable as the Boys Beach down river, judging by number of used condoms that littered the trails from the parking lot through the woods.  At the nudie beach, everyone shared their lunches, looked after each others well adjusted children, and had a good chat.  Direct eye contact was far more common than one might expect and only rarely was there physical evidence of corpulent approval.

One sunny morning, slathered in oil, Kevin vigorously brushed sand from the rubbery shores of MGD Island.  FLING - SPLOOSH - PLOP and his wedding ring splashed into the cool depths several meters away.  Everyone on the beach joined in the search, but to no avail.  Sure, it was only a $100 strap of crappy gold from BEST, but I was nonetheless distraught, being only in the second fragile year of matrimonial devotion and assigning a fair weight of significance to the symbolism of the ceremony.

"You can have one of mine.  I have 4 of them that I am no longer using...stop by my house on the way home and I'll give you one."

And that is how we met Bob.

Over the next 20 years, we would share so many wonderful adventures with Bob.  We would make each other double over with laughter and collapse in sorrow.  We would bring each other grief and comfort, pain and pleasure.  We spent dozens of Friday nights drinking beer and shooting pool, scheming and commiserating, telling stories, sharing burdens, celebrating milestones, and just passing time, because togetherness makes the simple passing of time significant and meaningful.

Loving Bob was not always easy.  He was (ah, the tell-tale switch to past tense will alert the clever reader that this is no mere exercise in reminiscence) so smart, so wise, so insightful, yet so...frustrating. He was generous to a fault, a phrase that gets bandied about carelessly at times, but is an accurate descriptor in this case.  He would give anything and everything to the people he loved, and some of them would take it and more, not realizing that this acceptance of generosity came with unspoken conditions of behaviour and loyalty that often lead to deep painful grudges.  Bob's devotion was strong, but so was his sense of betrayal.  It was very easy to unknowingly cross a line, and each transgression would get filed away and pulled up for review whenever he was feeling fragile.  It caused him unspeakable agony, this constant swirling of love and indignation, and it would bubble up at dark moments and leave you defenseless, apologies inadequate, forgiveness elusive.

So it was, a year ago, buckling under the weight of my own emotional burdens, that I struck out against a particularly nasty tirade recounting past trespasses, some of them 20 years old and inconsequential at best.  "Sorry" was not bringing solace, restitution was not possible.  Cornered by the fierceness of his savage accusations and pained memories of our shared past, I rallied the only defense available under the circumstances - withdrawal.

I had no intention of culling Bob from my heart nor from my life, but I did not have the emotional strength to take on the burden he was handing to me.  And so I took a sabbatical from our friendship, having every intention of returning to reassure him of my unconditional love for him, to work through whatever trauma I had allegedly caused him, to embark on new adventures.

But in the mean time, he went and fucking died.

Our last exchanges were both heated and cold, punctuated with exclamation marks and dangling sentences...my final word to him so laden with strangled emotion, that I couldn't even type the 'o'...could only reply with a lower case 'k'.

Now, I am forever burdened with regret.  My own memory is generally and fortunately biased against negativity such that I typically only recall the good times and any unpleasantness that may have existed at the time merely provides gauzy filter, softening the highlights but never supplanting them.  However, for the moment, every recollection of Bob, every torrent of joy, hilarity, and camaraderie funnels down to the inevitable drip drop drip of lingering anger and sorrow.  Unresolved.  Unresolvable.

 I am sorry. I love you so much.  I hope you know it, that you never doubted it.

The Ins and Outs of the Ups and Downs

For several years now, I have had an increasing suspicion that there is no such thing as real value on Wall Street...that stock prices have nothing to do with the true value of a company in terms of being able to deliver, experience growth, or even have assets that exist in a physically recognizable form.  It is so obviously a numbers racket, that I am often astounded that it gets serious treatment in the news media at all.


...wait, scratch that, the news media gave serious treatment to Britney Spears' hair color change.  Obviously, they are not to be trusted.  At all.


