Friday, 6 April 2018

Street Talk: The Icehead And Beau.

I broke up a fight in Katoomba Street because I'm a tough cunt but let me backtrack and tell you the story.

So I was in the waiting room waiting to see my new GP who is actually quite fucking awesome and knows that bipolar and mental health shit IS REAL. I didn't want to be there - I never want to be there when my brain is so broken but it's my only option and I had to be there because it was my only option.

"Get help" they say. Orly?? Getting help is bullshit hard and I'll write about that later when I'm not in the throes of hideous cPTSD and chronic clinical depression and all the other wonderful, wonderful labels.

Anyway I ripped a poster off the wall because it offended me because I'm just that kind of person but I'll write about that in other post. Fuck that poster to hell.

Exhibit A: me waiting in the GP's waiting room getting LEERED AT BY MEN AM I NOT TO OLD FOR THIS SHIT APPARENTLY NOT.

Yeah I was all Eminem on this shit you know how Em wears his cap and then a hoodie over it?

So I go into my appointment, my god I love my GP: referrals, blood tests, advice, tissues when I started crying.

Drove off into Katoomba, down Katoomba Street to see a PUNCH UP taking place. Full-blown punches thrown. I parked down the road, got out of my car, and walked to where the punch-up was because I'm a concerned citizen of the world and yeah I could have gotten hurt but I'm already hurt so what's a bit more hurt. I could sense something very unfair taking place.

In a nutshell: this ice ragey toolbag was throwing punches at the local proprieters of a very nice local Thai food restaurant. I second-guessed myself like "Eden this aint your circus and aint your monkeys" but fuck that. As soon as I saw angry ragehead ice guy go to throw a punch at the female manager? All bets OFF.

I went into chameleon mode and walked up to icehead and his girlfriend, stood in between the punching, turned and asked icehead if he was ok. Why? To gain his trust. To pretend I was one of him. I told him the coppers were coming (they weren't, slow clap for Katoomba police who couldn't be BOTHERED to track me down in October 2013 the day my brother died because you know, probably too hard #donuts)

He replied to me with "FUCKEN GOOKS I'M GONNA COME BACK AND FUCK THEM UP" and I said ok but seriously the police are up the road. He retreated and walked back.

I walked up the street, followed the shellshocked people who were walking back to their restaurant. I walked into the restaurant and they were so scared of me! I asked the woman if she was ok. She was crying. She told me later she thought I was a friend of iceman - told her I wasn't I was just trying to break the fight up because I saw him go in to hit her and I ABHOR VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN. I took off my sunnies, my hoodie, and my hat. I said Beau, I'm way too old for this shit I just wanted to make sure you were ok. She literally collapsed into my arms thanking me, offering me a glass of water, free meal - anything. I said no sweetheart I just saw that there were so many people watching but nobody was doing anything to help. (Memo to people: HELP WHEN YOU CAN.)

I walked out, down to the mental health team in Katoomba showing them my referral to see a psych because I think I need a medication tweak even though I LOATHE pharmaceuticals but I'm desperate at this point I am a barnacle and will not go the way of my brother. They said a referral didn't cut it and fobbed me off to the crisis team phone number who only deal with acute cases and it's not cute because I will NOT end up in a psych ward again, the last time I did a guy with face tattoos scuttled into my room in the middle of the night and stuck his dick into my face but that's not the real issue here.

The real issue here is: help your fellow humans on the planet. Even when it's scary. If I can do it with a raging fucked up brain, then you can too.


Previous Street Talks:

1. Noelene the Young
2. Megan the Mouse
3. Harpal the Australian
4. Darren the Artist
5. Jo the Interesting
6. John the Telstra Guy
7. Michael the Photographer
8. Peg the Lady
9. Jeff the Preacher Man
10. Andres the Cobbler
11. Honey the Prostitute
12. Mark the Masseur
13. You the Blog Reader
14. Jo the Podiatrist
15. Casey the Uni Student
16. Dream the Horse and Carriage Driver
17. Tamas the Hungarian Accordionist
18. The Dignified Trolley Ladies
19. Alex With The Studded Hot Pink Belt
20. Leaf The Fallen
21. Bel Of The Library
22. Jay And His Big Issue
23. Emma The Adult Shop Cashier
24. Teena, Saver Of Dogs
25. The Luna Park Face
26. Gary The Missing
27. Kristen at the Elephant Bean Cafe
28. Uncle Paul
29. Jess The Mama
30. The Two People At The Checkout
31. Alfie The Pourer
32. Breaking The Rules With Captain Starlight!
33. The Woman In Line At The Bakery A Few Weekends Ago
34. Dog The Dog
35. Julia Gillard The Person
36. Nancy The Badass
37. Bruce From The Psych Ward
38. Jeremy The Costumeless
39. The Women in the Morgue
40. The Lady Whose Name I Didn't Quite Catch.
41. Eden
42. William the Worldchanger
43. Thelma, The Best Neighbour That I Never Had.

