Ask A Librarian

It's 11:19am on Tuesday, February 25, and I am currently at the State Library. I've come here to look up newspaper articles featuring Mum and her career, The reason I’m doing this is because I am nominating her for an Order of Australia Medal. They give you the option of including newspaper articles and relevant media to support the nomination.

A young Aboriginal librarian helped me get started this morning. My library membership had expired, and she set me up with a new one before walking me through how to access articles on their most reliable database. I’m going to read and print articles that are digital copies of the original newspapers saved on microfilm. The microfilm includes photos and the surrounding articles on each particular newspaper page, which helps provide historical context.

I’ve just done an initial search on NewsBank, typing in Mum's name. There are a lot of articles, and I want to do this properly. Now that I have a library card, I also have access to NewsBank at home, so I plan to go through the articles there and note down the ones I want copies of from the microfilm. Then, I’ll come back to the library, find the microfilm copies, and sit down to print the ones I need. This is going to be a huge task, and I want to get it done sooner rather than later because, although I didn’t see a nomination deadline, I’m sure they need ample time to research nominees.

Earlier, I mentioned that the young librarian who helped me was Aboriginal. I hate it when people make unnecessary racial or medical descriptors—like when the news says, "the offender was of Aboriginal appearance" or "the suspect has bipolar disorder or schizophrenia." I personally find it irrelevant. However, I made a point of mentioning it today because, to be honest, I haven’t seen many Aboriginal people working in public service roles. I know there are some, but it still seems rare.

Twenty-three years ago, I worked on the front desk of an Aboriginal organisation, where most of the staff were Aboriginal. One day, a young Aboriginal man Grant came down the stairs and, in front of a large group of people, said that I was good at my job, but he would much rather see an Aboriginal woman working reception. Another white woman was there when he said it, and afterward, she approached me with one of the senior Aboriginal women.

They told me that what Grant had said was racist and discriminatory and that they wanted me to make a formal complaint. They had already prepared a stack of paperwork and typed statements, but I refused. At the time, I was young and naïve. I didn’t think he was right to say it, but I didn’t think he was wrong either—it just didn’t mean anything to me. Grant and I were friendly, we talked, and I didn’t see the point in making it a big deal about what he'd said.

Looking back, I see that he was making a very valid point. I don’t want to sound patronising, but it would be good to see more Aboriginal people employed in these roles. Technically, saying he would rather see an Aboriginal woman at the front desk than a white woman could be construed as offensive or racist, but I don’t really see it that way. If the roles had been reversed—if I were an Aboriginal woman sitting at reception, and a white man came down and said, "I would much rather see a white woman working here"—that would be something else entirely. But for some reason, it doesn’t work the other way for me. There’s a level of irony in it.

So yes, I was pleased to see a young Aboriginal woman working at the State Library. She must be a librarian because she was sitting at a desk labeled "Ask A Librarian." She was amazing and went above and beyond to help me today.

I love the State Library. I used to come here all the time to look up old newspaper articles on microfilm. I can’t remember how to use the machine anymore, but once I’ve found the articles I need, I’ll come back and ask someone to help me with it.

You can see a photo I took of the front of the State Library below.

I also took a photo of where I’m currently sitting, typing this. It’s at the back of the library, up against the wall, behind shelves of books. I love hiding out in places like this at libraries—there’s something a little bit magical about it.

Some of the shelves are looking a little empty, but I still feel hidden away. And just to add a little more magic to the whole scenario, there’s a window just above me that looks out onto the science centre. I don’t know much about it—only that the Royal Society is in there somewhere.

I once attended a talk at the Royal Society and found them to be arrogant, elitist, and even exclusionary.

I took a photo of my view of the science centre, and if you look closely in the windows, you can see skeletons of what I think are animals. I would be blown away if there were some small dinosaurs there too.

I caught an Uber into the city this morning, and the driver was from Somalia. I was surprised—I’ve never had an African Uber driver before, let alone someone from Somalia. He said he came here in 2001, initially working in a factory, and for the past seven years, he has been driving for Uber. I’m not making any judgments, but he must have come here as a refugee.

