Friday, 17 August 2018

I Accidentally Sold My Favourite Cowboy Boots For $33.

I listed a pair of my cowboy boots up for sale on a facebook group for $40 but I meant to put $140. Didn't realise my error until I was inundated, swarmed with YES PLS! SOLD! I CAN COME TO YOU RIGHT NOW? Plus quite a few dodgy DM's saying they'd pay more.

I thought what the hell is going on .... ooooohhhh shit. See I have this thing where if I really want a new pair of cowboy boots I have to sell a pair I already own except you know - NOT SELL THEM FOR FORTY BUCKS.

For some inexplicable reason I stood by my sale. I could easily have just said "Sold, sorry" and nobody would have known except me except I live with as much integrity as I very can .. it's integral. And it just feels good. So this chick (nervously) rang and said she was on her way over after getting the money out of the bank. She was the very first person to respond to the ad. I said $40, so she was coming over with $40. I wanted to cancel so bad! These boots have history. A lot happened when I was wearing these boots.

But I couldn't cancel, just couldn't do it to her. She sounded so excited ... even though these boots are the most expensive boots out of any I owned and the cost of postage from America to Australia basically doubled the price. I remember the day they got delivered to me by a courier back in 2014 and I was so defeated by my brothers suicide a few months beforehand that I didn't even open the package for a week until one of my sons said mum you gonna open these? I let him open them and just holy shit they were special.

I instantly named them my Poetry Performing Boots and at that point I hadn't even written a slam yet let alone perform one. But I did perform in them and I did it really well. Considering.

                Performing "Strong Bones" at the 2014 Australian Poetry Slam NSW Final

       Performing "Fuck That Tupperware" at the 2015 Imperfect Womens Conference, Brisbane.




They were magic boots, these grieving redemptive slammin' stompy brown and aqua babies. And I was letting them go for a song. WWHHHYYYYY?? Why? Because when the lady came to pick them up she told me she was going to get MARRIED in these boots. I teared up and hugged her and told her how special they were and now she was going to make them even MORE special. I told her I accidentally wrote $40 instead of $140. She told me she might base her entire wedding colour theme around these boots. I told her it was a sign, they were MEANT to go to her and she agreed and when she was digging around in the coin section of her purse I asked her how much did she have so far - she said $33 and I said that's cool, she can have them for thirty three bucks. She hugged me so hard and we talked for a bit and then she left.

I stood there on my front verandah thinking about how 33 is a special number, it's the age my brother was when he died. Last year I had one hell of a terrible scary nervous breakdown when I was in Glasgow. Went for a walk one night (wearing these boots) and found myself in a casino. Do you casino? I do NOT casino. It's boring.

I was at the roulette wheel and so paranoid and nervous I immediately had to leave ...  so put all the rest of my money on number 33. Everyone's like WHOAAA BIG SPENDER!! I wasn't even watching when the ball came to a stop and there was this massive commotion and people were congratulating me.

The ball had landed on 33.

I said "Oh my god I don't even PLAY blackjack!" And someone said it's not blackjack it's roulette. The manager was so cranky that I'd won he checked my passport three times. He asked what I was drinking (coke) .. he tried to get me to stay but I was OUTTA there.

With the money I was able to buy an emergency ticket home - the relief! Thank GOD I was able to get my bipolar broken self the hell out of Scotland.

So thats the story of the boots. Obviously they were born to be special. Life's pretty magical if you let it.

(I haven't bought another pair yet but when I do, imagine where they'll take me?)





Tuesday, 24 July 2018

“Have a great day boys and remember: don’t rape any women!”


On the weekend my ten-year old son and I were walking down the street and I noticed him glaring and looking back at a man who’d walked past us.

What’s up mate?”
“That guy was PERVING AT YOU.”

He said it really loudly so the guy would hear him. Mr Perver was about 50 years old so basically what we have here is a young child calling a much older male out on his behaviour. I’m so proud of my son .. proud of ALL of my sons because here’s the thing: through all this public discourse about men’s violence towards women, a lot of the time the conversation ends with “.. we need to teach our sons not to rape.”

Ok so .. how do we do that? 

I can only go on the way I’ve brought my sons up .. I’ve called bullshit on everything since day dot. A tv ad comes on with a woman sexily biting into an ice cream cone and I’ve pointed it out. “Hey guys see her pout and skimpy clothes .. the whole ad is designed for the woman to act all ridiculously sexual to get you to buy the ice cream.”

