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International day of Nurses

It is the day of the year that we celebrate  the wonderful and important profession that is nursing. If you are someone who has rarely had the need to have much interaction with or be looked after by a nurse; you are particularly healthy and you should feel grateful for your robust health and the health of those you care about.  You are a unicorn of humans. The rest of us have probably had at least one or two experiences that have shown us the amazing work that nurses do.

I have had many stays in hospital over my life time. In 2015 alone I was in hospital a total of six months. Most of this time was spent in the Nephrology ward and the intensive care ward. I had many wonderful nurses. The kindness and care that I was shown still amazes me whenever I get flashbacks to that time. There were a few that stood out though and it is these five nurses that I would like to discuss and marvel at with you.




Paul was a buff nursing manager that always managed to find time to come to my bed and shoot the breeze with me. He would flick through my lit maga and my magazine that showcases artistic woman all over the world, its called Riposte. He would look at a nurse that was about to take my blood and just know it was not going to work. When he saw that I was reading The Hate Race by Maxine Beneba Clark and heard what it was about he asked if he should write a book about being the only Asian Australian at his school. I said he should. When nurses would call from the door to my hospital room for Paul to come help. He would say that unless it was an emergency he was busy talking with me.  He made me feel like I was not just a body under surveillance. He made me laugh and more importantly for my ego, I made him laugh.  He have excellent blood tests.



Brianna was tall and had short curly hair. She was wonderful at conversation as well. She even lent me her ipod and let me give her grief about the contents. She was a huge country and western fan.  Another fault in our affection was her hatred of the Simpsons. ”I hope you still love me.” She said as she set up all my meds for the nightime dosages. I did. Brianna would sometimes come to my bedside and pull the curtain around us so she could start and finish her coffee before it got too cold. We would talk and I would tell her how I was worried about going home and getting back into the real world. I told her I was getting used to being in here ( a truly horrendous thing to think).  She would assure me that with my brains and the many friends who came to visit, the outside world needed me and not to forget that.



Paula was a nurse I did not like at first, proving that first impressions are not always correct. I thought she was abrupt and a bit brisk. It was probably because she was busy as all hell. Any ways she and I got along famously after the initial meeting. Paula was short and round and really funny. She would poke her head in to see me even if she did not have me on her shift. She loved coming to my bed and asking for gossip and the like. She would ask about my visitors which was pretty juicy with angst and drama at times. I feel like there should be a television series about people with kidney disease who come in and out of hospital with alarming regularity. It was Paula who told me about the high level of attractiveness she found in my father. This is not so weird as my father was my kidney donor so he actually was a patient on the ward for a week. Paula must have had him (as a patient) on one of her shifts.


Kelly was one of my nurses while I was in intensive care post transplant. She sat at the desk at the end of my bed like an angel. She was big eyed and blond haired and seriously so sweet that it almost gave me a tooth ache. Her patience with my nervousness about getting out of bed and sitting up in a chair to eat some actual food for the first time in a while, was exemplary. I was very full of water weight due to the operation and so weighed more than I ever have my whole life. I was such a little sook about the whole chair thing. But when I was finally sitting and able to eat the meal in front of me, it was the best chicken soup I ever had. Kelly and I would have great chats about everything and anything I could think of. She told my mother that I was one of her favourite patients because I could carry on a conversation. For people in intensive care that is not always possible.

Andy was another intensive care nurse. He was the very first nurse I had when I woke up from my transplant  operation. He did some very good and probably difficult to carry out, things for fussy little me. He managed to get a fan set up so I could feel a breeze on my hot little face. He eventually removed the awful compression socks from my legs. I hated them so much. I know I needed them. Andy was calm and kind and did not get angry at my constant wimpering for water even though I was not allowed any except a tiny amount to swallow my ant rejection mychophenylate tablets.


Lyndall was an experienced nurse who still loved her job and it showed. She was one of my biggest cheerleaders and gave the best blood tests.  I made her laugh heaps with my sarcasm and  and wicked observations.She was in the lift with me just the other day. I was back at the hospital for my specialist appointment. She smiled wickedly at me and said my full name. I grinned back at her. She hugged me and asked how i was. I told her how much better I am now since the last time she saw me. ”Still skinny, though.” She said. ”That cannot be changed, I’m afraid.” I told her.


I saved Lucy till last because she was pretty much my absolute top fav. All my nurses were great. Lucy was a grad year nurse who had the sort of talent and personality that would make her the best nurse anywhere. Or, maybe I think this because it was with Lucy that I felt the most of a connection. She had a Kraken tattoo on her right arm among others. She was from Tasmania and had a rather important writer father. I think she did tell me but I have now forgotten. i remember one Sunday afternoon Lucy came to my room to change the bed across from mine for an incoming patient. We talked and giggled for ages. She told me about her love life and the ups and downs of her life. She told me about how on the weekend ( Valentines day) she had been helping her partner move out of the place they had shared and making me laugh about the irony of it all. There was one time another nurse was constantly trying and failing to get blood from me. I was crying about how I used to have good veins before they got ruined by all this constant blood testing crap. Lucy comes in says kindly that maybe she could give it a go. Lucy  quickly and smoothly gets my blood out of my vein and into the tube. it is Lucy who tells my partner that there has been some complications and I have been taken to intensive care. She is upset that I pulled this crap on her last day on the kidney ward. Unaware of just how bad things will get for me, she tells my partner that I didn’t even say goodbye. By the time I was back on the ward and getting better, Lucy was gone.  Im so sorry, Lucy. I am pretty pissed about not saying goodbye to you as well.

