Please excuse my absence everyone, it’s been a pretty tough few days. I guess I was long overdue for life to throw me a curve ball, and throw one it most certainly has. I’ve seen things today… sad things… really, really rotten things.  Things you don’t want to see anybody go through… let alone somebody you love.

One last hurdle, and then we can move on. I need timeout to take stock of things, to reassess things…. but I promise I will be back - hopefully before too long.

So tell people you love them, and be thankful for the people who love you. Mourn for what you might have lost, but don’t lose sight of what you have. 

Believe the glass is half full, and it always will be.

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Let’s just imagine that one day a I announce that for one reason or another, I have decided to take timeout from blogging. It might be for any number of reasons, but either way I don’t say goodbye, and I am non-comittal about when, or if, I will return.

Regular readers jump on, leaving comments to my last post along the lines of “we’ll miss you”, and “come back when you’re ready”, and “thanks for wasting so many Tuedsays with us!”. But I don’t reply… in fact, you don’t even know if I’ve read them. After a while, you don’t expect any comments from me on your blog, and your checks that my break might be short lived will become increasingly sparse. The time will come when you will probably give up checking altogether. I’ll become a distant memory, maybe not even that.

Time will pass…

One day, it might be 6 or 8 months later, some new, recent commenter will catch your attention with a funny or witty remark on your blog, and as one does, you’ll click on over to her profile and check it out. You’ll decide she seems nice enough, so you’ll read her most recent post. Then, as decorum dictates, you’ll open her comment box and leave a polite, slightly complimentary comment. Before you do though, you have a quick read of some of the other comments - to get a feel for the sort of person that reads her. There’s maybe a dozen comments, but about three down a name catches your eye. His handle is boogieboy, and you read his comment and giggle. Your mind flashes back many months… and your curiosty gets the better of you. Surely not…

You go and have a look at his profile. He doesn’t give much away, you can’t tell where he lives, or what music or films he likes. You click on is blog, and the blog’s name has a certain something about it. You see from his archives he’s only been blogging for a few weeks, but he already has a small number of repeat commenters. You read some of them, but don’t recognise any one of the people - they are not from the circle you know so well. Then you read the blog, and it has a certain style to it that seems very familliar. Specific things are mentioned… and there are some striking similarities toa blog you once knew as New dog… same old tricks. And then you read that phrase, and your mouth opens slightly, and your eyes widen. You know this has more than one meaning, but you get the joke… you get it because you remember when you first shared it. You sit back in your chair, and start to think. You are now positive it’s him. There are just too many coincidences. You jiggle your knee and frown. You keep staring at the screen and wonder. The questions start to solidify… and before long, gnaw at you. You don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense. You are now in an uncertain place, and you feel stuck there. You need to find a way to get out.

What do you do?

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FLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT OUT.

TWT activities are suspended for today,  since 13 hours later I’m still working.

Even so, I STILL managed to kill 5 minutes typing this. Whoohoo! Go me!

… that was time wastin’ Tuesday.

How was yours?

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At age 11, I had a vivid dream. That in itself was nothing unusual for me, I had a pretty lively and active imagination as a kid - but it was very specific and has stayed with me. In the dream, I am standing behind a cricket stump, and I look up to see a bowler running toward me from the other end of the pitch. As his arm swings to launch the ball, the slo-mo kicks in, and as I watch the ball tumble in the air I hear nothing but a gentle breeze in my ears. The ball strikes the pitch halfway down it’s length and bounces, spinning off slightly to my right as it does so. As I get ready to field it, the batsman just in front of me nears the end of his backswing… and suddenly I feel a heavy blow to the left side of my face. It stuns me for a moment and I am not sure what has happened, but I feel my vision and balance going, as burning pain starts to radiate out from my upper lip. I hold my hand up to my mouth, and pat it - then hold my open palm in front of my eyes and see that it’s covered in blood. I then spit out what looks like a white tooth, and it lands on the ground in front of me. It’s bloody but I can clearly see the white colour. The batsman turns around, but I cannot see his face - but I suddenly become aware of his shock. I can actually feel his dread, as if I am now him looking at me. He throws the bat to the ground, and I wake up.

