Launch of the 'Death Mook'

This is the official invitation of the 'Death Mook' Vignette Press is publishing. A non-fiction piece of mine is in the anthology and it even has it's own eerie illustration. Just click on the invitation to enlarge ...

Don't Touch

Being pregnant in summer; you can’t hide that through tentlike, cotton dresses.
I ache for winter where I can abandon threadbare dresses for thick coats.
It's as though someone has put a match to the eyes of strangers.

Drunken smiles painted on bland faces.

I wish people would just pass me by. Instead, they gush - pressing sweaty palms on my taut belly.

'What are you having?'

'A baby', I reply.

'Some people like a surprise,' they say, lips upturned.

My husband would spin in his grave if he knew people were touching my belly,
sizing me up like strange fruit from Africa.

Sad Water

Ruby trapped butterflies in the morning. At night she would watch them flapping in her catcher, wondering where they would flap to if she had not caught them. One day when she saw the butterflies beating their wings as hard as they ever had, Ruby lay on her bed, crying.

Her father sat next to her, and she sniffled, 'I’ve got sad water on my pillow.'

'Why?' her father asked.

'I know where they really want to be flapping.'

Ruby and her father took the butterflies out into the garden and gently opened the butterfly catcher, setting them free.

Size

Carol thought it best to throw everything away. The cream coloured couch, still bearing Joe’s baby footprints from afternoons spent twirling in the dirt, head pointed up toward the moon. He’d get giddy and fall. Echoing laughter. The fondue set and the slippers from Africa, now dulled from being wedged in the bottom of a cardboard box for years — they could go, too. Allen’s mother had bartered for them at a night market with a woman swathed in red cheesecloth. Carol never wore them. But she never wore Allen either, because it was uncomfortable. He didn’t fit.

waiting

I am currently waiting on results. Please wish me luck and I'll see you on the other side.

If I only had a brain ... and I do

I had my brain CT scan this morning and it's official - I have a brain. I saw the images myself, and it wasn't just half a brain, but a big fat one. What I don't have however, is a brain tumour. Which is good (which is a massive understatement).

What I do have is snot that is the consistency of chewing gum. Mmmmmmmm, chewing snot. I had major sinus surgery a couple of years ago and it changed my life. I was on morphine injections, and I even had my own little pharmacy at home where when I felt a migraine coming on, I'd snap the top off the glass ampoule of morphine, empty the contents into a syringe and then give myself an IM (intra-muscular) injection. Which would work beautifully. Then I became addicted to morphine - again. Addiction to narcotics is one of my special talents. The outside of my thighs were bruised and sore and I had hard lumps around the injection sites due to a build up of scar tissue on the muscle. Thankfully, the bruising and the mass of lumps passes.

The migraines and headaches I've been having are starting to become slightly unbearable, but more to the point, they're just freakin' annoying. They reduce my productivity on every level, which means my writing and quality of life suffers because the headaches seem to dictate what I can and can't do on a daily basis.

The sinus suction surgery will be welcome, and while it's a general anaesthetic, the risks outweigh the benefits and it's pretty much pain free. Oh, and my ENT surgeon is HOT.

Bahrain. Hope I have one.

So tomorrow I have a brain scan and Tuesday, I'm having a sinus CT scan. I've been suffering (read: suffering) from shocking headaches over the last month and at one point, I thought I had had a seizure. I remember going to the toilet to throw up, which is odd, considering I can't throw up due to a surgery I had to have to stop me aspirating into my lungs. I did a projectile, which was around 10mls of water, then I woke up on the floor with a conk on my head, unable to move.

I spoke to the doctor about this when she performed a thorough neurological exam on me. I said, 'I thought I had a little seizure, but what it really was, was that I passed out'. Then she asked me how did I know if it wasn't a seizure. I didn't. I've since had a couple of wobbly incidents, like when I was walking on Saturday, I veered sharply to the right and I couldn't steer my body.

Aches in the head make me frustrated because I can't be as productive as I need or want to be with everything, and that means writing, reading, exercising, seeing friends and other people, particularly Dan who I so dearly miss. At least he always calls and comes to see me. He is wonderful.

On the 22nd, I'm off to see the Broken C**t doctors and I'm not expecting a good report. I may have to have more surgery or another course of chemotherapy cream, which is just great because it burns your skin and makes it peel and fall off and all that is left is red raw skin, much like a skinned animal carcass you see at your local butcher. Also, the possibility of having to go on an extended course of Oxycontin does not appeal to me in the slightest. It makes me itch, and while it can make me feel relaxed, it isn't the best pain killer. Often, it acts as a stimulant which makes me hyperactive, which leads to making stupid purchases like a cowhide rug. No, I did not buy a cowhide rug, but I wish I had have because I have a fetish for cowhide anything. I even have cowhide wedges. You get the picture. Times slows and if I'm going shopping for an hour, I'll often stay for three, unable to remember how long I'd been there because I'd be floating on a cloud of Hillbilly Heroin.

