Tracy in The Dark

“No Dadda today,” Daniel said as I strapped him into his car seat.  I looked at him.  This was the second time he had said that.

“Sweetheart  –” I began.

“No Dadda today!” Daniel said again, half in order, half request.  I snapped the buckle shut, looked at my boy.

~

“Chris, how often do you leave Daniel with Tracy?” I had asked, when collecting Daniel.  It was the opportunity I had been waiting for – Tracy was not around.

“Why?” Chris asked defensively.

I had learned over the months that if I had a concern regarding Daniel, I had to broach it carefully with Chris, tactfully.  I had learned that his temper needed to be managed and I had to be calm, gentle, placating.   If I angered Chris by questioning Daniel’s mood upon his return to me – or even wanted to know what they had done together, Chris was susceptible to tantrums.  He might handle Daniel roughly to demonstrate he is in charge – to see pain and anxiety rip through me, then storm off down the walkway of the block of flats, Daniel looking at me over Chris’ shoulder, me feeling anxiety, concern, helplessness.  He might sneer or laugh at me for my fears “groundless”, humiliating me in front of Tracy, regarding me as soft, brainless – “You make him a Mama’s Boy!”  He might raise his voice, have me cringe lest neighbours complain and Daniel and me be looked upon as trouble in the otherwise peaceful community.

I wished so badly that I could discuss Daniel with Chris and not be met with defence and guardedness – rather, equal concern.  But I could not, and inside me burned embers hell hot, of anxiety.  Daily I burned deep within where the child in me still cowered, trembled at raised voices, pleaded to not be the cause of a man’s ire.

~

“Mum has to work, darling,” I said.  I have to make money (how to explain that to a child?) so we can buy things we need and want – and pay rent!”

I had left my job as actor at the Police Academy and was working normal hours in a small office.  The boss often had an open Penthouse magazine on his desk when he called me in for some reason or other.  He repulsed me.  I was conflicted whether to tell him to put it away, or resist saying so in case he got some bizarre pleasure out of me acknowledging the breasts and long legs laid open before him.

Daniel was not persuaded.  He told me again he did not want Dadda today.

~

“Because, well, I don’t know Tracy”, I had told Chris.

What would Chris say if I told him that when I was putting Daniel to bed the other night and turned off the light, he began panicking and crying “Tracy in the dark!  Tracy in the dark!”  I had snapped on the light immediately and ask ‘What?’  But Daniel would say no more, just whimpered, “Tracy in the dark…” as if that explained itself to me.

Could Chris handle to know this, or would he think I was making it up?  What if he told Tracy and she got upset, and took it out on Daniel?  This is what broken people do to get at others, isn’t it:  harm children or animals? Could I risk this potential side effect of me telling Chris why I wanted to know how often he left Daniel with Tracy?

Tracy, a former battered wife who took beating after beating, but when her husband broke their son’s nose – then she left.  Tracy, who Chris planned to take custody of Daniel with once Daniel was out of nappies, “Because we got a house, dog, fence, and you got nothing.”  Tracy, who told me she knew Chris was having an affair when he met me (and I thought we were starting a relationship), and who forgave his disloyal character “Because he’s been hurt by love”, she’d said, pouring a cup of tea, watching the steam rising.  Tracy:  someone I had no right to sum up, or judge.

~

I looked at Daniel’s eyes in the rear vision mirror as I drove.  They were troubled:  where was he going?  Where was Mum taking him?

“We’re off to child care, sweetheart!” I said, cheerfully.  “Lots of fun with your friends!”  Daniel’s eyes turned from gazing out the window to meeting mine in the rear vision mirror.

I had done well to leave the job I loved, in favour of normal hours.  This way, Daniel could be placed in child care instead of with Chris.

But Chris now had established rights as Daniel’s father; a pattern, though haphazard, of seeing Daniel.  He did not pay for Daniel’s food, keep or wellbeing – I still needed to construct a response to his appeal against the backpay due to “achieve” that – but he had established rights because when Daniel was born I felt that a father has rights to see their child, bond, assist in raising them.  With that idealism, I had availed Daniel to Chris from the very first moment he expressed interest in Daniel – one week after his birth when Chris rang out of the blue near 11 p.m., arrived with a feng shui chart he had drawn up about Daniel and told me I had born him a lucky child “right time and day – not perfect, but very good.”

I had accepted Chris’ bruised fruit offerings, allowed him to display Daniel to his various female accompaniments as they went out for a night on the town (he was not shy to say); I had accepted $100 once, thinking, “That’s not how it’s done:  you don’t indulge in hours of fun at thee casino then give to your child what’s left, or lucky left”, my lips speaking nothing, knowing I would be called ungrateful.

I had flung the door open to Daniel’s father for no greater reason than because he was Daniel’s father, and I did not know how to close it again – or no, hold it only ajar, stand guarding the entrance, allowing Chris to pass our threshold only if he followed my rules.  With Chris’ intention to have custody of Daniel, I feared going to the courts in case they forced me to hand Daniel over even more than I was now, with growing reservation, doing.

“No Dadda today” Daniel said, meeting my eyes in the rear view.

“Daniel,” I said, “Dadda wants to see you.  He wants to have fun with you!  I have to let him pick you up from child care, sweetheart – but then Mama will come and get you.” 

Daniel did not respond.  I repeated, “Then I’ll come and get you.” 

He looked away.

~

“Don’t know Tracy, don’t know Tracy.  You don’t have to know Tracy.  She my girlfriend!” Chris retorted.

“Chris…”  I had to tell him.  “Daniel seems to be afraid of the dark – because of Tracy.”

“Lots of kids afraid of the dark!  Why blame Tracy?!”

He was irritated with me, did not want this conversation.  He didn’t like it when I had concerns about Daniel.  I was pure annoyance to Chris.

“No, just – how often do you leave Daniel with her?  And Karen?  Why do you say you want Daniel but then leave him with your sister or your girlfriend?”

“You just jealous, that’s all!”

Oh no, not that argument: I wasn’t a woman of thought, opinion or concern:  I was dismissible jealousy.

“Chris, I’m not jealous,” I said.  How could I explain to him there was no way in the world I wished to partner him, as I realized his character more and more every day.

“They got opposing energies, that’s all,” he then offered.

“What?”

“Just a bit of different.  We all different energies – opposing energies.”

“Chris, it’s not an energy thing.  Daniel cried out ‘Tracy in the dark!’ when I was putting him to bed.  What does that mean?  What’s he saying?”

Chris looked at Daniel, annoyed.  He looked at Daniel as if he were the reason for this hassle of a discussion.