Special mention needs to go to the nurse that I cannot remember but who made an impression on my partner. his was the nurse who was sitting on a chair at the end of my bed in a private room. She had one job and one job only. She was to sit and watch me, thats it. She was not able to read or watch television. She had to sit and watch me for her entire shift of eight hours. It was because I had been a bit naughty. I had in my psychotic  and paranoid episode ( one of many) pulled out a very important medical tube from my neck. A tube that was funnelling much needed medication into my very very ill body. My partner promised to watch me  for the time it took the poor nurse to go to the toilet and get something to eat. Thank you for your unwavering attention, that would have been a real drag to watch me after I had done the interesting and badass thing.


One of my sisters is completing her grad year in nursing at this very moment and I could not be more thrilled and proud of for for choosing a profession that has so closely and overwhelmingly contributed to the fact that I am alive today. I have friends who are doing the same thing and I just want to tell them all that I am in awe of you and there are not enough thank you cards and chocolates and flowers in the world to illustrate my gratitude.

Hail Satan and celebrate the wolves. I saw The Mountain Goats Live.



It was a twist of fate that allowed me to see The Mountain Goats at The Corner. A death in the family of someone I did not know personally. This person had to fly interstate and miss the concert. A mutual friend had used social media to advertise the sale of the ticket and I was one of those dorks who managed to be quick enough to snap it up. I had nothing else to do.

The plan was to meet for Pho on Victoria st in Richmond before the show. I arrived at the place 45 minutes early because I had never been to this particular place before and did not want my idiocy in regards to directions, causing me to make a group of four yong women have to wait for me. I over shot. To pass the time I went and bought a bag od hot and spicy fried onion rings, from one of the Asian grocery stores. I stood outside the restaurant and ate my onion rings as I watched the pedestrians of Victoria St walk by as the sun started setting. I felt a quick and beautiful wave of contentment wash over me as I stood there in the dusk and breathed in some rather dank smelling air. It didn’t bother me at all. I watched two old guys who i was pretty sure were drug addicts, walk past. As they did so, a smoke fell out of one of their pockets and fell to the filthy ground. The friend picked it up. ” Oh, open your eyes, man.” The one who picked up the smoke exclaimed.

”What.” the person who had let the smoke fall from the pocket of his baggy track suit pants said.  They went on their unsteady way.  I continued eating the pre dinner snack. These things are so amazing. I think as I chew happily and enjoy the crunching sound. I watch a woman in dirty pyjama bottoms and a singlet, holding a large stuffed zebra, rush past me in a determined quick step. She is not wearing shoes.

I did not know about the horrible thing that had happened to my ticket’s previous owner at this point. I was just excited to be seeing a band that I had loved for so long and that had such strong emotional ties to certain parts of my life.  I had written love sick letters from London with The Mountain Goats as a soundtrack. A sad old man who lived with his mother in Manchester had put the song ‘See America Right” on a mix cd he made for me. ”Woke Up New” had been a song I listened to on repeat and cried whilst doing so, for a universe of reasons. Some of them tangible and some of them merely ephemeral and internally driven.  It will be interesting to see them live and with a group of people sharing the experience. I have always considered my listening to this particular band as incredibley personal. It usually makes me feel as if John Darnel is singing songs just for me and my own sense of sadness and determination, my own sense of fluctuating failure and triumph.


Out of the group I am going to see The Mountain Goats with, I only know one. This is one of the root causes of my running late anxiety. I need this time to contemplate the looming social situation. I must be friendly and funny and naturally so. I decide to make use of my earliness and get a table for all of us. This will give me time to look at the menu and decide what I want without the distraction of making conversation at the same time. Thanh Nga Nine is not overly busy yet so I get a booth near the entrance.  It is over dinner that I learn of the particular Butterfly effect that lead to me being able to go and the person who was meant too, not. I am more than happy to pay for the ticket. The amount seems so trivial. Someone’s mother committed suicide.  The feeling I had while eating delicious crispy prawn mini pancakes and hearing the awful story was similiar to the feeling I had a couple of years ago. When I found out that a dear friend had died whilst I was fighting for my own life in intensive care. it was devastated guilt.  It was not something that goes away entirely. It simply rears up at random moments, the feeling that I am completely unworthy to have survived when my friend did not. That is something I shall write more about at another time.