I could very well write a tome about the negatives of Oxycontin, but here are just a few words of advice. Never ever go on eBay or any other site where you can buy stuff. Even better, have a loved one hide your credit card. Or better still, freeze the bastard in an block of ice the size of a besser brick. Why? Because a few days later you'll get a bill and you won't be able to recall what you bought. Then a bowie knife will arrive in a postpak. Or something.

vinyl for music & art

Here is a photograph of eight vinyls I bought that I am going to get my friend to frame. I think I'm going to go for two panels because then I can separate and rotate them. I'll be asking Dan for his opinion, having the eye for finery as he does.



I can listen to most of the records that are going to be used for art, apart from 'Erich Runz Sings Best Loved German Songs'. These are the others I bought to revel in the majesty that is a record ...

John Denver - 'Back Home Again'
Kenny Rogers - 'The Best of Kenny Rogers'
Stan Getz - 'The Best of Stan Getz'
Henry Mancini - 'Award Winning Hits'
Frank Froeba - 'Back Room Piano and His Boys' (a 33 1/2 LP)
Glenn Miller - 'The Immortal Glenn Miller'
20 Country Chart Stoppers' - including Johnny Cash and June Carter, Loretta Lynn, Tammy Wynette, Patsy Cline et.al.

I'm a whore, slut, tramp, mistress, tart and loose lover of books. But a skank, I am not ...

Today I spent nearly five hours at the Lifeline Bookfest. I am spent. I had a trolley. Yep, I was one of those freaky, annoying people with a trolley full of books and vinyls. Evidence below ↓




It's taken just over an hour to transcribe the titles I swindled (not stole - swindled because they were so damn cheap). There are no less than twenty hardcover Enid Blyton's, a whole lot of Pooh, two Trixie Belden's and a couple of first editions. If you didn't get there, then suffer in your jocks, I say.

Enid Blyton

'The Magic Brush'
'Don't Be Silly, Mr. Twiddle!'
'Well Really, Mr. Twiddle!'
'Tales of Toyland'
'Tales of Brave Adventure'
'Merry Mister Meddle'
'The Folk of the Faraway Tree'
'The Wishing Chair'
'The Wishing-Chair Again'
'Brer Rabbit's A Rascal'
'Brer Rabbit Again'
'Come to the Circus!'
'Hurrah for the Circus!'
'The Adventures on Willow Farm'
'Tales of a Brace Adventure''Mr. Galliano's Circus'
'The Adventures of Pip'
'The Adventures of Mr. Pink-Whistle'
'The Children of Cherry Tree Farm'
'Adventures of the Wishing Chair'
'The Naughtiest Girl Again'
'Adventure Stories'



Jealous? Oh, yes, you should be!

Others precious finds

'Hoppity's House' Gwen Harrowsmith 1943 (in perfect condition found in the rare and collectibles)
'Andersen's Fairy Tales' - with original illustrations circa 1890's (cost 2 shillings)
'Up the Street and Down' - 1965 (perfect condition)
'Save Tarranmoor! Jacynth Hope-Simpson First Edition 1974
'Short Stories of Famous Men' 1948 (perfect condition)
'Under Milk Wood' Dylan Thomas 1956
'Uncle Tom's Cabin' Harriet Beecher Stowe (inscribed 'Wishing Willie a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, From Beryl Newp 1915')
'Trixie Belden and the Mystery on Cobbett's Island' Julie Campbell 1964
'Trixie Belden and the Gatehouse Mystery' Julie Campbell 1954
'Huckleberry Finn' Mark Twain 1978
'The Last of the Mohicans' Fenimore Cooper 1961
'The Three Musketeers' Alexandre Dumas (early edition)
'The Gun' C.S Forester
'White Holiday' Viola Bayley
'Lino Cuts: designing - cutting - printing' H.E.V Gillam 1947
'Golden Favourites: the little golden book library' 1969 (in perfect condition, all colour illustrations)
'School Friend Annual 1969' - part graphic novel, with full colour plates and short stories
'Schoolgirls' Story Bumper' - includes colour plates
'Boronia Babies' May Gibbs
'Ibsen plays' 1969
'Chatterbox Annual'
'Rupert' no. 54
'The Adventures of Tim' by Edward Ardizzzone
'The Big New Lucky Nicholas Book' 1957

