president obama, call off your dogs

Please go to avaaz.org and sign the petition requesting the US government to stop the torture of Bradley Manning for releasing documents to Wikileaks.

I’m having trouble with their website; let me know if you have similar. On my Mac laptop, any type of sign/send operation clicks through to a blank page.

no more sharehouse blues

Hallelujah and hurrah! After nine-and-a-half months, the Constant Minor Irritant is gone: I feel like singing one of those jolly little medieval songs of rejoicing, but the only one I can think of is God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen – which is just too ridiculous. Maybe I’ll play Nirvana instead, because I’m still angry.

Calm; be calm. For my own sake, this therapeutic kiss-off to an exceedingly tiresome subtenant should at least attempt to be fair. Soon enough my resentment will fade; I’ll have the lovely Mirjam back in my house, and I’ll no longer hang out at friends’ places when I should be doing stuff at home. I won’t arrive home hoping he isn’t there, sighing over the latest ‘fuck-you’ detail, wondering how to broach the most pressing issue without provoking hostility.

Believe me, I can’t and wouldn’t claim to be a perfect flatmate by any means: I hate housework and can be eccentric and inconsiderate, but I’m honest and direct and reasonable – in other words, I can be negotiated with. That was always a problem with the Constant Minor Irritant. His sins ranged from serious (skipping a fortnightly rent payment and never mentioning it) to stupidly trivial (inviting his friends into my bohemian paradise and accepting their admiration as if he’d created it himself) – but the real problem was that they (his sins, that is) were goddamnit unceasing. Most of it was minor stuff, but minor stuff is quite difficult to deal with when it never seems to stop, because the victim comes to sound like they’re nagging: please don’t do this, don’t do that, be careful to such and such, could you just make sure you etc… And whether or not you nag, you still get to feeling rather misused, because the ongoing indifference to your feelings and standards signifies an attitude of profound disrespect.

The slightest exasperation on my part would provoke resentment, argument and sulking, but politeness achieved only the smallest possible improvement – just enough so I couldn’t say he hadn’t done what I asked, not enough to really solve the problem. He was a master of the meaningless apology (“you know what I’m like”), and of conversational dynamics that smoothed over his little untruths and prevented meaningful confrontation. He was, in short, weak, manipulative, dishonest, arrogant, unco-operative, uncommunicative and sometimes downright rude. I also think he hated conceding to a woman. Loser.

I have to admit the first month or two were pretty good. He was extremely charming, pretty clean and tidy and at least superficially co-operative. There was so much potential for a good relationship: we were both musicians, both stoners, both people with a dark sense of humour who like to sit around all night drinking wine and talking about life. We flirted: I was attracted to him and he actively encouraged me to think this could turn into a very cosy arrangement. I sensed he was troubled in himself in certain ways and felt I could help, and that it would be fun and good for us both. Then slowly, as it came to the point of action, he backed off, and left me dangling – socially and emotionally compromised. He never explained or justified his earlier encouragement, only saying he didn’t think it was a good idea to get involved. I just wish he’d given me a simple ‘no’ – at the outset when I first raised the subject, not after two months of come-on.

Unfortunately, that business amounted to a gross breach of trust from which we never recovered. Indignation made me leave the rebuilding to him, and he never bothered; I think he had no clue how to. Common sense failed to tell him that conforming to the requirements of his subtenancy and showing basic good faith and friendship would’ve been a great start. Instead he developed into one of those things you just don’t want in the house, bad-mannered as a teen, slippery as an eel, slimy as snot, dodgy as fuck. To put it like that shows hatred on my part, which is only one aspect of my response to him, but he earned it.

Here is a list of all the things I don’t have to put up with any more. This really isn’t for you – it’s probably boring as hell to read and kind of sordid. But I need to lay it out as a lesson to myself, because the CMI is very charming and entirely used to being forgiven without expectation of improvement. I also need to do it for… what’s the word I use in the blog intro? Emesis.

