Happenstance

I was wandering through a neighbourhood not my own, yesterday.

It was a bit affluent (I have always feared getting that word mixed up with effluent)
 and in my jeans and black top, I didn’t feel I could walk into any of the dress shops that so tempted me.  

They were all empty, the dress shops, and appeared cool and dark inside.  In each, at the end of the rows of gorgeous dresses stood a woman well coiffed, well dressed and manicured, waiting for “real” customers;  customers with money to burn:  not me.  I just did not feel rights to step in and browse.  

So I was outside, on the streets, in the balmy lovely sunshine.

The reason I was in that suburb is because Daniel had an appointment.  The thing is, that place is notorious for keeping you waiting, waiting, waiting (and that professional is worth waiting for).  As Daniel was fine to sit texting his friends back and forth, I went for a wander.

I ambled down one street without entering any shops, crossed the road, went up the other side.  I was aimless, idling time.  There was an intersection up ahead, so I crossed the lights and went down another street.  I heard jazz music flowing through the open windows of a cafe/bar.  I looked in:  again, I didn’t belong.

Then I smelt incense.  I followed it.  I came upon a new age shop.  Comfortable at last, I went in.  Jade, crystals, books, essences… and a sign:  the palm and tarot reader is available.  I thought, hmmm, it’s been a while since I did something spontaneous…  

When I first met Daniel’s father, it was all chance – well, fate. I had decided to try the hairdresser on the ground level of the building where I worked as a court reporter.  That random day the hairdresser chatted, saying she’d met a feng shui practitioner who did a reading, and her life had improved.  I said I’d never thought about feng shui. She said give it a go. Why not, I thought, as I took the number she gave me.  Later arrived Chris at my bed sitter, pony-tailed, vibrant, Eastern wisdom to offer (I thought).

So I asked the attendant how much a palm reading was, and tarot reading, and then – though I had gone out that day for Daniel’s appointment, I decided to give it a go.  I rang Daniel, asked if he had been seen yet, and did he mind me taking half an hour for a reading?  He said, ‘Go for it’.

Wow.

So so much was said, brought into perspective, resonated.  How can this be?  She even became curious at Daniel and drew some cards relating to him.  Again, what she said was entirely credible/related/happening.

Rather than bore you with a self-indulgent post on what the reader said of me, I’m letting you know I have decided to video my recall of the reading.  In a year’s time, I will look at that video and report on what she said that actually happened.  Things are meant to be changing this very year upcoming, so I will “look again” in a year’s time…

~

Subbers:  thank you again, for being there.  Thank you for what healing is occurring to me in the writing of Daniel and my story, which you receive – and sometimes comment upon:  I thank you, we connect.   

For a bit of ‘entertainment’, the below video is a poem I wrote and had nowhere to place – about a year after Daniel and me arrived in Melbourne, 4000 kilometres from Perth in Western Australia (where his father is).  The year that followed this became very dark indeed, and the one after that…

but today the sun shines, and this is prosperity.

Sincere best All.

Copyright, Noeleen

History in the making

There was two letters in my letterbox, the local newspaper, plus a flyer from a tradesman offering a free quote to have your house painted. 

It remained too difficult to me to get rid of someone who has given me something for “free” – first lesson free, first hour free, free quote.  I seem to be incapable of extricating myself from such lures without buying a course, pack or service.  I loathe this of myself.  It was just as well I didn’t have a house, to quote.

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Holding the letters, I noticed one was from the Office of Births, Deaths & Marriages and the other was from the government.  I felt cold fear at the letter from the government. 

“Would you carry the newspaper for mum please, sweetheart?” I asked Daniel.  He proudly took to the task.  As we walked down the driveway to our flat, I opened the letter from the Office of Births, Deaths & Marriages.  It was confirmation that my request to amend the records of registration of Daniel’s birth had been obliged:  Chris was now recorded as Daniel’s father.

“Tell them I’m a student who went back to China,” I recalled his words, fearing being named, accountable.  “You’re lucky in Australia – the government takes care of it.”  

So easy is fun; infinitely personally challenging, consequences.

I sat at the end of the driveway, the opened letter in my hands.  It was sunny, Perth.  Daniel sat with me.  How could I express to him his father was now written in history because of me:  named as his father.  Chris was not recorded anywhere as the father of his daughter, but because of me he was declared, inked, recorded as Daniel’s father.  

I wondered if Daniel would ever be allowed to know his half sister, or would want to.  For now, it was clear Chris didn’t want me in touch with “the other mother”.  I sensed he feared I would tell this Asian woman that in Australia, she didn’t have to alone bear all the costs of her union with Chris.

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History can be written, and it can be not written, I reflected, watching Daniel spread the newspaper on the ground, and open it out as if we were going to have a reading session there at the end of the driveway. 

As we each live, impacting other lives, how so much is lost to memory – unless crumbs of those lives, their moments, are swept up and collected by someone inclined.  When all players centre stage have exited and the lights are turned off, those inclined creep back in to collect from the floorboards accidentally kicked to the edges to be forgotten, or trampled during violence or passion of living, or swept under some rug: the facts.  Fact collectors cannot help but take record, photographs, and write the drama as it pierced their life.  Anne Frank and countless others caught history because they could not help but record their existence.  They could not help but say. 

And so, I had written history – or recorded it true.  Still I knew, written in history is not the same as written in heart.

.

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Copyright Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

Decisions I needed to make

My boss wasn’t happy when I said I can no longer work.  You get that in life:  people not happy with a decision you need to make.  But it remains a decision you need to make.

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My boss said she didn’t think she could put me on any more assignments if I was likely to “pull out like that”.  I looked down, troubled:  I had never before in my life been unreliable in work – and that’s since age 14.  I wished I could explain to her that the reason I had to decide this was that I didn’t feel good leaving my son with his father – the father says he wants to see Daniel, and enable me to work, but then leaves Daniel with his sister or girlfriend because he says he needs to keep feng shui appointments, but being his own boss I don’t know why he doesn’t make appointments in the times he doesn’t have Daniel; and Daniel looks so unhappy sometimes when I pick him up, and I have this feeling but I don’t know, and my doctor says it’s because I’m a first time mum; all first time mums feel like that, he said; and Daniel told me I was bad the other day and calling him ‘bad’ isn’t in my vocabulary, so I don’t know where he got that from – let alone the word ‘fuck’.

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I was sitting at my writing desk.  Daniel was asleep.  It was 9.47 p.m.  In the land of bliss Daniel lay blithely, while I hunched over my desk with the weight of both our lives on my shoulders.

I chilled to recall my cherubian boy, 16 months old, standing alongside my bed with a ruler in his hand.  I came in to discover a strange look on his face, like dark anger.  He slammed the ruler down, striking the bed hard, twice, and bellowed, “BAD!  You’re bad!  Bad, BAD!”  He eyeballed me steadily, and the strength of his voice surprised me.  I tried to take the ruler from Daniel, but he had a strong hold of it.  I sat on the floor to look into his face, his eyes, and tell him that I am not bad.  I reflected, then added, “And nor are you.”  I said he was a good boy, at which his grip lightened. He seemed to be seduced by my talk, for when I said he was a wonderful boy and I loved him very much, he let go of the ruler and I took it from him.