Whenever any inappropriate magazines featuring women wearing lingerie or a bikini on the cover: straight to the recycling bin.

Somebody gave my then-eight year old son a pack of cards featuring topless females: in the BIN. (Seriously!?)

I’m outspoken and cranky about a lot of things in the world, which means my sons have grown up with me giving a running commentary on anything. I’ve told all of them that one day they’ll be at parties and if there’s drunk girls there .. to be the guy who makes sure the girls get home safely. That other guys might want to take advantage of the girls in that state. All of my sons nodding furiously. “Of course, mum!”

There’s only a limited time when our children are growing up to impart our knowledge and wisdom into them. I’ve used every available opportunity I can to teach my boys to have respect for women. Told them (and showed them) that women are STRONG. We’re not less-than. We’re not the weaker sex. As they’ve gotten older and started dating it’s been heartening when they’ve told me about a new girlfriend because they’ve often said: “Actually, she’s a lot like you!” (Silent fistpump.)

In no way am I anti-male .. how could I be? All of my sons are sensitive, empathetic, caring, funny and bright young men. The reasons behind my brothers suicide taught me that the patriarchy damages men, too. There’s a LOT of expectations for males - to be the provider, don’t admit weakness, earn money, be a MAN. 

I was taking about this to my 16 year old son yesterday, his views and opinions were such a welcome relief. He thinks the current state of music has a lot to answer for. A lot of it is all “Get bitches make money.” .. with video clips to match. The vacuous and empty lyrics of hip-hop nowadays makes me despair .. it’s supposed to mean something! I believe if you’re an artist of any kind and you have a fan base or following or platform .. you have to use it wisely.

Lately I’ve been despondent and scared at the relentless violence, murders and rapes of women. Is it getting worse? It seems to be everywhere .. and anywhere. I just don’t know.


What I do know is that on the weekend a young boy defended his mums honour as she was being leered at while walking down the street. *That* makes me so, so proud. It gives me hope for our future. 

Thursday, 21 June 2018

The World is Desperately Hurting, Traumatised and Fucked Up.

We need our artists - it’s an emergency. We need the kind of people who always save the world right in the nick of time, by giving us hope.

We need our painters and writers and sculptors. Knitters and dreamers and gardeners and volunteers and nurses and teachers. We need our first responders .. we need people who give to other people. We need creators of all kinds, which is everybody. I once wrote a slam-poem that ended with the words:

“If there is a god
And he is a creator
Who made us in his image ..
That means we are creators
And if that dude’s a prophet then man,
You’re a prophet too.”

It’s time for me to get back to slams. I’ve known it for a while and my mum said it to me just the other day. I can do this again now .. but more. I’m writing big again now. Why?

Because I cleaned my bedroom.

I have a clean, uncluttered yet slightly askew, opulent, fancy, soothing bedroom for the first time in .... ever. EVER. This means everything. I just found out the Katoomba Heat for the Australian Poetry Slam is on at the library tonight and if you were allowed props I’d be performing with bells on.
... and I haven’t even written the piece I’ll be performing tonight. So far it’s just an idea embryo, so fragile. I must handle her with care as I bring her to life.

That’s what I do - I bring words to life. Make them dance, and show us their magic.

I’ve  never done this but I’m doing it now fuck it: I can write. It was in me all along .. I’ve won awards and competitions and received praise from high but what if I told you I haven’t even tried yet? I write my way into people’s souls and hearts. I put God in the machine .. I’ve been in the computer for over a decade now, since before the internet turned into a monster. It’s terrifying but I stay here on purpose, it needs people like me. It needs ME. I had to sort through a lot of Edens to get to this Eden. So many incarnations of ourselves we could be. Years ago I’d skite that I was “the best version of myself I could be.” Which was probably true it’s just that I didn’t realise I could fall so fast and so hard.

When you read me I don’t use breadcrumbs so you can find me I use pieces of my Soul. My hair is fucking fire. When you read me you often recognise yourself. Or you learn a truth - or you feel something you can’t quite name. In a lot of ways it’s got nothing to do with me - the statue was there all along he just carved it out from the block of marble. If you’re bold and righteous and tell the truth? Kaboom.

Some blog posts I’ve written have stopped people from killing themselves that day and I often hope and wonder if they’re still alive.

Nobody cut a path for me. I’m one of the ones who cuts the path. I’ve always been a wolf foundling. Wild. There’s something terribly wrong with me which according to Newton means there’s something terrible right with me. I’ve gotten through things that would have killed most others years ago. I’m stronger than any man I’ve ever met .. even my hair is fire. When my light shines it shines so bright it shines darkness straight out of people standing in front of me. But not all because the darkest dark swallows the lightest light. It’s been a battle, I won, now let’s keep moving we got shut to do before we sleep.