At the risk of alienating a few people who are a little more esoterically inclined than I am, I feel the urge to somewhat reluctantly reveal my absolute skepticism toward the so-called paranormal.  In spite of that, something happened the next day that even I still struggle to explain.

In the morning before school a bunch of kids, me included, were out in the playground. I remember a guy named Paul came up to me, and he had a baseball in one hand, and a wooden baseball bat in the other, propped over his shoulder. Baseball wasn’t particularly popular at that time, but Paul’s family had moved to Australia from Canada, and he was fanatical about it. We stood and talked for a moment, before Paul turned side on to me, so I was standing on his right. Then he asked, in his thick Canadian accent, “hey, wanna play baseball?”, and as he did so, he threw the ball into the air with his left hand. Suddenly I had the oddest feeling, and time slowed down, and I focused on the ball tumbling in the air, and there was no sound. And then there was a blur of tan… and an impact. I felt my field of view starting to close in, and then , sure enough, the searing pain kicked in in the exact location it had in my dream. I was stunned for a moment before I spat out the boiled peppermint sweet - given to me by one of the kids earlier. As it landed on the ground, I recall the bright white of the sweet against the brown dirt and gum nuts, and I could see the splash of blood on it. A girl standing close by screamed “eeeeeewwwwww! it’s his tooth!”. I needn’t have held my left hand up to my face… I knew what it would look like… and as I drew it away from my mouth and into my field of view it was exactly as it had looked in my dream. I looked up, and Paul was aghast - his hand over his mouth, which was wide open. He threw the bat to the ground, and ran to get a teacher.

*      *      *

Years on, all I have to show for my week of pain and drinking through a straw is a small, pale scar on my upper left lip from the 9 stitches, and a deep seated dislike of anything related to cricket. No teeth knocked out, no concussion - just dissolving stitches and the bonus of a week off school. All up I was actually pretty happy about it. As for Paul, well, we were never close friends before the accident, and I didn’t have a great deal to do with him after. I’d later discover that his father beat him upon finding out what happened, and then took to the bat with a circular saw. Years later he found my profile on one of those lost friend websites and sent me a message, and while he joked about the incident, I sensed that it may have been on his mind ever since. I even wondered if perhaps his therapist had suggested he try and contact me to get some sort of closure - to know that he hadn’t destroyed my life.

Maybe he just wanted to reminisce, or maybe he wanted more from me. I typed the first sentence of a reply, then thought about it some more. I closed the browser, got up, and walked away…

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- am I the only person who wanders around the city during the busy lunch hour looking at people and speculating “I wonder if so and so ( blogger ) looks like that?”

- Andre of AWOL fame has finally returned alive and well, and I anticipate a Sunday arvo catch up session, which will most likely become messy later when he starts pouring shots from his home made liquor cabinet. Sometimes I wonder if having a mate with his very own still is such a good idea…

- it was four degrees this morning… and I’m still walking from the carpark to the office in a light long sleeve shirt. Like the rest of Australia, I live in total denial of winter…

- the sea water is warmer than the air is most of the day at the moment. Might as well be in the water I say.

- nothing highlights the shortcomings of an imcompetant git appointed through nepotism more than meeting the person who should have got his job. I had the sheer pleasure of witnessing this today. Yes… squirm you bastard… squirm…

- after falling off the running wagon through April / May I have crawled back on board, and managed a rather pathetic 9km this week. This time last year I was running 9km three times a week. I have a ways to go. Hmmm… yes indeedy…

- how good is it that just as you approach the end of finacial year and need to suddenly spend money, people seem to throw it at you? Can I invoice you and get paid for the next three weeks in advance? Hell yes!

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Dear Neighbour,

I hope you enjoyed our 90 minute music selection, including classic songs from Devo, The Pixies, and The Smiths. These artists have long been favorites of mine, although I am well aware that not everyone shares my passion for them - especially when they are played as loud as I did today. You see, to me this was a pleasant background noise - a soothing sound to work and hum along to - in much the same way as you didn’t seem to notice your dog’s incessant barking all morning, or most of the long weekend while you were away for that matter. The same goes for the emo bands that thump from your stereo through my walls, waking me up at random hours between 11pm and 2am most weeknights - I’m sure you love them just as much. Oh, and while we’re on that, if today wasn’t quite loud enough for you, the good news is that was only 50% volume, and I was only using the one 120W RMS amplifier. If need be, I can connect up my spare 150W Mosfet PA amp and the additional set of BOSE directional speakers, just for that extra bit of bass. I’m fairly sure that combined, the wall of sound I create will certainly drown out anything your dogs, TV, cars, stereo or night time bitch squealing might manage.