“Sweetheart,” I said, “Why would you say that?”

Daniel of innocence, had not an answer.  He just looked at me.   Like a pet that witnesses the burglary of your home while you sleep, his eyes bespoke intelligence and information, but he did not talk his mind.  His mind, his formative mind.  I was bewildered.  I did not understand what had just passed.

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“Perhaps I can’t stay with this work then,” I told the woman who had hired me.  I did not want to say that.  I did not want to become that social pariah “a single mum on benefits”, but nor did I want to leave my son in the hands of people I did not know.  Why couldn’t Chris just say, “I’ll take care of Daniel,” and then actually take care of Daniel?

We agreed that I would stay in the job until she found a replacement.  This was the least I could do.  It had been enormous fun being an actor for Police recruits, but I could no longer keep the job.  I had to let that whole opportunity for work slide away from my life, because acting work was notoriously irregular.  An office for me it would be, and childcare for Daniel. 

~ ` ~ `

Sweet Daniel

Last night your father rang and suggested custody to himself, saying Tracy (his girlfriend) could take you on.  Wednesday, the night before, Chris was aware that I had been with a man.  I am normally very private, having sensed that your father would be jealous and withdraw his babysitting support of you.  He normally has you Friday nights, you see, but won’t tonight because he told me (suddenly) he doesn’t want to see you for a week.  He said, “I want a break.”  That’s how easily he gets a break; I cannot.

I try always that Chris not know I am ever with a man, but this time he was aware because I was late back to collect you and he seemed to know.  Then the next night, Thursday, he suggested custody.  Your father, I am sure, does not want me to see men because that implies he maintains a control over me – my freedom – and so is supposed to hook me into need of him, emotionally if nothing else.

 

10.58 p.m.  

I left my writing desk, went to look upon Daniel in his cot.  Completely surrendered to his need of sleep, he lay wholly protected by me, safe.

Chris had frightened me when he told me of his plan to gain custody of Daniel once he was out of nappies.  That was a year ago, but he seemed to remain dedicated to the plan. 

Deep, is my fear that Chris would expose my lone circumstances to government agencies, and they would decide I am not mentally strong enough to raise Daniel, and they would take him away and hand him to Chris. 

Deep, is my fear that anyone might learn of my depression.  I never discussed it with my doctor after I’d left the marriage, the whole three years I was single.  Why he offered to enable an abortion at 16 weeks “because of the detriment to your mental health”, he’d said, I still cannot fathom – but my mental state was my secret, I believed.  Mum’s mental illness, dad’s mental illness, my sister’s mental illness – all my quiet secret.  I could not let any service, agency, doctor or even family in Melbourne know my inner anxieties, for it would become pin the tail on this donkey (too).  And more, I must not let Chris know.

I want to give you every opportunity to grow in life, Daniel

 

I wrote into the night, capturing my son’s life lest, lest we forget.  11.17 p.m.,

- to discover your own self-empowerment.  I want to give you all.  I will fight for custody of you, my beloved.  I will at no cost concede to custody.  It is in my arms, I believe, that you will be given the best upbringing. 

You have so much potential, my darling. 

You are a winner in the making and a winner in the moment. 

God bless you.

xxxxxxx Mama/Noeleen

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I closed my journal.

So quiet is the late of night, so lone my life, so echoes does my childhood in my head, so tired I do feel.

 

I cleaned my teeth as we are taught to do.  I washed my face like we did in the orphanage.  I put my shoes neatly aside like Aunty Betty showed me the way.  I turned off the light.

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Sex.  I had had sex with my old lover, Stuart.  And Chris had sensed it.  I was sure he had.  I sighed askance as he flaunted various lovers in front of me.  They each, I could tell, thought like I did when we were together:  that a relationship was in the making between them.  One by one, they would discover he was in a relationship already.  I did not care.  It was Tracy who needed to care.  But me, I kept my life as private as I could for I knew, just knew Chris would react badly if I had a lover, or fun, or didn’t need him any more – the respite he could give me, the saving of my sanity.

After sex was written all over my face, whereas Chris had at first been available, suddenly he was not.  I had to find a sitter for my next shift at work.  The stress ripped me up.

On top of that, he reinforced that he would make a path to take custody of Daniel.  Would a Magistrate give him custody, if he is wont to become unavailable for weeks at a time?  What about the month he withdrew from Daniel’s life, when I first mentioned child support?  That had so broken my back.  No one had ever needed me my whole life (in fact, I needed) – but Daniel needed me so totally, on some days it buried me.

.

Quiet, quiet,

still,

the night.

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I have to not rely on Chris, was amongst my last thoughts before I stepped into the stream of consciousness which roams free at night.  If I did not count on Chris in any way, I could not have the rug pulled from under me by him,  sending me off into battle alone, to stand 24/7 sentry for our son, provider single, exhaustion, sleep deprivation.  It’s punishment, I thought to myself.  He was punishing me for having been free of him, momentarily. 

Was this me being too mental again, thinking like that? I am so, so mental.

Was I making this up of Chris or was it real, this powerplay I perceived?

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The  tide, gentle, lifted me off my feet and I lay back, surrendered, to the stream’s will to carry me away for the evening.  I would be strong and not need Chris’ help, I decided as I felt remnants of dreams brush by my arms:  flotsam and jetsam of other days. 

I would establish some boundaries – I would cease to be available whenever Chris fancied, and he might value his time with Daniel – make no feng shui appointments in that time, plan an occasion in that time.  But I had decided that before, but I had not been resolute.  I wanted Daniel to know his father.  If that meant being available whenever it was that his father could make room for Daniel in his life, that was what I should do, wasn’t it?…

.

Images surreal, Mozart floating, stars shimmering.  I lapsed.  I fell to sleep. 

But a new thought,

direction,

way

penned itself into my Manifesto For Daniel before I was carried along the stream into the ocean of dreams:  I would become stronger each time Chris played a power game; not weaker.  This was a decision I needed to make.  It would be a decision Chris would not like, but remained a decision I needed to make.

Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

How wonderful men could be

“Sweet Daniel,

This is my final week of late shift, because it takes me away from you too much.  I told them I cannot do nights any more.   I love you so dearly.  I don’t like picking you up in the night, dropping you in the middle of the day.

You’re awake!  Surely not.  Please, you must sleep.  I have to type before I go to work.

Here is another finger painting by you, done at the pool crèche – and a couple of wild pen-to-paper expressions by you, 16 ½ months.

