A big fat ‘F’ – ‘F’ for FAIL – Just ask dad

Daniel’s father wanted to see him.  It was an announcement at which I always felt conflict.  It could be good.  It could be bad.

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While Chris always walks through my front door as if he owns the joint (I still forget to put the snip across – it’s such a small flat, I can hear people just walking past), it could go one of two ways:  he brings us out-of-date biscuits and bruised fruit from the market (ie he’s in a good mood) or he’s angry about some aspect of his life and is brusque with me, and whips Daniel away before I can ask when he’ll be returned.

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Chris never asks how I am, the 24/7 carer of his child.  By the way, am I a drug addict, that he hadn’t noticed in the three months we “dated”/he cheated on Tracey?; am I over-fatigued, can he help any?; am I part of a mothers club so I can talk with others what to expect of Daniel’s development, and Daniel can make baby friends? (not with this low self esteem).

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Nor does he ask how Daniel is – does he socialize at all (only when I can afford child care); is he teething? (yes, and did you know there’s a gel you can buy that numbs the pain?!);  has he spoken yet? (no, but oh, music flows from his mouth – and the child health nurse said it’s because of how I read to him!  Isn’t that great?).

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Most certainly, he never asks, “Is Daniel really my son?”, because he knows he is.  And I brought Chris to court and he told the Magistrate “She could’ve been with ANYbody”, and I obtained orders for a DNA test, and we were waiting for that blood test and that court date to present the test and obtain child support orders… just because Chris wanted to delay paying for the beautiful boy he bundled away and did, I am never really sure what, with; but I know he shows him off to family.

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“So I come over 6.30, after the market,” Chris told the answering machine, “And you ring me, you not there.”  It was a safe assumption we would be available, he knew.  With no family in Perth, no friends with children, we weren’t likely to ever be far from home, or for long.

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I recalled the day Chris barged in, his girlfriend Tracey and her son Phong following.  When the wire door slammed behind Phong and Chris  barked, “You do that again, I kick you all the way to China!”, a fear seized in me.  Whenever Chris made his entrance into our home, a familiar fear pierces my guts.  It is the exact same anxiety which knotted my stomach all through teen age, most especially when I heard Dad’s footsteps coming up our driveway.  Would he be in a good mood, or a bad mood?  Would he bring food or only beer?  Would I have to sleep in the cupboard to escape his untiring verbal, mental abuse; or could I sleep soundly in bed, patting Ghost the stray cat that Dad hates, and I must not be caught with?

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I look at the clock – 4 p.m.  A couple of hours to prepare dinner, to settle.  Daniel and me had just come in from shopping, and I felt back-broken.  I wondered whether Chris planned to take Daniel away, or just visit with the string of women he comes in with, saying, “This is my baby and this is the Mother” and they look at me and I at them, and I wonder how Chris picks us – Tracey and me:  low self esteemed women, that he passes things under our radars so easily.  Perhaps we are detectable for our lack of radar.

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I turn off the answering machine, sit at my desk and look out the back window.  Daniel had begun busying himself with looking through the pile of plastic shopping bags I had dumped on the kitchen floor.  He knew the drill:  I look through them, unpack.  He’d begun taking cans and packets out and placing them on the floor, and piling some on top of each other.  I saw no reason to not daydream, let our food be building blocks for just a sigh.

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I looked at the scrawls of my “novel-in-progress” on my desk.  I ordained it a “novel”, to exist on in denial of my lack of use on Earth; for really, it was a waste of time.  Yet, it had me feel a nuance of purpose in being.

Girl Without Boundaries, a telling of my teens, was only 122 pages long.  It had a beginning, middle and end all in its title.  Teachers at school would give me an A, but publishers would give me a big fat “F” for fail.  Fail, failure – just ask Dad.

“Write yer life story?” he had laughed – and I mean really laughed.  “Yer haven’t bloody lived yet.”   Yes, I’ve said it before:  my pains did not qualify; my will to die did not qualify.  I simply did not qualify in either brains or existence, to be of use, let alone of value.  But I continued to pen Girl Without Boundaries, feigning a purpose in being, and to release ghosts of memories from my heart.

After all, how many journals are taken to the grave unspoken, dirt sprinkled on them ceremoniously, before comes the grave digger with his shovel, to bury the body that held you, your spirit, for a lifetime.  People will visit the headstone for a few years or many, but none will know truly who, was buried six feet under.

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I flicked through my “novel” in progress; caught my eye did Chapter 5:

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”   When I arrive back at 11H, the lights are off.  It’s probably about 7 p.m. and the grey of Melbourne winter hangs dark and cold over our house.  I feel well and truly expired, which is good.  Nothing Dad says or does will get through to me.  Two-dimensional, ironed flat, my exhausted body and spirit will take no impact.

I put my hand through our broken front window, careful not to accidentally slit my wrist (heh), and unlatch it.  Climbing through, my boot lands in the seat of our rank old lounge chair.  Clambouring inside, I then reach blindly for the light, turn it on.  I can tell Wanda is home, in her room out the back:  her light is on.

 I seek out Diana.  She’s lying on the other bed in my room, staring at the wall.  Sometimes she is excited to see me arrive back, but today she just keeps staring at the wall.