Furthermore, if you weren’t happy with today’s selection, fear not! Tomorrow I am devoting the entire 90 minutes to the work of The Dead Kennedys and Black Flag, and the following day from 8am, a special feature on UK punk bands including The Exploited, X-Ray Specs and The Damned. It’s bound to get you up and bopping around the house, VERY EARLY.

Sorry we have been such quiet, mild mannered neigbours up until this point - we were under the misapprehension that this was a quiet street full of half deaf pensioners and had acted in kind. Now we know that everyone can make as much noise as they like at all hours, without any consideration or respect for anyone else living nearby, we intend on doing our bit to help out.

After all, it’s the neighbourly thing to do, isn’t it?

Yours Noisily,

General Boy and Miss R.

( … that was time wastin’ Tuesday. How was yours? )

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It had been three weeks. As I walked past Andre’s place on my daily morning surfcheck I could see nothing had changed - the curtains were still drawn, the driveway remained empty, and the weeds had gained more territory in the battle to take over his front yard. In the evenings I’d drive past on the way home from work, but as darkness fell, no lights were switched on, and no car appeared in the driveway.

“Still no sign of Andre” I tell Miss R, as I dump my bag on the floor and hang my car keys on the hook. “It’s weird”.

Ever practical, she floats a raft of possible explanations. “Maybe he’s looking after one of his parents and they’re sick”, or “maybe he’s gone away for a while”. I find this hard to believe - I know most of his work is down this way, and if he was going anywhere on holiday he’d tell me… to brag about it, if nothing else. Besides… he’d only just come back from a holiday, and had started a new semester teaching. “No”, I say, explaining my reasoning. “Something’s happened”.

A few days later I pass and notice a government vehicle parked in Andre’s driveway. I wander home and tell Miss R what I’ve seen, and the conclusions I have started to form based on it. “Have you texted him yet?” she asks, sensibly. I tell her no, I haven’t, because if his rotting corpse lies in the loungeroom, flies swarming around it and his forlorn cat crying for food and attention as I suspect, he’s unlikely to answer. She rolls her eyes. “Text him!” And she hands me my phone. I wander off pretending I am about to text him, then leave my phone in my office.

Several days pass, and I wander past Andre’s deserted beach house and see a car parked in the street next to it. A middle aged couple are knocking on his front door, and I hear the sound echo through the emtpy, desolate sounding front room. On the way back from the beach they are using the boot of their car as a desk to write him a not on a small piece of paper. I stop and ask if they are freinds of Andre’s. “Yes, we often pop in and say hello if we are down this way” the cheerful woman tells me. “But we haven’t been for a while”. I explain that I haven’t seen Andre in over a month, and no-one seems to know where he is. “Maybe he’s gone away” the woman offers.

I come home and tell Miss R about it. “See… no-one knows what’s happened to him… it’s like he’s just vanished into thin air”. Miss R frowns. “Didn’t he answer your text yet?”. I explain that I, ummm… haven’t quite got around to sending it yet. But it doesn’t matter, because I am now convinced he has been abducted by terrorists and they will use the number to trace the locations of Andre’s freinds. She snatches my phone from its cradle and stomps aross the kitchen with it. “Text him!”, and she flips it open for me, “NOW!”. Grudgingly I type out a message.

hi m8. surf crap here.. hope it’s better where u are

That evening I update Miss R hourly. “Still nothing from Andre. It’s all pretty weird”. She clicks her tongue. “As if you ever answer a text straight away!”.

The next morning as I pour coffee, my crappy phone beeps annoyingly. I pick it up and check my messages. I click on Andre in the list and open it.

Mid nth coast m8, hot surf and women, stunning weather.6-8′ 2day lifes insane. wish u were here ha!

