I have just ordered a book by Robert D. Lupton called ‘Toxic Charity’.
In doing a bit of research, I found the below graphic based on the book. Always remembering that research is not my forte, as I like to go full blown ‘dunning kruger’ when I can get away with it.
The strange part about ‘toxic charity’ is I have experienced it.
Particularly at the ‘expectation’ and ‘entitlement’ phases. I can attest, that it makes you feel a bit sad, even jaded, that suddenly appreciation has turned to expectation and entitlement.
Then I feel like the ‘baddie’ when I say no….?
Anyway just a little whinge. Let you know more when I’ve read the book.
(Plus, I have to do a post on ‘dunning kruger syndrome’ – because once you know about it, you can never un-know it: it is a greater plague that COVID19!!!!!)
Doing my evening thing and watching the TV in the background as I try to write something profound. I am always about to go inside, after The Chase, the first half of the News and an episode of American Pickers, when a movie comes on that I’ve seen a thousand times…. but, can’t help but watch it one more time: tonight it was ROBO-COP.
I initially thought it was the original ‘old classic’ with the great line “Dead or alive you’re coming with me….” then I realised it was a modern remake; so, even a better reason to stay up and watch it, in the shed, with a beer.
….. and, I smiled…. and, as the movie started, I thought, wrote and felt the words below:
“I thought of an old mate from the Police, Bill. We walked the beat in the 1980’s, we were in the Police Pistol Club together and each year would go away to the Australian Police and Services National Pistol Titles…. we had a fine time!? He was eventually poached from the Police back into the Airforce where he began his career of service. We all laughed as he was an officer and mostly as young coppers we didn’t have much to do with the officers other than to get yelled at. We kept in touch, as you try to do and had a few catch ups over the years and pretended it was the 1980’s again; Bill could always make us laugh and mostly when he dumped a 318 Valiant motor in a Jaguar!
We laughed a lot at Robo-Cop when it came out; and in fact all the great, now terrible movies of the 80’s, which we stole lines from and used them at work, not unlike the Brooklyn 99 classic comebacks and sayings.
I smiled when the new Robo-Cop came on, I smiled with all the above memories and got a beer from the fridge.
For a moment, I thought of calling Bill and wondered if like me, his mobile number had not changed for 20 years.
Then, in that same instance, as those who know, will know; I remember he died a few years ago from cancer.
So, I stood up, and I wrote his name on my fridge in the shed, with the other names, under the title “Say their names often”…..
I’ve written a few post over the last few months about ‘my trek’ or ‘our trek’ which to many make as much sense as Star Trek. I wrote about ‘instructions’ for my trek which I hope were helpful, but upon reading them again I see that they are about as comprehensible as the ‘how to vote’ cards that are handed out at election booths.
I think they all want us to vote above the line by making voting below the line about as easy as solving a Rubic’s cube with all the sides the same colour; perhaps that is really the reason – the puzzle is solved before we start?
Anyway ‘My Trek’ is continuing and I have looked back and this is probably part three?
I think it is about time to seek some more points on my map; or as the Navman tells me, insert a ‘waypoint’. I am drawing my map as I see the ground. Which for the most part defeats the purpose of a map unless you are Captain Cook going somewhere for the first time in a cartographers capacity.
Most of the time I feel like Burke and Wills arriving at the dig tree a day or two late.
I must digress. And in that digression I wrote a muse which I will load up somewhere else as I already understand your attention is waining…. link here to my muse “Satisfied”.
I’m back: My trek. I found an important part of trekking is that some days I travel alone. I suppose we all are, but there has to be some connection with others, otherwise what is the point of trekking anywhere.
Still, my destination is unclear, perhaps unimportant, but it is still hidden behind a smoky mist of today, yesterday and the idea that tomorrow is not set; and in reality a total mystery. I suppose travelling to an unknown destination that you know you have to get to is about faith; yeah, that old chestnut; the belief without evidence (much like the story without facts in the majority of Media Reports – so at least I am not alone in that theological quandary).
I really have nothing new to report on my map making. There seems to be more box canyons than I thought, more areas to mark ‘there be dragons’ and landmarks that turn out to be mirages.
Trekking after all is a lot about discovery. Even walking the same old tracks there is always something new to notice, that was missed when you walked that way a hundred times before.
Well for those who read my post on 26th January 2021, here is Part 2. I have managed to keep the chronology the same as I wrote it in my little ‘travelling notebook’ so I hope it is reasonably understandable – even though most of the journey home I was a bit confused. I apologise there are no photos (PS: I put photos in after….?), but it is a story and not a comic – although?
Enjoy…
17th January 2021: Sunday – Today I chose to do nothing and succeeded!
ISO Day 12
Isolation Day #1. I slept like a log; sleeping from midnight until 11.00 am; Checked the Fit Bit and I was actually asleep all the time other than all the hours I was tossing and turning – I had lots of REM sleep but I think most of it was reliving the journey home.
Now, where did I leave off yesterday? Oh, yeah, Melbourne…. and I think this part of the journey is definitely worth a Part 2.
15th January 2021: Friday: I land in Melbourne; I wore my ‘N95’ mask on the plane, which was a good idea s everyone was in their own separate row, and there were lots of empty rows; except mine where there were three of us and I was sitting in the middle?
The guy on the isle asked the Hostie if we could fill up some of the empty rows, and as nice as she was, apparently the rules were not to change seats until after we had taken off; we complied. First time ever that I didn’t have to fight for an armrest.
NB: Just a point of interest: are airline hosties getting larger and older?
Plus, I noticed that the guy on my left, by the window, was still wearing his hospital arm band; all good; doors closed; taking off soon and I’ll have an isle to myself.