“Hi Di.”

“Hi Tollees.”

I put the light on and find Ghost on my bed.  I am greatly comforted.  I go over and stroke her.  She responds with a luxurious stretching of her limbs, and re-settles herself in slumber.  I lay beside Ghost, my face close to her body.  I watch her belly rise and fall, rise and fall.  I touch her silken, matt being, feel comfort by its warmth, liveness, by her breathing. 

Ghost’s life is an uncomplicated one.  She goes where she wishes, is fed wherever.  She fights if she must, kills if she needs to, and otherwise, she just sleeps.  Her whiskers are twitching and I think she must be dreaming some great chase, shaving lives off in her dreams.  She is adorable, unwittingly.

A long while passes as I meditate on the life of Ghost, drawing comfort and company from her, contemplating her simple charm, stroking her svelte, smooth beauty, wondering what it must be like to be her – when we hear Dad’s key in the lock.

Ghost’s eyes immediately spring open and together we share a moment of red alert, our hearts beating in S. O. S. time.  Ghost looks at me as if to ask should she stay, or should she dart out the window so he would never know.  Our pause in uncertainty brings us perilously close to trouble, for within seconds Dad’s hand is on my bedroom door handle.  As it turns, I fling a blanket over Ghost.  He enters in time only to see me laying side-on, on one elbow, amidst nothing but blankets and discarded clothes.  Ghost does not move.  

Dad looks at me, looks at Diana, then steps back out of our room and closes the door.  He does not say hello, he does not say goodbye.  He only checks we are there.

The panic and anxiety I feel, the sickness that rises up in me by the disturbance my father creates, will take about an hour or more to settle.  The peace I had fallen into, the calm, the comfort, was completely shattered.  I could feel him, his mood, through the concrete wall.

I uncover Ghost, listening in the background as Dad treads down to Wanda’s room, pauses, stomps back to the lounge.  Ghost shakes her head, flicks her ears, and looks at me, wide-eyed.  We listen as Dad punches on the television and collapses into his old chair. 

I hate when Dad is home, sitting in that chair in front of the broken front glass window, and I ask him to please open the door.  And he ignores me.  I used to ask a couple of times, giving him the pleasure of ignoring me twice.  I now ask only once just in case, in case Dad cares to get up for me.  

So then, I have to reach through the broken glass to open the window, step through it, trying not to stand on Dad, trying to keep my school dress down, trying to not spill his beer, trying to haul my school bag through.  It’s a humiliating process and I hate it.  I love it when Dad is not home, while I hate it that a Dad should be home.

I stroke Ghost’s head and she settles.  I then get up, turn off the light and return to my bed.   In the moonlight, Ghost begins to purr.  I stroke her from top to toe a few times, then lay my head down beside her and close my eyes.

I wonder if Dad will bother us tonight.  I wonder if I may completely rest or if in an hour or two he will charge through our door, vomit words at us, and stumble back out.  He can do this 10 and more times a night, and I am powerless to stop him.  His words stick in my brain, though I try to ignore them.  But I can’t ignore them because of the glint of hate for “you kids” in his eyes, as he delivers them.  And if he doesn’t get enough of a rise out of us, if you do successfully zone out and not hear him, he stomps in closer and leans over you, looking ready to punch you, and you feel the spittle of hate spraying from his foamed mouth.  It is why I sleep in the cupboard, if I see it coming – but sometimes, you just can’t see it coming.

It does something for Dad to bludgeon us so.  He bashes us mentally and emotionally with his so choice words, with much the same violent passion as I punish the tennis ball.  It seems to me he’d like to kill us this way completely, but something in me just won’t bloody die.

Five minutes passes and Dad doesn’t return.  This is a good sign as much as it is bad.  Either he is content to stew in his own shitty mind tonight, can’t be bothered getting up to strike at us, or he’s stewing some real mean shit – simmering it nice and thick until much, much later in the night, he will come barging into our room to force-feed us his mind, dish out his shit to us, jam it down our gobs until our hearts bleed.  And slur drunkenly and jab his hating finger at us, and screw up his piggy eyes.

I’m tired of the teachers asking why I haven’t done my homework.

Only time will tell which way Dad’s mood swings tonight, so I have little choice but to close my eyes and pretend I am not waiting.  Diana continues staring at the wall; while I listen to Ghost, purring. 

In the far reaches of “later”, I hear Dad pop another can, guzzle, and as I doze, I hear him occasionally mutter, mumble or shout “NO!  No!!”  My jangled nerves begin to re-knit, but Sleep’s warm hand strokes them smooth.  Splintered with anxiety, I feel.  It is kindling to my ache, my pain, my aimless aimless aim.  

Then morning came.”

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Daniel had finished with the groceries, he was letting me know, his little hand reaching up to my thigh.  I turned and looked at them – and laughed!

“Oh, thank you darling!” I said, picking him up and hugging him.  “Thank you for helping Mum!”  I would give Daniel everything I never had.  I would give my baby the best, the best of what I could afford – and what I couldn’t afford.

