I picked up the seafood from little big bruvva's fish supplier ahead of Christmas feasting. The invoice read something like this:
Moreton bay bugs - 1kg
Harvey bay scallops in half shell - 5 dozen
Banana prawns - 5 kg (we saw these very same prawns in the shop window for $40 per kg!)
Whole snapper fresh - 3.2 kg
Whole squid - 3kg*
Baby octopus - 3kg
Salmon, smoked A grade - 0.8kg
Kingfish fillets - 1.3kg
And how much was all this? Invoice total: $0.00, [Little big bruvva]: No Charge.
* NB. Whole squid cleaning duties for me! Boo!
The two cray fish did come at a charge though, but I'd say they were worth every cent. And then we ate the most amazing smoked ham I have EVER eaten in my life - even better than Poacher's Pantry- was a labour of love for Little big bruvva and one of his chefs, so I guess they paid in time and hard work (with love thrown in for flavour).
Oh, the ham!
And there was some home made chorizo too. And the usual turkey and lamb and what not.
And I haven't even mentioned the salads and cheeses and desserts.
Little should I wonder why I put on weight when I stay with the family. I have high hopes for a session at the gym tomorrow.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
DIY counselling
It feels like forever since I’ve written and a life time ago since I flew to Melbourne. It’s not quite been three weeks. It was only last Sunday when I finally felt like I’d arrived, but even then seven days feels like such a long time. In a good way.
With all the distance of nineteen days (to be precise), I can see I was kind of shell shocked when I touched down in Tullamarine. There was a glass screen between me and the real world, and I could see and hear what was going on, but I couldn’t touch it, the sound was muffled, I couldn’t participate. I didn’t sleep through the night until last Saturday. During the witching hours I’d play the events of That Night over and over and over in my mind. And after I’d exhausted those details, I’d imagine myself in court being torn to shreds by a defence lawyer. And then I’d wonder about the man. Who is this person that would do something like this? How could he ever think what he did was okay? How does he justify his actions in his own mind? What does he think?
There was no crying or gnashing of teeth, just endless thought. Repetitive thought. And it wasn’t helpful that I’ve told no one here, that I felt like I was keeping dark secrets, but I couldn’t share.
All the counselling and support services are a continent a way in WA; it was just me and my mind. I’ve tried to be my best counsellor, but I don’t know my methods are the best. I started with the idea that if I’m going to obsess, I should obsess about less painful things. According to his version of events we had a conversation about - well, let’s say it was about film (though it wasn’t). In his story I apparently said things I would never say. I did a few cinema subject in my arts degree and while I’ve lost much of my art student vocabulary, I can still sound like a wanker without trying, and I’d never, NEVER EVER give the ridiculously stupid analysis he says I did. I just wouldn’t. So. In my 3am reverie, I had the defence lawyer asking me questions about the conversation that never happened rather than attempting to destroy my character. And in response to the lawyer’s interrogation I would dazzle the jury with a first year cinema lecture covering the history of western cinema and highlighting the key points as to why I couldn’t possibly said the things he said I did.
None of this helped me get anymore sleep, because I was giving my mind more than enough fuel to keep it spinning - but I figured it was better to be rehearsing a dazzling scene for my own personal court room drama than reliving That Night for the one hundred and first time that night. Somewhat less distressing.
And then I’d written a garbled email to a friend back in Perth speculating at what will happen next, and she had the crazy suggestion that I find out. So that was the next part of my self-therapy. Finding things out. I got a call from the doctor who treated me/ collected evidence and I found out I was okay physically. Check. I thought about writing to the detective to find out more about the man’s statement. Decided probably not helpful. Rang attorney general’s department help line, found out about court process. Check. And that’s all I found out, but that’s been enough.
The court process is a loooooong one. It could be months before I know whether it’s going to trial, though he has many court appearances to come. He actually goes to court for a second time in a couple of days. The first time - on the day that followed That Night - he was told to get legal counsel. The second time, he may or may not have done so. If not, they say the same and he has to come back in a month with legal counsel. If he has, the lawyer will then say they need time to review all the evidence before they can enter a plea. Meet again in a month. They can keep asking for more time for a few months before they might be told by the judge to hurry up and enter a plea. The lady I spoke to thought he’d plead not guilty, because that’s just the way things happen - in which case, we’d go to trial. But if he pleads guilty, I never have to walk into a court room. Regardless, all this amounts to months of uncertainty. The doctor said she sometimes finds herself giving evidence about things she attended to years after the event. Years. Oh.
