You may want to re-think your strategy there, George Pell.

"You are such a putz"

Dear George (may I call you George*),

When even the US media takes time out from their busy schedule to give you an almighty whack, you probably need to revalue your media strategy.

I mean, really, it's as though you're not even trying!

Hugs,

Ramon

PS. Even God is disappointed in you.

*No. I didn't think so.

Like Grumpy Cat, reports of my death are greatly exagerated.

"I hate you and everything you stand for"

Yes, well, bit of an hiatus there.

First of all, thanks to Melba and Catlick for their emails, asking if I was OK.

I'm fine, thanks.

Actually, I'm in my usual mode of "barely contained, teeth-gnashing" rage, largely due to my stupid habit of continuing to read political commentators in the media.

Why, I don't know.

It's not like any of the fuckers are ever going to say anything different, or well written or even vaguely interesting.

But the really depressing thing is that they constantly contradict themselves, without showing the slightest sense of shame.

Take, for example, the recent flap over the National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS). For days, they shrieked that the Gillard Government should rush the NDIS legislation through the Commonwealth Parliament before the next election.

Despite the fact that for some months before hand, they had been shrieking at the Gillard Government to not rush the the new communications legislation through Commonwealth Parliament before the next election.

Or the fact that the discussion over the recent deferral of the carbon levy compensation has been led almost entirely by political commentators discussing whether is was good politics or not, rather than the economics correspondents discussing whether it was good policy or not.

I give up.

As Tom Lehrer once famously said "When they gave the Nobel Peace Prize to Henry Kissinger, I realised political satire was obsolete,".
Next; adorably cute kittens and why they suck.

I appear to be sharing a house with Hunter S Thompson*

"And Mescalin. We need more Mescalin"

A recent shopping list;

Gin,

Milk,

Tobacco,

Toilet paper,

Tonic water

I was going to write something about the recent spate of gibberish from the Canberra Gallery about "speculation about a leadership challenge is hovering above the Gillard Government"** but every time I started to think about it, my hands curled up in a spasm of rage and I couldn't type.

Maybe later.

When I calm down.

*Yes, I know he's dead. Shut up.

** From memory, a hack actually wrote this. Sad but true.

PSF with a happy ending (sort of)

Setting a Migrant Goose Free

Snows heavy in Hsun-yang this tenth-year winter,
riverwater spawns ice, tree branches break and fall,

and hungry birds flock east and west by the hundred,
a migrant goose crying starvation loudest among them.

Pecking through snow for grass, sleeping nights on ice,
its cold wings lumber slower and slower up into flight,

and soon it’s tangled in a river-boy’s net, carried away
snug in his arms, and put for sale alive in the market.

Once a man of the north, I’m accused and exiled here.
Man and bird: though different, we’re both visitors,

and it hurts a visiting man to see a visiting bird’s pain,
so I pay the ransom and set you free. Goose, o soaring

goose rising into the clouds – where will you fly now?
Don’t fly northwest: that’s the last place you should go.

There in Huai-hsi, rebels still loose, there’s no peace,
just a million armoured soldiers long massed for battle:

imperial and rebel armies grown old facing each other.
Starved and exhausted – they’d love to get hold of you,

those tough soldiers. They’d shoot you and have a feast,
then pluck your wings clean to feather their arrows.

(Po Chu-i translated by David Hinton)

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

Fluffy liked biting people professionally.

Well, in addition to the alcoholism and the depression, I've suddenly started having anxiety attacks.

Wonderful.

I'll post something more substantial when I stop being so deranged.

Also, is it a good idea to wash down your anti-depressants with red wine? I'm thinking yes.

The eleventy billioneth post about that speech.

I wasn't going to write about this, I really wasn't.

But a couple of things changed my mind.

Firstly, the reaction of just about everybody in the Canberra Press Gallery to the rest of the world driving around to their place to point at them and laugh has been instructive. Instead of conceding that, you know, several thousand people might have a point, the Gallery has been all "But you don't understand, it's all about The Cooooontext, it's all about the Government defending that horrid Peter Slipper."

Which sort of works.

Until you think about it for 30 seconds.

Or read the actual speech.

The PM had made it perfectly clear that Slipper's texts were unacceptable and offensive. She also made it quite clear that it was important to follow the correct process while the matters were before the courts.

And even if - and I do mean if - it was all a cynical stunt by the Government to shore up their numbers, then why did two of the independents and Adam Bandt vote against the Opposition's motion? It's no skin off their noses if Slipper moves to the cross-benches.

Or perhaps they could see that Ms Gillard had a point about due process.

