I wrote this today, my muse being the film 'Blue Velvet'
Girl in the Water
In the wardrobe, it is always night.
Through splintered light, pin-tucked dresses suggesting parted lips
drape loosely over shoes.
In the womb, it is always night
where the taste of broken dolls is spooned delicately into mouths.
A flickering candle, slow with violence, licks the air with good intentions,
while the laughter of a young boy echoes the sound of a thousand robins;
worms wiggling in their beaks, changing the colour of your sleep.
Lips like fat pillows swell the way ripened fruit does in summer
inhaling the scent of the afternoon,
giving way to concrete coloured skies, vapid skin and lost eyes.
Escaping the serpent’s stare wedged between your legs
is not as easy as you thought.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Dead man's hands suckle on the puckered rind of your being,
tying you in knots of humid breath.
Swimming through the foulness of the city - at first so thrilling,
thick with a thousand little lies -
now assaults your eye while blood beats an unfeeling tune around your ears.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Beginning, Middle, End
Yesterday I officially started writing my memoir. I may or may not have written that I began my first memoir when I was ten. I then re-commenced writing about my life post-transplant but went about it in such a way that I would end up crying on the floor of my writing studio curled in the foetal position.
The memoir I am writing isn't a purge as such. The others were. They went into every death, or rather I painstakingly wrote down every detail I could remember and when I could not remember, I would try to make myself remember and this is where the trouble began. What I wrote yesterday poured out of me and spilled onto the page. It wasn't a struggle. It was easy, and today it was easy again. The time is right, my story has ripened and the fruit is ready to be picked.
Tomorrow is both the last day of the year and my birthday. This time last year was to say the least, trying. I was still weak from the cuntostomy and all that came with it, I had an ileostomy (a poo bag) and my dignity had been shattered into ugly, disjointed shards I never thought I would be able to put back together. I was left wondering what had happened to my life and it was one of those 'dark night of the soul' moments.
Even if I stay in tomorrow night, it will be enough. It will be plenty. Last year I was grateful to have come away with my life without brain damage. This year I'm grateful for so many things. The successful ileostomy reversal in January, reuniting with one of the loves of my life in March, celebrating my ten year Transplanniversary in August and being so productive with my writing for the whole year. I can't ask for anything more, but I will. A chalet in France would be lovely for my overseas sojourn in March, as would a gorgeous Scotsman waiting for me when I arrive in London. Oh, that's right - check! The Scotsman is taken care of ...
The memoir I am writing isn't a purge as such. The others were. They went into every death, or rather I painstakingly wrote down every detail I could remember and when I could not remember, I would try to make myself remember and this is where the trouble began. What I wrote yesterday poured out of me and spilled onto the page. It wasn't a struggle. It was easy, and today it was easy again. The time is right, my story has ripened and the fruit is ready to be picked.
Tomorrow is both the last day of the year and my birthday. This time last year was to say the least, trying. I was still weak from the cuntostomy and all that came with it, I had an ileostomy (a poo bag) and my dignity had been shattered into ugly, disjointed shards I never thought I would be able to put back together. I was left wondering what had happened to my life and it was one of those 'dark night of the soul' moments.
Even if I stay in tomorrow night, it will be enough. It will be plenty. Last year I was grateful to have come away with my life without brain damage. This year I'm grateful for so many things. The successful ileostomy reversal in January, reuniting with one of the loves of my life in March, celebrating my ten year Transplanniversary in August and being so productive with my writing for the whole year. I can't ask for anything more, but I will. A chalet in France would be lovely for my overseas sojourn in March, as would a gorgeous Scotsman waiting for me when I arrive in London. Oh, that's right - check! The Scotsman is taken care of ...
Sunday, December 28, 2008
The Unofficial Fiction of Griffin Baker
This is technically cheating, since this is old material, but I thought I'd post it to see how it's received (if at all). I haven't worked on this novel for my research M.A for a few years, but hope to return to it when the time is right. The novel is set in 1964 Chicago, a few months after the assassination of Kennedy and I was lucky enough to visit Chicago a few years ago to carry out research. I spent a lot of time at the Chicago Historical Society and fell in love with it and the city. As a city, I could easily live there, and plan on returning so I can get this baby in the can.
Everything changes. You can make
A fresh start with your final breath.
But what has happened has happened. And the water
You once poured into the wine cannot be
Drained off again.
What has happened has happened. The water
You once poured into the wine cannot be
Drained off again, but
Everything changes. You can make
A fresh start with your final breath.
‘Everything Changes’
Bertolt Brecht
‘I have found a city – a real city – and they call it Chicago’
Rudyard Kipling
Prologue
Truth be told, only time I feel like I know myself is when I’m sittin’ on the can. Don’t matter if it’s at home, school, wherever. Could be in one a those dank public stalls where piss, paper and clumps of tobacco melt into mounds of pulp, where men full with liquor, pants ‘round their ankles and heads steamy as engines, have pissed and missed.
I always go for the corner stall so I’m far away from unfurling shit. I can crap in peace, without the loose footwork and water damage from next door. If I’m real heavy with it and can’t stand up, I’ll sit on the seat and tuck my limp dick between my legs like those guys that wanna be girls. I’ve seen ‘em, you know. In the showers after gym class. They don’t know they’re doing it, but they are.
Sometimes knobs of shit’ve been rubbed onto the walls to gum doorknobs that never lead anywhere. If you got lucky, they’d harden, loosen and then crumble, just like old dog shit, but sure enough, some unlucky son of a bitch’d walk through the fresh stuff in his thirty dollar leather shoes. Probably freshly polished, too.
I’ve not led a very interesting life, so I’ll start off by sayin’ that even though I’ve had a sorta torn up seventeen years, sees the whiskey glass as bein’ half full. Only difference is, now and again, the ice in the whiskey glass jams the flavour—that burning tang plump in your mouth, slapping your cheeks from the inside when you swirl I around your mouth, ‘til it trickles down to your gut. I’m the opportunist, looking under the caps of empty soda bottles to see if there’s one of those gold stickers. Bottle caps, old lottery tickets, the unclaimed prize section at the back of the newspaper. Haven’t ever bothered to write on an envelope and send it. Checked anyways.
*
Now today I saw somethin’ I never saw before. I was at the gas station gettin’ a pack of cigarettes when a limousine swung into the exit.
‘Dunno why they do that, comin’ through the exit ‘stead of the entrance. They never come in, ya know,’ spat the lady behind the counter. I think her name was Rita, or Judy or somethin’.
‘Whaddya mean?’ I leaned in toward her, spearmint gum draped on her breath, cheeks filled out like apples. Oranges, even. Too much rouge.
‘They got an account’, she chewed, ‘Expect you just to know they’re there so you can put it on their tab. Can’t complain though, they always pay their bill on time. I wonder where they’re goin’ today?’ She leaned broadly across the counter, chicken skin elbows puckering under the weight of her arms.
‘Can you see anyone in there?’ I asked, hands fiddling in my pockets for change, as I flicked my eyes from the stretch to Rita, Judy or whatever her name was.
‘The windows—they make ‘em special, you know? They’re always too dark to tell. But once — you’ll never believe this, kid, but I swear on my grand-daddy’s grave — once, Laurence Olivier got out of a stretch — opened the door himself and everything. What for I don’t know. Maybe needed some fresh air, a cigarette maybe.’
I dug out two one dollar bills, my fingers slipping in between the shrapnel, thinkin’ the green stuff best stay in my pocket. She knitted her hands together, and I dribbled in a couple of coins. She seemed pretty tickled with that.