Love, your Mama xxxxx“

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The Police recruits may have to train at night too, but I decided to tell the agency I could not be available nights any more.  I was sorry to alter my agreement of availability but I needed to make a decision for Daniel’s benefit.  I was not enjoying the number of times I rang Chris when I left work to ask if he had Daniel, or he left him with his sister Karen or girlfriend Tracy, to find that Daniel was not with him.  What’s that in the back ground?  People talking?  Is he at a restaurant again?  When people are not up-front with you, you can only guess from what you know of them.

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Time gave way to days, a month.  Soon would be another year.  I decided I couldn’t continue being an actor for recruits at the Academy.  As I walked up the hill of Stirling Highway, pushing the stroller, my backpack laden and bulging with groceries, I made the decision I would find another job.  If I had a normal office job, I could have Daniel regularly in child care.  The child health nurse had said again and again that routine is important to our young, but again and again I failed at living a life routine.

Daniel said ‘fuck’ the other day.  I didn’t know where he got it from.  As a parent, I had to tell him it was a ‘bad word’ – or not a nice word, really.  I had to begin conditioning Daniel that ‘fuck’ is offensive.    It is but not, to my view.    It can be very expressive.  But it is not expressive in a child; that’s just disturbing.

Chris doesn’t swear, I know; Tracy I do not know, her son Phong I do not know, his sister Aunty Karen I do not know.  I wasn’t knowing enough of who Daniel was with and I was trying to trust and believe everyone had Daniel’s best interests at heart like I did.  But I just wanted to know.  I needed to know.

I guess ‘fuck’ isn’t that abnormal.  Maybe there was an argument in one of the households – maybe that was it.

.

As we reached the crest of the hill where the Claremont Fire Station stood, I stopped to take off my backpack and retrieve a drink for Daniel and me.  I squatted alongside his pusher and for a moment there was silence between us but for gulps of cool water, and relief.  I looked into Daniel’s beautiful brown eyes and saw an intensity of some kind, that fascinated me.  Wherefrom our young spring, I just do not know.

“There!” Daniel said, leaning as far forward in the stroller as the safety belt would allow.  “There!” he said again, his arms outreaching to me and his head looking toward the fire station.   Its enormous garage doors were open, showing a cool and semi-dark interior.  I could see two Firemen talking to each other, one holding a drink.

“Oh no, sweetheart.  They’re busy.  They’re men at work.”

Daniel began agitating to be freed from his restraint.  I hesitated, but thought that maybe as we had only a short way left to walk, I would let him out so he could use some energy.  He climbed over the railing and moved in the direction of the open fire station.

“No, Daniel!  Busy!” I said.

In my difficulty of repositioning the backpack and standing up, Daniel had already begun toddling off into the fire station, seeking out what he wanted in the world as if life were that simple.

I watched as the Firemen noticed Daniel wander into their garage.  Only one part of me wanted to call him back, with the other part of me also desiring an adventure, a diversion.  Perhaps Daniel could let me into a world I would never normally enter.  I decided to test the potential for an experience.

“Sorry!” I said, calling out to the Firemen and pushing the stroller in their direction.  Daniel, now under cover of the fire station, paused a second.  Standing in the presence of enormous fire trucks and two men in uniforms, my boy finally had hesitation.

“That’s all right” one of the men said, the two walking toward Daniel and me.  I met them just inside the entrance.  As my eyes adjusted to the light, I wondered if my body was physically betraying my secret titillation.

“He’s – we’ve never seen the doors open before,” I said.  They smiled.  “We often walk past but, you know.”

“You live around here?” one of the Firemen asked.

“Yes,” I said. 

Daniel, seemingly a 50 foot descent from the centre of the action, wanted up.  I picked him up and held him on my hip, facing the Firemen.  I suddenly felt not like a woman any more, but a mother.  My sense of flirt retracted and my face reddened.  I wasn’t ashamed of Daniel, but felt inferior, being “a single mother” as Stuart had so nastily pointed out was what I would “be”, “with a screaming kid hangin’ off ya”, before he left me, Stuart did, my lover of two years.  I turned for us to leave.

“Has he ever been on a fire truck before?”

“What?  Oh, no!” I said, still red but sort of smiling.

“Does he want to?”

I couldn’t believe it.  “Yes!  He’d love it!” I said, knocking back a sob in my throat.  I don’t know why, but I felt sad that they were so nice.  It was difficult to accept.

“Do you want to go on the fire truck, Daniel?” I asked my boy on my hip, and he beamed delightedly.  Daniel’s legs started kicking and his arms waving, and the men and me all laughed.

.

It was some half hour later that Daniel and me left the company of the Firemen.  For no reason than that we were passing by, these men had given us an experience you would normally pay for.  I was overwhelmingly grateful how kind these men had been to my son, how wonderful men could be.

One had a wedding ring, but the other did not.  The other ventured into conversation which seemed to angle at my availability, my inclination to share my phone number.  But I felt too inferior, and so did not bite.  I felt he did not know what he was getting into – “a single mother”.  And I felt not as together as them in their uniforms, with their stable job, their lives in order.  I felt he was probably only curious to taste me as James had done those years ago before throwing me back in the water, for there are so many fish in the sea.  He couldn’t have been serious, I decided.  He couldn’t actually like me.  I had to be kidding myself – they were only passing time.

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The Firemen behind us as we continued our way down Stirling Highway, I wished I had the self esteem to believe a man could, ever, possibly, like me.

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I caught the phone, but only after almost tripping on the chair alongside my writing desk on which it rested.

“Hello?”

“Huh,” Chris said.

I didn’t know what that meant, and said nothing.  Daniel looked up at me, curious who was on the phone.

“Yes… Chris?”

“You won tattslotto,” he said. 

By Chris’ voice, I could almost see his sneer.  Then he laughed.  He had this thing, laughing at you when something was not funny.

.

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Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

By the light of 3 candles

“My dearest sweet son, Daniel.  I write to you on May 16 at 11.15 p.m. by the light of three candles.  I finished work in the evening and had a big hot bath when I got home.

I love you deeply in my heart.  I marvel at you.  I marvel at your beautiful character, regularly.  I beg to do the best by you.  I thank you so much for coming through me into this life.

God bless you, God bless us.  Amen.”

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The sun rose on the next day; Time’s promise kept.

Sunshine warmed the souls of Daniel, me and Pathos the cat three, as I stood in bare feet at the clothesline, pegging our wet clothes for drying.  Daniel keenly provided me with pegs from the plastic bag I kept them in, and Pathos just as eagerly dived in to sniff out any that he dropped, lest it be alive and he could scare it to death with his enormous hazel eyes and intensity.

The simple joy of my boy was contagious, and it seemed that in the simplicity of the moment, lasted our lifetimes.  Yet, it would be forgotten, this moment – unless someone photographed us or I wrote it down.  Lives are lost to memories passed.

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I smiled down at Daniel, offering me a red peg, but to keep his mind alive I said I needed a green peg for my top.  At 18 months, he needed guidance, but we played the game nonetheless. I squatted to join him at level of his age, and rifled through the bag of pegs to find the peg whose colour he would learn was green.