You with me? Sometimes I lose people, sorry. (The people in the psych wards were always with me. They understood everything .. I understood them. Beautiful shiny broken people. Sticky tape and staplers and blue tak .. whatever it takes to get through.

I’ve wanted to delete this blog so many times until I’ve realised it wasn’t my blog I wanted to delete. I wanted to delete ME. I’m glad I didn’t delete it, even though it’s embarrassing as shit because I’ve overshared my real and messy and crazy in an airbrushed, carefully coiffed, curated, beige, safe, bullshit fakey fake from fakeland world.
I write things you’re not supposed to write because ... it’s just so satisfying. Shock people out of their safe havens. Heh. I’ve written here about searching three cemeteries in one day to find my stepfathers grave so I could piss on it. I didn’t find it but hey guess what: if I found it now I wouldn’t piss on it! Evolution, baby.

I’ve written about Peaches Geldoffs drug addiction. I’ve written about going to my brothers flat the day after he killed himself and his belongings were either half packed or half unpacked .. guess we’ll never know. I’ve put up photos of my hairy nostrils, tuck shop arms, fat stomach. I wrote about using my nose hair trimmer to trim my chin hair. I google-earthed a photo of the flat in Batemans Bay that my real father died in and put it up on my blog and said “here’s the flat my father drank himself to death in!Did I write here about that copper who wanted to get into my pants so bad he let me hold his Glock? Whoops I’ve written it now mistakes were made. I still want to go do confession with the local catholic priest just to write about it here - it’ll make you laugh. “Bless me Father for I have sinned it has been thirty years since my last confession.” Buckle up while I take YOU to hell for a change, Father.

The love jumps off the computer screen when I write about my sons. You can’t blog about your children when they enter their teens but I was never a mummyblogger anyway I was masquerading all along, often dumbing myself down. I like flying under the radar and I love not being taken seriously.

I don’t know if I’ve written here about accidentally discovering women can have orgasms too but I tell you what, I was 14 and hardly left my bedroom all weekend. All that magic in a secret button.

I’ve led a Big Life which needs to be properly told. I’ve just found out that the book deal I had for my memoir has fallen through. WEEP. I hadn’t even mentioned my book deal here yet because it was early stages and I didn’t want to jinx it! The publishers are SO disappointed, so am I. But I just refuse to be disheartened, right when I’ve found this amazing ledge in life I’ve never reached before. So I’m doing something I hate: asking for help. Can somebody please help me keep moving forward with this? Who knows of a person who knows a person who can hook me up with a book deal? Out of all the Edens I’ve been I’ve never been this kind of an Eden before and I really like who I am. My email is edenriley@gmail.com so if somebody could help me get my book out that’d be great. For some reason it’s really important and it’s not for my ego - it’s for other people. Which sounds so fucken wanky but I’ve so many stories .. there’s so many ways we can make it through. And not just gritting our teeth make it through but shedding skin dancing in front of bonfires made it through. My brothers suicide has taken me a long, long time to process. And grieve, and make it through. And I couldn’t save him, I thought I could but I couldn’t. Which means I can’t save anybody else either but Jesus lord if there’s anybody who can be the funnest best most inappropriate cheerleader life coach who swears, vacuums the breadboard and do life a bit wrong then I can.

Holy crap I now have ONE HOUR to write the piece I’m performing tonight. Gotta go, almost at the bridge so how DO I get this shit out?? Dear me I just spent three hours typing this whole post on my phone, my back hurts, I can’t spellcheck it and it won’t let me insert Jack Johnson’s song “The News.” You should google it, very fitting.






Thursday, 31 May 2018

.. So Then God Spaketh: "Let's give the poor bitch bipolar too!"

There's a bipolar tree in my backyard. She goes ok.


Recently she turned a deep crimson red and didn't really know why, she chalked it up to embarrassment at being so different from the other trees. It was when her leaves turned yellow then a crinkly brown then started to fall to the ground when she got really worried and quite mortified.

Why was she so different? Why couldn't she be the same like all the other trees standing tall, evergreen, not changing?

Having bipolar is one of the most terrifying things a person can go through. I think I've always had it, the mania, the terrible lows, the creative frenzies, the feeling of being invincible. Then awful .. all of the adjectives, all of the feelings, all of the time.