Because of the circumstances surrounding my concert ticket, I was even more determined to completely immerse myself in the experience. I was pretty sure that John Darnel himself would appreciate the complex and conflicting happy/sad emotions percolating within me.

It was fully dark and quite cold as we stood in line to enter the gig. It must have been quite a sight for the people standing in the line on either end of our group. Five very eclectic and adorable young women, standing as a cluster of cute in the line and discussing the worst oral sex we had ever received. If you only plan to lick down there once, don’t even bother.  Blowing on it is also weird. I mean only blowing on it, like its a freaking hot bowl of soup. That is not considered satisfying oral pleasure.  We were laughing heaps in horror and outrage. It made me think of a certain time, years ago on my share house  bathroom floor while a party raged downstairs.  It was an example of excellent oral sex and so was irrelevant at this juncture. The memory made me smile and blush a little.  If you cannot go down on me like I’m a goddamn queen, don’t even.

Once inside it was warm and dark. My friend buys me a drink and is determined to make sure we find a position where I can see. It is the best. I get front to the right of the stage, near the security guard who is happy for me to stand so close to the stage. I have my very own small pocket of space in which to dance without fear of anyone hurting me.

When Mr. Darnel himself and band walked on stage and started playing I was struck by the energy and the enthusiasm of everyone in the band. Darnel  commanded the stage with the aura of a rock n roll academic. He would jump up and down as he played guitar and do little star jumps in his pants and suit jacket and self described ”excellent hair.” I think one of the reasons that I have stayed a fan of the songs of The Mountain Goats is the story telling. Only he could write a record with the them being professional wrestling and have me love and be moved by it instead of mock it for it’s theme. This is how he gets you. This is why I love The Mountain Goats. John Darnel can be poetic and compelling whilst also tugging at your heart and brain with surprising material. I look forward to his concept album that is dedicated to Goths.

What was truly wonderful was the brilliant and hilarious stories and banter that took place in between songs.  Jogn Darnel is a front man with the kind of understated confidence that never feels excessive or misplaced. His ability to be both self deprecating and heartfelt exuberance at simply being able to do this thing he enjoys was felt by the crowd and mirrored back to him. It was an example of positive collective conscience that I had not experienced in a while and restored my love and appreciation for what a truly great live music experience can achieve. It made me happy from the hair follicles to my toe nails. I danced in my little space pocket and threw my head back as I sang along to so many songs and sing/shouted the words to the ceiling of The Corner Hotel.


It was as I danced my little body and sang the words with all my might to No Children, that my friend did a sneaky video to capture the joy that was evident by my jumping and the toss of my head.  When she sent it to me and I watched it I felt so nostalgic for myself and a time so very recent. It also allowed me, for a short eight seconds, get to witness the undeniable evidence that I can be totally and entirely joyful. It is something I so easily forget.





art is life. Life is weird.

It was the first truly cold evening of Autumn. I went out in it to see art anyway.

The first exhibition was at Printmaker Gallery on Brunswick st, Fitzroy.

Noirscapes By Paul Compton is a collection of delicate and very gentle collages that are small enough to inspire close scrutiny and deliberate contemplation that is not without whimsy. It felt whimsical to stare at these small works of art and make up stories for them. They made you think of black and white movies and cloak and dagger goings on. I found myself wandering around the collection at least four times. I did not want to miss any details.

One of works Secret Seer looked to me like a simple cuff of a white shirt with a fist coming out the bottom of the sleeve. When I got closer it became apparent that I was mistaken. The image was actually made up of two cut out images. The fist was acually a  muscular male torso with the neck disappearing into  the second cut out image, which was not a white shirt cuff, but  two white pillows that were positioned in such a way as to trick the eye.  It was so well priced that I considered buying it. It sparked my imagination and tickled my funny bone. The image really asked more questions than it answered. Something great art can do.

One of the dark and dreamy linocuts printed by Andrew Gunnel showed three small white ghost like apparitions dancing on the back of a grey rabbit like creature ghost. The creatures looked like they were inhabiting the deepest and darkest part of a forest. It was so dark the trees are invisible in the frame.  The work is entitled Hadith. Hadith refers to a collection of traditions containing sayings of the prophet Muhammad. It is a major source of guidance for Muslims that is in addition to the Koran. I find the work mysterious and beautiful as I stand in front of it without knowing what the title refers to. It remains beautiful and mysterious when I know what the title could be referring to.

The second art exhibition for the evening is Gemma Flack’s  pop up art show and sale at The Goodness Bureau in Thornbury. The show is called Everything Is Not OK But I hOpe You Will Be. There are small works on paper done in coloured pen and ink. The works are affordable and some have very important messages for fello artists and creatives alike. The exhibition is a call to arms for self motivated woman everywhere and woman who need to be nudged a little bit. Gemma Flack wants you to be OK. It is ok if you are not, though.

There are a couple of particularly pleasing illustrations that are done with Jetstar sick bags as the canvas. The juxtaposition of all the images that fill the surface of the sick bag canvas create a sense of joy and vibrancy along with the unspoken mantra that is under every pen line: Do not waste any time.