“…. Your Captain speaking. A thunderstorm is passing over the airport so the ground staff for safety reasons can’t oprate and we will have to wait until the storm passes. We don’t want any mishaps from wet tarmac or lightening strikes which I’m sure you all respect and understand….”
Some grumbles throughout the plane but, most nodding with approval and understanding.
I’m sorry, but am I the only one on the plane who doesn’t understand the implications of what the ‘Captain’ just said who is apparently subordinate to some bloke in HiViz who waves ping pong bats!!!!
Plus, I’m about to rumble down the runway at about 300 km/h and the tarmac I suspect will still be wet; and I am sitting in a giant metal lightening rod!!!!
I believe my friend on the left sensed the same thing and saw the gravity of our predicament as a skid pan faraday cage and started pulling on his hospital bracelet? He did manage to calm shortly after when he started to play some music on his iphone…. unfortunately he was playing it at full volume and didn’t have any earphones… things were starting to get interesting as the Hostie waddled past and ignore us.
… and, although it doesn’t sound true the first song he played was “People are Strange” by The Doors!? (It’s interesting to listen to that song as I commented in Part 1: so, I thought with my mate on the left faces were definitely coming out of the rain!)
And, then there is me, not completely devoid of mental ‘challenges’ thinking that my mate on the left might needs a hand and I’m not one for being a bystander, if I can help.
So I said “Hey, mate, The Doors, People are Strange” pointing to his phone which he had jammed to his ear. He nodded, and smiled and asked me when we would be taking off: I told him what the ‘Captain’ had said… I offered him my three quarter bottle of water; I thought considering our sitting positions if we were going to transfer COVID19 it was already done. He took the bottle tentatively and drank the lot in one guzzle…..
…. and we listened to his Doors music, no one else spoke (funny how people will complain about a crying child – but if you have crazy eyes and look a bit dishevelled you can get away with most public displays of weirdness without question or comment?) He smiled and pointed at his phone as each new song started; we listened to Riders of the Storm and a few others and thankfully “The End” wasn’t next on his shuffle playlist!
The thunderstorm passed, the highly tattooed, bearded and Mr Universe muscled ground crews came from hiding in the basement from the scary thunder and rain and got into their enclosed air conditioned ‘plane backing up thingo’, and I am sure someone had the hazard pay for kicking the white wooden block thingo’s from behind the wheels and wave around the ping pong bats, and we were away.
Shortly after a lovely Hostie squeezed down the isle (I apologise but I just remembered the new term is Flight Attendant?) moved us all to the empty rows.
My friend next to the window stayed in his place; later during the flight we caught each others eye and he gave me a smile and a wave.
So we get to Melbourne: I noticed as everyone was getting ready to get off the plane, they seemed kinder to each other?
I realized as we were taxiing to the terminal that perhaps my ‘papers’ were not in order? I switched on my phone and checked my emails first, as about 10 days ago I had applied to re-enter South Australia and even after 2 followup enquiries as to what was happening I was to please to say I received an automated reply to say they were very busy…. As Jackie and I had already completed an ‘entry pass’ to Victoria that appeared to be answered by a computer, that we had never been asked for, I thought I’d do it again….
…. and I did, and before we reached the terminal Hal9000 (for anyone under 60 see movie “2001 a Space Odyssey – Hal9000 was the first movie computer to kill humans for their own good…) gave me the big thumbs up to explore Victoria.
I was flying with our friends at JetStar so expected when we got off we would walk down the stairs and across a windy tarmac, when our informative ‘Captain’ advised us that buses would be transporting us to go straight to quarantine… ?
The seat belt light dings off and over head lockers open and crunched necks under them all looks towards the door; I sit and wait, I’m patient plus I forgot which locker I put my bag in?
We all walk off; I am beginning to not have to think as I am again ushered into a line, onto the bus: I comply. We are all now crammed on a ‘Midnight Express’ bus using the Tetris approach of fitting a giant plane load of people all having been sitting in their separate seats, into a bus a 10th of that size and grabbing hand rails and each other as we stop and start and jerk and weave to the terminal – what a fitting word?
I shouldn’t complain about the driver as I was initially expecting a ‘Bali Airport Bus ride’ and in fact this bloke made Jackie dealing with a bad customer look relatively fast – the pace allowed us all to stay on the bus longer I suppose; don’t want to miss anyone out getting infected.
Finally, we did terminate at the terminal into a coned, taped and signed off area – there is no-one there and people, I presume to be somewhat ‘official’ standing at the front of the bus seemed confused – as did the bus driver as he couldn’t get the front door open – there was many muffled ‘walkie-talkie’ chats – how do they understand each other?….
… and suddenly men in gloves, and masks and shields and yellow plastic gowns came scampering towards us to everyones relief – I thought it was all a bit comical and dystopian at the same time. We are then ushered off the bus, through halls and corridors which I think were previously used by our beloved ground staff to hide during thunderstorms and for a sly smoke, into and area identified by a hastily printed and laminate sign saying; “Arrival hall.” We are met by no doubt hard working, best intentioned, recently trained, contracted and no doubt overpaid “COVID19 OFFICIALS’, they had HiViz and everything- we all line up again, I comply.
I flash my phone as the computer has already told me on the tarmac that I am welcome to Victoria… many others get ushered into the naughty corner to sit down and fill out their forms, on their phones, for the computer to say yes… (I thought that too – what if you didn’t have a phone, or didn’t know how to use it – I didn’t’ see that, which disappointed me a bit?)
