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All My Friends And I Alone But Together At LCD Soundsystem 26/7/2017

I did not take any photos save a couple at the start. I cannot tell you what the members of the band were wearing. If they looked like they were having a good time. You did not ned to see faces to know the whole band were having a fun time.  I was up the back and to the right of the stage. With nobody behind me, though I was free to stand and dance. Dance I did. The dance of someone ten years older than when they first became obsessed with the dance anthem poetry of James Murphy AKA LCD Soundsystem.  I was no mystery to me as to why they had reformed and decided to tour. They knew that we had all gotten older and thier songs were as important to thier fans now as they were ten years ago. Also if I was an American Band I would jump at the chance to leave the country and tour the world where people know your name and love what you do. Did they do it for money? Does it matter if they did? They have a new album coming out so its not so weird.  It makes sense.

I arrived to The venue a good three hours early.  I walked towards the entrance behind a couple in their 30s holding hands.  I made up an entire love story for them based around LCD Soundsystem songs. They met in thier 20s at a house party where Daft Punk was playing…

Because of how anxious I was that I would not be able to find my seat.  I made friends with the lady standing at the door to my sear section. Was brave enough to explain that I may need help finding my seat. She helped me with zero bad attitude. The arena was practically empty at this point and Top Forty music was being blasted through the speakers.

I went and got a cup of Cider and some chips and bought it back to my seat. I placed the cup ( after taking a few sips) and cardboard bowl of hot chips on the floor under my seat. I sent a tweet and then went to get my snacks. I promptly knocked over my full drink and spilled it all on the floor under the seat next to mine. After brief but intense sadness at the waste of ten dollars. I thought it was for the best and ate my chips.

I watched people slowly spill into the general admission floor section and all I could think was how glad I was to be sitting down. An incredibly tall middle aged man sat in the seat next to me. The seat under which I had spilled my beverage. He commented to me how this seats were alright and I was so relieved that I had a gig buddy, I may have talked too much. But there was still ages till the show started. We chatted about music and he told me he had quite eclectic taste that included George Michael, Paul Young and Blur. We were even at the same Placebo show years ago at Festival Hall.  He had just got back from Greece with his wife and was heavily into reading books about the politics of the country.

It was thanks to him that I knew that there was a DJ playing at that moment who was famous for being a brilliant hat maker. ”He is famous for his hats and he is always wearing one of his creations when he performs.”  Because I could not see what this DJ looked like on stage. I imagined the frontmen of that band Vince gets asked to Join in an episode of season two Might Boosh. Vince gets in a fight with the guy who calls himself Johnny Two Hats.  Who is so named because he wears two hats. That is who I imagined was supporting LCD Soundsystem. Sometimes being vision impaired is great for the imagination. Not so great for accurate music journalism.

When the band come out and the house lights dim, the collective excitement erupts,  The band launch into their first sone Yr City’s A Sucker from their debut 2005 release. The light art at this show was high quality and spectacular. This added to the overall sensation of seeing them live. It could be said that their earlier shows were better but I never got to see them ‘Back in the day.”

When they played Daft Punk Is Playing At My House the memories came flooding back as I stood up and started dancing myself free. In 2005 I was living on the dole and living in my first share house on Alexandra parade in North Fitzroy. Back then you could affor to live there while on the dole as long as you didnt eat much and didn’t have a smartphone monthly bill to worry about.  I had just moved to Melbourne with a gnawing hunger in my heart. I held a party but I had zero social or financial capital  so nobody came. No twitter and no Facebook meant no worries. I got drunk and danced in the tiny living to LCD Soundsystem all by myself. I was 23.

James even stopped after a few songs and amicably but firmly voiced his disdain  that the arena the gig was taking place at was named after a renowed homophobic tennis champion. ”Lets rename this place.” James said to the sound of much cheering and clapping.  He also apologised for the huge speakers blocking the view of the stage to some unlucky ticket holders.  ”If we could do without them, we would.” Jmaes said. ”But we do need them. Thank you for being here.”   Then the band starts the opening to the song I Can Change. I and my gig buddy get up out of our seats almost in unison.