The always perceptive Mr Denmore has a good take on the Gallery's reaction here, but my quick summary would be this.

If the reaction from experienced journalists to any criticism from their readers is to either try to bully them into submission or claim they can't possible understand what is happening before their eyes, then why read them?

If  any schlub with too much time on their hands and an Internet connection can pull together an interpretation of what is happening in Canberra that is just as valid as the Gallery, then why listen to the Gallery?

In short, why care what the Gallery says about anything?

I believe in getting them young.

Conversation around the family dinner table recently.

The Boy: "The oldest women in the world is 150. Just think of all the things she's seen and done."

Me: "You know Boy, a lot of people think living a good life isn't just about the number of years you've lived but the good things you've done and how you've helped your friends and community.

........................

........................

"And never voting Liberal."

The Misses (wearily): "Ramon, give a break for five minutes."

UPDATE

Just the other day.

The Boy: "Dad, how do you defeat The Boss?"

Me: "Well, joining a union is always a good start."

The Boy: "Daaaaad, I was talking about my video game!!"

Me: "Oh.

"Sorry."

I think I need psychiatric* help.

* I mean more psychiatric help.

Obvs.

PSF from the year 755 with some fun weekend activities

looking at a waterfall

napping under water reeds

tea sipping under willows

I FINALLY GET A POST

Oh good, I don’t have to be
police commissioner at Hexi!

it would have been backbreaking
supervising all those beatings

I’m an old man, I can’t
rush around, bustle, and strut

but the job they’ve given me now
at Palace Guard headquarters

won’t take too much time
it will pay for my wine

and allow me to go on
writing these crazy poems

so no more thoughts about retirement
back in the hills of home

I turn my back on that
and set my face to the wind.

(Du Fu translated by David Young)

Welcome, Norsename

Oh, this post is such an ill-fit given what's below, but Puss, I'm glad to hear you're okay and I apologise if this post seems, I dunno, inappropriate, but, anyway, I did want to let you guys know Andromeda had our baby girl on Sunday (8 pound 4, epidural, Norse name). I'm a Dad. Jesus. Mother fucking jesus. You know, I was waiting for this magical moment wherein the instant my daughter was born I would feel like some sort of new man. It didn't really happen, and I don't think it will. I still feel like me and I'm just as I always was, but now I have a daughter and some extra responsibilities. I also have extra love for Andromeda - bordering on worship for what she went through on my behalf. But what did change in an instant was this: Propensity for violence. From the moment Norsename was born I had this instinctual, primal desire to TORTURE AND KILL anybody that threatened her safety. I don't even know why I thought of it. Perhaps because she looked so helpless there, covered in placental discharge or whatever that gunk was, but there she was, laden with half my genetic code, and I realised then and there that I would without even a micro-second of second guessing, murder in her name and/or take a bullet for her. But of course, the certainty of violence is not what takes up my day. It's all nappies and washing and nursing and remembering the time of my life that lasted 43 years in which I had a decent sleep. And staring a lot at the little baby in wonder and awe. Life's alright once you get used to it.

"How are you?" as social etiquette is grossly irritating

I swear, if one more person asks me how I am, I think I'm going to have to gouge out my ear drums with a spoon. One of those cocktail ones with the long handles (might be a bit difficult, otherwise).

I hate "how are you?" as mere social etiquette. No one actually wants to know. And if you're not "fine" or "brilliant" or some other positive (the only socially acceptable answer), being asked it is just plain irritating. You don't want to answer positively, because it feels like a lie. Being asked how you are and answering in the positive just sort of rubs it in that you're not ok. But you know the person asking really doesn't care how you feel. But as a fellow human being, they should care, shouldn't they? Or perhaps we should all just stop asking "how are you?" if we really don't care to know the answer.

What's worse is when you've suffered a tragedy, and everyone who knows about it still asks "how are you?". What sort of response can you give? "Well, actually, I'm really shitty, and thanks for reminding me." People who know what has happened still don't want to hear the truth. That you're barely holding on to your sanity, and you just want to be left alone. They don't want to hear, "Of course I'm not ok! Why would you even ask?" They just want you to say you're fine, so they can heave a sigh of relief that you're not going to burden them with your issues.

My mother took her own life a couple of weeks ago. It was a selfish and stupid act, and one I doubt I will ever forgive her for. She had always had psychological issues, but my sister and I never tried to get her to seek help, because our stepfather seemed to handle her. He didn't seem to have an issue with how she was, so why try to fix what someone else doesn't consider broken? What we didn't know was that he wasn't handling her, and hadn't been for the last 3-5 years. She rejoined the workforce at that time, and her symptoms got a lot worse. I think the pressure of having to deal with deadlines and interact with a bunch of other people was obviously taking its toll on her mental state. Our stepfather hates confrontation though, so he'd just walk away and was obviously hoping her issues would magically fix themselves.