My concerns over the non-reality of the stock market were further solidified this morning by a commentator on ABC news.  Now, the more astute among you will instantly recognize the hypocrisy of me citing a source in support of my position when I lambasted that same source in the previous paragraph.  However, THIS commentator was wearing a dress shirt with The Cat in The Hat all over it, so he obviously knows the shit about which he is talking.**


The Dr. Seuss fan declared that 70% of the daily movement of share prices is governed entirely by computers adhering to various (and wholly imperfect...can something be 'wholly imperfect'??) algorithms.  His supporting evidence included the fact that every time a certain young actress has a favorable mention in the news media - a new movie release, a magazine cover, or an increase in the number of search engine hits - Warren Buffet's wealth grows by 1-2%.  This is not because The WB has a vested interest in digital  wank sites, but because the algorithms cannot distinguish between Berkshire-Hathaway and Anne Hathaway.


And *I* am expected to perform independent market research to determine the risks before making an investment?!?  I for see a niche for an entire new breed of market research - investigating the algorithms so you can hedge your bets.  Wait, now I for see a whole new breed of Gordon Gekko - writing viruses and worms that artificially inflate click-through rates.  


More and more it seems, when it comes to investing, there is no such thing as truth (and perhaps, there is no such thing as truth at all, but I have not had enough coffee to go that deep yet).  Accounting is a completely deceptive occupation, some of the most profitable companies have no corporeal form, even real estate is no longer 'real', considering it is possible to purchase condos on a simulated space station.


I often espouse the notion that the value of an object lies entirely within its utility - and NOT within what someone else is willing to pay for it.  In the grand scheme of survival, a 600 year old bottle of wine is worthless without a $2 corkscrew.  Skills, tools, and malleable resources are the only truly valuable things on earth - and even these are useless without strength and health.


This leaves me with the uncomfortable question "what should I do with my money?".   


Well, if there is no such thing as real value in the world, then it obviously exists only in my own conscience and thus is entirely subjective.  Therefore, the only worthwhile thing to do with my money is spend it on whatever the fuck makes me happy, no matter how transiently or superficially.


And this is how I justified spending the extra fifty cents to buy brand name butter...besides, it was Berkshire Farms, and it would suit me just fine if Warren Buffet had ALL the money in the world.


No wonder it takes me so long at the grocery store!





**I do hereby declare, that from this day forward, I no longer subscribe to the rule that one must not end a sentence in a preposition.  It is a stupid rule that makes for very cluttered clauses.  I see no reason why a participle should not be allowed to dangle in such circumstances where it will not leave the reader breathless with anticipation in regards to what I am speaking of.

All Men Are Islands

What is it about an island that so captures the human imagination?  Nothing erases the cares of the ordinary world so much as crossing a small channel of water and wandering around an unfamiliar landscape, bumping into the sea in all directions.  Lately, the stress of daily life has been weighing quite heavily upon me, so we decided to spend the long Easter weekend on Kangaroo Island.

My anxiety began melting as soon as we pulled out of the drive way, aided by the warm evening breeze drifting through the open windows as a nearly full moon smiled upon us upside down, which should look more like a frown, but it didn't.  The sea was benevolently calm as we drove onto the ferry at Cape Jervis.  The Sea Lion 2000 glided smoothly across the dark passage, the froth off the bow boiling blue in the moonlight.

Sitting on the bluff outside our hotel, we sipped beer and swapped stories as small penguins made amorous overtures beneath us.  I felt more energized than I have in months and had to force myself to go to bed to recharge for the day ahead.

The morning was glorious!  Sunny and warm - for about 20 minutes - then the wind shifted and the sea became a roiling flurry of whitecaps, the breeze flavored by the blue ice of Antarctica.  But the chill weather could not cool my spirits as we headed along the southern coast of the island, a loose itinerary in mind.  We suffered our first pair of casualties at the base of Prospect Hill - a 503 step staircase to a stunning view of the island.  One was my calve muscles, the other was the wiper on my rear windscreen, which saved Kevin from skinned knees and elbows as he careened across the pea gravel, so a worthy sacrifice.

