Thursday, October 19, 2017


An ill-attempted mission
Freshly re-introduced to the love of dairy, having discovered my intolerance lifted, after a psych appointment to debrief on the super sorry I furtled to McDonald's and got sundaes and shakes. 

Yeah ... so there was nothing in the basket to put them in and keep them from sliding about in their tray. Until, that is, I stopped and found a stick and wedged the trays against the side of the basket so they wouldn't shift.

I discovered I'd lost the lid of the vanilla shake just before the cottonwood trees stretch where bits of fluffy dander drift across the path as you ride and present a choking hazard unless you keep your mouth shut. I also didn't want them to land in my shake.

I'm not proud of this but at one point I took off my right glove and tried to stick it over the mouth of the exposed shake but it didn't fit and it of course got milky stuff on the cloth insides. And had I tried to ride with it then that glove would have been milked bad.

So I used the paper bag, which did not fit the trays and had been used as padding, as a shield lid and rode again. 

When I got home the vanilla shake had tipped over and there was goo all through the basket but the strawberry shake made it. The sundaes were put in the freezer but were crystalized on eating and not as nice. 

The next day, with grim purpose to just get sundaes and protect them, I rode to the nearer McD with a lunch fridge bag, got six, slotted them in and rode them home.

That part worked great. The part that didn't work great was discovering my brakes were out and I screamed at a knot of school girls as I came shrieking down the hilly path "NO BRAKES, NO BRAKES!"

The chain fell off the sprocket and so it was back on battery and using grass to slow myself when needed then save up for a dash across the last intersection before getting home.

Fucking hell, no brakes and I was doing about 50 when I went down that hill towards the mob of startled, scattering children.

But the sundaes survived. That's the main thing.

I'm not obsessing on the sorry—I had worried I would. But it feels a cloak of guilt is shed and I can then move it on in a logical, careful fashion. There's been no pacing, no angry yelling. The songs I play are battle anthems but they're not tripping me into an anger fit.

Of course this is now. It will be different and high emotions will come but right now it's now. And it's a nice now to be in. I feel like I'm on holiday.

Teased phlegm from the laptop keyboard again
This time it was the number pad, and it landed between the 741 and the 852. I think I got most of it.

Waving Jesus loves "Seven Nation Army"
I added SNA to my anthems and the solar powered plastic Jesus statue, now ennobled by the sun, waves with enthusiasm to mentions of Wichita.

I didn't think the rapture would start there but, well, it is plastic Jesus.

Floyded the exercise
I listened to Wish You Were Here then Dark Side of the Moon with headphones and a sweatband used as a blindfold as I rode my exercise bike. It was Zen. They were stereo headphones so I experienced those pieces for the first time as they were meant to be heard. The music drilled in from above, then slithered in the left ear and the right all doing their thing to gift a transcendent experience.

Hat doffed to the Floyd.

Monday, October 16, 2017

Got to say sorry

I got to say sorry to someone I harmed through inaction. It weighed on me for years but I got to say face-to-face that I had fucked up and that it should not have happened.

There's some cartharsis and the clawing guilt has receeded. It was one of those deathbed regrets put to bed well ahead of death. 

That is a win in anyone's book.

Sunday, October 15, 2017


I'm reading about the history of magical thinking in US culture and how many preachers had gotten into the game because they survived a disaster and that therefore God had saved them for the purpose to preach.

Fuck that shit with a red hot fork. Try nearly dying a hundred times; there's no divine providence, just dumb luck you didn't die.

What a bunch of lightweights. First near death and they're convinced it was the divine at work because they're just that important.

I'm an atheist who has dodged death a hundred times---and was important in actuality of reality as opposed to provident theocracy. 

Death; it comes to us all. But it is true that to brush against it makes you love life more; theist or not.

I know I do; and fighting to improve living is what I do.


Got angry at the wall above my bed

I wasn't whisper shouting at the wall itself but what lay beyond it, another time and place that is past and future both.

Bug-eyed with measured quiet outrage I lanced at the wall with angry talk.