“That’s it!” I exclaimed, ever the actor.  “That one is green! Could you find me another green peg please, sweetheart?”

Pathos seemed never to tire of Daniel and my antics about the block of flats. He accompanied us on all excursions – from the letterbox to the garbage bins, witnessing our lives.

We still trundled down the lane occasionally to our old block of flats, to visit Cornelius.   Daniel had a little cart he would pull by the rope attached to it, and loved to trundle it anywhere important that we might be going.  Cornelius was important, and I am sure he could hear the cart as soon as we set off from our unit.  Sometimes we put a bit of dried food wrapped in a present for him and placed it on Daniel’s cart, for him to deliver.  We would have to carry the cart up to Cornelius’ prime position on the top level of our old flats, but all the effort was essential to the journey.  Pathos never followed us to Cornelius’ territory.  Animals seem to know, then respect, boundaries infinitely better than humans.

.

It was the day of the court hearing.  Despite the DNA test results stating, “…the likelihood that ChrisX is the father of DanielX is in excess of 99.9999%”, Chris still refused to sign acknowledgment that Daniel is his son (acknowledging financial liability).  Packing up the pegs, throwing them into my wash basket and opening the laundry gate for Daniel to race Pathos through, I recalled what offence it felt to me that not even the test results could be brought to acknowledge Chris is Daniel’s father.  In aversion of open truth, the report would only concede the likelihood of Chris’ paternity, and that likelihood was not 100%.

Was I not Daniel’s mother 100%?  Why do They, then, stop short of stating Chris is Daniel’s father 100%?  What is that measure of .0001%?  Is it doubt, or allowance granted Chris that maybe, just maybe he is not entirely responsible to this new life we brought into being?  I did not understand it, and pulling Daniel’s top over his head, brushing his silken locks down around his face, I remained offended that the law would stop short of declaring the whole truth.

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As I drove toward the Family Court, us streaming by the chill fresh waters of the Swan River, I recalled my despair at school that I never received 10/10 in an essay or assignment – only ever 9/10, at best.  I tried for a year or two earnestly, to effect perfection of score; finding crevices in my broken home life in which to retreat and focus on writing which I so loved.  But I was never perfect.  Then, as my father whipped me with his illness mental and abuses, it became less important to obtain a 10/10 at school.  Mere survival would be good.  Years later, when I was holding my own ground in life, I decided that it wasn’t in the nature of probably 99.9999% of teachers to concede a student’s endeavour and production ‘perfect’.

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I delivered Daniel to the court room child care centre, signing him in.  It was stressful and tiresome to run these miles in pursuit of Daniel’s human right of support by two parents, but I did not want to be like “the other mother” Chris spoke of; the mother of Daniel’s half-sister who did not receive support.  I would bring Chris to face his responsibility, and possibly he would think twice before impregnating other women.  Money has most people think through their behavior.

I announced my arrival to the desk clerk, and was told what court I would be in.  I saw Chris on the outside of the court room, wearing his khaki army style shirt with ‘Feng shui – Happy, Healthy, Wealthy’ embroidered in red on the front pocket.  It was his favourite shirt, that he wore to appointments.

Our eyes met but averted, and I felt sad to be there.  The mixture of feelings – that I was doing Chris wrong; that I should raise Daniel on whatever finance I could manage to gather alone, and whatever cash jobs Tom saved the day with, that I exhausted my last drops of energy on regularly, and by my work, absolve Chris from responsibility like “the other mother” did…but that I should show Chris he can’t “do this”, not to my boy; all churned like debris from broken trust in my guts.  I felt nervous, bad, wrong – but also like I couldn’t just let this happen to us.

Mary Soper of Legal Aid intercepted my mental pains, to tell me that she would approach Chris and give him one last chance to sign Consent Orders, stating he is Daniel’s father.  If he didn’t sign, she said, the Magistrate “wouldn’t be too pleased”.  In the face of the evidence, she said, he really had to.  She offered me to read the Orders:

“…agreed between the parties hereto that the following declaration be made by consent:

1.      The Applicant and the Respondent are the parents of the child, Daniel…

2.     That there be a declaration pursuant to s.106(1) of the Child Support (Assessment) Act 1989 that NoeleenX was entitled to an administrative assessment of child support for the said Child, payable by ChrisX.

3.     The hearing set down for the 6^th day of August 1997 be dismissed.”

It was true, Chris really had to sign.  I wanted so much to not have to go to court on the 6^th of August and continue pursuing Daniel’s rights.

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On Cottesloe Beach, our retreat from everyday life, Daniel and me sat wet in our clothes.  I had neglected to bring bathers because I didn’t plan to end up there after court – and neglected to bring a towel and sun hats and a change of clothes.  But there we sat at the water’s edge, the cool ocean and salt cleansing us.

My long black pants were wet and stiff.  Daniel was plopping glugs of sand on my thighs, looking for my attention, my laughter, hugs and love, my animated joy and play.  But I felt troubled and bad inside, that I had done Chris wrong.  He had signed the Consent Orders before the Magistrate could tell him off. Mary gave us each a copy, and we went our own ways.  However, I was left laden with that horrible affliction, the blessing of religion:  guilt.

I knew Chris saw it as a matter of power that I had “won” today.  I had not meant to win anything.  I had only sought cover of Daniel’s rights, with a hopeful side effect of consciousness by Chris before he had future children.  That was ill of my character I knew, but a hope nonetheless.

I knew this would change things.  I could not count on being able to go to work next week because it was now uncertain that Chris would look after Daniel.  I would have to ring him and ask, which I didn’t want to do because I felt so bad – so, so bad.

I looked at the mess of wet sand over my long pants, and at Daniel looking up at me, needing love.  I needed love.  I wanted love.

As I reached to bring Daniel to me, begging an embrace, a wave rushed in and covered us both with froth and foam.  We tumbled backwards.  I gasped. Daniel instinctively struggled back to his feet, and I helped to right him.  A seagull squawked, cutting across our gaze.  The sun twinkled – or was it winked, at us.

 

 

Copyright,

Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

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A perpetual anti-climax, actually

WHAT DO Sam, AngryGaijin, Anje, Johnny  and Janine  have in common?

 - APART from that they each blog…

 – and apart from that they do not all sit down to dinner together at night (not that they wouldn’t want to, I’m sure – but they live in different countries)

 – and apart from that Willow left a Thank You award on my cyber-doorstep the other day and not theirs (tee hee!)…

PS… thank you Michael S. Fedison, author and aka The Eye-Dancers for the ‘Shine On’ Award the other day, Judy Unger for that Liebster,  Prinze Charming for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award.… and then IAmNotShe who threw another Liebster on the barbie.

BUT THIS IS NOT AN AWARDS ACCEPTANCE POST.  No-no! 

Sure, THANKS to all those guys, but I can’t get into the awards thing because – you know what it’s like if you take them on:  before you know it, you’ve used all your time researching 15 blogs to pass the award on to, or following rules like “write 5 things you’d like to do with your life” and neglecting Ze Grande Novel you mean to VENT.

