Monday, 11 September 2017

When A Man Dilutes A Woman.


                                                      





Thursday, 7 September 2017

How To Blog.


"The human race is the most stupid and unfair kind of race. A lot of the runners don't even get decent sneakers or clean drinking water. Some runners are born with a massive head start, every possible help along the way and still the referees seem to be on their side. It's not surprising a lot of people have given up competing altogether and gone to sit in the grandstand, eat junk and shout abuse. What the human race needs is a lot more streakers."

- Image and words by Banksy
- Post originally written by me in March 2011 - APPLICABLE AS EVER!

10) Go to your computer, write out a big, swishy, important blog post. The marketers and advertising networks and Important People will be happy. Then delete it. Now write what's in your heart and publish it. That will make you happy.

9) It's not a race. You may sense jostling of position ... (I'm looking at YOU, Australian blogging scene) ... a changing of the guard. Bloggers competing and crapping over other bloggers. Don't do that. Don't get involved in the politica of blogging. Stand to one side and smoke your imaginary cigar, then go home and write a post about that time you were twelve and tried to test God by setting traps in your bedroom. God failed, yet you still believe. Odd.

8) Make up your own words. I meant to write "politics" in the point above but like "politica" better. Make up your own scenery, your own language, your own pace, your own creative force. Your blog is a blank canvas. An empty page. A lump of clay. If there is a God who created mankind in His own image, then that makes you a creator too. (HINT: When you create things in life, a river trickles in your heart. If you keep doing it, it gushes into your secret underground trapdoor heart spring that you never even knew was there.)

7) If you want to build up your blog to get a lot of comments, or make money, or get famous ... that's fine. Do whatever the hell you want. It's a free world. (Is it?) Just remember that all good things take time. How connected are you to other bloggers? Do you really read their words and comment on their blogs because it resonates with you, or do you just want them to comment back? If you stop hiding and start write yourself into your blog, people will "see" you and be drawn to you. What are you so afraid of?

6) You don't owe anybody anything. Don't explain yourself ... if you haven't blogged for a while because Life Itself has torn you open and you're laying weeping on the ground - don't worry about backtracking and explaining every little thing. You don't have to! Just come to the page and open up a brand new post and start talking. About anything. People will follow wherever you lead them. It's like, you're the boss.

5) YOU'RE THE BOSS. You are in control. It's your blog, nobody elses. No rules, man.

4) At the beginning of every single blog post, picture inviting ten of your closest friends into your living room. And you say, "Now that I've gathered you all here ..." and start writing. Launch into a fantastic film you saw with your friend last night and it rained or a soliloquy on how you can't believe Japan has so many nuclear reactors or how mortified you were the first time you ever got a pedicure. Make it interesting. You must have interesting thoughts and ideas all the time. Notice them more. My sister Leigh said to me just this morning, "Eden, I often see things and think ... if I had a blog, I would take a picture of that and post it." How cool is that? She doesn't even have a blog but is seeing the world through blog-coloured glasses.

3) There will always be somebody doing it Better. Bigger. Stunning photography. Beautiful children. Getting swanky invitations to things. I get jealous of other bloggers .... mostly because I wish I were more normal and stable. (Sometimes I really wish I were a prolific, stunning Mormon blogger in Utah with a delightful etsy shop and children who I homeschool. Alas.) Somebody's got to be the unmedicated Australian lunatic who stalks Bono, writing strange things on the internet and yet somehow connecting with other people's Spirit while trying so hard to connect with her own. WHEW.

3b) Be happy for another bloggers success. If a blogger is "getting somewhere" ... it means they are raising awareness about all of us other bloggers. It's win-win. It's cool. Don't sweat it.

2) One day, you'll find that you have developed a Voice that you never knew you had. This is your very own Voice. Blogging with an open heart gave it to you. You begin to suspect that this Voice came from a deeper place - because seriously, blogging? Pfft.

You now have a duty of care to use your voice in the best possible way that you can. I can't tell you what that is, you must find that out for yourself. (HINT: Ever get the feeling that living this life with all these unanswered questions is like walking around with a treasure map but no idea where to dig? Dig inside yourself. It's the last place us humans ever look.)

1) Blog like a streaker, man. Blog like a streaker.


Thursday, 31 August 2017

Oh No Please Not This Again.

"I dreamt that one of your legs - I think it was your right - was burning in the firebox in my house and I was so excited calling everybody around to take a look. 

"You guys! My brothers leg is in here! Come and have a look my brothers leg is on fire!" 

Nobody wanted to look. 

I was the only one looking at your burning leg because it was the last time any incarnation of you would be in this world and at this point I'm grabbing at straws holding on to crumbs and letters and mugs and any fucking remnants of you I need to have and I am So. Sick. Of this. Shit. 

So I have decided .. I am done with the grieving now.  Nobody wants to watch a mans leg burn in a fire I mean I didn't want to see it either but I loved you so hard I had to look it was my duty because I was older than you and older sisters are supposed to care for the ones that come after.

I don't have to kill myself anymore. You did it for the both of us."



This was filmed in 2014, almost a year after my brother Cam left. I was sitting in the exact same place he sat with me for four hours on stupid fucking fathers day. My ex got pissed off so drove down to our (his) beach house while Cam and I talked and talked and talked and he left and the next time I saw him he was in the morgue all spongey. 

Today is 31st August 2017 - the last day of winter, I haven't noticed winter much because one of my best mates Dan died suddenly four months ago and the weather means nothing in Grieftown. Do you know Grieftown, probably. We all know it some much more than others. I know it like the back of my weathered winter hands. I've cried lately (just the once, Ede?) so I get out my handy-dandy Crybook to pinpoint the cry ahhh that's it - step right up soon to birthdays and death anniversaries and another year clocked up since I seen Cam and surely I'd be over this now? (No. And don't call me Shirley.) You never get over grieving it gets woven encompasses embedded into the fabric of who you are. All the things of who you are - you're more than your grief but sometimes you are your grief. Makes no sense to some, makes dollars to others.

This piece of here writing is a mash-up of stuff I've written before but it's still applicable. The death of somebody you love is always applicable. Tick. I miss my confidante. I can't be who I was with my brother to anybody else in the whole world. I miss how he made me feel. I miss who he could have been. Most of all I just miss who he was. I used to perform Camerons autopsy to find the cause of death SCALPEL over and over and over again. And over. And over. I don't even get paid for this shit. Grieving is all-encompassing. It is exhausting. And I am tired. So are my sons. We are hurting and we are tired from this. My brain will not stop its futile search and rescue operation.

"He should have gotten help he never got help why didn't he get help? The help probably wouldn't have done much anyway why couldn't he just have kept going? I kept going? Why do I keep going? There is no point in keeping going. Life is meaningless. He should have kept living anyway nothing means anything Cam where are you?"

And my Cam is nowhere to be found. My Cam is gone. I was standing very close to him when he departed so I've been hit pretty badly by the shrapnel. I was complicit in his death, see. He begged me on the phone, a few weeks before he died. I have talked him away from death so many times in our lives, so many times. I would tell him how suicidal I was too. And I was, am. I'm all suicidy and I can't wash it off. Please god higher power nature do not let my sons feel this. Other things .. but not this.

