Finance approved. Crushing poverty is ours!
Oh, and the new house.
The move to Perth is just that little bit closer.
Finance approved. Crushing poverty is ours!
Oh, and the new house.
The move to Perth is just that little bit closer.
It’s traditional, at this time, to publish my end of year list. But as a) it’s more than thirty items long, b) I’m currently lying in a chalet in Fremantle, a long way from my computer, and c) I’m typing this on my phone, that one’s going to have to wait.
Instead, let me end this year of neck-deep shite with a list of goals for my first year back in Perth for almost half a decade. To whit:Continue reading “2020 PLUS A TUTU, TOO”
And he never taught at that school again…
The goodbyes have been said. The class parties have taken place. The keys have been handed back. The other goodbyes have been said. And I have five minutes to scratch myself and let you know that, for the last month or so, we’ve been gearing up to leave Karratha and return to Perth.
It’s been building for a while.Continue reading “K-TOWNTHXBYE!”
If you’re a Lego fiend, or just interested in the way I artistically express myself instead of writing these days, then be of good cheer: there will be a post about my epic excursion to travel down to Perth to exhibit at this year’s Bricktober exhibition last weekend coming soon.
To be honest, it would have been coming this weekend, except that well, decisions have been decisionated, and the family have decisionatisized that our adventure in Karratha is over, and it’s time for us to pack up and return to the relative civilisation of Perth and surrounds.
All of which requires us to have jobs. So this weekend has been a frenzy of cover letters, updated CVs, and hitting up all the job links of Jobs WA, Seek, and the like. Luscious is a career teacher, so we’re concentrating on making sure she’s offered a full-time position, which will then be the indication of where we need to settle ourselves, but I’m also making sure I at least throw my hat into the ring for some positions — as as many part-time ones as I can find, as well.
Pretty pictures soon, I promise, as soon as I’ve shot these applications away and have the time to write a full blog report. But for now, it’s off the submit buttons for me! Best case scenario is that we’ll go down for Christmas and simply stay. I’ll keep you in the loop.
Today I walked past a little girl in the shops just as she yelled “I don’t work for mean bossyheads!” at nobody in particular, and I never knew my spirit animal would turn out to be a four year old in a sparkly tutu, but here we are.
I spoke earlier this week about my plans for 2021, including returning to my regular blogging features, such as 5 for Friday. So what better way to kick off a new year of this feature than by expanding on my previous comments and detailing five goals I want to achieve, and maintain, during the coming year.
5 for Friday: Days to Come.Continue reading “5 FOR FRIDAY: 2021”
So…… lot of weather we’ve been having lately, innit?……
All right, let’s talk serious shit. I’ve lost my way since our son Blake completed suicide back in September 2019. Of course it’s understandable — Luscious and I have been swallowed by grief, and anybody who can’t understand how that level of grief can affect you has my permission to stay quiet — but the ultimate end of that process is that my life has turned in upon itself and started eating its own tail. Everything that was supposed to be good about coming to Karratha — gaining fitness, writing more, lowering my stress levels, finding my post-50-year-old-future, etc etc and so forth — was destroyed, and what’s more, I didn’t care.
This can no longer be supported.Continue reading “WELCOME TO THE BUNGLE. AGAIN.”
Karratha to Perth: 1600 kilometres.
Date of son and daughter-in-law’s wedding: slap bang in the middle of the school holidays.
Length of time we’ve had shiny new SUV: two weeks.
Of course we drove.
The plan was relatively simple: we’d bundle ourselves into the car, blast through the 11-hour drive from K-Town to Geraldton in a day, stay overnight, then hit Perth on day two. Coming back, we’d take things slower: stop at Geraldton again, stop at Carnarvon on day two, get home on day three. Take the time to see a tourist trap or two on the way. We’d have Lord 15’s best mate in the car with us, so turn the trip into a bit of a sightseeing experience rather than a race. And with the extra space we’d have, and the lack of a luggage limit, get some big-arse shopping in in the meantime.
And so we did.
Along the way, though, it turned into an important rite-of-old-man-passage. Because I learned some things, and those things are going to herald some changes. Continue reading “LESSONS FROM A ROAD TRIP”
Well, we survived.