That was a pretty good one by Willow:  she made her own rules, herself initiating the Thank You Award (for blogs that have helped her in some way.).  That’s gorgeous, Willow .  If, just say IF I were to list five things I’d like to do in my life, they’d be:

 Get up – UP, UP, UP!

Get lost

Get found

Get real

Give.

WHICH BRINGS ME (not really) TO recall the worst award I ever received.  I received it one weekend after gruelling – I tell you, GRUELLING –  tennis matches.  Of course, as usual there was no-one to cheer me on – it was just Me -v- The World (opponents-who-dared). 

I remember applying all my teen angst that day, my inner rage and never-admitted-wish that I had a dad like dads are meant to be (personal prayer:  may fathers please know how important a role they have on Earth, bring they a boy or a girl to this Life).  At the end of it all, I won an award.  I was proud.  

I ventured considerable pride about myself, though not a pair of eyes was in the audience to meet my happy little self.  I’d beaten all the girls who had mums, dads and siblings at side.  Pride is a sin, my Catholic raising scolded me within, but yep:  I was proud. 

THEN, guess what?  They asked for it back!!!!!!!!!!  I had literally just received it, and they wanted it back.  However, before they could extract it from my proud little grip, they had to get me to understand it was a ‘Perpetual Trophy’.  That is, my name would be inscribed on it, I could hold on to it for a year, and then I had to give it back. 

That was the anticlimax of my life – of my LIFE, I tell you.

I trusted the trophy back to them (like I had a real choice) and never saw it again.  I don’t know if my name was inscribed on it (and likely spelt wrong). I wasn’t part of that club, had walked miles just to be in the tournament, and walked myself back to where I lived after it all.  Yet, like all the medals I kept in a jar, I would likely have lost the thing and not been able to give it back.  So it was all just as well, I guess.

THEREFORE , WHAT do Janine, Johnny, Anje, AngryGaijin and Sam have in common?  Before I even got around to doing a post announcing I wish to be a contender for the BIG BLOG EXCHANGE and humbly beseeching your vote, they up and voted for me already!!  They saw the ‘Vote for Me’ badge on the right and placed an unsolicited vote.  THANK YOU!  

Subbers, literary nomads and all who made it to the very word, I here announce my going for this gig.  There is the opportunity for world travel in it, meeting other bloggers in real life who have a story to tell, and reporting to you the experience in any form I like (oh video camera!! ).

Votes close 15 April

The Big Blog Exchange wants to know what I would recommend for visitors to Australia.  They queried icons? customs?  Well, short of lobbing in at AussieEmu’s  joint to crack a tinnie and throw a shrimp on the barbie, I would recommend a visit to our brilliant Comedy Festival.  There, you are sure to get a taste of Australia which surpasses the Sydney Harbour Bridge, Ayers Rock and all those other icons.  My fave is Dave Hughes.

Thank you, if you don’t mind voting,

& totally fine if you do mind.  I know how “these things can get“.

The telling will continue.  

Cheers ALL

N’n.

My Number 5 Top.

Sometimes life “just goes on” – no problems.  It’s a bit surreal, when that happens.

I am used to difficulty – problems of the people or problems of the mind – but for a while, just a few weeks, life seemed to go okay.   I was working as an actor at the Police Academy, collecting Daniel from Chris or Aunty Karen’s; Daniel and me settled in the fall of night together, safe in the little abode I afforded us, wrapped in sheets and blankets, awaiting the next day. 

Having every expectation there would be a next day.

.

Well, Chris does touch me when we’re in the same room together and I don’t like it, but I don’t know how to stop him.  I don’t want his hand at my waist, that movement around to my belly, or him touching the cheeks of my buttocks.  I don’t want him to stand close like he does sometimes, as if he is going to touch me more.  But I don’t know how to stop him.  So it happens.

It’s not the first time it has happened against my will – touch by man – and because I don’t know how to deal with it, I go into hyper-animated mode.  I smile widely, say thanks for having Daniel, goodbye, glad he has eaten well. 

And then, I swear Chris looks like ‘the man’ sometimes – Tracy behind him and me before him, a smirk across his face as he sees Daniel and me off.  What ever did I once see in that man?

.

I don’t know what I expect from life.  

I never expected to be sad almost every day of it, or insanely blithely ‘happy’ in spasms of the alternative; I never expected to love Daniel so deeply, and to feel non-love about family members (all of whom I ran from) – just general care for them as fellow human beings; I never expected to not love my husband, to wait for love to grow in me like he said it would – he was sure it would – but then leave him after nine years of togetherness because it never did.  I never expected to actually need anyone.  Those are just weakness, those days.  It is far better to adjust to needing no-one, and not ever be let down.  You have to help yourself or die.  And people do die.

And I never expected to see what I detected to be sadness in Daniel.

.

Having handed me photographs of Daniel at his sister Karen’s house, together with her ‘report‘ of Daniel’s bowel movements, sleeps and meals of the day, Chris waited for me to have the appropriate reaction of gratitude at the mementos.  But I just stared at the pictures.

“Chris,” I said, hoping not to offend him by any suggestion – and not making any suggestion, “Don’t you think he looks sad?”  Daniel was at my feet and holding my leg, us on the verge of departure from Tracy’s home.

“What? What sad?” he said, brusquely.

“Just, if you look at his face, his eyes – don’t you think he looks sad?”  I extended a photograph for Chris to look at more closely.

“Sad sad, happy happy.  You look too close all the time everything.”

He didn’t take the photo for a second look. 

I wondered what Tracy, in the background behind Chris, thought.  I wanted to ask her, but didn’t want to cause a scene.

“He just wake from a nap!” Chris barked.  “He wait for his mum! Can’t look happy all the time!”

I brought the photograph back to me.  I felt uncertain.  I did have a problem with analysing things too much – Chris was right, but… I looked at it closely, a bit longer.  It really did seem to me that Daniel was sad.

In writings abound, is penned, ‘Time stood still’.  But this time it really did. 

I stood near Chris’ front door, Chris square-on in front of me.  Tracy stood behind Chris a few lengths away, at her couch.  The television was speaking at us all but not one of us was listening.  And Phong, most surely was in his room and listening to our exchanges.

.

As I stared down at the photograph, my vision vagued over and I became aware of Daniel on the floor holding my leg, looking up at me.  Had he seen these pictures?  Do toddlers recognize themselves in pictures?  We had only just got used to his fascination of himself in the mirror. 

What reaction would Daniel have if I showed him?  Would it be recall of a single moment, or recall of ‘bad times’.  To this very day, the smell of hot water reminds me of the bad times at the orphanage – that carer, the sullen sallow one; the one with the so very tight lips.

Tracy made a noise of impatience. 

I looked up again.

“Um.  Thanks for taking care of Daniel,” I said.

She gestured acknowledgement slightly, with her head.  Chris came close to me, which had the effect of me turning away toward the door, and thus he successfully moved us to exit.