I feel like I aided and abetted his suicide, because I understood so well why he would want to go. He struggled with this whole "life" business, so hard. It's a hard life, I look at my children and I just think oh you guys, I'm so sorry I brought you into such a crappy world. They have no idea how hideous and intense and awful the world can make a person feel. No idea.

I have a feeling of a tidal wave forming, of a richer and more substantial dialogue on suicide. Which is great! But too late, for my brother. I see a video of beautifully groomed celebrities talking about how we must just hold on I want to reach through my screen and muss up their hair, swear at them a bit. Unless you have personal experience of suicide, you do not get to speak for me. I've been called "the suicide expert" by somebody online being nasty, who didn't mean it in a nice way. I happen to agree with you, motherfucker. I AM a suicide expert!

I told my therapist that the only, ONLY times I have felt any semblance of feeling ok about my brother not being in the world anymore is when I'm driving in my car next to some railway tracks and there's a coal train travelling in the same direction as me. Then it happened and I just exhaled for the first time since that awful Tuesday and for 0.04 of a second I was ok with my brothers death. It's happened a few times since, and I've felt that same teeny, tiny smidge of peace.

Once it happened with Max next to me in the car so I asked him to take a photo and he didn't even ask why. We are kindreds. 

There are trees that exist in the Scottish highlands that are balanced precariously on the edges of cliffs and all they need is a few drops, a few centimetres of water each year to survive. Gimme a smidgen of hope and I can make it last for weeks, months, years. I read recently that "strong storms make oak trees dig their roots in further." (Roots lol)

The thing that confuses me the most is that I am alive and my brother is dead and we were both so similar. He wrote in his suicide note to me: "Eden you're the strongest one out of all of us!"

I highly disagree, it's just - maybe I dug my roots in further? Cam told me in the last year of his life that he'd like to build his own house one day and now I think what an utter tragedy it is that he can never build his own house. He didn't know how to lay the foundations. He tried. But nobody taught him properly, he couldn't teach himself he was so arrogant, stubborn and now dead. Will never realise his potential.

My therapist and I could not quite work out why I feel a sliver of peace when I drive in the same direction as a coal train. Maybe it's because I used to read a big purple hardcover book by Richard Scarry called "Cars and Trucks and Things That Go" to my brother so often when he was little that the cover almost wore off. Everybody was always so BUSY, in that book. They had places to go, people to see. They had PURPOSE. And Goldbug would be hiding on every page and before I even turned the page my little brother, my little blonde-haired delightful guy who I now see in my children .... he'd sit there waiting with his finger pointed, ready to find Goldbug before I did.



I always let him find Goldbug first. I always gave him the prawns from my fried rice. I always listened to him, always tried to make him feel worthwhile and valued and important and beautiful and clever because it was all true. It was all true.

Buddy Wakefield says that the moon does not have to be full for us to love it. Cam, you did not have to be whole for us to love you! You didn't have to be anything other than who you were. You didn't like who you were. I wish you knew you were enough. I wish you kept going - for YOU, not for me or for anybody else. I wish you weren't in so much pain. I wish I wasn't in so much pain. I understand why you left. I hope that when you spoke to me on those last phone calls, my understanding and empathy of where you were and how you felt - bro I hope it gave you comfort. But god help me I wish you knew how much I didn't want you to go. I'm so sorry my Bam-Bam. I fucked up. I would've done it all differently I DEMAND a do-over you would still be alive and be able to grow and evolve and know that you are enough and worth enough, to stay.

He made me promise that if he did it I was to fight anyone who tried to hold a funeral for him and he did it so I made sure there was no funeral. But we all needed your funeral, brother. And it's too late for you to realise that this wasn't just about you. Shrapnel got a lot us over here.

I wished I'd done more, told you I needed you more, fixed you more but it's really really hard to fix somebody. Especially when you are actually legit a bit broken yourself.

"We cannot save people. We can only love them."




Thursday, 24 August 2017

Young Women - Stop Cutting Your Flaps Off!

Labia Minora have rights too!! Tell your girlfriends, daughters, nieces, sisters that we don't want a flapless society .. we need vulvas of a different variety.

(And if anyone mocks your vag tell them to go buy one of those new $10k sex dolls that are basically bendable corpses that don't talk because it's all about the holes amirite? Or a warm apple pie.)

Remember Barbie's mons pubis? That mound always so round? Neat. Nuh. Embrace our delicately different flower openings. Embrace vulva diversity.

Here's me a few years ago talking about my own vaginal fears which I have since gotten over in the past few years.

Embrace the flap.


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Friday, 18 August 2017

Hey - Remember The People In Your Neighbourhood?


What must it be like, to feel invisible in the world?

 

This was Mary and her niece, begging for money on the streets of downtown Manhattan. Pretty sure they don't like begging. I like their painted toes.

Steve is one of the critters who come out at night. Scavenging through the hundreds of dumpsters that line New York City.



At 5c a bottle, he can make $80 a day. He said he's happy. He lied.

Steve lives in a flat over in the Bronx, barely affording rent and food. "I'm my own boss ... if I need a day off I take it. I gotta listen to my body. It's hard work."


He knows he's doing an important job. "People don't care. They don't recycle." We shook elbows. Later I lay awake in my hotel bed with garbage air in my lungs. Thinking.



I loved that Dan was reading a book. A western. "It's a true story 'bout the Indians and how they got slaughtered. It's pretty sad." He isn't scared of living on the streets. Says the shelters are disgusting. "Full of crazy people!"

I said man, I wish I could do something for you Dan. He looked me square in the eyes.

"Take me with you back to Australia."




I wished I'd asked him back to our hotel room for a shower. Instead I ran back to give him more money. As I threw the second twenty in his cup, he didn't even care. Looked up briefly from his book with a "Thanks babe."

I like that he called me babe. With a shower, good feed, and a sleep? Homeless Dan could start reaching some of his potential. Get a job, probably pull some chicks. He has a spark, you know?

One night in Times Square we came across a guy taking a breather, sweat riveting down his face. I paid him for a photo and asked him not to pull his headpiece down. It's a "thing" for people to dress up in cheap polyester character costumes and pose for photos with tourists.


                    A picture really CAN speak a thousand words.

Maybe it's because I've walked around in such profound deep emotional pain for the past few weeks, or maybe it's just the travelling making me notice things more .... but man the invisible people were in rich abundance.

A dazed chick in a bikini top with her sign just saying "hungry" ...  would've been safer in a brothel.

The old guy outside our hotel every night. Every time he'd split the money with the person next to him. The attendant in Balthazar who wakes up every morning, puts on her uniform, and goes to work. In a toilet. Handing people paper towel, wiping their skid marks for the chance of a dollar.

Last night we walked past a tittie bar and this really angry, young drunk guy was refused entry and shouting at nobody. He was FURIOUS and I wondered if this is how mass-murderers are made, isolated and ignored.

This is Gloria. She cleaned our hotel room every day.



Gloria is from Jamaica. She's been a maid at that hotel for 24 years. If there's a power outage in the city, she walks from her place in Brooklyn to work midtown and back. She told Dave and I to have safe travels home. To keep talking to people. She said that some people were so lonely in the world with nobody to talk to, and I said I know, Gloria. I know.

"My sister - she die. My brother die ... and then my uncle? He die. They all die in the past few weeks."

We said we were sorry. That my dad died a few weeks ago, and then our dog died. Straight away she nods.