… and then there was the poor bastard in front of me ushered into the naughty corner to fill out his forms, with his mate, who doesn’t have a phone as his mate has one… who says “My phone is flat do you have a charger?” The wonderful, underinformed and untrained to anything other than robotic responses, who at that time will always be blazoned in my mind, with his disposable mask, shield, gloves, gown/cape that looked like a many times worn $2.00 poncho for the footy: somehow, I dont know why? Reminded me at that exact moment of the first condom I had ever purchase from Johnny the Barber in my home town in Berri (Johnny is still cutting hair in the same shop 40 years later. I have a tony-tail at the moment but I miss sitting in the shop which I used to do when I first moved back a few years ago, with a minimum 45 minute wait, which was never boring as all the men about town would drop in, some for hair cuts, most not, and exchange the latest tale or rumour or snippet of gossip… I’d learn more in 45 minutes that reading the local paper or perhaps any other source – and some of it was gooooood!)
NB As a side issue, while I am thinking of it; many hours, or it could have been days later, I saw the poor bastard again with the flat phone at the Taxi rank; he was asking all the drivers if any of them had a charger as he had to pay with his phone. I had a charger that fitted his phone that didn’t even fit my phone? I had a power pack as well; but, really who doesn’t travel with a charger? I was a bystander and walked passed – the bloke needed to learn a lesson and I was part of that teaching process.
So, I walked on past to the ‘smoking prison’ and smoked my guts out.
Plus, I am loving the slight bite to the air and walking with my really cool carry on… which I occasionally let go of as I am walking down a slight slope and watch it do little spin turns before I catch up a few steps later…. it is a cool carry on which I bought at ALDI … went to get milk again and came home with a suit case! I always wanted one with the 4 wheels which this one has; I actually bought a full size suit case and when I got home this one was inside like a Babushka Doll!
Interlude: While waiting at the airport, after smoking my guts out, which I did several times, each time having to go through security… My sister Cheryl called me from Perth. We chatted about how things were going as her wife, Sam has breast cancer and is going through treatment. It is funny how at different moments you think of things differently, and even if you change your mind later that thought, that feeling lingers; I think also it has to be a good thought. After I hung up I had a little ‘teary-teary’ as I do love my sister very much and we have gotten over some pretty big hurdles; also Sam and Chery have been together for I think at least 25 years. The thought came to me, that I would give Sam my last years if I could as I want nothing more than to see my sister truely and always happy; I am very proud of her and Sam; I know my girls would understand, but, you can’t transfer cancer. So, I went and got a combination Vietnamese Poh and was grateful it wasn’t me that had cancer.
Belly full, smoking jail visited again, notebook purchased and writing my ‘Jacki and Ian’s Sydney Adventure, Part 1’…. 5 hours in the Melbourne Airport, about an hour on the plane, 3 hours on the road home back to Berri…. What could possibly go wrong: oh, you fool……
Getting Home: 15th – 16th January 2021: I’m starting to enjoy myself going in an out of security to the smoking jail: I like that the same security guards don’t seem to recognise me and give me the same instructions each time, and often different degrees of searching – we don’t have to worry about robots taking over the world they are already here; and they are not that clever….
Okay, I’m bored. I sit myself in a good spot to see the departure screen as apparently the gate we are on is a secret and next to each flight as it comes up is “Relax! Your gate will be displayed in 60 minutes” and it appears that this countdown has no actually rhythm to it as the next screen still telling us to relax could say its 11 minutes or eighty – at least it does appear to be a count down. Now, as you can see, I love the 24 hour clock as that is what I have used during my entire working life, so I was all over when by plane departed.
Now the guy I’m going to talk about doesn’t know this yet as I think I made up a story about what happened next, or just skipped over the question. My mate Mark, who regularly video calls me in the evening and we have a beer together, him in his back room and me in the shed; as we have official notification from many drinking authorities, that this does not count as drinking alone. We have a video call and I am in smoking prison, but move inside as that brisk breeze has now turned into a howling gale and I understand that all airports and public building are designed and specifically engineered to enhance any breeze into wind tunnel equivalent speeds. I chat with Mark for some time as I can’t go through security on the phone. I let him know I have to go inside as my flight is soon; the departure board will be telling me it is anywhere between 13 minutes and 5 minutes before they tell me which gate I have to walk to and how long it will take me to get there…
Security, again: glance up at the departures board “JQ776 Adelaide GATE CLOSED’
There is no direction to ‘RELAX’ so I go into ‘survival mode’; knowing that only 15% of all people on the planet are natural survivors and that in the movies when you get to the gate they always let you in if you tell them a story about life or death, or love…..
But, I decide to run because although there is no ‘walking time’ on the board it is Gate 59 or something similar…. I try to run and look cool and pretend I am the kid in love actually weaving through the crowd…
I see the ‘travelator’ knowing that most people just stand on them and block the way but they are designed to either do great YouTube clips on or get you to your destination faster… I might add at this stage my cool jog may have turned a little into a desperate sprint and I am multi tasking and thinking up a story to tell the gate attenants along the lines of I am a bone marrow donator and a small child has only 24 hours to live…… and I prove that men can’t multi-task and jump on the travelator on the right that is apparently going the wrong way but I am committed at this stage and give it that extra spurt feeling the muscles ripping from my shins knowing walking may be a problem tomorrow; I shoot of the end off the end of the longest travelator I have ever been on at about 30 km/h and if not for the sea anchor of my ALDI carry on would have fallen flat on my face: I don’t know if anyone has seen any of this as I am in survival mode with the peripheral vision of looking down one of McDonald terrible new paper straws.
I’m at Gate 1599: the wheels on my ALDI carry on are smoking and my legs are like jelly, but, hallelujah there are people in orange uniforms and I say, almost breathlessly and with a deliberate pathetic whine “Am ….. I ….. too ….. late.”