Some of the women in Gemma’s work are solo wolf packs who need nobody and no one.  Like my favourit work that is a black gouache on board. It shows a young woman with long black hair and get bak eyes sitting in front of a window.  I can imagine wanting to be friends with all the woman in Gemma’s creations. It would make a great movie. Gemma creates all these works and they come to life one night after all the art lovers have gone home. At first it is amazing and the illustrations come to life make wonderful friends and it is a girl gang of all inclusive wonder.

Then the murders begin. Men of course. Bad men.

I eventually decide on one to purchase. It is a small illustration of a womans face with the words IM ENOUGH underneath.

I plan to place the small framed image on my desk so it can be a constant source of calm to me as I work at becoming what I want to be: Brilliant.

On the tram home I am sitting up the front. Across from me sit two young women of about 19 or 18. I can see the one sitting nearest to me. She is wearing black leggings that are slitted so that you get a line of black and then some bare flesh that s at the mercy of the cold damp night outside.  The one with dyed red hair and black leggings is doing the most talking. Her friend is listening and saying the occasional softly spoken ‘ah’ and laughing softly.

I decide to keep my head phones in my ears but do not blast Childish Gambino as I was planning. I sit and stare straight ahead and listen.  There is a steady stream of conversation or stories really. Conversation involves two people exchanging ideas. This is not a conversation I am hearing. It is a narrative of woe. The young woman is talking about a time at a pub with a group of men who want her to show them her ‘tits’ She does not want to do that. They keep asking and badgering her. A friend at this juncture knows there is a photo of said friend’s breasts on said friend’s phone. This friend (not on the tram) gets the phone and shows the men he picture on her friend’s phone. The young woman telling the story is not upset of even worried. She simply describes how the group of men got very quiet after seeing the picture of the young women’s breasts. One of the men simply told her the breasts were very nice.

There was an ex who used to beat up this young woman. He is an ice addict who is now dating a 17 year old that the two young women on the tram know. There is a young man who is not allowed to wear a shirt if he is in her bedroom. The rule applies to her too so its not one sided. There is no talk of anything but men and boys. It makes my heart hurt to listen. I want to say something so badly. I just don’t know what. Anything I try and say would just come across as patronizing and the ramblings of a crazy stranger on the tram.  Young women have no idea how strong they are.

When they get of at Palace Cinemas and step out into the dark damp night. It is raining steadily. I find myself saying a silent prayer to a collection of omnipresent  representation of illustrated women by Gemma Flack, that they get home safe and sound. Not just tonight but always. I also prayed that they realized male attention is not the only thing that  can give their life value.







Two Years come Sunday

Sunday was the two year anniversary of my kidney transplant.  It seemed an even more exciting reason to celebrate than the usual another year older reason. You turned another year older? Thats cool. I have three kidneys inside this tiny skin house, and the one that works is from a man who helped create  me the first time around.  Last year I went to visit my parents on the farm and spent the weekend with them and other family. It was a rather stressful time and on the exact one year anniversary of my kidney transplant, I ended up trying to explain sexism in football culture and found myself howled down to the point where I simply ran to the disused sheep shed and cried there for about 2 hours.

This year I wanted to try something different.  I wanted to celebrate with  a few good friends at one of my favourite drinking establishments in an area that I missed living in terribly. I wanted to celebrate my kidney transplant at The Edinboragh Castle in Brunswick.  I decided to do a brief statistical experiment while on the train to Brunswick. I posted a pithy status update saying where and when I would be where I was planning to celebrate. I knew it was short notice so I was not expecting lots of people to drop their Sunday afternoon for me.   Which is why I was so happy when two out of the 50 people who liked my kidney transplant celebration status, came.  All up there was seven of us and this was perfect. The afternoon was humid and sunny, perfecr for drinking cold alcoholic ginger beer full of ice. If you think it is strange to be celebrating a kidney transplant by drinking, I assure you I was not getting wasted. Im not an idiot. My Dad gave me the kidney of a non drinker, non smoker and hard worker. I was not going to waste it.

I sat at that corner table full of people and felt so happy I thought my heart might just burst. The conversation was rich with humour and imagination and intelligence. Each friend had so much to contribute to the flow of conversation. We spoke about films and feminism and art and books. We spoke about music and politics and nobody howled me down until I felt so powerless and silenced all I could do was run away to the disused sheep shed and cry for 2 hours.  My friends and I laughed so much. It occured to me as I sat there that every single person person sitting at the table was someone who I had met and become friends with in the last ten years. That means no friends from school from any of my schooling: Primary , high or university. I knew when I moved to Melbourne at 23, I wanted to carve a life out of it that was new and exciting and the kind that I felt befitted my character and the character I hoped to develop over time and experience.