By the time we pulled into Little Sahara, the wind had reached gale force speeds, dashing my plans to surf the fine white dunes.  I nearly turned the car around, but adventure caught the better of me and we decided to climb the dunes despite the excruciating exfoliation courtesy of the howling sands.  And I am so glad we did!  It was one of the most surreal and exciting experiences of my life.  Climbing steep face of the dune, we were in relative shelter, but as soon as we reached the crest, the wind assaulted us in the most ferocious manner.  I am sure my dentist will comment on the lack of enamel on my front teeth at my next visit, but I couldn't help but smile as I leaned deeply into the wind, searching for the steep angle of repose that allowed me to relax and not fall forward.  The sand swirled and curled over the ridges, simultaneously erasing and rebuilding the dune with each gust, and threatening to send me over the bluff as I made my way along the shifting peak. Forgive me for not illustrating this adventure photographically, but my camera is not as regenerative as my own skin...

Fearing my day had achieved crescendo before noon, we drove out to watch the waves pummel the shore at Vivionne Bay and found an unusual treat at the camp store - a bag of REAL American Marshmallows!

It's not that I miss marshmallows so much, but this unexpected taste of home conjures up more than gastronomic delight.  When you are an expat, something as simple as a marshmallow suddenly represents every time you have ever eaten a marshmallow - it conjures up memories of being curled up against my sister, still inside the womb, as Mom and I kneaded them into cream, of that night at camp when I had them baked into s'mores, and of that cup of hot chocolate we shared after walking home in the rain...

 The evening's entertainment was rather ordinary...fine wine, a rack of lamb, and a gang of ravenous wallabies. 

The next day we ventured out to some tourist attractions in the Chase Flinders National Park.  We looked at some Remarkable Rocks, watched a colony of New Zealand Fur Seals frolic along the shore, visited a few lighthouses and read the sad stories of shipwreck survivors eating rancid penguins, and peeked through an Admirable Arch.

The next was spent in pursuit of cultural rewards - i.e. wine tasting.  We had a fantastic private tasting 'by appointment only'.  For reasons that should be obvious to most of you, there isn't much else to say about the rest of this day, but if you would like to come over for a rack of lamb, I have the perfect accompaniment - or twelve...or twenty-four...

A quick check of the credit card balance persuaded us to spend the following day in pursuit of free cultural rewards.  To my delight, some of the best spots on the map of Kangaroo Island are, in fact spots on the map.  Well, little squares to be precise.  We visited several interesting and secluded beaches and an old school house.  Most striking about the school house was not the meanness of the building

 or the sparseness of the conditions

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mxiAjHMHxI&feature=youtu.be

 nor the ridiculous social rules to which teachers were held (Sorry - couldn't seem to manage the rotate function here tonight...)

 but the fact that several historical artifacts were left on display, unlocked in a facility that was freely accessible and unattended by docents.  It was impossible not to observe the impossibility of such a display being on display in America...(again, apologies for the rotational challenges).

 Following on from our success at the school, we opted for a picnic dinner at Duck Lagoon, site of an old homestead.  The park was riddled with mysterious implements, preserved by rust and apathy.

However, the location not only featured superior BBQ facilities, but a resident koala and a stunning selection of logs, most suitable for falling from.  The site also featured a colony of especially angry ants, but due to my rotational challenges, I have opted not to feature the video of Kevin taking urinary revenge upon them for having crawled up the legs of his sweaty pants.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Je5Qs-OylJI&list=UUpFuQhKifNTru6mr9yCGcfA&index=2&feature=plcp

As we drove away from our peaceful repast at Duck Lagoon, we were accosted by a field of sheep, who very clearly expected something from us...they were not at all satisfied by my offer of a marshmallow.

 There were many other memorable and noteworthy moments, but there is just not time enough to recount them. 

I was overcome with melancholia as we boarded the ferry home, and by the time we breached the mainland, my anxiety was in full bloom...hastened by the speed camera that snapped my license as I departed the dock, and the screw that embedded itself in my tire on the highway...and especially by the realization that this is the first of my blog posts that will not be read by Heidi...and that is a whole new brand of loneliness.

Fuck This Shit!

For various reasons which I am not allowed to fully disclose - perhaps it is merely a symptom of middle age and circumstance - my conversation has of late been dominated by end of life issues.  Death is such a taboo subject, so painful, so frightening to contemplate, that it must be skirted around, an elephant in a tutu, dancing on the coffee table.