Get Innocuous! American Dream.

When they played You Wanted A Hit, From their 2010 album, I am transported to 2011 (my year of heartbroken OK Cupid dates and non dates) when  I would start messaging with a guy on the now still functional and less invasive than Tinder (OK Cupid is not connected to Facebook), dating site. His profile picture was him dressed as James Murphy as he is dressed on the albums cover for the album This Is Happening. This young man whose name I cannot remember and whose face I never saw in real life,  taught me that having good taste in music did not bring the boys to yard. Sharing music taste with this elusive Fuck Boy  didn’t fill the guy with unconditional love  like it did me.  I never met him I just madly and rather obsessively messaged him and would constantly try to organise for us to meet up ( and have hot hot sex, duh. I can get wet over the idea of someone)  and he always had excuses. I just put it down to my face in my pictures that were on my profile, not being pretty enough to entice him. As I danced to You Wanted A Hit and then toTribulations I wondered if that guy was down below me sweating with the general floor crowd as he danced himself silly.  Did he remember a weirdly intense girl during his stint on OK Cupid? A girl who  acted so thirstily as if she thought they should get fucking married just because we share a love of a few bands? I will never know.

Movement. Call The Police.

Before they launched into New York I love You James told us that they would be taking a very small two minute break and then playing two more songs. These songs could be considered an encore. James told us.Which hinted to any discerning person present that there would be no encore after these two  final songs. ”We have to go pee.” James tells us. ”We are old.”

When everyone sings along to the line from New York I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down that goes ”Like a rat in a cage pulling minimum wage” it is with nuanced and knowing self awareness. We are older but with not even half of what we were promised growing up. The world is scary and James Murphy was not wrong but scarily accurate when he sang in Call The Police that ‘The future is a nightmare.” It is true which is why nights like this are so important. It is why art matters. How on earth can people cope if they don’t look to music and art and literature?

Someone Great.  All My Friends are the final two songs.  It is when they play the final song All My Friends that I feel myself getting overwhelmed with the brevity of my feelings about this very moment. It is all to much almost to take in and hold in my one tiny heart. I feel it almost breaking with the understanding that we are all older and one day we all will be dead. Everyone of the people that witnessed this gig with me will die. Hopefully they will die old.

I walk to Richmond train station with my gig buddy after the show. It is cool but not freezing and there is no rain just the vestiges of it from earlier. He is 6ft 3 and i am 4ft 9. As we walk we talk about our first gigs and i find out he saw Blur at Monash Uni. ”I saw a Christian rock band with my Mum  and little brother when I was 12.”  I tell him. ”at the small town hall in the town nearest my parents farm.”  I acknowledge he wins. We say goodbye at the train station and I as he walks away to get the Belgrave Line I call out ”Thanks for being my gig buddy!”

Now the only thing left to do is anticipate the new album while listening to thier old ones.











Swinging And Swirling


I get a rejection email from a writing competition that I entered 4 months ago. I really hoped to make the long list.

My phone has not been working for three days. I cannot type in my security code as all but the 2 and 5 are useless. It is nice to leave the apartment without it. I day dream more and watch things around me.

Walking home from the shops I see a soft toy bunny head on the damp foot path. No sign of the body and limbs any where. It looks macabre and I smile.

At home I write on my lap top  and share a little of it. I am working on a bigger project but cannot resist sharing these three paragraphs in a short blog post.

It gets some good reactions from people who understand what I am trying to explain and articulate. There is only one bad reaction. I ignore that bad. I am not writing for them.



I resent having to go into the city on a new phone mission. I would rather be writing. The huge Telstra building on the corner of Bourke and Swanston is ultra modern a woman standing at the entrance greets me and directs me up the escalator. There is top 40 pop music blaring and lots of neon lights. My customer service rep is a young guy called Nathan. He is unable to help me get into my old phone. I finally have to say goodbye to my beloved 4s with the Japanese depressed egg (Gutatama) phone cover. ‘I have not seen one of these phones for 10 months.’ Nathan tells me. Then I see two in the space of two days.”