Miss R wanders into the kitchen and sees me holding the phone in one hand, hot frothy milk in the other. “It’s Andre” I explain, and I read her out the text. She snorts. “So he’s up there chasing skirt”. I laugh, and agree. “Yep. It would appear so”.

“Funny” she says, tilting her head to one side. “I just assumed he was gay”.

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I think for most bloggers, the writing you do in real life is often far removed from what’s on your blog.

Most of what you see is reflective, semi-autobiographical, occasionally self deprecating and entirely self indulgent… and why the hell shouldn’t it be?

In the real world though, for me at least, writing is often a means to an end. I write because I want something. I want someone to do something… or fix something… or give me information. At work I will write a manual, so that users will use a piece of software as I intended ( but hey… never any guarantee of that, is there?? LOL ), or a report on the status of a project - detailing precisely who needs to be kicked up the arse and why. I am trying to get people to act… to do things my way… and I’ll use everything from gentle persuasion to outright threats to achieve that end!

Anger is often a powerful motivator for me, especially when it comes to letter writing. I like to think I am pretty good at getting my point across, and detailing my gripe in a rational, matter of fact way. I make it a mission to do so without resorting to foul language or abuse - instead making myself sound utterly reasonable and sensible. This gets results for me - saving me thousands of dollars over the years on things like trumped up fines, warranty rip offs, and dodgy phone bills. Sure… I want to leap the counter and rip the bastard a second arsehole as much as the next girl… but I don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing just how riled I really am.

In the last couple of years, I’ve begun to use my evil penmanship more to persuade people, and again - I am trying to make people see things my way. I use carefully selected phrases that dangle the carrot… that make it sound almost like I don’t really need the person / business I am pitching to. I try to make them sound backward, or less competitive if they offer resistance - in an ever so polite way. I like to make them doubt themselves, and think I know more than they do…. which quite often, I don’t.

Even here, I am trying to get you to see things my way - to feel what I feel, to see what I see. I want you to see the same attributes in the people I write about that I do - I want you to love them or hate them exactly as I do. But there is a major difference, and that’s the fact that here I allow myself to be uncertain. To doubt myself. To drop the confident, unyielding act I need to get ahead in the real world. Out there, in anything I write, I am unquestionably righteous and unambiguous.

Whereas here, with you, I am the absolute opposite.

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Looking back through the mist toward the high cliffs, the recent rain is evident in large streaks of clay washed down from the darker soil above. It’s still drizzling lightly, the dawn sunlight turning the sky above the hills an apocolyptic orange as it tries to burn a hole through the low, dense cloud.

300 metres offshore I float above the shallow reef, alone, in the oily smooth, cold, dark water. Beneath me I watch the kelp sway and go limp again, as the swell surges and relaxes, back and forth, back and forth. I look back out to sea, and begin to notice splashes of faint colour low on the horizon… first green… then orange… then violet and before long, the entire spectrum. I hear the crack of the waves inshore as the sound ricochets off the cliffs in the still, heavy air.

Shielding my eyes as the first rays warm the earth, I think I see something move between me and the beach. It disappears behind a wave for a moment… but reappears… drifting closer and closer to me with each second. Now the scene is bathed in gold, and as the figure draws closer I watch the water drip from his silhoutted arms… left… right… left… right. Small puffs of steam issue from his mouth, powering cold muscles as he breathes the frigid air. 30 meters away I recognise him… a friend, unable to resist the beautiful conditions… despite the cold.

He draws up to me, and simply nods out to sea. I turn back and look to the horizon, and see a perfect arc of colour inscribed in the sky - the likes of which I have never seen before. Inside the arc I can clearly make out the supernumerary bands, and outside it, Alexander’s band, and it’s faint, secondary version - complete with colours reversed. The smooth water reflects the whole scene, creating a perfect circle of colour few people ever witness.

” ‘you working today?” he asks.

I smile back at him and just shake my head.

…and that was time wastin’ Tuesday.

How was yours?

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8 Comments »

Andrew: Quiet, bright and often strongly inclined toward acdemia or farming. Andrews make the best coffee.

Adam: Athletic, good looking, and well liked, Adams often end up as team captains or leaders. They are also beefcakes who look at themselves a little bit too long in the mirror at the Gym.

