Don't know why

Stoopid blogger. Don't know why the type's gone spazzy... and no time to fix it at the moment. Hopefully it will have an attitude adjustment and fix itself by the time I return. Grrrr.

A dry spell. 11 hours work in a week does not cover the bills. Sitting, waiting for the phone to ring, does not make me less anxious.

The house is slowly adjusting to the emptiness that has been left by the death of Kirby. Even with the other three here, it still seems... less. When I left the supermarket a few days ago, I caught myself hoping he had found a dry spot from the heavy rain until I got home... although mid thought it jolted me that he no longer needed to fear the rain. Those moments will become more scarce, I know.

I went into town at lunch time yesterday to meet some friends and watch the final NBA game, and drink beer. It was nice to be out of the house. Then everyone went back to their respective jobs, and I wandered, and wondered. I sat drinking a coffee and looking at people's shoes. Women wear such ridiculous shoes... tottering about on the unevenly paved steps that lead down to Martin Place. Shoes that would have been a fetishist's dream. Why would you wear them at your workplace?

I wandered, and found myself in Lincraft. I bought some clasps and beads and went home to repair a cheap bracelet that I am particularly fond of. Then I made up some earrings. For a first attempt, they aren't awful.

I have my guitar lesson this afternoon, am going out with my guitar-buying friend and my sister and one of her former flatmates to see a band tonight, and my mother is visiting tomorrow (although, with this constant rain, I wonder if we will survive the day, cooped up in each other's company).

I'm feeling about as flat as this reads.

Best Left

I unwrapped the book from the plastic cover that he had thoughtfully returned it in, and upended it into my hand. The hard edges of it bruised my palm slightly as it slid out unexpectedly quickly.
It was a novel by one of my favourite authors, bought in hardcover because I never have the patience to wait for his books to be released in the cheaper paperback before buying them.

I particularly enjoyed the way the author had written this novel, like a jigsaw, or a quilt, seemingly separate stories from different characters, different times, slowly building up an overall picture, filing in the gaps of previous stories, creating more questions for the next one.

I had lent him this book, knowing he hadn’t been hugely impressed with this author’s work in the past. I hoped these stories, this story, might finally show him how this author touched me, how I could relate to his isolated, awkward characters, to the sense of stoicism in their gritty lives. I had recently learnt that the author was the child of a policeman. I wondered if that connection also reached out to me through his writing.

I had lent him this book hoping he might see a little more of me, might become curious to know a little more of me. It was a futile hope, and I was well aware of that… unrequited, and that was the only thing that made sense between us.

I was willing to take the scraps of friendship that were offered. They were enough. It would save us both from the humiliation of my exposing myself any more than I already probably had.

The book had a card in it, marking a page. I wondered if he’d been able to read any more than where the postcard paused the story. The card was a generic invitation to an exhibition of printmakers in North Sydney. Coincidences. I had once known a woman, an editor, who had left her career to focus permanently on her printmaking, and she had helped establish this group who were now exhibiting. Julia. I wondered if she would have work showing there still.

I became curious to see if he had left any more snippets of himself between the pages. My voyeuristic appetite smacked its lips at the possibilities.

I flicked through the heavy pages, and a sheet of folded paper fell from the back sleeve. Putting the betraying book down, I bent and picked up the white sheet from the floor. Unfolding it, there was a printout of an email that I had sent to him some time earlier. He had written, or more accurately, hurriedly scrawled some notes on it.

The email was about a dream I had. I had typed it straight out as I recalled it the following morning, and sent it out, verbatim, to friends to see what they thought it might have meant. It was something we did back then. Or something I did, anyway, and encouraged my friends to share. I was still tentative about writing things at that state, and sharing these dreams seemed a way of spreading the wings of possible story ideas.

I read the email I had sent out.

I had a dream...
and in my dream, my 'ideal me' was walking on holiday on an island. I know it was an island because I had a map, a bit like those old treasure maps, or the kind of maps you get in fantasy books.
On the map we were travelling from the north to the south... and we were at a weir or dam of some sort. On the ledge were big black dangerous 'funnel web' like spiders. They were just sitting there sunning themselves. Somehow I knew that this dam protected this side of the island from all the bad things on the other side. But the spiders suddenly got caught by an overflow of the dam and were washed into the river. This should have seemed a bad thing, but it wasn't.
My friend and I were walking along a path beside the river, past the weir, along the edge of the lakes, and it seemed like an old island, sunny but European in some way, cobbledstone squares and old buildings.
We walk up to a pub in one town down south, a harbour town, and people are seated at tables around the corner pub... it is a sharp angle and there are doors that walk straight from the footpath up 2 steps and then you're at the bar. There are locals sitting at the bar, but it is friendly and light. I walk in and the person behind the bar looks obviously Australian, he is blonde and tanned and a bit rugged and yeah ok a spunk in a nicely unselfconscious sort of way. I see they are using large, cone-like glasses, so I ask for a schooner... then laugh and say ok, whatever the local equivalent is, of the preferred house beer. He fills up a glass full of a very light, golden, sparkling liquid, and smiles at my Australian accent.
I then step outside to meet my travelling friend (male but very indistinct) and I am very happy.