“I don’t know!  He make it up!” Chris said.

Tears came to my eyes.  I felt like I had no say what Chris did with Daniel when he had time with him.  I felt the horror of not knowing.  I felt powerless, engulfed in sadness, fear.

“I don’t want you to leave Daniel with Tracy,” I said through my tears.  Daniel in my arms, put his hand to my face, wet his hand with my tears, looked at me curiously.

“You want I help you, you don’t want I leave Daniel with Tracy!”

I couldn’t believe I had vocalized that:  I had actually made a rule.  It would probably offend Tracy, but Daniel was my child and I didn’t want him in her company any more.  I didn’t want to offend Tracy.  Surely she was facing issues from what she had escaped from, but I just didn’t want Daniel with her.

“Yes I want help but no, I don’t want you to leave Daniel with Tracy,”  I said.  Daniel was patting the wet of my face against my cheek.  I shifted him to my other hip.  “Don’t say it unkindly.  Just, if you want time with Daniel I don’t want you suddenly going off because of an appointment.  Make your appointments when you don’t have Daniel.”

Chris began steering me toward the door.  He did that whenever I reached his limit of tolerance – which was so, so low.  He didn’t want to talk with me any more.  He wanted us gone – me and my teary face and Daniel who didn’t keep his mouth shut.

“OK, OK, I not leave Daniel with Tracy” he said, opening the wire of his front door.

“Do you mean that?” I asked, incredulous.  Had I actually established a boundary?

“Yeah yeah I mean it,” Chris said. 

As his body moved forward on me backing out of his front door, I saw Phong, Tracy’s son, in the shadows of the house in the background.  I hadn’t known he was there.  I wondered what he would tell his Mum, how he would say it.  I wondered what he knew.

Minutes later, Daniel and me were driving away from Tracy’s house, Chris behind us.  I did not trust what he had said, but felt I should learn trust.  It’s just that, Chris had an awful habit of delivering words to you, wrapped in what you wish.

.

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Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

Belong

The Indian Ocean breathed upon Daniel and me.  We sat on its shore, at its edge.  It whispered to my consciousness.  I felt so present upon Earth.  Small, but real.

I was conscious of my mortality, conscious of the salt in the breeze, could almost feel salty specks get caught in my nose hairs as I breathed in.  I was conscious of the sun warming us; a mighty heater in the heavens.

Daniel was giggling and interacting with another toddler.  But I stayed very close, so deeply, deeply afraid he might do something wrong like throw sand or hit the boy or frighten him or be loud.  I was ready to swoop in and remove us, excuse us, retreat.  I did not feel comfortable in society.  I was taut with anxiety.  Not even the radiance from the heavens could melt my anxieties.  All of the other mothers, I saw, were capable and confident.  If their child cried it would be normal, accepted, a part of life – but if Daniel cried, I would be guilty of disturbing the peace, guilty of having a child unrestrained of emotion, guilty of being noticeable.

I hated my low self esteem.  I was conscious that the way I was, was not normal.  Yet I did not know how to change how I naturally felt.  How do you naturally feel you have a place in society?  How does an ape sitting in a tree amongst the others feel surely it belongs?  How do you feel you have a right to be, to take up space, to plot yourself on the beach and actually spread out? Where does this sureness of being a valid human come from?

Invalid.  A burden to a mother who must kill herself to escape you; to a father who drank himself into stupor enough to not see you. And now Daniel’s mother.

.

A seagull landed nearby me, joined by another, and cocked its head with a knowing.  It eyeballed me, cocked its head the other way.  Yes yes, I had food.   I remembered my hunger, teens.

.

The other mother smiled blithely at Daniel and her young.  She looked so relaxed.  Was she actually enjoying being here?  What would she do if… if… I don’t know.  I wasn’t fully sure what I feared, but the unpredictability of Daniel growing and forming alongside me petrified me.

I wanted to put my feet in the ocean, to walk away for a few moments – submerge fully.  I remembered my days before Daniel when I went to the nudie beach, Swanbourne, and bathed without inhibition in the blessing which is the ocean, that chopped about wildly at my feet. As I stepped into the ocean, it drank me into its depths as much as I drank it.

.

I could not let it be with Chris.  If I did not establish a foundation of support for Daniel now, there would never be a marker of expectation.  My expectation from Chris was to step up and be a man.  I had to find the balls to face the every day of having Daniel, and he needed to find the balls to support that in the absence of him self.  I decided I would respond to Chris’ argument.  I would write to the Child Support Agency and state what I saw to be just and right from my perspective.  He had given his perspective:  I would give mine.  The Deciders of round 4 would make their decision and we would all live with it (I hoped).

But I would not surrender to Chris’ bark now because to do so would be like cutting cloth painstakingly through the months, leaning over my purpose, stitching the insignia of Daniel and me through stress and fatigue; it would be like hemming that symbol of rights and raising it up a flag pole in statement:  you have engendered karmic debt by your human actions in the throes of pleasure and here we stand to ask you to pay – it would be like that flag being caught by the wind and billowing wide and loud, but being shot down.  It would be like, then, not raising it again.

I had to raise our flag again, shot down by words in opposition, because though Daniel and me were small upon this Earth: we were small, but real.
.
.

Copyright  Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

“We are so rich, we become poor inside.”

The title of this post is a quote from The James Diary.

If you’re new:  W*E*L*C*O*M*E – -  The JD (ha! funny that, hey Carrie!) is not THIS novel re my son’s early life that I’m drafting before your eyes:  it is a written journal that I have, on encouragement by readers, shaped up and presented for publication. It’s a raw expose of the mind of a young woman just fled marriage and surrendered to her first “love” in life.    

“I have too many feelings prisoners within, to take any more.”

By the way, I have re-worked the front and rear page.  What do you think, Subbers?!

I like this one better than my previous as it’s less about me, more about the madness.

Readers who’ve pre-purchased a hard copy (*thank you, your belief in me*), I have acknowledged you each. Your edition is secure. I have a list, and your copy will be sent as soon as it reaches my hands.  By way of update, however, please know it may be later than my guess of May that it comes out because the publisher hasn’t yet offered me a look at the final (to re-read, amend) – so it’s not being printed yet.  But know, your copy is secure.  It will arrive in the mail;  just on which day, I have not the knowledge to promise to you. This is my first time doing this…

“Saturday June 19

It’s 6 p.m. I’ve just used the vibrator after two warm up orgasms. Then I cried.“

Newbies, care you  to purchase a hard copy of The James Diary, please log into Paypal if you have an account and input nandd333@hotmail.com under the ‘Send Money’ tab. Via there, you can make payment by your preferred method.  If you don’t have a Paypal account – no worries – email me at nandd333@hotmail.com and I will send you an invoice via Paypal – by that invoice, non-Paypal people can make purchase – this I learned thanks to YOU!!  