Tropical Cyclone Damien came crashing through Karratha on Friday night, stayed around the town like a biker gang in a 70s Ozploitation movie for most of Saturday, and made its exit in time for us to break out the shovels and chainsaws Sunday afternoon to engage in the long and dispiriting task of cleaning up.
Writing remains dead. Teaching eats everything; I spend most of my spare time creating resources, marking, or just plain dealing with the steepness of the learning curve that comes from being out of a game for twenty-five years. There’s a writing group in town: Luscious and I went to it a few times, but haven’t been in something like 9 months. We’re talking about going back, just to get in touch with the joy of words. Watch this space. Or, if you care about the outcome, maybe don’t…
Weight loss has tapered off in a major way. See above for the reasons why. I’m still under 100kgs, which is a good thing, and trying to fit workouts into the gaps. Call it maintenance rather than loss, perhaps. I have still lost centimetres, which is positive, and my chest has gained half a centimetre of muscle where there was once only fat. It’s a long haul. I’m still hauling.
The Lego remains in the cupboard. Time, community, opportunity to display are all lacking. But Luscious and I have just swapped offices because reasons, and mine now has a Great Big Giant Table ™, so possiblymaybeperhaps I’ll have a chance to get it all out and noodle around with some pieces just for fun. We’ll see.
Life decisions have been decisioned. We like it here. There are opportunities for us. We’ll be staying for at least another three years.
Have I missed anything?
So, it’s over. Tropical Cyclone Veronica became Very Strong Wind Veronica, and finally, Was That It? Veronica. Port Hedland was battered to within an inch of improvement, Wickham and Roeburne received a bloody good wash, and Karratha lost a few trees and spread an awful lot of leaves about to be the mulch of the future.
As to us, we evacuated from our house because we were advised that our house was likely to be flooded, and spent three nights camped out on air beds on the floor of our local indoor basketball courts, surrounded by as much food as we could cram into two eskies, a veritable fort of water bottles, and the hacking coughs and sneezes of 60 or so other people who received the same advice… only to return home and find that up the half a dozen of our emergency sandbags had become partially moist.
I make light, of course. This is the blog of a bitter and broken curmudgeon. News sites start to the left.
But, we’re okay, the house survived, we’re all back at work and school and regular service is resumed. So, on that note, I shall resume my position of rough radio silence for at least a few more weeks while I go back to trying to resolve my future as a writer, artist, failure, empty vessel, and hermit-best-treated-as-a-sort-of-roundabout.
Thanks to all who got in touch to make sure we are okay. See you all soon. Ish. Probably. Maybe. Probably.
Breaking silence just to update you on our current state of Real Life ™.
As many of you know, we located to Karratha, in the North of our State, at the beginning of last year. Right now, that puts us in the path of Cyclone Veronica, a category 4 cyclone off the coast that is expected to reach category 5 by the weekend, when it is expected to cross the coast somewhere within 350 kilometres of my side of the bed.
By tea-time Sunday, we are likely to be gifted with winds in excess of 125km/hr, potentially reaching to over 165km/hr. According to the Bureau of Meteorology, we’re also highly likely to receive rainfall in excess of 150mm within a 24 hour period, resulting in major flooding and a very dangerous storm tide.
Time for a break here at the Batthaim, I think.
After a year of relief teaching I’ve accepted a contract to teach English at the local High School part-time, and to say I suck at it would be like noticing the Antarctic is a touch nippy at this time of year. Consequently, running full-pelt just to keep up with everyone else’s strolling is eating my life. Writing has come to a shuddering halt, and frankly, I’m dispirited and disillusioned enough that it’s entirely possible it will never start up again. Thanks to an unpaid Christmas period, I can’t afford to pick kickboxing back up or renew my pool and gym memberships for months– if at all this year, thanks to all the other massive financial hits that have decided now was the right time for a multi-issue cross-over event– so fitness and workouts have taken a dive into shitedom.
Everything is all too much, and right now I have neither the energy nor the will to pretend that I have anything to offer the Universe. I might have a handle on this new position by the end of the ten-week first term. I might not. I might be in a position to return to my dancing monkey-boy side job. I might not. After 48 years of scratching every moment to try and be something special beyond the anonymous food processing unit my family history and social stratum bequeathed me at birth, I’m ready to admit defeat. I can’t help feeling I would have been better off just settling for a life of unambitious pissheadery, as did all my forebears.