Using things that belong to me that he was asked (repeatedly) not to use, ranging from my teacup to my keys to my towel (ew!) to my computer (on which he took to downloading porn in my bedroom while I was out)
Irregular rent payment (terms are by direct debit but he never set it up)
Rubbish left wherever he put it down (it took weeks of strenuous objection to get this problem from disgusting down to just mildly annoying)
Stinky butt-filled ashtrays on every table, rarely emptied, never washed
Spills never cleaned up
Empty packets left in kitchen cupboards
Kitchen supplies not replaced and not put on the fridge-door shopping list, or else replaced with a smaller or inferior version
Jars, bottles, etc consumed fast then left for weeks with a half-serve or two in them (this was his response when I objected to the above with a sentence starting “If you finish it…”)
Washing up (which I admit he was quick to do) done so badly that I regularly returned a third of it to the sink (leaving us with differing ideas of how much cleaning he did, because after a while I couldn’t stand to keep mentioning it)
Ice cube trays emptied and left on the bench
Communal things not put back in their place after use
Vegies regularly left to rot in the fridge
Lights left on all night
Toilet rolls begun and left off the holder, empty rolls left on the floor
Gross smears on the bathroom mirror
Shoes left around the lounge and passageways
Chronic failure to empty the dryer filter and the vacuum cleaner receptacle (the dryer survived; I’m not sure about the vac)
Linen borrowed so his friends could sleep over, then left for me to wash
House keys blithely handed out to girls he’d picked up but hardly knew
And last but not least, something I really detest: fakeness. For example, if he thought I might be angry with him he’d greet me with “Hi!” in a voice like a TV presenter – and he never once asked me straight if there was a problem

As you can see, it ranges from the merely tedious to the truly alarming. All of his offences waxed and waned depending on his mood or situation and how much pressure I exerted. A few of these things I’d occasionally be guilty of myself, and no doubt he could write his own list of the things I do that annoyed him. But it was the lousy, unco-operative attitude that did for him in the end – he just didn’t seem to get the power differential: I’m the leaseholder, and the creator of an environment generally considered highly desirable: I set the standards here; if you don’t respect that, you can’t stay. Apparently for him my unwillingness to let him behave however he pleased (and presumably to clean up after him) was grounds for resentment and something he did his best to ignore. After three or four months, I wrote it all out for him so he couldn’t fail to understand, and suggested he get a friend to help him consider the charges and frame any objections or counter-arguments. He never responded, though his behaviour improved marginally for a few weeks. I gave him a second chance, then a third and fourth and so on until I lost count – partly because of the early potential, partly because replacing a subtenant is always a new field of risk, and in the end I put up with him for longer than I wanted to because I had to wait for him to pay at least some of the money he owed me (he’d never paid a bond, having moved in while I was overseas and then kept quiet about it).

It’s been two days since he handed in his key, and already my mood is lifting. He wants to stay on the party invite list – that’s the only leverage I have for the last of the monies owed. I wonder, will he use his pride for good, and pay up without argument, or will he use it for evil, to sanction his weakness and avoid me forever. Either way, I figure, I win – at last.

hip, hip…

As you may have caught in the ever-shifting flow of news on Facebook, the date is now set for the surgical replacement of my right hip  – 29th January. I’m pleased – that’s less waiting time between the deciding and the doing than I expected. I actually could’ve had January 4, but I enjoy the swimming/sunbathing/partying/relaxing traditions of a Sydney summer too much to so incapacitate myself at the height of it. I’d rather spend January limping and grumbling in the sun than under fluoros doing physio – and hydrotherapy is a long way short of surf and sand – so the end of January is perfect.

My surgeon is Dr Michael O’Sullivan, who does all the ex-dancers and athletes, and pretty much only does hips. We’ll be at the Mater, according to their website “the largest and one of the most respected orthopaedic surgical hospitals in the Southern Hemisphere, performing over 1,500 joint replacements every year”. I’ll be checking in on the 28th and staying 5 or 6 days. Do come and visit – I plan to be an exceptionally lively patient.

coming home to strangeness

I’m home, but I’m in a strange state. It’s 11.30pm, the plane got in after eight but it took me a couple of hours to get from the airport to Redfern.

That was fun… not. Just under a week ago my bank got wind that my debit card details “may have been compromised” and cancelled the damn thing. My financial lifeline in Europe, you understand. I survived on friend credit (fredit? A froan?) as far as the boarding gate, and I had AUD$10 in my wallet.