A.A Milne

Collection of five -

'An expotition to the North Pole'
'Pooh invents a new game'
'Eeyore has a Birthday'
'A House is Built at Pooh Corner for Eeyore'
'Tigger is unbounced'

'When We Were Very Young' A.A Milne
'The World of Pooh' A. A Milne 1967

'The Scarlet Raider' Joseph B. Icenhower 1970
'The Swiss Family Robinson' Johann Wyss 1949 (bought from 'David Jones Book Shop'). Includes colour plates
'Poems of Wordsworth' 1963
'The English Poems of Milton'
'Mediterranean Chums' William Aitken 1967
'Xonnox' by Nathan Henderson (recent)

Adding to the stash, I came away with approximately fourteen Golden Books - old ones, none of that Disney crap - as well as a few other books that are gifts and shall remain secret squirrel for a little while.

post-script - I found a Disney Golden Book. It will be donated to the next bookfest ...

compassion

Sometimes I was compassionate, and sometimes not. The anorexics would irk me, yet one would become - and stay - one of my closest friends. All the kids had to go to hospital school. Kids with broken bones, kids with C.F, kids with cancer, and the kids from CFTU (child and family therapy unit) would all go to hospital school. Every morning, an ice cream bucket full of fruit would be passed around and this one particular morning, and as an 'ana' was about to reach in to grab a piece of fruit, my friend Natasha said, ‘don’t eat that, you’ll get fat’. I proceeded to choke on a slice of apple and spat everywhere.

C.F’s struggle to gain weight. One diet staple was fat. Deep fried Mars Bar slice, tins of condensed milk, ‘special’ milk which was only 'special' because of all the fat and nutrients in it. Apart from that, it tasted like shit and I refused to drink it. I was lucky and rarely had a problem maintaining healthy weight. In fact, I would be teased by nurses and other C.F’s who would call me fat because I didn’t look like a starving child. This would dent me, and a couple of my other friends who had the same ‘problem’. There was a much younger C.F kid who called me fat, and I retorted with ‘well at least I’m not thin like you and am going to die.’ He died a few years later.

Whatever I came into hospital with – a chest infection, pleurisy, a pneumothorax or sepsis - I would not be treated the same as another patient who was much thinner than me. When I needed oxygen, some nurses would scoff and say I looked too well to need oxygen therapy. I wanted to kill them. Occasionally, I’d tell them how it felt – my chest constricted with shooting pains all through my chest and into the tip of my shoulder. When they gave me that ‘yeah, right’ look, I’d mumble ‘fuck you’. There were some nurses who I made sure could hear my salute and if they questioned me, I would simply cough at them and say, ‘nothing.’ Just because I didn’t look like a gust of wind would blow me over didn’t mean I wasn’t sick.

To my disadvantage, most of the time I looked healthy. I looked normal. I never had the typical ‘C.F’ look about me. I made sure my posture was always perfect, even though it hurt me. I was not going to have a hump on my back. I'd have to forcibly relax my shoulders; keep them down. At the beginning of a hospital admission, or if an infection was getting the better of me, the worse it was, the higher my shoulders rose. It was the only way to get air. I would gasp and rattle, and muscles and veins popped through the skin in my neck on inspiration. I couldn’t get enough air down my throat and raising my shoulders seemed to open it up, much like a frilly necked lizard.

Because I looked so well, I was treated differently. When I think about it now, I should be much angrier than I am, but I’m not.

My mother said that I lost my first C.F friend when I was three. It was a brutal and public death. There were no single rooms, so the curtains were drawn on the dying girl and her family. After a few days, she died.

The place to be was Turner Ward at the Royal Children's Hospital in Brisbane. There were five cubicles - A, B, C, D and E and the C.F’s were in 'E' cube, towards the front of the ward. 'A' cube was the cancer cubicle. There was a park outside the ward. It had swings, a jungle Jim and a rusty bus. Once, when my cousin was visiting me, he went out to play in the rusty bus and he climbed on the roof and fell off, breaking his arm.

Looking into 'A' cube from the park, the windows were blacked out. For us, this meant that either the cancer kids couldn’t stand sunlight or people looking at them.

Cancer in the early 80's was stigmatised much like AIDS. It was a death sentence; contagious even. The nurses station was just outside 'B' cube and we would sneak as far as we could up to 'A' cube until we were chased away or chastised by a nurse. The book cupboard was between cubes 'A' and 'B' and it was filled with mostly Golden books and old romance novels. I would check out as many books from the hospital school library as I could, as well as bringing in my own, but the main purpose of the book cupboard was to get close to 'A' cube so we could catch a glimpse of the cancer kids with their bald heads and barrelled chests. Nurses would emerge from the cube in standard issue green gowns, masks and gloves, and we surmised that this was because they didn’t spread any germs to the cancer kids, which got me thinking about the nurses spreading germs to us, which never seemed to be much of a concern.