There are no bad intentions surrounding the topic - but what words can be used?  none.  There is nothing that can be said which magically grants solace.  What is right one day is so wrong the next.  What feels soft in your own heart might stab.  The fear of adding more pain prevents me, us, you, people, from saying anything at all.  In our silence, do we safeguard or isolate?

When it comes to emotions, I cherish details.  I do not shrink away from the pain or joy of empathy.  I don't just want to understand, I want to *feel* what you feel, *learn* what you learn, *know* what you know.  This is the blessing of language and communication. It is why art exists.  I get frustrated by private people, who hide the experience of their hearts.  I know that to them it may be self protection, but to me it feels like deprivation.  Hmmm...the same word root in privacy and deprivation...

My own attitude towards death may seem nonchalant, but it is deeply felt.  Perhaps it stems from being a true atheist, from knowing, believing that death will be exactly like the time before birth.  Nothingness doesn't scare me.  I think death is far scarier for those that believe in an afterlife of some sort - it raises so many questions of doubt and accountability.  I have no such worries.

It seems to me that the most common concern about death is being forgotten.  All those moments will be lost in time...(Bonus points for the reference and/or the completion of the quote).  It is estimated that 99 Billion people have died (on Earth).  Of those, there are only a handful of names that survive history.  Who knows what they *really* felt or thought or cared about.  Will the enduring records of your own life accurately reflect who you are right now - or who you were yesterday - or who you will be tomorrow?  Does it really matter that the rest of the world knows what you were thinking - and how will they know if you don't share freely?

But wait - that sounds depressing - how can I explain adequately that does not depress me in the least bit?!  I look at life from a geologic time scale.  In that scope, everything is so insignificant.  The only thing to do is cherish every moment - EVERY moment - even the ones spent in line at the DMV, or yawning on Facebook, or fighting with your partner, or hating your job.  That is all you have, and those are the moments that vanish.  Why not cherish them?

And also, we humans underestimate the power of progressive knowledge.  The Darwinistic Dogma of evolution does not account for how much of our personal knowledge and experience gets transferred to others.  The collective human experience is recorded into our genes in ways we do not yet fully comprehend. In that context, we all contribute to future generations - even those of us without direct genetic passage.

Oh but what a world is this where the internet allows you to witness your own memorial in real time..Is it wonderful or horrible?  I am not sure, and the people who could answer this for me, probably won't...or can't...

My husband often tells me that he would probably kill himself if I died.  How can I express to him how much that pisses me off?  How dare you evade that fundamental human experience!  If he dies first, I will feel every horrible moment of his absence.  I will walk around wearing his clothes, cry like a baby for years and bore the crap out of anyone who has the patience and fortitude to listen to my endless stories of our good times and bad times.

And if it is me - I want my own terms!!  I want to be with my pets, somewhere lovely and comfortable.  I want celebrations and joy and forth-right conversations, not tip-toes and euphemisms and forlorn looks.  I want to know how much I am loved.  Don't save your thoughts for a card..tell me...and if you need to, go ahead and cry.  Cry, cry, cry.  Just because death is natural and inevitable, doesn't mean it isn't sad.  And sad isn't bad, or wrong, or forbidden.  It is just as much a part of life as joy, and you have to take it too.


Perhaps I am lucky, in that I have lived a life with few regrets, and maybe that is why I face the prospect of death with relative peace of mind.  Of course, I reserve the right to become a complete hypocrite when faced with the inevitable myself - yet another of those unique and wonderful human conditions!

A Rare Politicoreligious Treatise by Me

I really should be working.  I have a ton of stuff to do...but the internet is a formidable distraction and for some reason, I suddenly had the inexplicable urge to research Rick Santorum's religious beliefs.  Which lead me to the highly annotated (sarcasm) website, godvoter.org, evidently maintained by some web savvy goofballs who feel compelled to keep track of the Faith Testimony of political candidates.  Although there seems to be no question of his values, godvoter.org is not pleased with Rick's lack of Faith Testimony.

