From the mouths of babes

I drove for an hour, getting totally lost, to source a bell jar to display Mollie's skull in. The girl sat in the back chatting endlessly, as per usual, until I yelled "OK, you need to stop talking now because we are lost and I need to concentrate on where we are going". She sat, sullenly but quietly, until we reached out destination.Bell jar purchased, we headed off to a teddy bears picnic. Now, I had set the alarm to go early, so I could get organised for our big day. My husband had other ideas. So with only 45 minutes to get ready, a few things got overlooked. The day had a space theme, so girl had decided to go as Batman - yeah, I don't get it either. But anyway, she put her costume on and was happy. The things that got overlooked were money and food. Driving back from the-middle-of-nowhere-bell-jar-hunting we ran out of petrol - at a petrol station!! How good is that? Anyway, three of my brain cells were functioning enough to prompt me to buy drinks when I paid for the petrol. We got to the peninsula where the picnic was, queued up for 20 minutes to get into the car park and then nabbed a spot right out front. Also good!! It was probably the last hot day of summer, it was dusty, and it was crowded. The peninsula was teeming with people and small children clutching teddy bears. Lots of aluminium foil and many coke bottles had been used to make space outfits for teddies (except ours, which was a nudist space teddy) and one teddy had a clear, plastic teapot on its head (I was impressed). The girl found a market stall selling masks and demanded a pink mask with pink fluff on it. She did the pleeeeeeeeese thing and I pointed out the mask cost $5 and I had $6.40 so nothing else after the mask. She enthusiastically agreed. The teddy put the mask on, we checked out the Daleks,
then queued in the sun for half an hour so the girl could spend a few minutes on the jumping castle. Of course, after that she was hungry. I had nothing (potentially my nomination for mother of the year?) except $1.40 in change and all the food was $2 or more. I tried to talk her into going home, but she wouldn't be in it. We wandered about a bit more, she whinged about her hunger and we joined another queue so she could pat a sheep. The third queue, for face painting, was closed. Tears welling, tolerance levels reached, hunger overwhelming and tiredness setting in, the girl reluctantly agreed that we could go home. In the car the tears finally fell, she sat there mumbling about how crap it was, "all I got was a mask that won't stay on". I felt so sorry for her. It must be hard having me as a mum.
The next evening she showed me a dirty, old dog bone that she had found in the schoolyard. She had carefully wrapped it in the cling film from her cut apple. I was horrified "why are you collecting and bringing home dirty, yucky stuff like that?". My brother, who was staying with us, said "she's copying her mother". The girl put the dirty bone on the table next to Mollie's skull. I had to admit I had been trumped. It remains. My organisational skills are rubbish, my foresight is non-existent, but I am not a hypocrite.
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Mollie has come home.

Finally, we have Mollie's skull back.When little Mollie died (see blog "Mollie" 17th June, 2008) we chopped off her head and gave it to the mortuary manager at work. He was going to strip the skull for me so I could keep it. After months of asking him about it, having him change the subject and leave me convinced me he had either lost it or run over it with the lawn mower (he put it in his garden so the bugs could get to it), I got a cryptic (pun intended) message from him to meet him in the anatomy cold room. There was the little skull, he had glued it all together and laquered it so it is beautifully preserved. It is gorgeous. I love it, and I love that I can keep a part of her. I need to make the man a cake and buy a bottle of wine. He has earned it. I'm very happy. Read more!

How can we dance?

