Sleep deprivation

The roadworks go on around here. I know, I know...who in their right mind makes a recording of the roadworks that are keeping them up at night? I'm loosing it.

Cached

A blurry instant in time, remembered only in black and white, never bursting with colours so bright that my heart stops beating for a millisecond. That's all you are.

Hover Flies

Laughter and champagne bubbles tinkled and popped, materialising through the gaps around the door and over the high wall. Traces of rose and water lily lingered in the warm air. Vivaldi cello notes escaped the confines of the garden, and drifted furtively to my ears. Unknown characters awaited discovery, I could sense their clearly defined principles, even from where I had paused. I smoothed black satin and inspected my ruby-lipped reflection as I waited, on the outside.

But on the inside it was not magical, nor secret. I only wish I had stayed on the outside, where the unknown, the potential, and the imagined, flourished and buzzed around my head, like hover flies in the late afternoon heat.

Tabby

The cat slept in the sun, and from where I was standing, it looked good. What were you dreaming of you tabby cat? Surely not of a faraway friend, nor absent offspring? Were you perhaps dreaming of a boundless forest filled with birds to stalk, pounce and discard? Of roads without cars maybe? Of your next sardine scented meal perhaps? Or have you tabby cat, mastered the skill of emptying your mind before you rest? Your sleep looked so peaceful, no furrow in your M-ed brow, I'm guessing tabby cat, that you have.

All the sounds of the earth are like music

Into bed late last night, again. Not my fault this time, someone called late.

beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep...

Slowly clambering out of my underutilised delta wave pool, I slammed my hand down on the bedside table.

"Where is that beeping alarm clock, turn off you beeping little beeping beep!"

My sleep deprived brain slowly drifted to the realisation that I have no alarm clock, and I sat up, not 100 percent certain of where the fuck I was. The light that was peeking through the slats of the blinds on the window to my left, had a faint orange tinge. I'm at home! I mean what are the odds of any place else I'd wake up at having those funky orange blinds that so attracted me to this place.

beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep...

Half awake-ish now, listening to the relentless fucking beep. Realised that there was the growl of engines beneath the beeping, and, as I lay back down, noticed the flashing lights on the ceiling above me. Roadworks, at 3:30am?

beep beep beep beep...

"Are...you...driving...that...fucking...machine...in...reverse!?"

I dragged my darling pillow over my head, and tried to get back to sleep.

Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep...

KOOKABURRAS, feeling threatened at 3:55am!

Beep beep beep cack cack ooh ooh ooh ooh ahh ahh ahh ahh cack beep beep beep beep...

I decided to take out the kookaburras before they woke anyone else. They were sitting on my balcony, right outside my window. Stumbled out of bed, fumbled with the door, flung open the door, scared the crap out of the noisy little fuckers, who promptly relocated to that gum-tree I love so much, and started up again. I hate that tree; one word for you tree - harvestable.

I climbed back into my lovely bed, and buried my aching head under all the sweet pillows I could reach. Couldn't hear much now, but couldn't breath either...

"Mummy, I'm hungry," floats up the hall, I heard that alright.

"Fuuuuuccccckkkkk!" (into pillows)

"I'm hhhhhuuuuuunnnnnngrrrrryyyyyy!"

I prevented snack by allowing little monkey into my bed. Little monkey has inherited the doona-hog, hopeless bed-companion gene from his father, but can be stilled somewhat with the threat of return to his own bed.

Doona half off, lovely pillows over my somnolent head, little foot on my back, sleep finally claimed me, dragging me back into slumberland with his sticky little feet.

"Mummy, mummy, mummy, muuuuummmmmyyyy!" at 5:15am.

I trudge into her room, pluck her from her top bunk and carry her back to my bed. She emits a stream of questions as we trek past kiddie tents, over soft toys, and on not so soft, hurt-like-hell when you tread on them with bare-feet in the crappy pre-dawn light, toys.

"Don't say floody mummy."

Chastised, I deposit her in my bed, but she spies her tent and pipes up,

"I want to sleep in the tent!
"No."
"I WANT TO SLEEP IN THE TENT!"
"Okay."

In the limited light I watch her little head bob around the side of the bed as she heads for the tent. Inside the tent she carries on a conversation with barbie, and others...

beep beep beep...

I don't linger for long, sleep and I are embracing again.

5:45 am: awakened by giggles, and a small body draped over my face, larger foot kicks hard into my right boob.

Day begins, and sleep again proves that he only likes me when he's been drinking.