AUD$12.99 hard copy

+ AUD$3.99 postage anywhere in the world

+ AUD$1 post per copy after the first

The special remains:  only the first 39 copies sold will be signed.  Only after the 3636th copy is sold, will I consider signing again (tee hee, what for life if not to dream!). 

~

It is blessedly near the weekend – a long weekend, at that!!  I will CHERISH swinging by (ah, Gray Dawster…) as I want to know if Yaz has written anything, Michael did his speech and is back at college, Tracy‘s business is raging (hey Tracy, where’s the link to your site? I only got your grav), what beautiful things Sally has brought to light, how is Carrie out there on the road, where’s Nelle at with writing (ps love your new dark theme & header), what’s Colleen been musing…and more and more, I do!  You, my readership means much to me, but the relationship of sorts I have built – so very strangely via cyber space – I do value.

“See” you this weekend, Subbers, readers, and drive-bys. Joy of joys:  Happy Easter, and if you don’t do Easter then just plain old happy holidays!

 

  “Naked but for my tiger print G-string, Baileys and an iron pill to fix my anaemia, I remembered how you said you liked my arse. David said that too – perhaps it’s true about that which I cannot see.

So what and who cares now, though. “WHO CARES ABOUT MY GOOD-LOOKING ARSE??” I wanted to yell out into the cold unbroken dawn – wake the people from their comforting dreams, and alert them to my pain.

But I sat down, controlled myself, poured warming alcohol into my glass, noticed it was 4.38 a.m. and caressed Zoon with emotional, overwhelmed gratitude that she purred for me.  She purred for me.  Another sip of Baileys.“ 

 

 

Copyright, Noeleen

~

If you wish to vote for me in the Big Blog Exchange, please do.

Winning equals travel and spreading my message - when you abuse children, you abuse beloved newborn  souls/our future society:  don’t be surprised at slashed tyres, substance abusing rageful youths, delinquents when you grow old and want some peace in your villa:   abusers abuse far, deep and wide in this world

…of carrying that message loud to great exposure.

Vote for me if you would (voting in multiples is not frowned upon!!).

Thank you .

JUSTICE Out of this World

ASIDE…

 .

Blogging family (BF) – we are a newly mutated branch of the ancient family tree of humanity.   So…how are bloggers, dispersed throughout the world, ‘family’?    Our interests are akin.   ;)

 .

When one of our BF’s cat has kittens or a BF gets the ‘flu, we naturally, genuinely feel for them.  We’ve become familiar with them; their life, state of now, spiritual leanings, etc.  But when one of our BF is published, THAT is, like, AWESOME!!

Relative BF Prenin – aka Ian Shaw – has just had three novels published, all online and all on sale right now.  They are a trilogy, the first in the series titled Jabberweil Hunt.  

When sending congrats Ian’s way, I learned that the price of his novel is less than the price of a cup of coffee.  UNbelievable – I got me a copy right away! 

Ian asked would I mind doing a review, and I am happy to.  It’s my pleasure.  I’m reeling a bit about the fact his novel is ‘coffee cheap’, but that just makes it accessible to us all.  I highly recommend purchasing a copy – I mean, $2.99!! – with the added pleasure of knowing that by every copy sold, Ian’s life in Middleton UK is enhanced.  Ian is a blogger who has overcome personal challenges (like many of our BF… omg, does that make us a dysfunctional family?!) and to me, sincerely, he is an inspiration.  With the cards Ian has been dealt in life, he has played an Ace hand – and trumped it by the publication of his trilogy.  I love to imagine hundreds of BF buying a copy. 

OK!  to the review… (ps, I’m no pro book reviewer…)

 ~ ‘ ~

Jabberweil Hunt by Ian Shaw is available at Redmund Productions online book store in Kindle form and E-book form.  If you have a MAC like me, i.e. no Kindle, you can download Calibre software for free, which enables you to read it on your computer.  Awesome!

Cover art: Liz Campbell; Fractal for cover art:  Buddhakat Designs; Publisher:  Redmund Productions!  

~ ‘ ~

Written in conceivably credible form, we are introduced into a science fiction era in the frame of time spanning 2320 to 2390.  From a personal perspective, this is about three lifetimes hence and were the graphic, dark, gripping descriptions of this fantastical world ever to break true, my son’s children’s children would be the inhabitors of its realm.

In Jabberweil Hunt, author Ian Shaw delivers an action tale so believable in imagery at times, the reader cannot help but wonder from what fantastical mind this intergalactic world has been brought.  Knowing Ian as a blogger of everyday life, I was enormously impressed by his capability as an author.    

“As was common at all Coriolis stations, there was a peculiarity of gait that the seasoned traveler soon adopted due to the slight lateral drift that occurred thanks to the station’s gravity-generating rotation.”

 Kudos!

This futuristic tale holds intergalactic “Superman” John Thorn as its central character.  John is an Elite (but worlds-weary) combat trader.  He functions on the brink of insanity as he has seen surely too much.  That John teeters on such edge; that alone is enough reason to keep reading with interest…

 We learn at the outset that from 2320, a war jerked off between the DSU (Democratic Stellar Union) and LAW (League of Aligned Worlds), slipping into stalemate for long periods of time, before treaties were signed in the 2390s.  By then, however, LAW had taken a hold on much of this new world.

Edge-of-insanity-John seeks vengeance for the murders-by-poison of his wife, daughter and the inhabitants of Kemp.  If you thought justice can be a b*tch to exact on planet Earth, try John’s realm.  Sure there exists The Black Judges, who were “formed as a kind of interstellar Texas Rangers”, but “Laws, such as they are, are limited to no further than the edge of the star systems they protect.  Beyond this limit, there is but one law”.

Script such as this throughout the novel had me thinking, musing, contemplating the beyond of star systems, and of our planet.  Such narrative gems are plotted at regular turns of the tale and leave hints of intrigue drifting through your mind.

Well worth two wee dollars and 99 cents, Jabberweil Hunt is a richly descriptive and imaginative scribe on a fictitious world.  Author Ian Shaw spares no details in enabling the reader to picture just how real this surreal landscape is. 

While “Leaving whatever passengers and crew (they carry) to the icy vacuum of deep space”, Ian Shaw gives sure passage to his readers to the nether regions of his imagination.  There, he deposits them in a galaxy full of action which flies across the pages so rapidly, vividly that you almost have a sense of having time-travelled when you finally look up after reading the closing words.