‘Thanks, sunshine,’ she spat through wrinkled red lips, gap-toothed grin, crushing that gum like her mouth and her gum was a mortar and pestle.
‘Have a nice day, ma’am’.
‘Thanks a bunch,’ she rattled.
Goodbyes were good, plain and simple. It meant I could get the hell away from people who liked to talk a whole lotta horse shit. Then I’d off-load, move ‘round, kinda like a game of chess. I liked her. Nametag said ‘Peggy’. Her name was Peggy. Red hair. Curly, too. She always had an ornament sticking out of her skull. Some days it was a paper umbrella you fish outta cocktails. Other days, she wore bow ties, plastic sticks, flowers. Always had a pencil tucked in her nest. If anyone ever came head to head with her, they’d be on the ground faster than you could smash a bottle of root beer with a baseball bat.
*
I got a dog, Duke. He carries ‘round the look of a mongrel on his front paws. You’d just as soon see ‘im and count his nose, picking him as a bastard dog; fathered by a line-up of other bastard dogs, ‘cept both his folks are Bulldogs. He’s got a good solid snout, eyes the colour of soot, and a wide, tight rear where his tail yo-yo’s to a kinda rhythm that we’d never know anythin’ about. Hunkering ‘round on his fat paws, he’d sweep that tail across your legs like crude brushstrokes, so he could clock up another belly rub.
Once in a while when I peg ol’ Duke, an uninvited lump pushes up from my stomach, anchors itself in my throat, spreading right up to my mouth, frothing like you do before you retch. It’s when I mull over what it would be like to have your dick lopped off. No anaesthesia. Just hold ‘im down on that frigid steel table at the veterinarian, for some college freshman in a starched lab coat to practice hackin’ off dog’s tails. My father couldda done it, ‘cept he’s such a fuckin' weed, he’d be puking his guts up before he even had a knife in his hand. Never had the grit to do it. He got no backbone.
So Duke’s my pal. He listens to me, yawns when I yawn, slobbers with me when I’m drunk, and like me, isn’t too fussed with my father and is just as frosty with Mom. I’ve got me some good friends, but instead of jabbering, Duke sprawls out on the floor like a flower that’s been stomped on, fat paws bolstering his head. Either that or uses me as a human pillow. He drools, and has foul breath and all. He’ll pin back his ears straining to understand what the hell I’m chewin' about.
As for Mom and Dad, I jolt and get to thinkin’ about what I did to deserve them. It’s not as if I’ve deliberately tried to mess up my life but then again, I don’t really blame them for all of it either. My Dad’s an alderman with the city. Lewis Theodore Baker. My mom, her name’s Lynda. Just Lynda. My parents want me to be a doctor or a lawyer or a dentist, but truth is, I’d rather ride in rodeo’s or pimp myself out. I’d sooner wash the paths of Lincoln Park with the palms of my hands covered in dog piss. Mom knows I’m not gonna do anything she tells me to do, and that’s a fine deal for the both of us. Sorts out the pecking order.
Mom’s a shadow. A shadow following my father ‘round the campaign trail. Splinter thin, frigid as a hummingbird. She smiles too much, makes a mean pie, and wears gobs of overpriced dresses. Mouth permanently smacked with lipstick. Not enough rouge.
Then there’s my saving grace, my little sister Missy, who I pretty much like a hell of a lot. She’s only eleven, but so sweet and smart. She always knows when I’m in trouble or lying — or both — but she’s never snitched. Missy’s so different from my folks. She’s gracious and kind and that warped judgement hasn’t grabbed her by her hair yet. The idea that we’re both adopted has crossed my mind. I’m not bad lookin’. I got a nice hide of skin — no spots or anythin’ like that — a good nose, blue eyes and eyelashes that cascade over my lower lid. My great aunt Evelyn says I've got lashes like Tom Thumb’s broom and that's how I know that I’m my father’s son — the eyes, the lashes, the inability to back down. So I guess that’s the start of me.
*
There’s always something to say. Truth be told, last weekend at the drive-in, Max Heinemann’s slit eyes wobbled over my body, his lips all bent like he’d just swallowed a quart of sour milk. Havin’ Heinemann goggling me pressed some buttons so I thought I’d better put his fat owl head back in place. When it was time to gash his ego, I drifted crookedly over to where he had parked his pick-up, leant into the window and whispered, ‘If you look at me like that again, I’m gonna smack you so hard you’re gonna find yourself five days from Sunday, and when you land, that’ll make it Friday, so your weekend’ll be fucked up too.’ Some popcorn fell out of his mouth, his lips went back to normal and his eyes stopped doing that wobbling thing that made me think of Jell-O. No wonder I don’t like Jell-O. If something reminded you of a weeping, bloody, robotic-looking eye, would you eat it?
My English teacher, Mr. Pratt, says I really need to settle down, but I don’t wanna do nothin’ to make corrections because that'd make my parents happy and that’s the last thing I want — a damn problem.
Everything changes. You can make
A fresh start with your final breath.
But what has happened has happened. And the water
You once poured into the wine cannot be
Drained off again.
What has happened has happened. The water
You once poured into the wine cannot be
Drained off again, but
Everything changes. You can make
A fresh start with your final breath.
‘Everything Changes’
Bertolt Brecht
‘I have found a city – a real city – and they call it Chicago’
Rudyard Kipling
Prologue
Truth be told, only time I feel like I know myself is when I’m sittin’ on the can. Don’t matter if it’s at home, school, wherever. Could be in one a those dank public stalls where piss, paper and clumps of tobacco melt into mounds of pulp, where men full with liquor, pants ‘round their ankles and heads steamy as engines, have pissed and missed.
I always go for the corner stall so I’m far away from unfurling shit. I can crap in peace, without the loose footwork and water damage from next door. If I’m real heavy with it and can’t stand up, I’ll sit on the seat and tuck my limp dick between my legs like those guys that wanna be girls. I’ve seen ‘em, you know. In the showers after gym class. They don’t know they’re doing it, but they are.
Sometimes knobs of shit’ve been rubbed onto the walls to gum doorknobs that never lead anywhere. If you got lucky, they’d harden, loosen and then crumble, just like old dog shit, but sure enough, some unlucky son of a bitch’d walk through the fresh stuff in his thirty dollar leather shoes. Probably freshly polished, too.
I’ve not led a very interesting life, so I’ll start off by sayin’ that even though I’ve had a sorta torn up seventeen years, sees the whiskey glass as bein’ half full. Only difference is, now and again, the ice in the whiskey glass jams the flavour—that burning tang plump in your mouth, slapping your cheeks from the inside when you swirl I around your mouth, ‘til it trickles down to your gut. I’m the opportunist, looking under the caps of empty soda bottles to see if there’s one of those gold stickers. Bottle caps, old lottery tickets, the unclaimed prize section at the back of the newspaper. Haven’t ever bothered to write on an envelope and send it. Checked anyways.
*
Now today I saw somethin’ I never saw before. I was at the gas station gettin’ a pack of cigarettes when a limousine swung into the exit.
‘Dunno why they do that, comin’ through the exit ‘stead of the entrance. They never come in, ya know,’ spat the lady behind the counter. I think her name was Rita, or Judy or somethin’.
‘Whaddya mean?’ I leaned in toward her, spearmint gum draped on her breath, cheeks filled out like apples. Oranges, even. Too much rouge.
