2015: Acknowledgements

[The larger part of me is still afraid to bring any of what I experienced upon another, let alone the people I love, so I cannot name you. It is still important to acknowledge you, however. If you find yourself in this, then it was meant for you. I apologise now if you think you should be here but find that you aren't. I've tried to encompass all, but I doubt that's possible. I've lost my voice and my ability to brain confidently.]

Thank you for giving me a home that has always been open to me, whether I be child or adult. That sanctuary is not something to be taken for granted, and simply knowing it to be there has always given me strength. Thank you for being proud of me, though my unorthodox life choices have caused no end of worry, and for relishing in my strange accomplishments and adventures. Thank you for growing in me a sense of self determination and responsibility. Thank you for never doubting me. Thank you for making me someone who could do what I did and survive.

Thank you for opening your home to me, and letting it become a home for me. Thank you for letting me be a useless wreck and feeding me and nourishing me with your glorious cooking and house full of goofy laughing. Thank you for finding me, amid all the trauma and mental catastrophes, and showing me that I was still there.

Thank you for saltwater and sunshine, for sitting in quiet over avocado on toast and for squealing about big blue gropers and squid. You made it easy for me to step out the front door when it was at its hardest, because I knew you were at the end. Thank you for curling up with me on the couch and watching terrible telly. Thank you for being a safe place.

Thank you for your wonderful, luscious and vigorous conversations. I always felt safe drifting into rougher waters with you, because that grace of spirit that comes so naturally to you will see a smoother navigation than I in my mind. You are an inspiration of kindness and gentleness, two things I crave but find so wanting within myself. From your patience, I find patience. Thank you.

Thank you for being the cavalry. You amazon warrior valkyrie. You and that happy-maker I still have not met saved me. Saved us. For that, you will always have my love and loyalty, my door will always be open, and, and, there is no way I will ever be able to repay you. I know you don't expect or want repayment, but. Thank you. I hope you are never in such dire straits as to need cavalry, not ever. However, even if never called upon, this cavalry stands by solely to rescue you. Thank you.

Thank you for finding time for me when you can barely find time for yourself. You've always soothed this howling heart. You're a beautiful constant in my haphazard life.

Thank you for being so understanding. You listened, and gave me what I needed to continue as long as I could, and it is only because of you that I lasted that long. I doubt I'll meet another your peer for a long time.

Thank you, the staff at Coogee Medical, Equilibrium Psychology and Spiral Medical, for handling this shattered wreck with care, and making sure I survived the worst of it. I honestly don't know how I would have managed if I'd been put off at any point by a brusque encounter or indifference, such a damaged thing I was. Thank you.

Thank you for that phone call. You grounded me in the storm and showed me how to see the way forward. Thank you for laughing. Thank you for being the first person out there to say "You can do this."

Thank you, neighbourhood. for being so softly suburban, so muted and quiet. Thank you for rolling out great swathes of silence in the deep night, silences so vast I can hear the sweep of the night birds as their feathers tear the air. Thank you, home, for just not being right on top of a major traffic and pedestrian interchange, including buses, and seriously heaps of pedestrians, and look, if you're ever considering renting the flat above Oporto in Coogee? Just say no. Between the Pav turfing out its clientele at closing time and the 4am street sweeper you'll get maybe a couple of hours unbroken sleep a night. The texture of overgrown gardens and lawns, and greyed wooden fences, and lichen on tiles, and powerlines through trees, and a train in the distance, a car passes nearby, somewhere a door slams, and this is a soundscape in which I can exist. Thank you.

Thank you for being my friends. I thought I was lucky before all that happened, because I had to be lucky for having so many incredible and awesome people in my life. I don't really know what word is appropriate now. 'Blessed' perhaps, although I'm not religious, but the idea that it is a gift, and a divine gift. You are a fortress around my heart, and when it seemed all the pestilence of the internet was spitting at me, you just kept on being you, kept on being beautiful, kept on being in my life and telling me that I was worth having around as well. I love and am loved by you and not all the bile in the world can touch that. You are treasures no one can steal. I don't know what I've done to deserve you in my life and I don't care, I'm just glad that you're here, and you still choose to be here, and as long as you're here, I can't be that broken. It does one no good to rely on external validation, but I can't say there's any real belief in the internal validation I present myself. You've given me in so many words and acts undeniable proof that awesome people do not share my opinion of me, and see something here worth waiting for. I don't trust myself in the slightest, but you haven't changed. I trust you with me.