Bipolar 2 has the highest rate of suicide than any other mentally problematic issues. (I hate saying mental illness.)


This beautiful guy and his brother are shaping up to be strong mental health advocates. I adore them.




Here's what I wash down the hatch every day: Prozac, Lamotrigine, fish oil, magnesium, vitamin B. Colourful!

The past few months have been pretty bipolary and I just can't write about it as I'm going through it - it scares the shit out of me so it'd probably scare the shit out of people who care.

For me, having bipolar is living in a permanent state of confusion. A hard thing is opening up my eyes in the morning wondering how I'm going to FEEEEL that day. I wish I didn't feel so much, I feel too much. My feeling gland is too enlarged for my liking. Talking about this shit is still embarrassing, still full pf stigma, still silences so many voices out there for fear of being judged. (We judge ourselves the hardest.)




My personal relationships are hard to maintain, a lot of people don't understand the trickery and confusion of bipolar and frankly either do I. How can I explain it to people when I don't even know myself?

The biggest two catchphrases to do with mental health that I utterly abhor:

"Just get help!"
"Mental health awareness."

Awareness my arsehole - we are all pretty much aware at this point. What practical things are happening for people silently suffering? And the "just get help" phrase ... it's hard to get help when there's waiting lists and panic and depression and not being in your right mind. Wonder what the suicide rates are for people waiting to just get help. My brother was booked in to a facility to get help on the day he took his own life far, far away.

Fucking tragedy.

Anyway obviously I'm here, writing, feeling ok. Praise be.


 ... little things like this make me very, very happy. A teeny yellow porcelain rhino candle holder, up on my mantlepiece. When I'm drawing the curtains at night time I light a candle and pop it inside him and it just gives me comfort. Maybe that's the thing - finding comfort whenever and wherever we can, whatever it may be. As long as it's not hurting ourselves or other people. I love the friends in my life because they've stayed with me and are still in my life. I'm a hard person to be friends with but when you got me as a friend you got me for life no returns.


The only mask I wear these days is a facemask for my skin. This guy turned ten last week, double digits. A huge deal. HUGE.

So back to her, standing there in the backyard, full of shame at her fallen leaves. Wishing she was anything but herself .. comparing herself, hating and judging herself.


Yeah she'll be standing there all winter, naked, uncertain, sad, getting rained on, lonely, not knowing what the hell is going on. She doesn't know that she's going to grow back. Greener and beautiful and fresh and new, while all the other trees still have the same old leaves.

She has no idea how magnificent she is and definitely no idea exactly how other people see her because guess what she leaves with her leaves ...


... myriads of different coloured natures confetti, each as varied and opposite and strange and beautiful as her moods and feelings and thoughts.

Pretty cool shit right there,






(Comments off.)

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.

HELP FATHERS LEGAL BATTLE FOR SICK DAUGHTERS

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 edenriley@gmail.com 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.

So.

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.

MUM! HALF THE MOON IS GONE!

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

I know.



Won't You Come Home, Bill Barrie?



My father, William Barrie. He was eighteen years old in this photo, taken in 1955 just when he'd joined the army. I only found this out the other week, worked out the dates and age on my calculator. He was a paratrooper which I kind of knew but only lately it's dawned on me that if he was a paratrooper in the army then - he must have been in the war? So I assume that would have been shit, being in a war. He was in the Red Berets .. whatever they are. I tried to find my cousins in Scotland and even though I have a PhD in detectivism I gave up looking. Their last names were Smith so whatever. At least I walked through the streets my dad would have walked through. It's like when Buzz finds out that Zurg is his father and they go off to bond with each other except my name isn't Buzz and my dad is dead.

I keep zooming in on his face in this photo and it absolutely makes me feel a feeling that doesn't have an adjective for. I can and will never be able to explain the feeling I get when I look at photos of my father, Bill Barrie. Maybe if I look hard enough I'll finally find out what he thought about life. I know he was a literal genius, worked at IBM in the late 70's early 80's.

He died when I was 12, he was forty-six years old. My stepfather of eleven years died when I was sixteen, he was forty-seven years old. Trauma trauma recovery motherhood marriage IVF pregnancy, my husband gets cancer in 2008. Doctor told us the chances were very slim, his tumours were aggressive and the chemo almost killed him but didn't. My second stepfather of over twenty years died when I was 40, he was seventy years old. My brother killed himself when I was 41, he was thirty-three years old. My brain split and I couldn't function, marriage break down, pain, oh my sons, blah blah blah.