Thursday, 22 February 2018

My Blog Might Get Deleted Because I'm Writing About Medicinal Cannabis.

My cousin Morgan is the one in the wheelchair:

Behind her from left is her sister Ariel, their dad Steve, and lawyer Robert Daoud from Sydney Criminal Defence Lawyers.

They're outside Penrith Courthouse because my uncle Steve got arrested and charged with cultivating cannabis plants that were being used for medicinal purposes. When the seven police officers raided their property and searched their house they found no scales, no satchel bags, no wads of cash. Because my uncle isn't a drug dealer he's trying to save his daughters life and alleviate their pain. The plants were used to make cannabis oil capsules that Morgan uses as suppositories as she is battling severe Crohns Disease. The fresh leaves of the plants were being used to juice into smoothies, not to get off her face.

Steve is facing huge criminal charges, may go to jail, and has to report for bail every Monday on his way to work in the city because he supports his whole family. He's facing huge legal fees. HUGE. Robert is representing him in court, the next appearance is due soon, this whole thing isn't going away in a hurry. It's beyond stressful.

Morgans sister Ariel has Ulcerative Colitis and spent over a month in hospital last year, she haemorrhaged in the hospital bathroom and the doctors performed emergency surgery on her colon. She nearly died. Morgan has nearly died a few times, she has an ostomy bag.

Her dad Steve is one of the most kind, caring, beautiful men you could ever meet. He made the Blue Mountains Gazette.

Page two, no less. His wife Karen works hard behind the scenes every single day, appealing to politicians, local government, everybody she can think of to gain support. It's really hard and exhausting. Morgan is now without her medicine and the trauma of the police raid sent her spiralling. When the police left that day they were ashen faced because all they found was a sick young woman, and her mother. Morgan vomited as her dad was arrested and taken away to be charged and branded a criminal.

Morgan and Ariel both have to report to Centrelink and their respective jobseekers because why have they not gotten a job yet? I wheeled Morgie in one day and said "Ummm, got any jobs for my cousin?" I helped her fill out the trillion forms to try get her on the Disability Pension but it takes five months for a decision to be made, there's a backlog because of so many people pretending to be so sick they can't work. If Morgan gets denied I will be very, very angry. I already am angry but I must step back and cool it because I don't want to jeopardise anything. I'm the kind of person who will take twenty cannabis plants in pretty pots and set up a stall outside Penrith police station with a sign saying "Get Your Free Medicinal Cannabis Plants Here" just to prove a point. I've been putting off writing this post because I'm scared - the last time I wrote about medicinal cannabis on my Edenland Facebook page  my whole page got taken down and it took days to prove my identity. Ten years of me swearing, putting up nude photos, showing women breastfeeding, blatantly criticising the Australian government about foreign aid after my trips to Africa and India for World Vision - and my page got suspended for writing about plants that are helping save my cousins lives. Seems legit.

I love my cousins. I will do anything for them, they are the little sisters I always wanted, and they are suffering so badly it's criminal.

Their dad is not a criminal, he's desperately trying everything he can to keep them out of pain, and basically keep them alive.

It's scary, and has taken its toll pretty badly. The law has to change. The law is wrong, we will fight this all the way and if Stevie gets sent to jail or anything happens to my cousins I'll go ballistic - that's not a threat it's just who I am.

Morgan is currently in hospital again ... we looked up and that's her ceiling. A piece of it fell down and landed on her bed.

(Obviously I purposely took a photo of the chunk of ceiling next to the no photo zone because I'm me.)

Sometimes when she's in hospital she spends her time with men in beds next to her. Last week I visited her and brought in fans I bought from Bunnings for $15 each because the air conditioning is broken and the room was like a sauna.

There she is - all 37 kilos of her, assembling one of the fans for the patient next to her because Morgan's like that. She cares. It took us about half an hour to assemble one fan and we were laughing so hard because I had to get a plastic knife to screw the screws in and when we finished it was all wobbly but hey, it worked.

We felt bad because there was four patients in the room and we only had three fans. Margie had to lie down after the assembalation (not a word, don't care) of the fans because she was exhausted. Sometimes when she's at home she has to be carried to the bathroom. They took away her medicine so now her options are Endone and other stuff I don't know the names of but they can cause cancer. One of the drugs they gave her made her hair fall out.