Mum's mental instability manifested itself in a few ways. She would often hear other people's stories and then tell them as if they were her own. She was convinced these things had happened to her, and you couldn't get her to admit otherwise. She would see individual events, and then link them together in her mind to form complex stories where she was often the target (in other words, she was paranoid and thought everyone was working against her). She was incredibly loud and had to be the centre of attention. She would force her way into a conversation and somehow make it all about her. You could also never convince her she was wrong about something. She was always right, even if you had empirical evidence. If confronted with something that meant she would have been wrong, she would flip it in her mind so that she was still right. For example (a minor one), she and I had a long running argument about which of two houses we used to live in had a trap door in my room. She would always say it was the green one, and I would always say it was the brown one. It was definitely the brown one. One day, she "slipped up" and said it was the brown one and that she'd found a photograph to prove it. I pounced and said I knew it, and that I knew I had been right all along! She flipped it around and started saying that I had been the one saying it was the green house, and that she'd always known it was the brown house. It was infuriating, but you could never convince her she was wrong, so you always just had to walk away.

It got too hard for our stepfather, but rather than give her a chance to change her behaviour and get help, he decided to be a coward and started sleeping with another woman.

Mum found out and took it very hard.  She said she couldn't live without him.  She didn't want to leave their home.  She didn't want to start her life over again.  She was only 52.  There were plenty of opportunities available for her.  I tried to convince her that pinning her entire self-worth on another person was a stupid thing to do, that she had so much to live for, that she could use this as an excuse to do the things she'd always wanted to do (finish her studies to become an accountant, go travelling, etc).  When I realised she was deadly serious about wanting to take her own life, I consulted with my sister and we had her involuntarily admitted to hospital.

Unfortunately, when she got there, she knew exactly what to say so that she'd get released.  She told them she was just a bit shocked, and also drunk.  She parroted back to them everything I had been saying to her - that she wanted to finish her studies, and go travelling, and watch me graduate from my third degree, and see my sister's new house, etc.  They didn't believe that she was a real danger to herself, despite what I told them, and despite the fact she had attempted suicide in the past (when she left our father, she swallowed a bunch of pills.  My then-9-year-old sister found her before it was too late).  They let her leave without even speaking to a proper psychiatrist.

She waited a week and then took a Friday off work.  She smashed up the house with a sledge hammer and did various other damage.  Then she took her life by way of carbon monoxide poisoning.

I found out via text message.  My stepfather found her when he got home from work.  I don't know why he texted me.  The language of it was quite harsh.  He had texted me on the way home to say he hadn't heard from her.  I had texted her to see if she would answer me.  When she didn't, I didn't think it was strange, because she was annoyed at me that I was telling her she shouldn't try to work it out with our stepfather.  I was convinced it wouldn't be a happy relationship, because she would always suspect he was up to something if he was 2 minutes late, or got a call from someone.  It wouldn't have been good for her to live in that environment.  I told her the best thing to do would be to leave, and start a new life.  Maybe they could rekindle the romance later on, when she had come to trust him again.  Our stepfather was saying similar things to her, and she therefore assumed that he and I were working together.  For what purpose, I don't know.  She was obviously convinced that we were conspiring against her.  So I wasn't that worried when she didn't answer me.

Then I get another text message from my stepfather.  "Just got here.  In car dead.  Ringing police."  What kind of a person tells someone their mother has died via text message?  I know he was in shock and probably didn't realise what he was doing, but still.  I still can't get that text message out of my head.  It haunts me, even when I'm awake.  So fucking brutal.  I can't even begin to describe to you what happened after that.  Obviously I had to drive the 1.5 hours (which was 2.5 hours by the time my friend, who drives like a freaking blind grandmother, got us out there) to the house.  When I got there, the police were still there, and they hadn't even taken her body out of the car.  She was still in the car, with all of the paraphernalia still attached to it.  I don't think I will ever get that image out of my mind.

My family are a bunch of weak people.  And they all abuse alcohol as a self-medicating process.  I can't abide that.  If you have issues, fine, but fucking deal with them, instead of trying to drink them away.  That shit is not going to solve anything.  No one wanted to do anything.  No one wanted to get their act together and plan a funeral.  My husband managed to rally everyone together to organise things.  We managed to pick a funeral director.  We had the meeting in a neutral place with no alcohol, and I could tell everyone was annoyed.  They had obviously wanted to come to my house so they could all drink while they were avoiding doing anything.  I was determined not to let that happen.  I wanted the meeting over and done with as soon as possible.  I wanted the funeral over and done with, so I could try to move on.