I told him I knew about Al-Shabaab, and he immediately reacted, saying, "You know Al-Shabaab?!" I replied, "Yes, I know who they are, but I don’t actually know anyone from the militant organisation." I sometimes read about them because they have a significant presence in Kenya, which borders Tanzania, and I have friends in Tanzania. I was also a little worried about Al-Shabaab when I was last in Tanzania in 2018–2019.

Before heading into the library this morning, I stopped at the State Library café and ordered a cheese and tomato croissant. The lady behind the counter asked if I wanted it toasted, and I said yes. She gave me a number for my table, and I went to sit down.

After a while, another Asian woman brought a plate with my croissant, but I couldn’t see all the contents inside. I asked if there was any ham in it, and she looked at me like she didn’t understand. I repeated myself, but she just walked away. A while later, I went up to the counter and asked about my order. I noticed a ham and cheese croissant in the toaster and said, "No ham." She looked confused and pointed to a younger man at the front.

He asked if I wanted a croissant with just cheese and tomato, and I said yes. I went back to my table, and eventually, they brought me the original croissant—but by then, it was stone cold, and the cheese wasn’t melted. I know this is a first-world problem, but it really annoyed me. I didn’t say anything, but I thought about writing a bad review online. However, when I left, the young man gave me a friendly goodbye, and I didn’t want to throw shade on his business.

I love multiculturalism. I celebrate diversity, I welcome migrants and refugees, and I believe the more, the merrier. But I do think that if someone is working in a service industry, it’s fair to expect them to learn English or at least have a plan for how to communicate with English speaking customers.

Below, you can see the croissant.

I'm back home from the library, and I want to tell you about an experience I had yesterday.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but recently I asked one of the owners of my normal hairdresser about a really nice young man they had on trial for an apprenticeship. Mario, the owner, told me the young man was really good, but that he had left it a little too late in life to start an apprenticeship.

I asked what he meant by that, and he said the young man was 24 years old—which meant he would have to pay him the same rate as a fully qualified hairdresser. He told me it wasn’t worth it for him to employ this man as an apprentice when he could hire a fully qualified hairdresser for the same price.

I thought that kind of thing was illegal, but I can see how people get away with it. It would be so easy to come up with other excuses for why they didn’t want to hire someone. After hearing that, I felt a little annoyed at the salon so I thought I'd take a temporary break from them. 

There’s another salon about half an hour away from our house, at Ingle Farm Shopping Centre. It’s a bit of a trek, and I stumbled across it simply because I like the shopping centre and sometimes go there. I used to often visit this salon on Mondays when my usual one is shut, and sometimes get a blow-dry or a colour.

I hadn’t been there in over a year, but I went back yesterday. Below, you can see a photo of the back of the salon, as well as the view from my seat looking out into the shopping centre.

My regular salon is owned and run by a married Italian couple, while the one I went to yesterday is owned and run by a married Greek couple. The regular salon is very contemporary and expensive, whereas this one is more of a traditional hairdressing salon.

One thing my regular salon does is give a five-minute head massage whenever you're at the basin getting a wash. I actually think that's a very smart business decision because it feels so good. Yesterday’s trip to the salon did not include a head massage.

A hairdresser I hadn’t seen before, Angela looked after me, and we got chatting. She was 50 years old, close to my age, and the way she talked about hairdressing made me nostalgic about my brief time as both an apprentice and later working at a salon in town—shampooing hair and managing the reception desk. I had a colour done, and I could really smell it. Another lady was having a perm, and the scent of perm lotion and neutraliser filled the air. I go to the hairdresser often but somehow being at this salon brought back so many memories.I started to wonder how my life might have gone if I had stuck with hairdressing. 

If I had gone down that path, I might have met a fellow tradie, gotten married, and had a couple of children. Maybe I would have aspired to own my own salon—though I know that now, I wouldn’t want my own business. I would prefer to work for someone else and just hope that my husband made enough money so that, with our combined income, we could enjoy the good things in life, like family holidays.

Angela, told me that both of her daughters were hairdressers too—one fully qualified, the other in her third year of an apprenticeship. She had been at this salon for nearly a year, but at her previous job for 16 years. It’s a trade and a job, but it’s also a lifestyle.

Below, you can see two photos I took in the salon. The first is a painting of Marilyn Monroe that I really liked, and the second is an advertisement for Wella haircare products.