All this made me feel some how reassured that there was some process, a timeline... but also some reluctance. Do I really need to do this? I mean, will it make any difference if I didn’t. I am so grateful that the police were there on the night. They were amazing. And I think that part of my resilience has been drawn from their presence on the night, the support they gave the process set in motion... but then this. I don’t know.
I think that if someone stole your car you’d go to the police and to your insurance company, you’d want your car back, or you’d want compensation. The person who stole it might be caught and they’d be punished. I’m worth more than a car. Can a civil society exist if crimes are tolerated because it’s easier than righting wrongs? But I don’t know how you right this wrong. I’d draw no satisfaction from seeing someone go to jail. I’m terrified of the court room. I dread the waiting. And - I struggle to see this as a crime to me. I know that’s wrong. I know it is. But I’m more inclined to beat myself up, to blame myself, to hate myself - then to direct that anger at someone else. I’m more inclined to see this as a random act of misfortune than to imagine that someone actually deliberately did this. It’s nicer to imagine it as an accident. A mistake. Not a crime.
These are some of the thoughts I grapple with. And I try to remind myself that it’s not my fault, I’m not my blame... but you know, sometimes it’s like your mum telling you you’re beautiful. It’s a nice thing to hear, but it feels empty. So this is where I fail as a self-counsellor. But time is helping. These thoughts are more distance with each day, and none of this is a part of my regular thoughts. It’s just there, in the distance. The waiting is there, and I know his court dates, but it’s not haunting or irritating me so much in recent days. Last Saturday I slept through the night for the first time in a few weeks, and I think I’ve had a handful of good night sleeps since. I feel like I’ve turned a corner.
I hope every has had a happy Christmas too. x
With all the distance of nineteen days (to be precise), I can see I was kind of shell shocked when I touched down in Tullamarine. There was a glass screen between me and the real world, and I could see and hear what was going on, but I couldn’t touch it, the sound was muffled, I couldn’t participate. I didn’t sleep through the night until last Saturday. During the witching hours I’d play the events of That Night over and over and over in my mind. And after I’d exhausted those details, I’d imagine myself in court being torn to shreds by a defence lawyer. And then I’d wonder about the man. Who is this person that would do something like this? How could he ever think what he did was okay? How does he justify his actions in his own mind? What does he think?
There was no crying or gnashing of teeth, just endless thought. Repetitive thought. And it wasn’t helpful that I’ve told no one here, that I felt like I was keeping dark secrets, but I couldn’t share.
All the counselling and support services are a continent a way in WA; it was just me and my mind. I’ve tried to be my best counsellor, but I don’t know my methods are the best. I started with the idea that if I’m going to obsess, I should obsess about less painful things. According to his version of events we had a conversation about - well, let’s say it was about film (though it wasn’t). In his story I apparently said things I would never say. I did a few cinema subject in my arts degree and while I’ve lost much of my art student vocabulary, I can still sound like a wanker without trying, and I’d never, NEVER EVER give the ridiculously stupid analysis he says I did. I just wouldn’t. So. In my 3am reverie, I had the defence lawyer asking me questions about the conversation that never happened rather than attempting to destroy my character. And in response to the lawyer’s interrogation I would dazzle the jury with a first year cinema lecture covering the history of western cinema and highlighting the key points as to why I couldn’t possibly said the things he said I did.
None of this helped me get anymore sleep, because I was giving my mind more than enough fuel to keep it spinning - but I figured it was better to be rehearsing a dazzling scene for my own personal court room drama than reliving That Night for the one hundred and first time that night. Somewhat less distressing.
And then I’d written a garbled email to a friend back in Perth speculating at what will happen next, and she had the crazy suggestion that I find out. So that was the next part of my self-therapy. Finding things out. I got a call from the doctor who treated me/ collected evidence and I found out I was okay physically. Check. I thought about writing to the detective to find out more about the man’s statement. Decided probably not helpful. Rang attorney general’s department help line, found out about court process. Check. And that’s all I found out, but that’s been enough.