Thank you, new friends, who have seen something worth hanging onto amid all the breaking down I've done this year. This is a greater compliment than you realise, and it is very much appreciated.

Thank you for not telling people that I'm the person who did the thing. Thank you for letting me be unremarkable.

Thank you for being wonderful upon finding out I was the person who did the thing. I've lived in fear, waiting for someone to find out and have a go at me in person, so I really haven't let many new people in on it. You who do know, though, you're ace.

Thank you for that text message, DM, private message, email. Even if I didn't reply to it, I saw it, and it probably made me cry, because every grain of kindness, love and support given to me has been a precious thing. I have kept them all. I know I've been a dead end this year, there have been so many missives I just haven't been able to answer. I am sorry. Thank you. They meant and still mean much.

Thank you for the invitation, and for the fact that you keep inviting me, even though I barely pretend I'm going to attend. It's not for disinterest. Combination fibromyalgia, major depression, social anxiety and trauma echoes mean I just can't face people. It's definitely not you. I want to be living my best life, which includes turning up to help you celebrate that which deserves celebrating. One day, I hope to do this, and thank you for inviting me in person.

Thank you for sitting with me over a cup of tea and letting the conversation go where it may. Thank you for sitting with me in silence. Thank you for giving me your time and your company. I don't know that my own quality of company is worth your time at the moment, so your time is a greater gift for it.

Thank you to all the retail, hospitality and customer service staff who have just done their job with a friendly smile. Social anxiety means your smile is a life buoy. Thank you to all those too who have let me wander through unaccosted and unnoticed.

Thank you for all the support. All of it. I don't think I got to see even a percentage of what rushed by, and what I saw was as vast as only the internet can be. The long tail of trolls did its damage to me, but you, you're a voice that far outnumbered them. I can say that with certainty. Vile and loud as they were, there was always more than us than there were of them. In a weird way, this thing that completely destroyed me, has reminded me of what hope tastes like.

Thank you for asking me to take part in research, to be interviewed for projects. I'm sorry I've not been able to accept any of these invitations. The fact is, I just haven't had enough therapy. All these projects and dissertations are tasty, however, and I've started to see bits and pieces of research findings surface. This podcast does a great job of breaking down how hate speech affects social spaces, and ends on a comment that- It seems arrogant to believe because so many others have been doing hard work for so long, but if it is true, even just a little bit, then. I think it all might have been worth it. One day, I'll be able to give you what you want of me, and I'll be excited to contribute. Thank you for keeping on with the good work.

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to prove myself. It is an honour and the work is so important I don't feel worthy, but I could not let go for the world now. This has become a rich vein of joy and satisfaction in my life, and the chance to prove myself to myself is very much appreciated. One day, I may have confidence again, and I'm certain it will grow from these small tasks. Thank you for trusting me with this, and for sharing so many wonderful stories with me. Thank you for letting me be a small cog in a good machine.

Thank you. You've born the brunt of my breaking, which has been a process of interminable hours strung together in endless months. You've seen the worst of me come out as the best of me fell away, and yet you still reach for my hand in your sleep. I am so sorry. Thank you. I've said these words so often I don't know if they mean anything anymore. I don't know what I am anymore, but I know that we remain, because you still choose us. Thank you.

I didn't get through last year on my own steam. I made it because of you. Thank you.

Closed Circuits & Their Joy

Three decades is, I think, enough time spent bowing to such doubts. More than enough. Time to kick dat bollocks to the curb! Three decades is also enough time for such thought patterns to become well and truly entrenched, and even though I well know such thoughts are untrue and unfair, such fears are rarely rational and are not easily dismissed with logic.