Still here but no wonder I'm limping. And tired - soul tired. When I tell people I can't do something with them because I don't feel well they assume I mean physically. I never mean physically. my body is strong as an ox.

Anyway getting back to Bill: how do I have his posture when I hardly knew him? I know he brewed his own beer. He got on really well with my grandfather. He had the reddest reddest hair, he played tennis, he was completely haunted by black mood swings and he drank himself to death.

I just got so many questions when I zoom right in on his face - he looks proud to join the army. Did it fuck you up, Bill? Did you miss Scotland when you moved to Australia? Did you ever think of me and who I might grow up to be - I doubt it. Absolutely no shade to him at all anymore. I'm proud that he served in the armed forces, I'm also 100% sure it would have fucked him up. Poor guy. In a few years I'll be older than he was when he died which makes me feel a little .... victorious? Women are strong. (So strong.)

And yet there's a dusty room for him locked up in my heart, a room I never go in. I refuse to feel a fatherless ache, I do not like green eggs and ham and I will never open that door no fucking way. I've packaged that particular open wound up quite nicely thank you very much. Yeah I yearn but my theory is whatever gets taken away from us in life, the Universe replaces it with something to the equivalent or usually even better. It's some kind of karmic science or some shit.

PS Bill don't call me daughter. Not fair to .. the picture kept will remind me.



Wednesday, 7 February 2018

Anyway, Too Much Is Better Than Not Enough.

I was brushing my teeth tonight, looking at myself in the mirror. A few times in my life I haven't been able to bear looking at my face in the mirror but now I can and I do.

Brushing away my mind pondered around to itself. Maybe there *is* somebody out there for me. Maybe they're all ready to meet me but I'm so mired in "Nuh I'll be a spinster and I don't care. Writing and a dog and my sons and Netflix and poetry and books and a vibrator and nice linen just for ME. And cheap coffee sachets, yoga, maybe a tap dancing class."

My kids ask me if I have a boyfriend. I've never introduced them to anybody new and if I did, good luck on passing the Rocco bullshit detector test. When Max asked I told him I'd just like somebody to sit next to on the couch with, you know? Maybe even hold hands.

I seriously doubt it, though. I'm too much - men (and women) like the idea of me but when they get a bit closer they can't handle me and how could they. *I* can't even handle me. I'm too much - too loud, too feisty, too angry, too sad, too crazy, too manic, too traumatised, too tough, too closed.

I'm working on being cool about it. Because this is not a fairy tale and there are no happily ever afters. I mean we all die in the end, right?

"They lived happily ever after until one of them died leaving the other one grief-stricken and fucked up until they died too, maybe they were reunited in the afterlife or maybe there's no afterlife. Nobody knows." 

Good night, I am SO cheery today you're welcome.




Tuesday, 6 February 2018

"I'm in the WORST maths class."


Right as I snapped this photo of the two of us on the plane he puts his hands up to his face, saying he had a VERY bad feeling about this plane trip. I said mate I'm usually the worrier, don't worry, it's going to be fine.

He just looks at me: "You don't know that."

I changed the subject even though my brain was screaming WE ARE GOING TO DIE. After all the countless plane trips I've been on in my whole life (maybe about a hundred?) .. I realised I've never taken notice of the emergency procedures protocol!!?? I *literally* have no idea what to do if the oxygen masks fell from the airplane ceiling. I wouldn't know how to connect it, where the proper exits were. Is there even a crash position? I've watched the hosts and hostesses perform the actions over all these years but I can't learn just by looking and listening. My head just gets carried away with stupid shit like "Oh man how does she get such glossy hair?" So I sit there wondering if her lifestyle really is glamorous until the show's over and yet again I'm ignorant about emergency procedures. Besides: of COURSE I'd put the oxygen mask on my kids first even though you're not supposed to.

Passengers getting into their crash positions in the film Flying High (Airplane.) Why don't they make movies like that anymore?

::

So he went back to school last week, he's going really well, and tonight was one of the best conversations we've ever had and man we've had some doozies.

"Mum I'm in the WORST maths class."
"Oh no, mate - why?"
"Because it's the worst. Like, worst as in the *easiest* maths class. I'm not in the hard class anymore."
"Well how is it?"
"IT'S SO GOOD!! The teacher lets us play maths games that are so easy. So so easy."

Should I have interjected, told him that obviously he can go up a level in maths? Possibly.