A mind-blowing read.

~

~

Written by Noeleen, eternal copyright Ian Shaw.

Inspector

Daniel’s joy was palpable when I entered Tracy’s home to collect him. 

Like a swan dives from above, glides elegantly upon a lake to a still; so Daniel ran into my arms and stilled as I smelled his washed baby hair, silken.  

 

 

 

In that moment, was re-engraved into both of our hearts our bond by love.

 

.

“How was he, Chris?  What did you do?”

It wasn’t as if Daniel had never stayed overnight with Chris before – he had in fact slept over only days before the court date when Chris told the Magistrate Daniel is not his son, in avoidance of financial duty. 

It was just that I wanted to feel sure before I asked Daniel’s father would he accept more charge of his son over two weeks, to enable me to work.  And if Chris accepted more responsibility temporarily – perhaps he may even further, if I got more jobs as an actor – for the contracts at the Police Academy were ongoing, my agent had said.

It was an exciting thought:  a father, as well as a mother, seeing to the needs  of their child; both parents – not just one – surrendering furtherance of their careers for furtherance of their own blood; man, as well as woman, caring hands-on.

.

I was possibly guilty of cynicsm, but my father had not raised me to expect much from men.  Consequently I presented in life with not only low boundaries, but also low expectation of the capacity of men to live with honour – of family at the very least – with sincerity, loyalty, support of woman the bearer of child.

“Single mothers…” hiss, sneer and disdain at some news item on the TV.

Dad never spoke of Mum with gentleness, only ever said somehow bitingly that she was a stunner, every man in the room turned to look at her when she walked in.

.

He didn’t quite say that single mothers were the reason for high taxes, waste of government resources, crying babies on trains, the cost of booze, vandalism, the ill manners of sullen youth idling about street corners, all the teen girls with their taut tits, his boner at the hint of womanly flesh when mothers breastfed in public, exposing nothing but love, his lack of “success” with western women – “Australian women are too difficult”,  he explained is why he obtained a Filipina from a magazine after his emotionally scarred Polish refugee wife suicided. 

But you knew that’s what dad meant when he spoke of all of those issues with his mates, and with his brothers our uncles.

“And she drank – yer mother drank”, dad had said not less than a billion times, slugging back the dark spirit, in case – just in case any of us should end up an alcoholic.

I did not know it then but would realize in later years by wisdom, the gift of experience, that as I presented in life, as I expected:  so I received.

~

“We call him Inspector!” Chris smiled, coming toward us.

“What?”

Him and Tracy laughed.

“Yeah.  The Godfather, everyone at Good-One Restaurant, they laugh at him and call him inspector!”

My quizzical look brought explanation from Chris.  “He walk so tall and proud, he march around like he own the place!”

I could not help but laugh with them. 

Yes, that was our Daniel:  tall and proud:  possessor of all the potential in the world.

 

.

.

Copyright,

Noeleen&Daniel

                    50/50

A Decision, Two Lives and a Consequence

With no son to fill every nook and cranny of my time, I was confronted by my life when I closed the door behind me in the flat.

It loomed in the structure of the large wooden desk I’d told my husband would be the desk I “write my first novel on”.  Breathing a solid, grounded aura, the tree felled in man’s pursuit to contain its beauty in our homes, stood facing me when I walked into the lounge.   My words littered its surface in scraps and “novels” started, thoughts inspired and captured but never carried through.  Snatches of The Novel of life through my eyes, that dad had laughed at me for conceiving at 16, lay splayed across the desktop, barren.

I touched dust on the desk’s surface, opened my orange folder, ‘CONVULSIONS of THOUGHT’:

First

you loved me

because I hated you.

Then

you hated me

because I loved you.

- and I turned away.

~

Daniel’s toys were a mess so I put my bag and keys down, and attended to his play corner.  As always, the impulse to set his toys up in animated poses took me to lay them out in ways which I intended to lead into inspired play.  I sat each of his stuffed toys in a large circle, and in the centre of the circle I placed the little xylophone.  I then got my Barbie and sat her at the xylophone, propping a drum stick under her shoulder so she sort of held it along her arm.  I stood fluffy white Teddy on the peripheral, leaning him against weird soft toy I didn’t know the genus of, and turned Barbie’s smiling face to look toward him.  Teddy didn’t have much expression on his face, and to me his beady eyes were just a bit cool, so I cheered him up by placing one of Daniel’s little cotton caps on his head.  It lent Teddy at least a nuance of cute.

.

I leaned two books against each other so they created a shelter, and placed a tea-towel over it so it looked like a tent.  All this while my thoughts were on Daniel, and my plans to leave our flat for another, hopefully in the same area.   When we moved from 445 Stirling Highway to 452 Stirling Highway, me pushing my bed on wheels down the main street and Des from theatre days and a few others helping with the boxes, I had no wish to go through the labour and expense of moving again so soon.  However, since the hauntings – even though they had ceased, what if they started again; drained me again, weakened me, sucking my energy out in the middle of the night, leaving me a shell too afraid to sleep, to rest, to allow my spirit to fly home amongst the stars?  Just the fact whatever it was had been, was enough to unsettle me.  I was glad it was gone, but I didn’t want to hang around where it had been, in case it revisited.  I always was a one to leave ‘good gone bad’ first.

It seems, though doesn’t it,
only a matter of time

before good fruit,

goes bad?

After tidying Daniel’s play corner, I had nothing left in me.  I took off my boots and jeans, unsnipped my bra and slipped it out the arm holes of my t-shirt, lit a candle under some essential oils, and turned off the light.  I dropped my body back onto the bed, catching a rift on the stream of dreams, and was carried along on a gentle current to unconsciousness.

~

The shrill tone of the phone ringing shook me awake.  I opened my eyes to realize a new day had broken, again.  We never know upon how many more days, will our eyes open.

I stumbled to the phone on my writing desk, and offered a groggy hello to the receiver.

“Is that Noeleen?”

“Yes, it is.”

We respond so instantly to such a question.  I used to answer the phone, “Hello, this is Noeleen”, but during the two years post marriage that Stuart the P.I. was my lover, he encouraged me to change that habit.  “You don’t know how easy it is to identify people – you just did the text book easy”, he once said to me.  I was mystified at this other level of life – just the concept someone could be telephoning my number simply to confirm that it was indeed myself who lived at that address.  Stuart had me rethink my apparently guileless ways, but the only advices I retained as habits was to hold my car key sticking out from my second and third fingers in a fist, ready to poke an attacker’s eye out, and answering the phone without identifying myself.

“It’s Barbara”, the woman said.

