The olden days

Now that I’m on term break, I am blissfully bored and restless and wondering what to do with myself. I’ve been waiting for this moment for the past 12 weeks. And I love it.

But I’m bored. And I have two weeks of this.

So, anyway, because I was telling a friend about it, I’ve been perusing this now-defunct irrevent (some might have said irrelevant) Melbourne blog called GrodsCorp. Some of you may remember it with fondness or with disgust. Maybe a bit of both. It’s startling to see how much time I spent on that thing. And the things I wrote, or wrote about. Thanks to the WayBackMachine, I have just spent a couple of hours cringing and/or chortling at the guff that was written.

I proffer the following example for reading and weeping:

Spies like us (17 April, 2008)

I had quite an exciting time on the train this morning, on my way to work. It was also God-sent, because I’d left my book at home.When I squeezed in next to the natty looking gent on the train, I accidentally sat on the corner of his suit jacket, and he got a little huffy about that. I mumbled something that I wished sounded like “You’re a fucking idiot, you know?”, but it sounded more like “sorry”.

As you can tell, I’m a wonderful person to be with in the mornings.

So, there I am, sitting on the train, wondering why my book wasn’t in my bag, when the dude next to me caught my attention again by looking like he was rehearsing for a speech. He had a notepad on his lap, his mouth was moving silently, and his hands making little movements as if he was talking to an audience. Aha! I thought. What’s he rehearsing for? Is he nervous? I hope he is, I thought meanly, because he didn’t move the corner of his jacket off the seat before I sat down.

I should point out that I am by nature a curious (some might say nosey) person about other people. Particularly if I don’t have anything to read on the train. I like to wonder about people around me – who are they, where are they going, how do they feel, do they make more money than me, did they get lucky last night? That sort of thing.

So, with my curiosity piqued, I had to take a quick surreptitious look at his notepad to see what he was obviously memorising and practising. First point went something like this:

1. If we have to do it, we have to do it.

Cor blimey, I thought, that’s deep. And easy enough to remember. But do what? I sneak another look.

2. Compliance/asic – asic have axe to grind. Give them an inch and they will take a mile.

Oooh, he’s clearly talking about ASIC – Australian Securities and Investments Commission, the body responsible for “ensuring that Australia’s financial markets are fair and transparent, supported by confident and informed investors and consumers.”

And with whom does ASIC have an axe to grind? Oh! This is better than the book that’s not in my bag! Am I sitting next to a white-collar crim?! I glance oh-so-casually out the window past his profile, pretending to figure out where we are, and EEEK! It’s Gordon Gekko! Corporate raider! Slicked back hair, smooth freshly shaven skin… well, actually, that’s as far as the similarities go. Oh, and natty suit, which, I remind you, I partially sat on.

3. Telephone bugging – sound “different” – monitoring.

By now, I’m mentally writing a TV script that will rival Underbelly. Spies skulking around the corridors of power, money and high-fliers. Bugs inserted into board room meetings full of white men in natty suits wearing expensive gold, monogrammed cufflinks. Richly decorated offices with expansive harbour views being fumigated by smells from Boss, Drakkar Noir and Old Spice. Golden-haired secretaries wearing crisp white shirts and sharp black skirts and long tanned legs, complete with peek-a-boo red lingerie underneath.

Settle, boys. Girls, too.

4. Not all markets are doing this. Golden opportunity…

What? What was that? Not doing what? Why is it underlined? I twist my head blatantly to read it but I didn’t get a chance — Mr Gekko had flipped his notepad shut and we were rolling into Martin Place Station, and he pushed past me, even though I was also getting off at the same station. I just hadn’t budged yet because I was so engrossed with trying to read his small but legible writing, and there were another 5 or 6 points to still read.

I nearly cried. I nearly followed him, but he moved way too fast, fast like a man on a mission to steal millions of dollars.

I turned up to work, feeling robbed, not of millions of dollars, but of having my spying skills cut short.

It’s your turn, dear GrodsReaders. What do you think his notes were about? What and who was he memorising his notes for? What were they going to do? Is it legal? Why is ASIC attempting to take a mile off them?

Also, may I remind you to be careful if you’re on public transport; you never know, I could be sitting next to you.

~ ~ ~ ~

So, there you have it. What about you? Anything you’ve written that you’ve looked back on and wish you hadn’t written or would write it differently today?

