Fay Wray, Poe and Burroughs

It’s hot. We are sweltering through our second week of days that are over 35°C and nights that don’t drop below 19°C. When I tried to get into my car to go home last night, I couldn’t touch anything without burning myself. I wrapped my skirt around the handle so I could open the door then attempted to drive home without touching the steering wheel. No-one can sleep properly and everybody is cranky. So too, it seems, are the insects.
A few nights ago I was sat at the computer, the front door was open to try to get some cooler air into the house, and a big, black beetle landed on the door mat. It waddled up and down making a hissing noise. I’ve never known beetles to be verbal before so I was somewhat intrigued. I explained to it that we were suffering from the heat as much as it was and there was nothing I could do about it. It was obviously unhappy with that and flew into the house and landed on top of the grandfather clock and began hissing again with much greater vehemence. I watched it for a while, waited for it to say “Never more” then decided I probably needed another glass of wine if I was to effectively project literary aspirations onto a beetle. When I returned our visitor was still sitting on top of the clock, still ranting about something and still refusing to say anything Poeish. I turned off all the lights in the house so the only source of light was from the porch and stepped back. The beetle eventually took the hint and flew out the front door. I shut the door after it and I could hear it on the doormat, hissing loudly (rapping?), for several minutes before it flew away.

The next morning I brought the child’s washing in off the clothes line and started to sort through the shirts, skirts and undies. Underneath a pink t-shirt was a large Bogong moth which jumped up and screeched at me. I cupped it in my hands and it wriggled and screeched like a banshee until I threw it out the dog door.

A very industrious spider has spun a web across the middle of the veggie patch. It’s an amazing effort – well over a meter across and very elaborate. Unfortunately I have had to tear it down a few times in order to get to the far end of the patch. Last week I went out to water the veggies and the poor beleaguered spider saw me approaching and ran to the top of its web and stood up on its hind legs and waved its little front legs around. I apologised for destroying its web and suggested that I could probably walk around the corn and not take the easy way on the path and hence through the web. It gesticulated some more then scurried off to its hiding place. I was surprised at how small the spider was, about the size of a 20c coin, and marvelled at how such a small creature could construct such an incredible web. I have kept my word and haven’t vandalised its work since.


Last night the beetle returned. It landed on the doormat and again marched up and down hissing its protests/social commentary. I took the opportunity to photograph it and then poked at it a few times to see if I could upset it more – I could! The hissing increased in pitch and volume and the beetle waddled around furiously flapping its wings. I’m not sure, but I think it said 'I want to see the manager' and something else about Kafka before flying away.


I don’t know why insects are suddenly able to speak, either verbally or in sign – maybe they always could and I just never realised. Maybe I’ve been spending too much time looking for fairies at the bottom of the garden.

I think I’ll reread The Green Brain by Michael Moorcock; sometimes paranoia's just having all the facts. Read more!