“Oh Barbara!  Hi!”

I rubbed my eyes and alerted my mind.  It was the woman who had auditioned and accepted me late last year, to be an actor for recruits at the Police Academy.  I knew work was due to commence around about now, but it was a bit past the expected date and I thought, defeatedly, they’d gone with someone else.  It was a dream to act for money – act and write!

.

“Are you still available for the assignment with the first load of recruits?”

“Oh yes! Yes!  I mean… um, how many days, when?”

“The first week is three days work, where the recruits get used to dealing with – being assertive with strangers, members of the public.  They usually go with this skit where you’re waiting at a bus stop and another actor comes along, they ask if you’ve got a cigarette, you say no, they get aggressive, you’re frightened bla bla.  A patrol car sees the action, stops, gets out.  The other actor is told not to run, but to say they weren’t doing anything wrong.  The recruits have to decide if there is enough in what you both say to lay charges, or just warn the other guy and have him move off.”

“Wow, that’s – that’s just – I love it!”

“Good yeah, okay.  So the week after that is four days work.  Can you do it?”

I was petrified.  Could I do it?  Of course I could do it, but Daniel – what would I do with Daniel?  So far, he had only had ‘a day’ in child care here and there.  Could he do three days – four?   Is it too soon for me to go back to work casually?  What do other mothers do?  I know no other mothers… NO, what do mothers without backup support do?  Do the majority stay home on a pension and go just a little bit crazy as all of your energy drains away, or step out independently, and come home with a pay packet?

My nonresponse brought Barbara to nudge, “We need to know, love.  We’ve gotta get going.”

“When do you need me to start?  I mean, not tomorrow or anything, heh?”

“No, Wednesday in two weeks.  It’s a contract.  You need to commit.”

“I can”, I said, with a gulp.  It was best not to cut the opportunity off, but to string it along while I worked things out.  I would lose my reputation for reliability if I couldn’t work things out and had to cancel suddenly, but I was willing to take that risk.  They’d never call me again… but that’s fine, I would take the risk.  I would just take this opportunity – if I can – and see what happens.

“Great”, Barbara said, and then told me what was expected of me – including learning people’s profiles, so I could be that person and answer questions police recruits asked.

.

Oh, to be creative – and paid for it.  To be an earning mother, supporting my little family.  I had no ambitions but creative, and as I lived my life, my creative desires were relegated to mere hobbies.  With no ambition to race back to working full time as a court reporter or anything else that involved closed walls and air conditioning, it seemed perfect to take bit jobs as they came up.  But for cleaning Tom’s yoga room, Daniel and me remained one step above the gutter, swallowing pride in receipt of the government’s fantasy of how many dollars a week supports a mother and child.

I was astonished this great opportunity to act for money regularly – assignments would be spaced throughout the year; that it should come now.  Why does life do that?  When I was single and on an agent’s books for TV commercials and being background to main actors in feature films, I only got the small jobs they obviously deemed me capable of.  I guess they believed in me only as much as I believed in myself, for I had never been one of those loud actors devouring space as I waded through a room, talking loudly so that other creatives turned their heads (hoping directors happened to be present) and desk girls looked up.  I was more one to ring or drop in, ask how opportunities were and hear “Busy, busy, busy!”

“Well, voice-over’s my main love!” I’d smile as if I loved them absolutely.  They’d call me. 

Ah, of course.   They never placed me for voiceover.   

The voiceover work I did get, I sourced myself – just like this little beauty – I had sourced this one by myself, from the grapevine.

I was DELIGHTED but not, all in one.

~

The problem with being a woman standing alone in a flat

in a life throughout which you have deflected closeness with people –  before and after marriage -

and so having no-one close, a confidant,

and having spent the last three years convincing your sisters and father over east that you’re happy on the opposite side of the country -

not just because of the stunning beaches but, you know, “I’m only a suburb away from Mum’s grave”,

besides which you have

NEVER

talked in sisterly intimacy with a

single

one of them –

one’s psychiatric problems do not lend themselves to spillage of your own problems;

another is opposite to you in every facet from the literal extremes of arriving at a night club and screaming into the crowd, “LET’S MAKE SOME NOISE!”, giggling hysterically with your buddies – to sipping tea while listening to classical music;

and the other starves of information about the family she has seceded from, pummeling you (when she’s talking to you) in demand to know juiciness of details of kin, so that it becomes natural to completely hide the reality of your life from her;

is that

when you need to make decisions about the welfare of your first child, your only child,

it distresses in the clarity

that you stand alone.

Utterly.

It’s then you talk to the walls, the cat, and pace about inside your flat.

.

I paced up and down after the phone call.  I felt fresh, wonderfully slept, felt like I wanted to run into the sunshine and let it drench me.  Life was good!  Life could be good!  Imagine Daniel’s mum being a regular actor for the Police Academy – that being my job:  casual assignments as required.  I liked it!

But should I do it?  Would Daniel be best at day care – or, what if, would maybe Chris take him?  Could that be the start of something good – a strengthening of bond and relationship between them?

I made a cup of coffee.  I opened my front door to let in the warmth of the day, through the flywire.  I washed the dishes, walked about thinking madly – how, how – and cleaning up absentmindedly.

.

Daniel likes the child care centre – he has instant play mates, whereas we don’t know anyone with babies.  It’s good for him, and he knows it’s a day of fun and variety when I drop him off.  And Mum comes back happier!  But the cost – it would take an enormous bite from my earnings.  At the same time as earning a day’s pay, I’d pay a day to child care.

Or then, just imagine if Chris took Daniel three days one week and four the next.  He’s so proud taking him around here and there, isn’t he?  What if Daniel began to learn Chinese by association?  That would be fantastic!

It’s just a two week assignment.  I don’t have to say yes to more assignments – even one would be a great experience.  I wonder if I could swear at the police – ha, imagine screaming like a wild child, “Leave me the fuck alone!” (and getting away with it).  Is that an offence, would the recruit decide?  I’ve heard that spitting at police is assault.  Is spitting at a person assault?  What if I spat on an actor – would the police recruits arrest me?

It was all so weird and wonderful, exciting, new, and such a challenge having no script to follow but just a theme to follow.  It was – my gosh, I had to work it out, just had to work it out.

Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

Fear The Dictator

Bollocks. 

I’ve got to say, I love that word.

So when JJBollox  first caught a sun beam from his place to mine in cyberspace to comment, I liked him ‘already‘. 

Back and forth, posts and whatever, and then he suggested – just recently – ‘Hey, it would be interesting if you did a post explaining how you came about your blog name‘. 