Blue skies, smiling at me

The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean, wrote F. Scott Fitzgerald in The Great Gatsby.

And so it was the other day when I realised that Spring had finally arrived and I thought of Fitzgerald’s ethereal description. All around me, the flora was exploding in a myriad of colours and petals, the sky was perfectly azure, the sun was warming after a long, cold winter, and I felt very content.

Then my brain started going silly. Verses of Blue Skies gave way to Machine Gun Fellatio’s Rollercoaster: Cruise around town with the windows down, Shakin’ all ’round to the stereo sound, Cruise around town with the windows down, Shakin’ all up to the summertime sound — and I wanted to go for a long, long drive underneath the endless blue canopy, shakin’ all ’round and crusin’ around town with the windows down. That, for me, is freedom. Oh yeah. They see me rollin’, they hatin’.

So then I wondered about giving away my studies and becoming a taxi driver. And why not? I’ve mastered the immortal lines: “You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? Then who the hell else are you talking… you talking to me? Well I’m the only one here. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? Oh yeah? OK. “

And you know what else, I asked myself excitedly, I’d get to live out the scene on my favourite coffee mug:

Thus endeth the nice Spring moment.

A foggy day

The only reason I witnessed the fog that covered the area where I live this morning is because I was already awake to watch the Billabong Pro in Tahiti.

When I went out to the back yard to observe the ice crystals suspended in the air, I noticed one of the fronds of the palm tree had snapped.

I’d never noticed until today that the tree had a tiny nest in it, on the branch that had snapped. The intricate design of the nest is an absolute marvel of nature. Look at it, so cute and adorable and just amazing, hanging on lopsidedly.

I’m particularly fascinated by how the birds have woven what looks like cotton wool into the lining of their nest.

It’s a pity the branch has snapped. That nest looks so cosy and snug. Nature: even the tiniest nest is magnificent.

And now for my predictable earworm:

Pitch by my doorstep

I get daily visitors — and never tire of them.

Watching me pottering around in the kitchen. I thought I could feel beady eyes on me.

Advertising is a racket…

…like the movies and the brokerage business. You cannot be honest without admitting that its constructive contribution to humanity is exactly minus zero.

– F. Scott Fitzgerald

Waiting for a train is one of the most tedious experiences most of us will have. Akin to watching a pot of water boil, trains never arrive when you want one to. In the meantime, while you’re waiting, if you’re not tweeting on your phone, reading a book, or glancing at your watch every nanosecond, you have to contend with looking blankly at great big advertisements staring back at you from the walls of the station. I don’t know about you, but most advertising shits me to tears, whether because of hyperbole, childishness, or their condescending messages.

Then there are those billboards that make you think. Think deeply. Ponder. Muse. Like this vacuous one:

My brain went into overdrive, which is a rare thing when waiting for trains.

Let me get this straight: you buy a dishwasher and then you splurge on eating out? So why do you need a fucking dishwasher if you’re not at home dirtying up things that go in a dishwasher?!

If anyone reads it differently, please let me know. My brain is overwrought. And I have a train to catch.

 

Pull your pants up, son

A not-so-small patch of blue at Central Railway, Sydney, a month or so ago, after I’d been down to Canberra for a weekend. Had forgotten about this until sorting out photos on my computer.

How can that even be comfortable to walk around in with the pants hanging below the arse?

Bleugh.

(Click on picture for a bigger view. Only if you really want to.)

UPDATE:

Good grief. After I posted this and checked it was OK, I realised it made me sound like a total nanna. I’m not that old, I swear!!

Spectacular

While on the phone this evening blathering on about God knows what to a friend, I realised that the sky and the buildings across the road were looking very red and wondered if Sydney was having another dust storm.

Turns out it wasn’t a dust storm but just a brilliant orange-red sunset. It was so glorious that I had to hang up the phone and take photos because I might be a woman but I can’t multitask. Fail.

One is the loneliest number

Three weeks ago, my computer decided that it wanted a sip of my dry martini and liked it so much that it drained the whole glass, rendering it an alcoholic useless piece of shit ever since. It probably didn’t help that I thumped it hard in frustration either. How dare it drink my dry martini!

Since then, I’ve relied on the trust of friends to allow me to play on their computers, or used my work computer or went to the internet cafe across the road from where I live. I just haven’t been arsed get my laptop fixed.