The court process is a loooooong one. It could be months before I know whether it’s going to trial, though he has many court appearances to come. He actually goes to court for a second time in a couple of days. The first time - on the day that followed That Night - he was told to get legal counsel. The second time, he may or may not have done so. If not, they say the same and he has to come back in a month with legal counsel. If he has, the lawyer will then say they need time to review all the evidence before they can enter a plea. Meet again in a month. They can keep asking for more time for a few months before they might be told by the judge to hurry up and enter a plea. The lady I spoke to thought he’d plead not guilty, because that’s just the way things happen - in which case, we’d go to trial. But if he pleads guilty, I never have to walk into a court room. Regardless, all this amounts to months of uncertainty. The doctor said she sometimes finds herself giving evidence about things she attended to years after the event. Years. Oh.
All this made me feel some how reassured that there was some process, a timeline... but also some reluctance. Do I really need to do this? I mean, will it make any difference if I didn’t. I am so grateful that the police were there on the night. They were amazing. And I think that part of my resilience has been drawn from their presence on the night, the support they gave the process set in motion... but then this. I don’t know.
I think that if someone stole your car you’d go to the police and to your insurance company, you’d want your car back, or you’d want compensation. The person who stole it might be caught and they’d be punished. I’m worth more than a car. Can a civil society exist if crimes are tolerated because it’s easier than righting wrongs? But I don’t know how you right this wrong. I’d draw no satisfaction from seeing someone go to jail. I’m terrified of the court room. I dread the waiting. And - I struggle to see this as a crime to me. I know that’s wrong. I know it is. But I’m more inclined to beat myself up, to blame myself, to hate myself - then to direct that anger at someone else. I’m more inclined to see this as a random act of misfortune than to imagine that someone actually deliberately did this. It’s nicer to imagine it as an accident. A mistake. Not a crime.
These are some of the thoughts I grapple with. And I try to remind myself that it’s not my fault, I’m not my blame... but you know, sometimes it’s like your mum telling you you’re beautiful. It’s a nice thing to hear, but it feels empty. So this is where I fail as a self-counsellor. But time is helping. These thoughts are more distance with each day, and none of this is a part of my regular thoughts. It’s just there, in the distance. The waiting is there, and I know his court dates, but it’s not haunting or irritating me so much in recent days. Last Saturday I slept through the night for the first time in a few weeks, and I think I’ve had a handful of good night sleeps since. I feel like I’ve turned a corner.
I hope every has had a happy Christmas too. x
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Diary of a Dish Pig: Back in the Kitchen
I cleaned 15 kilos of squid yesterday - just for laughs. Okay, for money too. My first day back in the kitchen, everything's the same - but different. During the year they've been getting some great reviews, write ups and awards, which has meant they've discovered busy like they'd never known it. Well, it's partly that, and partly I've not walked into the chaos of a kitchen in full flight for over six months and have forgotten what it was like. Crazy, that's what it's like.
It's a noisy of people, plates and dishes, and commands and demands being yelled out across the pass. I felt the stress of the place more than the excitement I felt the very first time I pulled on my apron. I was clumsily fumbling before I discovered my cool. There was a moment when I couldn't handle my knife, when everything felt rushed, and awkward, and then a rhythms found and hours fly by at a cracking pace.
And now my body's aching, and I forgot the tightness of the skin on your hands after they've been soaked in brine and dish water for a day. My stomach's not yet accustomed to most of the day without stopping to refuel, and by the fifth hour into my shift I was finding the company of so much to eat and no chance to eat it almost unbearable.
I'm working the next six days and am grateful for the shifts, AND the prospect of cash. It's been a long time since my bank balance looked even nearly healthy and it's almost therapeutic to tire yourself out with hard work.
It's a noisy of people, plates and dishes, and commands and demands being yelled out across the pass. I felt the stress of the place more than the excitement I felt the very first time I pulled on my apron. I was clumsily fumbling before I discovered my cool. There was a moment when I couldn't handle my knife, when everything felt rushed, and awkward, and then a rhythms found and hours fly by at a cracking pace.
And now my body's aching, and I forgot the tightness of the skin on your hands after they've been soaked in brine and dish water for a day. My stomach's not yet accustomed to most of the day without stopping to refuel, and by the fifth hour into my shift I was finding the company of so much to eat and no chance to eat it almost unbearable.
I'm working the next six days and am grateful for the shifts, AND the prospect of cash. It's been a long time since my bank balance looked even nearly healthy and it's almost therapeutic to tire yourself out with hard work.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Days away
Sometimes the timing is just right, and it was on the weekend. It was a relief to be able to escape the city and go somewhere far enough away.