I had been very pleased with my out fit for the celebration of my new kidney turning two. I was wearing a black and red tartan button up shirt, tucked into dark blue denim short shorts, black fishnets and a silver necklace that one of my ex housemate made from an old  gin decanter label.   I was attempting a fashion homage to Beyonce’s look in the Flawless music video.  I failed at looking exactly the same but that was not the intention, I just love shirts buttoned up and tucked into short shorts. I got complimented on the ensemble by my friend Jess.  The point is I was feeling pretty stylish. I love putting together outfits that work. Especially when the outfit is more than 50% created from opp shop finds.

Which is why what happenned later so upsetting. The gathering ended at about 6. So my partner and I decided to go for a walk up Sydney rd and decide on some dinner. The air outside had cooled down a little and the humidity had fled. The sun was starting to set and crazy gold light outlined the buildings and got in our eyes. My partney had just reached for my hand when we stood at the crner of Albion and Sydney rd. A car with its widows down and two men sitting together in front were at the lights. I could have kicked the car they were so close to the curb. The driver yelled at me, ”Anorexic Dickhead!’ and his passenger laughed a cruel and loudly enthusiastic laugh. The kind of laugh that hurt to hear.

I felt slapped. I felt put back in my place. I felt ugly. I found myself wishing for a cat call or a honk instead. I looked down at my skinny legs in fishnets. Who was I kidding? No matter what I do and achieve and no matter how brilliant my outfit, there would always be guys like that.  I found myself feeling embarressed that it happened with my partner present. He sqeezes my hand as we continue walking. ”I would have kicked thier review mirror if I had been quick enough.” He says. I laugh. We decide it would have been the best revenge. With little to no consequences. What could those neanderthals do? They were stuck in their car in traffic.

It was like being back in school. The kids thought I was anorexic before the doctors did. The rumour went around. My class at the country school was not even 25 kids.  The stay in the adolescent ward at The Royal Children’s Hospital. All that stuff just came flooding back. All because of two entitled male twats who thought the height of sophisticated humour was yelling abuse at young women they did not know. Like I was meant to care what they thought. It was something to add to the list of self hating mantras, when Im feeling depressed already and am looking for tangible proof that the voices in my head telling me that I am sub par and below average.

I hate that my beloved had to witness things like that. It made me twiNge with insecurity. I did not want him to see me any other way than they way he did. I didn’t want outsider informants twisting or distorting that perception. I know it does not do this.  He is not a brainless neanderthal. He is one of my best friends. My best friend (whom I have sex with) and I walk to The Brunswick Green and eat dinner. We share a pint of beer that I am proud to say I drink most of.



Someday My Prince Will Not Come: My Feminism in its infancy

It was my mother who planted the feminist seed within my intellect.  I am not even sure if she remembers doing it. She was a busy lady. These days when she says she is not a feminist, I huff and puff and roll my eyes as if no time has past at all and I am still 16.

She may not consider herself a feminist but,  she sure as hell raised me to grow up into one.

She did so through the route most appealing to me, that of books. It was book she found in an opp shop one day when I was 15. The book entitled Someday My Prince Will Not Come: More Stories For Young Feminists compiled  by Rosemary Stones, was a life saver.  An intelligent raft of rhetoric ideas wrapped in pathos and the real world. Flung out to save me from drowning in the fears that I was doomed to live a life alone and undesired by the opposite sex. This collection of fiction changed my way of thinking for the better and for the more enlightened.

This illogical and incredibly insipid fear arose from a conversation I had had with my father’s mother a few days before my mother presented me with this book. The conversation went like this.

Nan: Do you want a boyfriend?

Me: Yes. (furtively and with all the angsty hope I could muster)

Nan: That must be hard.

I am sure if my Nan knew how much this affected me in the negative, she would be very upset. I am sure she did not mean to crush my tiny teenage heart. She loves me.

Even now I find this conversation baffling. What did my grandmother mean?  That I was ugly? That because of certain physical abnormalities, I was doomed to live a sexless life? To never catch the eye of a handsome stranger? I agonized over this exchange for a very long time.  It made me think that the whole reason for being a girl was to get a boyfriend and for a very long time I believed it.

Which is why this book my mother found and gave to me is so important. I will deconstructing some of my favourite short stories within Someday My Prince Will Not Come and how the Pathos was established and carried out to a very positive end: the enlightenment and confidence of one particular young woman. It did not result in the brutal and merciless obliteration of an entire generation, or in the mass suicide of brain washed men, woman and children.

Someday My Prince Will not Come, was a big burly comforting hug that began to convince my blossoming social conscious that I was not alone. Stilettos by Rosemary Stones tells of a girl who saves a shoe shop from being robbed, armed with a rather visciouse looking high heeled shoe (Stone, 1988). No man rushes to the defence quick enough. Yet in the paper the story printed tells of fruit vendor man saving the day. The short story holds a much deeper message for  any young woman reading it. That sometimes people, the media, the social paradigm in which we are enshrouded, can seem stifling and suffocating. Yet, we should not give up being strong and smart and self self-sufficient.