Invasion Day

Yesterday, to celebrate the day that in 1770 Captain Cook pretended to discover Australia we had a public holiday. Pretended? Why yes, he already had a map of most of "New Holland", all he had to do was fill in the gaps. I can imagine the Dutch handing him the maps saying "You're welcome to it mate, it's hotter than hell, there's bugger all water and the weirdo fauna will either bite, sting or beat you to death".
"Sounds like just the place we need to dump our social problems" says Cook and sets out to plant a flag and lay claim.
I'm not proud of the whitey history of Australia - our attempted genocide of the native population continues and our devastation of the fragile eco system also continues. I'm ashamed of our prime minister's (any of them) Renfield like snivelling to the USA. The USA rips us off on trade deals and demands we have a certain percentage of American content on our television. They demand that we support them in their war mongering and demand to have military bases (including nukes) on our soil. In return we get the nefarious promise that if anybody ever tries to invade they will rescue us. They have locked up our citizens for years on end without charge and without trial and all our PM does is say "may I lick your bottom again please Sir?"
So I don't buy into the Australia Day stuff, but I'll happily have the public holiday thank you very much. Hypocrisy abounds.
The girl and I took the opportunity to ride our bike (my bike with the tandem attachment) to the National Botanic Gardens. It was well over 30C and the husband scoffed at our stupidity but we trundled off regardless. Last week I rode my bike to work, it's just over 12km and I coped reasonably well considering my current pathetic fitness level, and since the Botanic Gardens are across the road from work I figured I could do it.
And I did.
In homage to the day that was, we went to the cafe and ordered a meat pie (the Australian national dish) with chips and salad. Another thing I'm not proud of - our food sucks! As a token calorie concession I ate the salad, the girl ate the pie and we shared the chips. With the 15% public holiday surcharge a pie, a coffee and a lemonade cost us $23. Outrageous!
After lunch I lazed about on the lawn trying to recover enough for the ride home and the girl went lizard spotting amongst the bushes. I scoffed at the people with their Australia t-shirts and little (union jack containing - I will never get over the Australian public voting to remain a part of the commonwealth in 1999) flags painted on their faces and laughed joyously at the little boy with the plastic colander on his head.
I admire parents who let their kids be weird, in fact, I adore it. My girl would show up to day care in all manner of things - fairy dress and gumboots, odd shoes, whatever she wanted. Parenting is hard enough without fighting meaningless battles.
The pedal home was arduous. It was hot and there were lots of hills. The hardest part of the journey home is actually the last few blocks - it's a long, slow, incline that takes the last of my strength and leaves me collapsed in the front yard gasping for air like a landed fish.
The girl rewarded my efforts by putting The Addams Family DVD on instead of Barbie and the Magic of the Rainbow (ack!) and I lay on the couch for a few hours while my lungs regained their composure.
At dinner time she said "I think next time we go to the Botanic Gardens we should drive because I was falling asleep most of the way".
Later that evening after the girl was tucked up in bed, I flicked the telly on and caught the end of Sicko, the Mike Moore film. An American woman was reduced to tears in a Cuban pharmacy when she discovered she could buy the inhaler she needed for 5c when in the States it cost her $120. She commented that on $1000 a month income and needing two inhalers a month it was a burden. It made me appreciative that the inhaler I need for my asthma is only $30, and even more appreciative that if I was unemployed or on a low income it would only cost me $3.50.
I reflected on the society that we live in: we have access to free health care and if you have no income there is usually some sort of social security benefit you can get. Unless of course you are a student, then if your parents can't afford to give you money you must give up all hope of going to Uni and go and work in a factory - we can't have the working class getting edjumacated, all sorts of riff raff will start showing up at the golf club!
But apart from the exclusivity of higher education and the embarrassingly short life span and high infant mortality rate of our indigenous folk - we actually ain't that bad.
Let me list the good things:
- free and good quality health care
- decent education for primary and secondary
- freedom of speech and religious expression
- very limited access to fire arms
- legalised abortion
- scientists can pursue their research without their homes getting fire-bombed
- an abundance of fresh food and clean water in spite of our mostly desert status
- some of the most spectacular landscapes in the world
- a generally (very generally) laid back and tolerant population.
OK, so I'm not going to start waving the flag, but I will give thanks that I live here and that my not-so-distant ancestors CHOSE to come here and not the alternative.

Today is our two year anniversary of marriage. To my darling husband who took the girl to day care and collected her again so I could ride my bike to work and has just fed, bathed and put her to bed so I could sit here and blog, and who cooked a glorious Tom Yum for dinner I would like to say: "Sure, there are stones amongst the diamonds, but most days I wouldn't swap you for a fully recoed right hand drive Chev Bel Air full of Belgium chocolate". Read more!

The Psychology of Cows

I love Christmas. I really do. But this Christmas I could have done without.
It all seemed so good. I had booked flights using our credit card points and we were staying at my friend's house while they were overseas. Free flights, free accommodation and my sister had offered to do Christmas lunch (usually my job) so I could sit back and relax for a change.

Unfortunately the husband doesn't share my enthusiasm for Christmas and had misgivings about several aspects of our trip. Our first hurdle was my brother offering to pick us up from the airport. My brother is a typical 20 year old yobbo and has, in his two years of driving, rolled a car, been caught speeding and recently rear ended somebody writing off his own car in the process. The husband objected to being chauffeured by somebody with such a bad track record. Unfortunately both my parents had been sick so the question of who was going to collect us was a difficult one. But my Dad dragged himself out of his sickbed and did the 1 ½ hour drive to the airport. I started to worry about him when he missed two turn offs, but we made it home safely and my Dad went to bed early.

Santa had forgotten to pack the present for my girl so the husband and I took my Dad's car into town to find a replacement. The husband was very edgy and moody by this stage and going through the crowds on Christmas eve wasn't helping. We found a present, paid some Salvation army ladies $2 to wrap it for us (so Santa's paper would be different from all the others) and I dragged the husband to a bar to ply him with beer and hopefully improve his mood and strengthen his resistance to my insane family.