Thing is, words have been falling from my eyes for years, because emotion gets me so stuck, I am mute.  Then things happen around me, which involve me, and the words, with no escape, fall from my eyes either in tears or intensity, and are never vocalised.

It’s horrendous being mute, when you have a voice.

But anyway, I was going to write my next chapter today and suddenly thought I would review my first chapter – you know, work on both ends of the tale and one day actually finish!!!!!!!!!!!! and prostrate myself at publishing houses!

It was during my working over the draft of my first chapter today, that it fell into place that I came to explain how it happens words fall from my eyes… and was the natural name for my blog, given this is the story of Daniel’s infancy, by which was wrought our survival/surpassing/learning/breaking… and what flows from such is life.

So thanks for the inspiration, BOLLOCKS. 

I won’t run every redrafted piece by you as I endeavour to meet an end to the beginning of this autobiographical work, but because of JJ‘s timely comment – and for those who don’t know how Daniel & my situation “all began”, here is chapter 1.

Thank you!  & Happy New Year

His frightened eyes looked at me, seeming to beg that I say I was just joking.  The silence that followed, declared I was not.

“I told you, you were just a fuck.”

It was a statement, a truth, which Stuart’s tone intimated I should have known.  Well, I did know that I was ‘just a fuck’ – had been most of my life – but not until now that I fell to pregnancy, did I actually realize it.

“Get rid of it,” he then said.

“WHAT?”

“Get rid of it.”

.

Stuart’s fear was palpable – but not more than mine.  I had never held a baby before in my life.  I had not had baby dolls as a child.  I had grown up without a mother.  How the hell do you “be” a mother?  How do you change a nappy?  I had no family in Western Australia, but my Polish grandmother whom I had to shout to, to speak with.

“If you don’t get rid of it,” Stuart continued, “That means you’re assuming the responsibility yourself.  It’s all yours.”

My God, could this ‘logic’ stand up in court?

“Stuart,” I said, “I told you the child may be yours, or it may be Chris’.”

How could he call them, ‘it’?

“It doesn’t matter,” Stuart went on.  “If you don’t get rid of it, it’s yours.”  He moved toward the door.

.

The devastation I felt strike my heart at these words, excavated deeper levels of tragedy inside me, that I had lived with since I could remember.  The pit became deeper – for within, an ever pulsating, aching gorge of sadness beat, and I lived every day on the coat tails of depression.

Admit this to myself though I did, and that I deeply willed to die, I had never presented to a doctor with my mental aches, for fear they would dope me, stun me with psychiatric drugs like they had my sister Deana since late teens – her life now sustained only by tablets.

“Stuart,” I said… he paused mid-escape, impatiently.

I could not speak.  I felt so much, I was muted.  Words jammed at my throat.  Stuart shifted his feet irritably.  What, what could (possibly) the mother of his child want?

“I” – and I broke off.

I would not cry.  Tears had no use in this life-or-death moment of decision.

.

So powerful were my emotions, they surged toward my heart.  There they met a barrage of words unable to assemble intelligently, to express themselves.  My emotions gushed around the words, dribbled through their cracks of fear and sadness.

The words at heart’s edge began to crumble, and then shattered as emotions flooded them, tore them away from my heart, and carried them on the current of my feelings, to my throat where they jammed up against all else I wanted to say.

“I – but – Chris” – pieces of half formed sentences slipped out my open jaw as Stuart, ex SAS, private investigator, man who had had sex with me over the last two years, took two more steps to leave.

“I was looking for a reason to leave the country” he half-laughed, his eyes skimming the surface of my aching gaze, and sliding off toward the door handle.

Truly, could a man walk away from their child like this?  I was petrified, but still I could not bring myself to abort the child in my womb.

I had never in my life realized what courage it takes, to accept the challenge of parenthood.

.

“There goes your life” Stuart offered, now in parting.  “Your life’s gunna be hell for the next three years at least.”

Was it?  Would it really be?  I trembled.

Stuart looked at me, he now on the freewheeling side of my threshold.  One hand was on the door handle, the other alongside him.  I had hardly managed to say a thing other than that I was pregnant, and there was 50% chance the child may be his.

A moment collected in time and stilled at both our feet.  It formed a memory.   I wondered, could this be the father of my child, walking away?

.

I may no longer be able to pull my wage as court reporter, and we may have to move to cheaper abode, but my life is not going to be hell, I thought rapidly as the words which jammed my throat on the tide of my emotions began to collide with my thoughts, filling to the brim, the absolute brim of me.

And he turned away.

Stuart let go of the flywire, allowing the door to drop against my face, had I not caught it.  And walked away.

.

The words spilled.

The pressure in my head could take no more and the words unspoken fell from my eyes in streams and streams and streams, littering the concrete path of the unit block before me.

Through a haze, I watched the departure of man.  I felt abandoned, orphaned, wounded, rejected.  All that I felt, was unbearable.  I felt six years and two days old again, when Mum suicided.  I felt cold.

.

Time passed, with me standing at the open doorway.

Stuart’s car was long passed from the car park, left indicator, out the drive.  I was utterly petrified, and utterly devastated.  I had no-one to call.  I had given such illusion to family in the east of Australia, of my joys of living on the opposite side of the country from them all, that I could not ring a one, and tell the truth.  I did not have friends with children.  I was isolated.  The secret was all mine.

.

My cat Zoon, whom I had taken with me when I left the marriage three years previous, wandered curiously to the open doorway to see what was left of Stuart’s visit.  She looked at the words which had fallen from my eyes, collected in a pool at my feet, and dipped a paw in.  She brought it out and shook it, ‘hope’ and ‘support’ falling free of her fur.  ‘Love’ stuck.
.

Zoon’s rough pink tongue gave ‘love’ a brief, idle lick before she flung it from her furry mitt.  She let it go:  that easily.  And then rubbed her body against my leg, and began to purr.

.

.
Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

Telling it like it is

Thank you so much, Julie, of current post You have a pied peacock (?!)

Julie let me know the link wasn’t working in my last post (which I’ve withdrawn now).

I realise now why – I purchased the E-card (with very personal touch from Daniel & me) but the payment hadn’t processed yet.  So I was able to play it, but not you.

Then! when payment processed, I couldn’t upload it to WordPress.  And I’d actually purchased it for purpose of sharing with you .

Yet! I’ve downloaded it & made a video of it, & now need to wait a couple of hours & the movie will be accessible for publishing here on WP.

I’m sorry – I do apologise.  It’s such hassle following a link, or internet path of any kind and getting error messages.

My ‘us to you‘ will be up soon enough.  Until then, sincere merry Christmas to you.  I truly wish you each fullsome family times, and if that isn’t possible, some how some way, a special time in this break in the year.