‘They got an account’, she chewed, ‘Expect you just to know they’re there so you can put it on their tab. Can’t complain though, they always pay their bill on time. I wonder where they’re goin’ today?’ She leaned broadly across the counter, chicken skin elbows puckering under the weight of her arms.
‘Can you see anyone in there?’ I asked, hands fiddling in my pockets for change, as I flicked my eyes from the stretch to Rita, Judy or whatever her name was.
‘The windows—they make ‘em special, you know? They’re always too dark to tell. But once — you’ll never believe this, kid, but I swear on my grand-daddy’s grave — once, Laurence Olivier got out of a stretch — opened the door himself and everything. What for I don’t know. Maybe needed some fresh air, a cigarette maybe.’
I dug out two one dollar bills, my fingers slipping in between the shrapnel, thinkin’ the green stuff best stay in my pocket. She knitted her hands together, and I dribbled in a couple of coins. She seemed pretty tickled with that.
‘Thanks, sunshine,’ she spat through wrinkled red lips, gap-toothed grin, crushing that gum like her mouth and her gum was a mortar and pestle.
‘Have a nice day, ma’am’.
‘Thanks a bunch,’ she rattled.
Goodbyes were good, plain and simple. It meant I could get the hell away from people who liked to talk a whole lotta horse shit. Then I’d off-load, move ‘round, kinda like a game of chess. I liked her. Nametag said ‘Peggy’. Her name was Peggy. Red hair. Curly, too. She always had an ornament sticking out of her skull. Some days it was a paper umbrella you fish outta cocktails. Other days, she wore bow ties, plastic sticks, flowers. Always had a pencil tucked in her nest. If anyone ever came head to head with her, they’d be on the ground faster than you could smash a bottle of root beer with a baseball bat.
*
I got a dog, Duke. He carries ‘round the look of a mongrel on his front paws. You’d just as soon see ‘im and count his nose, picking him as a bastard dog; fathered by a line-up of other bastard dogs, ‘cept both his folks are Bulldogs. He’s got a good solid snout, eyes the colour of soot, and a wide, tight rear where his tail yo-yo’s to a kinda rhythm that we’d never know anythin’ about. Hunkering ‘round on his fat paws, he’d sweep that tail across your legs like crude brushstrokes, so he could clock up another belly rub.
Once in a while when I peg ol’ Duke, an uninvited lump pushes up from my stomach, anchors itself in my throat, spreading right up to my mouth, frothing like you do before you retch. It’s when I mull over what it would be like to have your dick lopped off. No anaesthesia. Just hold ‘im down on that frigid steel table at the veterinarian, for some college freshman in a starched lab coat to practice hackin’ off dog’s tails. My father couldda done it, ‘cept he’s such a fuckin' weed, he’d be puking his guts up before he even had a knife in his hand. Never had the grit to do it. He got no backbone.
So Duke’s my pal. He listens to me, yawns when I yawn, slobbers with me when I’m drunk, and like me, isn’t too fussed with my father and is just as frosty with Mom. I’ve got me some good friends, but instead of jabbering, Duke sprawls out on the floor like a flower that’s been stomped on, fat paws bolstering his head. Either that or uses me as a human pillow. He drools, and has foul breath and all. He’ll pin back his ears straining to understand what the hell I’m chewin' about.
As for Mom and Dad, I jolt and get to thinkin’ about what I did to deserve them. It’s not as if I’ve deliberately tried to mess up my life but then again, I don’t really blame them for all of it either. My Dad’s an alderman with the city. Lewis Theodore Baker. My mom, her name’s Lynda. Just Lynda. My parents want me to be a doctor or a lawyer or a dentist, but truth is, I’d rather ride in rodeo’s or pimp myself out. I’d sooner wash the paths of Lincoln Park with the palms of my hands covered in dog piss. Mom knows I’m not gonna do anything she tells me to do, and that’s a fine deal for the both of us. Sorts out the pecking order.
Mom’s a shadow. A shadow following my father ‘round the campaign trail. Splinter thin, frigid as a hummingbird. She smiles too much, makes a mean pie, and wears gobs of overpriced dresses. Mouth permanently smacked with lipstick. Not enough rouge.
Then there’s my saving grace, my little sister Missy, who I pretty much like a hell of a lot. She’s only eleven, but so sweet and smart. She always knows when I’m in trouble or lying — or both — but she’s never snitched. Missy’s so different from my folks. She’s gracious and kind and that warped judgement hasn’t grabbed her by her hair yet. The idea that we’re both adopted has crossed my mind. I’m not bad lookin’. I got a nice hide of skin — no spots or anythin’ like that — a good nose, blue eyes and eyelashes that cascade over my lower lid. My great aunt Evelyn says I've got lashes like Tom Thumb’s broom and that's how I know that I’m my father’s son — the eyes, the lashes, the inability to back down. So I guess that’s the start of me.
*
There’s always something to say. Truth be told, last weekend at the drive-in, Max Heinemann’s slit eyes wobbled over my body, his lips all bent like he’d just swallowed a quart of sour milk. Havin’ Heinemann goggling me pressed some buttons so I thought I’d better put his fat owl head back in place. When it was time to gash his ego, I drifted crookedly over to where he had parked his pick-up, leant into the window and whispered, ‘If you look at me like that again, I’m gonna smack you so hard you’re gonna find yourself five days from Sunday, and when you land, that’ll make it Friday, so your weekend’ll be fucked up too.’ Some popcorn fell out of his mouth, his lips went back to normal and his eyes stopped doing that wobbling thing that made me think of Jell-O. No wonder I don’t like Jell-O. If something reminded you of a weeping, bloody, robotic-looking eye, would you eat it?
My English teacher, Mr. Pratt, says I really need to settle down, but I don’t wanna do nothin’ to make corrections because that'd make my parents happy and that’s the last thing I want — a damn problem.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Joyeux Noel
Christmas Eve 11.47pm
I have all that I need and most of what I want.
I have pretty things. Blocks of wood with deer and drooping branches punctured with text.
I have memento vivere ad augusto per angusta marked on my forearm. As the ink settles on my skin, it gives me sustenance; offering me refuge when the world begins to spin faster than it should be.
Christmas is upon us and I feel protected like the thumping beat of a soft and undeveloped fontanelle. It is a membrane like that dying blanket everyone has; it sheathes me from memories, some of which I can't forget; some of which I can't remember. Perhaps that is the beauty of this life, this journey and my destination, which makes me uneasy. Attempting to swim upstream through thunderous water, it pulls on my neck like a child would with a doll.
The levee will break and while I don't know how long it will last, I do know that it will cradle me. Just like that threadbare blanket everyone has.
I have all that I need and most of what I want.
I have pretty things. Blocks of wood with deer and drooping branches punctured with text.
I have memento vivere ad augusto per angusta marked on my forearm. As the ink settles on my skin, it gives me sustenance; offering me refuge when the world begins to spin faster than it should be.
Christmas is upon us and I feel protected like the thumping beat of a soft and undeveloped fontanelle. It is a membrane like that dying blanket everyone has; it sheathes me from memories, some of which I can't forget; some of which I can't remember. Perhaps that is the beauty of this life, this journey and my destination, which makes me uneasy. Attempting to swim upstream through thunderous water, it pulls on my neck like a child would with a doll.
The levee will break and while I don't know how long it will last, I do know that it will cradle me. Just like that threadbare blanket everyone has.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Dreams are nothing more than wishes and a wish is just a dream we wish to come true ...