It was Kiko’s Christmas party as planned - the resort, the location and all that. Which didn’t actually turn out to impress like I thought it might. A resort means a hotel with that wants to trap you on its premises and make you play mini-golf. It defeats the purpose of being somewhere beautiful, surely? It was nice, but not so special. I like privacy and interesting design. The resort has lots of group activities and corporate interiors. But you know... I wasn’t paying, so I swollow my snobbery and serve myself second helpings.
The road trip down south was taken in Kiko’s Mustang on a 37 degree day. All I can say about the Mustang is that German’s make good cars. But damn, does he love that car. We might have been able to leave in time to escape the midday sun (important because we’re talking about a car that’s more than 40 years old with no air conditioning and vinyl seats!), if he didn’t spend the early parts of the morning meticulously polishing and cleaning the thing. I suppose it looked good, at least looked good enough to attract the 1001 insects once we’d hit the road.
The highlight of the weekend was definitely our trips to Bunker Bay. (It’s somewhere on point Naturaliste just beyond Dunsborough, if anyone’s planning holidays!) I’ve never know such spectacularly clear blue water in climates not tropical. But unlike tropical waters, the sea was cool which suited me well on such a hot day. And just above the beach is a nice cafe that don’t (noticeably) mind if you stumble in with sandy beach gear and salty hair to shuck down oysters and sip on local wines.
In such good company and beautiful surrounds I would have had to work hard to sabotage the weekend. I was still caught up in my thoughts for some of the time, but there were long stretches where I could just enjoy being. I thought a lot about Kiko. I pay close attention to his words, too often at the expense of his actions. But I noticed all the little things over the weekend, the gestures and the body language and that he’ll get up and dance with me despite being afflicted with two left feet and no rhythm.
I find him so interesting, so intriguing - which might sound like a cold complement, but I don’t mean it like he’s a curiosity, but more like he’s a challenge. In relationship past, I remember wanting to know EVERYTHING about my partner. I wanted to dig into his past, his routine, his thoughts, his habits. Now I think of that as a kind of destructive exercise - an effort to control and contain. Knowledge IS power, don’t you know.
Kiko is in some ways unpredictable to me. I know I’ve only known him barely more than half a year, but I thought he’d be something constant to me by now - not too familiar, but someone I could put my finger on. Instead I see him in all different shades, he surprises me and somehow manages to be new and known at the same time. You know the moment you look at an old friend out of context and you discover something about them that you’d overlooked or couldn’t see for the trees all that time? That’s Kiko again and again.
On the same token, I’m a little more comfortable and aware of my own boundaries this time around. It’s not that I keep secrets, it’s just that I know where I stop and he begins. There’s a pleasant feeling in sitting comfortable beside so much unknown, but trust it even so. That’s a knew feeling for me: savouring my independence, but giving my trust. It’s taken me till now.
So it was a good weekend. It was an escape, a long farewell, a chance to see one another without the distractions of everyday and extraordinary life. We went swimming, we ate, we drank, we got lost in a maze (literally - and enjoyably so), we did staff Christmas party socialising and danced to a bad cover band.
We also did the obligatory Margaret river perusal of local vineyards. After more than six months in WA I’m a bit over the wines of the South West. I’m secretly hankering for a burgundy and maybe a big red. But still, there was some good drinking. I took Kiko to Pierro and he walked away with a couple of their chardonnay, we crossed the road and did the same at Brookland Valley, but the best - most memorable- thing I drank was a sparkling called La Cache. Seriously. It was awesome. And while a bit beyond a student budget (read: more expensive than a bottle of passion pop), I manage to smuggle one bottle back east. Okay. I admit. Kiko bought it for me.
La Cache, people. Not widely distributed, you might have to order it on the net.
It was Kiko’s Christmas party as planned - the resort, the location and all that. Which didn’t actually turn out to impress like I thought it might. A resort means a hotel with that wants to trap you on its premises and make you play mini-golf. It defeats the purpose of being somewhere beautiful, surely? It was nice, but not so special. I like privacy and interesting design. The resort has lots of group activities and corporate interiors. But you know... I wasn’t paying, so I swollow my snobbery and serve myself second helpings.
The road trip down south was taken in Kiko’s Mustang on a 37 degree day. All I can say about the Mustang is that German’s make good cars. But damn, does he love that car. We might have been able to leave in time to escape the midday sun (important because we’re talking about a car that’s more than 40 years old with no air conditioning and vinyl seats!), if he didn’t spend the early parts of the morning meticulously polishing and cleaning the thing. I suppose it looked good, at least looked good enough to attract the 1001 insects once we’d hit the road.
