Sometimes, I just have to whinge. Only the poor souls who have this blog on a feed reader will notice this post.

We moved on Saturday. Nothing bad happened, except it was much longer and stressful than anticipated, and ended up costing twice what I'd expected. Certainly hadn't expected it to take in excess of 6 hours. But that's Coogee for you. No parking access for movers, and nothing but tight twisty little stairs.

I had to be present the whole time, and sitting watching people you're paying move large heavy objects in the heat and stairs without assisting is awful. Even though I knew I couldn't do the same without doing damage to myself. Even though I'd specifically paid for these people so I would not have to.

I don't know if I will ever stop apologising for advocating for myself.

The new flat is small, which is fine, but until all furniture is assembled and in place, until the boxes are mostly unpacked and sorted, it's a horrible awkward maze. Cramped cluttered places make for tense little minds.

New location means far more traffic noise. And human noise. Quality of sleep isn't as good, but then, I've been so tired of late it probably hasn't mattered.

Toilet no longer a claustrophobic closet which enforces guilt re: my not having a lovely slender frame. We have an enormous old cast-iron freestanding bathtub which I know will come in very handy.

I'm tired. I'm just so tired. Tendonitis from shoving boxes around to get mildly unpacked. Shoulders and neck and wrists and elbows aflame. Exhaustion so that my bones feel as though they are made with lead and grief. The mental fog is thick as...nothing. Perhaps double cream is thick as cognitive fog.

Even Poppy is exhausted. She spent the first couple of days falling asleep on my laptop. Not playing, not preening. She simply didn't have the energy. Starting to come better now, but it just goes to show how hard an event like this hits a house.

I just.

Wish.

I could be a fully able bodied.

And do these strenuous things our society requires of us.

I'm very tired.

Checking In

Move: Completed.
Unpacking: Not completed.



This: New webcam shots location. No longer facing the window, so lighting shall be a bugger. Must remove that tiger.

I have an ulcer, coldsores, shadows and bags, cough, cold, shakes and my arms are killing me, but the birdsong here is surprisingly thick and lively, the shower is decadent, and that's my boy Sam on sentry duty at the perimeter.

Mattress on floor,
Me on mattress,
Blinds pulled back,
Bats gone,
And one satellite flares, then dims, and crosses into the shadow of the Earth.

This is the last night in the home I made.

A Life's Punctuation; the Full Stop.

That is the last cup of tea.

It, more than anything else, signals the End of an Era. That's the last of the milk. Once it's drunk I'm going to turn the fridge off, and that will be it.





I feel I should say something about the importance of true and vigorous independence, what it means to call time and space your own without compromise, and, I don't know, stuff, but I am tired in many different ways. My heart is sore, my mind is confused, and I have nothing in me.

So, I will drink my last cup of tea as I have done on many evenings.



And watch the flying foxes come out at dusk.



One last time.

Domestic Archaeology

Having finally emptied my bookshelves (books, CDs and DVDs filling a total of 30 boxes), I've moved onto that part of packing involving rummaging around in boxes and cupboards that haven't seen the light of day since the last move.

It started with the discovery of an 'easter egg' in the packaging of my copy of MS Office 2004 for Mac, as blogged here. All that came to pass afterward was recorded on twitter, and by recorded on twitter I mean I spammed the crap out of my follower's timelines. Extracted and provided below, for your perusal;

• What day is it? #bewildered
• You've had your banana, back into the breach, maggot.
• Yes, you just smashed your head. Sit the fuck down.
• OMG, Apple made the packaging on MS Office hipster and cool; toad town hall terraium?! - http://tinyurl.com/4pqxggy
• That felt good.
• I just found another tooth, and I know this one didn't come from me. #packing
• And a spent bullet casing.
  