The model in the Wella ad is Samantha Harris, an Aboriginal model, and—like I said earlier—I don’t want to sound patronising, but I love the fact that she is a strong Indigenous woman.

I think Aboriginal women are incredibly beautiful—they have a distinct, striking look, and I’m surprised there aren’t more models with an Indigenous background.

A Despicable Act

During the day today, it was reported that Pope Francis's condition has become critical, and from media reports, I sense that he will soon die. I'm not sad about this, but I'm also not happy. The way I feel is frustrated that I can't be in Rome or the Vatican to be a part of it all. I can't afford to go, and even if I could, both Mum and Rebecca have told me it wouldn't be the wisest use of money. See, I think it would be. It is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to observe historical protocols and see what happens in a situation like this.

I often refer to the Catholic Church as a criminal organisation, and in many ways, I think it is—but I have this deep curiosity about it. I think it's because there are so many spin-offs, yet the Catholic Church is the true foundation of Christianity. I also like the fact that the Catholic Church claims to have the bones of Saint Peter. Maybe they do. There would be no way to actually tell, but I think it's possible. I bet they've got all sorts of treasures hidden away in the dungeons of the Vatican.

It's a shame they don't share these relics with their faithful—or with the public in general, who might have an interest in them.

Apart from learning about the Pontiff’s impending departure from this world, I’ve had a low-key Sunday. I watched as Mum got ready for an "Afternoon Teal," a gathering she attends every year to raise money for ovarian cancer.

Mum asked if I wanted to come along, but I declined simply because I never really know what to say to the sorts of people who would be there. They are a group of fabulous, successful women, but I always feel a bit out of place in those situations. This year, in particular, it’s even harder to explain where I am in life, given that I’ve taken the year off to focus on my book.

Another thing I struggle with in groups of women is the fact that I don’t have children. It’s something I hope to get over one day.

Every year, Mum brings pies, pasties, and these gorgeous cupcakes as her contribution to the fundraiser. Below, you can see the cupcakes.

It reminds me of how every year around my birthday, I would get chocolate cupcakes from the same bakery and take them to Cowandilla Primary School, where my origami class met two Saturdays a month. I loved going there and attended for around four years. We had this beautiful older Japanese woman who taught origami and a couple of other regulars. Sometimes people would come along for a lesson with their children, but it was mostly us regulars working on individual projects. For me, that meant making lots of paper cranes.

There was another older Australian woman who found origami later in life and became extremely passionate, even obsessed with it. She could be really annoying when she was teaching me something. For example, one day we made this complex box, and when I had finished mine, she took it from me, undid everything I'd done, and said, "Now do it again." I never get angry at anyone, but I think when she did that, I expressed extreme annoyance. At one point, this woman—who I will call Louise—went through a stage of making origami dinosaurs, and they looked amazing. 

I used to go to these events at the museum called Night Lab, which are themed parties held on Friday nights, where people dress up, and activities are set up throughout the museum. There is also a cocktail bar, which I like to indulge in. They are such good fun. I haven't been for a while but would like to get back into it this year.

I got a notice about an upcoming Night Lab that was dinosaur-themed, and I told Louise she should teach people how to make origami dinosaurs at the event. They usually have someone doing origami at Night Lab, so I thought it would be fun if she volunteered her time. I'm not sure if I actually said "volunteer," but I made it pretty clear that was what I meant. I have a contact at the museum, so I sent her an email telling her I knew someone who made exquisite dinosaur origami and could volunteer at the event. She put me in touch with a man named Tyson, and he contacted me, asking if Louise and I could meet him for coffee at the museum to discuss it.

Throughout my dealings with the museum, I made it clear that Louise would be a volunteer, and I said I could assist her in the same capacity. I arranged a day for Louise, Tyson, and me to meet at the museum for coffee. I met Louise earlier, and we walked around for a while. She told me she was nervous. I sort of laughed, but I didn't understand why she would be nervous about meeting with Tyson for a volunteer gig. I let it go, and when the time came, we met him at the coffee shop.