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I walked over to the kitchen.  The packet of sultanas was balanced well on the can of corn while the broccoli, obviously too hard to balance, lay on its own like a felled tree.  On top of the nappies was my packet of mince meat (yik!), but all in all, it was pretty creative.  I hugged my beautiful boy, and gave him a marshmallow from the jar on the kitchen bench.  I then set about putting things away.  Already, 15 minutes of time had dripped from the clock. 

Irretrievable.

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Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

WHO COUGHED ON ME?! Grrrrrrrrr

Personally, I hate those “good ol’ troupers” at work who soldier on, coughing all over the place, looking up at you passing their desk, through blurry, sick eyes.  You do the ol’ “’Morning, how are you?’ and it’s,

“Urrrggh (sniffle) not bad.  Just a little (COUGH!) of whatever’s going around.”

“YEAH, WELL, I WONDER WHY IT’S GOING AROUND?” (you beg to scream).  “MAYBE, JUST MAY-BE, IT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE SITTING THERE AND SHARING IT AROUND, EH?  DO YOU THINK? EH? COULD IT BE?  JUST A MAY-BE?????”

“Ohhhhh (and you pull a sympathetic face).  Oh well, hope you feel better soon,” you say, and scurry off to your little cubicle, covering your mouth and nose with your hand.

According to:  http://www.commoncold.org/prevent.htm, which I paraphrase/rephrase to preserve their copy rights…

“Cold viruses grow in the nose (mostly) where they multiply and are abound in nasal fluids” -

Such as, say, when your co-worker sniffles, wipes their nose just to ensure no dribble remains flowing down to their lips, and stands up to welcome the new employee being shown around, shaking their hand.  But also:

“The cold virus may sometimes be in the droplets that are splurted and sprayed out in coughs and sneezes.” (remember, I’m rephrasing – I know that didn’t sound very ‘professional’)

Furthermore:

“The highest concentration ‘of, or relating to the nose’ (sorry about that stretch of definition – had to use a dictionary to avoid using the word that starts with ‘n’ has an ‘s’ in the middle & ends in ‘l’ – with two ‘a’s in it – and if you guess that, that’s not my copyrightin’ fault!)  – highest concentration of  ‘n/l’ virus secretions occur during the first three days of infection.  That’s when a person is most contagious.”

Basically, subbers, forgive my absence a week, but I’ve been sick.  Sick as in weak, coughing, blowing my nose so hard it sucks, coughing up green phlegm, dragging my feet off to the laundromat/shopping as one must do, with the wet wash-load/shopping feeling like a ton of snot as I lug it slowly up our stairs

AND

I’ve been suffering withdrawal symptoms – together with!!

For those of you who don’t know, I have a second blog which is all video diary of me getting off alcohol.  My latest video is this which I offer as “a commercial break” to my drafting of the novel, because I know I haven’t written a chapter for a week, or bit, and I’m sorry to break the flow – but I’m back! 

Apart from a sniffle of entertainment at the start of the video, it expresses my continued success and the unwell which has JUST PASSED!! Smiling, smiling.

Yessir, I’m back.  The next chapter is on its way.  **Thank you for hanging in there**

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The BAD thing about this post, is that I am one of those troupers (!!!) – yep, didn’t miss a day of work (my real reason is because my son is having a tonsillectomy this year & I want to save the sick leave to use as carer’s leave for when he comes out of hospital).

The GOOD thing about this post, is the first three days were a Saturday, Sunday and Monday – and the Monday I felt so grossly unwell, not only could I not look up from my desk to look at anyone with my blurry eyes or shake anyone’s hand, but I was no longer sneezing.  I just had to go to the toilet regularly and nggggg-snort up some green phlegm.

So (I smile ), there’s an update & an apology all in one.

sniffle…(just kidding!)

Oh, PS:

Thanks ChatterMaster for writing me personally to see how I am – and MyBeautifulThings for caring. I must say, ChatterMaster, mid-winter here in Melbourne ‘n all, I especially appreciated hearing about the wonderful bike ride you were heading off to have, hot as it is out your way – in fact, I think you said “REALLY hot”.   That was just REALLY great to know, while it was pouring rain outside…

Ah, love y’all !

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OH, & PPS:  You might notice an ad. here & there.  Please don’t hate me, but a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do to pay the rent (except “that”, for me).  They told me they’d be discrete & appropriate only.  And just like breastfeeding in public, if you don’t like ‘em look away.   They won’t detract from my novel-in-draft, I promise – I’ll make sure my words OUTSCREAM them, by my ‘poetry’  

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Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

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THANKS to www.freedigitalphotos.net for the photo of that sick woman (sic!)

Freshly pressed words into wine

Hello all -

Wonder where you’re at while I write this with insomnia 4.27 am – I’m guessing Prenin at 2.01 a.m. writing his novel, MyBeautifulThings no doubt contemplating beautiful things, Ribbons Undone polishing off a stunning resume & letter to an employer (excellent! ), Missus Tribble in that wonderful ‘honeymoon period’ … & so deserving…Nelle putting together words in a way ONLY NELLE can…and Willowdot21 – yeah, I bet you’ve got the kettle on the boil ALWAYS

Well it’s hello ALL, and I can’t help but share with you some news that has me sort of chuffed.  It’s nice, when things like this happen.

