Cathy

This morning I remembered a scene from last month. I’m in Camperdown (Victoria), where I used to go to high school. I’m with Mum, and I suggest we go for coffee. We walk down Manifold Street as I piece together memories of when I walked here often. I feel a little anxious, realising that I might bump into someone I used to know. Mum takes me to what’s meant to be the best café. We sit and talk, and the coffee is surprisingly good. We’re having a nice chat, probably the most philosophical discussion we’ve had to date. We cover topics such as health care, stolen generations, foster parenting, social disadvantage, our own relationships with money.

At some stage a woman walks past. She’s holding the arm of another woman and a walking stick in the other hand. She walks with difficulty. She lifts her arm holding the stick and waves at Mum. Then she looks and waves at me. I realise that it’s Cathy. I used to work with her in the supermarket. I knew she had MS, but had not seen her in years. The woman on her arm is her mother.

Like most people from the old town, I’d forgotten that she even existed. But she does. She’s still there, and she probably couldn’t have left had she wanted to.

Meanwhile, I fled. Even as a faraway son I complained about my family, my town, the things I’d escaped. I believed my escape was necessary, that I had a lot to explore. And so I shredded the memories of people I once knew.

Not that I was close to Cathy. But we talked at work, and she was always nice to me. She was friendly with everyone.

She remembered me. She waved, stick in hand. I waved back. I was saddened for a moment. Then I returned to the conversation with Mum.

It felt more like friendship than our usual mother/son repertoire. I guess we have some distance between us. We’ve each changed and the lines are being redrawn. She asks about Mark, which feels strange. She tells me about Dad, allows me to see him as she does – the characteristics he hides from everyone else. I start to picture a more caring, thoughtful man. She talks about her parents – their history which is her history. And mine.

Things are changing. Things are good. I’m no longer the son who wishes he didn’t have a family. My anger is easing. I wish it had happened sooner.

Does Cathy ever wish that she didn't have her family? I don’t know why I thought of her this morning. I’d been reading Nikolas Rose’s theories on biological citizenship, but I don’t think that was it. Though perhaps it made me contemplate my own health-subjectivity. I watched the film The Edge of Heaven recently, but I don’t think that was it. Though it presented a nice take on parent/child relationships, and their social and historical attachments.

After reading and eating, I showered. Beneath hot water I thought of Cathy and I cried. Tears. Guilt. I ran away and she remembers me. She waved. And she still waves. And when I think of that I can’t help but cry. I’m sorry.

leaving thorn street

19 days is not a lot of time.

Today I sent out invitations to our goodbye party. It made me sad.

As clichéd as it may be, there’s a lot of me in that flat. The place I lived, alone, for 18 months. The place where I buried and found myself, many times over, in many guises. A place of many significant moments and interactions. Thorn Street hosted many connections.

There’s Mark, nervous, next to me on the couch, wearing a suit and tie. His bag lies near the door. He’s here to stay the weekend – our first weekend. We kiss. It’s June 2005. Today he sits on the couch more relaxed, comfortable, at home. We still kiss. Or he’s in the shower as I brush my teeth. Or he taps away on his computer in the spare room, a silhouette before the window.

There’s Carly. We’re cooking dinner and drinking pinot noir. She makes noodles. Her car has broken down. We play music – Madonna’s ‘Burning Up’. We get stoned and watch Pretty in Pink.

There’s Alison. I’ve just moved in. There’s two small chairs in one large room. Cups of tea and awkward conversation between us, as she visits me in my home away from her.

There’s Tim. We’re lying on the mattresses on the bedroom floor. Or he’s standing naked at the sunroom window in the morning, smoking a cigarette.

There’s Chris. He’s sitting next to me on the lined carpet. We’re playing music. We’re talking theory. We’re wanting to touch each other, but we won’t. Tea on the roof as we sit, and then stand, leaning over the edge. He smokes many last cigarettes. I’m wishing he would stay.

There’s Ryan. He comes to me in words, via MSN chat or text messages – “I’m out. Where are you?” On our second meeting we eat pizza and drink from separate bottles of wine (red and white). On the loungeroom floor his leg is touching mine. After sex, he leaves.

There’s David. He’s staying in the spare room, about to move to Germany. The bathroom is being tiled, so we go to the ocean baths for morning showers. He’s reading in his room while Mark and I drink wine to a Britney Spears DVD. We speak of books and relationships.

There’s Anna. I’m sitting in the sunroom writing a thesis. She’s nearby on her laptop. She’s about to leave Newcastle, and it’s sad. We watch a series of Nip/Tuck and eat salted pumpkin seeds in her final week.

There’s Aaron. He’s speaking with his hands, loudly; boy dramas. We’re going thirds with Carly in a cheap carton of wine. He’s smoking on the roof while I take the washing off the line.

There’s Justine. She’s asleep on the couch as I tip-toe past.

There’s Mouchette. She’s chasing cockroaches. She’s running across the backs of our pillows. She’s fighting with Mark and I am referee. She’s under the covers, stretching out, momentarily putting her claws into skin.