It seemed to work and the evening went well until it was time for bed. My parents house is pretty big and even though they have enough furniture to fill 4 houses for some reason they don't have many spare beds, so the husband and I were relegated to the caravan to sleep. My Mum bought the caravan in the early 70's and it's comfortable enough except the fly screens have started to fall apart. My parents place also has lots of trees and my Mum fanatically collects water where ever she can. The result is that their property is a mosquito haven. So before I retired I checked all the caravan windows, closed the ones that had damaged screens, put tape over any holes I couldn't close and climbed into the small bed. The husband decided to stay up and wait for my yobbo brother who had gone drinking with his buddies. The yobbo and his mates had drunk most of their money and were sharing a taxi home. About halfway home the yobbo decided he needed to urinate so asked the taxi to pull over. Unfortunately their funds didn't stretch to a toilet stop so his request was denied. In defiance he wound down the window and relieved himself. Not surprisingly the taxi driver immediately pulled over and threw him out. He walked the remaining 5kms home. So by the time he got there the husband had made his way through two bottles of wine. They sat and talked and eventually the husband wobbled his way to the caravan and fell into bed, leaving the door of the van open.

The next morning, covered in mossie bites, we went through the rituals of Christmas. The girl played with the spirograph from Santa and the adults drank champagne and ate panettone. We waited for my sister and her family to arrive before doing the presents - she was putting the lamb and pork on the spit for lunch.

We all did pretty well present wise: I got series one and two of Star Trek Enterprise and all ten Star Trek films, a beautiful necklace that has a large black stone and a skeleton hand and Nigella's Christmas cookbook. The husband got a stack of obscure Goth CDs I sourced from the States, including two of Crime and the City Solutions, also a pair of spider cuff links and some horror films including "Christine" which was my dig at him for bingling my car a few weeks ago.

The girl, who has been complaining about "all the creepy Goth stuff in the house" opened her present from us, saw a skull on the front of the book and very melodramatically rolled her eyes and then collapsed on the floor. Later, when she discovered that it was a pop-up book of human anatomy and not creepy Goth stuff she was fascinated.

At midday the phone rang – my Grandmother and Great Uncle had arrived at my sister's place to find no-body home. So I hurriedly grabbed what I needed and my siblings and I jumped in a car. I couldn't find the husband before I left and I worried for his safety alone with my parents.

At my sister's house the spit roasting meat smelt fantastic and I busied myself making drinks for my elderly relatives. My sister took a large, raw chicken from the fridge and began prepping it for the oven. "It won't take long" she said. Suddenly understanding that lunch was hours away I asked about entrée "Prawns" she said, and pulled two trays of prawns from the freezer. I was horrified. My mobile rang, my husband yells down the phone "Where are you? You've left me alone!" he was about to get in a car with my parents to make the 4km journey. I reassured him and got back to helping with lunch.

My mother handed my husband a tray of jellies in glass bowls as he sat in the back of the car. She had made "frog in a pond" for the kids, except she didn't have any blue or green jelly so had used red. She also didn't have any chocolate frogs so had used grapes. About 500 meters up the road they discovered their neighbour's cow wandering the road. My Mum stopped the car and jumped out to go alert them their cow was out, yelling at my Dad to get the car off the road. My Dad drove the car up a driveway then got out to go help round up the stray beast. My Husband, still sitting in the back of the car balancing his tray of grapes-in-blood become somewhat alarmed when the driverless car began rolling backwards. Fortunately my Dad was able to jump back in the car and put the handbrake on. He and my mother then proceeded to yell at each other about the cows most likely course of action as they chased it back into it's paddock. Eventually they arrived at my sister's place and my husband, still balancing the tray of jellies looked at me and said from between clenched teeth "don't ever leave me alone with them again".

At this point my Great Uncle asked when lunch was because he had taken his insulin shot some time ago and needed to eat. I panicked. "Mum, where are the Devils on Horseback you made?" I asked, "Oh, I left them at home. Get your brother to drive you over to get them". So I did. (It's only as I type this that I wonder why I needed my brother to drive me). About halfway there we met my Dad coming the other way, he had gone home to go back to bed (still unwell) but had then changed his mind, he had the aforementioned horse-doovers so we turned around and headed back.

I presented the food to my aging uncle, silently praying he wouldn't lapse into a hypoglycemic coma then noticed they were sitting out in the blaring midday sun without any cover. I fiddled around with umbrellas, made a joke about stapling a bed sheet over the eaves then asked my brother to drive me back to my Mum's to get another umbrella. The husband asked me to bring back more wine and I was glad he had found the only coping mechanism available when dealing with my family.