Sandra Chick’s story Different Rules follows one evening between a young woman and young man. The morning after she overhears him in conversation with a friend. ‘Remember our shag a slag nights?’ she hears his friend say. They both laugh and the final line is about the girl considering how there is no male word for ‘slag’ (Stone, 1988). Within this story Chick expertly uses pathos to question the readers understanding of the inherent double standard in the actions of sexual activity between men and women.  Chick appeals to our emotions through the female character of her story and also through the male character. It is not until the end that we are shown what kind of person he is and with that realization comes the same kind of sadness that the female character feels. You are disappointed and saddened by how the events have unfolded. You are disappointed and upset by the different rules that apply to girls and boys.

A Long Ride On The Carousel by Adele Geras uses two of the three main types of rhetoric in her moving and emotive piece of fiction that follows a young women’s growing pains and her friendship with an old man who stays at the  hotel she is working a holiday job at.  This story  explores a young women’s growing understanding of what real love is.. It also touches on the rather complex issue of euthanasia, of how taking a persons life is not always wrapped up in murder and a desire to cause harm. There are gray areas, extenuating circumstances. Mr Fuller explains himself quite eloquently through ethos he is able to make himself credible and trustworthy in the eyes of the young women. There is a mutual respect and this  helps him to make him seem a credible character to the reader as well. You are on his team, even though you are shocked by his comments. ‘There’s no need to be alarmed. I am not in the usual sense, a murderer. We made the plans together’ (Stone, 1988), 1988).  He killed his wife in order for her to escape a debilitating and painful disease. It is through this elderly man’s wisdom, that the young woman; Shirley leans what love and life is all about.  When she sees her boyfriend with someone else, it becomes clear to her. She realizes she deserves more and that there is no shame in being alone until you find what that ‘more’ is.  It is best advised to read this story with tissues close at hand as the pathos is plentiful.

Geraldine Kaye’s  Bargain Basement, follows the erratic and passionate Daisy’s short lived love affair with a Young man called Ben. It is through these fictional characters that you learn about the emotional intricacies of sex and love. There is so much more to sex than penis and vagina. It is through Daisy that we learn how sex can look like love if you have no idea what love looks like.  It can give you something to hold onto when you cannot feel yourself. Daisy is bored of her privileged upbringing and intelligent parents who want her to achieve all the great things that they have.  Ben is the heat on her skin when the coldness is inside of her. Daisy is not overly likeable sh is a well rendered teenage girl who fluctuates up and down and around a large list of emotions and desires. This is ok though. This story tells the reader it is ok to be adventurous to grab at life and make it jangle.  The light goes out of her eyes when she discovers what Ben really is. Her desire for him dries up and blows away like desert dust when he proves to be not in keeping with what she hoped. She does not love him. She loves and is passionate about an idea of him, a fantasy.  Daisy was given the freedom to explore her life options  (to a point) by her parents. ”They did worry of course” (Stone, 1988).

Through this story we are encouraged to contemplate the implications of a young women not given a safe and unconditionally loving safe place to grow and learn. To consider what happens when this self exploration is blocked by religious mandate and cultural taboo .

We are so lucky to live in a world where feminist information and books can be downloaded for free (sometimes). Which is why it may be easy to pass of this little book of short stories as dated and kitsch. It is a great book for young women who are in their early teens.   This particular book pin points a important moment between my mother and I and our relationship. It was  not long after that that I left my family home to complete my last two years of high school.

This book was a cute and brilliant jumping off point to ( many many years later )  discovering a whole lot of other amazing and intersectional women such as Bell Hooks, Audre Lorde, Simone De Beauvoir, Kathleen Hannah of Bikini Kill,  Le Tigre and The Julie Ruin.  Helen Razor, Catherine Deveny, Beyonce, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichi, Angela Carter, Roxeanne Gay, Margaret Atwood,  and so on and so forth for infinity. I don’t think my mother had any idea what an impact that little book from an  op shop would have on her eldest daughter. Or maybe I am not giving her enough credit.

I did end up doing what my Nan had made me feel was important and impossible for me, by getting a boyfriend (easily). He took in my confidence and independent spirit and would always drunkenly comment while drunk, ‘You know, If you turned out to be a lesbian, I would not be surprised.’

Sometimes it takes getting what you are programmed to think you need, to realize you don’t need it.


A day long gone in September 06

They were two torn out pages with my hand writing on them. Had I torn them from a notebook years ago?  They were found amongst a box of old high school art folios and reports. The weird god stuff in my art folios made me cringe. That dumb and silly girl did not exist anymore. I threw everything including the school reports into recycling. I kept those two hand written filled pages. There was meant to be more. There was one very important thing that was missing from that box. Something I had wanted so that I could love and read and then choose to throw away myself. More on that in another post.

Here are those hand written pages. Oh.