But this is all very boring.  What captured my attention and compelled me to take finger to keyboard was the following statements:

Speaking of Jihadists, in a 2007 article penned after Mitt Romney's speech on Mormonism, Rick Santorum expressed the following beliefs:

"I'm more concerned about losing our children to jihadis or a materialistic culture than losing them to Mormonism." - Rick Santorum, The Philadelphia Inquirer, December 20, 2007

Christian children martyred by "jihadis" go to heaven, while children who die as Mormons go to hell (here is why). Jesus said:

"And I say to you, My friends, do not be afraid of those who kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do. But I will show you whom you should fear: Fear Him who, after He has killed, has power to cast into hell; yes, I say to you, fear Him!" - Luke 12:4-5

 I'm not quite sure what the hell Luke is on about, but I am absolutely delighted to hear that godvoter.org is in complete agreement with my own personal dogma - mormons are worse than jihadis.

It's true.  I have never had jihadis knock on my door, interrupting my afternoon cartoons and bong loads to discuss my personal beliefs, nor have I ever been inconvenienced by a group of jihadis while camping at a hot springs resort in Idaho.  I am so relieved to know that godvoter.org and I can find a happy middle ground.

Given the statements above, I assume the following refers to Mitt Romney, and I absolutely adore the logic of it:

Continued campaigning by both Rick Santorum and Newt Gingrich is dividing the conservative vote, risks handing the Republican nomination to the High Priest of a Satanic cult, and should stop.

 Yes - just stop it.  All of you.

And Him Whyyyyyy...

Restoring order to the homestead following last night's debauchery, I tuned in some soft jazz and left the television displaying some random channel, background company, like childhood.

My attention was snapped to the screen by the opening credits of Gilligan's Island.  Purposefully, I tried to shed the pallor of cynicism cast by  age and experience and taste, once more, the naive simplicity of spirit that once allowed me to enjoy this show - every afternoon.  I wanted not to think of the hokiness borne of perspective, but to recapture the innocence of expectations that I had...what was it now, 40 years ago?  I wanted to really *remember* what it felt like to be eating a bologna and miracle whip sandwich between soft white bread from atop a paper plate made greasy with the delicious saltiness of Cain's Potato Chips under the cool air-conditioning of my Grandma's house in summer on Sandralee Drive.

If I had given in to that cynicism, I might be inclined to write about the low level of standards for humor in the late 60's, or to wax mournful over the current status of the various minor celebrities that once worked so diligently to bring me such appreciated entertainment...or I might just roll my eyes and change the channel...surely Love Boat or M*A*S*H is on...

But then, to the back drop of smooth piano sounds, some Svengali character with a neurotic monkey rows ashore and begins hypnotizing the various members of one of my many TV families, and then there is Ginger, looking fabulous in a leopard print bathing suit...and making me think of just how beautiful My Mom was to me then and still is now!

3 weeks, 6 cities, 11 flights, and 150 beers

It is my plan to write up a nice tidy summary of my vacation, to thank and acknowledge everyone who took the time to visit with us on our whirlwind trip around the US - but I doubt I will be able to do it.  Everytime I try to put words to my emotions, my chest contracts and I begin sobbing.  I'd like to blame it on exhaustion, having averaged 4-5 hours a night of sleep for the last three taco-filled weeks, but I suspect my emotional landscape is far more complicated than that.  I am a jumbled mess of joy, of longing, of pride and of confusion.  It is pure wishfulness on my part to imagine that I can compartmentalize these feelings by wrapping them in witty complete sentences.

However, at present moment, two profound observations have bubbled up through the black tar soup of my recent visitations.  Already, their pungent odiferousness is wafting away on the winds of ordinary life.  I breathe deeply, gasping to keep the memory of the feelings in my nostrils, as if I can preserve time by mere olfaction.

1)  It is a remarkable privilege to spend time with the various generations of one's family.