.

Chris walked Daniel and me down Tracy’s front path.  At each of those steps, I wanted to say more.  But I was afraid to.  How often did Chris leave Daniel with Tracy? With Karen?  Of all the hours Chris said he was available to care for Daniel – of all of those hours, for how many did he in fact care for our son?

At Tracy’s front gate, I asked Chris would he be taking care of Daniel on Tuesday – himself?

“I take care. If I get feng shui appointment, I got to work.  I tell you that already.”

“It’s just that, can’t you make feng shui appointments at times when you haven’t promised to care for our son?”

What did Daniel hear, understand, know?

Exasperated by me and irritated, Chris ushered us out of Tracy’s front gate and toward my Holden.

“I give you photo, you get problem.  Aunty Karen give it to you a gift!  You never happy.  You ask too much.”

“But Chris – please, can’t you see – “

and somehow – I don’t know how man has this power over me, but somehow I was hushed, and then leaning into my car and strapping Daniel in.  I was disconcerted, yes.  I wanted to discuss my concerns with Chris, yes.  But I was leaning into my car, buckling Daniel into his little seat, kissing his marshmallow cheeks, and then realising that Chris’ hand was feeling the curve of my arse.  It felt firmly over one cheek, and moved to the flesh of the other.

I ducked out of the cabin of my car, stood up straight to face Chris.  I looked immediately at the windows of Tracy’s house.  I hoped she wasn’t peeking through the curtains – and hoped Phong wasn’t peeking through the curtains, either.  How much did he see?  What did he know?

No-one was peeking through curtains.  Tracy was standing on her front porch, watching us.

.

Deeply, deeply embarrassed, I looked at Chris, flashed a quick wave goodbye to Tracy, and was just about to close the car door when Daniel said, “Number 5 top.”  I ignored him, but he said it again, with some urgency, “Number 5 top!”

“Oh!”  I said, searching Daniel to see if he had my Number 5 top with him.  A charcoal coloured hoodie with a red number 5 on its front, my Number 5 top had become sort of a security blanket for Daniel.  I wore it often, so it had my smell all over it.  Daniel brought it every time I had to leave him somewhere.  He held it, like a piece of me.  I sort of liked that.

“Oh Chris!  My Number 5 top!  We almost forgot my Number 5 top!”

Chris looked at me.  His irritation returned and flashed angrily all over his face, like little demon leprechauns doing little demon jigs.  What a nuisance we women seem to be, to men.  Men don’t seem to care in the same places we do.  I felt bad.

“He be a Mother’s Boy!  I tell you that already!  He not need your top!  He must learn separate from the mum!”

I was dumfounded. Did that mean Chris had taken my top from Daniel because he thought he would be a Mumma’s Boy?  

“Chris, where’s the top, please?”

“He don’t need it!”

“Chris, it’s my top.  I need it – I wear it.  Daniel just likes it when I’m not there.  That’s normal.”

“He a Mother’s Boy!”

.

This was horrible.  I wanted my top back.

“Number 5 top!” Daniel said again from his seat in the car, anxiety now in his voice and a touch of a wail threatening.

“It’s in the wash!” Chris suddenly said.

Was it really, I wondered?  It was possible.

“Tracy doesn’t have to wash it – that’s okay, I’ll wash it.”

“Too late!  It’s in the wash!”

I looked beyond Chris at Tracy. 

God, I hated how the people Chris had in his life stared at us whenever I came by.  We really must be some kind of a freak show.  Was it because I was the first of his women to challenge him?  Is that what the fascination was, of our exchanges?  I hated it.

.

I felt highly conscious that I needed to show Daniel how to treat women, and needed to show him that we would work things out.  I sat back onto the car seat to be face to face with him.  I tried to look positive and not worried.

“It’s okay Daniel,” I said.  I leaned in and kissed his soft, soft cheek.

“Dadda’s going to wash it for us! We’ll get my Number 5 top next time!”

I smiled. 

Daniel, at the mercy of adults in his life, had no option but to learn trust (or not).  He had to venture in himself whether or not to trust what Mum said would be true.  For one so young, pure on this Earth, that was easy.  He calmed down.

.

But as Daniel calmed and I smiled at him with my face of hope and positivity, a dagger cracked the bones of my rib cage.   I jolted – sort of like had a twitch – at the force of consciousness which had been ignored.  The dagger pointed its silver tip into my heart then shoved hard to penetrate my inner wisdom, and pierced me. 

As the first drop of blood cried from my heart at grief to come, and splattered upon the leather of my car seat, Chris walked away.  He had had enough.

.

.

Copyright,

Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

(Author’s note: I wrote this Saturday morning 16 Mar’13, & cried at the end.

I then edited it, & cried at the end.

I broke away,

made tea and toasted cheesies for Daniel and me,

then returned to re-draft this,

& cried at the end.  

It is now some 15 1/2 years since this day,

and I still cry at my utter dumbness.

I am politely warning you Readers, this reality is harrowing to me,

so if you have issues around abuse, low boundaries,

self esteem, self damage,

truly think whether you can handle this telling

- or perhaps may rather read it as one book whole,

closed,

eventually.

Sincerely,

N’n)

Just, fine.

Gidday, Subbers!

The next chapter of my novel, is but a breath away.

Where we are at in the telling, for new readers – & by the way: thanks heaps! you’re reading a true life, as told by the Lifer –

is I am in a new job as an actor at the Police Academy, Maylands, Western Australia.  My job description is to be a citizen “of sorts”, for the rookies to learn how to “deal with”.  Here’s a link to my last chapter reading, if you missed it (and didn’t mean to! ha ha ).

Chris, who promised to take care of Daniel, has lifted our son from my hands so that I can work, sure, but he has placed him in other hands beyond my control.  Whereas I thought Daniel would be cared for mainly by Chris, as I (naively) took Chris at his word, as time counts down to consciousness, I realize that Daniel is left mainly with either Chris’ girlfriend Tracey and her son Phong, or with Chris’ sister Karen.  This wasn’t what we agreed.

There are no signs of abuse.

Daniel runs to me earnestly with a big smile on his face when I come to collect him.  Is that a sign of abuse?

~ ` ~

In aside, The James Diary continues to want to live.  In acknowledgement of this enduring will, it shall be given publication on true hard copy by approximately May 2013.  Pre-purchase continues available through Paypal, by inputting nandd333@hotmail.com at the ‘Send Money’ tab.

~ My most enormous thanks ~ to those who have pre-purchased a copy. I am honoured. Truly, you cannot imagine how honoured.  Your purchase is secure: you will receive that signed copy in the mail.

From thinking I am nothing in my teens: bulimic, self-hating and “shit on” almost daily by my father, to see your tentative interest in the something I have past created but kept hidden under my mattress for so many years, for it was “just words, after all; and we’ve all lived; and other people have experienced alike and you’re not special; who do you think you are, you little snot” and on and on, as childhoods can be wont to do - from thinking I am not worth the effort of a next breath, to having Aunty Uta encourage me so much re publishingThe James Diary (and backing that by buying a copy!) and Aussie Emu …well, I decided to “just do it”, put it out there.