Then realised what I was doing and got back into bed.

I'm a dramatic person; even in my own room and with a wall as subject and audience.

Saturday, October 14, 2017

A dodgem car once tried to kill me

It was at the end of the first episode of The IT Crowd that prompted this recall when the lads of the IT department are in a series of photographs of them at the fair where they're in extreme excitement in the company of middle-aged and bored dutch prostitutes. 

This is the photo from the dodgem cars:

Now dodgem cars and I have a rough history. I'm forever getting stuck in that nest of not-used cars and a carnie leaps on and steers me out but without my consent. 

It's undignified to not get yourself out of it on your own and it's like having training wheels on your bike when your mates have leveled up to two wheels. 

I am now on three wheels since I have a man-trike.

The dodgem car that tried to kill me wasn't in fact the genesis of what happened but rather it was the vehicle we were in when we smashed into the wall. 

I was around five and I believe my dad was driving. 

Now for some reason this particular arena of rubber-bounded gladiatorial car combat was bounded by grass which, for reasons which become clear, proved to be my salvation.

We hit the side at speed—full speed from my recall—and I had not been belted in. I launched from the car, crested the boundary of the arena and flew about three more feet before landing and rolling to a stop on the kinetic absorbing soil and plant cover. 

I had forgotten about that until just then and it's yet another one of the hilarious ways the universe has conspired against me.

That and '70s parenting.

Forever young—fuck that

I had "Forever Young" stuck in my head and it is a song I find irritating because to be "forever young" is to die young but, in theory, having lived the best of your years on earth which, allegedly, is your tweens to the end of your twenties.

It's also the age category when we lost prime manhood to the predation of industrial warfare V dickheads who didn't understand industrial warfare.

That "forever young" phase of my life was a boil of sadness, pain and self-hate foisted on my by the vast bulk of people in my life—except from the people I chose to be with such as my friends and my brother. 

That "forever young" phase included me being short and fat and therefore a double whammy as far as desire went. "Forever young" saw me doomed to the sideline of life watching the fit and beautiful enjoy their Logan's Run of heady, youthful physical exuberance and slapping each others privates against the other. 

I didn't hit 40 until I understood what happened. That my "forever young" was not my bag; that normality of body, appearance and physical capability and all that comes with that was not my experience but that those experiences of not having that caused me to stagger down a path of heroism within government. In that I had committed belief in the power to change things in spite of my low level because my anti "forever young" body created a phat brain that saw danger, danger everywhere coupled with OCPD and therefore the obligation to fix it. 

I didn't get "forever young" but I got something better. It took a physical and mental breakdown to see it but once I saw it I forever knew that I had pierced a layer of reality that normal people do not; I was hands deep in the machinery of state and among the deftest social surgeons government had produced.

And it was thanks to being short and fat and wracked with pain then accidentally falling into government like the gang in the starting credits of The IT Crowd

So fuck you, "forever young" and my parents, I win. You treated me shabby for my height, weight, pain, disability and personality but I rose against you and surpassed you by a factor of 10.


Friday, October 13, 2017

Mower and GoT Monopoly

I endured some big sounds today. The first was next door’s mower firing off through the shed wall right level with my left ear. Because I was nerding with my email D&D game I had a focus on something and endured it; it became background noise. 

Game of Thrones Monopoly was harder—and I went full ear muffs for that one and the midway mark because it’s an exciting game and there was a lot of noise. My main triggers are screaming, distress and sudden, penetrating noise (like, for example, the slam of a pool gate into its lock position). 

Industrial noise I’m getting better at. My psychologist moved from her scary third floor position—bad for people afeared of heights—to ground level but across the road from a construction site (bad for people who suffer from noise). It was a nice day and the screen door was open. A cacophony of machine music littered the aural scape but it didn’t trouble me. The session did—exploring the trouble is the therapy—but the noise outside didn’t lift my level before I went in.

I didn’t mean to take so long away from the workplace but my brain and body needed it. My IBS is fading and while the physicality of PTSD is still there—such as hand tremour and inability to hold objects without concentration—and my triggers exist they're less likely to pull and hurt less when they do.