In the calmest of voices, me expecting to hear “of course not sir, we heard about the bone marrow donation…” a lovely flight Attendant, or in this case the evil Gate Keeper says: ‘Yeah, it’s gone. Go downstairs to the service desk and they should be able to assist you.”
In this well rehearsed rebuke of pleasantries he waves his arm at the gate door in what I see as his private triumph. In one last hope I look past the gate keeper thinking if the plane is close enough I could jump (to a certain extent I am still in a movie?) and see but one thing; my trip nemesis’s the infamous ground crew are triumphantly backing my plane out in their air-conditioned comfort; the bastards.
I walk the 7 or 8 kilometres back to the departure lounge, using the travelator in the right direction and just standing there; I go down the familiar escalator and take a moment in smoking prison to gather my thoughts.
Okay, this is not a disaster, but just another unplanned leg on the adventure; I am the 15% survivor. I approach the ‘service desk’ with a plan and draw the attention of the three ladies behind the counter “Hey, what’s going on here….” leaving that hanging for effect, before and looking at three stares that are drifting from surprise, disbelief to instantaneous thoughts of ways they were going to delay me for days at the maximum cost when I follow up with “…. obviously you have to be a model to work here….” the looks soften and smiles appearing, and the coupe-de-gras “…no, if must be a models conference and here’s me thinking it was the service desk…”
…. about thirty minutes later I have a rebooked flight, seat 5A, all with no charge.
I’m back!
I plan to relive Tom Hanks role in “The Terminal’ and live in the airport for 20 hours before my flight leaves; easy, free wiFi, comfortable bench and I am sure I can con a free meal and coffee…. my somewhat lethargic step has a new bounce although the hammy is stinging a bit and I approach my old friends at the security check point.
“Excuse me sir, do you have a boarding pass?”
Cool, this is a new one. I confidently whip out my paper boarding pass which the models issue to me and with the arrogance that comes only before a fall swagger the words out “Here ya go then.”
“I’m sorry, the domestic terminal is closed and this ticket is for tomorrow.” I hate statements which are suppose to be questions or directions, so I answer this robot of rhetoric with the first thing that comes to the master of wit:
“Wha?”
At that stage my security robot without emotion, and I am sure, she didn’t blink, monotones at me:
“The international terminal is open and there are motel’s nearby.”
I find myself channeling one of the greats; Richard Gere in an “Officer and a Gentleman” when he is being punished by the Sergeant Major and is told that is doesn’t matter what he does he is going to be kicked out. I feel the moment, I save the tears, but take the tone:
“I got nowhere else to go.” I think I managed a whimper.
My darling uniformed, unblinking Stepford Wife, is unmoved. I turn with my little ALDI carry on, which was packed for one day and start to slowly walk away:
“Sir, it’s the other way.” I don’t look up. I turn around and shuffle off, I think I developed a limp until I was out of view.
I realise another moment in smoking prison is what I need and perhaps an internet search for boarding houses nearby.
I make my way to my favourite exit, with doors that only seems to sense me just before I walk into them; again timed perfectly, as it begins to open an old lady on a walker smashes into my ankles. We are the only two people in the airport at this time other than the robots. Always the gentleman, I step aside as the doors open as she cackles at me is a voice of death “Where are the Taxis” – just as she walks into gale force winds and a torrential down poor.
I laugh. I think a little bit too high pitched. Granny grimaces at me as all I can say is “Can I help you.” I get a no thank you without the thank you and I let the doors close with the Wicked Witch of the West on the other side. I laugh again and I’m glad I’m not her.
I sit in the part of the airport where all of the robot booking in terminals are and search the internet: my Tom Hanks plan abandoned. I see the fancy hotels but I’m going for speed. The IBIS Budget Motel looks good for me and is within walking distance – the rain has stopped, the airport is abandoned and I’m feeling like The Omega Man. A Taxi driver stops and asks if I need a ride and I explain my IBIS Budget Motel plan and he gives me directions which are helpful but finished with the phrase “… its hard to get to from here…” I set of with my little ALDI carry on in tow and Google maps talking to me in the background and apparently only 800 metres to go, not problems I ran further than that a few hours ago to miss a plane.
Just another little interlude: As I was walking to the motel I saw a young lady about Jackie’s age sitting under the terminal veranha, in a T-shirt and no shoes. I walked past as I was probably creepier to her and more worrying than any help I could provide; but, I was in a good mood and would at best just get a smoke bummed off me or told to please go away with the use of two words. I stopped and turned and said “Are you okay?” in my most Fatherly caring voice and she replied “Yeah, I just finished work and Mum is picking me up” “No problems, it’s just a bit cold, thought I’d check” I replied and turned to keep walking when “Hey” I turned back “Thanks” she said, smiled and I smiled back and walked on towards the motel. I got to where the path turned and could see back to where she was; and her Mum picked her up; and, I felt the better for it.
Onward, along the path which appeared to be manufactured as a texture test track for my ALDI bag and Google telling me I was there. I walked around a couple of industrial sheds and found the IBIS Motel right there. I might add, a welcoming site – I was getting a bit knackered by this time.
I walked into reception and the only other thing that would have surprised me more was if my friend from the plane was there or they were playing The Doors over the speakers…. ….there was the Wicked Witch of the West with her walker demanding the guy on reception carry her bags to her room. I sat patiently in the waiting area and eventually after the witch had gone, I was booked in and carried my own bag to my room.
It was a great little room; my idea of an airport hotel; clean and basic with everything working and nothing you don’t need to pay for. I had a shower, hit the sack in clean crisp white sheets and suspect I was asleep in 10 seconds.