Oh, and re The James Diary, I decided to write “1” and “39” on the first and last signed copies sold.  The significance of this is explained in my debut post on the book.  Is that good, do you reckon?  I don’t know, I just get these ideas…but I like it.  Please let me know if you would not like that.

Once all 39 signed copies are sold (paid for, marked to receive a copy), I will do a post naming [and shaming – ha ha!] you all – those 39 first buyers of The James Diary.  

Subbers,and those who have put their money where their mouth is:  thank you for your belief that my words be worthy of reading; would sufficiently engage.

.

In re-reading The James Diary, before handing across to publishers, I have been reminded of the poems I wrote here and there.  Well, I use the word ‘poems’ loosely. I don’t write what I was taught in school a poem is, so I’m not even going there.

For the purposes of this post though, may I share with you a ‘poem’ lifted from The James Diary, before my next chapter re Daniel’s early life?

Copyright, Noeleen

A chapter reading by the author: Chapter Gullible

Woohee!  

My mac is back!  My life is back!

Off track.

My ‘puter had a stack & the guys out the back

didn’t know what

but cleaned out the lot.

Final theory : “May be a corrupt file“.

“Life?”

“File.”

“Phile…”

And flashbacks brought the tear that drove me here

and nothing mattered again but to speak aloud, to yell and beat

upon the hearts with no conscience meter.

Paeda.

Thank you for coming by WordsFallFromMyEyes.  And they have.  Still do.

Below is a video reading, with asides, of the chapter far below.  

The chapter is in print for beautiful people like LadyWithATruck, Carrie, who can’t get video on their contraption.

Long live

life lived love.

~

“Beloved Daniel, my son,

It is near midday.  You’re asleep in your cot.  We had a big morning, including going to the pool where first I put you in the crèche, do laps, then come out and get you and we play together.  In the car on the way home you babbled animatedly with some authority on whatever it is you were on about.  By your tone, as we drove the sunny streets of Perth, you seemed to be giving a dissertation on something which, I have to confess, was completely beyond my comprehension.

…

We then hung the washing and I chased you, giggling, all the way up the path to our door.  When I put you to bed you didn’t want to sleep and cried a bit, because it was so much fun being up with mama.

Anyway, I knew you were tired and visited you three times, calming you, before I didn’t return.  After about two minutes of protest this last time, you’ve finally crashed.” 

.

It was clear the cop was a rookie.  He looked scared in the eyes when I asked why the fuck should I get into his paddy wagon; I hadn’t done anything wrong.  He looked briefly at his partner, who jumped at the opportunity to assert herself and told me in manner of order, “Because you’re under arrest!  Now get in the wagon!”

“What am I under arrest for?  He was ASKING for it!  HE assaulted ME!  How come you’re not arresting HIM?”

With no tolerance for civil questioning, let alone disobedience, the female Officer physically forced me into the rear of the police wagon.  When the lock clunked shut behind me, I was hit by a deluge of claustrophobia.  I didn’t see that coming.

“LET ME OUT!” I screamed with all of the rage and rampant recall of all that was wrong with my life.  I heard the two officers close their doors, and the ignition start. 

“I’m a royal subject of the Queen Mother’s Tongue of England!  LET ME OUT!  LET ME OUT!” I screamed, for continuum.

“The other night your daddy and me took you to the beach playground.  I like the man who is your daddy, but not entirely.  I didn’t feel comfortable with him as I do with others, feeling that we are on a different wavelength.

When we first met he was a blessing to my jaded spirit for we swapped massage giving, and ate well and went to the pictures, but slowly I came to realize an arrogance and a surfaceness and showmanship I don’t like a bit, but yet his spirit I do respect.

We are not enemies, your father and me, and we will together always do good, do our joint best, for you.“

.

The Officers were doing a good job of ignoring me, and the drive was brief before we arrived at the police station. 

When they unlocked the rear of the paddy wagon, I made sure to eye the Officers each with insolence, before duly stepping out, punk boots stomping on the pavement.  The heavy pounding of my feet was near enough to hit the beat, then playing in some dingy basement bar deep in England’s dark night, spiked hairdos of clef-stompers spraying sweat across the concrete walls.

I was led into the police station, the recruit assessor shadowing us, watching all our conduct and ticking boxes addressing The Law.

“A letter came to say the results of DNA tests came through.  We have to see that lady at the Child Support Unit again.  The letter says, ‘Please arrange an appointment to see Ms Soper, when convenient, to arrange to receive your copy of the report.’ 

It annoys me that the doctor didn’t simply give me a copy of the report with the letter he sent.  Why are the people the centre of an action always swept to the perimeter of an action when you involve professionals?  I mean, I am your Mother: I paid half for the tests: I deserve a copy of the results outright.  It’s just annoying.”

.

Waiting in the police station to be processed, I began to feel bored.  I looked at my arresting officers and they seemed to be stuck on some paperwork issue.  Another recruit had joined in their concern and they were fumbling and questioning each other about the “right” thing to do.  The assessor remained in the background, watching them, but I could see irritation alive in his expression.  It was like invisible ants were running all over his face, twitching his muscles.

I looked at other recruits behind the station desk.  They were sort of tripping over each other trying to look busy.  I could see they were all a bit lost.  My job as an actor was to be real, to give them an experience in dealing with the public.  I began to consider:  how many assaulting teens would wait quietly on the bench like I was?  A thought crossed my mind on how to shake things up.  But dare I? 

What I like about being me is that more often than not in life, I dare. 

“I rang your father to ask if he would sign a concession that you are his son, now that the results prove it.  If he did this, it would avoid us going to court, but he would not sign admittance that you are his son.  So we must go to court.  

How can he bother – why does he bother – to string along the inevitable (being ‘made’ to support you) like this?  chris is avoiding financial responsibility of you, just like every other man.  Why he won’t contribute is so purely selfish.

Everyone protects their money.  And yet then he takes me to a Mother’s Day breakfast with his family and girlfriend, openly saying you are his son..?  I do these things occasionally – get together – because I believe it’s important for you to see your mum and dad together.  Things are not perfect in the reality, but I will make well of ill – you’ll see.

The DNA tests prove you are unique.  You are totally unique.  There is no-one else in the world even like you.  You’re just unique.” 

.

Sitting on the bench in the front of the police station, waiting to be processed, I took a few deep breaths, quietly.  I then imagined I had been on drugs that day, and they were wearing off.  I was feeling agitated.  It was time for more drugs.  Time to get out of this shit-hole and get back to my life.  What was I there for, what was I waiting for?  WAITING!  These guys were keeping ME waiting! 