So, as you’d know from a past post, I made a second blog to take on a different theme.  It’s entirely video (except for the odd few words in intro), a VIDEO DIARY of me giving up alcohol.  Man, imagine it, since age 15 ingesting that poison to the perfectly made machine we are born with, most of us, and corrupting it and corrupting it.

I DO know the theme isn’t for everyone, & that’s understood, but the thing is, in making my videos I often access free music & sound effects from www.freesound.org.  A couple of times I’ve use the tunes of Klankbeeld (aka Marcel).  And that I did today.  As usual, I gave credits, and as usual, I let him know his music is out there in the world by way of a video blog post.

WELL, whadyaknow!  He really, really liked what I said, what I’m communicating, how I delivered it, and he has honoured me with putting me up on his own creative site. It’ll live a short lifespan, I’m sure, before something else takes its place, but I’ve gotta say I’m chuffed.

If you’re interested in a highly creative site, give Klanbeeld / Marcel a view, and specifically to watch my video that he put up, view it here:  

http://klankbeeld-freesound.blogspot.com/2012/05/alcohol-was-my-lover-vodka-was-my-muse.html 

 

So in between chapters of my novel, I hope you don’t mind this aside, because really, I felt pretty honoured by it.

Thanks for reading!  Thanks for being there

N’n.

 

A watched kettle never boils

Waking with the freshness of the Indian Ocean breathing through every little square of the flywire on my open window, was a blessing I had created for myself when I left the marriage.

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As I’ve said, when my husband said to me so unforgettably when choosing a far outer suburb to take up residence in,“We can live near the beach when we retire,” I was speechless.  It was hard to explain why I could not imagine becoming 30 years old, let alone 40, let alone retired and 65.  My husband had offered that promise of possibility 45 years hence, not knowing that albeit in my early twenties, I could not envisage a future.  With the same dark mind I had developed about age 15, I looked at him through my depression and told him “but what if I don’t make it to 65?  What would have been life, then?”

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My husband laughed at that because, just as he did not know I had taken eight laxatives after dinner and vomited in a corner of the back yard where we were attempting to grow pumpkins (I sure wasn’t going to eat them), nor did he know I actually could not visualise “a future”.  I could not see me older and in a house or in a job I love or with children or anything.  To me, it was like trying to envisage the alps and mountainsides, gullies through which chill-fresh rain water coursed its way from town to town through my Mother’s homeland, Poland:  impossible.  I had never seen a picture of it, and while I know it exists, I just cannot imagine it.

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I had never practised envisioning a future.  My father never mentioned university as a possibility for us girls, scoffed at my lofty notion of self when I dared say I wanted to be a writer for a living, and just never encouraged from me mind for a future.   He once told me, “If – IF you EVER find an employer who wants yer, yer better stick with them for life.”  I really was worthless, and this was to be good advice except that I never stayed in a job longer than two years – hence, over decades, I had “won over” employer after employer after employer, maintaining steady and varied employment.  Huh, go figure, dad - I concede that, did muse the voice of my subconscious.

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I never envisioned a future for I was too distracted on a daily basis by work and duty.  I worked only to earn money to pay the mortgage and to assist in affording my husband’s love of Holden Toranas. I kept house – dinners, shopping, washing; but only because these are the duties of existence (ingrained habits of being).  While my husband played with his cars each and every weekend, I exercised or wrote – to speak to an open page what I was feeling.  I never sent it off, never regarded my words as of value.  Me, a writer?!  Oh, why do we wear the lables people hammer into our brains with nails sharpened by their embittered selves?  If someone stuck a ‘Kick me’ sign on my back, I would tear it off indignantly.  But hear the words of hate of me which frothed from my father’s lips so regularly over seven years, emphasized by his squinting pig-eyes and sudden advances as if he was going to punch me, well, in time the words become fact.  I guess there really is something to be said for rote learning, after all.

EMPLOYMENT

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I kill my days in sacrifice to the future.

We must work, my husband says,

for our future wealth, future acquisitions,

future ‘happiness’, I think it’s called.

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Day by day I lead them to the slaughterhouse,

work.

One by one I lead my days from 8 in the morning to that grey building

in between two grey buildings.

They resist, they do,

but I am the leader of my life

and so by the leash of duty, I drag my days to the building, my workplace.

And therein I trap them until 5 pm when the clock indicates permission to leave.

I then unleash my day and it falls dead upon the floor – spent, irretrievable.

And I make my way home to cook dinner for my husband.

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Up at 6, home 12 hours later.

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How painfully the seconds tick over at work.

Wishing I was out there living,

I am imprisoned by surviving.

I am shackled by society’s Perpetuated Way of Being.

Everyone maturely accepts it, they say.

Have I not grown up, then,

that I cannot endure sacrificing my days

my days born to me,

to the soulless constitution of no creativity?

It’s to pay for our goals, the people say,

raging hard on Friday nights, not wanting to talk “work”.

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Where would we be without alcohol ???????

No doubt sober,

and wondering why.