I want to say the next morning, the adventure got even more exciting, but it just didn’t. I had a Macca’s breakfast marvelling at the staff who though wearing a mask didn’t mean covering your nose; which as I stood there waiting for my sausage McMuffin was revealed to me as a trend set by the two uniform cops who came in showing their noses.
I walked back to the terminal; through security and my robot buddies; it must have been a new shift as this mob mainly ignored us travellers and appeared more intent on chatting to each other.
Then I sat, watched the departure board and went to the Gate at a leisurely pace and didn’t use the travelator. I suppose I then saw why they post the gates late; there is no where to sit and we are all crammed in a very small area standing around waiting for the Gate Keeper to open up. I hung at the back with my up front seat.
On the plane sitting one seat away from a lady who made the Wicked Witch of the West’s gaze look positively pleasant, so, headphones on and a meditation to Adelaide (well I slept?).
It’s not really exciting here on as we did, step forward, repeat… going through screening where I looked surprised when they told me I had to do 2 weeks isolation and asking multiple times if they were sure – they were sure. They had received their training last week and were told to be sure even if they weren’t….
I drove home and loved the trip which I took at a leisurely pace: I laughed when I walked through the front door as I was so glad to be home: I drank beer and went to bed.
Well, that’s my trek with my wonderful daughter Jackie and the return trip of an idiot – much like the Ricky Gervais show An Idiot Abroad, but this was just in Sydney and Melbourne.
I have just returned from getting my Day 12 COVID19 test and only have a few days to go; there will be no Part 3 of me in isolation as basically I did nothing. In reflection of my ‘adventure’ I probably realised a few things:
If the pandemic has another wave in Australia we really need to learn how to wear face-masks and not touch our faces; and what 1.5 metres really is.
When something has happened, not matter how you feel about it, you can’t change if from having happened; so, you may as well accept it and enjoy it.
Road trips are cool (especially with your kids, one-on-one).
Coming home is always fantastic not matter how great the journey.
I am sure I will go on many more adventures, journeys and treks …. I am planning a trek for a year (well that is as far as I have got so far, I don’t know where, I don’t know how and I don’t know when, I just know I’m going….) and hoefully will be able to share many more stories.
Be Happy, Be Healthy, Be Peaceful, Say Hello and Smile…. it scares the shit out of people!
In the closing hours of this day, I have called friends, had a beer and now sit to do what I love (other than drinking beer!)…. write.
I have rambled more in recent days than I have for some time. For this rambling if unread, scorned or ridiculed, I am grateful and lucky.
It was two years ago today, a few hours before now that my ‘brain exploded.’ I had a brain aneurysm and think but for the grace of God I may have died. Statistically everything was against me. But….
I was in Adelaide – no ambulance to the local under resourced hospital and the overworked doctors and nurses; no waiting for the 45 minute flight to Adelaide – basically if this happened, here in Berri, I am sure, I was a dead man.
The ambos arrived at the small family gathering we were having in Norwood and I was in care shortly after and stuff being pumped into me to save my life.
To me, this was a blur; and for some time the days after; I still walk many times a day into a room and can’t remember why I went there, I lose things a lot.
But, I remember; not for some time, that at the time I was having the brain explosion, I was not scared. My family was with me and I was a peace.
So on Jesus’s Birthday two years ago they got the Makita out and drilled into my head.
A lady, who I saw was a healer spoke to me before and said she would save my life. I am a sceptic but I believed her. I have spoken to her since in her office with an entire wall covered with ‘thank you’ cards.
Her name is Associate Professor Amal Abou-Hamden.
I am still grateful to her and tell her receptionist that at my next appointment I will ask her to marry me: our appointments are often rescheduled as she is saving someone elses life – plus I am worried about the age gap?
My brain exploding changed my life – other than never being able to find my keys.
I saw that the ‘well’ decide what the sick really needed in rehab – and I checked myself out twice and was nasty to people, but no more than I saw the suffering of those who have lost everything.
I was angry, demanding and offensive (after all I had a brain injury)… maybe it was just that all my life long ‘governors’ were off.
People I loved came to see me; having three ex partners standing by your bedside all at the same time can seem like a nightmare, but: old mates came; young mates came…. and I wrote crazy stuff in my journal and pushed my wife away.
My sister travelled to be with me.
My daughters held my hand.
… and then I went home.
I have been here since and found that death is not something that is now a stranger to me… I wrote my epitaph several times in hospital and rehab (for the short time I stayed there – checking myself in and out …?) and it was not good?
My wife left me, my heart broke worse than my head had, and I broke with it.
My friends, my band of brothers, my guardian angel daughters saved me.
I went to the Rural and Remote ward in Glenside Hospital. I was humbled, lost and sad. (I love my Band of Brothers but the tricky bastards got me locked up because they knew I would con my way out!!!)
My Pastor friend Toh Sang Ng visited me… My daughters and band of brothers visited me… Old mates of heart and courage visited me…
I bought smokes, and popcorn, and watched movies, with friends I would never have met, had my brain not exploded.
I found something else; I found me. Not the one I hadn’t mostly liked, but the one I was looking for and knew was there from one of the last things my Mum said to me before she passed away… “You are a good man.”
My Mum was wise and loved God and I am certain was loved right back. It wasn’t until after my brain exploded that I realised that my Mum wasn’t telling me who I was, but who I could become.
I just always remember that Colonel Sanders didn’t start KFC until he was 65 years old, that, I realised I still had a chance.
I wrote a lot of apology letters to the Doctors and Nurses, to my wife, family and friends; some things can’t be mended and must only be forgiven.