"Yes. When a dog dies in a family, it is to help guide the dead person across the way."

We walked off and had to put our sunglasses on quickly. When I get home I'll sign up to some kind of community thing to visit people. The people who have no people ... I'll take my boys in and watch strangers faces light up and Rocco will careen down the hallways and Max will sit and soak it all in.

This one person did me undone ... I didn't catch her name. Just walked passed her in the high end of town. Her hand was in a splint, sat there with a puny sign saying "Every little bit helps." Her face was stony. It only changed when she realised it wasn't one dollar I pressed into her hand, but twenty.

"Oh my god thank you so much, oh thank you." She cried from relief and I cried from something else. Told her to take care, told her that people care.

I walked off and imagined a tidal wave of water suddenly cascading through all the streets and fancy shops, sending clothes and shiny stuff swirling.

Cardboard signs getting ripped from grubby hands. Chanel earrings getting ripped from ears.

(This entry was first written in New York, August 2012.)




Tuesday, 8 August 2017

"The Power of Me."


"So I’m walking around Westmead by myself at 12am sorry mum and dad). As I was standing outside I saw two young men walking towards me and me being the scaredy cat I am ran towards the hospital back dock crouching behind a van and the first thing I though was “please God don’t let me be raped tonight my asshole couldn’t handle something like that”. I shit you not that was my first thought because that’s the first thing on my mind living with Crohn’s, whether my poor asshole could handle anymore trauma 😂"



Check out my cousin Morgans brand spanking new site.

"The Power of Me,"

"My name is Morgan Taylor I'm 20 and I've been suffering from Crohn's disease since I was 12 years old. Ive decided to start writing my story because there isn't very much support for people out there living with ibd. I'm going to be open and raw with my writtng and tell the truth about what it's like living with this disease. I hope to break some boundaries and get people to talk about these kind of topics becasue let's face it, it's a part of life. I hope you stick around."

I'm so, so proud of my girl. So proud. We talk a lot about both physical and mental illnesses and the similarities between the two - especially when what you're battling is invisible. Morgs just got out of hospital (again) and sent me through her first blog post to check out.

Oh. My. God.

Laughing and crying in one paragraph, I read it and was so blown away I was speechless. "MORGIE IT IS INCREDIBLE YOU ARE INCREDIBLE." And I wasn't just saying that because she's my cousin I'm saying it because what this human has gone through is too much, not fair, ongoing .. and the way she handles it with extraordinary humour and grace. Rocco recently asked Morgan if he could see her bag? (Of course he did.) And Morgie showed him without hesitating. He was fascinated as she explained how an oestomy bag works. Maybe one day in the future he'll meet an amazing chick who happens to have a poo bag. And he really, really won't give a shit.


Monday, 31 July 2017

Siri Ghosted Me During Today's Breakdown - Like, There Was An Actual Ghost In My Siri.



All I wanted to do was show you my boots but Siri had other plans and now I'm going to leave myself over-exposed online oh dear like I've never done that before. WHEN will the big blackout come and erase all of the internet? I'm waiting. But before that, here's this .. the mustard boots on the left were bought on eBay about 12 years ago, wow time flies when you're not having fun. These mustard ones clop like there's no tomorrow. They're the heaviest boots I own when I need to be REALLY tough like stomp into the cancer ward demanding a bed for my stepdad. Who died in the bed I demanded him to be in. I also wore them the day I was discharged from the maternity ward and my sister drove me straight down to the cancer ward where my ex-husband was dealing with cancer so awful the doctor told him to put his affairs in order. Which he did, he's in Greece at the moment. What are these boots, fucking cancer boots?

The next ones are my red ones from New York and people always always comment on them, probably because of the lipstick red colour. They're my strength boots. They look sad in this pic because they're sad, still recovering from my friend Dans funeral whereupon I wore a black clingy dress showing my cleavage and I was all "Sorry Dan but today I'm #sluttypallbearer in a black dress and red boots with NO stockings." He would have approved. Especially when I walked his wife aka Megan down the long driveway following the stupid hearse. Hate the word hearse, too hearsey. There's still funeral in my red boots which I have to walk off. I will because they're one one of my favourites but they'll always remind me of that day we had to say friggen goodbye too early.


The ones next to my red ones are my poetry slam boots standing straight and tall waiting for my next poetry slam. I don't know how long they'll be waiting. I bought them in 2014, the year after my brother died and everybody close to me were scurrying to help but I ran away. Wish I could run back. His death took me away from everything safe.

Last ones on the right I have no idea where they came from they just appeared and feature in my blogheader. Jeff my photographer neighbour snapped that photo with my feet slung out my window defeated. Someone said to me "Eden you can tell you're off your face in that photo just not giving a fuck" and I said "Hey, I wasn't giving a fuck ... but I wasn't off my face! Just defeated." The boots are made from Mexican cowhide and I've trashed the toes I don't know how. I just trash shit.

There's a pair missing from this photo ... my beloved Africa boots I wore in Africa which had Africa dust on them. But I needed a new pair and have vowed to not keep getting pair after pair like Imelda because I've only got two fucking feet. So I sold them ... to a woman with the coolest style who came to my door and loved them instantly, took them away so you know what time it was? New boot time. Not just any old new boot time but NEW BOOT TIME I NEED NEW BOOTS IMMEDIATELY. I used the money from my Africa boots to buy these ... my favourite boots of all time, sorry all you other boots I'll still wear you! These babies are distressed black like me. Also featuring raised gold brocade with wings and crosses and silver stitching in there as well.


The furtherest I've worn these boots so far is out on my balcony to take this photo. Do these boots know I'll be ok anyway? Do they know where they'll take me, who I'll meet, and what I'll be doing in them? Are they magic? (Yes.) Do they make me feel .... something better? (Yes.) I haven't walked up to the bakery in these boots or gotten up to no good in these boots or walked in Athens in these boots or run across the road during a red light light in these boots. I don't think I'll be arrested in them, these boots for they mean no harm. They're good boots. Protective and hugging my massive feet, whispering me on, telling me they don't even NEED spurs they're that good already.

So that's my boot story but today didn't end there, today still hasn't ended. This afternoon is better than this morning when I posted this on instagram stories because so help me GOD I can't pretend and will rabbit on until the great big blackout how important it is to share our shit pain on social media too, not just our good/fun/holidays/newclothes/happyhappyjoyjoy




IMPORTANT NOTE: I have washed the sad out of my hair since that video a couple hours ago. I wish I didn't feel so deeply but I do, my mood has incrementally gone up about two degrees but I'm fucked. There's no mo in my jo, my get up and go got up and left, let's start a conversation around mental health OK KIDS AND THEN WHAT PEOPLE ARE WAITING. (I'm so going to regret posting that vid so I'll say I don't give a shit but I really do. Sucks to be but I'd hate to be you.)

Ever ask Siri stupid shit? Like:

"Siri are you happy."
"Siri what time is love."
"Siri what's the point of existence."
"Siri I'm so sad what are my options."
"Siri what are you thinking."
"Siri I'd like to speak to the person in charge."