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Circa 1998

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In bed I breathed deeply of the Indian Ocean.  Those waters which rushed to meet my feet at shore, Cottesloe Western Australia, they retreated to meet the feet of some African person in another state of mind, of being, of life.  It is just too fascinating.  I would be sure to take Daniel and me to the beach today and, with my energy renewing, I would surprise Tom by cleaning the yoga room.  He was so wonderfully accepting that I did not keep to a clock, that I cleaned only when I could.  Whereas an employer would tap at a clock face and look down upon you as incompetent for not being able to keep within the accepted time frames, Tom let the days pass, knowing I would do my duty, I would I would, when I could. 

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I could envision  no future, least of all the one my husband could so clearly see, because every “second day”, unless it was highly distracted by interesting people – such as, thank mercy, the wit I engaged in with the men at work; or the true and deep conversations I had with Julian from the theatre group; my thoughts could not help but waft toward the Plan B I had maintained alive since when life had first become unbearable at 15:  suicide.  It kept me alive, to know I could just die.

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I  learned in books later, too much later, that first we must conceive of a life, to have that life.

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On my back in bed and thinking, I willed to make a coffee to sip and muse over, but I was afraid my movement would wake Daniel.  It was utterly precious time, those mornings I woke before Daniel.  I remember thinking it was the best invention when “they” created kettles that did not whistle – screaming in shrill alarm that all hell was breaking loose within the aluminum vessel; water was boiling frantically, steaming, evaporating – quick! come make your coffee – quick!

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“A watched kettle never boils”, had said my Aunty Mona once, and I looked at it and wondered what kind of consciousness did this kettle have, that it would not boil as long as I watched it?  I was a very literal girl; very gullible I guess, as is the mark of innocence.  I stood by the kettle and watched it for a while, challenging it to boil while I stood over it, but Aunty Mona called me away to continue our game of Scrabble.  I had to leave the kettle, which proved me the idiot, sure enough, for just as I placed down ‘permeate’ where there had been ‘ate’, the kettle whistled, and I made the teas.

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Futures.  How many people, really, see a future?

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I remember when learning kung fu, pre Daniel, never forgetting the look on Si-Hing (teacher) Dave’s face when we were chatting after class.  We were talking about our interests – me, theatre, acting in film students’ shorts, writing (receiving a lover who called me at all hours, never stayed, didn’t ask much about me, contemplating death constantly, packing up all I “owned” and writing goodbyes to my sisters, no ambition but would love to write for a living if only I knew how to make a job of it  – etc – of course which I did not say).  But Si-Hing Dave, he was going to travel to Asia this coming September, then was going to somewhere else, and he was studying his whatever to be a whatsa and by the year two-thousand-and-WHAT? NEXT CENTURY? he would be living in some suburb, indulging his side business.  And he was learning Mandarin, too.  Well, I just looked at him.  It was fascinating to me, truly, that someone would invest so much plan, thought and belief into a future which may never be.  I myself had witnessed a car collide with a truck at an intersection and heard the female driver’s agonizing scream as Death seized her throat, choked the life remaining in her and shook it so violently I could see her spasms of pain jerking her body behind the wheel.  And I had seen other drivers tear from their cars, leaving doors hanging open.  I had heard the cacophony of horror which avalanched from the hearts of bystanders upon whose otherwise fine day had fallen but one flake of mortality, the weight of which was enough to collapse their hopes of tomorrow, imploding emotions into the pit of their bellies. I was sure that woman died that day.  And I knew it before her children did.

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I looked at Si-Hing Robert as he finished describing the wonderland of the future, a smile on his face, in reverie.  I felt pale in comparison.

“But,” and I asked this truly candidly, because I could hardly believe it had not crossed his mind, “But what if there is no tomorrow?”

Si-Hing Dave looked at me with the most quizzical look.  WHO does not contemplate a future?  I realized only then that I had missed something in my raising by dad which gave me the scope to dream, imagine, to reach for tomorrow as if you’re in a tree reaching out for a rope which is within your grasp but you just need to stretch enough, far enough – yes, stretch, then feel it with your fingers and manouvre and GRAB IT, the future, and swing on that rope with the highest joy before jumping off and landing splash in the fresh clean lake of life, and swim about and giggle, urging the others in your life to do the same.

“C’mon!  It’s gorgeous!  It’s wonderful!  You can do it!  Join me!”

And with one hold on the stability of their job, they reach for the vine that bears the fruit and they stretch, grasp and swing too “whhheeeeeeeeeee!” and they let go and splash! they land in the middle of the adventure which is life.

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Sigh.  We would make something of today, I decided.  I had more energy.  We would go to the toy library and the beach and clean the yoga room to grab a fistful of cash, and with that cash we’d do something special, different.  Maybe, I don’t know, maybe buy take away and have it on the beach.  I’m sure Daniel would like to experience hot chips now that he was chewing.  I would blow on them with love to cool them and feed them to my beloved son, and with our bums on the sandy shores we would eat and be, just be, with Nature emblazoning the skies with its artistry at dusk.  And we would feed the seagulls and Daniel could watch them squawk and gather around us, daring to come as close as a seagull will.  Maybe there’d even be one of those dominant ones, those ones that sound off all the others so that they back away, as it takes the prized chip in its beak and flutters away to be alone to gobble, while the others surge forward for whatever is left over.