… and time passed…. not long, but enough for me to realise that all the bullshit of knowledge and wisdom in these writings (although I must admit, rather eloquently and inspirationally written..) lacked the spirit that I wrote about – the connection to something bigger than me – I knew it was there as Eckart Tolle had told me so, YouTube clips told me so, the Art of War told me how to kill those who told me so, The Art of Peace told me how to do it with a stick and not actually hurt anyone during a fight (?), my mate Made in Bali taking me to the temples and dressing up in the garb told me so, the Philosophers I read and read told me so, my old mate Toh Sang told me so.
So, I didnt need to reach out, I just had to understand what I had always know.
And… I did. Now I have the life I always felt but didn’t quite know; like waking from a dream that you can’t quite remember but know it was a good one (Not the flying dream, because that one is always a bit scary!)
So, now two years after my brain exploded (and thanks to Associate Professor Amal Abou-Hamden’s skill, I have maintained my stunning good looks)… I am grateful and lucky.
I post only the picture of Associate Professor Amal Abou-Hamden in this post as most of the pictures I would otherwise share are inside my head and can never be printed as they would so underestimate the things I have seen, experienced and begun to understand.
The best part, is that I still falter about 1000 times a day (about the same amount of times I have looked for my car keys – this week!)… it teaches me that the past is gone, I try to learn from it: the future is unwritten (please see the Movie Donny Darko because at any minute like him, a jet engine could fall through your roof and kill you), I have a plan, but it will most probably not turn out that way…. but, mostly my life is consumed by trying to appreciate the moment I am now in.
I want to thank all you dudes who have travelled with me on this trek, before and after my brain exploded; and especially to those who have helped me with my baggage, or even carried me when needed; and mostly, for seeing the things in me my Mum did.
In life you rarely get BIG second chances – I got one (please don’t stuff it up Ian!!!)…
I believe what I believe, which before I just thought I understood…. I live now, like today, is my last day (and forget most days and live like a rock star…?)… I forgive easily, I hope more… I think I love more, better, and deeper… I write bad poetry…. I try to be kind…
I know my story is just one of many that in the past I wouldn’t have really listened to because I was too eager to talk myself…
I have time now:
I have every moment until I shuffle from this mortal coin; where you all come to say goodbye and note that their is no trailer on my hearse, as I have left it all behind;
I just hope, I leave something more behind, than all the fantastic, magnificent unfinished projects in my shed and my bad poetry….
I just wanted to write a quick post as I have been thinking why am I so confused about what is happening in the world. To me it is just weird. Old models of politics and economics don’t seem to fit. People have been at their best and their worst.
Grandpa Presidents
Today is the US Election. I think this is the catalyst for ‘something’? I don’t think it matters who wins the outcome will be the same.
I said sometime ago during the pandemic when our economies were collapsing that usually politicians get a country out of recession, well in the west anyway, by starting a war.
No matter the result of the US election I just feel that things might get a bit worse. In this weird time it is not unreasonable to think it will get weirder and worse. I find not joy or even evil glee in any of this. We, the people, are always the ones that ultimately pay the price: the foot soldiers sent to slaughter by politicians sitting in their offices.
Oh, I am really feeling the doom and gloom in this post … I suppose this is why… because I think…
America will fall into civil war
Europe will fall into total social and economic disorder
England will stand out and close its borders
Australia will stand out and close its borders
Russia will stand and watch with China and pick up the pieces
China will invade and take over Taiwan and escalate hostilities with Japan
There will be a war somewhere and it will be someone else fault.
The Middle east will be forgotten
North Korea is liable to do anything and invasion of the south is not out of the realm of possibility
The pandemic will always be in the background (pray for no mutation!)
Sorry, but this is just what I think. It is not based on years of study but just a feeling that the world is coming for ‘correction’.
I am lucky. I live in the country, in the Riverland, in South Australia, in Australia. Our safety will only be compromised by our politicians. I think they may get a surprise if they continue to ask the people to follow them blindly.
….and always right in the mix of mayhem will be “The Merchants of Misery” (The Media) who have set themselves up as the ‘unelected aristocracy’ ruling from the pages, screens and their images and back room voices, as they see fit.
I think we will all find in days to come, our best friend is our neighbour, our community and the friends we have not yet met who live down the street. Our history was firstly written by the people, then the politicians and the rich and powerful; I believe, and feel in my heart, it is the peoples turn again.
I have spent a few days considering writing a post. I still have a lot of poems to share (groan I hear!) but think by posting one today I would be losing half my audience, and then you would be sitting there reading this all alone!
I am pretty sure my “Better Man Project” is dead. I think constant improvement is often used as an excuse for not being the best you can today; it was certainly an excuse I used.
In addition my daily Mantras have not given me the guidance they were supposed to. I was always going to follow all of them… tomorrow, and just do the best I can today, instead of being my best every day; I think there is a difference.
Those of you (well both of you) who read my blog, may have suspected I was insane; and no doubt feel vindicated after my recent stay in the Rural and Remote Ward at Glenside Hospital. But, to me this was not the greatest indicator; it was my obliviousness to the fact that I was living my favourite quote from Albert Einstein.
As we all know, me more than some I would suggest, is that the insane person does not actually know they are insane. This was me.
I wrote blogs about Mantras and Being a Better Man; but, I was not improving, but just justifying the way I viewed the world and interacted with it.
I was rarely, the best I could be each day; which could have translated with a little effort and dedication into everyday.
I so often could not control what was happening to my life. I can only control how I react to it – this was more of a revelation than any Mantra or personal improvement process. I have always had excuses for the reactions to things in my life; I see now I was mostly wrong. Rest easy I now accept this.
In accepting this I worked on a little theory of how I felt about myself and my past action:
Guilt is awareness that our actions have injured someone else.
Shame is how we feel about ourselves.
I have a lot of regrets; but little shame. I am incredibly embarrassed and regretful for many things I have done and a lot of the things I have said.