Time for a break.
I love living in Australia. I love being Australian. I get highly shitty when anyone plays the “You’re a pom, you’re not a real Australian” card on me. I’ve been resident in this country since I was 5, a citizen since I was 11. I watch the world. This is, in many ways, a truly great, great country in which to live.
So wouldn’t it be nice to make it great for everyone? Not just in the relative political, judicial, and social safety we enjoy without thinking about; but emotionally and (though I hate to use the word), spiritually, as well. Wouldn’t it be nice if we had a day we could all feel that good about, without having to really consider the implications? If, instead of hearing somebody say This date causes my people pain because of these reasons, the response was less Strayaloveitorleaveitturnbacktheboatsfootygobackwhereyousecamefrom and more How can we help lessen your pain? ? More, I don’t know… Australian?
Wouldn’t it be nice just not to have to argue about it, because we could simply. just. agree? Continue reading “HAPPY AUSTRALIA-FOR-MOST-OF-US DAY”
The car went first. Then the furniture. Finally, on Wednesday, I drove Luscious and the kids to the airport and they went too. I’ve a couple of days of work and house tidying left, and then I’ll follow them. Rockingham is over, and our future– at least for the next 2 years– lies in Karratha.
I’ve lived in Rockingham, on and off, since the age of eight. That’s a gnat’s breath short of forty years. It’s my home. No matter where I travel– including this move, for however many years it lasts– no matter where I move to, my new location is viewed in terms of where it lies in relation to Rockingham. I’m not moving 1600 kilometres to Karratha, I’m moving 1600 kilometres away from Rockingham.
It that’s time of the year, when we turn away from days past with a muttered Well, I won’t be doing that again and look forward to the bright, blank pages of the year to come. Time to lay down a few markers so that when we turn away from days past in a year’s time we’ll know exactly what we should have been doing instead of playing Candy Crush and watching The Biggest Block Kitchen Bake-Off Survivor.
You know: New Year’s resolutions.
So, with a move to a new town in a new (hotter, redder, moister, farther away) part of the world on the horizon, it’s time to make this…… flee change?…… work to my benefit. Here are five resolutions for my upcoming year, to take advantage of my new-found status as the domestic-based partner in my marriage, and help allay Luscious’ fears that it’ll all come crashing down around our ears as she dies of work-related stress and I turn into some sort of obsessively masturbating, inanimate, Jabba the Hutt-shaped, couch-based life-form.
Five For Friday: New Year’s Resolutions in a Furnished Cage
Everywhere I go, I take Spike. I first bought him when I moved into a flat by myself aged 23. He’s been with me ever since. When I bought my first house, I planted him. When I moved, I took a cutting. The plant remained behind, but Spike still travelled with me. Every time I bought a house, I planted Spike. Every time I’ve moved on, the plant has stayed behind, and Spike has renewed himself in cutting form. I’ve given a cutting to all of my bonus kids so they can have their own Spike. Still, Spike stays with me.
To whit, 24 years after I first brought him home, say hello to Karratha Spike.
Big news on the 18 Month Plan front, my friends. Big news indeed.
On Thursday morning, Luscious received a phone call from Karratha High School to inform her that they had a position open, and would she be okay with them undertaking a reference check.
On Saturday morning, she received a job offer. And accepted.
Tomorrow, I will dance into work and deliver something I’ve been wanting to deliver for… well, 18 Months (#18monthplan, duh): my resignation letter. And in late January, we will up and move for two years to Karratha: a town of 17,000 inhabitants, 1500 kilometres away, with an average temperature somewhere in the mid 30s; with a new $43 million arts centre; with a swimming pool (for some reason, having a swimming pool has become a running joke during Luscious’ job search); with one shopping centre; with one single library and a TAFE.
We’re going bush, people!
Luscious will teach. I will pick up a day or two of relief teaching here and there. And write. And pick up my visual arts practice after 20 years out of the game. And act as domestic support.
I’ve a few plans in place: check out my Patreon page for the list of projects I’ll be working on, and news of rewards and patronage levels, should you be of a mind once the page is officially launched in late January (and pick up a free story by way of saying thanks for visiting). Seven novels in 2 years, and a return to the dedicated, driven author I used to be.
I can’t wait.