Ah, Harry Nilsson's 'The Puppy Song' never fails to make me think about Christmas. Yesterday, I started - and finished - my Christmas shopping. No, I tell a lie. I did 99% of it yesterday and the remaining 1% today at Avid Reader. I find that preying on my spontaneity (other people call it disorganisation) works in my favour and here is why:
1. I work well under pressure.
2. As much as I enjoy meeting new people, when I'm on a mission, I generally don't engage in banter with shop assistants because I don't feel the need to know about their hangover/broken relationship/prick of a boss/STI. For these delicate situations, I use my iPod as a decoy. Whether it's playing music or not, it's an indispensable 'don't tell me I'd look good in a fluoro boob tube' tool. Tweeny shop assistants can't get a word in. It's a soft 'thanks, but fuck off'. GOLD.
3. I'm as far away from indecisive as a person can get. To quote my father, 'a quick decision's a good decision.'
4. Shopping for me is much like an Olympic event and on occasion, a blood sport.
Why trawl through shopping centres for days and/or weeks when you can attain the same result in four hours aided by caffeine? I enjoy shopping, probably a little too much, but I find it excruciating traipsing up and down shopping centres, particularly when you temporarily lose your hearing because of screaming tweens.
This time of year isn't the easiest to digest. It sits uncomfortably in my belly, but with that comes thanksgiving. I've been raking through a mulch of memories by resurrecting some photos of the disaster that was last year's cuntostomy. I was thinking today about what I want for Christmas, but I already have it.
I got it last year when I came away with my life.
1. I work well under pressure.
2. As much as I enjoy meeting new people, when I'm on a mission, I generally don't engage in banter with shop assistants because I don't feel the need to know about their hangover/broken relationship/prick of a boss/STI. For these delicate situations, I use my iPod as a decoy. Whether it's playing music or not, it's an indispensable 'don't tell me I'd look good in a fluoro boob tube' tool. Tweeny shop assistants can't get a word in. It's a soft 'thanks, but fuck off'. GOLD.
3. I'm as far away from indecisive as a person can get. To quote my father, 'a quick decision's a good decision.'
4. Shopping for me is much like an Olympic event and on occasion, a blood sport.
Why trawl through shopping centres for days and/or weeks when you can attain the same result in four hours aided by caffeine? I enjoy shopping, probably a little too much, but I find it excruciating traipsing up and down shopping centres, particularly when you temporarily lose your hearing because of screaming tweens.
This time of year isn't the easiest to digest. It sits uncomfortably in my belly, but with that comes thanksgiving. I've been raking through a mulch of memories by resurrecting some photos of the disaster that was last year's cuntostomy. I was thinking today about what I want for Christmas, but I already have it.
I got it last year when I came away with my life.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Ink
Above is a photo of my most recent tattoo, and although it doesn't do it justice, I've posted it anyway.
I both wanted and needed to commemorate my ten year Transplanniversary in August by having something of meaning inked on my forearm. There was a legion of reasons to commemorate and celebrate both of our lives, but the most important thing for me was to honour my donor and her family. It's a shared responsibility and because of their selfless decision to donate their daughter's organs under such horrendous circumstances, I fucked death over and lived.
How I yearn to meet her family, to thank them for my life, but this will never come to pass.
And so to the tattoo. Dan did a stack of mock ups with different fonts and we came to the conclusion that Garamond would look the most effective. And it does - it really is quite beautiful and I'm overjoyed with the result. I'm glad that I had the patience to wait and search for a studio who excel at tattooing text, so thank you to Nathan at Westside Tattoo in West End. I had three glowing recommendations from women who had all had text transcribed onto their skin, so if you feel the urge to decorate your body, be sure to check out the Westside studio. I did of course have to get clearance from the transplant team and couldn't help but notice that the studio was cleaner than any hospital I have ever been in.
Below is the translation from Latin to English.
Memento vivere - a reminder of life
ad augusto per angusta - to high places by narrow roads
Friday, December 19, 2008
Learn, learning, learned
I have just re-visited Freud's 'On Narcissism' on advice from H. After reading it in my formative years, I recall it explaining pretty much everything about my first boyfriend, who was at his very core, a narcissist. As hard as it was for my most recent ex (let's call him REX) to cope with the fact that I am good friends with most of my ex-boys (don't get too excited - I'm no Annabel Chong), I was always going to spend time with them and dearly love 'the good ones'. Two of my 'good ones' both have the same initial - L - and they are still sweet hearts. In early May I attended the wedding of the boy who was with me before, during and after my transplant. I'm lucky enough to still have him in my life and as my friend. It was a wonderful reunion of friends and family from across Australia and the world. I posted a photograph of Lachie and Sooz's wedding in one of my August entries.
The other mannish-boy who I am still good friends with has just returned from travelling around the UK and Europe with his lovely lady, and we're having dinner on Tuesday night.
Yes, people, it is possible to be friends with people who were at one time or another, much more. Lachie and Luke are a part of who I am because they're an indelible part of my history and therefore my memory. So while REX may find it hard to grasp the fact that people can be friends after they have been lovers (cue: face of shock! horror!), I find it quite endearing and remarkably healthy.
On the other hand, ego, libido and cathexis are not. Oh, did I hear you say 'Oedipus complex'? You know, the stage in a child's development in which the child experiences an erotic attachment to one parent and hostility toward the other? Hmmmm. Having a close relationship with a parent is a very special connection, but when a relationship becomes tantamount to wanting (read: needing) to please one's mother or father by excessive means, everything from work to relationships to sense of self and beyond, is tainted.
I certainly make no bones about the fact that I am very close to my mother, which is another thing REX had an issue with, but my mother has effectively been my carer for my entire life. When I would be in hospital as a baby, a child, an adolescent and an adult, I have needed her support and she has been wonderful enough to lend me her strength, hope, beauty and love while being as gracious as any person could possibly be while under such a profundity of pressure - not to mention obligation.
I hazard a guess that if anything happened to either of my parents, I would stop breathing; my world would spin off it's hinges and I'd be in no man's land. I'm no astronomer, but I'm guessing that an axial obliquity would be disastrous for any single 'thing' that depends on an axial tilt, and though I've lost fifty-eight friends at last count, nothing can prepare you for the loss of a parent.
After my transplant, I was hoping that my Mum would get a well-deserved break after twenty-one years of nursing me, but this was not to be. While transplant saved my life (I literally had less than a week to live), it did not absolve me of other problems that are synonymous with being immunosuppressed.
The recovery was extremely painful and arduous, and while most transplant recipients are on paracetamol after a couple of weeks and have quite a fast turnaround in their quality of life, I was on morphine for at least six months for unexplained pain. I was eventually given a bone density scan - a routine test for transplant assessment which they failed to do. The scan I had six months post-transplant revealed osteoporosis so advanced that my results were compared to those of a seventy year old who had never had a glass of milk, and that is why my chest bones would crack whenever I moved after prolonged periods of time. Turning over in bed was a manoeuvre I mastered early on because when I did, I was met with chest pain similar to that of a blown lung. I would have to roll from the side I was laying on, slowly and gently onto my back, wait for all of my crap bones and muscles to crack and re-align, then slowly turn onto my other side and again wait for my crap bones to crackle and pop. The process usually took around four minutes.