My greatest, latest, all in living colour and 3D stereo sound revelation is that I historically have not been me; the true me. I have been sold, and resold, solidified and worshiped the gods of power, anger, consumerism and possessions (No, you can’t have all my stuff for free; I said realisation, not I am becoming a monk!)
A mate recently started calling me by my birth name and he said I was dead. He said:
We all loved the 70% of our mate who was loyal, generous, smart and helpful, but the other 30% would take our heads off, rip our hearts out and destroy with a word…
There was plenty of regret in my heart plus real admiration that he had the courage to tell me. I must admit when he told me the 30% he identified, it felt like 99% of what I mostly felt; I was lucky as I think I faked about three quarters of the 70% he actually liked!
So why did he tell me? We have spent a bit of time with each other lately and he said he didn’t see any of the 30% – okay, lets call it what is; he didn’t see; an angry, controlling, abusive, malicious, self centred prick!
Why?
Because I almost died. Because the love of my life left. and… I broke.
The first two, precipitated the last one; the first two were a realisation that all was not good in my view of life. I actually cringed at what my epitaph may have been if I had died and shake my head at how I treated love.
The breaking was the making.
Now I am here with all the pieces, but, I am lucky and grateful that I am still here. I am lucky and grateful for the love I had – and live in hope for.
I live one day at a time. I still have food in the fridge and pay my bills but mentally I am just in this day. I have hope and realise the world is not all about me.
Right, so what? Well fantastic that I am all better today, but there will be a tomorrow.
I am still on my trek. And it is a trek which I have just started. Up until recently I have been going through life as a ‘journey’. I may actually say I was on a ‘cruise’ with occassional fact finding missions into consumerism, power and surveying the battle grounds of my self justified victories!
These ‘journeys’ through life; the constant excitement of smashing down the rapids in my rubber raft driven by barely qualified guides and being with all the other tourists who pay for cheap excitement and gratification. These were my journeys in life, but now I am on a trek.
What does this trek entail that differentiates it from my life journeys to this point?
I have a lot of baggage that I have to carry (I do so gladdly but have packed them better)
There will be deep valleys (some like ‘the valley of the shadow of death” in the Bible!)
Highway men will constantly be trying to rob me (Read the Media, the merchants of misery; Advertisers and the Government!)
There will be wonderful scenery if I bother to lift my head
I will be with new and old travelling companions
I have a destination
I am determined to overcome all obstacles
I am doing it for me
I do it every day and don’t have days off
I now trek through life, some days the hills are steep, the wind is against me, it’s raining, and I am tired. On days like this I need only to take one step – that way I will always be going forward.
I don’t blame the weather, the steep hills or dark valleys or bad travelling companions for my progress, for it is my trek.
Each day I will choose how I see the next step; and I will take it.
I will be a good Grandfather… because I am practicing now.
I am leaving the speed of youth behind, the success of middle age, and working towards the wisdom of a life lived fully.
I work in my shed and make things.
I write in cursive and believe reading a book is the best escape.
I already hear the shrieks of joy as they arrive at my house and the tugging of their hand as they leave.
I feel them snuggled in my lap as I read stories to them… the wonder of the poetry I recite from memory it has taken me years to learn in preparation of that moment.
I buy the stuff we shouldn’t …. from op shops and garage sales for a dollar, that none of their friends have… the curios that I tell them stories about as we fix them, paint them or repurpose them to cherished possessions.
I keep current with technology so I can connect with them no matter where their parents take them in the world… which I hope is everywhere on adventures.
I try, so late in life to learn a language so they will see the importance of communicating with the world… and so we can have our secret words and language to trick Mum and Dad…
… and in being a good Grandfather I will be a good Dad and a great Father-in-Law.
Beers in the shed with my Son-in-Laws when life is hard, and they feel comfortable to talk about my daughters, because they know I entrusted them with their care. Maybe a soft touch of a shoulder and saying from my heart ‘these thing happen mate’ as my Father-in-Law said to me, when he could have been harsh and dismissive.
I am practicing to be a good, no great Grandfather, as I have not always been the best man. I am lucky, as I am still here.
I practice being a good man each day to be that great Grandfather, pop, opa, gramps, I know I can be.
I was told recently my legacy is not my possessions, any inheritance or all my documents and photos : but the legacy I leave in peoples hearts… especially those of my Grandchildren.
I has taken me a while to getting to write this post.
Because, it is important, humbling, embarrassing; but, mostly life changing.
After a major health scare in December; let’s say it for what it is, it was a brain aneurysm and I almost died. Staring the Grim Reaper in the eye a couple of times can give you a bit of a scare and be life changing!
In recovering from that, and then having massive changes in my personal circumstances, there is no other way to describe it… I broke.
A really good psychiatrist said to me there were a lot of medical terms for my condition but basically I had a ‘good old fashioned nervous breakdown.’
As my spiritual guide Russell Brand would better describe it “I was a bit fucked.”
As a result, and only through the absolute love and dedication of my ‘Band of Brothers” and my wonderful daughters, they got me the help I needed. Thank you, you saved me.
I was admitted to the “Rural and Remote Ward” a Glenside Hospital. The only experience I had in the ‘Glenside Mental Hospital’ was dropping crazy people off in my career in the Police and my old Mum often saying “If you kids don’t behave I’ll end up in Glenside!”
I was humbled and grateful for all the care and treatment I received there of several weeks as an inpatient.
Also during that time I found a little blank notebook in the bookshelf that had a floral cover and the words ‘Life is Beautiful’ printed on it. In this little book which I found by coincidence I started to write poetry.