It’s July 2016. Every morning I park my car in the car park at work, and give myself five minutes to cry before I get out and face the day.
Today is no different. What was a dream job when I started has become a nightmare I can’t bring myself to face, but can see no way of escaping. 2 years under a manager who was psychotically work-obsessed to the point where the three co-ordinators who worked under her (I am one) would take turns in being the first to talk to her, so we could report back which personality we were dealing with that day, have taken a toll. She left some months ago, but has been replaced with someone even worse– a career monkey, utterly disinterested in the welfare of her staff and of the projects being worked upon in the name of her section. She ignores vital paperwork, distributes blame in buckets, throws her co-ordinators under buses on a daily basis, is untrustworthy, cowardly, and is ruining everyone around her. Already, of the two co-ordinators with whom I’ve worked for the last 4 years, one has left to take up a job with another City. The other will soon fall pregnant and take a year’s maternity leave. Me? I’ve cracked under the stress. I’m seeing a work-appointed therapist, and I’m on a work-management program. I can’t sleep. I’m eating every piece of badforme in sight. I’m drinking. I’ve used up all my sick leave. Writing is out of the question. There’s no hope.
Today is a therapy day. My therapist asks me a simple question: What would you be doing, if you had the choice?
Two months since my last post. All of June and July, and not a peep.
Forty years ago today, I landed in Australia: a tiny, pale, extremely English boy of only-just 5.
I’ve never been back. Never been able to afford to. I’ve spent 89% of my life in one corner of South Western Australia– 2 years in Kambalda, 2 years in Narrogin, the rest in a conurbation roughly 160 kilometres long with Mandurah in the South and Clarkson in the North. I currently live 12 kilometres from the house we lived in from the time we moved to Rockingham until my parents divorced.
To paraphrase an old comedian pal of mine, Vic Demised: I set out to explore the world, and got as far as Baldivis.
So, despite what Luscious says when she wants to wind me up after I’ve called them ‘sweeties’ once too often, or pronounced it DARby instead of DUHby, I’m not only not English (I was naturalised on my 11th birthday, so neither philosophically nor legally), I’m not even a decently cosmopolitan Australian. I’m just a Rockingham boy with tickets on himself.
This is it. Everything is packed. Everything is put away. Everything’s been disconnected. Tomorrow the truck comes, and the Batthaim is no more.
We’ve been here over five and a half years. It’s the longest I’ve been in a single house since I shared a two bedroom duplex with my Mum and younger brother when I was a teenager, 23 years ago.
My bonus son, Aiden, reached adulthood and embarked on his own life from here. Miss 13 graduated Primary School here. Master 10 was home schooled here. We’ve had grandchildren, boarded adult family members and childrens’ friends, struggled with major illness. I sold my first novel here, and my second and third. Luscious became an educator, and fought tooth and nail to advance her tertiary education. Our kids learned to swim in this house, to ride bikes, to read and write. We’ve lived here, when all is said and done, really lived, that sort of life you promise yourself when you move to a seaside town from the city.
It’s a white elephant of a house. The gardens are too big and the weeds have never been under control. The reticulation is a bitch to operate. There’s not a right angle in the fucking place. You can’t reach the ceiling in the foyer to clean it. The taps screech and scream and not one of the washers we’ve fitted over the years has solved it. The patio was designed by a five year old with crayon poisoning, so that the rain pours down onto the seating area instead of away from it. We don’t get terrestrial TV, The mortgage is too high and we’ve struggled to afford it and maintain any sort of standard of living for the kids. I’ve grown to dislike it terribly. I’ll be glad to see the back of it.
And yet, it’s been our home. Really our home. It’s been a significant part of our lives. No matter where I’ve been since, the house I lived in with my parents between the ages of 8 and 13, before it all went to shit and they divorced, is the one I think of as my childhood home, the place where my memories really began. This will be that house for my children, I think: when they look back on their childhoods, this will be the place where their memories really begin. And now we’re leaving it behind.
It’s for a better deal, there’s no two ways about it– the place we’re moving to is closer to my work, close to Miss 13’s secondary college, closer to all the places we choose to spend our time when we’re out and about, deep in the heart of Rockingham– my old town, my home town. It’s more compact, less sprawling and unwieldy. It’s more manageable, more affordable, newer, better built. The gardens are smaller. We’ll have more money, more time, more leisure. There’s no down side to this move.