N’n

WordsFall

Where one penned haiku, coughed a verse.

I saw Wendy’s large blue, expectant eyes as if they were the only pair of eyes in the airport lounge.  She smiled as soon as she saw Daniel and me.

.

I walked through the milling crowd, toward relief.  I didn’t mean to see it that way, but I did.  I had been ‘on guard’ for 11 months, being a mother whereas I did not how to ‘mother’; only how to love.  I had not ever loved anyone in my decades on this Earth, but when Daniel’s tiny being first lay in my arms, on how to love I became enlightened.

.

Daniel was consumed by the busy-ness of the airport, the crowd, the Customs Officers and dogs intently sniffing baggage.  It was a hub of humans flocked together but flying in different directions.

“Look!  There’s Aunty Wendy!” I said, pointing in Wendy’s direction.  Daniel looked, and I watched his face as recognition registered.  God, I loved his deep brown eyes flickering with light and intensity, intelligence and beauty.

“Ba-de bummmm, da….” – and on he went.  A string of musical babble flowed from Daniel’s mouth, spilled over the suitcases and bags, and the heads of little children beneath him, high on my hip.  I didn’t know what Daniel said, but he was alive and kicking after his fine snooze on the flight, was certain.

.

“Hi Noeleen!”, Wendy said, stepping forward to meet us.

“Hi Wendy” I said, and smiled.  It was a tight smile, for really I was so at the end of my tether, I felt ready to collapse.  Wendy said hello to Daniel.  He gurgled in response, and as Wendy tended to him with love and tickles, I mentally began to count down the minutes when I would be able to lie prostate, close my eyes, and know that Daniel was in good hands.

.

I had had to steal my one and only respite of the last 11 months from Daniel’s father, by not returning him when I should have, and I never wanted to be in that position again.  I needed to strengthen and recoup, and return to Perth able to deal with Chris’ barking at me, inclinations to see Daniel and then non-interest for weeks on end; his non-contribution to Daniel’s existence yet expectation, and my relent, that he carry him proudly into various family gatherings.  I wanted Daniel to know both his mother and his father, but Chris’ ease and breeze of having Daniel at his convenience – and never otherwise – was not right, and my tolerance of the imbalance paid a heavy toll on me physically.  When I returned to Perth, I decided, I would be more assertive and stronger.

.

Wendy took Daniel from me, which was fine, but then gave me a hug.  That panic of another human closing in on me struck again and I endured her hug because I knew it was the expected thing for a sister to do.  I wished I could express to Wendy – and have her listen – that I preferred to say ‘hi’ and ‘bye’ without her body merging with mine, and lingering a waft of her perfume on my skin.  It was my body, and as surely as I had given myself to men; so surely too had I been taken.  Why, why could I not stop people from erasing my line in the sand?  Would I one day be 70 and still unable to stop a man from breaking open my diary?  Why did my lock not work?  Did I have a lock – wasn’t I born with one – aren’t we all?

.

“How was the flight?” Wendy asked as we stood by the carousel, waiting for my one big suitcase to arrive.

“Good” I said, to fill the space.  I could not tell Wendy real moments of my life, for she never related – or even, as far as I could tell from her struggling facial expressions, understood.  Such ventures by me in the name of connection never succeeded because I would often have to explain to Wendy my unsaid.  I was like a poem she could not read the tune of, and vice-versa.  Where one penned haiku, coughed a verse.

.

Time led us to Wendy’s apartment where the thud of the suitcase I dropped on her floor resounded my utter fatigue.  I could hardly remain awake while she made us tea, settled Daniel on the floor with some toys, animated a fluffy bunny in his face and queried me how life was.  I didn’t want to tell Wendy how life was because I did not want to tell her how I lay staring at the ceiling sometimes with tears in my eyes, as Daniel played alone on the floor near my bed.  It was better to tell her how I read to him at night and he giggled at my expressions and silly moods, and our joy bubbled together like a foaming happiness.  I did not want to tell Wendy how Robert had ambushed me with his friend, naked and so ready, and how that affected me and how naive and dumb I was.  It was better to tell her how Tom held Daniel high in his hands, six feet tall and more, and smiled at him with a genuineness I never saw from Chris.  I did not want to tell Wendy how often I had contemplated suicide in my life, let alone how much I was drawn to that solution while pregnant, not to mention how it still plagued my mind – even sometimes on sunny days.  It was better to tell her how Daniel had first taken to the ocean, how his feet curled up upon initial touch by Nature’s frothing glee, but warily dangled them down again; and sprung back up quickly at Nature’s next assault of wondrous freedom in our lives so simply magnificent… that I could cry.

.

No.

There was so much (dense) black and (bright) white of me…it just wasn’t black-and-white.  How could I explain that?

~

`

~

Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

Dedication (updated Sat 13 Oct)

This post is dedicated to my sister ‘Deana’ who received a whack of pages of hateful content from same as stalker, who lives 700+ kilometres away but hand delivered it to her, adorning the envelope with ‘SHUT YER MOUTH’.  ‘Deana’, who hasn’t had a psychotic episode in near 15 years, had a breakdown following receipt of that letter, and has since been in a psych hosp in Melbourne.  The psychiatrists in consult with ‘Deana’ identified it was that letter which “set her off”.  ’

‘Deana’, your stand-by-you boyfriend says you didn’t tell me about it because you were afraid it would be too much “more” for me to bear from her but Di, please, please tell me next time, and let me help you.

Subbers, I printed this chapter for ‘Deana’, to show her the dedication & comments, & so she may know the people who read the lived days of Daniel & me are people who have known, or known someone, affected by abuse, mental illness, lack of support, bullying etc.  Your regard for ‘Deana’ is appreciated.

And hey, ‘Deana’ remembers this happy day….  

IN CASE OF ABUSE, BREAK GLASS

In fact, in case of injustice break glass – in case of bullying, in case of anyone trampling you or attempting to, or harming you or attempting to, or slandering you and whom you love or attempting to, or doing anything that causes your spirit to recoil in horror/sadness at their intent against you – break glass.