I would wake of a morning in such pain that I would swig morphine out of the bottle - I didn't bother to measure it - and only then, once the pain relief had kicked in, could I actually get myself out of bed. After five years on thrice monthly infusions of Pemidronate, a drug used to re-build bone density, particularly with women after treatment for breast cancer, my life changed and the majority of my bone density scans from then on have been of an 'acceptable level' of osteoporosis. Whatever that means. And no - all the dairy and Caltrate tablets in the world are not going to help me because calcium does not have the ability to re-build lost bone density, but thank-you to everyone for their suggestions.
Being the tangent queen I am, I have digressed from the initial point of this post, so I shan't bore you with other medical miscellany post-transplant (for now), but shall return to narcissism, specifically narcissistic males.
REX smacks of being an archetypal narcissistic male and I don't say that with a bitter tongue. I say it with pity because he is never going to be consistently happy. Seeking perfection in everything and everyone is setting yourself up for disappointment and while I'm a big believer in both having and achieving goals, as well as having something to look forward to for the betterment of not only our own lives, but the lives of others, being so fanatically idealistic is going to be any one's undoing. I liken it to the ultimate betrayal of one's authentic self. I'm just relieved that I had the foresight to end it before I had made any real commitment. Yes, I made emotional investments, but I've shed a skin and learnt from it. I couldn't ask for more than that.
One final Freudian slip, Sigmund writes that all humans start out as narcissists, because human infants are exclusively focused on their own bodies and needs. From this original narcissism, expressions of narcissism in adult life are born, and this is where it becomes a slippery slope of retrogression which refers to a return to an earlier stage of psychological development sometimes occurring in response to external stimuli, in particular, trauma which causes individuals to return to behaviours and emotional patterns of a much younger age, such as an extreme dependency on others.
I must emphasise that this is not a bitter spray directed at REX, but revisiting Freud has helped me understand and acknowledge the sadness and perhaps even the blackness in his heart.
Post script - I am delighted to report that Mum has recently returned from five weeks in the U.S with one of her besties, a la Thelma and Louise. Thankfully, they decided against driving a Mustang over a cliff. What a waste of a beautiful automobile, I mean, hell I would miss her :)
The other mannish-boy who I am still good friends with has just returned from travelling around the UK and Europe with his lovely lady, and we're having dinner on Tuesday night.
Yes, people, it is possible to be friends with people who were at one time or another, much more. Lachie and Luke are a part of who I am because they're an indelible part of my history and therefore my memory. So while REX may find it hard to grasp the fact that people can be friends after they have been lovers (cue: face of shock! horror!), I find it quite endearing and remarkably healthy.
On the other hand, ego, libido and cathexis are not. Oh, did I hear you say 'Oedipus complex'? You know, the stage in a child's development in which the child experiences an erotic attachment to one parent and hostility toward the other? Hmmmm. Having a close relationship with a parent is a very special connection, but when a relationship becomes tantamount to wanting (read: needing) to please one's mother or father by excessive means, everything from work to relationships to sense of self and beyond, is tainted.
I certainly make no bones about the fact that I am very close to my mother, which is another thing REX had an issue with, but my mother has effectively been my carer for my entire life. When I would be in hospital as a baby, a child, an adolescent and an adult, I have needed her support and she has been wonderful enough to lend me her strength, hope, beauty and love while being as gracious as any person could possibly be while under such a profundity of pressure - not to mention obligation.
I hazard a guess that if anything happened to either of my parents, I would stop breathing; my world would spin off it's hinges and I'd be in no man's land. I'm no astronomer, but I'm guessing that an axial obliquity would be disastrous for any single 'thing' that depends on an axial tilt, and though I've lost fifty-eight friends at last count, nothing can prepare you for the loss of a parent.
After my transplant, I was hoping that my Mum would get a well-deserved break after twenty-one years of nursing me, but this was not to be. While transplant saved my life (I literally had less than a week to live), it did not absolve me of other problems that are synonymous with being immunosuppressed.
The recovery was extremely painful and arduous, and while most transplant recipients are on paracetamol after a couple of weeks and have quite a fast turnaround in their quality of life, I was on morphine for at least six months for unexplained pain. I was eventually given a bone density scan - a routine test for transplant assessment which they failed to do. The scan I had six months post-transplant revealed osteoporosis so advanced that my results were compared to those of a seventy year old who had never had a glass of milk, and that is why my chest bones would crack whenever I moved after prolonged periods of time. Turning over in bed was a manoeuvre I mastered early on because when I did, I was met with chest pain similar to that of a blown lung. I would have to roll from the side I was laying on, slowly and gently onto my back, wait for all of my crap bones and muscles to crack and re-align, then slowly turn onto my other side and again wait for my crap bones to crackle and pop. The process usually took around four minutes.
I would wake of a morning in such pain that I would swig morphine out of the bottle - I didn't bother to measure it - and only then, once the pain relief had kicked in, could I actually get myself out of bed. After five years on thrice monthly infusions of Pemidronate, a drug used to re-build bone density, particularly with women after treatment for breast cancer, my life changed and the majority of my bone density scans from then on have been of an 'acceptable level' of osteoporosis. Whatever that means. And no - all the dairy and Caltrate tablets in the world are not going to help me because calcium does not have the ability to re-build lost bone density, but thank-you to everyone for their suggestions.
Being the tangent queen I am, I have digressed from the initial point of this post, so I shan't bore you with other medical miscellany post-transplant (for now), but shall return to narcissism, specifically narcissistic males.
REX smacks of being an archetypal narcissistic male and I don't say that with a bitter tongue. I say it with pity because he is never going to be consistently happy. Seeking perfection in everything and everyone is setting yourself up for disappointment and while I'm a big believer in both having and achieving goals, as well as having something to look forward to for the betterment of not only our own lives, but the lives of others, being so fanatically idealistic is going to be any one's undoing. I liken it to the ultimate betrayal of one's authentic self. I'm just relieved that I had the foresight to end it before I had made any real commitment. Yes, I made emotional investments, but I've shed a skin and learnt from it. I couldn't ask for more than that.
One final Freudian slip, Sigmund writes that all humans start out as narcissists, because human infants are exclusively focused on their own bodies and needs. From this original narcissism, expressions of narcissism in adult life are born, and this is where it becomes a slippery slope of retrogression which refers to a return to an earlier stage of psychological development sometimes occurring in response to external stimuli, in particular, trauma which causes individuals to return to behaviours and emotional patterns of a much younger age, such as an extreme dependency on others.
I must emphasise that this is not a bitter spray directed at REX, but revisiting Freud has helped me understand and acknowledge the sadness and perhaps even the blackness in his heart.
Post script - I am delighted to report that Mum has recently returned from five weeks in the U.S with one of her besties, a la Thelma and Louise. Thankfully, they decided against driving a Mustang over a cliff. What a waste of a beautiful automobile, I mean, hell I would miss her :)
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
This is what a totally f**ked lung looks like ...
A photo of one of my old lungs - no wonder my oxygen saturations were often less than 60% ... anyone for steak with a mucous marinade? (thanks to E for that gem)
Open chest.
My favourite ICU nurse Alan, made each day brighter. I would dread it when his shift was over and he would often stay back to talk to me. Alan extubated me after three days on the ventilator and he was so was so great about it, explaining to me that it wasn't going to be comfortable. He was (still is) a gem of a nurse.
Open chest.
My favourite ICU nurse Alan, made each day brighter. I would dread it when his shift was over and he would often stay back to talk to me. Alan extubated me after three days on the ventilator and he was so was so great about it, explaining to me that it wasn't going to be comfortable. He was (still is) a gem of a nurse.
