Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Nearly killed by a gum tree

I was walking to the laneway between streets when I saw a flicker in my vision then heard a muffled crash. It was a gum tree branch, a big one, that had broken off and dropped ten or so metres onto the road.

I missed being squished by three seconds.

I dragged the branch from the road and kicked the lesser broken folliage to the other side.

It's like Get Smart; it missed me by that much.

It's yet another occasion that I have just avoided death; and hilariously the second tree-based one at that.

(Mikey looks around with trepidation...)

It's like living in an active monarchy

Whilst we're not Americans America casts a deep shadow and its now rocky governance affects all within. Which is pretty much the entire planet.

It's terrifying to go from sanity and technocracy to royal diktat with no basis in fact which is the governance model of Trump. He issues decrees from on high, has an obsession with an alleged denuded military and even has sychophantic courtiers watching him be king whenever he decides to show off his office to on lookers in one of his many golf clubs such as "ICBMs 101" which he recently performed for diners at his "Southern White House". And just like a king he moves his court from place to place but instead of that cost worn by a guest it falls upon the American tax payer ... which pays money to his clubs for the pleasure of his costs incurred.

It would all be a glorious satire were it not true.

Trump thinks he is a king. He has thought that his entire life; that he is deeply wonderful and society needs to bend their knee. Now he's "in charge" that conceit and way of doing business is the logline of his presidency.

A mad king surrounded by lickspittle courtiers whose grandiose concerns are removed from the populace. 

This is what it must be like to live under a monarchy where the needs of the aristocratic class must come first and where you have little influence on the direction of government.

The world has two years until the King Trump model faces its electoral political test in the midterm elections. We can only hope that the poor rise up to vote (if they can) to severely crimp the plans of this monster.

But as we've seen a week is a long time in politics and we have about a hundred weeks to go.

Probs save us all.

Sunday, February 26, 2017

Things as said to me

"No Richard Burton; it's not Wednesday!"

Five minutes later he said it again.

Later he said in all seriousness "I was trying to stop you being a dick."

That's fair feedback.

Chickens (heart) Pringles

The duckless chickens are happier now their aquatic oppressor was choppered out by US marines after its regime collapse but instead of the duck looming at the gate it's now the chickens.

And it's because of Pringles. I first gave them generic Ps that I did not want, the slices crackled to bits in my palm then scattered across the pen dirt. And they enjoyed that muchly.

Then on a whim, and as a means to not eat all the Pringles, I experimented with the name brand efforts.

The result is the five of them waiting patiently for much of the day at the gate, two half-embedded in holes they've dug, for the next golden shower of Pringle shards.

I've accidentally hooked them on a chicken opiate. I might have to ween them off.

I bet the Pringle equivalent of methadone is generic chips from a no-name brand---the kind my mother got us for school lunches in the '80s that she packaged in the smallest of sandwich bags. 

I'll also need a bunch of small cups and some "Try sport instead!" pamphlets.

Saturday, February 25, 2017

Scared the ginger

I am an inventive cat, oratorically speaking. I can rant and rave (alone) effectively and with great passion for hours at a time if my steam has built and I am in a safe place to blow.

I just slipped into it and was building in volume when I saw the ginger cat lift its head from its nap and look into my angry face with deep concern. 

I felt bad; I forgot about the cats. They don't need to see an angry combo of fat, muscle and hair storming about the place yelling with precision diction about the woes that have befallen him. 

I wonder if Hitler had that problem? If he lapsed solo into one of his infamous four hour hate sermons and forgot he had a cat in the room. 

"UND KILL THEM ... oh nein, mein kitty, come to Addie..."

I'm using Hitler because he is the go-to staple of angry speechifying. I bet in his time he went through a dozen lecterns from emphatic fist pounds in addition to all those hearth rugs he masticated whilst in a drug-enhanced psychotic state—untreated bi-polar fueled anti-Semitism and amphetamines a good combination do not make.

One of the fun facts that came out about Trump was that he's not a big reader; as in he doesn't read books. He watches TV.

The other tidbit was that Trump had a copy of Hitler's speeches on his bedside table for years. Which means when he did read, and it was probably months or years between visits, he was reading Hitler's speeches. 

Hitler came to office with not-much-support. Then he declared "an emergency" and gave himself unfettered power by combining the posts of president and chancellor—the former had the ability to sack the latter and even at his most-nuts Hitler was never tempted to sack himself.

It's fucked shit like that which has me worried. Plus he's even got the weird hair thing locked down. Hitler had the Charlie Chaplin mo and right-side part and Trump has his fantastical creation that is likely assisted by plundered exotic animalia or ozone death in a can.

