I See Dead People

I have huuuuuge expectations about tonight. For the first time in my life, I am seeing a medium. I am SO EXCITED about it, and really feel like it will be amazing. If not, at least it's being held in a club so I can go play the pokies afterwards with my husband and laugh about how stupid it was.

But I secretly don't think it will be stupid. I secretly have so much riding on it. For the past week I have seen feathers everywhere I go. Which to me means that my guardian angels are near. Maybe my grandmother ... I feel her so closely.

I have two tickets for tonight, I really wanted to take my brother but he can't come so Dave is coming. He rolled his eyes, says, "Ohhh, she's SO gunna pick me, hon." I said "Mate, it depends who comes through. And I have more dead people than you anyway. My dead people need to take a ticket and form an orderly queue."

Daves all, ohhh, I ALWAYS get picked for these things. I told him she's not a God-damn busker. She's a psychic.

_____

So this was my status update on facebook today:

"Going to see Australia's top psychic and medium, Deb Webber. TONIGHT! (Cue scary music) ... really hope my dead dads come through - so I can ignore the arseholes."

Then, in quick succession, I left three comments. On my own facebook page:

Eden Riley Just kidding. I won't ignore them. Just say, thanks for the suicides, guys!
41 minutes ago ·

Eden Riley Ok who makes jokes about suicide on facebook? There's something wrong with me. Maybe I need to see someone .... LIKE A PSYCHIC.
40 minutes ago ·

Eden Riley Seriously getting off FB now. If I'm not back tomorrow, my dead dads killed me for poking fun at their deadness.
40 minutes ago ·

______

Today, I am manic. Or a maniac. One of the two. Feet fail me not.

All that is seen, and unseen.

At the park the other day, I heard a woman calling her child. "Rocco, come here."

I went over and told her that my son was named Rocco too. We ended up talking for ages, all this stuff tumbled out of both of us that neither expected. Mostly about cancer.

When I was pregnant, Rocco was a funny nickname we came up with for the baby. Rockette for a girl. Dave would grab my armfat and say, "Bit wobbly hon!" So I would grab his expansive tummy and say, "Oh, are you growing a little Rocco too??"

Little did we know that he was indeed growing his own Rocco. His beautiful bouncing tumours, that in the end you could SEE were poking out of his belly.

My top names for the baby were Stan, Sonny, Ramona, Honey, Sid, Gus. Not Rocco.

But at the birth, the baby came out and it was indeed a boy. I looked at Dave and gave him full naming rights, because neither of us were expecting a very positive outcome. I thought that this baby will never know his father, but at least he can live his whole life with a name his father chose for him. Dave chose Rocco.

The woman in the park was Italian, and her Rocco was named after her own father. She told me that there was a Saint Rocco .... which I didn't know. She asked me why we named him Rocco and I told her the real story, instead of saying, oh, we just liked the name. She stood and listened to everything that happened, eyes bugging out. I realised that a lot of time has passed now. I am so much better. Time does amazing things, but you never forget.

She kept asking if Dave was ok now. For once that question didn't piss me off, I just simply said that we hope so. And we try to cherish every day, which is impossible to do all the time, but my goodness the little baby we named knows his dad so well that it really seems like a miracle. Dave used to hold him, this wailing newborn .... hold him tight, and tell me that Rocco was the only thing that could cut through his cancer.

Lately I stand back and watch Dave get all caught up in the stress and bullshit of life. I keep telling him to wear the world like a loose garment but he just laughs at me.

Turdburger.

Just now, I did a bit of research. Saint Rocco is the Patron Saint of sickness, who was "known to perform many miracles of healing."

And I got that tingly feeling in my spine, when you look through the physical world and can glimpse, for a second, the myriad of worlds behind it. There is so much that we don't know.