Lingual Disillusionment

I'm a really articulate intrapersonal communicator, you should see just how lurid lucid my dreams are. So why does it all go down the drain when I try to get it out of the chookpen (it's so full of shit) that is my left hemisphere? Words flap and squawk like bantams as I clutch at them, trying not to ruffle their feathers, and process them out to the big wide world. Or sometimes the words don't flap or squawk, they just sit there, staring vacantly and twitching slightly, like the Rhode Island Reds I learned to hypnotise in year 9 agriculture (fuck that was funny). Either way, those words can be troublesome livestock. As with the hypnotised chicken, sometimes the words come around, and then flow freely from that side of my brain. Often, when that happens, I catch myself looking around the room for the source of those substantial, well-voiced thoughts.

Bathtime

If I were to shower now, I would go down the plug-hole like sand; most of my body may wash down into the void with the first jet of water, yet, parts of me would dally on the tiles, cling to the grout grooves, and loiter around the drain. Days later, you may step into that recess, and feel me gritty under-foot (because I'm not around to clean up after myself, I'm sand, okay?). Eventually, the relentless, erosive power of the water would ensure that all of me takes the plunge down the drain, and off I'd go, reluctant and brave, to uncharted territories. Yes, if I were to shower now, down the drain it would be, but not quickly by any means.
However, tonight I'm not feeling brave, nor geological. Tonight my body needs soothing, not to be battered and broken up by a harsh stream of water. Tonight, tonight, tonight I'm having a bath.

"Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable."

I was such a happy little kid.
I believed in fairy tales,
and that love was always going to be enough.
Today, I'm jaded and faded,
but I might just be having a bad moment.
I'm going in search of my youth.
I'll get back to you, with the results.

Biased Chipmunk Bruises easily

My body is an autumn chipmunk. It squirrels away anything that passes through my lips, sending it straight to where I never want it. I know you may well think the obvious: if food in exceeds exercise out -> Houston, you have a big arse. But really, I must protest, some of us just aren’t blessed with the I can shove anything I want into my face and not have it show up on my arse without a lot of fucking exercise gene.

I walked into a wall today, yes...really. So if you see me on the street, please don’t look at me sideways and wonder, and then be unable to hide that look on your face that suggests I’m a bald-faced liar when you ask,
”What happened?”
and I answer,
“I walked into a wall.”
Just...don’t, ok.

I really dislike the perfume I wore today. It was a gift, I’ve never worn it before, it smells OK in small doses but not when it (and it has) permeated everything. I've showered and scrubbed my skin pink, still it persists.

When you are a mother, you develop bias. Of course your kid is the most gorgeous (mine are), of course they are the brightest (mine are); shit if kids don’t have their parents as their number one fans, who else is going to step up to take the mark? Except perhaps some strange fuck in his late 40’s whose probation stipulates that the son of a bitch should be existing on Mars with Smallpox, Polio and the multitude of childhood diseases we’ve struggled to almost eradicate from the planet. My bias is even obvious to myself at times, like today when I had to bite the bullet and cull some of my extraordinarily gifted child’s artwork, because it has taken over the bottom floor of my domicile, and I just couldn't fucking take it any more...
I found it hard to bin this:



And this:




Oh and this:



Vive le biais!

A simple, complicated man

At times, the man can be the biggest fucking pratt in the world, but, it was dad who recognised my anguish, when, as a teenager, my body broke out of its lithe shell, and bloomed so...fully. At that time, it was dad who suggested and made happen our run each morning on the beach. It was dad that used to push me to run that little bit further or little bit faster, over the deep, sandy track of the dew-covered headland. It was dad that would stop in awe of the dolphins surfing and fishing close-in to shore, and then take off with a laugh as I stood distracted by his Delphinus ruse. It was dad who advised me in his gruff, half-arsed way to concentrate on my studies, reminding me that boys, alcohol and the job he would not let me take, would all still be there in a year or two. It was dad who, in the absence of my mother, bought the most divine Singapore orchid, and helped me pin it into my hair before my end of school formal. It was dad I told, before anyone else, that my marriage was over.

Dad may well be the biggest fucking pratt in the universe from time to time, but I reckon I often hold that title myself, in his opinion. Yet, here we are, over 37 years since we first clapped eyes on each other, and I imagine we are going to go on loving/hating each other for a long time still.

It's a long way to the shop if you want a sausage roll

Last night, I went out to dinner in Crow's Nest. I realised on the drive there, in the dark with no views to distract me, that I live a very long fucking way from Crow's Nest, from the city, and from any decent non-special occasion restaurant (ie not like this). Last night, I spent less time dining than I did driving to and from the restaurant. I don't really know why it only struck me last night, that where I reside is so far from most hip, fab and groovy places. I suspect though, that this new-found perception, has a lot to do with the fact that I am getting old (I submit into evidence the use of the phrase, hip fab and groovy).

I may live a long way from hip, fab and groovy, but I live a minute's walk from this:

And that alone makes living on the far side of the moon worth it.