Angry speeches and distinctive hair are canaries in the dictatorial coalmine—along with singling out minorities for oppressive attention.

The future does not make for good. We lost "No Drama Obama" for "Total Drama Trump"—with the latter barely reading and if he does it's by Adolf H.

Probs save us all.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

The fall of Milo

Laurie Penny does a fine job reporting from Milo's bus then reflects on his fall and how reality affects those that follow him:

"On the Milo Bus with the Lost Boys of America's New Right" by Laurie Penny, Pacific Standard.

Leaf blower handled

I went past one in operation outside whilst walking. And for me, in that moment, the leaf blower was just background noise.


UPDATE: It's underground frog season. The backyard is roaring with their sex-shouting. I stood right over a hidden seducer—which is apparently down a wet hole—and it was so loud my eardrums rang.

And I was okay.

Sat in wee

It wasn't my wee and I didn't notice until I saw the dribble on the seat where I did not go and felt the damp of where it went on me.

I had a shower.

Still, at least that's something unusual I can go with the next time someone asks what I've been up to.

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Thor sore

We were watching a movie where the Hulk pounded the Asgard out of Thor. theboy thought Thor dead and cried.

I didn't leave the room but I did sit there on the cusp of fight flight because the sound of distress is a trigger when you have PTSD. 

He stopped cryingThor is just sorebut that's what it is to live with a psychological injury; even your child's distress can distress you. 

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

PTSD flared? Baste in anthems

One of the techniques I use to battle the sads is with battle music; anthems that give both joy and a feeling of "to the barricades!"

After recent unpleasantness I needed some epic basting to counter the dark menace of looming anxiety so I queued up song after song of epic power as a reminder that I did that and that I survived it.

The "to the barricades!" mix

I Love It” by Icona Pop

The Nosebleed Section” by Hilltop Hoods

"Danger! High Voltage" by Electric Six

Get Back” by Ludacris (from the Tropic Thunder end credits)

The Old Landmark” performed by James Brown (from The Blues Brothers)

Tubthumping (I get knocked down)” by Chumbawamba

Some Nights” by Fun.

(later that day...)

Sabotage” by the Beastie Boys


Monday, February 20, 2017

A howling no from my body

My PTSD flared with anxiety, bad dreams, bad guts and body pain the result.

My body gave a howling no but I gritted teeth and pushed forward to get some needed nasty work done.

Now all I hope is that my body and brain knows it's over—stupid subconscious and its impact on the body prime.

That's what it is to live with a psychological injury; normal seeming tasks come littered with psychological mines that can shred the psyche on detonation.

Sunday, February 19, 2017


Showbags are an Ozzer institutionI still remember my fucking awesome Batman showbag from the Royal Easter Show circa '80; and that's the Adam West version of BM and, like Roger Moore as Bond, the best actor to have done that gig.

theboy wants to get an Assassins Creedshowbag ... then use the weapons from that to assassinate characters from other showbags and loot their stuff.

I have to admit, that was pretty funny.

The Simpsons as real-life cosplay

I am older than Homer and my son is younger than Bart. But I spent the day being portly and bald and he spent the day in a light red shirt and blue shorts.

The similarities were freakish.

A thing I just said

"Get your chew fish if you're going to masticate."

Saturday, February 18, 2017

Frightening projection

Trump just called the media "the enemy of the American People!"

This is deeply and monstrously worrying.

What the fuck are the GOP going to do about it? This is on them if they do not intervene and something actually horrifying happens from this violence-implied call to action.

This is third world despotic shit.

UPDATE: Thank probs for John McCain.

Black cat thunder thigh

The black cat was on my lap when a bolt of lightning struck close by. I had a moment to register the flash before the thunder peal shocked through us.

The cat was startled and fled and in the process dug in its claws for her thunder-stricken panic leap. Claws that dug into the meat of my thigh.

I think the sudden pain of the claw dig flooded my brain and prevented fight flight kicking in from the monstrous peal that blew through my head.

And they say a black cat is unlucky.

But, fuck me, while it didn't draw blood the claw dig hurt; I am wearing the thinnest of pants---ladies PJ pants---and it was just that thin slip of fabric that prevented blood dimpling forth.

What a lovely early afternoon present brought to me by the Mother N.

And nearly the number three from a one plus two.

Friday, February 17, 2017

Down the wrong trouser of time

With thanks to Terry Pratchett.

President Donald Trump had a press conference, year of our non-lord 2017 on 16 February.

It was bonkers surreal.