22nd August 1998 - transplant photo essay
Here are a few photos of my transplant taken by Alicia Alit-Trevatt. These are photos of photos, so the quality isn't as crisp and cutting as the originals. Here, you are able to see what breast tissue looks like. Mmmmmmm, tasty, don't you think? I'll follow up with a few more.
Walshy, the sweetest cop in the world
Here are a few shots of Operation Easter Egg Drop in March. Keep in mind that most of these guys had volunteered to do the Easter Egg run on their days off which speaks volumes about their character and integrity.
The photo of the motorcycle police (top) is just a sliver of the cavalcade that expedited us to the Royal Children's hospital that day. The photo of Walshy pointing to the camera with the little boy in the wheelchair is my favourite shot. This little darling had an illness that literally affects one in a million. He couldn't speak, but he could understand what you were saying and I had a chat with him, his Dad and Walshy. His father was relaying to us that he had crossed the bridge of death umpteen times and how he had survived, to which Walshy said, 'I met this young girl when ...' which was so sweet, but I've been through zip compared to this kid. I had it all, and still do - my health, happiness, love, beautiful family and friends, a rich past and a hopeful future.
This photo is testament to Walshy's soft and kind face and gentle manner.
The man has a heart of gold.
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A little note to recommend you read Saturday's post before Monday's to ensure fluidity :)
Monday, December 15, 2008
No Solace from Destruction
My voice all gravel in it's breathlessness, ‘and here they are again'. I pushed my head to the glass where it rubbed on the window. My forehead pulsed and my neck prickled as each thud of the demolition ball ricocheted off the glass, vibrating my freckled face. It’s nearly fifteen years ago since I plastered my hands on that window as dust trickled down the glass, just as the anti-biotics were trickling into my chest.
Having a one and a half inch needle in my chest pumping anti-biotics - which made my urine smell like cat's piddle - into my jugular to tussle with a wayward chest infection was enough to piss me off. But to watch a few fat, bald men in hardhats and front end loaders demolish my childhood, I drew breath. With drizzling energy, I stood on a chair, pushed open the tiny window and bellowed from the bowels of my infected lungs - ‘you bastard motherfuckers! All of my friends who died in that ward are going to fucking haunt you for the rest of your lives!'
Thinking back, the tearing down of Adelaide Billing could have been a chance for catharsis; closure even, but it had quite the opposite effect. It's a place where I had spent my formative years being treated and mistreated and seeing friends die slowly in primitive conditions and with not nearly enough pain relief. The process of dying and how it was approached back in the 80's was primitive, so where catharsis should have been, a great rage swept through me, flash flood style. So enraged was I that when I reached a little too far out the window, the pole with my Ivac toppled over, ripping the needle out of my chest. Hadn’t felt a pull or twinge for the dust in my throat and the fire in my belly.
When they finished for the day, it was a welcome reprieve, but with every smashed wall I lost a little piece of myself; a piece of my history, my identity, my ownership of this dis-ease. Each morning I would wake to the sound of cracking walls. The top level of the new hospital was a magnet for anyone who wanted unspoiled views of the demolition. You could see the massive forms of the Deen Brothers – their dark medicine ball heads beneath hard hats, stomachs like weirs creeping over their King Gees. I was compelled to watch - wall by wall, brick by brick - as Adelaide Billing was torn down and stripped of her dignity.
I could be alone for hours at a time with my thoughts, anger and sadness while watching the building being so ungraciously dismantled. As it happens, I wasn’t the only one who cared, for one day there was a mother and her child who was ventilated with a tracheotomy who had spent time in the old ward and we had an Adelaide Billing love in.
The ward and the woman herself made fine fare for ghost stories and there was never a doubt in my mind she still walked the halls of the ward of a night time, taking temperatures, re-arranging toys in cots, settling sick babies - the list goes on.
With each level razed and with every fallen brick, I felt a little emptier, like someone had died. Another friend, gone. The sight of the cabinets in the kitchen being splintered into matchsticks was almost as horrifying as losing a friend.
The clincher was when the ‘dying room’ was levelled. Even though I was only fifteen, I had cared for friends during the final days of their lives. It was the place I went to say goodbye. It was the room where lights flickered from the ghosts of dead children who had died from Diphtheria. It was the room that had the unmistakable stench of death.
You hear about the stench of death but most of the time people file it away into their urban myth box. No surprises here, but it really does exist and it's a smell that never leaves you. A couple of days before my best friend Ineka died, I went to say goodbye. She was in the dying room. I always said that Ineka had been 'dying all her life' - she was always in hospital, often critically ill and could never seem to recover from recurrent chest infections and lung bleeds that plagued her. Ine was fifteen, and I eleven. After talking to her Mum, Trish, in the kitchenette, I opened the door of the dying room, then shut it gently. I pulled a chair over to the side of her bed, sat down, took her hand, weaving our fingers together like a basket.
'Ine, it's me.' She was laying on her side, lips blue and cracked from chronic and acute cyanosis. She had an over sized oxygen mask tethered to her head, covering her mouth and nose. Her eyes twittered as she whispered my name. I said, 'Shh, don't speak. I love you.' Her last words to me were ‘I love you’, and she managed to summon the strength to squeeze my hand one last time. I stroked her hair, brushed the back of my palm across her cheek, kissed her on her forehead and hand, then said goodbye. After leaving the dying room, my skin was sheathed with the stench of dying, and the bone crunching pain of final breaths.
I returned to the kitchen where my Mum and Trish were crying and Trish gave me a purple cardigan she had knitted for Ineka. She said, 'Ine wanted you to have this.' She gave me the cardigan and the three of us cried rivers. I remember Trish knitting that jumper with such love and care. I still have it and yes, it still fits me. I slept with that cardigan for a long time. It was a piece of Ine, and when Trish passed away a couple of years later, it became a piece of her.
In March, I returned to the Royal Children's Hospital for the annual Easter Egg run which is sponsored by Stefan. Queensland motorcycle Police are kind enough to take the time - most on their days off - to deliver Easter eggs to children who are in hospital over the Easter period. It was the brainchild of Senior Constable Dave Walsh who I first met when I was sixteen. He was dressed as 'Doughnut the Dog' and at the time I was in isolation due to MRSA. I gave him a big bear hug - he gave me chocolate. We chatted for a while and he asked me about the city views from my room, to which I answered 'I don't know about the city views, but there are some hotties down there on the building site and they're all half-naked.' Walshy has a soft, kind face and really is one of the good guys.
The day was not about me - it was about some awe-inspiring kids, but after the excitement had worn off from the Police car ride with lights and me pushing all the buttons for sirens, I slammed into a wall of overwhelming emotion. I said to Walshy that I could not walk into the hospital. Of course he understood. I thought my glasses were shrouding my wet eyes, but Walshy put his arms around me and I turned into his chest to soften the blow. I have some wonderful memories there, but at it's core it is a place of more tears than laughter. On this day in March I just couldn't do it and I'm uncertain as to whether I could ever walk through those doors again.
Having a one and a half inch needle in my chest pumping anti-biotics - which made my urine smell like cat's piddle - into my jugular to tussle with a wayward chest infection was enough to piss me off. But to watch a few fat, bald men in hardhats and front end loaders demolish my childhood, I drew breath. With drizzling energy, I stood on a chair, pushed open the tiny window and bellowed from the bowels of my infected lungs - ‘you bastard motherfuckers! All of my friends who died in that ward are going to fucking haunt you for the rest of your lives!'