I don't care what grades my kids get or what classes they're in, I just want them to be ok. If it's really bad I'll look into getting a tutor in high school. Maybe. After everything my kids and I have been through, their mental health, wellbeing and happiness is more important than their schoolwork. I flunked school so badly, failed every single subject except English. And I don't care, because I'm so not dumb.

The things I want for my kids aren't in textbooks they're the things that make them who they are. Self esteem, confidence, empathy, happiness. I somehow always remained curious and hopefully they will too because there's always something new to learn.

I said: "Hey mate don't ever think you're dumb. You're one of the smartest people I know."

"I don't think I'm dumb. Oh, and also I accidentally left my lunchbox at school today but I promise to get it tomorrow ok bye!!" (Runs off to make himself a snack leaving crumbs all over the bench.)

I love him.

There's only two chances of him finding his brand new lunchbox - slim and none. 

Monday, 5 February 2018

Grit.

There's the word "resilience" which is a great word but I prefer the term "grit." Grit reminds me of getting through dirty muddy water, grit's when you want to stop running in the school cross country I mean you're coming last anyway and you gotta stitch but you keep going and finish the fucker.

Grit is the actual grit that gets into an oyster so the oyster secretes layer after layer of jizz until a pearl is made. Grit is when you're over (so over) but to your surprise just because you kept putting one foot in front of the other you walk into a clearing in the forest and can rest awhile. Right in the nick of time.

We grit our teeth when we're angry, grit our hearts when we're sad. Apparently scientists have found a grit gene in some people - I have grit in spades and my sons do too. I'm not going to claim ownership over their grit because we're all born with different sets of circumstances and life is largely how we respond to it - but all my guys have GRIT.

I've been taking my 16-year old son out for driving lessons and I'm not sure if I'm a great teacher because I just let him drive. I tell him he's got this, he can do it .. and he has and does. He drove on the freeway for the first time last week. Remember your first time driving on the freeway, how scary it was? He nailed it.


He text me something and said it was his favourite thing to watch when he needs motivation - holy crappers it's as incredible as he is. He's a young adult now, learning and living his own life in this hard world. Just like his older brother and younger brother. I'm a mother of boys and like I said - I can't claim ownership of the people they have become but I'm bursting with pride at all of them, of how they've gotten through the things they've had to get through. I like to think I have a little positive input into the fabric of who they are.



(The last sentence of this video Max sent me absolutely SLAYS.)



Sunday, 4 February 2018

Dedicated to all the men who've tried to crack onto me since my divorce.

"I am not a hotel room ...
I am home."

Saturday, 3 February 2018

Still Not Smiling

I've been catching trains a lot lately. I like it. My local train station has a makeshift library and you just borrow a book with no card or anything. A few weeks ago I was on the train headed to Sydney airport and a young woman was sitting behind me - really pretty, brunette. Polite. Too polite - WAY too polite. The guy across from me kept looking at her, scoping her out, trying to catch her gaze. Finally he started speaking to her. Saying hi. What's her name. Where does she live. Where was she going. Where does she work.

AND SHE WAS ANSWERING. Because she was polite, and you answer people when they ask you questions, right? Especially when you're a young woman alone on public transport and you're being basically interrogated by an older charming guy.

I grew more uncomfortable in my seat because I used to be the woman sitting behind me. I'd answer all the questions demurely, not wanting to be rude or cause trouble. The one thing a young woman gets told in public more than any other thing is to "smile." I grew up being told to smile. I smiled on demand. I knew the drill. To this day I can produce the biggest most beautiful fake forced smile in a matter of seconds ... blinding in its fabulousness. The dickhead on the train pressed this female on her whereabouts and who she was and I just wanted to stand up and punch him in the head. I could tell she was clearly uncomfortable. JUST as I'd had enough and turned my whole body around to tell her she didn't have to answer this guy's questions, she stood up and walked off.

I noticed it was a long time before the next train station. She'd gotten up and left simply to get away from this fuckwit. He starts sizing me up and I'm thinking please dude, try talking to me. Try it. But he didn't. He started talking to this other guy behind him and soon they were having a really loud conversation about the woman who'd just left, the chicks at work, and how big his dick was.

Seriously this guy started talking about the size of his penis and how every chick he met just wanted a piece of it. His new friend started laughing. I sat there like a stone. There was only the three of us on the whole carriage. I wasn't scared or intimidated just really fucking pissed off.

Because we were sitting on the quiet carriage. You're not supposed to have loud conversations or talk on your phone on the quiet carriage. I just wanted to listen to Sia through my headphones. I always get on the quiet carriage. Because it's quiet. You're not supposed to brag about the size of your dick on the quiet carriage but this guy missed the memo and it was my duty to inform him. Because I'm not a shy quiet polite timid young woman anymore. I'm older, wiser, crankier.