Prayer to Saint Rocco
O Great St. Rocco, deliver us, we beseech you, from contagious diseases, and the contagion of sin. Obtain, for us, a purity of heart which will assist us to make good use of health, and to bear sufferings with patience. Teach us to follow your example in the practice of penance and charity, so that we may, one day enjoy the happiness of being with Christ, Our Savior, in Heaven. Amen.

Miracles of Saint Rocco
After his death it is said that Rocco continued to perform many miracles of healing. He is known as the patron saint of the sick .

____

For a long time I was worried that his name was too tough for him. Then the headbutts, pushing, stomping began. This guy is so tough. Even when I put a hair clip in and take a photo and publish it on the internet.

Soda Pop Girl 4 Batman 4 Ever

We had a huge weekend. Three days of fun - a talent quest on the Friday night, fancy dress on the Saturday, beach games, lucky prizes.

I won the talent quest. I sang a song I wrote when I was twenty, about the loss of innocence and wanting to be a child again. Before I sang, I said: "Here is a song I wrote when I was twenty, yet thought my life was over. I was about to embark on a kickarse alcoholic drinking career. But I'm fine now. Which is why I'm standing up here before you singing about how bad it was."

*CRICKETS*

Nobody laughed. I was poking fun of myself but nobody laughed. I was mortified ... until I looked at my sisters who were pulling "the face" that only we know, and man I laughed. Thank heavens for inappropriate sisters.

Dave accompanied me on the drums, we had a quick five minute rehearsal beforehand, then totally fucking fluked it onstage. It was awesome. I was Susan Boyle.




How strange to look at that photo, it's not how I felt at all. Photos lie - I felt old, haggard, flabby arms, my boobs felt strange in that top. I don't think we ever look half as bad as we feel.

The next night was 50's dress-up. Dave and Tim went as 50's Batman and Robin -


Max was the coolest T-Bird in all the land -

And Rocco cracked open his tuxedo to celebrate. (Thank you Auntie Gemini Girl) -

Here Dave is keeping his eye out for villains. I kept telling everyone that he has the BEST jaw for a superhero -

I'd forgotten how important it is for adults to have fun, and play. After Tim watched me in the breakdance competition (in the above outfit. My blue undies are burnt into many retinas, whoopsies) .... Tim thoughtfully commented that most people need alcohol to be stupid.

He says, "Eden, you are just stupid!"

Best compliment ever.

Not Fair.

Please go send some love to my blog friend. The Evil Stepmonster .... I went to her blog a few years ago and said hi, we got talking and commenting. ESPECIALLY about the pros and cons of being a stepmother.

Now, a few years down the track, she has her beautiful baby girl, six months old.

And now Evil Stepmonster has been diagnosed with cancer that has spread to her bones.

Cancer is evil.

Go say hi to her. Give her your love, your thoughts, your warm wishes. I have experienced first hand the power of Circling the Wagons in blogland ... it is a powerful thing indeed.

L my love and thoughts are with you and your family. Cancer treatments are AMAZING these days.

I wish this wasn't happening.

Life is unfair.

Are You There God? It's Me, Eden Margaret.

Yesterday I had the longest, slowest, drawn-out anxiety attack. It would have been funny, if it wasn't awful.

I have no idea why. I tweeted about it for a while, as you do. I sat in a cafe with Dave, couldn't take my sunnies off. "What is wrong with me? It's like, I'm failing at life."

He told me I wasn't failing at life. Then he suggested sexy love time to make me feel better.

MEN.

All day I had to gulp at the air, big breaths to save me. I realised I needed to do a meeting, asap. I still haven't done one, but I will try to get to one soon.

I will always need to do meetings - for the rest of my life. I hope I make it to the rest of my life. I don't want to miss the ending.

I panicked buying ingredients, panicked in traffic, at school. Signing for a parcel, making a phonecall, hanging out the washing .... panic panic panic.

I prayed.