BREAK that glass inside your Self which contains the courage of YOU.

~~~

I went to court today and justice prevailed.  I thought ‘Justice prevails!‘ was a line in a movie – you know, a fantasy in a film, but it happened:  it happened for me today.

I am relieved and grateful.  I know it doesn’t always happen ‘right’, I know results aren’t always ‘right’ – not even ‘right’ is always ‘right’ to two different people, but a reasoned and sought after result occasioned from my attendance at court today.  I had to allow an unfounded, unjustifiable order against me exist for that result to occasion, but it was called an ‘agreement’.  I thought, ‘Sure, call it what you like.  Life itself knows what has passed here, my Soul itself knows what has occurred; by all means, call it what you like.’  

Therefore, I want to express today my will, my earnest earnest will, that in case of anyone mistreating You, who You are, Your Self, I urge and recommend that you BREAK that glass box of self-doubt, fear, anxiety at how to turn things around, which houses your TRUE COURAGE, and let that courage out and let that courage bring you to the steps before the house of justice.

I don’t deny I was tired and worn down in my pursuit of righting the wrong against my son and me, in gathering evidence, writing to the court, typing, copying, collating – having to beckon justice over to my corner to view a wrong happening:  it affected my health and my wellbeing to learn what hate was housed in the heart of someone of my own blood; yes, it rattled me, it truly did, but still I could not NOT act.  I initially did not want to act.  I had to be encouraged into acting by someone who loves me and was concerned to see someone abusing me.  I was willing to let the abuse happen – I mean, hey, this is family.  

But really, deep inside, I was not willing to let the abuse happen.

And nor are you.  

And you know it.

~~~

For things to be corrected for my son and me today, has inspired me.  Tonight before sleeping I wish to post to all who chance by my words here, in whatever part of the world you be, reading this – I wish to urge that if abuse is happening to you, wrong or harm or anything affecting your equilibrium on this planet:  do what you must to cease the wrong against you.  Break that glass of fear within, pull out your courage and armour yourself with it.  YOU HAVE COURAGE INSIDE YOU:  PULL IT OUT.  Head down and into the war.  

I wish for you, justice prevails.  But you just have to, have to, try.

.

.

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Copyright Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

Thanks googlegod for the pics

WORDSfall from MyEyes – Recap & next chapter

Life’s too short to not get FxxxxD

.

(an aside)

.

“Life’s too short to not get fxxxxd” my coworker Molly said to me, quite candidly.

We had been talking about our weekends.  Hers was with fxxxxd; mine was without.

“But”, I’d said – at which she stopped me.

But you know what I mean, don’t you, Reader?  It’s a defensive measure.  I don’t really like “people” because, well you know – you know how regrettable they can be – and I had decided when I left Perth with my son that I could do just fine without them.

.

Molly was abundantly fxxxxd, or “fxxxxded”.  She had a great sounding boyfriend.  She’d come out from Canada – didn’t know that many Aussie girls yet, but she was doing just fine.  I pretty much like Molly – she’s fun.  I’d go to Canada just to get fxxxxd, like her.

.

Molly thinks I should broaden my horizons, perhaps try a dating site.  There’s this service called Dinner for Six, where the agency pairs up three women and three men and set you off to dinner, like three blind dates (or three blind mice), and if it goes well, great; if it doesn’t, then not devastating because there’ll be another mouse lined up for next weekend.  I’ve got to admit, this cat does like to play with mice.  It’s just that, the last time I had a mouse in my house, it ate ME.  It ate my time, my energy, my joi de vivre…

.

“I suppose” I said, staring at the photocopier rolling out the pages.  Whirrr-rrrr-rrrr-rrrr.  It was another life choice, I guess:  be fxxxxd or be without fxxxxd.  I think I went a bit dreamy because when I broke my gaze, Molly was gone.

I went back to my desk, with two handsfull of papers.  I put the originals back on the file and neatly squared the copies on my desk, hitting their edges down and shaping them up.  I sat down.

Fxxxxd.  It’s not really a dirty word, not really.  I remember being fxxxxd. It cold be fun.  I mean, it could be a negative experience when you chose the wrong person to be fxxxxd with – but there’s that word again:  ”choice”.

.

“Crackers?” Molly said, pausing behind me with her hand out, offering me a Ritz. I found two words which fell from Molly’s mouth very endearing:  “crackers” and “bananas” (“a” as in ‘cat’ – bAnAnAs).  We don’t say “crackers” in Australia – well, not unless we’re calling someone crazy.  “You’re crackers!”  And as for “bananas”, it’s “ban-ahhh-nah”, isn’t it?  I smiled.

“Thanks!,” and accepted her offer of fxxxxd.

.

What am I doing??  I’ve even banned the word from my vocab., so hell-bent have I become on living without being fxxxxd.  I’m going to say it.  First I will re-introduce it into my vocab., and then I might, you know – might, well, I might… might… CHAT with people again.  That’s a start.  I can chat with people and relax a bit.  I mean, a run of “bad” men doesn’t mean they’re all bad, does it? (heh, nervous laugh – I don’t know any more…)

No, I DO know.  Every single human is a new experience.  Even I, for all the contemplating I’ve been doing since Daniel and me left Perth, am a “new experience” compared to what I was upon arrival.  It’s time for me now.  This flower has had its petals closed over its bud for so long, cowering in the Garden of Life like a person with their arms over their head, protectively.

My petals have loosened since I got to Melbourne: I know that.  Now, I just might consciously let one curl out a little and have a peek at this garden I’m in.  It’s sunny out; I can see that.  And I like talking to Molly.  She doesn’t seem too painful an experience.  In fact, we laugh a lot.  Landing this job August last year, just out of hospital in June, was just the tonic I needed.

First, I will start by saying the “offending word”…

F*R*I*E*N*D

Ugh.  OK, OK, so there it is:  FRIEND.  Now, if I’m honest with myself, I wouldn’t mind being friend again.  It’s natural to get friend, be friend.

GET F****D!  BE F****D! I feel like yelling!

.

Oops, I did it again – hid it, like a dirty word.

Right.  To start my Tuesday here in Melbourne Australia, I’m going to share with you a couple of quotes with “friend” in them, so that maybe you can think about it like I will today and we can all be on this wavelength and create a swell, you know – a swell across the ocean, across the world, of positive thought about “friends”.  And maybe I – and hey! others like me! – will get caught up in that swell.  No, I will:  I will – and I will prepare to ride the wave of friendship again.  I think I can do it.  I mean, they say “don’t cut off your nose to spite your face”; well, I realize over time that I have pretty much cut off people to spite my life.  But it’s not natural, you know?

THANK YOU, MOLLY!  

And thank you “Google-god” for the images, and BrainyQuotes for the quotes.

“A friend is one who knows you, and loves you just the same.” Elbert Hubbard

“A friend to all, is a friend to none.” Aristotle

“A hug is like a boomerang – you get it back right away.” Bil Keane

“A man’s growth is seen in the successive choirs of his friends.”  Ralph Waldo Emerson

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Copyright (where appropriate), Noeleen&Daniel 50/50