Perched my sunnies on top of my head and looked him straight in the eye.

"Hey dude, we're sitting on the quiet carriage. You're supposed to be quiet on the quiet carriage. Your conversation is really loud and actually it's offensive. And inappropriate."

Both guys were shocked. I wasn't scared but put my cowboyboot feet into a position where I could balance my weight on my back foot if he got up and did something unpredictable. He didn't, he was full of apologies and bluster. Then there was silence. You could hear a pin drop. I have officially entered cranky old woman territory and I do not care. Nobody cares about your big dick, shut the fuck up, stop harassing women who are too young and polite to stand up for themselves. I was so outraged I took a photo of myself outraged.

                                                                          #outraged

(The following happened last year: still applicable. Will always be applicable.)

I used to be way too polite. In my early twenties I worked as a barmaid in a succession of dubious establishments, each more shadier then the last. During my tenure as beerwench at one of Penrith's busiest drinking holes, I "made friends with" the entire clientele very quickly. They all loved me. I'd go from one to the other to the other some days and every time I'd take their order they'd ask me if my lips were naturally this red and I'd laugh and say yes. And they'd all laugh too but I wasn't in on the joke? Something felt a bit yucky? During my break I'd get Gus from the bistro to make me a burger and I'd duck upstairs with my schooner and ciggies to play Sonic the Hedgehog for an hour in the manager's bedroom. Kicking life goals right there. After my lunch break the guys would be more drunk and more outrageous. They'd stand there smoking, watching the races on TV, pissing in the trough, pissing their lives away. They'd outdo each other in repulsive witty banter. They asked me if I had a cat. They asked me how old I was when I lost my virginity. They asked me about my red lips again ... one day I realised they weren't talking about the lips on my face. I just smiled.

Ask the nearest woman next to you right now about the times they've been harassed in public. They'd have at least ten examples straight off the bat without thinking. I have hundreds. In year six at grammar school one morning getting off the train (popular harassment place) ..  this old guy looked me up and down in front of everybody and yelled out "I'LL GIVE YA FIVE BUCKS FOR A GOOD ONE." The laughter. Boys in my class would say it to me over and over, in the exact intonation of the old guy. I felt ... flattered? Seen? Embarrassed?

In my time as a female walking the earth I've been shouted at, whistled at, grabbed, fondled, violated. Over the years I've slowly learned how to deal with it and now I do not put up with any of it. And the next time I ever witness a young female get harassed like that I will say something straight away instead of holding my tongue. If I ever see my sons displaying any kind of this behaviour towards women I will grab them by the ear in front of all of their friends and teach them a thing or two about respect. I've already said to my eldest that I want him to be the kind of guy at parties who, when he sees a passed out drunk girl ... and he will ... to be the guy who calls a taxi and makes sure she gets home safe. My brother was that kind of guy. So many guys are that kind of guy. Guys are great. I love guys. I have nothing against them. Just the douchebags among us.

Teenage boys look at my tattoos and get confused because I look old enough to be their mother. (Because I am old enough to be their mother.) I tell all of my friend's daughters that they do not have to smile. They do not have to do a goddamn thing. To stand up for themselves and other people. To take no shit.

The older women get, the more invisible we are in society. Isn't that wonderful?

Friday, 2 February 2018

Nuts And Berries? No.



I didn't learn much at the schools I went to .. something about mitochondria? Something else about how the Industrial Revolution changed things. Pythagorus theorem. Also how to count to thirty in German.

One morning in History/Geography class in year seven, we were learning about prehistoric man. After I'd gotten in trouble from Mr Patrick for singing the Captain Caveman theme song ... I actually listened for a bit while he droned on about how the men would go out every day and hunt, the men this the men that blah. Shooting my hand up, I asked what did the women do? I knew Mr Patrick didn't like me but it was a legit question.

"The women would gather nuts and berries. Or take care of the babies."

NUTS AND BERRIES?! I was seriously outraged. "Nuts and berries?"

"Yes Eden, nuts and berries."

"Well if that was me I'd be out hunting with knives I wouldn't be picking nuts and berries."

Some of the kids in class were getting the shits because I was holding up the lesson so I shut up. At lunchtime some of the boys came up to me, mimicking what I'd said.

"Ohhh, not nuts and BERRIES. My name is Eden and I don't eat nuts."