The usual refrain of no one will come, no one will want to come, people will only come out of pity, they'll have an awful time, it will be awkward, everyone will leave to go do what they really want to do, how arrogant are you to think anyone would want to spend time on an event for you, you're so self-centred they have so many other things they need to do etc etc etc. Nothing surprising in there.

It took incredible audacity on my part, jaw-dropping brazenness and sass, to pick a date and send out casual invitations on FB. That was all the organisation required of me. This bar on this day. It'd be cool if you could come but no sweat if you don't. Really. If you can't come, or whatever, that's fine. I just want everyone to be comfortable. Really. Really. Really. Please come.

People changed their routines, flew down from interstate, drove up from the coast, came alone and out of their comfort zone. People I tapped because I enjoy and treasure their company. People who matter to me, dearly. 

On the day of this informal laid-back thing, I was near sick with doubt. That litany was a diseased eel frothing around in my stomach, unable to escape because there simply was no escape. Either people would come, or they wouldn't, and I was oh so very fixated upon the 'wouldn't'. Despite knowing who would be there, in all certainty, people I adore and with whom I would have a most excellent time. These fears have voices that can cut diamonds, there is no overriding them.

Of course, a great many people came, more than I had anticipated. All people I was utterly delighted to see and spend time with. I introduced friends to friends and when distracted by other friends I would look over and see those who had been strangers laughing together. It's a strange and rare treat, that. 

It occurred to me more than once that the people in my life are truly exquisite, sublime, fascinating, intelligent and entertaining entities. Nearly all of them maintain the capacity to surprise me, no matter how long or how well I may know them, and that is just excellent. It's incredibly good luck to have found myself immersed in such quality company.

Shine Theory was posted to the Girls Club mailing list a little while back, and while it is angled particularly toward women, it is a practice I think I may  have unwittingly been committing across the board for some time now. 

As such, I would like to confirm that surrounding yourself by people you enjoy and truly admire is a marvellously enriching experience, and it is hard for insecurity to get a foot in the door when it is being dazzled by ridiculous banter and chortles.

Arbitrary Periods of Time

Today marks one year exactly since leaving Australia.
Since leaving home.

(Well, it's past midnight in both countries now, so technically yesterday is the anniversary but I haven't slept yet so it's still today, dammit.)

It snuck up on me, amid all the other passages of time that I mark. Two days til Iceland. One month til rent is due. Two months without a job. Two months as a freelance editor. Two months til next year. Minutes until winter arrives. One year and one month until my visa expires. One year since I left.

Birthdays and calendar years are opportunity enough to reflect on the recent past, are they not? Yet I have never had a year like this. I have never been so long without my family and tribe, and that is a strain so deep and subtle our lives are too short a lesson and we will never understand it. At the beginning I was fraught with my own daring, at once empowered and paralysed by the question what have I done? Now I can state exactly what I've done, yet I still don't know the answer.

It is to go a layer deeper. The difference between knowing you are cursed with a ravenous insatiable heart and that the search will dictate your every decision and deny you lasting contentment, and understanding it. I understand now that cities are not enough. That villages are not enough. That perhaps even mountains are not enough.

Somewhen along the way I tangled myself in a fine knot of threads, held by so many kind hands, hands driven by hearts that stay in time with my passing time, despite, perhaps because, of my restlessness. They have forgiven me my constant absence even has I am continually surprised and blessed by their persistent presence.

The world is endless.

The sun keeps rising, and I keep breathing, and these terrible and wonderful things carry me on.

Thank you.

Bread the Third

The overly-talented Neil Williamson has been trying his hand at making bread. Without the aid of a break maker. Proper mixing and kneading with his hands, the mere thought of which makes my knuckles and wrists wail. He was kind enough to allow us to act as guinea pigs for his third attempt. I admit, when I took possession of the foil-wrapped bread it was the perfect size, shape and heft, my first instinct was to drop kick it. Some bread is just right for a good punt, you know? Anyway, I didn't do that. It smelt glorious, as only freshly baked bread can. We decided to get some proper butter for the eating, and some brie, and some good soup. Barely waited to get in the door before rending its attire asunder.