Thinking back, the tearing down of Adelaide Billing could have been a chance for catharsis; closure even, but it had quite the opposite effect. It's a place where I had spent my formative years being treated and mistreated and seeing friends die slowly in primitive conditions and with not nearly enough pain relief. The process of dying and how it was approached back in the 80's was primitive, so where catharsis should have been, a great rage swept through me, flash flood style. So enraged was I that when I reached a little too far out the window, the pole with my Ivac toppled over, ripping the needle out of my chest. Hadn’t felt a pull or twinge for the dust in my throat and the fire in my belly.
When they finished for the day, it was a welcome reprieve, but with every smashed wall I lost a little piece of myself; a piece of my history, my identity, my ownership of this dis-ease. Each morning I would wake to the sound of cracking walls. The top level of the new hospital was a magnet for anyone who wanted unspoiled views of the demolition. You could see the massive forms of the Deen Brothers – their dark medicine ball heads beneath hard hats, stomachs like weirs creeping over their King Gees. I was compelled to watch - wall by wall, brick by brick - as Adelaide Billing was torn down and stripped of her dignity.
I could be alone for hours at a time with my thoughts, anger and sadness while watching the building being so ungraciously dismantled. As it happens, I wasn’t the only one who cared, for one day there was a mother and her child who was ventilated with a tracheotomy who had spent time in the old ward and we had an Adelaide Billing love in.
The ward and the woman herself made fine fare for ghost stories and there was never a doubt in my mind she still walked the halls of the ward of a night time, taking temperatures, re-arranging toys in cots, settling sick babies - the list goes on.
With each level razed and with every fallen brick, I felt a little emptier, like someone had died. Another friend, gone. The sight of the cabinets in the kitchen being splintered into matchsticks was almost as horrifying as losing a friend.
The clincher was when the ‘dying room’ was levelled. Even though I was only fifteen, I had cared for friends during the final days of their lives. It was the place I went to say goodbye. It was the room where lights flickered from the ghosts of dead children who had died from Diphtheria. It was the room that had the unmistakable stench of death.
You hear about the stench of death but most of the time people file it away into their urban myth box. No surprises here, but it really does exist and it's a smell that never leaves you. A couple of days before my best friend Ineka died, I went to say goodbye. She was in the dying room. I always said that Ineka had been 'dying all her life' - she was always in hospital, often critically ill and could never seem to recover from recurrent chest infections and lung bleeds that plagued her. Ine was fifteen, and I eleven. After talking to her Mum, Trish, in the kitchenette, I opened the door of the dying room, then shut it gently. I pulled a chair over to the side of her bed, sat down, took her hand, weaving our fingers together like a basket.
'Ine, it's me.' She was laying on her side, lips blue and cracked from chronic and acute cyanosis. She had an over sized oxygen mask tethered to her head, covering her mouth and nose. Her eyes twittered as she whispered my name. I said, 'Shh, don't speak. I love you.' Her last words to me were ‘I love you’, and she managed to summon the strength to squeeze my hand one last time. I stroked her hair, brushed the back of my palm across her cheek, kissed her on her forehead and hand, then said goodbye. After leaving the dying room, my skin was sheathed with the stench of dying, and the bone crunching pain of final breaths.
I returned to the kitchen where my Mum and Trish were crying and Trish gave me a purple cardigan she had knitted for Ineka. She said, 'Ine wanted you to have this.' She gave me the cardigan and the three of us cried rivers. I remember Trish knitting that jumper with such love and care. I still have it and yes, it still fits me. I slept with that cardigan for a long time. It was a piece of Ine, and when Trish passed away a couple of years later, it became a piece of her.
In March, I returned to the Royal Children's Hospital for the annual Easter Egg run which is sponsored by Stefan. Queensland motorcycle Police are kind enough to take the time - most on their days off - to deliver Easter eggs to children who are in hospital over the Easter period. It was the brainchild of Senior Constable Dave Walsh who I first met when I was sixteen. He was dressed as 'Doughnut the Dog' and at the time I was in isolation due to MRSA. I gave him a big bear hug - he gave me chocolate. We chatted for a while and he asked me about the city views from my room, to which I answered 'I don't know about the city views, but there are some hotties down there on the building site and they're all half-naked.' Walshy has a soft, kind face and really is one of the good guys.
The day was not about me - it was about some awe-inspiring kids, but after the excitement had worn off from the Police car ride with lights and me pushing all the buttons for sirens, I slammed into a wall of overwhelming emotion. I said to Walshy that I could not walk into the hospital. Of course he understood. I thought my glasses were shrouding my wet eyes, but Walshy put his arms around me and I turned into his chest to soften the blow. I have some wonderful memories there, but at it's core it is a place of more tears than laughter. On this day in March I just couldn't do it and I'm uncertain as to whether I could ever walk through those doors again.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
soaking
Books. Words. Lexicons. Rhythm and rhyme - all fundamental parts of my life, much like oxygen. They bind me like a bandage on a fresh cut, and it's when you're bleeding that you most appreciate them.
Music comes close as a razors edge. If I had to relinquish my library or my collection of tunes, I'd wager that I would lose the will to live a life of passion and purpose. Yes, I'd be able to live without them, but all that would be is an existence instead of a life that thrives on the afore mentioned passion and purpose.
I had a bath tonight and for some reason or another, my mind stretched back to a time of joy. Most nights I would draw a bath in Robertson ward, rather than have a shower. In the bathroom there was a bath and two showers, so while Meag's and Natasha were having a shower, I'd sink into the soft water and stay in the water until I had taken on the appearance of a prune. After their showers, the girls would draw back the curtains and we would discuss the day's events and who and what was annoying us. There was a lot of boy talk, too.
My childhood, adolescence and adult life have been punctuated by death, and sometimes the channels of one's memory become clogged. Happiness is obstructed by the more brutal remembrances and these have a propensity to outweigh the joy. I'm a glass half full kind of girl and I don't dwell on the sadness as I've done in the past. The sadness should be acknowledged, but it shouldn't consume your life, or eat away at you like battery acid, but as the old adage goes - it's easier said than done.
The concept of memory is one that has always intrigued me. I remember the smallest details so vividly which adds to a compelling case (in my favour) that I am in possession of a photographic memory. Now this can either totally mind fuck you, or bring you closer to yourself and the pain of others. I'm uncertain as to how or why I remember these little nuances, but I think it's just the way I'm wired. Another chestnut is the phrase 'it's a blessing and a curse', which rings with an excruciating shrillness because it cuts to the bone, sucking on the marrow, bringing you closer to the truth - your truth.
Memory thrives on kindness and the beauty of the every day, but it's also associated with being wrongly done by which can lead to chronic anger. Anger - specifically grudges - are nothing more than bad energy, and I'm of the opinion that like attracts like. I will always forgive, but I never forget. It doesn't make any sense dragging out memories kicking and screaming so you can relive the pain and dissect every detail in that morgue of your mind. Don't ignore the pain. The secret is to acknowledge and accept what has happened in order to move on.
I have a bond with my friend E, who also has a photographic memory. E remembers being burnt by boiling water when she was a baby of nine months. She can recall the details with precision - from the red jumper she was wearing to her mother's reaction.
I have an analogy about memories and it goes something like this:
Memories are train tracks where lines have been permanently laid. They make such a fierce imprint on us which can manifest itself physically.
My paternal grandmother who is 88 and has some mild memory loss, has shared her stories with me about her childhood, who she dated, her role at the Army payroll office, her true love and it's consequences and the baby girl she lost after a horrendous labour. She remembers the doctor saying, 'put her out!', as in 'get her anaesthetised'.