Tyson bought us both a coffee, and Louise whipped out her folder with examples of her origami. To be honest, it was overkill, but that’s just what she’s like, so I didn’t think anything of it. I talked to Tyson a bit, and it turned out he knew a friend of mine, a well-known geologist in those circles, so we established a rapport. Then, Tyson said something about a stipend, which I think he meant to cover petrol or parking, but then Louise said she usually charges $80 an hour for her services.

I looked at her like, "What the fuck?" but she just looked at Tyson, who was being really nice about it. He said he could do that, but I was absolutely livid. I don’t think I actually said "volunteer," but I made it perfectly clear that was the spirit in which she would be working at the museum for Night Lab. I can't explain it—I have never been so angry about something in my entire life. I know the museum said they would pay her, but the way she went about it was like she was trying to make a quick buck, and I was ashamed I had brought her there. 

We finished coffee, and Tyson gave us complimentary tickets to the Wildlife Photographer Of The Year Exhibition, which was on. Louise and I walked through the exhibition, and I held my tongue. When I got home, I wrote an email to Tyson, apologising that Louise had asked for money, and he wrote back, saying it was fine—they often pay people for their services. I wrote back and said, "That might be right, but that is not how I do business."

I went back to origami classes once after that, but then I just couldn’t stand the sight of the woman and stopped going. I wasn’t going to confront her about it—there would be no point. In her own mind, she had done nothing wrong, but to me, that was a despicable act.

Complex Clinical Situation

Today is exactly one week after Valentine’s Day. I meant to write about it, and about love in general, but I have been quite busy over the past week. I wasn't the recipient of any Valentines this year, and I don't think I've actually received a Valentine for nearly 20 years.

The last time I remember receiving anything was when my boyfriend at the time took me to a café in North Adelaide, and we sat at a table out the front. He gave me a gold necklace with a green stone, which at the time I thought was lovely. We hadn't been in a relationship for that long, and everything was exciting—we were young, and we were all over each other. An older couple came up to our table and told us they had been watching us from inside the café and that we reminded them of themselves when they were young.

I look back on that Valentine’s Day, and I genuinely feel sick thinking about being with that particular man, who cheated on me so many times over two years and was also just using me to get to my parents. It's the type of thing where you need to apologise to yourself for letting someone touch you when it didn't come from love.

Anyway, every Valentine’s Day, I give my mother and Rebecca a Valentine. I used to give my dad and Nanny a Valentine as well. It's hard to believe that it was a year ago I sent Dad a big bunch of roses and a balloon to his nursing home from his secret admirer. It was also a year ago that I delivered Nanny's soft toy and roses to her.

Before Dad got dementia, I think he felt sorry for me on Valentine’s Day, and I remember on one occasion when I was living with Mum and Dad, he came downstairs to my room and told me someone had left something at the door for me. He then handed me a plastic bag with a picture frame in it and a box of chocolates. It also had a Valentine’s Day card in it that hadn't been written on. That was typical of my dad—he wouldn't wrap presents or really write in cards unless my mother directed it. But you couldn't wipe the smile off my face on that particular day.

This year, I sent Mum and Rebecca the same small floral arrangement. It was three roses in a little vase that had this black mesh-type decoration over it. Below, you can see the roses from Tynte Flowers that I sent Mum.

I've mentioned on this blog that I don't want a partner, but the truth is, it's not that I don't want one—it's that I literally cannot be with someone. I am flawed in a way that is incompatible with society, and therefore, it would be irresponsible and inappropriate for me to engage with any man in any way.

I celebrate the brother-sister type relationships I enjoy with Hussein, Andrew, Maiki, and Peter, my new friend in Cambodia—none of whom are interested in me romantically. And they are enough for me. It's also not like I long for someone either; it's just not an option for me.

I don't think about it logistically—it's just that lately, I've been having involuntary thoughts and dreams, which I feel may intensify in the coming years, depending on how long perimenopause and then menopause itself take. But I have a strong will and will be able to combat any unwanted desires.

But if you asked me what I would want from a man, I would want a partner who would take me to the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes in France. If you don't know it, it's a major Catholic pilgrimage site, known for its connection to Marian apparitions and reported miraculous healings.