This morning I said "Siri I miss my sons." Because my sons are in Greece with their dad and his girlfriend and her three kids. But Siri kept replying that she doesn't understand "Siri I miss my songs." I kept saying "Siri I miss my SONS" and three times she said said she didn't understand "songs" until I yelled at her "SONS!!! SIRI I MISS MY SONS NOT MY SONGS YOU STUPID FUCKHEAD ROBOT YOU WOULDN'T KNOW WHAT MISSING YOUR SONS EVEN FEELS LIKE."

She must have sensed my ire because she finally got it even though she still asked if she could search the web for "missing my sons."




Immediately, IMMEDIATELY after Siri answered with the above, a random son (omg best typo ever) started playing on my phone. I didn't recognise the song. But the song was playing, I didn't ask Siri to play the song but the song? Was amazing to hear right in that moment with the lyrics oh my goodness. I cocked my head to one side (cock lol) and kind of acknowledged who or what put the song on. Because it wasn't me and it wasn't Siri. There was a ghost in the machine .. I wondered which ghost put the song on there's a lot to choose from. (Ghosts, not songs. Siri, I have too many ghosts what to do.)

Hey before I tell you what song it was I need to take this juncture to say: thank you and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not replying to messages in all social media areas, particularly email. I'm sorry if you're waiting for a poem that will come to you - it was nearly worth a lot of money there at one point. I'm sorry for not replying to your thank you's and your pain and everything anyone has ever said it's just I haven't been waving I've been drowning. With boots on. And thank you for resonating and seeing you when you see me. Most times I am the biggest ghost in the machine of all. I don't like social media anymore but some of us have to show our fuckedness - it's important.

The song was "Gotta Be Better" by Shelby Lynne, with such lyrics like: "Been chasing my tail for years Flying by running from terror and fear Time to think clearly for the place I've been holding out for My feet are getting wetter It's gotta be better over there."




"Press home to unlock" Ha. Exactly. Help. Go away. Where's my person. Where's home. Where do I take a flat tyre. I'm scared .. aren't you if not why? I've never ever heard this song in my life until this morning so thanks Siri, thanks new boots, thanks Instagram people, thanks this life will not go on forever, thanks for the day I see my sons again, thanks for the kettle and the cup of tea, wish I was better but for now I'm just me.

Off to do writing on My Other Writing Thing because these posts are just snippets, I've held most things in my life back on here but now they're pouring out. The most frightening filthy raw awful beautiful sublime keep-walking-in-your-fucking-boots writing ever. So embarrassing. So needed.

I know you hate new music but seriously, turn this shit UP. It ghosted me, maybe it wants to ghost you too.




Tuesday, 18 July 2017

"Eden You Should Blog Like You Used To." OK YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME TWICE



Recently I defended someone who was about to be bashed up, this person didn't deserve to be bashed up so I inserted myself in the middle of the mayhem and got threatened with a steel pole, wasn't til later I noticed the knife stuck on the end with masking tape lol. How the fuck am I supposed to tell people that?  I can't. Anyway luckily I escaped unharmed but I just don't like injustice in the world, always root for the underdog even when it's not my circus not my monkeys.

My sons are going overseas soon for a holiday to Turkey, Singapore, then Greece. Apparently I mean who cares about telling "the mother" the exact flight itinerary? All I'm saying is I've wanted to go to Greece for a year now for the express purpose of sussing out the Syrian refugee issue over there. Whatever. I think "Jeez I need a holiday too" so I google "volunteer in orphanages overseas" or some shit but that's not a holiday. That'd sap my life-force ffs why do I still think I can save the world at this point? Side-note: if my sons get killed in a terrorist attack in the name of allah or jesus or zeuss I will rain down vengeance. I'll fly over there, buy a gun on the black market, stick it up my pussy and kill any motherfucker who kills my children.

My mental health is Down. The. Toilet. Realising that maybe this is good as it gets like Jack said. My head keeps gravitating towards all the things that broke me and it's not healthy.

I got contacted by the filthy piece of shit who blackmailed me two years ago and if he contacts me again I will go to the police do you understand arsehole? I'll take you down. Not in the mood. You stole so much from me but thank you for making me aware of the fact that there are people in the world who ACTIVELY MANIPULATE OTHER PEOPLE. I didn't know this. Now I do.

I got sentenced to two years jail but it got suspended and if I do one, one thing wrong I will go directly to jail not stopping at go. Am seeing my parole officer today and she's told me I must comply with seeing my therapist but at this point - no. I've been in therapy since I was 19 it either has worked or hasn't worked. My therapists get this weird fascination with me and I don't like it, sometimes I feel like offering them popcorn as they listen to the explosive shocking details of my life. No. I'm not going.

I miss my brother, I miss my friend Dan, my father and two stepfathers are DED and sometimes it all overwhelms me in my brain and it feels like I'm on a roller coaster of death horror. Yesterday I was getting refills of all my prescriptions and I told my GP my new motto is "What would Carrie Fisher do?" He laughed, so did I, but it's true. Carrie Fisher is my higher power.

Like Eminem says it's apparent I shouldn't have been a parent but mistakes were made. Uncle Stevie said to me last night "Look your sons will grow up and just go yep ... I had a tripper mum." #asgoodasitgets

In conclusion, I'd prefer mania than the filth down down I been feeling for a few years now. I worry that when I'm manic people think I'm on drugs, I'm not, I'm just bipolar manic. I used to think a bipolar diagnosis was a crock of shit, not any more. Yesterday I took Rocco to the hospital to get all of my medical records pertaining to all the mental health admissions I've had IT IS HIGHLY EMBARRASSING TO BE THIS FUCKED UP. We walked into the mental health ward, it felt good to be a visitor. Rocco wanted to play the ping pong table, I had to say no.

Life is so lifey. I don't get it. Maybe one day when we die we'll be all AHHHHHH, I GET IT NOW. Maybe we won't. It's a wild world out there .. it's seems to be getting real uncertain and scary. But don't kill yourselves, we'll reach the end eventually. Besides you'll miss out on your ending and it might be a really good ending so you have to stick around to find out.



BEST LYRICS EVER. Harley Quinn is me, I am her. 

 (Comments off.)

Tuesday, 4 July 2017

Laundromats Are The New Therapy.

My favourite librarian Megan came up to the mountains with her girls, get away from Brisbane for a while. Hey Megan I found the best photo of us together!



Out of all the local landmarks and parks and places we went, Megan's new best thing in the world was the local laundromat. Said it soothed her soul, she just felt so organised and at home in there with the machines whirring and cable TV and free wi-fi. She is the Not-So-Merry Widow and I am the Gay Divorcee. It's been just two months since Dan died. We're still in shock about it and sometimes lately I feel really scared, think it was C.S. Lewis who said that he never knew that grief felt so much like fear.


At Dan's funeral, people were handed bookmarks. When she was here Megan set up a little vignette of some children loss/grieverly books she has, next to one of the bookmarks and my first pair of baby shoes. She'd found out that day was International Widow's Day. Oh my poor poor one, doing the best she can. I try make her laugh. I ask her how many people have told her she is so brave and inspirational today because we've always laughed at how people tell me that and she knows the truth of how fucked I actually am. One day she got six #inspirationals and four #sobraves. Told her we're in a competition now except we're not, I'm only competitive in board games, not death losses and how they change us UGH. FUCK. I text her the other day:

"Everybody we love keeps dying."

She text back:

"Yep."


Pretty sure Rocco downed his Magnum before George even got her wrapper off - our kids get on SO WELL.