• Found my Red vs Blue stickers yesssssssssss!
• Shit, nearly dropped the water buffalo.
• Found mask from Buenos Aires. Shall not be taking it off for the rest of the day. Badass warrior packing FIGHT! http://twitpic.com/41pdbb

• Required: Masquerade Ball, STAT.
• Found: story books made in Prep. This one is about poo. Not the honey-eating bear kind.
• Found: old diary.........................................................................yeah, I'mma stop reading and shove it in a box NOW.
• I have hunger. Feed me.
• What's this? A WHOLE BOX OF OLD DIARIES. HAVE AT THEE, MAGGOT.
• My twitter feed is full of anti-old-diary activists. I defy you! Now hush, I'm reading 16 year old angst, hot damn it's bad.
• OLD DIARY FROM HIGH SCHOOL. CHECK THAT INSANITY, DEDICATION AND MASSIVE FUCKING BOOK - http://twitpic.com/41r1v9

• Primary school diaries!
• Found: letter I wrote to myself when 11 years old because no one else would write to me. It is very short.
• In primary school, I made stories about explorers and yetis, sharks, dinosaurs, and magic ants. And dinosaurs. Also, dinosaurs.
• 6 year old Tessa illustrated her grade prep work book with drawings of...Asterix.
• My freaking darlings, sheepish apologies for spamming the crap out of twitter today. I go now to make my fortune/find dinner. As you were.

I also found old letters and post cards from people who weren't me (seriously!), and picture story books I'd made in school, and old school projects, and photos, and had myself a gay old time.

With various blogs, diaries and journals, I have an account of my life going back to 11 years old. Reading them is both hard, humiliating and hilarious, and in many instances, surprisingly dull for the drama being written about. Some find this dedication to documentation alarming, especially the fact that I keep it all. These are external memory devices. Just as you carry a USB stick about with all your photos and important documents on, I take cart these old books from home to home. One day my memory will start to fade, and I will have these as the back up of my mind.

That said, if ever I go into politics? They're going up in a bonfire.

Then I chatted to Ben Peek for a bit, and when the opportunity was presented I gleefully pointed out to him that I am not 32, 33, no, I am 29 years old. There's nothing quite so brattishly satisfying as pointing out to your older friends that you're not just younger than them, you're younger than them.

Having recorded my life since 11, that means I have 18 years worth of documentation. That's more than half my life.

Most of it has nothing to do with pants, either. How odd.

The Saint Has A Sense of Humour

While pruning packaging I have retained and accumulated over time, I came across this doozy of an 'easter egg' hiding under the fold the sleeve of my Microsoft Office 2004 for Mac carton.







Apple's power is so great they even made a plastic box for the product of a competitor coyly hipster.

The Offerings the Saint Returned

It is inevitable that when moving house and delving into boxes and drawers that haven't been disturbed for years you will discover (or, more accurately, rediscover) items that you weren't exactly expecting.

See Exhibit A:



These teeth belong to me.

About whether they came from my mouth, however, I shall offer no comment.

Don't rock the boat; sink it.

If you reach the point at which your Doktor prescribes you two anti-depressants, one prescription painkiller and weekly sessions with a counselor, it's a pretty clear sign that shit ain't working. It's time to admit that while you have worked incredibly hard to set yourself and your life up the way you want it, that shit ain't working. And when shit ain't working to that degree, then there's nothing for it. No tinkering or tweaking will fix something like this.

Time to take this life and scuttle the fucker.

Today I handed to my real estate agent my Notice to Vacate Property. I am become one of a massive diaspora of not youngin's but not oldin's who are returning home to roost. Mum is actually quite excited about it. I don't think she fully grasps what I mean when I say I live a bachelor life.

This will enable me to save money much faster and thus acquire the funding necessary to enable my Cunning Plan.

A good friend I hadn't seen in a while, on discovering I wasn't writing at all and knowing what writing meant to me, asked how I was coping with that.

"I'm on drugs," I said with a laugh. "And moving to another hemisphere."

That's right, kids. The Ultimate Kamakazi Operation: GTFO.

It. Is. On.

And That's That

There's a sort of jet lag that comes with nightshift, which sees me awake at 4am. As a result, I finished packing before lunch time, and now I'm just tooling around killing time, because there's nothing for me to do at home except play with my belly button. It's all books in boxes.

I feel I should do something significant to mark my last night in this place. My first home all to myself, first sign that I'm a big kid now. It's a quirky apartment, like living in an Escher painting with strange angles and bits that stick out in unexpected places and my post-industrial view and the pigeons that tap the window in the small hours of the night. It has character. But, for various reasons, I never made it into a home. It was only ever a place to live.

I'll miss living in the city. With the market behaving the way it is, I doubt it's a lifestyle I'll be able to afford ever again. The things you see when you're walking in the quiet hours of the morning or the fat hours of the night can't be beat. I love love love walking to work, and that's what I regret losing most. If anyone has the opportunity to live within walking distance of your job, DO EEET.