“I could have claimed money from your dad for nine months of pregnancy plus all the way to now but I will not.  I can’t, really, for it is work who supplied you with all those gifts in the baby shower.  I cannot pretend we never received that avalanche of goodwill, and claim I bought them, and claim it as due from your father. It feels too wrong in my heart, and as such, not possible for me to do. 

I am exhausted sometimes.  Other times I feel great.  We have great times together, Daniel.

You walk very fast.  You look very proud and sure. 

I am tired now.  Here are more papers about your life. 

Love, xxx Mama”

 

With my last deep yoga breath I screamed with all the energy I had banked up against the dam, simultaneously standing up, squaring my shoulders and eyeing my arresting officers, “WHAT THE FUCK AM I WAITING FOR?????”

The whole population of the police station froze.  Even the other actors on the bench, after jolting, looked up at me in horror – and froze.  I was afraid of what effect I had had, but I could not back out now.

“WHAT THE FUCK AM I WAITING FOR????”

I screamed again, intoning demand that the officers answer me.

“I’VE GOT A LIFE, YA KNOW.  I GOT THINGS TA DO PEOPLE TA SEE! 

AN YOU GOT ME JUST SITTING HERE LIKE A

FUCKING DUCK

WAITING TO BE SHOT DOWN BY YOUR FUCKING PAPER PLANES!”

No-one knew what to do.  Even I didn’t know what to do.  I wouldn’t make a run for it, because I wasn’t sure if anyone really would.  It would just complicate things for them when they were finally caught.

The assessor was the first to move.  I was enormously relieved.

“Go on!  That’s a fair question!” he barked at his recruits.  “Why is she waiting?  You’re standing there debating over Form A or Form B and you’ve got a live one on the bench there ready to do God knows what!  Get her into the cells!  Now!”

The male Officer jumped into action, practically dived over the counter, and took me by the wrist to the recruits at another desk, ink pads at the ready, forms in order.  They with command told me how to present my thumb, roll it without pressing too hard, inside the square – not smart-arsed on the line of the square, guiding me.  I mumbled a bit under my breath during the process, while the rest of the recruits recovered their senses and everyone was suddenly genuinely busy keeping law and order there in the little cubicle at Maylands Police Academy, Western Australia.

.

Life appeared to be going well.  I was fully enjoying my casual working hours, Chris seemed to be maintaining his responsibility as Daniel’s other parent/carer, and Daniel seemed well when I collected him alternatively from Chris or from his sister Karen.

Daniel’s aunty, Karen, gave me written reports of Daniel’s food intake and bowel movements.  I found this sweet, going the extra yard.

“12.30pm Poo

1:00pm Sleep

2.30pm Pea and potato and pork meant porrich one bowl”

I noticed she headed the page with Daniel’s first name but his father’s last name.  It appeared either Aunty Karen did not accept Daniel was born into my name, or Chris had maintained his charade that he and I were married and Daniel was our beloved son, together.  I thought this was a charade Chris wanted to present only on that first day we together met his family when Daniel was newborn.  I had told him on that day I could not answer the question “Are you Chris’ wife?” dishonestly, so no-one better ask me (despite his earnestness I say we are married).  I don’t know why, I thought it was a convenience to Chris he lent to that day.  I did not imagine he would carry it into the future.

I was conscious that when Chris – for instance, on Mother’s Day – was seated at yum cha with Tracy his mistress on one side and me his… what did he call me?… on the other side, that he must look so well set, in his family’s eyes.  Yet, I attended these occasions so Daniel could hear his father’s tongue amongst his family, be amongst his kin, and see his father and me not in argument but accordance.  We were after all the leaders of his life.  We were the beacons lighting Daniel’s way.

Within, however, remained an unsettling.  Was I, allowing Chris to present in “his” world this illusion of prosperity, as fool I thought Tracy to be, allowing Chris to meander through various women’s lives and most intimate walls while he remained “promised” to her?

 

 Copyright Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

but thanks Etsy the clef pic 

& thanks especial to

Des Hicowe’s student film ‘Mere Mortals‘

- for the  aside shots I’ve aired,

which lent comment to where I was at

upon a time,

once.

I sort of love me, but hate me

- or that aspect of me, really, which doesn’t give up.  I drive myself mental with it.  Truly.  Some times that works for me, sometimes not.

.

So, the next chapter was due out last Saturday (in my mind).  So, I worked on it – love it!  - you know, the weekend!  feel good!  Got most of it done Saturday and physically tore myself from the computer for a jog and sauna.

Alas, iMovie kept crashing that night (the next chapter is a reading by me; hope y’all will like it).

.So, I think there’s always tomorrow.  Need sleep.  Been a big week.  Must not develop insomnia over the next chapter, crazy driven though I am.

Ditto MEGA FAILS the next day : crash, re-edit x 1 billion, until the end of the day – again I tear myself away to tend to the physical being, which needs exercise as much as the mental self.

At least there’s Monday after work all day, yoga, dinner, dishes, need sleep.

Long story short last night was Tuesday and after my day’s work all my house work, I was DETERMINED TO GET IT DONE IN SPITE OF iMOVIE, REGARDLESS OF THE EVER-FAILING iMOVIE.  Fancy trying to get something creative done ‘in spite of’ iMovie!!

Consequence:  I have had 1 hour & 56 minutes sleep all night.  I now must go to work.  And I cannot EXPORT the movie/reading I have created & re-edited & re-edited & re-edited through the night, after each of  iMovie’s MADDENING crashes.  I am talking MADDENING crashes.

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Subbers, thanks for being there.  Simple as that.  Having an audience DOES inspire me to keep going with this novel.  And I want you to know I’m trying, oh, I’m trying to deliver.

This novel will have closure this year, this whole part in my life will have closure this year.  This tree has had all its leaves fall to the ground – my words, my tears – and this year it’s going to sprout new life, on closure of this tell.

However, despite ALL my efforts from Saturday to now, 8.39 am Wednesday 20th February, I still have note been able to PUBLISH what I’ve made for you.  

This has also taken my time from visiting you – which is more torture via iMovie.  I ENJOY visiting you, swinging by, seeing wassup.  I enjoy that.

So this is what you call an update.  It’s made – the next chapter reading (and ooh some good footage ) – I’ve just got to get it to you.  Sighhhhhh.

To the recently subscribed:  I’m very touched you have interest.  Thank you.  Who ever would have known while I lived this, I would find any kind of poetry in it – ever – and then find this forum by which to reach people… hopefully including people once like me; because I highly recommend if you are anything like I was, you take a first step forward away from that victim.  Life can actually be a source of joy (this is a revelation to me; sorry if it’s common knowledge out there).  

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Copyright, N’n.

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Hey! Just thought of a great advertisement for iMovie:

” iMovie

iSuck “

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Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

“Unable to prepare project for publishing…

The project could not be prepared for publishing because an error occurred. (-108)”

Wait for Me

aside…

They say socially, “How was your weekend?“

How to say…

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.

 

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“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.

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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.

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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.

 

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Copyright,

Noeleen&Daniel

                    50/50