Now those who know me and have heard me recite “Clancy of the Overflow” about 1000 times and threatened to punch me will know, I have always been a little interested in the wonders of verse and poetry. I have written a few before and love a verse or two in my homemade cards which some of you have been subjected to.
Plus I have to thank my late buddy of 30 years Des Steele for his love of poetry and it’s inclusion in many of his ‘Desisms’. (I still miss him and you can read about him in a post I did a few years ago when he passed away – click here).
So I filled this little book with poetry during my recovery. I filled that book and a few more pages since!
The poem below was the first I wrote in Glenside. It is basically the first draft, are a lot of my poems, which I don’t change in typing them up so as not to lose the moment they were written.
The poem below has recently been published on a United Kingdom site – www.theperspectiveproject.co.uk – which has a lot of works by people recovering from mental illness – worth a look I think.
So, I haven’t written here lately, largely because I have been writing in another way I love with pen and paper in cursive (much to the horror of my daughters and their inability to read cursive!)
I will include a little heading, not like this rambling, for each of my posts where I publish another poem; I may even read a few on my YouTube Channel Being a Better Man.
But, mostly I want to share my trek, as I experienced it, and wrote about it.
I will share my posts on Facebook etc (which is probably how you got here anyway) and appreciate your comments and feedback – there is a comments section on the bottom of this post and all my posts if you want to use that on this site to comment or provide feedback or suggestions.
By the way, I love doing this, it has helped a lot in my treatment and recovery. I hope you can find something for you.
Enjoy. (and No, hardly any of my poems rhyme!)
“In Times of Mind – Hope”
In times of mind, Through experience, I lose myself.
I see, and think, and feel, And lose to myself.
I circle and dive, I resurface; To a confused sea.
I struggled against The currents within; And the steep mountain ahead.
I swim and climb; alone: Against the winds within.
In the blackness, Without light, I turn searching, For landfall, or the smallest foothold.
I am alone.
I reach out my hand, In one final grasp at survival.
…And suddenly, I feel The grip I have been seeking.
I am held afloat, A firm foot hold found,
It is love, And family, And friendship; It was there all the time.
The light of the beacon, Always shines; My blindness was from within.
The light now guides me; The light now fills me.
I now sail and trek forth, In light, in love; With hope.
I was looking in the book shelf the other day to find something to read…. okay I know you are thinking I am looking for a book to read on the toilet…. WRONG! Let me assure you I do not read books on the toilet – everyone knows that toilet time is YouTube time!
Anyway I was standing there completely underwhelmed by the majority of the books which were mainly self help books (Note to self: Write a self help book about finding self help books in your bookshelf!) when I saw a little book called “The Ultimate Gift.” Well I actually saw two copies of it and wondered why I would have two? So curiosity got the best of me and I had a little read…
Without destroying the very basic plot of this self help book which is written as a story so that you don’t feel as if you are being preached at because the loser in the book is fictional and not a complete representation of you and your life…… there basically is no plot.
There is however, a very interesting chapter called:
The Gift of a Day Life at its essence boils down to one day at a time – today is the day.
Pretty profound beginning to the chapter (you have to have snappy headings when you have no plot… it really needed pictures as well!). In essence our hero was telling a young lad about his idea of “The Gift of a Day” which he summed up as:
“When you face your own mortality you contemplate how much of your life you have lived versus how much you have left. I know at some point I will live the last day of my life. I have been thinking about how I would want to live that day and what I would do if I had only one day left to live. I have come to realise that if I can get a picture in my mind of maximising one day, I have mastered the essence of living because life is nothing more than a series of days.”
Well, I have faced my own mortality just recently so this sentence rang a bit of a cord with me. Not that I haven’t contemplated that one inevitability in life, that being death, a few times in the past.
I know we all wander into this life with an unknown amount of life. We get to spend our time (the only real commodity) any way we wish to. Some may spend it quickly and buy all the big ticket items and live like a rock star (especially rock stars)…. and others may spend frugally and find that all their savings can’t be cashed in when they are needed.
I actually thought ‘that day’ had arrived a few weeks ago. I didn’t get to spend it how I planned – actually as there was no time to plan and the day was thundering ahead towards my demise and I wasn’t thinking about my bucket list, I was only thinking about the kicking of that bucket I appeared to be about to take….
It would appear that death didn’t always come a knocking and say “Hey you better get your shit together because you need to get a couple of perfect days under your belt before I come swinging with my sythe!”
As it turned out death wasn’t something I was fearing, I have my beliefs, and they sit well with me. If you have watched the movie Crocodile Dundee you will understand my take on the after life as being a bit like Mick Dundee when he is asked if he believes in God and he replies “I reckon we’d be mates.”
It wasn’t my fear of dying, it was my fear of not living that worried me. I didn’t get to plan my last day and there was still some shit I had to do. So, I now have the time to do it…. but, life gets in the way… and unfortunately it appears to be getting back to normal… important shit is happening everywhere and my days are getting full again… I just don’t have time to die there isn’t a gap in my schedule.
And as I wrote not long after ‘surviving’ when my main priority in life being filling out forms:
Afterglow of tragedy, Fades in direct comparison to the minute by minute Requirement to deal with the mundane
I realised that my almost death was not that important, or after a few days, probably wouldn’t even be noticed. I realised that I had a bit more life to live because I realised that the gift of a day, is everyday.
“DING”
I lost the moment of the profound life When mine almost ended And it was not profound.
I saw it, My friends and family saw it Not only in my life, But in their own.
It is not a sad moment But a lonely one. At the moment where you almost sleep For eternity You wake To the booming sound of nothing.
And your muses are silent And the profound extension of your existence lost You are nothing
Your achievements and possessions dust Your struggles but the small ding of the triangle At the back of the orchestra,