Thursday, February 16, 2017

Wing manned

Going at out night is hard for me given anxiety and medication. But I'm lucky to have a friend willing to pick me up and take me to events of mutual interest. I used to go out weekly to organised activities like playing RPGs but after the injury that eventually ceased.

But I managed to have an in the community adventure thanks to the wing man and interact with positive people.

Hooray for getting back out at night!

There was a black cat on my back

I read in weird poses. Just before I had the tablet on the sofa and I was kneeling on the floor to read. When you have a body that is always hurting you have to shift around to shift discomfort since sitting in the one way causes pain to bank up.

So the black cat took advantage and hopped on my back for a five minute sit before hopping off to sit on the armrest and try to stare in my face.

It is a deeply loving yet unsettling animal.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

A perfect pwning of Trump

Lindy West's piece in The Guardian "The first 25 days of Trump have been a Zoetrope of galloping despair" is pitch-perfect.

The intro:

Today, during my morning routine of opening my laptop, clicking on literally anything, and just screaming and screaming, I made the astonishing discovery that Donald Trump has only been president of the United States for about three weeks. Which is weird, because I could have sworn we had fallen through a tesseract into the airless crush of a two-dimensional void at least seven eternities ago, or what would have constituted seven eternities if such a place had a linear concept of time. Turns out, though, it has only been 25 days, we are still on earth, and every cell in my body has not been excruciatingly flattened into pure math. It just feels like it.

Hat doffed, Lindy West.

Yay, birth control!

I was watching ABC news when I realised all three presenters were women and that they were women was incidental. As in it was completely normal and unremarkable.

Except it is remarkable because up until effective contraception became available women were shackled by their uterus to being at home.

My mother was one of these women who could launch herself into the world for a career on her terms and only accepted marriage on her terms. She could do that because she could be a young woman not shackled to likely pregnancy.

The idea that anyone would suppress the ability of women to control when they had children is just bonkers in a first world nation. But there are those creeps out there who for some reason think that women having access to birth control is a violation of the natural order.

Well, so is electricity and anti-biotics and I suspect even a fucknard like Rick Santorum, who does not believe in women determining what happens to their body, has used both.

Women are now the majority of university graduates and instead of going to college with a cultural expectation they would meet a mate they go to power their mind and life-path.

Of course I would not be here had effective birth control been in place three generations earlier as I had a great-grandmother that had 20 children and I am a descendant of her youngest child. 

But given the misery of constant pregnancy and child rearing, risk of death in childbirth before germ theory and the grief of losing children to illness she'd have been on the chemist like a hungry dog the moment the pill came out. Especially by kid three.

My mother ended pregnancy chances with tubal ligation after her third child; she didn't discuss it with my dad. She booked it and had it done.

Because no one was going to tell her what she could do with her body; and nor should have anyone.

Yay, birth control!

Monday, February 13, 2017

Joyful squeaking causes distress

I was sitting with my son who was happily playing an iPad. He was making joyful squeaking noises. 

My injured brain subconsciously interpreted his happy noise as sounds of distress and it induced anxiety.

So I remoted myself to the end room to get away from it.

Later he joined me—to show off the set up railway set in the end room—and the squeaking began again. I had to explain how his happy noises were received by my wounded mind and ask him to try not to make them.

That's what it is to live with a psychological injury; happiness is stolen because your battered brain can't properly register the sounds of joy.

UPDATE (February 2017): Just to be clear, yes, I have PTSD.

Saturday, February 11, 2017

Got angry and yelled

I yelled at my son after he splashed me in the face with water. Fight flight triggered for a moment and I yell-asked if he wanted me crying on the floor of the shed because that's what can happen when fight flight triggers. I kept yelling if that was what he wanted.

He cried and I hated that I made him cry. He got over it but I didn't---I loathed that I had lost my cool and monstrously guilted him. I'm better than that; I don't yell at my son or make him feel like shit yet I did both those things because of my injury.

I also dropped a bunch of things from tremour-addled hands.

I still feel like shit hours later with memories of evil adults yelling at me; from as a child and as a man. I loathe that I inflicted that pain and that he now has a memory of me yelling at him.

That's what it is to live with a psychological injury; you get pushed over an emotional line you swore you would not cross because fight flight has kicked in.

He forgave me again when I told him once more how sorry I was.

I grew up in an angry yelling household of overbearing parents who reveled in inducing guilt or vocalising disappointment and that shit dies with me. It's fucked my injury makes that ideal harder to accomplish.

But I will keep trying because keeping on trying is what I do. And I refuse to knowingly inflict the same pain that I copped all my life.