Onward and trending fucking upward for the win.

UPDATE: Within a minute I knocked something over and it spilled everywhere. Curse you, hands!

UPDATE2: We were working out who won when theboy threw his money on mine for put away when I was still counting and there was no way to tell whose had been what. I got annoyed because I was close to having been the winner but my being annoyed---even though calmly delivered---sucked the joy out of him. I should have just copped it and kept my gob shut because it was just a game and I ruined the experience for him. 

I loathe that I did that and I will remember for next time it's a game of fun not of who won and getting the irrits. I will be better than that.

Thursday, October 12, 2017


I had two days of EMDR treatment for PTSD and it helped change the memory of recent attacks from initially recalling the terror I felt to the Zen of recognising and dealing with the attack. The memory had been re-framed as a positive; that I had an attack but I had got through it.

We talked about where next and I have another session soon. It's not as intense as exposure therapy which sounds challenging but it is still emotionally draining. There's a lot of high emotion and angry tears.

She said I'm a survivor and my issue is safety; I feel unsafe and if others are unsafe I have to care for them too. I cannot walk past something I can fix.

I have a life mission; I didn't choose it, it just happened.

But it's a mission well worth fighting for.


UPDATE: So far the only enhanced effect to my utility belt of a failed body is increased hand tremour and difficulty holding objects. I didn't have to have valium and I'm not spacing out. I wonder what tomorrow will bring? Will this still be here or gone or now with friends like hair-trigger fight flight? At least I am in the safest of places and surrounded with love. That will help keep the worst of it at bay.

Teasing phlegm from a false beard

So that happened. I coughed and a great goob honked out of my mouth and right onto the false beard I "won" from a carnie at a country show in my hometown in the '80s.

Much like teasing it from a keyboard it had to be done carefully lest a chunk is left behind and crusting occurs and a cone of hair appears from the beard from the dried up honk-spittle.

Within the beard's mouth hole I have the puck-sized mirror designed for side mirrors on cars so you could see what was in your blind spot but which I used for my workplace. My computer faced a window and I couldn't see who was coming behind me and I wanted the flash of body against mirror to warn me there was someone coming so I could turn and greet them and not get startled by a tap on the shoulder or a sudden burst of my name in my ear.

The main reason being there was this lovely lady at my work who would usually wait to get my attention before saying my name but I would not know she was there because she had the stealth characteristics of a fucking ninja. Because every time she silently approached she'd automatically stand in my blind spot where I would not notice her and then get startled when she said my name. 

Plus she had those two-toed boots and a katana.

So a distorted me looked back through the beard mouth as I tended to the phlegm fail I just honked. 

Apologies to mirror me.

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Chat chair

My old blue chair, which came with me to Canberra and is from a bedroom set I had in the '70s, has become my chat chair. While I sort out my blood pressure levels—my fall the other day was likely the low blood pressure which dropped me to the mat and left me unconscious for a few moments—I can't risk standing for long stretches which is my norm if I'm practicing future conversations. 

So it's a chat chair; I chat in even tones for those conversations at an imagined audience.

I've yet to have a rant from the chair; I don't think it's possible to have a rant sitting down when your body yells stand but then people have to sit and regulate high emotion every day on progs like Q&A—sit across from people they don't agree with and fight emotion as they speak of what has hurt them and the people they know.

I will have to practice for that, for when those moments come, to try to do it seated and bring the intensity from eye-popping shouting to cold, steel purpose. After-all that's how meeting rooms work; there's a table and chairs and not much room for pacing and lectern pounding. 

In fact I don't think I've ever seen a lectern in a meeting room because it doesn't become a meeting room if there's a giant fuck-off wooden "I'm talking here" box for the main one to spout off from.

It's funny this old blue chair from my childhood—its wooden backing lost before its move to Canberra—is still with me after 40 plus years but it's ideal for my height and the legs can even support my weight if I was to stand on it. 

In other words it's like me; a seeming dilapidated structure but robust and still giving.