The healing reputation of Lourdes is closely tied to its miraculous spring water, which is believed by many to have divine healing properties. This belief originates from the visions of Saint Bernadette Soubirous in 1858, when she claimed that the Virgin Mary instructed her to dig in the ground, revealing a hidden spring.

Apparently, 71 miracles at Lourdes have been confirmed by the Catholic Church, but there have also been over 7,500 unexplained healings. It's all to do with the water, and I want to bathe in it.

I have a significant flaw, which is also a chronic ailment, and even though I'm not Catholic, I believe there is something about this site that has healing properties. I know 71 confirmed miracles doesn't sound like a lot, but that is 71 people who had to go through the bureaucracy of the Catholic Church and prove that their healing was a miracle.

I've seen a documentary on that process, and it takes years—involving doctors, appointments, and endless evaluations. I don’t know why it would be important to someone to have their miracle proven. It sounds like it would cost a lot of money, time, and involve a whole lot of red tape.

I look at the 7,500+ unexplained healings, and I think that paints a more realistic picture.

So, in my dreams, if I met a nice Catholic man who genuinely didn't care about my flaw and ailment, and he took me to Lourdes, and I was healed, I wouldn't tell a soul. No one would be able to tell the difference, because not much happens with my ailment but I would know, and I would be the happiest person in the world if the Virgin Mary could heal me.

It's not about having a man pay for me to travel to France and seek miracles. If I were looking for someone to fund my travel, there are plenty of other places I’d rather go. It’s also not about whether someone believes in miracles or not.

It’s about someone saying to me, "I recognise how important it is for you to try and cure your ailment, and I’m going to make that happen." It’s about someone being open enough to say, "I don’t know if miracles are real, but I am open to the possibility."

Whenever I think about the Virgin Mary, I want to know more of her story. I also wonder—did she stay a virgin forever?

Speaking of the Catholic Church, Pope Francis was hospitalised on Valentine’s Day due to complications from bronchitis, which progressed to bilateral pneumonia.

The other night, Mum and I were watching the news when the ticker at the bottom of the screen reported that the Vatican had described Pope Francis’s condition as a "complex clinical situation." They also mentioned that his condition involved a polymicrobial infection, which sounded serious.

When I saw this, I jumped up. It was such a coincidence because we had just finished watching the movie Conclave, and I thought to myself, "He's going to die, and there will actually be one."

I don’t like Pope Francis, but I wasn’t excited about the idea of him dying. To be honest, this was one of those moments where I wished I had some money, so I could fly to the Vatican and be in the crowd—watching in anticipation as the smoke rose from the chimney. Black smoke would mean no pope had been chosen, while white smoke would signal the election of a new one.

I would love to witness that in person. I don’t know why—I’m not Catholic, but I do believe in the story of Jesus, and I have my own thoughts about who he was. I also have my own opinions about Saint Peter, the apostle who, according to tradition, guards the gates of heaven. I wonder whether he would welcome Pope Francis and tell him he did a great job, or whether he’d be angry at his attitude towards victims of sexual abuse within the Church. I expect it would be the former.

It seems, however, that I put Pope Francis in his grave too soon. He is improving and is now in good spirits.

Thinking about it now, I don’t think I’ll go when the time comes. I can’t afford it, and, honestly, I think it would just make me angry. Besides, Australia doesn’t have representation at the Vatican as far as having a cardinal voting in the next conclave, so I can't sit around and speculate who he would vote for. 

A 21st Birthday Party

For as long as I can remember, the feedback I have received from society about my looks has been that I do not align with conventional standards of beauty. Essentially, I’m ugly. It used to really upset me, but it doesn’t anymore. I know it probably sounds like I have very low self-esteem, but it’s not that—I just have a realistic view about who I am and how I look.

At the moment, I look terrible. I am very overweight from some health issues I had quite some time ago. I haven’t been able to drop the weight, and if you combine that with my already unpleasant looks, I look hideous. But if you can get past the exterior, I’m okay. I am a curious, nice, flawed but normal woman.

I outlined all of that because, whilst I am okay with it now, when I was younger, I faced rejection from the world on so many levels, and I was desperate to be loved. I sometimes wonder if I cultivated my unique personality as a diversion from the very deep pain I felt about always being considered fat or ugly.