"Hey Megan oh my god imagine if one day we are grandmothers to the same baby!!!"

All the kids heard and went, what? How?? Megan just walked off, so rude.



Ava has started calling me Aunty Eden. One of us did the hugest fart and we laughed SO HARD it reminded me of all the times her dad would send me his fart recordings until finally I sent him one back. When he could finally talk he rang me and told me he was proud even though I said it wasn't my best work. Dan never had a female friend like me. One morning here I went into Megan's bed and just laid like a puppy at her feet and cried .. it was the first time I've broken down in front of her because #sostrong and I said it was selfish of me to say but I miss him so much!! So so much - she told me it wasn't selfish. She asked me to cry for her too, so I did. Mad crying skillz, bruise. And when I cry it's also for her and her girls and the ripped-offness of what's happened. Then we look around and scratch the surface and see that everybody is going through hard things.

            EDEN YOU ARE REVOLTING STICK YOUR TONGUE OUT SO I CAN TAKE A PHOTO

We went to Leura Lolly Shop and made ourselves so sick, Megan was groaning telling me to never let her eat that much again. Later that night we had to go for a walk, shake off the sugar. The kids found a stray cat so I checked its tag: "Please Don't Feed Me." Told Megan she needs one of those tags. The next day we ate lollies again.

Told a friend the other day that I'd lost count of the number of funerals I'd been to by the time I was in my twenties .. he'd said he'd been to ONE in his life so far. I had to stop going to funerals because every funeral would have a cumulative effect triggering all the other funerals. I've been to a few these past years and I'm scared of going to any more .. you love people and they can die ugh. Terrifying.

Wrote a piece once about how you should live life every day as if you've just been to a funeral:

AWAKE AT A WAKE

Also wrote a post asking people what their funeral songs were, it was fascinating seeing all the song choices everybody made, also hilarious. "Burn Baby Burn!"

TELL ME YOUR FUNERAL SONG

Have decided we probably should all write our own funeral plans, it'd help because doing a funeral for somebody is exhausting. A list of handy hints, e.g. Cremation or bury? Which photo do you want on your casket? What songs? Any particular quotes? Do you care about the cheapest coffins? Who do you want to say your eulogy? Pallbearers? Any particular motif for your pamphlets? Do you need bouncers at your funeral to prevent hypocritical cocksuckers from attending? (Ok that one is just for me.)

Joan Rivers had it all planned out in style:


So this is spectacularly cheery but it's the stuff that litters our daily conversations. I miss Megan and the girls - my flat is way too quiet and empty when I'm the only one here. Which is why I've been blasting the hell out of my latest choice of funeral songs. Also dancing because the downstairs neighbours suddenly moved out so I can be real noisy for a while. They were a couple, been together for years, the other night he gets down on bended knee, produced a ring, asked her to marry him.

She said no. He was hurt and quite angry, I asked him what was he going to do now?

"I've already quit my job - flying to Budapest. On my own."

I said mate that's the fucken spirit, living the hell out of life before you die!!! He agreed.

I really wanted this song played at the end of Danno's funeral but it wasn't catholic enough. (Sorry man, I tried.)






Monday, 19 June 2017

I'm pretty sure Jeanswest has photoshopped my face into their latest campaign without my permission? And now they owe me half a million dollars.

Ok so ... apparently I'm in the new Jeanswest ad? Except I don't remember the photoshoot, maybe I was in a drunken blackout at the time except I don't drink? Or I have a doppleganger like Lindsay Lohan in Parent Trap when she was cute and adorable before the drugs took hold?

Call me crazy (ha because I am but that's beside the point lol dot com) ... but is this me? Bottom left hand corner? Complete with stupid pout and finger pose?

The most disturbing thing about this photo is that my phone battery is on a mere ten percent, giving me a high alert panic station ... but let's zoom in, SHALL WE??


It's me I mean who else has such a cauliflower nose? Frankly I want to take the pic to a hairdresser and get my hair done like that because it's kind of awesome but that's not the real issue here. So, Jeanswest ... I'm putting you on notice and issuing you an ultimatum. Prove that that red-haired woman with the tuckshop fat arm kind of squished like that .. is not me. Show me a picture of the model who posed for that photo - but I don't think you can because YOU HAVE APPEARED TO PHOTOSHOP ME INTO THE PICTURE. Thank you to sharp-eyed reader Emma who found this pic on Insta and sent to me. Congratulating me on the photoshoot I never participated in. There's a few things to consider here:

1) I'm giving you free publicity.

2) I have four repeat four lawyers phone numbers in my handy dandy mobile phone because I've been in a LOT of legal issues the past few years but one of those numbers is a shit-hot criminal lawyer in Sydney who I'm pretty sure will take on the case even though last time we spoke I yelled at him and hung up because I am an angry angry woman.

3) The world doesn't like angry angry women. I'm not angry about this I'm finding it quite amusing but come on. You've erased the moles from my face, I've grown those moles for 45 years. You've hurt my moles feelings.

4) My fee for appearing in your ad is half a million dollars. Also I demand the clothes I'm apparently wearing in the pic because I DO like that jumper but did you have to put the pinky finger up to my face like Austin fricken Powers?


5) As well as my half a million dollars fee you owe me another half a million dollars for damages. Ok I'm already damaged but you have allegedly used my likeness without permission.

6) For many years now, my shit has been ripped off - my ideas, my blog posts, etc. A woman from a very well known news outlet once accidentally cc'd me into an email which went a little something like this:

"Follow Eden's blog writing closely, monitor what she writes. Lift her ideas and re-write them as our own." I did reply to this woman who never replied back even though my reply was hilarious because I don't really care especially at the moment I'm just trying to stay alive and hopeful in a hopeless world.

7) Please respond to this website entry by close of business today or you're going to owe me ANOTHER half a million dollars just for the hell of it. And I technically have no business hours because I'm not a business but let's make it 10pm. Ok midnight.

My son Rocco doesn't think this is a pic of me but I do and I've now pulled out the big guns by sending the pics to my mother for verification. My mum knows what's up, she gave birth to that face as well as the rest of my body. So Jeanswest, I've dobbed on you to my mum omg you guys are in so much trouble if you can't prove this isn't me.

Lastly, here's me right now on the morning of 19th June 2017 recreating the dumb pose. Pic taken by my 9yro son who STILL doesn't believe it's me, whose side are you on, ROCCO?!

                                                THE REAL SLIM SHADY

                              THE ALLEGED PHOTOSHOPPED FAKE SLIM SHADY

Nobody puts photoshopped Eden in a corner. Balls in your court, Jeanswest. (Balls lol.) This is not a joke. Eagerly awaiting your response to this utter travesty of justice. (Serious I want money for this shit because I've been threatened with eviction quite a few times this past year and I need cold hard cash. Hard lol.)




Monday, 29 May 2017

"Mum ... can't you just poo your bipolar out?"

My youngest son asked me if I could just poo my bipolar out. I told him if only it were that easy .. because having manic depression is pretty shit. We'd just spent a while talking about our brains, our moods, depression, the vital importance of talking about how we feel to the people who love us. And bipolar - man did we talk about bipolar. As per usual, he had a lot of questions.