Not enough for a cab, though I thought I might be able to share one. But the first cabbie I approached with that plan demanded 75% of the fare, which is his right by law, but he was unpleasantly aggro about it and I hadn’t, at that point, the resilience to keep trying. I was hoping to avoid the train because it meant changing at Central and hauling my bags up 30 steps at Redfern. So I investigated the bus. ‘Investigated’ in this context means queued for, since signage at the airport bus/coach stops is minimal and information non-existent, and after 15 minutes along came a bus whose driver said I needed the 400, which would be along in another 15 minutes, and I’d have to change at Mascot shops and cross the road for the 309. I reconsidered the train, in case it came sooner, but it turns out the train fare on that rip-off private line is over $15. Back to the bus.

A journey by car, planes, and buses that began at 9.30 GMT yesterday ended sometime after 22.00 EST tonight with me collapsing into a chair on the terrace, crumb of herbal anaesthetic in hand. No-one was home, but the new presence is everywhere evident in little differences, someone else’s stuff. Where is Casey? Is he coming home tonight? Is he hiding out? Does he even expect me? I really should’ve Facebook messaged him, I realise after a while, because I don’t have his phone number. This is a little weird.

And so I unpack my laptop and set up, but though it tells me I’m connected to my wireless network, Firefox can’t find anything; Skype won’t open, I’m just not online. I plug in, but it’s not that. A problem with my ISP? I don’t know if I even have their phone number, and I’m too sore and tired to go look for it. Worse, I’ve put my Australian SIM back in my phone but my credit’s expired, and I can only top up online. Worse still, like an idiot I months ago let myself be booked to model tomorrow afternoon, and of course with no phone credit the SOS texts I tried to send this evening to organise a replacement wouldn’t have gone. I’ll have to call the models tomorrow morning, because at the moment, my only means of communication is the landline and it’s a little late to be making calls.

Suddenly, I’m strangely isolated. I can’t even call the people I should. All I can do is write – offline – about coming home to strangeness. And try to reassemble the thoughts I had while away, about coming back.

It’s 1am. I’ve cooked and eaten a bowl of noodles, by my calculations my sixth light meal in about 32 hours. I’m tired and buzzy; and I’ve finished the chocolate. I should try to sleep.

Oh yeah. Don’t worry, I do plan to write about the trip, the whole trip (though don’t expect ‘nothing but’) – but at the moment I just have scattered notes, so bear with me while I construct and reconstruct, over the coming days and weeks. Each section will have its moment, backdated to its time. Do backdated entries show up on an RSS feed? Keep me posted.

touched by the dark side

Some seriously nasty shit is going down over at the construction site zensiren.com… do get a screenshot of the fake escort service – it’ll be a collector’s item one day.

Don’t ask me who’s responsible; I would prejudice my case if I threw around unproven accusations. The battle is likely to be messy, but we must prevail, for the children. Lucky bluehigh’s on my side.

tedia

I used the word ‘tedia’ in conversation …then paused, and said ‘I think I just made that up.’ We googled it: plenty of Tedia as company names and such, but no Wikipedia entry and when we added the define command it couldn’t. So, subject to whatever a more rigorous search may turn up, I hereby define tedia as: pl. of tedium, meaning (a/the range of) tedious things and/or events.

The sentence I found myself using it in went something like this: Paying those parking fines is just one of the tedia I have to deal with this week.

Please feel free to comment about your own tedia, so that the Wiktionary entry Stuart encouraged me to write can refer back here to more than one usage example.

this is the other one

proportions not classical

Originally uploaded by Illuminata.

A doctor at Royal Prince Alfred Hospital’s Rachel Forster Breast Clinic syringed my lump and decreed it harmless.

But he found another dark area on the ultrasound which he decided was of concern, so he took a biopsy of that and I have to call back in a week for the results.