Friday, February 10, 2017

Duck gone

The evil duck went to a nice family who needed a duck. theboy nearly aborted the deal when he casually mentioned it was a psychopath but I don't think they heard him. Phew!

My nurse friend corrected me though when I'd called it that---the duck was actually a sociopath because that was its usual behaviour. A psychopath is someone in the grip of a violent delusion.

The duck was just one hundred percent mean one hundred percent of the time.

Later I went outside and just for a second thought I'd heard a soft quack---and after joking about hoping the new owners drove it back blindfolded so it couldn't find its way back.

It never seemed to sleep, that duck. Some nights I'd be out in the back yard at 3 am and there would be the duck, quacking with menacing softness as it rasped its beak back and forth along the mesh of the gate.

The chickens seem happier for its absence---and I'm enjoying the absence of their duck-induced terror screams.

Took one for the environment

It's hot as fuck in the nation's capital and today I did a load of washing. But instead of using the dryer I hung the clothes on the line as there was a plea not to overburden the system with excessive leccy use lest it cause a brown or blackout.

I use a dryer because I am short and I have a pain-wracked body. Hanging washing is semi-difficult and mildly painful.

But I took one for the team, though not really for the environment; more social environment than nature---to help avoid blacking out parts of Canberra by not using leccy I did not have to.

Mother Nature got me back though. After a dip in a wading pool I changed into sun-dried clothes and they made me itchy as fuck. Maybe chicken dander from the pen or other some pollutant was wafted into the clothes but whatever it was it was an all over body itchy effort.

Well played, earth.

Wednesday, February 08, 2017

Not a burden even when I am

I had another raging grief out and went to walk it off, out in the rain and lost in pain. As I walked I reflected how my injury puts a burden on those around me because they have to deal with its symptoms—a fierce susceptibility to sudden noise and occasional irrational outbursts to cite but two. 

As I walked I recalled the worst thing you can do is to think yourself a burden—even when you are. Yes, I am a burden; but no, it's not my fault—I was injured. Even if I wasn't injured and got sick some other way, still not a burden—even though I am—because my weal outweighs my woe.

In other words I come with benefits—lots of them—and my life-wake is a fucking sunset with all the awesome power of the universe on display. 

And those benefits will always outweigh the burdens.

So you can be both, psychologically injured, a burden and a benefit. Do not ever forget that. Especially when the darkness tears at your soul. 

I had to yell that into the rain—that I am not a burden; that my deeds make me great—and force myself to hear it from my own lips. To drive the message home to thwart the dark.

And it worked.


Tuesday, February 07, 2017

Duck Vs crocs and a rake

The other day I lost my rag at the duck. It came to the gate to bully me and I was in the middle of a flashback. I snarled and charged into the pen to chase it down—it freaked and waddled as fast as it could away from me. It took about 10 seconds of that frenetic anger to burn out for me to realise what I was doing. I left without damaging the duck.

The duck's mood and attitude did not change after the altercation.

Days later I heard what sounded like the duck attempting for yet another time to have its way with a brown chicken in the new hutch but I left that alone as I lacked the dexterity to deal with it. After a while I saw the duck in the yard but no third chicken so risked entry to the pen to check the chicken was okay.

So the duck attacked me. I'm not afraid of it, I was wearing crocs so it couldn't peck my feet. It could go my shinbones, and tried, but I inserted my croc-ed foot beneath its tummy then carefully but forcefully lifted it into the air to flap back to the ground away from me. 

It avoided me for a bit but the moment I wasn't watching it then it attacked me again. Once more the croc was inserted and the duck flipped back. It did not dissuade it. 

Needing to check the old hutch for the missing chicken I armed myself with the metal grass rake and used the fan of steel tines as a shield to block the duck's approach. That worked enough for me to see into the old hutch, confirm the third chicken alive and not damaged, then exit for the exit. I left the rake against the hutch.

Since I couldn't see the duck, and I was now unarmed and not looking at it, the duck went for me as I went through the gate, forcing me to fend it off with a croc-foot. 

The duck is to be gone—the attempted chicken raping the final straw. It shouldn't attack the means of production; the duck was merely decorative for us. Now it will go off and decorate elsewhere.

Fortunately it cannot fly and the outer gate of the house has mesh up the side to prevent chickens escaping if they made it out the pen. So even if it remembers our address then it won't get in.

It may lurk behind the bins though. I might have to get one of those underside-of-vehicle mirrors to check each day over the fence before I leave the house that it's not in wait. 

The crocs and the rake were mostly effective. But if there's a next time I'm upgrading to wellington boots and a tree branch.