It took me about three hours last week to try get her moved to the new gastro ward - I was nice. This isn't the nurses fault - they get abused regularly by patients but not us because we know it's not their fault they're on the frontline and cop the brunt. I told one of the nurses she had really pretty eyelashes (she did) and then I asked who was above the doctors? What is this mysterious "patient flow?" Do I need a secret handshake to get Morgan moved out of the stroke/neuro ward?

Morgie finally asked me to please stop, that it was ok, she didn't want to make a fuss. So I had to drive away back to my house where the ceiling doesn't have mouldy water damage. I shared it to Facebook and people were so lovely, so outraged, and couldn't believe the conditions of that room in Westmead Hospital. Miraculously Morgie sent me a text later saying that she had been moved to the new gastro ward and she even had her own room. She couldn't believe it - she's still there today, she's so grateful.

The squeakiest wheel gets the most grease but you've got to play your cards right and be squeaky in a really lovely, non-shouty, calm way. Lucky I have a gift with words, lucky I'm really polite when I'm pushy. Lucky my two cousins are alive.

Here is what these stunning beautiful girls look like when they were well.

.. and here's what these stunning beautiful girls look like when they are sick (and denied their medicine that grows in the ground.)

I know there's Go Fund Me pages left right and centre these days but I'm actually begging, if you can, to put a few dollars into this to help with this families astronomical legal bills. They are good people, they are my family, and this case is going to be very interesting when it reaches a judge who will hopefully show some compassion.


Morgan's blog is called "The Power Of Me."

New Idea picked up the story about her home getting raided.

So - can anybody help spread this story? A Current Affair, The Project, any news channel, anything? My email is and I'll pass them all on to Morgan and Ariel's mum Karen.

I hope I wrote this post right - I didn't swear once. Gotta go now because my Bipolar 2 is playing up pretty bad lately but that is an invisible embarrassing illness so I'll just shuffle up the street and try get my car pink-slipped and rego'd so I can sell it. Also buy some healthy stuff for dinner tonight because my youngest son is here this week and he's nine but what am I going to do when he's sixteen and doesn't need me anymore ugh. Anyway enough about me .. I much prefer focussing on other people and I hope this court case goes ok and I hope my beautiful cousins get better and I hope the fans Morgan and I assembled are helping the patients stuck in that shithole of a room are helping cool them down.

(Ok I swore once but it's only the "S" word.)

(I turned comments on my blog off because I was getting abused and now I can't turn my comments back on again because I'm not that technologically savvy heh MISTAKES WERE MADE.)

Thursday, 15 February 2018

Some Thinks I Thought When I Was A Kid.

Swallowed an orange seed in kindy and cried so hard because I thought an orange tree would mminently grow from my belly up out of mouth. The teacher could not calm me down.

I thought the amount of children people had equalled the number of times they'd had sex because why else would you do something so obviously disgusting?

My little brainwashed catholic brain thought Jesus could see me while I was in the shower or getting dressed, so embarrassing.

I thought the world was fair and good people always won just like in the cartoons.

I thought I'd never had children because I was a nihilist even at the age of seven.

I thought I was so, so, so ugly. And adopted. (Secretly wished I was adopted.)

Wore a size 8AA bra to school when I was eleven. Halfway through maths class the boys behind me were laughing so hard because my secretly stashed toilet paper was half-hanging out. (Thought I'd NEVER grow boobs, finally did when I was seventeen. SEVENTEEN.)

I thought I'd never ever drink alcohol after my father died of alcoholism when I was twelve. Then that fateful night of dollar drinks for ladies at Parramatta Leagues Club when I discovered Midori and Lemonade. Ended up pashing and being groped by some random guy outside in the bushes and there was so many bright lights going past. When I sobered up a bit I realised I was half-naked sitting on the fence next to a McDonalds drive-through. The bright lights were people putting their high beams on to get a closer look.

I thought menstruation was "menustration"for so many years. It just sounded better.

I thought if I was going to hell for being bad .. then I REALLY may as well be bad. (I was bad.)

I thought my brother was going to get kidnapped so I'd be on guard outside his bedroom door for hours at a time, creeping in to look in his cot, make sure he was still there.

I thought I didn't have a voice.

I thought if I'd helped my stepdad wallpaper my bedroom the week before he killed himself then he might not have killed himself.

I thought friendly guys had nice motives.

I thought I was the only girl in the world who had discovered females could orgasm.

I thought there was someone growing up in the world the same time as me and when we met we'd live happily ever after.

I thought there was something dreadfully wrong with me (I possibly still do.)