My first real bout of male attention came when I moved to Alice Springs. As I’ve mentioned before, I was living with butchers, chefs, and all sorts of men at my college dorm-style accommodation, Gillen House. Being the only young woman permanently living there, I got a lot of male attention. It was strange how I had gone from almost nothing back home to being very popular with men in the Alice.

I didn’t get a big head about it; on the contrary, it felt very unusual to me. But while I was there, I didn’t take any drastic measures to be loved. I more withdrew and withheld myself because I was too shy. If you met me, you wouldn’t think that I was shy in that regard, but I was, and I still am.

When I returned from Adelaide, there was a shift in me, and I became pathetic in a way.

Fast forward a few years to just before my 21st birthday. I was working at a large Indigenous organisation on reception. At the centre, there was a boxing gym, and a lot of boxers would make their way up the stairs every day.

I got to know this one boxer, Gerhard, quite well, and eventually, he asked for my number. He was so tall—he was 6 foot 6, and he was absolutely gorgeous. I couldn’t believe he liked me.

I went through a number of feelings of inadequacy, but he seemed to genuinely like me. In saying that, he took a long time to call me, and when he did, it was the week before my 21st birthday.

I didn’t want to have a 21st birthday party—mainly because I didn’t really have any friends. I know that might sound like I’m harping on with a sorry tale, but it’s true.

I had been to eight schools, I hadn’t been to uni yet, and I’d been temping around, making friends but then leaving the workplace when the contract ended. Everyone I had known was really on a transient level.

The year prior, I had just been to business college, and I had made a group of friends there, but apart from two other girls I was friends with from school, there was no one. I also didn’t have a best friend to make a speech.

But Mum was relentless about me having a 21st birthday party, and I eventually agreed on a sit-down dinner at what was then the Radisson Playford Hotel.

Mum and Dad invited some of their friends, my large extended family were invited, Nanny, her bastard of a husband, and her grandchildren, my friends from business college, and then the odd family friend. I would say there were around 70 people there.

It was quite a formal affair, but it was weird. I think the girls from business college thought they would be part of a larger group of my other friends, not realising that they were my only friends.

And my Dad made the speech, which I love him for, but it wasn’t funny or knowing—it was awkward. I remember him talking about how when I was a child I tried horse riding and I had cried. No one laughed or anything, but that’s the thing I loved about my Dad—he did not care about any of that.

He was proud of me at 21—things changed as the years went on, though.

The Advertiser came, and the photographer was a girl I used to go to primary school with, and we actually became very good friends after that night.

By the time the invitations were sent out and arrangements were made, it was too late for me to invite Gerhard to my party. It would have made the night even weirder if I had invited him because he wasn’t my boyfriend, and we barely knew each other.

But we did arrange to meet after the party. After the dinner wound up, Gerhard came and picked me up, and I left my own 21st birthday party. Everyone else stayed on drinking, but I was gone.

In retrospect, I still can’t believe I did that. It’s funny—I sometimes feel like that is something I can correct, even 23 years on. But I really wanted him to like me, and he wanted to see me that night.

We drove down to the beach, sat on the sand, and he held me while we talked for hours. I felt very safe with him because he was so tall and a competition boxer, but we didn’t kiss that night. In fact, we never kissed.

He picked me up a few times after that from home, and we went for drives and talked, but every time he did, I was almost blind drunk because I was so nervous about seeing him. I’m ashamed.

He then told me I was not the person who he thought I was, and in retrospect, I completely understand that. I was behaving like a drunk.

Gerhard the boxer went to the Olympics about ten years ago. He was on the news and in the paper a few times. I’ve also seen him around, and we always stop for a chat, but I really wish I had of had the confidence to just be myself.

I was 21 years old, and after Gerhard, I had a fling with my friend’s 17-year-old younger brother. He was young but very mature. He drank, took drugs, smoked—actually, those things probably don’t demonstrate maturity, but he did very adult things. He was in a hip-hop group and was also physically mature.

Again, I really liked him, and after we had slept together about four times, I asked him if he liked me, and he said, "I'm 17, you're 21, it's an achievement for me to be with you. It's just about sex for me."

I ended it then.