The highlight of the weekend was definitely our trips to Bunker Bay. (It’s somewhere on point Naturaliste just beyond Dunsborough, if anyone’s planning holidays!) I’ve never know such spectacularly clear blue water in climates not tropical. But unlike tropical waters, the sea was cool which suited me well on such a hot day. And just above the beach is a nice cafe that don’t (noticeably) mind if you stumble in with sandy beach gear and salty hair to shuck down oysters and sip on local wines.
In such good company and beautiful surrounds I would have had to work hard to sabotage the weekend. I was still caught up in my thoughts for some of the time, but there were long stretches where I could just enjoy being. I thought a lot about Kiko. I pay close attention to his words, too often at the expense of his actions. But I noticed all the little things over the weekend, the gestures and the body language and that he’ll get up and dance with me despite being afflicted with two left feet and no rhythm.
I find him so interesting, so intriguing - which might sound like a cold complement, but I don’t mean it like he’s a curiosity, but more like he’s a challenge. In relationship past, I remember wanting to know EVERYTHING about my partner. I wanted to dig into his past, his routine, his thoughts, his habits. Now I think of that as a kind of destructive exercise - an effort to control and contain. Knowledge IS power, don’t you know.
Kiko is in some ways unpredictable to me. I know I’ve only known him barely more than half a year, but I thought he’d be something constant to me by now - not too familiar, but someone I could put my finger on. Instead I see him in all different shades, he surprises me and somehow manages to be new and known at the same time. You know the moment you look at an old friend out of context and you discover something about them that you’d overlooked or couldn’t see for the trees all that time? That’s Kiko again and again.
On the same token, I’m a little more comfortable and aware of my own boundaries this time around. It’s not that I keep secrets, it’s just that I know where I stop and he begins. There’s a pleasant feeling in sitting comfortable beside so much unknown, but trust it even so. That’s a knew feeling for me: savouring my independence, but giving my trust. It’s taken me till now.
So it was a good weekend. It was an escape, a long farewell, a chance to see one another without the distractions of everyday and extraordinary life. We went swimming, we ate, we drank, we got lost in a maze (literally - and enjoyably so), we did staff Christmas party socialising and danced to a bad cover band.
We also did the obligatory Margaret river perusal of local vineyards. After more than six months in WA I’m a bit over the wines of the South West. I’m secretly hankering for a burgundy and maybe a big red. But still, there was some good drinking. I took Kiko to Pierro and he walked away with a couple of their chardonnay, we crossed the road and did the same at Brookland Valley, but the best - most memorable- thing I drank was a sparkling called La Cache. Seriously. It was awesome. And while a bit beyond a student budget (read: more expensive than a bottle of passion pop), I manage to smuggle one bottle back east. Okay. I admit. Kiko bought it for me.
La Cache, people. Not widely distributed, you might have to order it on the net.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Airport scene
And just like that, I’m the whole length of a continent away. A different time zone. A different climate. Hello Melbourne, are you home? My home?
Kiko delivered me to the airport and we said good bye with an urgent embrace and passionate kiss. He told me he doesn’t do airport farewells some weeks ago, but without me ever asking he drove me there.
Right up till I was gone, I couldn’t believe I was going. We ate feijoada and chocolate cake the night before and a kind of domestic normality had been restored. But my life seems to unfold in incongruent episodes that don’t allow me too long to linger on the couch. From the trauma of last week, to a weekend away somewhere beautiful, then flying into a 12 degree Autumnal day in Melbourne, I wonder what’s the common thread? Whose writing the script?
Now I’m here, I don’t want to be. This doesn’t feel like home - but I don’t know where would. I feel like I’m in quarantine, waiting to be cleared. I’ve spent the whole day on the internet watching time tick over, looking for clues, waiting from something - to hear, to know what’s next.
I know this isn’t the way I should be doing things, to let a whole day pass by while I’m searching for something that isn’t there. I need to give myself some structure, to put things in some order. I want to call Kiko and for him to give me instructions, but this is the wrong thing too. I haven’t told my family the events of the last week, but the words are in my mouth wanting to be spoken. So many words. I need to get organised and overcome this inertia.
It’s 3pm in Melbourne and I should be dressed by now. I will get dressed. I will find my mum’s bike. I will ride to the local pool to find out how much entry costs and I might swim there tomorrow morning. I will cook dinner. I will think up a plan for the days ahead.