I'll miss free wifi too. INTERNET WILL HAPPEN but who knows how long set up takes.

I look forward to living among trees again, big fat sassy trees dropping crap everywhere. I look forward to fish 'n chips on a Friday night, which is only a suburban phenomenon. I look forward to a kitchen with a door, which will not make every single item I own smell like whatever it is I'm eating.

I look forward to my new place, and the home I will make of it.

And I ain't sacrificing anything to Our Lady of Cardboard Boxes this time. She's already taken a fair chunk of my peace of mind, greedy old hag. Chew on that and rot.

and chimpanzees sling shit

Living on my own has forced me to adjust the way I think about space. At home, I had my room, which was my space and only my space, followed by the rest of the house, which was our space, and then there was outside, which was anything beyond the front door. Due to the fact that we're out near the sticks no one tended to drop by due to sheer inconvenience, and the house isn't really made for hanging out in. I don't think anyone has visited me at home home since high school. My space and our space didn't tend to be intruded on by anyone other than immediate family. And possums.

When I was up in Canberra, there was our space, and outside. Not having anywhere that was specifically my space taught me that I am, in fact, a guy. You know that whole spiel about how men need a den? Like, the shed in the back yard? Where they can go and Be Men without hinderance, or some such bullshit? Tessas are like that too. They need somewhere to go and Be Tessa, piss on the carpet and brood in peace.

Moving out of home was different again. My whole apartment became my space, and what with living without a fridge and thus having to venture out every day to eat for a whole month, and needing to go out for internet access, the entire city has become our space, and there is no outside. I haven't quite got to the point of going to the supermarket in my pyjamas, but I'm giving it serious consideration.

Having the apartment as my space has taken a bit of getting used to, as suddenly I don't live out near the sticks and it is more than convenient to have friends come over and chill on my kitchen floor, which means there are people in my space.

Augh!

Even though I like these people and I've specifically invited them, they're in my space! Looking at my stuff! They're Looking! At! My! Stuff! Making! Judgements! About! Me! Augh! Which is something that I'm getting better at dealing with, but I am still struck by the overwhelming urge to tell good friends of mine to GTFO. Which is rude. I guess I'm a very territorial person, and that's a reason, not an excuse.

Which is all very interesting, but it's only to provide you with the adequate background knowledge to fully appreciate just how fucking stressful having strangers inspect my place is. Strangers who apparently have enough money to go around buying inner city apartments. Who may or may not kick me out, who knows? Because having the strangers who currently own the place demand a $25 a week rent rise isn't stressful enough. Strangers! In MY SPACE!

After the inspection, you're damn right I pissed all over the carpet.

They are selling my apartment.

white noise

When the city is abandoned, the view from my windows won’t change. The walls will still be streaked with pigeon shit and empty of decoration. The lack of sound won’t be apparent, because I can’t hear the city anyway. There will be no movement in that view, because there never is. I won’t be able to tell there’s no one left in Melbourne. When I’m in my apartment, I’m the only person in the world.

So, my advice to anyone about to start living on their own is this: have a TV, have an internet connection.

In the dark hours, they’re the only way to prove that the rest of the world really is out there.

AHHH. DE GOGGLES DO NASINK.

There's a full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door. The first thing I see when I get up in the morning is me. All of me. Ugly as all fuck.

There's a dresser mirror in my old bedroom, but the dresser itself was so piled with books and comics and sundry that it seeing my reflection in it wasn't an issue.

Maybe it's just me, but I really can't deal with that first thing in the morning. Methinks it's contributing to this growing urge to smash my face in broken glass.

I can't even cover it. It's just glass stuck to the door. Nothing to hook anything over. I suppose I could toilet paper it. Or, something- post-it notes. Yes. One of those giant multicoloured pads should do it. I can wake up to a rainbow of obnoxious smiley faces every single fucking day!

...

Maybe I should just stick to the ugly.