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It always fascinates me that it is voice – voice and stance, which wins the prize.  In public arguments at the check-out of a supermarket, when telling the phone company they’re not providing the service you’re paying for and you want something done, when exchanging an item that is faulty…It has always been the demeanour and the strength of voice which won or lost the little battle.  From that engaged-to-be-married 19 year old in Frankston who bought a kilo of sausages from the butcher because he said “You can’t just buy a couple, we only sell them in kilos”, slowly I was finding my voice, day upon day in this life, as each challenge presented itself:  and eyed me square-on and said, “So are you going to let this happen to you, or are you going to fight it?”  I reckoned today, for sure, we were going to fight “it”.

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Oh sigh, life really takes time – from birth to departure – to fully “get”, if we can manage to get it at all, this lifetime.

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Copyright Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

Between BEEF TITS and DAIRY QUEEN, there’s something going on here

She broke her neck while training to get her black belt in tae kwon do (which didn’t matter!) whereas I only got to purple belt in kung fu and I didn’t break anything.  Sure, we’re all different, and that’s exactly why I love Chattermaster’s blog.

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Yes!  This is another edition of my inspired-by-subbers project to do an expose of everyone on my blog roll … and when I’m done, to shuffle it up by adding MORE subscribers (subbers only; paying it back) and expose more of you to each other.

My project here, it’s sort of like we’re in this big cyberspace gathering at someone’s mansion (surely one of you have a mansion??) & I’m intro-ing subbers to subbers as we motley of people from all nations enjoy our union in cyberspace.

“This is Colleen of Chattermaster and in her ‘Who I Am’, she says what matters most, apart from family and the obvious, is Dairy Queen!  We don’t have that in Australia, I wish she’d post me some!”

‘Red’ wanders by, nibbling a canapé.

“Oh! Here, Red!  Everyone meet Red she’s got a great blog called Momma’s Money Matters that covers subjects like Friday’s Follies and Story Time and Writer’s Spotlight – so varied, & interesting – and subjects of real substance, too.”

A waiter passes by with a tray full of drinks and gestures toward our group.

“Oh yes, please, I’d love another tomato juice.  Thanks.  Want a drink, Francis?  We’ve got champagne, pineapple juice, good ol’ Foster’s Beer from Australia.  Hey everyone, meet Francis.  He’s my latest subber, subbed on 9^th May – how cool!  Francis’ page is Niltsi’s Spirit.  He lives in a town north of Ontario, Canada.  Francis is into graphics, photography, painting, wood carving and his blog, like many, is about LIFE.  That’s what I love about wordpress – it’s life here, life there, life everywhere that I’m not, and I love hearing it.  Francis’  latest post is about his friend Lucinda who needs help and all you need to do is click a link and you’re helping her.  You’ve got to check it out.  And vote!  It’s a great cause!”

Viveka wanders by and Michael smiles at her.

“Viveka!”  I cry delightedly.  ”Great to see you at the cyber mansion, at Wordsfall Subbers Unite 2012!   Michael, you’ve got to meet Viveka.  She’s got the most sensually suggestive gravatar I’ve ever seen – and she photographed it herself using a mirror!  From Sweden!  Lovely!  But she’s more than a pretty picture, BELIEVE me – you’ve got to read her blog, My Guilty Pleasures.   Viveka, this is Michael, or Ocular Manifestation Maelstrom, which I think speaks for itself – hee hee!  No, no-one says it better than Michael himself.  His blog is ‘A typhoon of thoughts, words, pictures thrown in a blender and hit frappe!‘”

Noeleen notices David Bowie has stepped into the room and heads straight for her.  She trembles with all the delight, esteem, wonder, admiration, respect, ‘love’ she’s held in her being for Bowie since he entered her life, by the vibe of music, at the age of 12.  David Bowie joins the group of subbers in the cyber space party mansion.

“Hi,” the most brilliant Mr David Bowie says with his GORGEOUS lips, teeth, cheekbones, eyes, tone of voice, manner, stance, style, “I’m David – “ and UNFORTUNATELY, Noeleen faints in cyberspace, and when she comes-to, can’t remember the rest of the party (cryyyyyyyyyyyyy).

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But I digress!!  So sorry.

This post is an accolade to Colleen’s blog, Chatter master, which features on my blog roll.

In her post Black Belt Path to Life, Colleen starts out with saying she weighed 220 pds.  I didn’t know how much that was as I’m used to kilograms in Australia.  When I learned it is 99.79 kilograms I was, like, wow… HOWEVER, thank goodness Colleen’s daughter had a horrible, non-inspiring and totally discouraging cheerleading coach, because now she weighs 155 pds – or 70 kg!  I know that doesn’t exactly figure in so few sentences, but you’ve really got to read the post to understand:  and it’s a great story, inspirational, true.  Sometimes we’re devastated in life when something doesn’t go our way (cheerleading) only to find there was a greater plan panning out and life actually DOES go our way, alternatively, and what a journey it proves.