When we met with the funeral director, everyone else flat out refused to do a eulogy.  They wouldn't even agree to write anything for someone else to read.  "It's too hard" they all said.  Of course it fucking is!  But what's the alternative?  No one writes anything and we just send her off with some generic statement?  Wonderful.  Of course, they all knew that I would end up doing it.  They all knew that if they just sat back and did nothing, I would take charge and get things done.  I fucking hate my family for that.  They should not have left it up to the youngest daughter to write her own mother's eulogy.  Especially when it was that daughter who was trying her best to prevent this whole event from occurring, and no one would fucking believe her.  Not even my stepfather.  He just thought mum was trying to get attention.  He didn't think she'd do it.  I knew she would.  And I knew how she would.  I wanted to tell him to take all the car keys away, but I knew he wouldn't, because he didn't believe mum would go through with it.  But I knew she was mentally unstable, and I knew she was determined to do it.  If for no other reason than for revenge.  She wanted to make sure my stepfather never forgot what he did, and would always think it was his fault.

I don't blame my stepfather for what my mother did.  I believe she had many, many opportunities to stop what she was doing and seek help.  I do believe there is a correlation between what she did and the fact that he was too cowardly to actually speak to her and tell her that their marriage was pretty much over unless she sought help.  I do believe there is a correlation between him fucking another woman, and what my mother did.  But I don't believe there is fault.

While I was writing the eulogy, I was going through emails my mother and I had sent each other.  I realised what an awful daughter I had been.  I knew she was mentally unstable, and her behaviour drove me mad.  I literally could not stand to be around her for more than 2 hours.  Even at the end of 2 hours, I would have a headache from her shouting into my ears, even if I was standing right next to her, and would be wanting to tear my hair out from how frustrating it was to hear all of her lies, and not call her on any of them. I did my best to avoid her.  I moved far away.  I rarely called.  I rarely emailed.  I often said hurtful things, because let's face it, who of us thinks of our parents as actual people?  Of course they will be hurt by things their children say.  I never considered that.  I never considered her feelings at all.  I only ever thought of my own, and how frustrating she was.

She had a really tough childhood, and I think all she ever wanted to do was be successful, and show people that she was more than they thought she was.  She put far too much emphasis on what other people thought of her.  She had no self-esteem, no self-worth.  She cared too much about what I thought of her.  And I don't think I ever told her how proud of her I was for the things she had accomplished.  I think all she knew of what I thought of her was how frustrating it was to be around her.  How much I avoided being around her.  How much I never wanted to be like her.  I have some of her traits.  I can be loud (although I've never been as bad as her).  I have very strong opinions, and I stand up for them (although I can be convinced I'm wrong where I am, or that there is another point of view).  The difference is, I'm self-aware.  I know my own weaknesses.  I think my mother was in denial about hers.  She never sought help for her issues.  I don't think she considered herself mentally unstable.  I think the women in our family (there are only women, so it's impossible to make a comparison) are all mentally unstable.  I think it's hereditary.  I've asked my husband to make sure I get the appropriate help whenever I need it.  I don't want to end up like her.

I used to see a psychiatrist regularly (for Asperger's).  I'm now going to have to go back to try to deal with all of this shit.  The fact that I might have been able to stop her if I'd just tried hard enough.  The fact that my sister and I should have gotten her psychiatric help many, many years ago.  The fact that I was never a good daughter to her, and was entirely too selfish, and only thought of my own feelings.  That fucking text message.

I think it's going to take me a long time to get over this.  I'm so fucking angry at her for doing it.  She did it on her grandson's birthday, for fuck's sake!  She wrote messages all over the house, and smashed it up before she did it.  Her motive was revenge.  I know she was mentally unstable, but who the fuck thinks to themselves, "Ha!  I know what will really fuck him up!  I'll kill myself, and then he'll be sorry!"  What kind of a person can just shut out all the voices in their head telling them to live, and the voices of their children telling them to live, just so they can get revenge on another person?  I don't understand.  I don't think I'll ever understand.  It's just such a fucked up thing to do.  You're not supposed to do this to people you supposedly love.  And I think that's the bit that gets me the most.  If I'd been a better daughter, maybe she would have loved me enough to stick around.  I can't help but think my own behaviour contributed to what she did.

So, no.  I'm not ok.  I'm not fine.  I'm not doing great, thank you.  And if I have to hear one more person ask me, "how are you?", I think I'm going to scream.