I decide on the iphone 7.  Nathan goes to get one for me. I am asked if i want tea or coffee 4  times. My keep cup is on clear display, placed next to my bag and coat. Nathan returns and starts to help me set the phone up. ”What are your plans for the rest of the day?’ Nathan asks me.

”I am going to poetry book club. Because I am a big nerd.’ I reply. I am relieved to have something concrete to say. I hate it when customer service people ask me that question.

”Cool. Cool.” Nathan says amicably. ”What do you do with yourself?” He asks.

‘I am a writer.” I say. ”I am quite useless as a member of functioning society.’  Is my pithy response.

It is a relief to finally exit the large space age building armed with a new device.

A baby came to poetry book club. I am impressed that his mother managed to come all the way from the suburbs. I watched everyone coo and fuss and i tried to measure up the same enthusiasm.

When the question arose did anyone want a hold,  I stayed silent.

It was only 3 months old. I do not find infants all that enthralling. They cannot talk or ask interesting philosophical questions.  This feeling could be due to the fact that my own father was always quite vocal as to his disinterest in new borns. Even his own kids were weird looking untill 10 month old. ”You looked like ET when you were a baby.” My father told me numerous times.

My gosh, a baby could have the capacity exhaust me so much i may have less time to be depressed. I know on an intellectual level that this is a terrible reason to have a baby.  Also, I don’t want one. I just feel like I am supposed to want to have one and this makes me feel guilty. When Im depressed I feel this exponentially more than usual. It is not your fault, small human. I think as I half heartedly touch the infants tiny left foot as my friend holds it and looks like a natural Dad while doing so. He is genuine in his joy at this infant’s presence at poetry book club.



At poetry book club we discuss the book of poems by Tanya Thaweeskulchai, called A Salivating Monstrous Plant. I had read the poems out loud to my empty apartment with the hum of the fridge as a backing track. I love the poems. The rhythm and flow of the language as it comes out through the voice is so much more powerfully experienced than when simply reading them silently. The poet originally created a performance using these works and that really becomes apparent if you read them aloud. It is the thick meaty imagery that I enjoy the most in this collection. There is acknowledgement of the strange and surreal. In these poems you are invited in at your own risk. There is a half boy half crow, a house being swallowed up, plants and earth seen from the inside.  These poems gave language and description to my own body and the weird and wonderful shapes that inhabit it from day to day and year to year.

I am a salivating monstrous plant and there are times that I feel completely out of control inside of it. This collection of poetry encapsulates what it feels like to be swallowed up by forces outside of yourself yet also, deep inside of you. There is description of peeling back a cornea that almost has the power to make you put the book down and gather your wits again before continuing.  It is a book of Avant-Garde poetry that could be a bit too much for some. I found it comforting. It gave voice to the unspeakable and indescribable qualities that encompase my own body.



I lay awake in bed listening to the rain falling heavily. I used to love the sound of rain, I still do. It is just that the prospect of going out in it and making the two train trips to West Footscray, in the rain and wind, in order to discuss my ever recalcitrant head and heart.

The 8 minute walk from West Footscray train station to my appointment, is cold and windy but, no rain is falling. When I walk into the warmth and comfort of the reception area, I am greeted with a smile and an offer of hot herbal tea. Today the tea is called Yummy Tummy. I sit on one of the worn mismatched couches and sip my tea as I wait to be called.

My psych session did not leave me feeling any better. I got frustrated and inpatient with her reasoning. She thinks proactive thinking and logic will fix things. It won’t.
I get so my chest and heart actually hurts. Like sudden heart ache for no reason. She tells me that that is anxiety. When the hour is up, I feel like I have wasted it talking about stupid things that cannot be changed. I cannot be changed.



It is astounding what a good phone conversation with a good friend can accomplish . My friend who relocated to Sydney for a film job that fell through is coming back in a week.
She calls me from her bungalow in Sydney. She puts me on speaker phone and original feeds to bake a cake as we chat. It is soul replenishing and before I know it aver an hour has passed. She has made me laugh and we have gotten mutually outraged about sexist idiots. To feel seen really seen and understood is such a rare and wonderful
 thing. She already has a job lined up working on the show Underbelly when she gets back to Melbourne. Talking to her inspires me. I look out the window as I chat with her and notice the sky in blue.