Chattermaster is what I consider a very down to earth – INTERESTING – blog of someone’s daily life.  Now, if Colleen were unemployed, childless and a fan of Judge Judy and Days of Our Lives, that wouldn’t be so, but she’s not.  She lives a very full life – decidedly full – and writes about it, from delving into family history (and I LOVE old b/w photos, the faces in them, posture, the look in the eyes which appear to be viewing you there in 2012, looking into them, then).

Colleen’s posts are so varied, from old ladies objecting to being served beef tits for dinner to declaring I’m Not Gay and I Don’t Hate You (this one was sad) to Integrity is Not Part Time.

One of her best posts, I’d say though, was Colleen’s collaboration with me. She wrote it, I was inspired by it, I asked could I video her words and she said yes. I was stoked. I took to the words, the meaning, the message immediately, and together Colleen and me made ‘I am Not Ashamed‘ 

I am Not Ashamed

Try I may for this accolade to subber Chatter master, I really can’t sum up her blog style because it’s just so, so, how do I say this? um…

so Colleen!

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Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

Like water off a duck’s troubled mental state

Daniel continued to make music in my world, oblivious that otherworldly existences had somehow, and God knows why, forced their way into our home like gatecrashers.

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Per 24 hours, as nightly was cloaked our lives in dark velvet depth, time later dawn prised our eyes open in offerance of a new day.
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I continued my ritual of reading the Bible aloud in bed until my eyelids, leaden, lulled to slender slits and I could barely whisper the words, by then blurry and swimming in pools of fatigue that had gathered in my eyes; tears formed from dry, scratchy eyes forced open too long.
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“No good tree bears bad fruit, nor does a bad tree bear good fruit. Each tree is recognized by its own fruit. People do not pick figs from thorn bushes, or grapes from briers.

The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks.”

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Night upon night, though I slept with the light on and my hand resting on the Bible, my confidence grew that Daniel and my realm was returned to our “possession” – for one cannot really possess; only house.
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I began working at the Raffles Hotel with Mellida, learning how to draw beers and measure spirits. I was grateful for this semblance of normalcy returning to our lives – Daniel going into childcare, me earning money (oh grace!). The weight of fatigue which had laden my entire being over the weeks of nightly terror slowly lightened as God granted me rest, peace – surely I can fall from my lips each night and, by that hour, dribble down the corner of my mouth as my head turned on my pillow, and unconsciousness laid its hand on my achingly tired body and flicked the switch which turned out my lights. Then in darkness I slept, where before in darkness I had feared.
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When I woke, although I felt not sprightly, I was more and more fortified. It was like every night of sleep achieved, I gained another step into our home and gradually made steps, figuratively, over every square inch of our little flat until it was only our footprints that could fit the grooves, only our feet that fit the mould, only our feet fit comfortably in our residence.
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I could tell Daniel enjoyed returning to childcare, and the hours were not too long – just four hour stretches at the pub because I was only learning. It surprised me Mellida held two jobs – both court reporting and bar maid, and the way she spoke of the patrons, I did not understand why she graced them with her presence at all. Mellida was well endowed and while she never flaunted it – was more the kind of girl to smile and joke and let men’s comments wash over her, she said she was enormously outraged when one day as she leaned over the bar with two jugs of beer in her hands to pass to a customer, the man took the opportunity to fully fondle her breasts, ending in a painful squeeze that to me would have been such an offence I believe I would have cried. Mellida was angry, she did admit, and complained to the bouncer at the door.  But he didn’t think it was reason to expel the patron and told her to just live with it. I was enormously affected by this story because women live a lifetime of comment and groping to varying degrees, but this was such a full-on assault, and public, and in her place of work, I felt an inner rage. I marveled at her ability to “just get over it”.
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In fact, I marveled at Mellida’s daily ability to just get over it all with these men seated around the bar, surrounding us, ogling us, commenting and joking – well, what they called joking, but speaking words which caused me to look at them eye to eye and ponder, ‘Why do you say those things? What do you think I am – entertainment for you?’ I could tell within the first week of my trial that I was not cut out to be a bar maid because I thought too deeply what men said – it disturbed me too deeply. Why do men say what they do, and make such personal comments – but with a wide grin and bleary eyed gaze that couldn’t even fix itself in one place, such as your face, but rather look past, around, through you, and at your breasts; a gaze and grin that was meant to say “I’m only jokin’ luv, don’t take offence.” But why say something offensive, and expect someone to not take offence? I did not understand.
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I managed to pour the beers okay, learning “some men like a LOT of HEAD” (wink! wink!) – heh heh heh, and others “Just a bit of head… because I like a lot of body” – heh heh heh! I told Mellida in our break that I didn’t comprehend how she could take their imbecilic banter, constant nudging each other and watching her bend over to put glasses in the dishwasher, side glances and smirks to each other. She told me “They’re just men”, which was meant to explain it all, but I couldn’t bring myself to accept it. It seemed to me no reason at all, to behave as they did.
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The men didn’t treat me like they did Mellida. I could tell they understood fairly quickly that I was perplexed, not amused, by them, and so they didn’t feel quite as free to comment, “You know, I can tell you’re wearing a g-string today, in that tight skirt ya got there” and the like. They knew I was a nursing mother and my bulging breasts were to their delight. “Looks like you got a bit of overflow”, one man said, beer halfway to his lips and eyes on my white shirt, tilting his head and grinning. I looked down and could see that even though I had pumped my breasts to provide milk for the childcare centre, they had begun to seep and where my nipples were, was little wet patches, milk beginning to cry for my son. “If yer want me ter take care of it for ya, we could go out the back and I’ll suck them back into order” – heh heh heh! And the bar of men, losers in the middle of the day 3.30 p.m. on a Wednesday – laughed like hell.