I remember the exact conversation I had with my friend Ineka a day before she died. She was in the dying room. Mum and I went up to Adelaide Billing, the ward we would go into whenever we needed to go into hospital. We walked into the elephant of a lift, which would on occasion, stall and drop. I've had loads of dreams about this elevator. Dreams of it going sideways, up and down, around and through the roof. It had those lovely old elevator buttons. There were three black ones - G, 1 and 2 which had white letters and numbers pressed into them. There was also a red one for emergencies. We had a lot of 'emergencies' where we would press the button then run for our lives.
On ground level, there wasn't really anything other than a lobby. It had floors of black and white terrazzo. The first floor was abandoned, and had once been McConnel ward, whereas Adelaide Billing - a dead nurse who haunted the ward - was on level two which is where the C.F's were 'kept'. The ward was built in the early 1900's and was so old it had a 'Diphtheria' alarm at the triage desk. It was a fat red button with a lever to pull to sound the alarm. No one ever dared touch it, let alone pull the lever because we would have been throttled by the Nazi-NUM of the time.
There's a tangle of memories in that ward which was demolished in 1993. I watched as the Deen Brothers made quick work of it. I was bereft and mourned the loss of the mulch of memories that I had cultivated. I was witness when the kitchen was destroyed and I saw walls being torn down. I saw the ghosts of my friends. I saw myself as a little girl. I wrote about it about five years ago and have published it in a separate post.
Music comes close as a razors edge. If I had to relinquish my library or my collection of tunes, I'd wager that I would lose the will to live a life of passion and purpose. Yes, I'd be able to live without them, but all that would be is an existence instead of a life that thrives on the afore mentioned passion and purpose.
I had a bath tonight and for some reason or another, my mind stretched back to a time of joy. Most nights I would draw a bath in Robertson ward, rather than have a shower. In the bathroom there was a bath and two showers, so while Meag's and Natasha were having a shower, I'd sink into the soft water and stay in the water until I had taken on the appearance of a prune. After their showers, the girls would draw back the curtains and we would discuss the day's events and who and what was annoying us. There was a lot of boy talk, too.
My childhood, adolescence and adult life have been punctuated by death, and sometimes the channels of one's memory become clogged. Happiness is obstructed by the more brutal remembrances and these have a propensity to outweigh the joy. I'm a glass half full kind of girl and I don't dwell on the sadness as I've done in the past. The sadness should be acknowledged, but it shouldn't consume your life, or eat away at you like battery acid, but as the old adage goes - it's easier said than done.
The concept of memory is one that has always intrigued me. I remember the smallest details so vividly which adds to a compelling case (in my favour) that I am in possession of a photographic memory. Now this can either totally mind fuck you, or bring you closer to yourself and the pain of others. I'm uncertain as to how or why I remember these little nuances, but I think it's just the way I'm wired. Another chestnut is the phrase 'it's a blessing and a curse', which rings with an excruciating shrillness because it cuts to the bone, sucking on the marrow, bringing you closer to the truth - your truth.
Memory thrives on kindness and the beauty of the every day, but it's also associated with being wrongly done by which can lead to chronic anger. Anger - specifically grudges - are nothing more than bad energy, and I'm of the opinion that like attracts like. I will always forgive, but I never forget. It doesn't make any sense dragging out memories kicking and screaming so you can relive the pain and dissect every detail in that morgue of your mind. Don't ignore the pain. The secret is to acknowledge and accept what has happened in order to move on.
I have a bond with my friend E, who also has a photographic memory. E remembers being burnt by boiling water when she was a baby of nine months. She can recall the details with precision - from the red jumper she was wearing to her mother's reaction.
I have an analogy about memories and it goes something like this:
Memories are train tracks where lines have been permanently laid. They make such a fierce imprint on us which can manifest itself physically.
My paternal grandmother who is 88 and has some mild memory loss, has shared her stories with me about her childhood, who she dated, her role at the Army payroll office, her true love and it's consequences and the baby girl she lost after a horrendous labour. She remembers the doctor saying, 'put her out!', as in 'get her anaesthetised'.
I remember the exact conversation I had with my friend Ineka a day before she died. She was in the dying room. Mum and I went up to Adelaide Billing, the ward we would go into whenever we needed to go into hospital. We walked into the elephant of a lift, which would on occasion, stall and drop. I've had loads of dreams about this elevator. Dreams of it going sideways, up and down, around and through the roof. It had those lovely old elevator buttons. There were three black ones - G, 1 and 2 which had white letters and numbers pressed into them. There was also a red one for emergencies. We had a lot of 'emergencies' where we would press the button then run for our lives.
On ground level, there wasn't really anything other than a lobby. It had floors of black and white terrazzo. The first floor was abandoned, and had once been McConnel ward, whereas Adelaide Billing - a dead nurse who haunted the ward - was on level two which is where the C.F's were 'kept'. The ward was built in the early 1900's and was so old it had a 'Diphtheria' alarm at the triage desk. It was a fat red button with a lever to pull to sound the alarm. No one ever dared touch it, let alone pull the lever because we would have been throttled by the Nazi-NUM of the time.
There's a tangle of memories in that ward which was demolished in 1993. I watched as the Deen Brothers made quick work of it. I was bereft and mourned the loss of the mulch of memories that I had cultivated. I was witness when the kitchen was destroyed and I saw walls being torn down. I saw the ghosts of my friends. I saw myself as a little girl. I wrote about it about five years ago and have published it in a separate post.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Reckless
A few months ago I found an acoustic version of 'Reckless' by Australian Crawl. I'd never really taken to them until I heard it unplugged on 'Packed to the Rafters'. Not surprising considering acoustic stuff floats my boat, is the horse for my course and, well - you get the general idea. I found it on iTunes and fell into the stark acoustics of the guitar, the sparsity of the lyrics, the melody which is loaded with simplicity, and the finely tuned instrument that is James Reyne's warble. You must find it, but in the meantime, here are the lyrics ...
Meet me down by the jetty landing
where the the pontoons bump and sway.
I see the others reading, standing
as the Manly Ferry cuts its way to Circular Quay.
Hear the Captain blow his whistle,
so long she's been away.
I miss our early morning wrestle -
not a very Happy way to start the day.
She don't like that kind of behaviour.
She don't like that kind of behaviour, so
throw down your guns.
Don't be so reckless -
throw down your guns
Don't be so ...
Feel like Scott of the Antarctic,
base camp too far away.
A Russian sun beneath the Arctic.
Burke and Wills and camels,
initials in the tree.
She don't like that kind of behaviour.
She don't like that kind of behaviour, so
throw down your guns.
Don't be so reckless -
throw down your guns.
Don't be so reckless
Meet me down by the jetty landing
where the the pontoons bump and sway.
I see the others reading, standing
as the Manly Ferry cuts its way to Circular Quay.
Hear the Captain blow his whistle,
so long she's been away.
I miss our early morning wrestle -
not a very Happy way to start the day.
She don't like that kind of behaviour.
She don't like that kind of behaviour, so
throw down your guns.
Don't be so reckless -
throw down your guns
Don't be so ...
Feel like Scott of the Antarctic,
base camp too far away.
A Russian sun beneath the Arctic.
Burke and Wills and camels,
initials in the tree.
She don't like that kind of behaviour.
She don't like that kind of behaviour, so
throw down your guns.
Don't be so reckless -
throw down your guns.
Don't be so reckless
Saturday, December 6, 2008
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