UPDATE: I went back in, twice, same kit as before save for the second time when I went bare foot. It pecked the top of my bare foot. But the rake was used to deflect and a safe exit was accomplished. Not long now, my feathered un-friend...

Saturday, February 04, 2017

Raging grief out

Another joy of psychological injury is the raging grief out where you are suddenly sucked back into the welter of appalling crap that swept you out at the knees.

It was due to land at some point; another attack. I made it all through January without one. Then coming down from stepping out, bad dreams every night and a stupid fight and I lost sense of reason.

I was trapped in my room and unable to get out, just standing there with my papers clutched to me babbling "I don't know how to leave this room."

Standing in the semi-dark with tears streaming and my mind lost, crying and near-dead inside from the torment that roiled within from the wound and its genesis resurfacing. 

But this will pass; this raging grief out will pass and then I'll be back to even keel. It can't come soon enough. There is nothing quite like logically knowing things are okay but your brain and body both are screaming in torment.

That's the dichotomy of psychological injury—that you can be both well and sick at the exact same fucking time.

Friday, February 03, 2017

Trimmed my own nails

It's funny the small capabilities you lose for being psychologically injured. Being able to trim my own fingernails with ease for one. With trembling hands it is difficult to do.

But I hunted down a pair of baby safe nailclippers from the tupperware box of assorted medicarnia and with care set forth on the task.

I succeeded; and without trimming into the quick either. It wasn't easy sliding the clipper over a nail then manuvering it into the right spot for the press of the clipper's handle without trembling fingers shifting it before I could effect the press. So it took a while.

It's a remarkable thing to not be able to trust your fingers because of copping a wound to your soul. 

But as noted I'm still here in spite of it.


Thursday, February 02, 2017

Take two valium then shit

Being a bundle of nerves I dropped two valium before the public performance. 

Then roughly 15 hours later I sharted. Though sharting is not listed as a side effect for most people it seems to be a side effect for me.

The irony being when it happened I got distressed. Mainly at getting to the toilet without leakage.

Valium: good in the moment but for me at least it comes with blowback ... or blowout.

Wednesday, February 01, 2017

Once more with feeling

I did another "in the public" performance piece. It went okay. But then I was followed by someone so awesome I thought instantly "she's won it".

And she did. 

I like that my assessment chops are good enough to pick a winner. 

I was pissing sweat on a humid night but once I was done my body re-synced and the sweat went away thanks to the cool of air-con.

Until I then stepped back out into the hot humid night. Now I am pissing sweat again.

Thanks a lot, sultry Canberra evening.

UPDATE: I got to the venue early so played a game of pool. I started playing by myself but a young chef asked if I wanted a game so he joined me. We chatted about our lives. It was nice; I'd not chatted with a stranger in a while and the game took my mind off the task ahead. I then met a whole bunch more strangers and enjoyed meeting them too. Hooray for re-engaging and emerging once more into public spaces!

Trump's pick an originalist

El Presidenté Trumpo has announced his supreme court pick of Neil Gorsuch and he is an originalist.

From The Washington Post:

Like Scalia, Gorsuch is a proponent of originalism — meaning that judges should attempt to interpret the words of the Constitution as they were understood at the time they were written — and a textualist who considers only the words of the law being reviewed, not legislators’ intent or the consequences of the decision.


Gorsuch said in a speech last spring that as a judge he had tried to follow Scalia’s path.

“The great project of Justice Scalia’s career was to remind us of the differences between judges and legislators,” Gorsuch told an audience at Case Western Reserve University School of Law in Cleveland.

Legislators “may appeal to their own moral convictions and to claims about social utility to reshape the law as they think it should be in the future,” Gorsuch said. But “judges should do none of these things in a democratic society.”

Instead, they should use “text, structure and history” to understand what the law is, “not to decide cases based on their own moral convictions or the policy consequences they believe might serve society best.”

Wow. The law is as the law is in the letter of the law (1). Gorsuch wants to interpret the law as it impacts on now based on how it went then—from often a land of no medicine, no rights and monstrous bigotry; a society blighted by enslavement and its corrupting effects.

If that's his attitude he should only be allowed to give non-binding opinions at Colonial Williamsburg instead of the highest court of the land.

The law is there to serve and protect the people of now; not ghosts 200 years dead.

Trump's "Make America great again" is coming true; only, that is, if heading towards 1776 rather than 2017 is your preference.

Lousy non-white and no-property class having a stake in the polity ... and their music.

(1) Unless, that is, you're the GOP in the final year of a Democratic presidency and you refuse to even consider the then president's pick in direct violation of founding laws. I wonder what Gorsuch's views on that will be? They should ask him.