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I went to the toilets and put patches of toilet paper down my bra. I knew about breast pads that you could wear, but I didn’t wear them because I normally never went anywhere without Daniel, and with Daniel, well, it was HE who would “take care of it for me”. I wasn’t embarrassed, just annoyed – annoyed they didn’t have the respect for me to lean in when I handed them a drink and mention it quietly – like you would say to someone, “Your fly’s undone.” You’d never see a work colleague come out of the toilet with their fly down and say loud and laughing, “Looks like yer snake’s trying to escape there. If ya want we could go out the back and I’ll stuff him back in for ya” – heh heh heh.
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I was glad I would be starting acting at the Police Academy next year, in Daniel’s first year of life, because I could tell definitely this was not the job for me.
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I did ponder, though, what was wrong with me that I couldn’t laugh it all off like Mellida did. Some women seem to be able to do it so easily, but I couldn’t manage it, even though I tried. “Heh heh, yes, my breasts might explode if I had to do a double shift, heh heh and we’d have a mess then heh heh (you’re just so funny).” I tried, I truly did, but it was not in my nature, or perhaps my capacity, to accept idiots – forgivingly too, because they’re just idiots.
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Mellida had one regular customer who brought her a lollypop each time she was on shift. When he first arrived at the bar, swinging open the wide glass door, bright day and traffic noise momentarily surrounding him, before he stepped into the darker reaches of what looked to me to be like the retired loner’s club, he approached me and said, seemingly truly happily, that he knew a new face would be coming. Mellida must have told them a newbie would be starting, and the men must have anticipated me, in whatever way they each did.
“Oh yeah, well, I’m just trying out,” I said, smiling at him.
“I bought you a little something,” he said, this stranger did to me. I looked at Mellida while he put his hand deep into his front pocket. She smiled and nodded as in ‘It’s all right, he’ not going to pull out his dick’, and I looked back at him. He then lifted up a red lollypop, a small candy circle on a stick in clear plasticr. He held it out to me, his aged eyes not exactly smiling, but challenging, seeing if I would accept it – would I accept his lollypop.
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I was at a loss of what was wrong with me, but there was something sick about his offering a grown woman a lollypop. It seemed paedophilic in its gesture. I couldn’t help it. Emotions raced up from my guts and burned my heart as I stared at this stranger, man, and his offering of a lollypop.  I found him repulsive, somehow repulsive. Did he keep a pocket full of lollipops to offer little girls? What kind of man was he?

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He gestured it forward, and all the men were watching, but I just could not, could not bring myself to accept his lollypop. I failed, I completely and utterly failed to be one of those light hearted women who wear tight fitting gear, smiling and laughing at men, sloshing into their drinks a few extra drops and winking at them, laughing at their common – so common – jokes, and taking tips for being able to do so.
“It’s okay”, Mellida said, breaking the tension and coming to my side, smiling. “Wally always gives me a lolly pop, don’t you Wal? He’s just like that.”
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Just like what?, I wondered. Was he retarded and this was his learned way of breaking any barriers with the female race? Because I remained stunned in conflict, philosophical ponderance, trying not to read too much into things – but reading too much into things – Mellida took Wally’s lollypop and said “Thanks Wal, what’ll you have? Don’t tell me! A Guinness!”
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Breaking out of my deeply internal troubled reaction at the offer of a lollypop from a wrinkly old male stranger in stained brown pants, and checkered shirt not buttoned decently enough to hide his grey haired chest, I swallowed hard and smiled and said, “Sorry. It’s just that I don’t eat… lollypops.”
“Yer don’t eat lollypops” (what kind of gal is this one?)
“No, not just lollypops – sugars, I mean. I get hyper if I have too much sugar. And the dye. It’s the red dye. I break out in a red faced reaction,” heh heh, I said. Heh.
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I only lasted at the pub three weeks before I admitted to Mellida I actually could not stand it. As much as I wanted the money, I just could not stand it. She said she didn’t think I was enjoying it, but she wasn’t going to say anything because the choice was mine. I thanked her dearly, I told her I couldn’t thank her enough, but I just couldn’t do it. And then I asked her how could she? “Water off a duck’s back”, she said.
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And I realized this duckie just wasn’t born with that oil which adorns the feathers of a duck’s back, which allows the water to flow off it. Instead it was seems to be my affliction to be mental, just so so mental – have been since I can remember; since even before I  knew myself. It must have been why Aunty Betty said to me that day, “You’re a very different girl in repose, Noeleen.” .

I was just inclined to think.
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And inclined to, too much.

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Copyright Noeleen&Daniel 50/50