Being rather firmly entrenched in the middle of life (give or take a decade depending on the graces of  health and circumstance), I have the fortunate perspective to look back on youth and forward to advancing age.  Visiting with parents, grandparents and aunts is like looking through a window into my own future.  Not the rosy imagined future of immortality and endless possibility, but of the real future of losing strength and independence, of becoming sidelined for being slow and cumbersome and possibly ornery.  Visiting with siblings, cousins, and nephews is a window to my own past.  Not the fairy-tale past of knowing that I was god-like in my understanding of the world and my place in it, but of the nightmare truth of how little I really knew then, and worse - of how much less I know now.  I'd like to think that I can apply this insight in some meaningful way to my present life - that I can use it to make better choices, better decisions, but I am crushed by the realization of just how much about life I will never really comprehend.

2) I am homeless.

There are moments when I feel that every place I have ever lived is still 'home', but this time no place that we visited conjured up feelings of enduring security.  More than ever, I was keenly aware of just how transient a life on earth really is.  Driving by past residences did not invoke any sense of belonging - quite the opposite.  More than anything, I wanted to belong to the road again.  I could be perfectly content to continue living out of my suitcase, cruising indefinitely from couch to couch, hotel to hotel visiting friends and family, bouncing from party to party and dinner to dinner.   I feel more displaced than I ever have, and the thought of returning to Adelaide is even worse.  Of all the places I call home, I still feel like a complete outsider there.
 So, dear readers, that is all the wordplay I can allot to my ephemeral epiphanies.  Reality is swiftly calling me to heed the demands of bills, emails, unpaid parking violations and a very hungry bad kitty - those banal activities that deplete my curiosity and leave my vocabulary stranded on the bleak shores of indifference.  Lest you think my whole vacation was steeped in melancholy (which it most certainly was not), I refer you to my Facebook Photo Journal - which features smile upon smile upon smile...but right now, even looking at those pictures makes me want to cry.

Run!

Poor Mario. All he wanted was a bit of happy companionship on his birthday. And for awhile, he found it with the chatty American couple.

Mario splashed into his seat, having invited himself to our table, and our cigarettes. His right eye was purple and swollen, his ears resembled cauliflowers, and his knuckles bore thick calluses. His quick and easy smile revealed a mouth full of small yellow chiclets dispersed spatiously, if not randomly, along his gum line. His complexion was dark, but his accent was all ochre.

"Todays is me birfday, but me misses wouldn't come out drinkin' wif me. I am a member, down at The Stag. See, here's me membership card. Here, you hold onto that for me. I get us some free drinks down at The Stag, cuz I'm a member. Where's is youse guys from anyways? Youse from America?! For reals?! Hey, can you say this for me 'Welcome to this presentation of the NBA on ESPN!' Do you know LeBron Johnson?"

Yeah, I met LeBron once, when he came over to my house to unclog my toilet. They don't get much money, so all those NBA guys have regular jobs in the off season. And they all wear women's knickers, too.

"For reals?! Yeah, I can understand that. That's why me Mum came here from El Salvador. To give me a chance at a better life."

And are you taking advantage of that?

"Hehehhehhehheeheeh! I like youse guys. Let's go downto the Stag. I get free birfday drinks, cuz I'm like a member. They all know me there. I am there all the time. I'm like a VIP. Hey, can yuse say this for me 'Welcome to this presentation of the NBA on ESPN!'"

He smiled his stunted smile, and it seemed a very natural thing to do, to go down to the Stag with him, get some free VIP drinks, but it all went so bad so very quickly, what with the raised voice, demands to see the manager, denials of recognition, no sir, I do not know you, you need to show the text message we sent you. Come back when your phone is charged, and then arguments about the content of their computer and isn't my birfday in your system.

Kevin and I began backing away towards the door. We eased onto the sidewalk and exchanged glances.

RUN!!

We sprinted across the street and ducked down into driveway that ended in a deadend alley, contemplated ducking into an open door at the back of a restaurant, but decided we had been quick and stealthy. We leaned against a brick wall, catching our breath and wondering if we had ever been ditched like that and been too drunk to notice. Mario strolled casually around the corner.

"What is youse guys doing back here? I was gettin' us me free birfday drinks and den youse was runnin' down the street. And now heres you is, in dis alley."

He stepped behind the dumpster to piss. Kevin and I exchanged glances.

RUN!!

The Skin of a Dying Man

"What have you done?"

"I woke up mad at my hair."

"I see. What's with the widow's peak?"

"I thought it would make me look like those bad ass motherfuckers in that show last night."