For some reason, call it nervous energy, i wander around my new boyfriend’s place in Kensington. I do dishes and a load of laundry. Things you do when you are unemployed. Things you do when you are unemployed and still in shock that you have an acual boyfriend, and are uncertain how to proceed when at his place and all you have to do is simply wait for him to come home after work. That morning be fore he left for work at dawn, he had hugged me tight and said. ”Do you think you could stay over another night? One night of you is not really cutting it anymore.” My heart does a little squee. I nod and say, ‘OK.’

As I fold his t shirts and pair his socks I think about a day three years ago.

I was sitting on my friends front lawn in Ballarat. The sun was out but the air was crisp and cold. I was in the messy middle of my cid infatuation. My friend had come over to visit and found me in a tear filled heap on the floor listening to some whiny white boy band that tried to pass themselves of as punk.  ( Unwritten Law’s Seeing Red) My friend and her boyfriend had bundled me up from the floor and taken me to thier place for some tender loving care. It may have also been at the behest of my housemates. They may have grown bored of my morbid self indulgence.

Sitting in the winter sunshine I  watched my friend’s  adorable dog, a Jack Russel called Violet, run around the front yard gleefully sniffing out bugs and tiny creatures. My friend was trying to get me to call Sid and flat out ask him what the fuck he was playing at.

”You can use the phone in the kitchen. I will shut the door and give you privacy.” She suggested.

”Like it is that simple.” I said glumly. ”Hey Sid. Just calling to ask regarding those hand jobs I gave you. Do you love me or what?”  God, it hurt to love that idiot Sid. I did not need to call him. I had already convinced myself I knew the answer. He would laugh at my me and say that he would have  to be pretty desperate to fall in love with someone who was so rubbish at hand jobs.

It was here with my friend kindly giving me such love and patience as I wallowed in my angst and misery that this particular friend said something to me that it would take a very long time for me to believe.

‘This will have a happy ending no matter how it turns out.” I roll my eyes and grunt and then sniff. My friend continues.

‘If you and Sid sort everything out and end up together. That is happy. If Sid continues to act like an asshole of mammoth proportions you will move on and that is happy. You will eventually find someone who realizes and appreciates how weird and wonderful you are…and how great it is to kiss you.”

I say nothing and my friend’s boyfriend comes out to bring us cups of tea. Later that year my friend and that boy break up and she moves in with me and her best friend. They eventually decide to ask me to move out. It is not a surprise as I was being fazed out emotionally for months.

Now its three years later and I still have the first text Josh ever sent me four months ago.

5 june 06

Hey cutie. Just wanted you to know I had an awesome weekend and that last night was great. I should have birthdays more often. Text me if you got credit.

Even now thinking about that text makes my heart feel like it is being squeezed. he is not even pressuring me about the whole sex thing. Which is a relief.

Oh dear Ive gone and done it now. I have written his name down for the first time. I have been too scared to. What if writing it down shifted some fabric in the universe and unhinged something? Like a thread pulled once too many times resulting in the whole thing unravelling.  Its done now and there has been no shifting that I can observe with the naked eye. I will now allow myself to gush a little.

He is tall. 6ft2.

he has dark floppy hair that falls into his eyes and causes him to flick his head in way to get his hair out of his eyes.

He has the cutest New Zealand accent as he is from there.

He is interesting and darkly funny.

He loves to kiss me.

I guess that my ex friend was right.

It was only a few nights ago that he told me the whole story behind the death of his mother when he was 18 years old. He spoke in his soft deep voice and I pushed my face into his neck in an attempt comfort him. He wrapped his arms around me and held tight. I almost stopped breathing. She had been addicted to anti-depressants and pain killers.  He had come home late from a party with his then girlfriend: Angela. They had had drunken sex and fallen asleep. The next morning he was woken by a knock on his bedroom door. It was his Dad. ”I knew it. I knew it before my Dad even said anything.” My beloved boy murmured into my neck. ”Its the shittiest feeing, the feeling of loosing a parent.”

I hug him and think of his old girlfriend. I wonder what I would have done in that situation. What could you possibly do to lessen the impact of such news? Nothing.

The house is empty and we are on the living room couch. I kiss his cheek and he find my mouth with his. There is hunger there and we are hyper aware that we are alive. He gently pulls my t shirt up and over my head. He tosses it aside.

I smile to myself as I fold the last shirt. It is about 3 hours until he gets home. I cant wait.

At Night I Marry The Bed

I left my very first and only Silver Bullet vibrator in a bedroom in a large share house in Kensal Green, North London to be exact. It was 2009 and I had been happily flipping my own bean for about 4 years. I did not realize my diminutive implement of happy endings was missing until I was in Manchester. I had expected to find it while unpacking my suitcase in the bedroom of the house I would be living n and working as a nanny. I owed rent to the place in London and did not have the money. I could hardly call up Patrick the creepy live in landlord and ask if he had come across my vibrator while cleaning out my side of the bedroom. It was not all that large or expensive and I think the one double A battery that made it work had run out. I had become a little addicted to its magic as it had helped curb my initial intense homesickness and sexual frustration.