In the evenings when I’ve gone to the ‘net cafe, I’ve noticed a number of times a woman parked outside the shops downstairs from where I live, using the light shining out from the shops to read her book. I just assumed she was a mother waiting for her daughter or son or someone to finish working at the Gloria Jean’s outlet.

But three hours later, I’d be returning home and she’d still be there in her car. Weird, I thought, she’s incredibly devoted — or is one of those mothers who doesn’t trust their kid and watches them all the time. Or something. I couldn’t figure out what the hell she was doing.

On Thursday night, I stayed at work til after 9pm, not to work (of course not!) but to use the computer and catch up on the news and blogs and gossip. Making my way to the train station, I walked past an older gent. He was ragged looking, wore shabby clothes, limped heavily — and had no shoes. I walked past him silently, not looking at him, thinking what a travesty it is that this wealthy nation could be so poor in other ways.

I got to the traffic lights and sneaked a look back at him. The look on his face was pained — whether caused by his limping or from the grief and misery that is his wretched life, I don’t know.  Either way, it hammered home once again that I am so fucking lucky with my life, no matter how miserable I’ve been. I know I sound selfish in suggesting that seeing this poor soul makes me think of me. But that’s not how it’s meant to be — it was just a realisation, albeit one I already knew, but a reminder that no matter how shit life is for me, I’ve still got it good.

Perspective.

That’s not to say the sads are going to disappear. Can’t help those. Won’t be able to help feeling lost and despairing from time to time, but I will need to remind myself that I’m lucky in that I am getting help, and have wonderful friends, and a loving family, and have shoes to wear on a cold, wintry Sydney night.

With these thoughts on my mind by the time I got to my suburb, I decided that since I’d barely eaten all day, I’d have a late-night pizza. So, I walked down to Pizza Hut (not the best pizza, I know!) and walked past a familiar-looking car. It was the woman sitting inside again, reading her book. This time she was parked on the other side of the street, next to the Commonwealth Bank which was lit up like a Christmas tree.

OK, she’s definitely not waiting for anyone. In fact, I realised with a shock, her car is her home. Her pillow and blankets were folded neatly on the back seat. There was a toiletries bag in the front seat, and other bits and pieces neatly placed around inside the car. I was walking very close by the car so I was able to absorb all this in one look. It made sense for all the times I’ve seen her.

I didn’t enjoy the pizza that much after all. I kept wondering if I should invite her in to have a hot shower and sleep in the spare bed. But I didn’t, because I had no idea who she was and I’m a wimp: what if it embarrassed her, what if she stole my stuff, what if she was a bunny boiler, what if she never moved out? And what if I can’t get her out in the morning because I had a plane to catch to Brisbane?

There was nothing I could do for the complete stranger. Two strangers in one night who were bereft of safety and security. In Australia. Just so fucking wrong. And they were all alone.

I also wondered, had these two souls ever admitted they need (or asked for) help — help of any kind? From their family and friends (as opposed to help from, say, charities)? Do any of us know when we need help or do we have to hit rock bottom before we reach out and ask? Is our pride and vanity the first hurdle? Or could it be that we just don’t simply know when we need help? Is that self-denial or a lack of self-awareness?

There’s a multitude of possible reasons. And what happens if we have no family or friends to reach out to? Someone we know we can call upon anytime, someone who will always be there no matter what. Or there is someone but for whatever reason we don’t ask them for help?

It’s a terrible thing, this loneliness. I feel blessed this week as I realise how much support I have been given. It was tough to talk in the first few days of the crash, and indeed in years gone by I could never open up honestly, because I didn’t want to “burden” anyone (apart from the fact I was also in self-denial). I would feel stressed if I knew someone was stressing about me. Sometimes it was better to be alone.

But finally I did reach out, during and in the aftermath of my big crash the other week. And I was surprised at how … well, not easy, per se, but easier than I previously imagined it to be. The support and strength that has been readily available has been an eye-opener and I now realise I needn’t have worried so much about “needing” people to give me moral support. People are keen and happy (for want of a better word) to help, to listen, to offer advice, or just let you know that they’re there whenever you need them.

If those of us who, for whatever reason, find it hard to reach out, just try harder. There’s no magic solution except trying a little harder, no matter how shitty you feel. Last thing you feel like doing is talking or letting someone share your burdens or whatever, but you just have to try. It’s worth it. Because loneliness is the worst — and it doesn’t have to be that way.

Shared joy is a double joy;

shared sorrow is half a sorrow.

– Swedish proverb