Look at this bread! Look at it!

Fluffy and soft and moist and oooooh smells soooooo goooooooood-

Yeah, to be honest? It didn't last long enough for soup. Props to Neil. If you're giving consideration upon who to include in your party of survivors when the world ends, Neil's post-apocalyptic survival skills in baking are not to be overlooked. All you'll need to do is domesticate some wild yeast and you will be set for baked goods for the duration of your horrible ghastly gruelling survival period, however long that will be.

BWAAAAAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA

So Ben Peek hightails it off to the US of A, gets pished on the 4th of July and demands my postal address. He's going to send me a postcard, he says.

There was a postcard in the package, he did not lie. There was also a t-shirt.



BEST. T-SHIRT. EVAH.

Immediately showed it to mother and brother, both of whom shared my reaction: astonished gleeful cackling.

Thanks, Dr Peek. You da man. <3

You know who you are, and you know you are awesome.

A Public Love Letter

Dear you, yes you,

It is not news that I love that Deborah Kalin woman in more ways than Shakespeare could fit in a sonnet. My adoration causes those who have already known her and who are encountering me for the first time to walk away with the impression that I am a lesbian chasing a straight woman. These days we pass through now mark the sixth year she has been in my life, and even if nothing else good came of Clarion South it was worth going purely because I found her there. Together we have raised hell and put hell back in its place. She has held me up and talked me down, she laughs at the mistakes I make because she knows I need it, and has been an unwavering voice of reason when my second-, third-, sixth- and nineth- thoughts have left me paralysed with doubt. I can trust her to know exactly how to manage me when I'm at my worst, and know she'll up the ante on any hijinx when I'm at my other worst. Having her move down to Melbourne a couple of years back was one of the best things that has ever happened to me. Plus, she makes amazing nachos.

I haven't known that Karen Healey woman as long. That scheming Justine Larbalestier woman friend-match-made us a couple of years back, for which I am exceptionally grateful. Although I am still getting to know her (I believe it takes years of meaningful entanglements before you can really know someone), I am already well and truly smitten. She is one of the few people who has earned the title of "Fabulous". She has a sophistication, class and style that does not come naturally to her, it is her. Her fierce yet goofy outspokenness on all she holds dear amazes me and leaves me clapping in admiration. She has the single most wicked smile I have ever seen, and fabulous curly pink hair, and is unrepentant in her identity. Plus, everything she cooks is amazing. I'd recommend cultivating her as a friend for her lemon cake. Oh holy of holies.

Both these women are intimidatingly intelligent and clever in evil conniving ways. From them I have learned and will learn a great many things (such as, the best way to test the quality of a moisturiser is to rub it on your elbow), about all manner of things, and think myself too fortunate to have such fascinating, interesting and interested people in my life. They are both dedicated and highly skilled writers, and are honest about the hilarity and horrors that come with a mind that writes. They are also both honest about themselves, their short failings, the mistakes they make and the doubts the carry and the bad habits they cannot break. They are both stunning, and while they have moments of hating their bodies, they also embrace those moments of looking and feeling fucking breath-taking.

They are both women I admire greatly, and feel foolishly gumpy around frequently, and are in fact so awesome that their awesomeness has its own gravitational field. Whenever they enter my orbit I am gleeful to say that indeed, my world does revolve around them.

I've seen them both the last two days. Because of them my world is right now full to brimming with joy.

Gentlemen, the privilege, pleasure and honour is mine.

Thank you.

<3

Possibly the best postcard I've ever received.

On the back here is an upside-down doodle of someone giving a heart a bear hug. Or shaken baby syndrome. They look quite similar.

At first glance, though, I thought it was a penis squid.




(Which, let us be honest, would be entirely in keeping with the senders.)

(Much love at you, you beastly wretches.)

Jaimesis sent me Disco Shark! (And other awesomeness, but this comic needed to exist.)

Snow Lion! Raaar!