"You look like a mental patient."

"Will you tidy up the back for me?"

"Yes. Thank God you didn't wake up mad at your eyebrows."

My Day Out

Took myself out for a drive today.  Just couldn't be cooped up inside while spring is beginning to unfold, so I turned up MaGill and took to the the hills, up into Lenswood, formerly known as Gary's Flat, but renamed after a WWI battle.  Gary's Flat made more sense.  

There were mysterious symbols at the entrance to the roadside park.  'No raising fistfulls of foliage' and 'eucalyptus trees here'...need to know information.

I followed a path over a talkative creek, into a soggy clearing, intermittent sun showers beckoned me deeper into the woods.  I sat on a log and waited for the birds to forget I was there and go about their business of squawking and swooping.

I followed green twisty roads through the hills, taking unplanned turns and obeying random signs, a strategy that lead me inevitably to a winery.  The tasting room had a roaring fire and bubbling pot of pulled pork.  The vintner lonely in the winter lull, happy to talk.  And talk.  And talk.

A simple lunch at the Lobethal Bakery in Woodside - cheese Kransky wrapped in puff pastry and a cappuccino.  A disappointing chocolate doughnut for desert made it easy to justify a detour to Melba's Chocolate Factory.  Big Chocolate smokestacks:

For the chocolate cauldrons:

Didn't need justification to walk next door to the Cheese Cellar Door.  The lemon-myrtle chevre was divine, but the mature blue vein goats cheese left me burping clouds of ammonia.

No reason to skip the next destination on the Okaparinga Scenic Drive, the toy factory in Gumeracha housed beneath a giant rocking horse.  It smelled salt and fried food - fully licensed cafe.  Dad needs a drink now that the kids are all sugared up from Melba's.  Take them for a walk through the petting zoo, filled with incredibly fat ducks and kangaroos. 

"No dear, I don't think those are kangaroos." 

"Oh, are them some of those wobballies, then?"

Brits.

In Birdwood, passed a butcher selling 'country killed' meat.  Browsed through an antique store in.  Mt. Torrens.  Mt?  Funny.  Should have asked about the price of two giant animal horns, but became mesmerized by a box of old photographs.  Black and white stills, portraits, weddings, vacations, school assemblies - who is the boy growing up year by year in these pictures?  $4 each.  I want to save these photos from obscurity.  Buy them all and weave a story around them - some of the pictures are so faded, soon they will be gone.  A slow fade from history.

Where will MY memories end up?  No one to caretake my past.  Even in families, you're only three generations away from total anonymity - unless you started a war or wrote a symphony.  Will tomorrow's antique shops be filled with hard drives?

Just Say Yes

I didn’t have many delusions when I signed up for this job.  I pretty well knew what I was getting into, what the challenges would be for me, both personally and professionally.  However, one aspect caught me completely unawares.  I was not all prepared for the penetrating loneliness of this job.

It seems contrary to claim to be lonely, when I spend my entire day interacting with dozens of people.  But customers are not colleagues.  By definition, the relationship is mildly adversarial at best (and at times, downright hostile).  There are no chatty Monday morning teas discussing weekend activities, no long Friday lunches at the pub bragging about vacation plans.  My jokes are out of place and unappreciated.  If I get frustrated, I can’t just turn my chair for an impromptu bitch-session to let it all out.  The whole point of the sales process is to get customers talking about their needs, their frustrations, their desires.  I hardly ever get to talk about my specialty subject: ME.

But there is one saving grace that keeps me from descending into total despair.  Every three months, I am treated to an intense week crammed with camaraderie, complaints, conviviality, and the consumption of huge amounts of alcohol. I don’t think I could survive this job if it were not for quarterly sales meetings.

Sure, they are not all fun-and-games.  There are endless hours of PowerPoint Presentations filled with incomprehensible graphs and charts meant to instil in me some broad understanding of the business – hardly relevant in the midst of a discussion about the relative merits of LNA modification of siRNA analogues.  There are painful pitches from the marketing department detailing what they believe customers need – they always seem to be 3 months behind.  And, there are peculiar pep-talks from upper management containing a curious blend of praise and beratement.