I thought huntsmen spiders were gods punishment.

I thought I'd grow up to be a journalist. In a way I kind of did?

I'd think to myself over and over and over: "Eden don't EVER forget what it's like to be a kid."

I've never forgotten what it felt like to be a kid.

Monday, 12 February 2018

My Brother Cam Killed Himself And I Don't Write About It Much Anymore Because In Western Culture Grief Has An Expiration Date.

Uploading that photo of him (above) just then was uggghhhh. Rare these days that I ruminate on the utter shittery annihilation of his suicide but every once in a while it hits me like I hit the wall when he left.

He left. It wasn't right.

What if his t-shirt startup business fully cracked the market and become red-hot successful and he made a shitload of money? It didn't. He bid me goodbye after living with us for about a year in our big family home that is now up for sale. All those memories. Cam moved to the mines in Western Australia to make his fortune to impress a cold cold short-term snob girlfriend which didn't work and it was literally the last nail in the coffin. A coffin that got burnt in his non-attendance cremation anyway. (Hey do coffins go in the human oven too? Waste of money. Unless they get sneakily get recycled. Mmmm nom, shared human juices.)

"Ede, if she doesn't go out to dinner with me for my birthday I'll kill myself."

"Well sweetheart that'll grab her attention but .. you'll be dead? Just fucken stay, you never know what's going to happen. Life holds good stuff too. Promise."

A month later he was dead as a doornail and the day after he died when we saw his body on the slab in the morgue ... the coppers walked us outside. I'll never forget one of them said, "Ok, well have good day."

I was too stricken to say something Edenified like "Oh yeah we're having a GREAT day!" But now when I think of that I laugh, wryly. Dark stuff has got to be funny when you keep getting thrown dark stuff. It's the only way to cope.

Cams father was my stepfather and he mysteriously made this fuckload of money so we lived like kings and queens for almost a decade I mean we're talking Ferraris, Rolls Royce, fake Tudor-style mansion (new money lol.) Crates of Dom Perignon, trips overseas, diamonds. Sounds amazing, hey? It wasn't. At all.

The money was ill-gotten, my stepfather was busted for being a crook and instead of going to jail he killed himself good on you hypocritical cockhead. His death was a death knell for 8-year old Cam. Broke not just his heart but his spirit and I tried to keep him alive till I couldn't. I been parenting my three sons for years now what if my fuck-ups have impacted them and I can't keep them alive? I've never said that to anybody. We tend to keep our darkest fears in the dark for fear of bring them to fruition if we drag them into the light. Bring out the spotlights, I say. Better than bringing out your dead.

Cameron was under pressure to make money, be an alpha male, succeed, provide, be normal, get married career babies blah blah. He thought he failed. He didn't. He was the most kind, compassionate, sensitive guy. The patriarchy fucks men up too.

There's my post for today, welcome! And I don't care if it's too full-on. Life is too full-on. I doubled over and wept and wept for a while today because my beautiful baby brother is dead and it's shocking and it hurts. I often think "Well, I got over that!"

I won't ever get over that. And that is exactly how it should be.

(Hey you guys: talk to each other.)

Friday, 9 February 2018

You Can See Half The Moon.

That's what Rocco said to me the other night: "Mum check it, you can see half the moon!"

It reminded me of something but I couldn't quite place it ..

.. then I placed it. He said something very similar in 2012 when he was just four and I wrote about it. It's not happy reading but it's how things went down and I have no sugar-coating gene.

I'm tired tonight so this is a repost and kind of carrying on from the whole "dead dad" theme. I never asked for such a theme unless I came back to this earth just for shits and giggles as a fucking joke between me and God to see how much bullshit could happen until I completely implode. (Haven't imploded yet, don't intend to #Lagertha) Then when I get to the afterlife me and God will hi-five and I'll say "Well THAT was hard you arsehole" and God will say "You asked for it, Eden! Here I made you a new Garden. Rest a while before you go back." 

And I'll agree with God that I'll come back again to earth to evolve my Soul more but next time, I'm going to be calm and sedate. No mental health shit, no succession of funerals. I'll be some boring marketing manager and live near the beach and be. Learn how to do my hair nice. Listen to jazz, have matching underwear and even eat antipasto platters. (GAG.)

(The comments on this original post of "Half The Moon Is Gone" were breathtaking. When I get scared about what social media has turned into, this shows that people care. People will always care.)


                                          JULY 2012

I'm sitting in a library. There's only old people here. The rest of the world is at home living their lives on their computers. What's going to happen to libraries, in the future?