But still, this is our home. The Batthaim. And now we’re leaving it.
We’re going to need a new name.
So here we are, then. The 9th of November. By nano stats, that means I should have completed 15 000 of my
unholy mess novel as of tonight. That means that, as of tonight, I’m only 7.56 days behind where I’m supposed to be!
But, like Jesus said when his Mum wanted to know who pinched all the tuna sandwiches, I have a hell of an excuse. Let’s break it down, shall we?
Wednesday 29 October: Agree with Luscious Lyn that the Batthaim has become too big, expensive, difficult to maintain and draining. Decide to sell the place.
Thursday: Appoint real estate agent we’ve been sniffing around for a while. Receive list of final renovations necessary to bring house up to saleable standard.
Saturday 1 November: Received square metre of soil. Spend half a day carting the bastarding thing out to the back yard to fill the giant empty garden bed that’s been sat there empty for two years. Plant colourful plants. Trim giant sprawling half-dead passionfruit plant. Patch cracks in upstairs room ceiling and kids bathroom. Do some actual writing, by virtue of mad panic and previously undiscovered wizard powers.
Sunday: More patching, sanding, and carting heavy bloody things all over the place. Pack family up and sod off for an hour while real estate agent brings people through.
Monday: Write the 2 thousandth and change words on the novel. Do shoulder stretches. Use bendy shoulder muscles to help pat myself on back.
Tuesday: Accompany Luscious to hospital. Be supportive husband while she undergoes horrendously invasive surgery.
Wednesday: Continue husband support role while trying to persuade increasingly grumpy wife that resting in bed does not involve any form of cleaning up or housework. More patching. More fucking sanding. More fucking painting.
Wednesday evening: Pack sore and sorry wife into car and spend what’s supposed to be an hour at cafe while real estate agent brings people around the house even though he’s been bloody told specifically not to do this today because Luscious is supposed to be resting and not gallivanting around the bloody neighbourhood.
Slightly later Wednesday evening: Real estate agent sells Batthaim. Becomes best friend for life.
Thursday: Packing. Lots and lots of packing.
Friday: Meet with mortgage broker just to make sure we can afford to actually move and won’t end up living in a shopping trolley and smelling like cat pee.
Yesterday: Fucking patch. Fucking sand. Fucking paint. Get in car and drive round and round and round suburb of choice looking at interminable series of ugly, run down and general piece of shit house I wouldn’t use for a crack house, never mind a place of residence.
Saturday, 3pm: Find the perfect house. Cry tears of relief. Wipe eyes, Put in an offer.
Rest of yesterday: drive from Baldivis to Southern Bloody River because the idiot not-local real estate agent didn’t actually have the forms to sign an offer. Sit around for the better part of two hours while idiot not-local real estate faffs about like an idiot, including actually having to read the forms to himself to make sure he’s got the right damn forms…… out of there by 6pm, nobody dies, it’s a close-run thing.
Late last night: idiot real estate agent rings. Lyn. I think he worked out who best to speak to. Our offer is accepted.
All today, starting at 6.20am and finishing at gone 5pm when I stopped caring about life: MORE FUCKING SANDING AND PAINTING. Empty, box, clean and deconstruct entire shed. Entire. Damn. Shed.
Yeah, so, all of which is an overly dramatic way of saying, hey, what a week: the Luscious one has had surgery, we’ve sold our house and have bought a new one, and for the rest of the year we’ll be packing and organising finances and– all being as per instructions– we’ll be moving house the day before Christmas.
Turns out, Real Life ™ trumps writing. Who knew?
Over at Facebook, I was tagged in a meme that required me to list three things that made me grateful, every day for three days.
So I thought I’d list them here, too.
And, things being what they are, here’s a little bonus extra grateful content:
10. Above all else, I am grateful for the presence of Luscious Lyn in my life. We have been together almost twelve years now, which boggles me to think of, and in that time we have faced innumerable struggles, traumas and hardships, but throughout it all she has been the pivot around which our family revolves. She has brought me unparallelled joy, belief and support, and whatever happiness I have managed to gather unto myself has been, in large part, because she is beside me, pointing me always towards positivity and joy. I cope, and occasionally flourish, because of her. I am a better person because of her.
And for that we should *all* be grateful.