I don’t want to be a Zombie…. I don’t want to be a conspiracy theorist….
I don’t, didn’t, want the jab…..
Plus, it shits me a bit it has a nickname – The Jab. This is serious stuff. It has been normalised by a great campaign and people rolling their sleeves and looking ‘honestly’ into the camera.
How about we ‘normalise’ all serious matters?
I hate that word ‘normalise’ almost as much as the phrase ‘the new normal’….. and another one “moving forward”….. and ‘two times’ – IT’S TWICE!!!!
How about we change all language to be trendy and woke (I hate that word too!) and start with getting rid of the word ‘rape’ and use ‘struggle snuggle’ instead, so much less harsh; change the “Make a Wish Foundations” name, as it is a bit misleading, to “Make a Wish, Except that One, Foundation”; get rid of endemic normalised sexism in our drink driving advertisements with terrible discriminatory slogans such a “Drink Drive You’re A Selfish Prick’ to ‘Drink Drive You’re a Selfish Prick and/or Bitch and/or Non-Binary Arsehole”…..??
Just saying: not a fan of ‘The Jab’ phraseology.
I’ll say, right up front, that I am a ‘doomsday prepper’.
But, I am an intellectual ‘doomsday prepper.
I watch apocalypse movies and never want for toilet paper. I yell at the screen “NO, NO, NO…. NEVER SPLIT UP!!! DIDN’T YOU WATCH EVERY HORROR MOVIE EVER MADE?!!”
I have some cans of baked beans, just in case! …. and I did once write a little pamphlet called “Ian’s Manifesto for Surviving the Apocalypse’. And, okay, I did give it to all my children…. … and, okay, the ‘manifesto’ was enclosed in their individual ‘Survival Packs’ which I gave them all for Christmas one year….. okay, I do insist that they always carry them in the back of their cars.
And, Okay, last confession: I am writing a novel called “Prepper – My Dad’s Crazy”: and I stuffed up real bad by not finishing it in 2017 when I started it. It is/was, about a Pandemic… yeah, wont be many people writing those stories in the next couple of years.
I watch the ‘Walking Dead’ and can’t believe their biggest challenge is that their hearing is terrible; they never appear to hear the snarling, growling Zombies, until they are less than a metre away.
And, my all time favourite apocalypse movies, are still, the Omega Man and Soylent Green (which is apparently next year?).
But, lately something is wrong…. no, not wrong, but weird.
I make notes during the News when I am not yelling at the TV and intently listening to the ‘local resident’ Jim Bob from Number 37 who said nothing ever happened like that before in their street and he was terrified and it is terrible and horrific and somebody should do something about it (and he obviously has no dentist or dietary plan).
So, I watch stuff, listen to stuff, listen to people and broadcasts and statistics and reassurances from everyone…. including, remarkably the Media (the ‘Merchants of Misery’). When they are on the same side as the Government that really worries me?
And… it’s on the tip of my mind; the face you can see, but can’t remember the name; the place you left your car keys and can’t quite remember where, that sense of ‘deja vue’ about something that hasn’t happened yet; the phone ringing and the person you were just thinking about being the one calling…..
I am certain I right; if I could only think what is was…..
Hopefully, ‘The Jab (Part 2)’ will have the answer.
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.
Yesterdays blog was about forgetting the ‘better man project’ and just being a good man – everyday.
Everyday is a long time – it is now and it is always.
You can’t have a bad day as a good man and hurt people and then say sorry and think it will be okay. Saying sorry is a good start but that taking responsibility for your actions is the actual action that you need to take.
I remember when we were all saying sorry for something we didn’t think we were responsible for… I always used the analogy of having a cold….
“Sorry you feel bad with your cold” – as opposed to…
“I apologise you have a cold” – but it’s not my fault so why apologise.
An apology is taking responsibility for your actions – “sorry about that” is all very nice and really has no answer, or complaint, but is it taking responsibility – I vote no.
I want to be a good man and take responsibility for my actions on a daily basis. But, there is a catch. Apologise freely, or better still stop and don’t do that thing that I might have to apologise for in the first place – that is the good man.
The good man today does not wipe out the not so good man of yesterday. It does also not wipe out all the ‘sorries’ when there should have been ‘apologies.’
In thinking about this, I wondered is is all that apologising and saying sorry really doing anything – is anyone really any better for it?
The answer that continued to boom through my head was ‘Yes”.
Not that long ago I was contacted by someone that I had wronged a long time ago – for all those years I put it down to good old youthful exuberance. They told me what I had done had hurt them for years and it was a horrible time in their life. I said sorry… I hope I apologised. But, most of all I realised that neither of these things seemed enough. I dont know what to do to make up for this wrong – but, I do know the universe will tell me when that time is and I will have to pay the piper – and I will pay him gladly.
Taking responsibility for your actions can be a hard pill to swallow – you can choke on it and it may kill you. It may kill the construct of the person you thought you were – it may kill your ego. These are things we don’t risk in our modern dog eat dog life.
But, and there is always a but….
In my ‘Dr Google’ research I came across something interesting in all my searches about taking responsibility for your actions… and it was in the Alcoholic’s Anonymous 12 steps program… (these are a few of the 12 and in actual order but with a few edited out – do a search and next time you may be kinder to someone who you think is, or is, an alcoholic – they are undertaking something much harder than any pretend better man project…)
Admit to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
Make a list of persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
Make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
So, the battling drunk up the street may just be a good man (or woman) trying to undertake the recompense for a life not so well led. … and if you want to baulk at the God bit, just think about editing that out instead of trashing the entire sentence – perhaps it is easier to not get passed the ‘God bit’ because you then can avoid the ‘ourselves’ bit.
When you think about their list it can be overwhelming – when you think about your list it may be a surprise – when I think about my list, especially those closest to me, it is staggering.
I am following the 12 steps and it may not be God even to me, but the Universe is always watching – it is where we came from and where we will go back to. Remember there may be one molecule in your body that was once the heart of a star – and that is a legacy that deserves recognition and somehow, somewhere, a sense of awe!
I want each day to not be about being the better man sometime in the future and to hell with my past in getting there, well getting there tomorrow.
I want want each day to be about me being a good man and acknowledging that yesterday has a whole lot of responsibilities that I have to also take responsibility for and when I can ‘I apologise’ and do what I can to make amends.
Some days this may sting, but often the acknowledgement takes no more than will and acceptance … and that may not be pretty.
I have been a good man today and I accept all the responsibilities for my wrongs of all the yesterdays to here… I will be a good man tomorrow and make amends where I can.
Bye the way – I do not think this is a task, I think it is a privilege – because we, I, am still here to do it.