"So, it's a disease in your brain?"
"Does that mean I'll get it?"
"When will it stop?"
"But doesn't the tablets you take for it cure you?"
"Didn't hospital fix you?"
"Did Uncle Cam have it, is that why he killed his self?"
"Wow. Uncle Cam killed his self. I thought he was smart."
"Seriously mum when will you finish having the bipolar?"

So many beautifully innocent and curious questions. Such few proper answers. He asked to see the medications I take in the morning so I showed him. He asked if I'd had bipolar my whole life, I said I think so but big major sad things that happen in life can make bipolar worse. He asked if I could just poo it out, oh my god we laughed so hard. How cool would it be if we could just literally expel the shit parts of ourselves? Some people say that having bipolar is one of the best things about them and they wouldn't trade their bipolar even if they could.

I am not one of those people.

Having a diagnosis of bipolar was all, hooray, now we know what's wrong! But that was just the beginning of balancing the meds, mood stabilisers, putting on a shitload of weight, trying so hard to be as capable as what I used to be years ago. It was very, very hard. I don't like it. I don't like feeling the lows, much prefer the highs. When I'm "manic" I talk fast and have all these grandiose ideas - some of which even come to fruition. Bipolar depression is so fucked I can't even be bothered to explain it except for saying it's just fucked. Trying to work out which are my character traits, which are my mental health traits, which are all my other traits ... I can't. It's all mixed into one big trait under a big heading of LOONEY TUNE.

Holding down a job is nigh impossible. Some days I conquer the world, other days I have a shower and eat well and parent well and like Jack Nicholson says, this is as good as it gets.

People with Bipolar 2 have the largest suicide rate of all other mental illnesses. How can I talk about being and feeling suicidal most of my life without worrying that my children will think I don't love them? I can't. I just face each day as they come. They come thick and fast and some days I don't believe all the constant inspirational bullshit platitudes. Some days I just get by, pretending I'm part of the couch and if I don't move then I'm not doing anything bad or wrong I'm just existing and maybe that's good enough? I'm crying as I write this, I cry a lot. Watching people on tv and on social media living seemingly wonderful lives annoys the fucking crap out of me so badly. Tell me your dark, too. Balance it out, perfect people. It's dangerous for us sad and fucked up people to imagine everybody but them has their shit together.

Going in to a psych ward doesn't cut it for me anymore. It's just a daycare for crazy people. I have med check-ups and changes. I see a GP, a professor, a counsellor (sometimes). I've been in big trouble with the law this past few years .. still don't know if was due to bipolar rage or just dealing with shitty people around me who get away with being shitty people. Arseholes be arseholes, Eden. Live and let karma take care of the rest, amirite? So easy for me to not be taken seriously. I've had my mental health been used against me in court proceedings, custody issues - you name it. All of the things. Stigma is alive and well. I hear over 50 million dollars has been recently released to businesses and companies for the oft-spruiked SUICIDE AWARENESS. We're aware of it, so where to from here?

A dear friend of mine recently died and I was pallbearer at his funeral. Didn't even know chicks were allowed to be pallbearers, but we are. I did a magnificent job because I'm strong, inside and out. I carried him along a long driveway past all of the people. I had a straight back but now I want my friend back and life doesn't work that way. The inevitable crash and burn from that has arrived like I knew it would. Bunkering down for a while, taking it easy on myself, blah blah fucken blah. This shit just sucks. I'd pay to not have it but mental health fuckdom is prevalent on both sides of my family so I've won the genetic bonanza of being whatever the hell I am. I will always abhor labels but obviously we need to know what we got so we can work with it. People in developing countries don't have access to medications and help the way I do, guess that makes people like me lucky.

I hate this shit. I hate how it's affected my life so very much. I hate that I got it and most of the time I hate who I am. I'm also very empathetic and real and kind and smart so there's all that.

Here is a very apt and accurate re-enactment of what entering a psych ward is like .. I too have sat there with a doctor while he has literally googled me right there in his office and found my website and become engrossed in it while I'm sitting there all beige on his worn chair, waiting for him to come up with some answers to treat me. It's tricky to be so accomplished and so, so fucked at the same time but some of us have got to do it to make all you big achievers with great lives feel good! Ha. I'm an arsehole but at least I'm an HONEST arsehole.





Suffering from head problems is exactly that - suffering. When I'm good I'm good. When I'm not ... well, I'm not. I'm so very far not.

In conclusion, I will answer any question any of my kids ask me and I pull no punches in my replies because I will not pussyfoot around with such serious shit. And it's very serious. Which is why I do stupid things to make myself and others laugh because life is stupid and dumb and I'm just not that enamoured. I said something to my friend Dan a while back when he was going through a hard time with his chronic back pain. "Mate, one day we'll all be dead. And none of this stuff will matter."

We both agreed that it made us feel better. And it's true. And life is still hard and now Dan is not here but I am here. And so are you.


Tuesday, 9 May 2017

It Didn't Bounce.

I have to write something about it so I cheated and cut-and-pasted a letter I wrote to her. She gave me permission to blog it. I was going to narrate these current weeks but some of these days do not need narrating nor remembering. Most of these days, actually. It's all a blur.

Megan's husband Dan died. Megan is my best friend. Dan was also one of my best friends. We talked so much on the phone, LAUGHING at life and its stupidity and hardness. Laughing. Bukowski said something like "We laugh in the face of death and death shall tremble to take us." Well, death trembled and took our Dan. I could rabbit on about all the things of him and who he was and his most beautiful, beautiful heart. He called me his sister because he called himself my stand-in-bro and I told him the awful parts of me - no judgement. He loved his girls so much and he'll continue to love his girls from wherever he is. I feel him around them, in their house. He's so here, so not here. We kind of can't believe it, the Soul immediately goes into shock mode the instant one of our beloveds die, doesn't it? Survival shock mode, to protect us from the unimaginable truth until little by little, the shock has to gently ease off and we face the horror of it. You know what I'm talking about. Most people on earth have experienced death so far, just at different levels. Two little blonde girls are experiencing death but they're little. It will take a long time for ... everything, really.

Anyway so I love Megan and want to move into the house next door but I have sons in Katoomba who need their mum and that's the only reason I haven't packed up and left the mountains.

So here's the letter - obviously a bit censored for this website because #dark #inappropriate etc. But here's the letter, the letter to my Megan. I don't have hardly any real proper friends thanks to ten schools, being a chameleon my whole life, and my Bipolar-paranoia-weirdness preventing me from getting close to people. But I am very close to Megan and our friendship was no accident. She has literally saved my life twice. Dan checked in with me a lot to make sure I've been ok during the past few years of me being not ok at all far from it. But this is not about me. Funny how people make everything about them when it's not. Oh people, you're so cute and weirdos too.

Tomorrow we will have the funeral that has been planned. Funeral planning is bad. 12-pack toilet paper in lieu of flowers is good. Death lasagna is bad but appreciated. Absconding with Megan to get a mani-pedi despite her protestations is good. Explaining to little girls what a coffin is is bad. Laughing with those same little girls and doing dances in the kitchen singing made-up poo songs is good.

The biggest thing anybody can help with right now is to please chip in to this:

ING DIRECT
Account Name: Daley Education Fund
BSB: 923100
Account number: 312 562 19

Megan's website is Children's Books Daily - click on it and buy like, ten books because she has affiliate links on there. I don't have affiliate links and have been relying on different people to pay my airfares back and forth, oh thank you, people. Swings and roundabouts. Maybe leave her a comment here or on Facebook, especially if you have any tips on how to parent little children when one of their parents die.