Kiko delivered me to the airport and we said good bye with an urgent embrace and passionate kiss. He told me he doesn’t do airport farewells some weeks ago, but without me ever asking he drove me there.
Right up till I was gone, I couldn’t believe I was going. We ate feijoada and chocolate cake the night before and a kind of domestic normality had been restored. But my life seems to unfold in incongruent episodes that don’t allow me too long to linger on the couch. From the trauma of last week, to a weekend away somewhere beautiful, then flying into a 12 degree Autumnal day in Melbourne, I wonder what’s the common thread? Whose writing the script?
Now I’m here, I don’t want to be. This doesn’t feel like home - but I don’t know where would. I feel like I’m in quarantine, waiting to be cleared. I’ve spent the whole day on the internet watching time tick over, looking for clues, waiting from something - to hear, to know what’s next.
I know this isn’t the way I should be doing things, to let a whole day pass by while I’m searching for something that isn’t there. I need to give myself some structure, to put things in some order. I want to call Kiko and for him to give me instructions, but this is the wrong thing too. I haven’t told my family the events of the last week, but the words are in my mouth wanting to be spoken. So many words. I need to get organised and overcome this inertia.
It’s 3pm in Melbourne and I should be dressed by now. I will get dressed. I will find my mum’s bike. I will ride to the local pool to find out how much entry costs and I might swim there tomorrow morning. I will cook dinner. I will think up a plan for the days ahead.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Spin cycle
Like I said, I'm feeling better. But better is far from quite right. My mind is stuck on spin cycle and I can't help but re-play the details of the night over and over, and then over again. And when that's not enough, I think about the details of conversations I've had with the people involve, impressions I have, things I wonder, and the big black holes in my knowledge.
And then I imagine what a court case might be like. It's every worst-case news article I've read when lawyers rip victims to shreds, jaded judges passing skewed judgement, characters are assassinated, personal/sexual histories are interrogated, the questioning is sexist, misogynistic, intended to destroy, to humiliate, to incriminate.
My internal monologue is struggling to justify my actions, to defend myself and explain why and when and how. Everything has a shade of guilt and I wonder when I will have permission to be myself again. I'm away with Kiko right now and I've been taking photos of our trip. It's our last days together before I head east and he heads overseas for a time. But still I wonder, is it appropriate I post photos of myself on facebook having fun, enjoying myself? I have people on facebook who might be witnesses in my court case. What can they say about me? And in everything I do, I'm looking for evidence and proof.
It's only early days, and I'm sure in time the intensity of my self-scrutiny will lighten. But I imagine the court case might have its own trauma. There's more hurdles to overcome in the months ahead, so it's a while yet before life will be as I've known it.
I've avoided speaking to friends who will be interviewed by police. I've left the ball in their court, though I think I'm allowed to speak to them. There's an intervention order against the person involved, and that persons partner has "de-friended" on facebook. I'm not worried or disturbed by that. Part of the intervention order is that the person is not allowed to contact me or have anyone contact me on their behalf - and in someways, having their partner as my friend of facebook is contact. Maybe the detective asked them to do that? I don't know. I look at facebook to regularly for clues as to what is happening, what people are thinking. But of course, no one is giving anything away. I don't know if they've been interviewed yet. I guess I could ask my detective, but I don't want to seem like a drama queen. I'm cultivating some obsessive behaviour - clearly. I probably should do something about that. Uh, I hurt.
And then I imagine what a court case might be like. It's every worst-case news article I've read when lawyers rip victims to shreds, jaded judges passing skewed judgement, characters are assassinated, personal/sexual histories are interrogated, the questioning is sexist, misogynistic, intended to destroy, to humiliate, to incriminate.
My internal monologue is struggling to justify my actions, to defend myself and explain why and when and how. Everything has a shade of guilt and I wonder when I will have permission to be myself again. I'm away with Kiko right now and I've been taking photos of our trip. It's our last days together before I head east and he heads overseas for a time. But still I wonder, is it appropriate I post photos of myself on facebook having fun, enjoying myself? I have people on facebook who might be witnesses in my court case. What can they say about me? And in everything I do, I'm looking for evidence and proof.
It's only early days, and I'm sure in time the intensity of my self-scrutiny will lighten. But I imagine the court case might have its own trauma. There's more hurdles to overcome in the months ahead, so it's a while yet before life will be as I've known it.