It is because of her that I decide to actually have a shower and get dressed to go to the shops. I will pick up some things that I always forget. L has been morning the loss of his bag of salt from the moving expedition. I will get a bag of salt.
It is sunny and cold outside. I breath in the crispness and exhale.

There is a father and his 5 year old son on their bikes at the corner. The father is guiding the child around a smashed beer bottle. “Let’s avoid the broken glass” the father says. “Someone’s been a bit silly with a beer bottle.”

The last of the winter  afternoon sun sinks down as I am in the supermarket.

When I step into the empty apartment it is after 5pm. I start putting away things in the low cupboards. I am too short to reach the cupboards above the sink. They are higher than my head. I should have left the bag of cooking salt on the bench.

I see some space in the top shelf of the top cupboard. It is the shelf with all the glass bottles  of delicious balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil.

Reaching up on tip toes with the bag of salt and try to half throw it that few inches so it lands on the shelf. It does land there. Then the entire shelf falls and there is a cacophony of smashing glass and something falls heavily on my for head, I think it is the large glass bottle of fancy olive oil. There is black sticky stuff that looks like tar in a puddle with glass shards everywhere. The tiles are slick with oil. The smell is overpowering. My vision gets a bit blurry and my knees go weak. What a huge mess.

A few sobs of despair burst out before removing my wet with oil socks and start trying to clean up. I guess it is a good thing there are no kids around to worry about their little hands and feet getting sliced with glass shards, I think.  It is not until after I have nearly finished cleaning that I wipe at my head with a clean hand. Upon looking I  see thick streaks of red and my fringe is sticky with blood. There is more to worry about than a simple concussion. I also fear that I have done some permanent damage to my frontal lobe. I touch gingerly at the wound. It hurts.

I check my emails. Another literary rejection. There is a big sigh let out of me and I check my head wound again.


I finish a collection of essays called You Cant Touch My Hair. And Other Things I Still Have To Explain.  The author is American comedian and one half of the pod cast called Two Dope Queens: Pheobe Robinson.

 There is a lot to love about this book from an intersectional feminist perspective. Pheobe writes candidly about the trials and tribulations of being a black woman in America. She writes about being an actor of colour and the  racism and sexism she has encountered while trying to carve out a career in comedy.
There is an essay entitled How To Avoid Being The Black Friend and maps out the ways to spot if you are the tokan black friend. This stuff is important to understand even if you are not the tokan black friend, because white people need to know how to avoid putting their friends of colour in awkward situations even accidentally.
When Pheobe writes about the experience of being on a set for a television show and calmly calling the director out on his careless racist comment about her being ”uppity” because she asked nicely for five minutes to quickly go over her lines, You learn something.  That no matter how nice you are as a black woman, the stereotype of the angry black woman follows you around like a rain cloud of micro-aggressions. Instead of graciously accepting he has made a mistake, saying sorry and moving forward. The director makes it all about how he is a good guy and has a wife and kids. It is a story all to familiar to any minority when talking truth to power. Phoebe handles it well and this makes the immaturity and childishness of the director stand out even more.
Phoebe is funny. She writes about the members of U2 and puts them in order of who she would like to sleep with the most to the least. She makes sure to be clear that if you expected her to be into rap more than music loved by mums, than that is a form of racist thinking.
My favourite essay would have to be A Brief History Of Black Hair in Film, TV, Music and Media. Phoebe discusses the pixie cut worn by Halle Berry in 1994 as ”the ‘Rachel’ cut for black women.”
There is even a photo of one of my favourite film actresses Janelle Monet whose hair is described as ”So on point that I would pay to live inside it,,,its bigger than my NYC apartment, so this is a win win.”
The freedom that comes from having well behaved white girl hair should not be overlooked. For black women hair is far more politically loaded and that is thanks to generations of white supremacy.
The collection of essays closes with some words of loving advice for Phoebe’s biracial niece Olivia, in the form of a collection of letters. One of these letters is called Use Your Vagina For Good. Which is obviously for Olivia to read when she is older ( not 3 years old at time of book being written).
 This book is fun and informative as well as filled with comedic gold. Ms Robinson’s wit is obvious from page to page.  You should buy this book and read her weekly musings on her blog (aka Black Daria).