Last week, our Q3 meeting was attended by one of the bigger managerial mucky-mucks in the Asia-Pacific region.  It was rather refreshing to hear his input and feedback on our processes, however irrelevant or impractical.  He challenged us with a relatively simple task: when any of us are asked to do something, resist the natural human instinct to resist and simply say YES.  This resonated for me personally, enough to speak up and voice my agreement and my encouragement that we fully embrace this simple guiding principle.

But that was before I knew I was going to be asked to play golf.

I had seriously hoped that I could make it through life without having ever held a golf club (I also hope to never see Dirty Dancing – so far so good on that one), but after piping up with my resounding endorsement for acquiescence, I could hardly refuse.  And I must admit, that in spite of best efforts to hate it, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

My pleasure had far less to do with any thrill I may have received from the satisfying PING of ball connecting with club - followed closely by POP of ball connecting with tree and the PLOP of ball connecting with pond.  Without a doubt, the experience was made more delightful by the presence of kangaroos bouncing across the fairways, magpies swooping in and out of shots, and kookaburras laughing at my putting skills.  But the unadulterated joy of the morning arose entirely from being allowed to spend a few hours with my co-workers in a non-work related activity joking, teasing, and giggling. 

I don’t think I realized, until just this very moment, how important it is to have friends in my daily life.

Damn, I miss you all.

Dear Editor,

I generally strive to protect myself from indignation, and considering the wealth of atrocities and social infractions in today’s world, I cannot comprehend why this particular incident has prompted me to put pen to paper, but the sheer ridiculousness has simply gotten under my skin.

In the lobby of the IMVS – a government facility - a flat panel television has recently been installed that does nothing more than display a bar graph illustrating the monthly water consumption of the main facility to all visitors.  The screen is captioned with the catchy slogan “We’re not just committed, we do more…”

I would really appreciate an explanation as to why, against the backdrop of global warming and cuts to government services, tax-payer money has been spent  on such a preposterous display of irrelevant information.  How will this information impact any decisions being made by visitors to the IMVS?  Why are government funds being spent on useless propaganda?  Who was the mastermind that was able to justify the allocation of resources to such an endeavour while employees are losing their positions? And how did the facility manage to function entirely without water through out the month of February?

“We’re not just committed”.  Indeed, *someone* should be committed…to a mental ward.

Audra McKinzie

Disgruntled Citizen

da Funk

I've been waking up feeling sad and gloomy lately.  I can't quite pinpoint the reason, but I find myself reflecting on my life and wondering about the future.  Increasingly, I am coming to the realization that I will never 'discover' my true calling.  I've been living under the delusion that one day, I will will take some turn on my life path and will suddenly and completely become infused with tremendous energy and passion....that I will find THE 'thing' that makes me devote myself without reservation to some endeavor, enriching my both my soul and the future of mankind.  Now such fantasy seems as foolish as being rescued by Prince Charming.

If anything, my passion is dwindling - although there is the distinct possibility that it is being sucked out of me, but I'll explore that another day.  I can't seem to muster much enthusiasm for any activity at the moment.  I am dragging myself through the motions of daily life, faking it when required.  I just can't be arsed about anything right now.

And speaking of arsed:

There just isn't enough frivolity or silliness in my life right now.  It's not that everything is serious or dire, but there isn't any sizzle either.  What happened to my 'happy go lucky' attitude?  When did I stop singing?  Where did I put my weird? 

I perked up a bit later when we strolled through a salvage shop filled with life-sized statues of pirates, Indians, celebrities and animals.  I determined I would indulge myself with the purchase of any weird and useless item that caught my fancy.  An Egyptian sarcophagus?  A giant shark head to plant in the front yard? A zulu midget holding a menu board, perhaps?

Unfortunately, I was disappointed that all the seemingly cool old statues, were merely plastic replicas.  Although, I was quite attracted to the life-sized animatronic tyrannosaurus rex, I decided that my self-indulgent wallowing was not quite worth $25,000.  However, $895 for Barak Obama seemed a bargain...but I'd hate to take him away from his current position.

So I decided to come home, make chili, and weep quietly while watching The Aristocats on TV...sigh.