Jim Morrison says the future's uncertain, the end is always near. Megan's future is uncertain. Everything is not how it was supposed to go in her life. She has so many good people around her! But no energy-suckers. I'm her bouncer gatekeeper at the moment. I'm anything she needs me to be in any given moment. #chameleon And I will be here for her until the rocking chair days on the front porch when we're old and grey. It's a privilege to get old and grey.



My Megan.                                        1st May 2017


Hey sweetheart. I’m sitting at your kitchen table. It’s 8am and it’s just me and Tyson here. Pretty quiet. Pretty and quiet … you got so many beautiful things. And yes I broke in last night but I swear I didn’t snoop. Just ate an avocado, ripe as. Slept in the girls bedroom. For some reason the bottom mattress was wet - I smelt it, it’s not piss but even if it was I would have slept there anyway because I’m a grot also lazy. I just got the doona down from the top bed and made myself a non-wet mattress sandwich. Tyson slept on the bed too I mean is he even allowed to sleep on beds? It doesn’t matter today if Tyson can sleep on beds or not. He’s my favourite dog, man. Why does he shake though, like is he that actual literally scared and anxious all the time? Poor guyo. I rub his tummy until he stops shaking, we’re pretty tight now, me and him.

It’s a really nice day today. Weather-wise only but still - the sun’s out and it’s only early. Except the galahs annoyed me. Felt like they were laughing - it’s not funny, galahs.

Last night on Facebook my friend posted video of her baby daughter taking her first steps. Insanely cute and the same weekend her bubba walked was the same weekend of the worst weekend of your life and that’s saying something because you’ve had a lot of worst things, same here. And each worst thing we go through we just think ok, so, that’s the worst of the worst that can happen now but now, well, nothing gets worse than this. Worse. Strange word. Hopefully you’ve reached Pinnacle Worst. The next few years are going to be an utter bitch, like you’re in a hot skillet and it’s slippery with butter and no matter how much you try get out you keep sliding back in. I know you and death are very acquainted but not like this, honey.

Not like this. 

Let this be the death of death itself. Let your parents both live to be a hundred, let you find pockets of warm in your hot skillet until one day gradually you’ll realise somebody has finally turned the heat down and you can turn a corner, turn the page. You’ve got so many pages still to turn. I know you will be ok and get through this and go on to live a more peaceful life. You’ve got so much good rich stuff to do that will feed your soul. I know you’ll be ok, even though the world has changed forever and again, in reiteration my bubba .. you have not felt a death like this before. So many years so much history so much love and tears and fighting and laughing and sorrow and frustration and love. You guys loved each other, I saw it and felt it.

Now you’re a window with no N. If you were in Greece you’d probably wear a black shroud for a year. That’s cool. You look great in black.

Small mercies, thank you heaven. You weren’t alone. You were surrounded by your people right there in the same house. Your mum was teaching the girls chinese checkers and you were making some kind of naan situation while I was back at my place eating celery sticks with Rocco. Whose parents are both alive so he’s just going to have to deal with the fact that his mum is going to be spending a whole lot of time in Brisbane. Not just for the next few weeks but on and off for always, now.

Remember we used to laugh about how I had to get better so I was well and strong enough to be there for you when the time came? That time has come and I’m well and strong. Did we know this was going to happen all along, Megan? Is the ends of peoples lives already written in the stars of fate? And who are we to say when a person “should” die. People die. People take their first steps. People eat celery and make naan every single day, all over the world.

Every morning I check the news and hope that some huge catastrophic global event has taken place. The thought soothes me. Maybe Kim Myong Weird Haircut North Korea guy will blow up planet earth soon anyway, put us all out of our misery. But in the meantime, Pud has piano practice and Chickpea goes to school in her way-too-big-uniform with that hat.

Your daughters are my daughters. My favourite beer was Corona and it says on the label “Mi Casa Su Casa” which means my home is your home. I think that’s about 70% true I can’t be sure. A good writer embellishes facts and a good writer narrates horrible weeks after the Worst Has Happened for her best friend she met on the internet. 

The world has only got one equator remember when I was in Africa and thought there was two equators? There’s one - it was a rouge, like something out of a sky-fi movie.

Oh my god the cutest little boy is in a backyard next to yours and he just came out with the massivest stick and shouted “THIS, IS OUR AREA. I DECLARE THIS TO BE OUR AREA AND NOBODY CAN TAKE IT.” And he shoved that stick in the ground like Neil Armstrong and the flag on the moon. Maybe we’re living on the moon and the moon that we think is the moon is actually earth. Ever wonder about the names of things - like, a chair is what we call the sitting down thing. Coffee is this dark liquid we drink. Jupiter is just a planet just like all the other planets but it’s called “Jupiter” because somebody named it Jupiter. It’s just a hunk of rock spinning in space. Humans name things because we need to but there’s some things that can never be named like that terrible awful awful feeling deep in your chest. That has no name. Maybe we’re too scared to name it because we’re too scared to feel it and now you have no say whether you feel it or not.

You and the girls have to come back to your home today. Just the three of you. Blonde trio. You’ll walk around your kitchen and your living room and everything’s the same but nothing will ever be the same again. Only three little ducks came back and that’s one of the most unfairest things I’ve ever known. When I was getting arrested (again) last year, the cops were at my door and the reason was so dumb, so stupid to be arrested for. Roc was in the living room living and I cried to the police saying “This isn’t fair!” And one of the coppers said “Eden, life isn’t fair.” He was the nice cop who walked Rocco across the road and later when I was waiting in the cells I asked the same copper how long it took for Rocco to ask him about his gun. He smiled and said “Before we’d even crossed the road.” Then I asked him if he really believed that life wasn’t fair and he said yes. That’s a pretty big statement, like ALL of life isn’t fair? Well that’s not fair that life’s not fair. 

Whatever the opposite of fair is is where you are darling.

Sorry for breaking in. I didn’t go into your bedroom. I cried a lot but I know that I’m exactly where you need me to be and when I walk outside to your car later when you drive up your driveway I’ll hug you even though you hate hugs but it’ll be a brief hug before I turn all of my attention onto your girls. Be right here for and with them, not even talking about heavy stuff, just my soul next to their souls. Get the textas out so they can colour in my tattoos like they always do At some point I’ll tell them my dad died too .. don’t know if they know that. Chickpea is softer than the hard shell of the small beautiful nut that Pud is. She’s quite mysterious and deep and I already know the look in her eyes. Megan I have a very, very stealthy gentle nutcracker for our Pud.

Your girls are going to be ok.
Your girls are going to be ok.
Your girls are going to be ok.
Your girls are going to be ok.

Hey how cool is it that my computer and phone remembered your wi-fi. I’m a break-and-enter-hacker kind of friend. You know I have a low self-esteem so I’m allowed to say this: I’m so glad you got me. So, so glad you got me. There’s muddy gunk ahead on the road and it’s going to stick to your wheels and stop you in your tracks. I want to buy you a sledgehammer so you can destroy things.

So that’s this morning so far. Now the kids in the backyard are annoying me, one of them is crying. Autocorrect just autocorrected crying to “dying.” At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if one of those kids keel over right next to the stick in the ground and died. Death is everywhere and keeps hunting us down like the worst game of hide-and-seek ever BOO. Stop jumping out of cupboards, DEATH. 