Throughout it, he had circled where I had written ‘we’ and in the margins there were questions. Does we = you and me? Spiders = fears. Water = emotions. Is the travelling companion someone else or is it still me?

I was mortified. He had thought the dream was about him and me. About an ‘us’. Reading through the email now, weeks, maybe months after it had been dashed out and set off, I could see the light in which he had read it, and the notes he had taken, querying, made even more sense. I could not have imagined that interpretation when I sent it, though, and to think he had thought I was making some attempt at… at what? Seduction? Flirtation? The dream hadn’t been about him. There wasn’t anyone identifiable in my dream. It had been about me, and my potential to overcome my fears. The people in it were just props.

I had dreamt about him before, though. Just once. The dream had been just a glimpse. His warmth as I kissed his smooth freckled forehead. Waking and recalling that dream had made me blush. There was more intimacy in that kiss than if it had been a full sex dream, and even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew that it was him. I felt awkward and guilty for days for having that dream. And I would never have told him about it. It was far too personal.

To now see that he had misinterpreted this email, the whole reasoning behind my sending it, and knowing that after writing down the notes of what he thought it meant, that he had never mentioned it to me, never asked if he was wrong in his presumptions, it became yet another good reason for me to withdraw from that group of friends. The fact was that I was fonder of him than I wanted to be. The fact was that I knew he wasn’t even that interested in a friendship with me that extended beyond the occasional exchange of recommended books.

I looked down at the white paper, so neatly folded, and wondered if he had intended me to find it. I slowly tore it up and took my final step away from him. I doubt he even noticed.

Goodbye Kirby

Said goodbye to my little mate Kirby tonight. He's here, and I'll bury him in the morning, in a corner that gets lots of sun, where he used to like to sleep (he LOVED sleeping). It was quick and painless and he won't ever have another gut ache again. He irritated the hell out of me sometimes, but I loved him.



So fair well, SmellyBum Kirbos, Grumpybum Cat, he of the wobbly guts. I'll miss you.

(yeah, I'm crying. Sorry about that.)

A long weekend has passed and it's time to think of another day back at work. But the weekend was nice. I spent a lot of time sleeping, making some ungodly din with the guitar, spent an afternoon catching up with some friends in Newtown, and another afternoon with a blogger friend, and avoiding doing the housework I should have done. Bad me.

I have a question though. Do you think it is possible to change the habits, or self perceptions, of a life-time?

I think I might write about this a bit more, later, but I'd like to hear your opinions on whether a leopard can change its spots. Have you changed yours?

Work, sleep. Work more, sleep less. Work even more, sleep even less, wake up on the lounge being smothered by cats. Fuck I'm being a boring sod at the moment.

When I was writing the "Obsession" series, I had ideas pinging out of my head at all hours. I couldn't keep them in. It was fantastic. I was working in an environment that felt very private (even though it was open plan) because everyone seemed to respect each other's privacy, and I would find myself able to work with the story ticking over and refining itself in the back of my mind, ready to be written during my lunch break.

Now I'm working in an environment where the only way I can feel like I have any space to myself is to put my headphones on and play System of a Down (oh boy, do I like that new album), with just a minimal synchronised nod of my head betraying the intensity of the music building a barrier between me and all those around me. It isn't that I dislike the people I work with, quite the opposite. I like most of them quite a lot. But there is always someone walking by, talking, looking over your shoulder at your work, and so there is no chance to jot down a word or two to use later on in a story. And that's just assuming that a story has a chance to even breathe between the frenzy of deadlines I've been juggling the last few weeks. I love the adrenalin, but I'm hating the fact it is squeezing everything else out of my head.

On the up side (and there are quite a few), I did something on Saturday that I've been talking about for a long time. I finally bit the bullet and signed up for guitar lessons. So I trotted off at Saturday lunch time with my guitar in my hand (or in its case, in my hand) to a local shop that to specialises in teaching music. I had a ball. The people were very nice, and not at all intimidating, and my teacher, Jed, is an old rocker (well, he's probably 10 years older than me, with hair to his waist and an open quietness about him) who threw me straight into it and had me strumming along more confidently in that first half hour than I ever had. It was so much fun. My silly little hands are going to frustrate me, but they will learn to stretch (or I'll figure out a way to work chords around them), and I will eventually develop callouses so my poor fingertips will stop alternating between numb and ouchies.

Things are a fair bit brighter in the headspace of Hooch at the moment. I've had a few frustrations with people acting a little two-faced, but hell, that's their problem in the long run. I don't know who said it, but the gist that you can only control your own behaviour, and so live as honourably as you can, is something I take very much to heart.

So... that's where I'm at tonight.

Oh! I've just finished reading The PowerBook by Jeanette Winterson and My Life as a Fake by Peter Carey. I really do enjoy Peter Carey's writing. This isn't my favourite, perhaps, but it was so nice to surrender to his story's rythms and be carried along in his imagination for a while. I would really like to read something soon that takes my breath away though... it feels like it is time.

Any recommendations?