I didn't buy much in the way of souvenirs in Tibet. There is plenty available which would serve well - prayer flags, prayer wheels, rosaries, yak bells and so on - and the streets around the Jokhang and Barkhor Square in Lhasa and the Tashilumpo in Shigatse were lined with stalls. The opportunities were there (and saying, "Hello, hello, hello, hello,").



Most of what is on sale are cheap imitations imported from China and Nepal, as stated in the Lonely Planet and confirmed by both our tour leader and Tibetan guide. There is a stall selling religious items inside the Jokhang, the holiest of holies in Lhasa and Tibet, and there I found a gorgeous wooden rosary. Being quite expensive and found inside the Jokhang, I assumed it must be genuine Tibetan.

I did that thing I do when shopping, and walked off to do something totally different. When I returned, the display had been disturbed slightly, and the maker's certificate in the box below was now visible, with a massive MADE IN CHINA glaring at me.

Point taken.

You know me. I don't like being thwarted. It became a quest to find something that was Tibetan and made by Tibetans, which in Lhasa is trickier than you would think. The Lonely Planet guide came to my aid, however, and one afternoon I took myself off wandering through the back alleys behind the Johkang, around to the Muslim Quarter, up some more back alleys and through some courtyards - they have different ideas about space there - and found Dropenling; a shop that specifically sells goods made by Tibetans, the profits of which go back to those same artisans.

(And for those of you who recall some of my adventures in Japan; can you believe I did not get lost doing this? Not a single wrong turn, not a single instance of heading in exactly the opposite direction! I was gobsmacked too, considering the alleys I was walking through had no landmarks to speak of.



I shouldn't call them alleys. They're streets. They're organic Lhasa.)

And that is where I bought my awesome little snow lion.

As soon as I saw him I fell in love. The big manic eyes, batty happy ears, massive toothy slavering grin - how can anyone resist? When I proudly showed him off to my traveling companions, they didn't see the love. They said he was scary and ugly.

Wikipedia has the following to say on the subject of snow lions:

The Snow Lion resides in the East and represents unconditional cheerfulness, a mind free of doubt, clear and precise. It has a beauty and dignity resulting from a body and mind that are synchronized. The Snow Lion has a youthful, vibrant energy of goodness and a natural sense of delight. Sometimes the throne of a Buddha is depicted with eight Snow Lions on it, in this case, they represent the 8 main Bodhisattva-disciples of Buddha Shakyamuni, the historical Buddha. Associations: main quality is fearlessness, dominance over mountains, and the earth element.
-- The Four Dignities, Rudy Harderwijk

The Snow Lion is an archetypal thoughtform confluence or personification of the primordial playfullness of 'joy' and 'bliss' (Sanskrit: ananda; Tibetan: dga' ), somewhat energetically comparable to the western unicorn, though without a horn. Though paradoxical, the Snow Lion does not fly but their feet never touch the ground; their existence is a playful 'continuum' (Tibetan: rgyud) of leaping from mountain peak to mountain peak.

Later, when I proudly showed him off to my mum and told her he was a snow lion, she said, "There's no such thing as a snow lion!"

If that is true, then the world is not as awesome as it should be.



The postal service has brought unto me more objects of delight! Copies of Weird Tales #355: Steampunk Spectacular, huzzah! I haven't read it yet, but don't doubt it'll be as tasty as all the issues gone before.

There are four spare copies I'm giving away, and actually while I think of it, I also have a couple of copies of issue #354 lying around as well. For the second year running Weird Tales has been nominated for a Hugo Award, with voting closing on the 31st of July. Interested in sampling this mighty magazine? Leave a comment, first in first served.

I only ask that you please post something about what you find between the covers somewhere, even if it's just a throwaway comment on twitter.

The magazines weren't alone; in their company was a copy of Ann & Jeff VanderMeer's The Kosher Guide to Imaginary Animals, and my snow lion got his paws all over it.

On flip through it's a delightful little book with some delectable illustrations. I made a very careful check and double-check of the table of contents. Snow lions are not listed.

Ergo, they are not imaginary.

Ergo, they are real.

And the world is significantly awesomer for it.