So with fires now threatening Warburton and Daylsford the major headline of the day was that Peter Garret is reforming Midnight Oil for a charity concert to raise money for the bushfire victims. I guess we are getting bored with the fires. I mean, they have been burning for over two weeks now, enough already.
It never ceases to amaze me how superficial people are. We all sat glued to our TVs and computers watching updates about the fires; the death toll clicking up almost by the minute. Over two hundred people have been killed and 10 times more homes have been destroyed. We have been bombarded with pictures of wailing women, men with their face in their hands, people in hospital bandaged from foot to head, burnt out cars and dead livestock. I’ll admit I’ve read articles about fire fighters giving koalas drinks, a man who walked away from his burning property leading his horse - beer in the other hand, the 15 year old who drove a tractor through the fires to save his family. I’ve read these stories with tears in my eyes. I’ve donated money, I’ve lamented the tragedy with my co-workers and then I’ve got on with my life. We seem to revel in the drama, but once we’ve had our fill – we move on. Shame those that lost family/property/skin can’t do the same. And tomorrow will be 38°C so the fires still burning will probably flare up. There isn’t going to be much of Victoria left. It does make me grateful that I live in the inner city and am protected from wild fire by thousands of tonnes of cement and bitumen.
So in 38°C heat the husband, the younger stepson and myself will be attending a heavy metal festival. I’m looking forward to seeing Lacuna Coil – I love them. Also the opportunity to see Nine Inch Nails won’t go amiss. I’m half heartedly interested in seeing Alice in Chains but my greater interest will be in the crowd itself. I love crowd watching at these sorts of things. I will post photos next week.

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The Cramps

Lux Interior has died. It is a sad day in the music world. Lux Interior, co-founder of The Cramps, has left us. The Cramps were one of my staples when I was in my mid-teens, A Date With Elvis one of my favourite albums. I moved away from them as my Goth tastes developed but I always remained very fond of them. I recently found a copy of A Date With Elvis on CD, which I was chuffed about as my vinyl copy of the album dissapeared long ago.
Thanks Lux, Gods bless. Read more!

Belonging

Today, as I walked through the Uni campus carrying my dog's head in a chiller bag, I started to understand somewhat why some people think I'm a bit weird.
I loved my dog and I'm sad to part with her. It seems natural to me to want to keep a part of her. Skulls are beautiful things, the shape and the structure is stunningly beautiful. To turn her skull into an ornament to keep as a memento seems perfectly rational. The process of getting the clean, white, polished skull however is quite gruesome and a tad disturbing. I haven't reveled in the process. I cried my eyes out as I held her frozen body while my husband (bless him) hacked her head off with a meat cleaver. I was quite rattled as I left the home this morning carrying a small chiller bag with a dog's head in it.
One of the joys of my new job has been returning to a world of science in which my pragmatic nature is accepted without hesitation. When I asked my colleagues how one would go about stripping the flesh from a skull they instantly offered several suggestions, none of them being that I seek psychiatric help. In fact, the mortuary manager offered to do a large part of the process for me. Hence the chiller bag and the walk across campus to the medical school.
When I asked the mortuary manager's advice on my project he instantly told me exactly what I had to do and then offered to do it for me. He is going to remove the skin and flesh then boil the skull in hydroxide to break down the connective tissue. I will be left with some cleaning to do, then the bleaching. He said once I had the skull as I wanted, to bring it back and he will coat it with a preservative varnish. He did not once ask me why I wanted to do this.
Acceptance and a sense of belonging is an inherent need in humans. When you belong to a subculture, like Goth, you make a conscious decision to live outside the norm. But belonging to a subculture means that even your rebellion is orthodox. We still want to belong.
I don't associate with many other Goths; my husband is my main source of comfort. At a dinner party some time ago I asked if anyone thought Tim Burton had modeled Sweeny Todd's look on David Vanian. I was met with blank stares. It was an uncomfortable reminder that my friends aren't Goths, that I don't quite belong there. My life the past year has been very much a reminder that I am different. The women I met at the gym, the other mothers at school that I got to know – many of them I like very much – but I don't think I could ask their opinion on the new Bauhaus album. My isolation has been on many levels. So to go to work and confront a bunch of people I hardly know with the question of how to strip a skull and be met with nothing but suggestions and offers of help is a multiple joy. Firstly that they can help me in my quest, but also that they don't judge me and possibly even understand why I want to do this. I belong in that environment.
My little dog belongs with me; I don't want to leave her in the ground of a random rental home in Blandberra. I will keep her skull with me and I will treasure it forever.