I've avoided speaking to friends who will be interviewed by police. I've left the ball in their court, though I think I'm allowed to speak to them. There's an intervention order against the person involved, and that persons partner has "de-friended" on facebook. I'm not worried or disturbed by that. Part of the intervention order is that the person is not allowed to contact me or have anyone contact me on their behalf - and in someways, having their partner as my friend of facebook is contact. Maybe the detective asked them to do that? I don't know. I look at facebook to regularly for clues as to what is happening, what people are thinking. But of course, no one is giving anything away. I don't know if they've been interviewed yet. I guess I could ask my detective, but I don't want to seem like a drama queen. I'm cultivating some obsessive behaviour - clearly. I probably should do something about that. Uh, I hurt.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Other good things
Tomorrow I'm heading down south for Kiko's Christmas party and then I fly back east for (a good part of) the summer. I'm looking forward to escaping for a time, and am grateful that I get to spend my last days with Kiko far from the surreal drama of this week. I'm also looking forward to seeing my family and reminding myself what it feels like to be home.
____
This morning I swam in the Indian ocean. I swam beyond the breakers to where the water was a brilliant shade of aquamarine and the waves rolled toward the beach in smooth, gentle lines. It was lovely. The morning was bright and warm and the water was cold. The horizon seem so far away and it's strange to imagine the next land mass west of here is Africa.
It was nice if everyday began with a chance to lie on top of the waves. For a moment the chatter of my mind seemed to quieten and things everything felt far, far away.
____
And this is something I wrote just after the weekend and meant to post at the beginning of the week, just a life time or so ago.
I’m in love with the mother. And I suppose the son has some charm too. I knew I was meeting a formidable woman. I’d composed a picture of a fiery woman from her appearances in Kiko’s stories. Fiery expressed as a kind of prickliness. And since I know how abrasive and blunt Kiko can be, I’d prepared my defences and tailored my expectations to suit a difficult woman. Not a charming, passionate, softly feminine and eloquent woman, not someone so warm and welcoming I’d be tempted to ditch her son for the afternoon to listen to her speak. But that’s the way it was.
Their house has been transplanted from the mediterranean, and is a few too many parts concrete - but compensated by the shade of grape vines that form a canopy down the length of the back yard. They make their own wine and grow their own olives. There’s a fig tree and a herb garden and a wood fired oven in the midst of the vegie patch, and I have the vivid image of warm summer nights sipping sangria under lanterns hanging from the vines come to mind.
And then there’s their art studio which takes up most of the house. There’s a clear demarcation between a small territory of domestic life: a generous kitchen and bathroom all decorated with bold coloured tiles that lead onto bedrooms, then the rest of the house that descends into a particular flavour of organised chaos of artworks in progress. It was an exciting place to be.
The conversation at the dinner table ambled along from art and family, food - especially food, sexual politics, colonialism, the ethics of Safran’s Race Relations, the logistics of family Christmas overseas and back to food again. And for the most part I was just happy to watch and listen; I’d be happy to watch and listen every weekend for a year. It was a wonderful homecoming feeling. Like a warm embrace. It was also a glimpse of some of the texture and colour of life and conversation I didn’t realised I missed so much this year. To delve into conversation about the world outside the everyday- or about medicine and marks and the personalities of our course.
I promised myself at the beginning of this crazy experience that I wouldn’t lose myself, that I’d hold on to the world outside and not become the self-obsessed med student. I was going to have a life here, have balance, have friends whose best guess at what the hypothalmic-pituitary-gonadal axis is is that it’s something to do with balls. So I failed. At some point I may have had a foot stamping toddler tantrum about upcoming exams, I might have barely read anything that didn’t involved the jarring, bastard language of the med-science world, and I might have lost a little perspective. Family lunch with Kiko’s lunch was a reminder of some of the things I’ve been missing.
I think about why I’ve written here almost ritually throughout the year, and partly this blog has become a companion. It’s a conversation about things I can’t or won’t talk about amongst my classmates at uni. I see the same people most days of the week here and have a fair share of social invites, but yet there’s a kind of loneliness about life here. Not of the painfully desperate kind, just a want of personal reflective space and that chance to identify with someone, recognise something of yourself in another.
I’m better at a few good friends and some good conversation that trying to juggle anything bigger. Perhaps that’s part of the reason I find myself retreating to the fringes, because everything this year has been in groups. We follow each other between classes in a disorderly herd and lunch together, study together and worry ourselves into group hysteria. But at some point, all this togetherness becomes claustrophobic and my time and space to think about anything else is stifled.