While we were gone my brother-in-law appeared with a bed sheet and a staple gun and they attempted to staple the sheet to the eaves as I had suggested. Unfortunately there was nothing on the other side to support it. So the sheet came down and they fiddled around trying to suspend it between the two umbrellas using clothes pegs. In between the activity my Great Uncle and my Grandmother sat, having a sheet dropped on their heads over and over. At this stage my husband decided his best bet was to remain out of the fracas, under the willow tree in the garden, with his bottle of wine, and make friends with the dog – a boxer named Carla.

By now, the lamb and the pork on the spit was cooked and my sister was reheating the frozen McCain's roast potatoes and steaming the life out of some vegetables. I asked where the turkey was "Oh I didn't get a chance to buy any" was the reply. But hadn't I run into her at the supermarket the day before? I bit my tongue. The gravox and the kraft cheese sauce appeared and I almost collapsed. I decided to join my husband and anesthetize myself.

After the main course (and the meat was gorgeous - home grown lamb) I busied myself reheating the pudding. I asked for a mixer to make the brandy butter with and my sister replied "I'm not getting that out, it's at the back of the cupboard", and she handed me a stick blender. I was about to explain how you can't whip with a blender but decided to just shut up and make do. I was annoyed and the couple of tablespoons of brandy turned into a damn good slug of brandy, then another for good measure.

I had varied my pudding recipe: using glace cherries, muscat raisins, prunes and figs, a block of 75% cocoa chocolate, real suet and lots and lots of rum. It was divine. I will stick with this recipe. After the family had raved about the cauliflower cheese they all baulked at the pudding and complained that the brandy butter was too strong.

We adjourned to under the willow tree, my brother-in-law went and sat in his nearby car and played with his new Navman. We teased my brother's girlfriend about how she could do much better for herself than that idiot yobbo. My husband and Carla the boxer snuggled together on a chair, the kids zoomed around on their new bikes and our conversation was occasionally punctuated by a female, American voice announcing "You have reached your destination".

Two days later, our backs aching from the cramped caravan bed, mosquito bites itching, dehydrated from avoiding the over flourided water, desperate for a real coffee and with a sigh of relief the husband, the girl and I boarded a train for the city.

The house we were staying in belongs to my friends and neighbours. They have a cat so I had been taking antihistamines for a few days and hoped I would be OK. We arrived safely and the girl gleefully set about rampaging through the kid's room. I think there is nothing better than unhindered access to another child's toys. She was also overjoyed at the prospect of sleeping on the top bunk and demonstrated to me how she could climb up and down and "wasn't scared" of falling.

The cat arrived home, looked at us and said "who the fuck are you and why are you in my house?" then walked into the kitchen and demanded to be fed.

I walked past my house, tried very hard not to seem like a nosy landlord but longed to go in and resettle in my home.

We caught up with friends and family and the next day the girl's father collected her and I spent the evening going through that transition wherein I am suddenly childless and have no idea what to do with myself. That night the husbands bowels were gripped with a gastro-like illness that left him debilitated and sick for over a week.

The next day I was leaving to go visit my paternal grandmother; the cat was in the kitchen having it's breakfast so I left the back door ajar as I didn't want to shut it in the house. The husband was home so I didn't think twice about doing it. Unfortunately someone who was prowling the laneways peered through the back gate and saw the door open. They ripped palings off the gate until they could reach through and unbolt it then ran in, grabbed the husband's phone and charger and his backpack which contained all of his beloved rings, the cuff links I gave him for Christmas, an almost new bottle of Dolce&Gabana cologne, his art supplies and the house (Blandberra) and car keys. Even more unfortunately the car keys had the only remote for the alarm/immobiliser on the husband's car. Ordinarily this would be a nasty blow, but as he was already sick and feeling low the impact of the loss was even harder. When you are sick or you've been robbed your instinct is to find a safe place, curl up in your nest and wait until the storm passes. The husband couldn't do that, we were in somebody else's home and even though he could curl up in a comfy bed it wasn't HIS bed and he became more miserable with each day that he wasn't able to enjoy his holiday.

For New Year's Eve we had offered to cook for about 20 people, which between the 2 of us would be a piece of cake but it was decided that the husband would be banned from the kitchen, apart from not wanting to infect my friends with the gastro bug there were also going to be two pregnant women attending and the consequences of them getting gastro could have been devastating. The husband didn't deal with this very well. He knew logically that he shouldn't be involved with food prep, but he loves to cook and the exclusion added to his misery. To deepen the insult I decided to change his menu. My sister had given me a huge leg of the lamb they had slaughtered for Christmas and the husband was going to curry it. I thought that was a waste since the meat was so tender and flavourful without any added seasoning and I wanted to just roast it, keep it simple to allow the meat's own flavours to stand out.