Growing up in a Mormon household (The Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints). There’s a musical about us. The church had guidelines for every aspect of your life. One of the things that is considered wrong and unholy in the eyes of the lord, was masturbation.

Yes that delightful, harmless and disease free past time was considered gross and dirty. This is so funny and inexplicable to me now that I stand before you a proud and defiant apostate of the church. Apostate is just a fancy way of saying that I decided through a process of transgressions and starting to think for myself, that perhaps the church was not as great or good for me as my parents and relatives had tried to make me believe.

There is a little pamphlet that you get as soon as you turn 12. It is called For The Strength Of Youth. Inside the pages are some very lovingly written, if not condescendingly, information that invites you to dress modestly and save yourself, your sexy parts and feelings for your husband or wife. It says you are not to ‘arouse sexual feeling in your own body’. In the pamphlet you are told that Homosexuality and Lesbianism ‘is a serious sin’. You are told same sex attraction saddens the lord. ”It’s Adam and Eve. Not Adam and Steve!” This was a statement I heard hundreds of times while growing up.

Everything fun makes god sad and it confuses me that the person up stairs created all this stuff and then said ‘don’t touch any of it’.

Masturbation was not discussed. Sex was not discussed, consent and feeling safe or what constitutes a healthy relationship was not discussed.

When I was 13 I was visiting my friend from church Claire, she had an 11 year old brother. While I was visiting, his parents caught him rubbing his crotch up and down the pantry door. He had obviously just discovered how amazing it felt.

My friend and I watched as her brother was taken into the living room and sat down for a talk. We listened through the closed door. It was all so funny to us. What was he doing that for?

He could have simply been told that it was something to do in the privacy of your bedroom. He was instead told that it was not right. He was told that, ‘You just don’t do it.’ ‘Just don’t do it’ is basically the cornerstone of the Mormon religion.

I never understood why the church told young people not to masturbate. It was disease and pregnancy risk free. Did you really want to be so very ignorant about what made you feel sexually wonderful on your wedding night? Wouldn’t it be better if you could help steer your brand new spouse around the map of your body? Have the vocabulary and confidence to say what you needed? No. Refrain from all of it and you shall remain pure in the eyes of the lord. That creep was always watching you with love and judgement.

Which is why I did not discover the joys of self -love until I was 23 and had been living out of home since I was 16. The guilt and shame surrounding sex is something that I found difficult to unlearn.

I got a job on the tropical holiday destination of the wealthy: Hamilton Island. The job involved cleaning up fancy apartments, after rich young adults had partied and puked and left grand amounts of alcohol behind. Because, when you are rich like that, you waste shit. The other cleaners and I would collect it and sneak it back to our rooms.

I was still a virgin at this stage and when the rumour that Hamilton Island had the highest rate of STDs in Australia. I got scared and decided I was not loosing my V while on an island full of people who may or may not have the disease that gives you cluster warts on you genitals.

It was there with the warm breezes and sounds of the ocean floating through my window, that I slowly entered the wonder and majesty of self- reliant sexual pleasure. It was all very tentative at first, just a small and nervous hand caressing the stomach and slowly, very freaking slowly it moved towards the front of my underwear. over the knickers and until I found the spot that made my heart start humming and a feeling that was so so good it amazed me that I had been made to feel so bad about it and put off doing it for so long. You could say that my working holiday on a tropical island was also a sort of honeymoon period for myself.


It was not jus that it felt good. Learning to make my own body feel sexually aroused was a huge deal. My body up until that point, had never really felt like my own. It always felt like it was being shared or dissected or cut open and my insides moved around or added to. My body was a slab of malfunctioning meat and it was not nusual for it to be stripped down and stared at by multiple medical professionals at a time. It did not happen all at once, this awakening and feeling like my body could be sexual. When you ar a kid with a body that is fascinating medically, it is easy to feel like you have no control over what happens to you and the skin you are in. While on that tropical island I discovered that I had way more control over my body than I was led to believe. Learning how to make this body sing a little and learning what caresses worked and the ones that didn’t, was like a whole new world was right under my nose and I had the magic key.

All that wasted time reading the Book Of Mormon in preparation for the end of days. All that time spent believing that Jesus is going to come to earth a second time and you better be on the right and sexually pure side when he arrives. What a wasted adolescence. I wonder if I would not have been so sad had I known how to make myself feel like the second coming of Christ, without the judgement and the end of the world.

After that I became aware that it was great for calming my nerves or helping me fall asleep. What an invention of the human nervous system. To think all through uni, I thought if I did anything like this, it indicated I could not get a boyfriend. Thanks to the church really pushing the whole hetero-normative patriarchal, only get sexy when its your husband helping, ideology. I thought fluffing my own cream puff, indicated that I was as ugly and doomed to die alone, as all those truly horrendous and lame Mormon dances had me believing. It did not prove anything except independence.

I did not need a girlfriend/boyfriend. I only needed my clean hands, a sexy imagination and a quiet moment.