There’s Carmen. In my bed, in my body. She’s wearing my jumper. It’s nice, but somewhat suffocating. To the point where I can’t speak.

There’s Tom. He’s in the next room. I hope he can’t hear us.

There’s Nicci, Craig, Ness and David, watching X-Men cartoons. Sitting, eating, and talking our way through a Wednesday night ritual.

There’s Mum and Dad, asleep in the next room while I exchange text messages with Tim; feeling secretive and naughty. Or we’re all eating stir fry noodles made in my birthday present wok.

There’s my brother, watching a Jim Carey film that nobody else finds funny.

There’s that guy who wears a wedding ring ‘for clients’, so they think he’s normal. We fuck on the loungeroom floor, without speaking; no eye contact.

There’s Jo. She’s cuddling Mouchette while we’re away. She’s feeding her, talking to her, watching DVDs with her. She draws us pictures. Or she’s drinking wine and filling her pockets with M&Ms, before we make our way to The Grand.

There’s ‘other Mark’. He’s dancing to Taylor Dayne with Jo and I. Or he’s watching Sons and Daughters – he’s Charlie to my Pat.

There’s Justin, asleep on the floor mattress. In the morning he gives massages. He laughs loudly. He argues with Mark about the ethics of a Rhianna song.

There’s Suz. We’re in the kitchen making pizzas with tofu. Or she’s on the couch next to me, visiting Australia from her new faraway home.

There’s Maire. She’s showing off her new playsuit.

There’s Jess. We head out for swims in the mornings. She dances with Mark near the door, as I take photos. We reminisce. We flick through zines.

There’s Gordon. He meets me downstairs, out the front, so we can go walking. He brings over a bottle of Rosé. He lends me a book that I never read.

There’s Shaye. We meet her unexpectedly in the mall and invite her over for a beer, before we head our separate ways.

There’s Matt. I’ve never been in the flat when he’s there, but sometimes his presence lingers. I think about him lying on my side of the bed.

There’s Keri, who sits beside the coffee table, with a bowl of ‘beanie tahini’. She tells us of the other Paul and Mark who lived above a shop.

There’s the flight attendant who shows me his liposuction scars.

There’s an Urchin editors meeting, with paper and bodies sprawled across the loungeroom floor.

There’s me alone. On the phone at 4am while she cries. Texting to avoid loneliness. Shedding tears of my own. Chatting online with strange men. Writing chapters. Singing to the music I play. Lying on the roof beckoning the sun to energise me. Doing the dishes, sweeping, taking out the trash. Cooking for myself, and for others. Writing in my blog. Drinking coffee in the sunroom with a book upon my lap.

"I am a normal Australian bloke. I do love a beer."

Shannon Noll confesses to smoking pot. Oh dear. But, it's okay - he only did it because he was grieving the death of his father - "a good man" who never drank or smoked.

And it's okay, because it's over. Shannon was saved by the birth of his first child, the arrival of his own son. At this point he stopped his unhealthy, irresponsible, and self-destructive behaviour. And then he found success as a pop star. But it seems he really found his feet via 'the family'.

And now he's settled, content, and photographed with wife and kids. He's training with the local football team (healthy and normal). And his son, his firstborn, is just like him - "a real thinker", says his wife.

It's further proof, via the celebrity confession, that 'the family life' is the best ticket to proper citizenry and self-respect. Indeed, the family will save us all. Give Britney a family, and she too might come good. Poor celebrities - it can be harder for them to find such simple pleasures, to maintain an ongoing and proper connection to the family and its values. Shannon's is a success story. As are most of the stories that make headlines. It's when you've fixed yourself that you can afford to make such confessions. When you are no longer a victim, a lost self, a bad role model. The former drug-addict is a modern day hero, one who can re-sell the values we fear we might be losing in this (dangerous) modern world.

Where are the confessions of drug user who hasn't stopped using, or hasn't acknowledged the wrongs of their ways?

zine is done!

i just photocopied the zine - 'more love truth & honesty'. well, 22 copies anyway. but it's done. finished. complete. phew.

it's been a hell week. late last night and early this morning i've been ironing out formatting glitches, adding page numbers, swearing at the printer for its many misfeeds. i hate that part.

this time it's all one computer file. 1.5 MB. no cut 'n' paste (in the traditional, fun sense). which is sad. but splitting myself between 2 cities makes it difficult to take over floor space, without it getting dusty, stood on, annoying. more often that not, that can be the fun part. though at least i could run it through the photocopier's auto-feed, saving much time.

i hate how i'm always seeking ways to save time. i pay money to save time. stupid.

right now though, i'm relieved. a bit proud. a bit excited. it's done!

i think i'll take mark out for dinner for putting up with me this week (and other weeks). and for the proofing he did. and for tearing up that horrible t-shirt he was wearing to bed. yay!

now i just have to prepare for a paper i'm giving in under 4 hours time. yikes. i'm a bit concerned, but hopefully i can pull it off. hopefully my scatteredness and lack of sleep doesn't make it difficult to form words and sentences. hmm...