Daniel / Dan: Quiet and honest, Dans are good companions to travel or just hang out with. Dans always loose their carkeys or their phone when they are out somewhere, and force everyone else to help them look for them.

Dave: Easygoing and honest, Daves are stable and reliable… if a tad boring at times. All Daves are good at fixing cars.

Dylan: Private school educated upstarts with no talent, and the inablity to think individually. All Dylans have joined a band at some stage… only to be kicked out and replaced by a chick.

James: Apart from a slight predeliction to pretenciousness, James’ are nice guys. They are also very good dancers, but steer them well clear of Salsa bars - or you will never see them again.

Jason: Thoughtfull and bright, you’ll never run out of things to talk about with a Jason. All Jasons have a tattoo, and not always where you’d expect…

John: Really nice guys, but can get a little preachy if consumed by religion. No John has ever one Le Tour De France, or Olympic level Ping Pong.

Joeseph / Joe: Laid back, easygoing, Joes like the outdoors and gentle conversation. They also have every album ever made by Lou Reed, New Kids on the Block, and A Flock of Seagulls.

Josh: Whooaaa, lookout for this one - he’ll break your heart. Although his excellent looks are complimented by enviable sexual technique and stamina, he has a debilitating problem with flatulence.

Justin: Slightly cockey but often good looking, Justins are often popular with the ladies. They are also terrified of flying, and as such, have never travelled overseas.

Mark: Most Marks are incompetent jerks, who like to think they are in control but are actually clueless ( Astronauts excepted ). Marks always cheat at poker, and are banned from most casinos.

Marty: Martys are invariably popular, easygoing, and have good senses of humour. This is a bit of a shame, since most of them end up in jail for armed robbery.

Nick: A few are ok… but there’s a word that rhymes with Nick that pretty much sums the rest of them up. All Nicks have run a pyramid selling scheme at some point in ther life.

Matt: Good humoured and often physcally strong, Matts are sort of like a like a less annoying Nick. If you have ever lent something to someone and can’t remember where it is, check Matt first. He’s probably got it.

Patrick: Slightly self centered creative types with a flair for interior desgin or accountancy, in equal ration. Good fishermen.

Paul: Often moderately intelligent and polite, Pauls hide behind a facade of party animalism and binge drinking. They are also extremely fast drivers, and very good at playing woodwind instruments.

Peter: Trustworthy ideas men, but can be slightly intense or overly introspective at times. Peters are generally good at sports, except Cricket… which they hate with a passion.

Rob / Bob: A tendency toward politcal fervour often puts people off Bobs, which is a shame since they are basically honest, freindly blokes. They are also excellent home brewers, and can put you on your ear with half a bottle of their “select” lager.

Sean / Shaun / Shawn: Seans are popular and fun to be around, but can have a tendeccy to become smart arses after a few beers. Their favourite movies are Kramer vs. Kramer, The Unforgiven, and The Goonies.

Stan: “Da man” as he’s often known, is a wise cracker with a penchant for practical jokes. He also has a thing for your mum…

Steve: Steves are often men’s men - good leaders, organised, and confident. This is often offset significantly by their sever lack of sexual prowess.

Stewart: Doesn’t matter if it’s Stu, Stewie or Stuart… girls can’t resist them. They are popular and sexy, but don’t be fooled… all they want isa threesome with you and your freind.

Shane: If their last name is appended with an “ey”, as in “browney”, or “Smithy”, they are complete wankers. Since all Shanes are expert in at least one martial art, you should never point out this fact.

Shannon: Often good looking, Shanons are huge flirts who will try it on at any opportunity. They will all eventually join, or start, a cult.

Sam: Good looking and confident, Sams often find themselves out of their depth. They are great at impressions, especially characters from 1970’s British TV Comedy. This usually distracts people long enough not to notice.

Tony: Quiet, gentle types who know how to treat a lady. Tonys are great at massage, and enjoy mountaineering.

Trevor: Great with powertools and fixing things around the house, Trevors tend to be jovial, if a little self depricating.. All Trevors are afraid of the dark, and pidgeons.

Wayne: Quiet, intellegent, serious types who tend to be a bit shy. Waynes make great pilots which is unfortunate as they are all terrified of heights.

* this is the companion post to twenty eight and a half girls

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