"Madness? THIS IS SPAAAAARTAAAAA FRIIIIIIIDGE!"
"That's no moon. That's a space station FRIDGE."
"I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog FRIDGE too!"
"Do not go gentle into that good night, rage, rage FRIDGE against the dying of the light."
"Hey, joke 'em if they can't take a fuck FRIDGE!"
"A cat FRIDGE is okay too."
"My name is Ozymandias TESSA, king of kings: look in my works FRIDGE, ye mighty, and despair FRIDGE!"
"There's a thin line FRIDGE between not listening and not caring FRIDGE. I like to think FRIDGE I walk that line every day."
"Frankly, my dear FRIDGE, I don't give a dam."
"Indy! They're digging in the wrong place FRIDGE!"
"That is why evil FRIDGE will triumph FRIDGE, because good is dumb FRIDGE."
"You just had a near FRIDGE life experience!"
"The night FRIDGE was sultry."
"I was cutting FRIDGE raw fish and thinking about you."
"I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle FRIDGE."
"I am the law FRIDGE!"
"Many have come to taste my lord's meat mead FRIDGE."
"Oompa loopma FRIDGE."

I FRIDGE HAVE FRIDGE A FRIDGE DAMN FRIDGE FRIDGE FRIDGE.

It's only insomnia if you're actually trying to sleep.

You know what Yoda said about trying. I'm not trying.

Around 2am I started listening to Lundberg's podcast of Vandermeer's Appogiatura. Lundberg reads well. He even does voices. Not enough people do voices. I'd read an earlier version of the story- no, that's misleading; I'd bashed my nightshift-addled mind against an earlier version, and lying there listening with a not-insomnia-because-I'm-not-trying-to-sleep-addled mind, I noted all the changes. They were only little, but they were right. Until the last segment, which was entirely new, and the story I thought I knew turned out to be entirely different and wonderful and not unlike having the carpet ripped out from beneath me, but instead of falling on my face and embarassing myself the wind caught me, took me for a tumble in the clouds and deposited me somewhere high and far from where I could see for miles and everything was clear.

But out there, somewhere, is the little story of dead arms and dirt I anticipated. Creepy and strange and now, disappeared. It will never be read out loud, sad little story.

I want to be read to. It isn't really something you can ask of other people, not without receiving a funny look and an extension of personal space. I should put out a personal ad, "wanted: reader. That is all." Or start a business, with a troupe of readers on call, to come to you whenever and where ever you may need a story read to you. Funny voices free of charge. Pillows supplied on request.

I think this is a sad little want.

Afterwards, I dreamed that I'd messed up history so badly, the history books on my shelves were spontaneously changing their titles and texts, as the history of the world wobbled about and tried to reassert itself.

I couldn't hear rain when I woke.

There are things you consciously give away when you move out. It's the things you didn't know you were losing that make you stop and wonder if maybe you made a mistake. Losing the sound of rain on a rusty old corrugated iron roof, for example.

You gain other things. Tiles, for example. Light globes, when dropped on a tiled floor, make the most spectacular, satisfying, comical 'pop!' noise this universe contains. I stood very still for 2, 3, 10 seconds, until I was sure I wasn't about to toss the second light globe on the floor just to hear it again.

Nothing in this soundscape drowns out the noise in my head. It roars, it mutters, it doesn't shut up. Come on, 4am, bring it. I'm not trying, I'm not afraid of you.

(I just don't like you.)

I see 2AM every night. Starting to see 3AM too. I lied. I don't speak to the walls. I don't speak at all. Beginning to understand what I've done, and I have no idea what I'm doing. It doesn't matter. The pigeons keep me company.

They told me about eating dinner standing at the kitchen bench, talking to the walls, and the impossibility of a single person filling a dishwasher, but they didn't tell me about the toll on my toes.

My muscles remember the moves of a different furniture-in-the-dark dance. I don't know these steps.

Oh Our Lady of Cardboard Boxes, who watches over those fools who suddenly decided to apply for leases while in the middle of nightshift and then start moving money and paperwork around while out of the country, you have been kind to me in the past week, as I winged my way through process of dismantling my room and activating the apartment. I have yet had no hiccups or major inconveniences, and for that I thank you. Early tomorrow, the movers will arrive, and then I will need your help most. May the transition from true home to new home be smooth. May the truck find a carpark on the street. May the mattress fit in the elevator. May no random passerby grab a box from the back of the truck and leave me without my underwear, for oh Our Lady of Cardboard Boxes, I do need my underwear. May I be able to stand at the end of the day in my new castle, and be triumphant. For your continued favour, I give you the company of my (currently absent) father, the consideration of my mother, the joy of my brother, and the love of two small smelly dogs. They might sound like small things, but they are not. I hope they please you, and you continue to smile on this fool.