So this last week of idle nothingness and time spent wandering through the day on my own feels exactly like diving into a cool, still pool. And to find other topics of conversation and people passionate about their world is like rising to the surface to find it’s a summer’s morning. Yes, that’s exactly what it’s like.
Despite everything, I do really, really enjoy studying medicine and I am glad to be hear, glad to have this opportunity. But I don’t want to become a med student - if that’s possible not too. Or if it’s already too late, I’d like to be a med student as well as...
____
This morning I swam in the Indian ocean. I swam beyond the breakers to where the water was a brilliant shade of aquamarine and the waves rolled toward the beach in smooth, gentle lines. It was lovely. The morning was bright and warm and the water was cold. The horizon seem so far away and it's strange to imagine the next land mass west of here is Africa.
It was nice if everyday began with a chance to lie on top of the waves. For a moment the chatter of my mind seemed to quieten and things everything felt far, far away.
____
And this is something I wrote just after the weekend and meant to post at the beginning of the week, just a life time or so ago.
I’m in love with the mother. And I suppose the son has some charm too. I knew I was meeting a formidable woman. I’d composed a picture of a fiery woman from her appearances in Kiko’s stories. Fiery expressed as a kind of prickliness. And since I know how abrasive and blunt Kiko can be, I’d prepared my defences and tailored my expectations to suit a difficult woman. Not a charming, passionate, softly feminine and eloquent woman, not someone so warm and welcoming I’d be tempted to ditch her son for the afternoon to listen to her speak. But that’s the way it was.
Their house has been transplanted from the mediterranean, and is a few too many parts concrete - but compensated by the shade of grape vines that form a canopy down the length of the back yard. They make their own wine and grow their own olives. There’s a fig tree and a herb garden and a wood fired oven in the midst of the vegie patch, and I have the vivid image of warm summer nights sipping sangria under lanterns hanging from the vines come to mind.
And then there’s their art studio which takes up most of the house. There’s a clear demarcation between a small territory of domestic life: a generous kitchen and bathroom all decorated with bold coloured tiles that lead onto bedrooms, then the rest of the house that descends into a particular flavour of organised chaos of artworks in progress. It was an exciting place to be.
The conversation at the dinner table ambled along from art and family, food - especially food, sexual politics, colonialism, the ethics of Safran’s Race Relations, the logistics of family Christmas overseas and back to food again. And for the most part I was just happy to watch and listen; I’d be happy to watch and listen every weekend for a year. It was a wonderful homecoming feeling. Like a warm embrace. It was also a glimpse of some of the texture and colour of life and conversation I didn’t realised I missed so much this year. To delve into conversation about the world outside the everyday- or about medicine and marks and the personalities of our course.
I promised myself at the beginning of this crazy experience that I wouldn’t lose myself, that I’d hold on to the world outside and not become the self-obsessed med student. I was going to have a life here, have balance, have friends whose best guess at what the hypothalmic-pituitary-gonadal axis is is that it’s something to do with balls. So I failed. At some point I may have had a foot stamping toddler tantrum about upcoming exams, I might have barely read anything that didn’t involved the jarring, bastard language of the med-science world, and I might have lost a little perspective. Family lunch with Kiko’s lunch was a reminder of some of the things I’ve been missing.
I think about why I’ve written here almost ritually throughout the year, and partly this blog has become a companion. It’s a conversation about things I can’t or won’t talk about amongst my classmates at uni. I see the same people most days of the week here and have a fair share of social invites, but yet there’s a kind of loneliness about life here. Not of the painfully desperate kind, just a want of personal reflective space and that chance to identify with someone, recognise something of yourself in another.
I’m better at a few good friends and some good conversation that trying to juggle anything bigger. Perhaps that’s part of the reason I find myself retreating to the fringes, because everything this year has been in groups. We follow each other between classes in a disorderly herd and lunch together, study together and worry ourselves into group hysteria. But at some point, all this togetherness becomes claustrophobic and my time and space to think about anything else is stifled.
So this last week of idle nothingness and time spent wandering through the day on my own feels exactly like diving into a cool, still pool. And to find other topics of conversation and people passionate about their world is like rising to the surface to find it’s a summer’s morning. Yes, that’s exactly what it’s like.
Despite everything, I do really, really enjoy studying medicine and I am glad to be hear, glad to have this opportunity. But I don’t want to become a med student - if that’s possible not too. Or if it’s already too late, I’d like to be a med student as well as...
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