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Mollie

On Friday night when I got home from work my little dog was collapsed on the floor. She seemed to be unconscious so I grabbed the phone and hoped the vet was still working. He was about to go home, but I exclaimed "she's just gone into a fit!" so he said "bring her straight over". I picked up her spasming little body and she went limp, I put her in the car on the seat next to me and was I probably breaking the speed limit before I got to the end of the driveway. About halfway to the clinic she sat up, looked around then looked at me as if to say "are we going somewhere?".
The vet met us at the door and smiled "so she got better then?" he asked. He had the green dream and syringe ready, which he quickly put out of sight. He checked her over, couldn't really find anything wrong. He explained that when dogs get old they can develop a form of false epilepsy, that the excitement of me coming home may have been enough to trigger her into a fit. We discussed options and I took her home.
The husband and I had a reservation at a posh restaurant and we considered canceling, but it had been so long since we had been out somewhere nice that I insisted we go.
When we got home little Mollie wasn't at the door as usual. She wasn't in her bed; we searched around the house then grabbed torches and headed into the back yard. The husband eventually found her, hidden behind some pots. I put my hand on her, she was still warm but wasn't breathing. The husband grabbed her and started hitting her on the chest and yelling "Mollie! Come on Mollie!" but she was definitely gone.
We bundled her into a garbage bag and put her in the bottom drawer of the freezer, lit some candles and opened a bottle of sparkling shiraz. We made a toast to Mollie: she was deaf, blind, senile, incontinent, smelly, annoying, constantly underfoot, stubborn and difficult to groom. We loved her. We were going to the big city the next day so I was ready to put her in my suitcase and take her home, bury her with my other dog. But the husband pointed out that we couldn't a) travel with a dead dog in our luggage and b) turn up on somebody's doorstep and say "Hi, we're here to bury our dog".
So she's still in the freezer until I decide what to do.
So now we can open cupboards or the fridge without having to move a small dog, we can walk across a room without tripping over, there are no puddles in the hallway and no disgusting smells in the lounge room. There's also no little dog on my lap when I'm watching telly. I miss the scrofulous little mutt.

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Coffins and Flowers

I didn't recognize the little old man in the coffin, until I looked at his hands. They were my grandfather's hands – gnarled and twisted from arthritis and covered in sun spots from years of farm work. Distinctive and instantly recognizable. Looking at his face I eventually saw similarities between my grandfather and the old man in front of me. He was so emaciated, eyes and cheeks sunken and there was no smile, none of his naughty boy cheeky sparkle. Yet it was him, and he seemed peaceful. I know it's a cliché to say "he looked peaceful", but he did. He could have been sleeping, except for the unnatural stillness.
I reached out to touch him, I wanted to stroke his forehead, hold his hand – but I couldn't. I reached out a few times only to pull back at the last minute. I couldn't bear the thought of feeling him cold, the final confirmation that he wasn't sleeping.
I distracted myself by investigating the quality of the coffin, peeking under the lining to pick at the chip board and tap on the plastic handles. I approved of my Grandmother's sensible money saving – why spend thousands on something you are going to bury? But I was also glad my mother had insisted that my Grandfather be dressed; he was wearing the suit that he had worn to my mother's first wedding instead of the pjs he died in which his wife was happy to have him buried in. She refused to put shoes on him though and I giggled at the thought of his bare feet under the satin shroud. My Dad and I debated the correct etiquette for coffin apparel – does one wear shoes or not? I thought since he was in a suit then he should also have shoes.
The service was very respectful and short, perhaps not as many funny stories as there could have been and I missed my chance to contribute because I misunderstood the invitation. Only one of my cousins from the whole family actually did contribute. But that's my family – verbose to the extreme if it is meaningless, but faced with an emotional situation we clam up. We then drove for 3 hours to the cemetery for the grave side service. At the end everyone was throwing flowers in the grave, I eventually did because I thought I should, but I really didn't want to. Not letting go? Maybe. Watching the coffin descend into the ground was bad, really bad. I was very grateful for the presence of my little princess and my husband, they were a great comfort. I am quite sure we have got this whole death thing wrong, it's too difficult. There must be a better way. A process that doesn't make you feel like you've had your guts ripped out.
So now he is gone. He was a character: a man of endless wit, great strength and in his own way – much love. One of the corner stones of my family is gone. I'll say good-bye in my own time.

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