Red Hot Elephant Socks

An unexpected parcel was waiting for me when I visited my parents. Unexpected parcels are always mildly alarming, as some part of me instantly assumes I'm going to be asked to pay for something I didn't order. Given this has never happened to me, this fear is entirely irrational.

It still hasn't happened to me. Instead, THERE WERE SOCKS. AND ARMWARMERS. Damn HAWT ones if I do say so myself, cue gratuitous camwhore shot;



I burst out laughing when I saw the socks, in lieu of who they're from. I had the exact same pair given to me seven years ago in New Orleans, on my first solo jaunt overseas which wasn't really solo at all given the purpose of trip was to meet some people who were and still are magnificent co-conspirators.

Thank ye, Jaimesis. <3

The armwarmers are especially appreciated. Hands are aching with the return to computers, and the cold isn't helping. The line "write every day" has been sitting at the front of my thoughts, and is almost instantly followed by "except when you're hurting", which has also been every day. As such I've been looking for some gloves that wouldn't interfere with typing too much, and these are perfect. Double mwah-mwah.

Because he matched the presents so well it had to be fate, that photo is also the introduction of a finger puppet I bought in Kathmandu. Readers, I would like you to meet Ganesh, short for Angry-Ganesh-Doesn't-Like-The-Spicy-Bone-Filled-Curry-Stomp-Crash-Raaar.



He wasn't named after a personal experience. No. Not at all. Ever.

Going Postal

Two boxes landed today; one expected, one not.

The delightful explorer Madame Bishop sent me an 'oddity', a mini-version of a festival mask for Phi Ta Khon. It's quite a fearsome mask. Bit of rabbit, bit of hawk, bit of shark, a lot of unsettling. In the card, Madame Bishop notes that the shop had these displayed on Ken and Barbie dolls. Heh. I have no Barbies, but I do have the Masterchief, who has kindly volunteered to model.



I think he looks quite fetching.

There was also a bottle opener decorated with what look like Chinese opera masks. It is just as alarming to look at. I may never get to open a bottle of fun with it, because the opener will look at me every time I go to use it.

Second box contained an uncorrected proof of Jeff VanderMeer's Finch, which I had the honour of reading as manuscript and telling him everything he was doing wrong. I read it in one day. It's a powerful book, that. Powerful enough to keep 46 degrees of summer out of my head, which is no small feat. Brilliantly written and very juicy. There's a lot to love.

There was also a wrapped thingy, with a card taped to it. On the back of the envelope was a request to document my reaction. At which point I put everything down, didn't even open the card and went off to do all my chores. Sounded far too distracting.

Now I'm opening it...

Oh holy hell!

AHAHAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!!

LOOK AT THIS
LOOK
AT
THIS

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!

Waitwaitwaitwaitwait. Ages ago. Like, ages ago. I flippantly requested a capybara for my birthday. I wasn't really expecting a capybara, because Australia has strict quarantine laws, and I have nowhere for a capybara to live. But when requesting presents you're never going to receive, you might as well do it properly.

Apparently this infected Jeff, 'cause he had a capybara dream, started RPing a capybara on a certain-social-networking-site-that-looks-like-a-cubicle-farm, and the internet coughed up a capybara to talk to him, who he then went on to interview. (ZOMFG, teh kewt.)

But, I did not receive a capybara for my birthday.

Got the next best thing though!



And this is my head asploding with the combined pressure of Oarsum Unsettling and Mighty Cute.



RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGH!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you, Madame Bishop! Thank you, VanderMeer Inc! Thank you, Caplin Rous!

scuttley crabadger is scuttley

There is no texta here, so I cannot do proper palm graffitti. No mere palm graffitti could possibly do justice to the utter RADNESS of this bar of soap. Phanks gurl.

you know who you are

Permanent marker doesn't come off easy. I spent the rest of the evening with gratitude stigmata on my palms.

Operation GTFO
Phase 1: successful!
Phase 2: where am I going?

Since my last 7am shift, the Earth has moved so far around the Sun that it is still dark when I leave, and there are stars in the sky.