When I was 21 I quit my ice-cream scooping job in the city and moved back home. My stepdad Jim and younger brother came one morning with a truck to move all my stuff but I'd gone to bed at 7am and didn't answer the door. They came back an hour later and I was frantically throwing shit into boxes. Hungover as hell, pretending I didn't hear the door. Jim knew but didn't get cranky. He never did. I brought with me a host of cockroaches that plagued their house for years because alcoholic stepdaughters are thoughtful like that.

Last week a motley crew of doctors found cancer in Jim's pancreas and liver. And abdomen. Blood clots on lungs and pneumonia. Finding cancer is sometimes like the worlds most fucked-up game of hide-and-seek. SURPRISE! We were in here all along! He has been in pain for months. His pain has escalated this week to the point of unbearable. The past few days we have had to be his advocates. Stuck in a stroke observation ward and badly needing to be transferred over to the cancer ward. Nurses were not equipped to deal with his unique case. My mother has a look in her eyes I haven't seen in many years. Everything's happening so fast and what's going to happen to the libraries?

Artwork in hospitals is as lame as ever. A deep-sea marlin, a landscape, and some kind of bullshit abstract. Seeing Jim in this much pain is hard to witness. Imagine being him. There should be more nice art. Someone should do something. I clopped over to the cancer ward in my Africa boots yesterday and cried to the head nurse for a spare bed. You know it's a hard day when you're begging to be let IN to a cancer ward. She asked me to sit. There was a commotion. I love commotions.

A cancer patient was going nuts, because her boyfriend had been busted shooting her up and was banned entry. She's a blonde skeleton, about to die, kicking up a stink, treating her mother terribly. Junkies get cancer too.

They still couldn't take Jim. Don't they understand what kind of guy he is? How hard he's worked? Send me somebody to blame, Universe. It feels nice when there's people to blame. I drove around town for heat packs while his biopsy got cancelled again and it's the end of the world as we know it but people still honk when I drive too slow.

Sometimes, the idiot driver in front of you is slow because she's lost and trying to find the right way back to the wrong ward. Sometimes you need to have more compassion, earth people.

I check twitter and want to tell everybody to get the hell off twitter and go out and do something constructive for the love of sweet Mary and Jesus.

People are grotesque. Cancer is the $2 shop chemicals, the vegetable section of your supermarket, the food dye in your cream bun. Cancer is the salt on your fries and the fake-leather tassels on your brand-new pair of whatever the fuck you just bought but didn't need while children die from hunger. Cancer is the smokestacks of China and the grease-traps of fast food.

We live in a dying world but there's still hope because libraries. The books are whispering to me like the wisha-washa of the Magic Faraway Tree.

Jim loves reading.

Last night they forgot to bring his dinner and his bin was overflowing so I changed it and vowed that it would be his last night in that ward. Directly out his window they are constructing a whole brand new cancer wing and I wanted to run and shout to the workers HURRY UP HURRY UP HURRY UP.

A few hours ago he was transferred to the soft, muted colours of the cancer ward. Cancer wards are where it's at, people. Leather couches and soft carpet. There's no money in stroke wards. One of the stroke guys was vomiting so loudly this morning that it sounded like he was having an orgasm and I kind of wished he was. THAT'S what the stroke unit needs .... blondes giving hand jobs.

We don't have to fight for pain relief anymore. He's finally going to receive the correct care. Much, much classier art in the cancer ward - framed photos of melancholy beach sunsets, brass plaques inscribed in memoriam. If I ever get cancer and die, my art is to be a huge inappropriate Norman Lindsay print that is directly representative of my life. With demons and nudity and fear and bacchanalia.

Doctors are talking about months.


All PR people emailing me can stop now, thanks. All people questioning my integrity please take a ticket and have a seat, I'll be with you later. Anyone who wants to visit the hospital needs to check with us first. The person who emailed my mother yesterday: go fuck yourself, leave us alone, when you told my sister on your blog that "I'm done with her" it meant you were done with my whole family.

If any person in the whole world has a problem with this blog post then please fax 1800-BLOW-ME.

If anybody would like to help out, you can start by joining your local library, and buying wholesome vegetables. For yourselves.

If there's anybody left, I'd really appreciate a favour ... leave a comment for my mum. Lie to her, and tell her everything's going to be ok.


This photo was taken on the day we found out last week, he fell asleep in the chair in the hospital room. Rocco, four-years old. Had to take him back to mum and Jims house in the dark. Rocco is currently obsessed with the waxing and waning of the moon. How it can be a sliver one night, and full the next. We were walking along the pavement and he looked up.


I didn't look up I just said I know, sweetheart.

I know.

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