Saturday, April 25, 2015

Intense cat fight

theBoy had a pop-up play tent sitting in the dining room and both cats entered. They started play fighting, their melee accentuated by the confines of the tent as they bashed and thrashed against it, the tent now seemingly gone full dread gazebo and sprung to life.

"Cat fight!" I yelled with delight.

The inside tent fight ended when both cats inexplicably shot of it resuming their fight, Crouching Tiger style, in mid-air and against the walls of the corridor as their combat carried on down to the back end of the house. 

Thursday, April 23, 2015

Back into the garden

There's a term used in here in Australia and the United Kingdom by their respective public services—civil service in the UK—for when a servant is sent home on pay while issues are resolved.

It's called "gardening leave" (1).

I'm back in the garden. 

As an adult I've never been healthier in the head (2) but, well, cogs and sprockets of government and all that. I'm sure to return in a matter of weeks. 

I was allowed at least to work out the day, and I got to finish with an indepth free-ranging chat with my favourite, and soon-to-depart, senior figure about his career and passion to support his community. It was a most awesome coda to my having to go. It was great to just talk with someone who's done their level best to help as many people as they could and who keeps fighting on even though he could have retired years before.

I can only hope I still have that same level of passion and energy when I'm his age. 

WFTW. 

(1) The UK.gov website actually has a section on gardening leave.
(2) Even though I still battle the dark forces of sudden anxiety I no longer hate my body and I am not depressed. To shed those is liberation. That and I know the suffering I endured was worth it for the outcomes that suffering produced.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Like a half-naked man-deer trapped in the headlights

It was dusk and I was on a mission to the bin. The bin sits outside our gate.

I was topless, wearing just PJ pants and a headband.

I opened the gate and stepped into the full glare of headlights coming from the house opposite.

I instinctively tried to suck in my tum but it can't have been a pleasurable sighting for the occupant of that vehicle.

Maybe they thought I was off for a hearty run? I doubt it—it's nearly zero degrees. I may be insulated but I'm not that insulated.

Monday, April 20, 2015

Shitbox ~Fin~

With thanks to the French.

The shitbox, our second car, which was once our first car, has gone to the wreckers. Long it sat in our drive in a proud Canberran tradition of having an un-roadworthy car left out the front of a house. 

Goodbye, sweet old white shitbox, you served your prince well.

Healing still healing

I had a head check from a head shrink. It went well. I just have to go back for some training in coping with fight (slash) flight. I didn't cry. I didn't emote. I was even funny.

It feels good to be almost healed.

WFTW.

Sunday, April 19, 2015

It was nice to hear

Following my epic collapse then recovery I shed any former-held notions of false modesty. In the past If I got praise I deflected and instead directed it to those people who helped me. A good report was because of the design, not the content, for example, even though the content rocked snot.

Well that is done with. If I do a good job I am now mentally sage enough to accept what I did was awesome. Not only that but actively promote my triumphs to colleagues and superiors alike. 

It's been a transformative experience, learning to accept praise and being able to self-praise both.

theDad called recently. He mentioned my sibling component of theMum's eulogy at her memorial service—within the church she used to attend—and that people still talk about my four and a bit minutes. "Where did he learn to do that?" theDad said someone told him.

Indeed, where did I? A serious of unfortunate events twixt a tasty mind and the full acceptance of self as an agent of change.

I no longer have doubt, I fear not the future. I'm in my bonus round and there's joy all around.

WFTW.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Re-moistened snot lump

I honk up goobs in the shower. I do. It's not pleasant, not for anyone. I try to angle it so the lump flies downward and thus gets swirled away with the fetid soppings of my man coating but it's not always easy to tell success. You're naked, there's steam, hissing water, the lump is small and you just can't be sure if you don't see it go down that it didn't go down.

I was in the shower. There are livid cracks in the shower glass, splintered in all directions like the arcs on a plasma globe. The cracks were once but a small single crack but I angled the shower head whilst the water heated and, well, physics. 

There, in a crack, was something. It looked akin to a boil.

I picked it off. It was wet and disgusting. Then I realised it was a now re-moistened snot lump that I must have with error dashed upon the glass.

Even I was repelled—and I was the one wot made it. 

UPDATE: "Jesus, there's a crack on the monitor! Wait, no, that's a goob..."

Friday, April 17, 2015

Feet of worse-than-clay

We all have heroes growing up—people whose talent we wish we had. 

For me one of them was Bill Cosby. Not for his TV show but rather his stand-up, my Dad having brought back pirated cassette tapes from a field trip to Indonesia. 

We listened to them on holiday trips in the car. I listened to them alone in my room. I loved the Chocolate Cake bit so much I tried to write a Basic program on an Apple IIe to have the computer write on the monochrome green screen "Dad is great ... bring out the chocolate cake!", a classic bit from a classic bit (1).

So then all of that horrid business about his personal life came out. 

It was fucked to know about it. It was fucked someone so talented and powerful as a comedian could also (allegedly) inflict so much pain and misery. Actual preying upon people. 

I know artists come with their issues—artistic genius and madness are oft twixt—but the sheer scale of what has been alleged is almost surreal. 

How do you separate the art from the artist? Can I still appreciate the art when the artist has feet of worse-than-clay?

I don't think I can. Because any time I now listen to him I don't hear the hero of my youth, I hear a likely sick man who inflicted evil. 

I guess the lesson here is never have a childhood hero.

(walks off, head hung low)

(1) I gave up after "Dad is great" 'cos the coding took too long and failed to hold my interest.

A diamond in the rough

One of our senior people is leaving. He's about my height and on the cusp of retirement. He's also one of the most approachable-yet-hard-working senior people I've met. When I first arrived in my new role I went to an event to support him and we had an instant connection. He was even kind enough once to ring me at home to tell me how much he liked something I'd written.

I popped in to see him about some final work and, after we completed it, he asked how I was travelling. So I told him. I told him about what had happened and how I'd had all this support and been looked after. And that it was processes he fixed years before that allowed that fulsome support to be provided. 

It felt good to tell someone that's going that they made a difference when they were there. 

And you can't get better than that as a public servant—making a difference.

WFTW.