I stood up, said no I don't eat nuts I kick them and I kicked the closest boy fair dinkum straight in the ballsack. He called me a fucking bitch and walked off.

After that if any boy asked what colour pubes I had ... or if they groped my boob, or teased one of my friends - I'd kick them in the balls. One boy at school kept a running tally on how many girls vaginas he'd grab as they walked past him. I waited and waited until he did it to me and when he eventually did I kicked him so hard he cried and I had to go to the office to explain myself to the assistant principal.

I don't really condone violence but I also don't condone fucking with very feisty females.

These days it feels like I'm feisty on behalf of all the females who aren't feisty. Yet.



Thursday, 1 February 2018

I CAN'T WRITE HERE LIKE I USED TO.

....pretty sure this is why:

"How the mom internet became a spotless, sponsored void .. gritty blogs have given way to staged Instagram photos." - The Washington Post

I told Megan I lost my creative mojo somewhere. She told me to write a post here everyday for the whole month. Should I? Could I?

Fine, Megan .. I'm up for the challenge. (I do owe her after dragging her into the mosh pit at the Foo Fighters concert last week.)


So - February. Every day here. Shit. Apologies in advance.


Monday, 1 January 2018

After Love. (Thank you to the drunken cocksucker who smashed my rear view mirror last night. You taught me something.)


Two seconds past midnight I gave my nine and a half year old son Rocco the biggest hug and said "Hey mate we haven't made any mistakes this year! Or told any lies! Or hurt anybody!" He's long used to me talking like that since that's the only way I can talk and he just hugged me back, so hard. He loves me.

Some cocksucker who obviously had blue balls or some shit smashed the passenger side mirror on my car last night and I was ALMOST as cranky as uncle Stevie. I went with uncle Stevie to the copshop this morning because he had to report. He's out on bail for daring to grow medicinal cannabis plants ... which are the only thing that gives his two daughters pain relief for their chronic Crohns Disease and Ulcerative Colitis. According to the law in Australia he's a criminal, according to everybody in his life who truly knows and loves him he is the most pure, caring and good-hearted man. (Meanwhile white Australia started with convicts and let's all worship Chopper Read in the new Underbelly.)




Uncle Stevie, his second grandson Harvey, and me last night at my cousin Marina's new years eve party that Rocco MADE me go to.

Hey you know how I moved house? Well it's a beautiful magic house with the best energy and jeez when my life changes it changes quick like ZZZZZTTTTT. I haven't written here before about how I easily go into bipolar psychosis and freak out about what's real and what's not real. Are you real? What is real? Rocco had an oral presentation last year in class and he read out that beautifulest passage from The Velveteen Rabbit when the toys talk about what being real is. He did so well he got a Principals Award for it at school assembly. The award is at his dads house - I want it to be at my house on the fridge because I am the word person of the family and though my three sons may have a thoroughly crazy mother she be SMART.


We went swimming at Glenbrook Pool today and I dived straight in. "Mum you never do that you would always stay on the sand when we were at the beach house" and I said sweetheart everything is different now.

Everything is different now.

Thank you cocksucker who broke my mirror because it's a huge reminder on the first day of the new year to just stop looking back. I find it so very difficult to not live in the past.


Probably the most favourite thing about my new rented house is the aqua splashback in the kitchen. Pictured here is the Goddess print my cousin Karen gave me on my 21st sitting next to my grandmothers sugar bowl.

Nan always made life sweet.

So. I just had to write a new post for a new year. I hope you're getting through ok ... this year I got a lot to say.

That poem at the top of this blog post - how good is it. I had it saved in my computer under "loveafterlove" and when I went searching to upload it here I mistakenly uploaded the file in my computer simply called "love." Want to see that one? It made me good-cry.


Dan J Daley was one of the best friends I will ever have in this lifetime and he died last year and it's been hard to go to my very best friend Megan for support around it because he was her husband. And he loved me .... he was a guy and I'm a chick but there was never ever any hint of inappropriateness in mine and Dan's friendship. Just a kinship. I'm taking Megan to the Foo Fighters concert in Brisbane in a few weeks and Dave Grohl will be alerted to the fact of how big a fan Dan was.

Christmas sucked another massive dick last year but Max gave me the latest Eminem album and Rocco gave me a plant that cost $39.95 from Katoomba Hardware and my eldest Tim sent me a happy new year text at 12.10am this morning.

One of the last things I believe in in this life is love. And I'm loved. Thank fuck or else I wouldn't have made it through.

xx


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