____

I drove up to the quirky little shop I disovered, to pick up a clock we are giving to my Auntie Mooch for her 50th birthday this weekend. My entire extended family will be there, the first time my aunts and cousins will meet Rocco. We all have holiday houses, down at Boomerang Beach. (Can't get more Aussie than that!) There's a talent quest on tonight, and a 50's fancy dress tomorrow night.

Walking in to the clockmaker, his teeniest shop in the land. Floor and walls were barren .... just this huge grandfather clock sitting in the corner. Like a performance artist, this eccentric guy was busy taking orders, handing people their fixed clocks. Moving slowly but purposefully.

For the first time all day I felt calm. I stopped panicking. I imagined the grandfather clock opening up to a secret world. It felt like I had stepped out of the Matrix of life, and stood there with people who wanted things fixed. Instead of buying cheap crap that can be thrown away, we all stood in line for a common purpose. The guy in front of me was admiring his newly ticking watch. The one behind me stood patiently, holding a small clock.

My clock came out, fixed! It had taken a lot of searching and fixing to get it just right. The man had replaced the hands and the battery mechanism. It's for my Auntie Mooch ... I hope she likes it.

It was made in 1959. I stared at, ticking around like magic. I wondered what important times it had told in the past .... somebodys birth. Somebody's death. Maybe someone looked at this clock up on a wall, realising their lives had changed forever. I looked at it, fifty years later. My panic was all gone. I fixed the clock. And it fixed me right back.

In conclusion, if you're having a panic attack, just go into a teeny shop simply called "WATCH". And imagine yourself in the Matrix, running into the grandfather clock on the wall, and feel your realities slipping away as you realise there's nothing to be frightened of.

(My middle name really is Margaret. I hate it.)

Wordless Wednesday: Rocco discovers licking the beater after mummy makes a chocolate cake. Of course, he had to share the beaters. With mummy.

Truth.

The magnificent thing about life is that you never know what's going to happen. The terrifying thing about life is that you never know what's going to happen.

Truth is, I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. Does anyone? People appear to have their shit all figured out. The world easily freaks me out. I feel flat and exposed. Mornings continue to be ridiculous. I have never been a morning person. More of a mourning person.

Max went back to school last week, after six weeks of summer holidays. He is strong and tall, thoughtful. The face of a pre-teen and the soul of a poet. Rocco went back to daycare. I put Rocco in daycare at the age of eleven months because I could not cope being his full time carer one second more. He loves daycare, loves running wild with his pack of kids. It does take a village ... even if you need to pay said village.

This morning I did a huge Pump workout, then came home to buttery salty scrambled eggs and two huge slices of chocolate cake. I have Buddha statues and Prayer Flags everywhere, but used bug spray on five hundred ants swarming on a carelessly dropped cube of watermelon. I am a mass of contradictions. My head still wants to kill me. I don't know who I am ... only that I will be the biggest enemy I will ever know. Probably why I need to Know Thyself so much.

I don't know why blogging is so important to me, but it is. I think I've been blogging my entire life. What does that even mean?

The other day in the shower I had a EUREKA moment ..... my anxiety stems from the fact that every single second of every day I have this terrible feeling that I've done something wrong. Do you ever break free of your stupid childhood? Do all the other drivers on the freeway have their shit together like I think they do, or are they struggling too?

I love my sons so much that it hurts my heart. And hearts my hurt.

I wish I knew if my dad had a middle name. I wish he knew me.

You can't plan happiness. It happens, unexpectedly, in the oddest of places. And it bubbles over in your soul. And it's real.

Life is real. Who knew?

Have you ever been hated or discriminated against?

I had so much to say that it all imploded and I sank inside myself.

Now I can't think of anything to say.

*crickets*

NOTHING.

WTF?

This has never, ever happened before. I'm going to have to post a video instead. I think you're welcome. (Or embarrassed on my behalf.)



Disclaimer: I do this shit all the time. It's like, my job around here. All of these boys annoy me so much I have to get them back. These are the real lyrics, but I was rudely howled down after the first verse.