How To Build A Girl By Caitlin Moran

Masturbation and writing are two things all teens can do. Regardless of their socioeconomic status.’


 They say do not judge a book by its cover, but, I did and do quite often. The cover of Caitlin Moran’s second novel hit me twice as I browsed in my favorite independent book store. First it hit me right in my enthusiastic love of the writer herself. Because I had no idea she had written another novel to follow up her first and very successful effort, How To Be A Woman. I was thrilled at this discovery. I grinned in excitement. Her writing makes me feel good. Giddy- type-good. It makes me feel giddy type good about simply being me. That is no mean feat.

When I got How To Be A women for Christmas (because I asked for it) It was read with the verocity of a hungry brained zombie girl. My large family spoke loudly around me. On my completion of the book. I stood on a chair and announced to my family that I was a feminist. My youngest sister had retorted to the Knight clan all gathered around in various stages of post gluttony stupors.

‘’Oh great, she is a lesbian.’’

It did little to derail my enthusiasm. I had also received the Miranda July collection of short stories. It was a well read Christmas that year.

So when I saw that Ms Moran had written something else for me to devour with my near sighted peepers, there was no question of if I was going to buy it with what little money I had. But, rather, when. I justify it by thinking that as a writer myself. As a writer, who has her own ABN. An ABN that should have been free to get. But, because I did a search on the internet, and had no patience for searching through and finding the free way of obtaining an ABN. I ended up paying 98$ for an accounting firm to do it for me.

My housemate came home to find me at my desk crying hysterically in front of my laptop, in horror at the amount of money I needlessly wasted on something that should be free.

But, regardless, I have one now and it adds a certain amount of emotional legitimacy to my dreams. Also it means I can buy books and stationary supplies and keep the dockets for tax deductions!

The front cover of her second novel is green with a white border and shows a pair of legs side on. The legs are in torn black tights with ladders and running from thigh and over the knees. These tights run into a pair of black Doc Martens with the laces loose. It is for these legs simply hanging over a brick wall in waiting, that I buy the book.

Those legs that so strongly remind me of my own. They are the legs of a girl figuring things out in her own time. What is the rest of her doing? I imagine that it is me in a way. My tights often have holes and ladders in them. I continue to wear them and quite enjoy the how cool my pale skin looks against the black or red or purple of my torn tights. There is something comforting in that book cover. The book designer is a genius because they did not just create a well designed book, they also created an idea an immediate snapshot what this book will be to you if you buy it. I thought as I held that book in my hand and stared at the cover, that I could be a friend to that girl who owned those legs.

I purchased the book and used the docket as a book mark so as not to throw it away like I have done so many times. The book gets finished in two days. Moran has created a character that is immediately identifiable. She is passionate and has dreams that, reach past her predicament of existence. That of which, consists of living in the council flats in the British midlands, specifically, Wolverhampton. Johanna is busting to be in the world out there. She is busting in the way so many girls from lower class families are busting. She is busting to be out and so much more than she feels she is, like I was. And she goes about it in all the wrong ways. That is why this book speaks to me and why it moved me so much. To be moved by literature is one of the best experiences to experience, as far I am concerned. What makes this book so important for teenage girls to read, is that it makes making mistakes an ok thing. A thing that can be overcome.

I wish I had had this book when I was a timid and scared 14 year old with no friends save for the books I read and my younger siblings that I looked after. This friend of a book would have really helped me out of my shell. Instead this books simply makes me appreciate my smashed shell and bask in the wonder of all the things I did to get to where I am now. A wine drinker, just like Johanna hopes to become as a grown women.

This is a book about class and gender and sex. It is the sexual content that makes this book important it is the type of sex that happens in real life and I found myself smiling and cringing in empathy and recognition at the situations Johanna gets herself in and out of.