I refused to have a mammogram. The stats for detection by mammogram are a 90% success rate, for ultrasound 80%, but I’m under 50 with one small lump and no history of cancer either personally or in the family, and a mammogram is unpleasant for anyone but really painful if you have small hard breasts. I had to put my foot down; the doctor who did my initial exam tried that chiding voice they use when they assume their science and statistics unquestionably overrule your personal issues. She used it again afterwards to tell me she couldn’t guarantee that I didn’t have cancer, and I resisted saying a 90% detection rate’s no guarantee either, lady. Thanks, I thought, but I’ll make the choice about when it’s necessary for me to go through that. It may be next week, but it wasn’t today.

I’m sore enough from three needles being jabbed and wiggled about.

picking up the thread

the longer i leave it the worse it gets… here we go.

forgive me readers for i have been slack. it’s been several weeks since my last blog, and even when i stopped (for good reason: i was incommunicado in the wilds of tasmania) there was stuff overdue. much of it will now never see the light of day, i guess, and half the delay comes now from confusion about where to start… this blogging shit is a burden, damnit.

okay. the most urgent obligation is to my tafe documentation, so if you read me for the more salacious and entertaining aspects of my life i’m afraid i have to keep you hanging a little longer. keep checking back – and remember, i backdate, so check the categories at left for new entries.

backlog

i know; it’s too long since i’ve blogged. the trouble is, the more happens in your life, the more you feel you should publish, but the less time you have to write. i have a mental blogjam… i’ll get to it; just bear with me a few more days.

16-hour days

How did this happen? Everything looks so promising for a while, then somehow it veers round another corner and suddenly it’s spiralling out of control. Again.

I’m on my, um… fourth, it must be (excuse me, I’m a little fried), yes, my fourth 16-hour day in a row. I get up in the morning, eat while squeezing in an hour at the computer, blogging – tafe documentation, not recreational – or trying to keep the unread emails in my inbox below 200, then I rush off to work or school. I have half an hour for lunch unless I’m travelling job-to-job or job-to-school, in which case I might have more time but less relaxation. When school finishes I get a dinner-and-travel break that usually involves an hour’s peak hour travel (such a pleasure) and some sort of cheap, makeshift meal. I get home from the evening job around 10-10.30pm, and sometimes there’s homework to finish for the following day, or domestic business to sort. I’m behind with some of the tafe work I should be doing, especially vocal workouts and the blog documentation, but I haven’t time to scratch. I’m not getting to the pool often enough either (the aim is 3x a week but I’m making only once or twice, which means receding fitness levels). By the weekend there’s so much stuff banked up to do that I’m no less busy.

Last night I went to bed fractious and teary as a baby with sheer fatigue. Poor Drew is pretty patient with me and helps where he can, though he’s wrestling with dramas of his own at the moment. I woke this morning little better, after dreaming all night of giving succour to an overworked and overtired Madonna (she was in Australia incognito, resting… I dream of her whenever I’m struggling with career issues and my own limits; it’s embarrassing but there it is. I wrote a song about the first one… it was called Frankenmadonna. I can’t see Madge taking to it…). All I could think when I woke this morning was, ‘I need another two hours sleep.’

Well, I didn’t quite make it through the day as scheduled. I began to feel kind of surreally, dangerously fatigued around lunchtime, making my way from work to the afternoon tafe session. I started to worry that I would do something stupid; step out in front of traffic, put my bag down somewhere and walk away from it, go mad in the street. I fought the idea of skipping class and going home, remembering I was handing in the paperwork for a group assignment today. So I went to class, sat in a daze up the back till the first break, then handed in the assignment and went all wobbly explaining my state to the teacher. He very wisely sent me home, so I got a couple of hours sleep before rousing myself to go out to the evening modelling booking.

And so another day ends. It’s 10.18pm by the clock on the platform as I wait for the train home, which, true to Cityrail form, is running 25 minutes late. People gather grumbling, the announcements go on inanely, the electronic signs keep changing. The timetable is shot again; trains are out of order and off schedule. The train that was announced to be 25 minutes late is now 37 minutes late and counting. Last announcement said it ‘should be here pretty soon.’ As I write, another announcement pipes up about ‘the train on platform 2′ but there is no train on platform 2. It turns up a few minutes later and I hop on it, leaving the crowd still waiting glumly for the one on the other line, now almost three quarters of an hour late. Late-stage capitalism: i’m lovin’ it.