Your avocado was perfectly ripe last night. I ate it with my fingers and the only way I could get to sleep later was to pretend he was still alive.



Wednesday, 26 April 2017

Street Talk: Thelma, The Best Neighbour I Never Had.

So I'm walking outside to put my rubbish in the bins and there's this lady standing at the bins and I was all "Ugh I'm going to have to acknowledge her" and I did, I acknowledged her and said hello. And she said hello. And I can't quite remember how or why we started talking about all the stuff we talked about but she told me her husband had a stroke last month (Rocco was here and watched as he was put into the ambulance and I told him it's rude to stare, come back inside.)

So Thelma tells me she's been living in the same block of flats as me for years but now she's packing up to move and go live with her daughter in Sydney and her husband can't talk, walk ... he's in hospital and may never get his faculties back again.

Faculty: "An inherent mental and physical power."

And I look right into Thelma's beautiful sad sad brown crying eyes and I said "I'm really, really so sorry Thelma. Life is just bullshit. We got to live it but we never know what's going to happen and it sucks. And I'm sorry. And my stepdad died and my brother died and we just get through the days as best we can and one day it'll all be over." And she HUGGED me so, so hard, ignoring all my swear words. And she meant her hug .. you know when somebody really means their hug? She meant it, and I gave her a meant hug back. And we both couldn't believe we'd never met each other before (possibly because I keep my head down and don't acknowledge people) .. and I wished her luck and she walked off.

A few days later I went to the florist and chose one pink tulip because I could only afford one but a flower is a flower, you don't need a whole bunch. One can suffice. Me and Roc knocked on Thelma's door, my lord I do not knock on peoples doors it is a foreign concept. She opened it, when I gave her the tulip she teared up again, apologising for crying and I said don't worry I been crying my whole life ... the Pacific Ocean? All my doing. I cried a whole fucken ocean of tears and I'm not finished yet.

Thelma invited us inside and showed us how her packing was going. Thelma told me she can't believe I gave her a tulip that day because she'd just come from the local hospital to be with her husband who was being transported down to a Sydney hospital and it was a hard day. She asked Rocco what his name is and spoke to him kindly. I love people who talk to my kids properly. She asked me what I did and I told her I was a writer than I got real vague about it because as soon as people google me I usually never hear from them again. Not that I care, but still. I liked her.

Thelma looked around and wanted to give me something back so she gave me this book.


She wrote her name and number in there even though you're not supposed to write on books? I thanked her and said goodbye.

That's not the end. A few days later I came out of my cave because I was fucken depressed as fuck and Thelma's standing there at the bins AGAIN and she told me to come back inside to her flat. So I did. And she gave me her old typewriter and told me to write, write, write. And in that few seconds she was my grandmother who always told me to write and this time, it was my turn to cry. I put the typewriter under my hoodie because I didn't want to get it wet from the rain and hugged her a meant hug and that's probably the last time I'll ever see Thelma.

So Thelma - we both know that's not your real name, your real name is much cooler but I never asked your permission to write about you. I hope you don't mind. I'm sending you a link .. I been writing for a while, online. Welcome to the Shitshow. That typewriter and book is among the most precious gifts anyone has ever given me. It was no accident that we met. I adore you. Good luck in the rest of your life - remember what I said. It's stupid, try not to take it seriously. I'm glad you're living with your daughter in a noisy house filled with your grandchildrens mess and laughter because we all need people and I swear to god you're one hell of a person. This is my Street Talk series which I started in 2013 with the intention of profiling a stranger every week but then my brother killed himself and everything turned to heartdust. I've interviewed then-Prime Minister Julia Gillard at Kirribilli House on the same day I interviewed Honey the Prostitute in Kings Cross. Honey was more interesting but Thelma? You are my favouritest Street Talk ever.

::

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



Wednesday, 12 April 2017

Parunting.


Smoking a fry ciggie at On a Roll

This guy is a modern-day sage. I called him a psychic and straight away he shoots back "No I'm not I'm the big guy!" because he thought I said side-kick. We always talk about what we dreamt the night before. He knows too much about everything just like all my other kids, mistakes were made. Mummybloggers, wait till your babies grow up to teenagers. Completely. Different. Universe.

However this guy is still young. Eight years old, almost nine .. he's the whole reason I started writing online to begin with and I documented his journey as an IVF 4-celled embryo to where he's at today.

                                           Where he's at today.

He's an extraordinary human, young enough for the world not to have fucked him over yet. It's a joy being around him. He makes me look at things differently. Recently he cottoned on to the fact that Uncle Cam left a suicide note. "CAN I READ IT MUM!" .. I said no way mate and he got so pissed off because he likes to know everything. About everything. "Why not? When can I read it? You have to let me read it one day." I told him I would but he's too young right now. He thought for a while and said "Jeez. Uncle Cam killed his self. I thought he was smart."



My mum came up and they bonded so hard it was awesome. He's *so* impressed at her footy tipping skills. And chicken soup. And the rubiks cube she bought him. They text each other, both emoji champions.

                                                         SCALPEL.

Rocco thoughtfully helped out in the doctors surgery yesterday when I got stitches taken out of my shoulder, putting on latex gloves, telling me don't worry it'll only be excruciating for a little while. (Exact words.)


These two are currently splayed on my living room floor watching Ferris Buellers Day Off together. Cousin Morgan is his new bestie and favourite holiday playdate. The three of us are planning on going to the Royal Easter Show tomorrow - I've always been the parent who takes the kids to the big fun places. They've already talked me into going into the haunted house - frankly I'm looking forward to seeing the cake decorating winners #old

                                          Nostrils Riley.

If anybody fucks with any of my kids, I fuck with them. It's my duty. My whole parenting career I've stuck up for all of my children and taught them how to stick up for themselves. I told off a lady in a supermarket once when she refused my stepson a sample yoghurt. I got up close in a bully's face in primary school and told him to lay off my kid or else. I've taught all the boys to be respectful to other people or else. They are. They're caring and empathetic and kind. I did that. Roc tells me all the things I've taught him about life so far and it blows me away how much he remembers. I'm an inappropriate unconventional mother with a penchant for answering my kids questions way too honestly. Can't help it. And kids always find out the truth anyway so I figure I'm just saving time.


We had to get the train to school recently which was basically the best thing that has ever happened to him in his life. He's frustrated he's the youngest but I tell him it's cool he'll be big soon enough, don't wish your days away sweetheart. At parent teacher/interview it was all glowing reports. His teacher is so happy with how he's doing even though he's the youngest in his class. He's excellent with words just like his mumma. (He writes raps with swear words holy shit they are AMAZING.) His first one was about his parents divorce, just wrote it out in five minutes and blew me away. He told the teacher that sometimes he comes to school feeling a lot of emotions and I explained he's had a pretty rough few years. The three of us all agreed he's doing so well.

After the teacher interview he did the pissbolt and his teacher turned and said how lucky Rocco was to have me. She said I was a really aware mother.

Out of all the adjectives in the world she used the word "aware." I thanked her and turned away .. she didn't see me cry.

Chased him down the street to the car trying to beat him but I never can because he ALWAYS wins in a fucking running race. And he always will.


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