For this is the grit of it. In How To Build A Girl, Moran illustrates through Johanna a way to regain control when you feel you have lost it, or, how to take control even when you are not sure of what it is you are doing. Moran has provided a literary tailsmen for the yet to be fully forms women of Britain. It is a literary talisman that stretches over to the Antipides. Johanna comes from an incredibly loving but hapless family. Her father is on disability benefits. Johanna lives in fear that these benefits will be cut due to her talking about it to the old lady down the street. A women who gives the young Johanna the cold shoulder after discovering the girl’s family are on benefits from the government.

The book provides a window into the lives of families living on benefits in the early 90s, in Britain. There is no money for anything fun or decadent. Johanna’s siblings and parents all live on boiled cabbage and chappatis with tomato sauce and salad cream. Her father is an alcoholic, Marxist and a heart-breaking dreamer, who just wants to be a pop star and make an easy million. Her mother is a ‘sad ghost’ of a woman whose life would have made an amazing novel as well. The relationship she has with her big brother is one of the most rounded and believable. It is also touching and through this relationship you get an idea of how incredibly blind to the obvious we can be when it comes to those closest to us.

Johanna wants out the way I wanted out at her age. Her ticket was writing. Mine was writing and education. As Johanna says herself .

‘. . . writing_ unlike choreography, architecture or conquering kingdoms _ is a thing you can do when you’re lonely and poor.’

How my heart just ballooned with happy identification at these sentiments and more so at the following, ‘Poor people can write. It’s one of the few things poverty and lack of connections, cannot stop you doing.’

Through these words I am 13 again huddled over a notebook that my mother got me from the supermarket, using my bed as a desk and writing furiously. The dogs bark and the cows are mooing as they slowly make their way into the dairy to be milked. My younger siblings appeased for the moment by ABC after school programs. Soon I will have to start dinner and escape from all this seems so so far away…

I want to be 16 and hanging at the chemist with Johanna as she steals eyeliner. I want to sit under a dreary greay Wolverhampton sky and watch her smoke as we laugh till the tears run down our faces. The 16 year old me needed a friend like Johanna. Like Judy Bloom showed time and time again, so does this book for a new generation: sex is not something to feel guilty about.

Your worth does not decrease with the number of penises you allow to inside.   Consentual sex can actually teach you a great deal about yourself. Sometimes it takes a lot of experience to make you appreciate certain aspects of yourself. But, sex is not the only way through which self-actualization grows. No, not at all. That comes from masturbation and this book is in parts an ode to the wonder of self-pleasuring. It is not evil and bad and will send you to hell. It is the best way to learn about what you like sexually.

It has always baffled me why Mormon youth are told not to masturbate. I mean, it is risk free and hurts nobody. You cannot get pregnant from it and teaches you about your own pleasure principles. I was emotionally stunted by this information that I did not discover the joys of masturbation until I was 23! Which is again why this book is important as it shows a teenage girl who is ever so happy to masturbate. Masturbation and writing are two things a teen can enjoy regardless of their low socioeconomic status is the world.

Moran’s novel shows just what a young girl can do as she realizes that what her parents have taught her is not enough. Sometimes it is difficult to ‘honour thy father and thy mother’. The road is rocky when one is on the path less travelled. Sometimes there is no path at all and you have to use your whole body and might of mind to bash through the prickly bushes of gender inequality and innate sexism that comes at you from all directions, as you try and make it in the rather laddish culture of music journalism in the early 90’s. Through Johanna’s eyes we see the world and it is hilarious and touching and nerve wracking and euphoric.

When you have finished this book, you do not want to put it down. You do not want to add it to your bookshelf and walk away from it. Like the cover promises, the girl is your friend. So, as with all good friends who make you feel good and entertained, you simply want to walk around with them beside you all the time. You want to drink coffee and chat till it starts to get dark and the people who work in said coffee shop are starting to take the trays of cakes away and put chairs up on tables. You want to go see a gig and get drunk and annoy boys with them.






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.