I had two kitchen hands to help me chop veggies, wash dishes and keep my champagne glass topped up. I'd already pre-prepped one of the entrees and the dessert so the day of cooking went relatively smoothly. I had a great time and was secretly glad to be doing it on my own as the husband can be somewhat controlling and bossy in the kitchen and doesn't often let me indulge my passion for cooking. The husband showed up just as the party was starting and having spent the day with his best friend he was in a good mood. The Party was fantastic, it was so wonderful to catch up with friends, to see the poor, miserable husband enjoying himself for a change and to just relax into a social situation with people I love.


Two days later we arrived home. Any money we saved with the flights and accommodation has now been spent replacing the husband's phone, getting the car towed to an auto electrician to have the immobiliser removed and replaced and the husband has started to replace some of his rings. The husband's bowels have started behaving normally and the dog has almost forgiven us for abandoning her. It could have been much worse; no-one died and we have all recovered from our various afflictions. The girl is away with her Dad and Grandparents for the next few weeks so the husband and I have some precious time alone.

I still love Christmas. Read more!

What is Goth?

I have had, over the years, various people ask me to define Goth and why I chose the path. I admit I love the superficial side of it all, the dress ups and make up and silly dancing. But there is much more. I got into an argument in a pub with a Christian (what was he doing in a pub??) once who insisted Goth was an obsession with death. Obviously I disagreed. Yes the main part of the trappings are skeletons and coffins and bats and spiders and all the vampire stuff and the cadaverous make up, but it’s a style that borrows these forms and is no more an obsession with death than wearing floral is an obsession with the reproductive organs of plants. It’s a matter of aesthetics. I happen to think red back spider are beautiful, their shape and intense colour is gorgeous and I also like the implications of them being venomous. Beautiful but deadly. It has a comedic poetry. And I think that is the essence of Goth. To be able to see the beauty in what is conventionally considered ugly, perhaps why the culture attracts outcasts – anyone can be beautiful in goth society: the fat, the skinny, big noses, small eyes – all those things the magazines tell us we shouldn’t have or be.
I grew up in a single parent family, my sister and my mother and me. We didn’t have much money and Mum shopped at op shops and even though she tried her best we always looked a bit odd (no I’m not paraphrasing a Dolly Parton song). This caused me much grief as a child but eventually I became aware that what the other kids had and thought was so cool was actually just crap. I developed an ability to discern quality from quantity. I took to making myself look odder, turned it around, threw it back at them – instead of wearing second hand clothes that looked a bit odd, I went for as odd as I could get. The Goth evolved.
Why do I like old horror films? Why do I like old cars? They have an elegance, a gracefulness that is lacking in their modern counterparts. The loss of form in function upsets and offends me. I insisted on getting a (second hand)claw foot bath, even though it is old and crappy and the enamel is chipping and a new fibreglass one would have cost less but would be just so BORING! A bath may just be a place to wash yourself but it is also a permanent part of your surroundings. I surround myself with as many beautiful things as I can, probably another reaction to growing up without, and now that I have the means I will buy what I like and am happy to pay more for a particular colour or shape. I want my home to be a place of beauty, a refuge I can retreat to and forget the ugliness and blandness of the world. I have never been able to understand or appreciate the aesthetics of modern furniture. Why would I want a craftwood and fake woodgrain table from Ikea when for less money I can get a solid timber one from a second hand shop? Is that a Goth thing? Not really, modern Goths may go for PVC and chrome - there are many styles within the genre.
Horror films, especially old school, have an elegance. There is an assumption that the audience has a few brain cells and can work out a plot, but also retrospectively a humour that is lacking in modern films. Frankenstein is not a story about a monster and a mad scientist, it’s about fear of the unknown and mortality and what makes a man. The tortured soul is such a common theme in the classic horror: the unwilling wolfman, the frustrated vampire. I think as Goths tend to be outcasts they can relate to the emotional turmoil and it is comforting in a strange way. The blockbuster films give most people little they can relate to - people with perfect teeth and flawless skin - but film noir makes us feel a bit less "weird". Therein lies the rub - we are weird, but perhaps don’t really want to be. We want to rebel but our rebellion is in fact quite orthodox - we simply conform to an alternative society.
I will never stop wearing black, dying my hair, driving a vintage car, listening to weird music, watching weird films, reading classic literature and being generally dramatic in style and lifestlye. What is the underlying, bottom line reason for it? I like it. Read more!