Attached by a very short walkway to Turner Ward was Patterson Ward, which was the infectious disease ward. You would go there if you had a virus. When I was eleven I had shingles and had to go to Patterson ward. It was Expo '88. My friend Sean brought me up some things from Expo and I remember being in a terrible mood. The shingles made me itch and they were making their way into my left eye and the doctors thought I may lose sight in my left eye. I still have a couple of little dents along my hairline, but you need a magnifying glass to see the scars.

I think of those cancer kids a lot. Instead of a room, there are now entire wards filled with children who have cancer.

Many years later when a friend died, I went to see her. She had died in 'A' cube. I had seen dozens of dead friends, but this was different. Michelle had died in 'A' cube. Most of the black plastic had been torn down, but the stench of dead children hung in the air, sticking to my skin.

I cried over Michelle's body. I cried for her pain and for all of the unknown children who had died before her in darkness. By the time I saw 'A' cube, Turner Ward had all but been condemned.

the two million dollar chest

It may not look like much, but this is my two million dollar chest. All natural with a little wire here and there holding my sternum together from where it was cracked. Due to demand on facebook, I have posted this photograph for all of the people who aren't on stalkbook. Enjoy ... I sure as hell am.

I like my old stuff better than my new stuff

So there's the typewriter, and yes, I'll play typewriter nurse and state it's full name and model number - The Hermes 2000 portable typewriter. All hail the Hermes 2000 ...




And yes, I know it's terribly blurred, but here is a close up of the stamp. So pretty. If you look close enough, you can see that the symbol atop the '5' key is that of a pound, not a dollar.



So how's this for a massive digression? When I was on the waiting list for my transplant, I planned my funeral. Morbid? No. Practical? Yes. I still have my funeral plan in a big yellow envelope and printed on the front is 'To only be opened in the event of my death'. Very Pauline Hanson, except that I did this pre-white power resurgence. I'm so evolved. Then again, an ant is more evolved than that ranga.

I had chosen the priest who would conduct the service, and despite my strong agnosticism, I had it written that Father David Binns would be that priest. Now he has passed, I will have to amend a few things. Eleven years on, most of what I wanted hasn't changed. There were to be no prayers, yet I wanted my funeral to be held in St. John's Cathedral for it's sheer majesty, and still do. Music, order of service and things like poems - and the people who I want to read those poems - haven't really changed. I also wrote down what I would like to have happen at my wake. This also involved music, my favourite foods and a road train of piss.

I only ever showed my funeral plans to one person, and that person who was, and still is my closest friend, just happens to be David's daughter, Laura. I played her the final song and when she cried, I knew I had grabbed and pulled a nerve. Laura does not cry readily. Though she is one of the kindest an warmest of friends, Laura reserves her tears. I remember the night so clearly. We were in my room at Hargreaves (the house on the river) with the bay windows gaping open to catch the breeze sweeping off the water, and we were in muted light. It was January. I did not expect Laura's reaction. We hugged for a long time, as tears coursed down her face, making tracks for them to flow faster.

I didn't know what to expect. I had written the plan for my funeral the way you would write a shopping list. It seemed to be the natural thing to do at the time because I was going to die, and passing through the eye of the needle was seemingly painless because I had been able to detach myself and just get the hell on with what needed to be done. Needless to say, the last song is still the last song, and this is what I was going to have engraved on my tombstone plaque thingy:

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

'Endymion' John Keats

My inclusion of The Keats stanza has not changed either. So yeah, I like my old stuff better than my new stuff.

Birthing

Flashes of you crowd my head, but it matters not. Like a feather on the wind or a prayer without a god, it matters not.

Line a nest with intention and fill it with your restlessness.

Life pauses, blood congeals, muscles repel. I do not own this day, for it's a borrowed fortune.

There is a wheel. It has no one to push it. Like a toy without a child; a car with no engine, a bird with a broken wing and a silent song. A key missing a lock, a rosary with 107 beads and a train with no tracks.

Whittled to the bone, I ache to the roots of my molars.

A wastepaper basket in the corner whispers in paper tongues that we must carry our skins, even the ones we've shed out of necessity or through plain foolhardiness. We are never far from that slippery birth canal we shoot out of and the placenta that follows, dripping with juice and veins and marrow - the scent of a beginning.

Where there is blood, there is birth.

Where there is birth, there is blood.