I had a number of little flings like that and a couple of relationships, mostly in my twenties. I was also involved with two men in my early thirties, but it has now been 12 years since I’ve been with a man.

I don’t want to tell people that. It’s the sort of thing that raises eyebrows. People would say, "There’s something not quite right about that woman," and they would be right to say that.

I didn’t actively look for a man, but then I think if someone had come along, I would have welcomed it. I can honestly say I really don’t want someone now, but there is something happening to my body.

I am not sure if I am at the beginnings of perimenopause, but my sexual appetite has increased to fever pitch. I can’t stop thinking about it. My body is also physically responding, and it’s making me think that in five years or so, I won’t be capable of this kind of desire. I won’t want a man at all. 

Fear Of The Flame

It’s 11:06pm on Tuesday, 11 February, and the last week has involved a bit of a countdown to Rebecca’s 40th birthday, which ended when we celebrated on Sunday. I spent some time at her house for a few days before her birthday, and it reminded me of the prelude to my 40th birthday. I started to think about all the things you reflect on before you turn 40—things like no husband, no kids, no house, no career—and for a hot minute, I started to feel a little bit down in the dumps.

Rebecca is much like me. She doesn’t have any of those things, but she did have a career. She was working as a mental illness peer support worker at Life Without Barriers, and she had been there for over five years until she left last year. I’m not actually sure why she left, but she is at a bit of a crossroads about what she wants to do with her life now. On one hand, I think it would be good for her to get out of peer support work and enter into something totally unrelated to mental illness. But then, on the other hand, if she is working in a mainstream workplace, they wouldn’t tolerate her considerable absences from work due to her mental illness.

Anyway, I decided not to advise her because I am in no position to be dishing out advice when I am struggling to get myself together. I mentioned that I’ve decided not to go to uni this year—not to attempt it or even think about it. Well, I contacted the uni and asked if they could hold my place until next year, and I heard back from them and they said that they were willing to do that.

You might ask yourself how taking this time off is any different from any of the last couple of years, where I’ve started studying and then overloaded myself with volunteer work or other activities. Well, now I am so close to finding out exactly what it is that I want. I know I want to write books. I’ve got a whole stack of notes for my book, which is going to be set in Cambodia—I just have to sit down and get it written.

I always think to myself that there are things I have to have done before I get started. Things like, "I need to read this book" or "I need to do this course", but the reality is, I just need to get my bum on a seat and type it out—and I’m going to do that. This blog helps me get into the flow of writing, so I’m going to draw on that feeling and get the job done.

So I want to write, and the other thing I want to do is glass art—both neon bending and glass blowing.

It was such a coincidence. I was over at my friend Andrew’s house, and he and his partner Mia put on a Netflix show called Blown Away, a reality show about glass blowers and the series of competitions they go through. I went home and binged the first two seasons, and now I have two left to go.

I have tried glass blowing from a flame, but not really in the hot shop, although we did touch on it when I was at uni around ten years ago. I have always been very frightened of the flame and fire, but that fear aside, I absolutely love glass and the nature of glass.

I had intended to learn how to bend neon this year in Melbourne, and after watching this show, I truly believe that if I could manage my fear of the flame and fire, I could contribute somehow—not as a glass artist as such, but as an artist who sometimes blows glass.

I had an idea of creating neon installations of animals headbutting each other. There’s something about the act of headbutting that fascinates me — it’s so deliberate, so precise. To hit another animal square in the head takes timing, accuracy, and an instinctive understanding of force and movement. It’s one of those wonderful little mysteries of nature. And I think animals like rams, goats, bison, deer, parrotfish — all those incredible creatures that clash head-to-head — would look absolutely magical lit up in neon.

Another coincidence around glass is that Dale Chihuly has a large-scale glass exhibition at the Botanical Gardens, so Mum, my former tutor and my beloved daughter-type best friend - Maureen and I, are going to the night show on Thursday night. I am also going to try and see it during the day on Thursday too.

This past Friday night, Mum and I watched a movie that satisfied every bone in my body. It was called Conclave, and as the name suggests, it is about a Papal Conclave after a Pope had suddenly died.

It was funny watching something like that with Mum because she used to work in an industry that was all about power plays, and this movie, whilst fictional, drew attention to the potential power games that might go on at a conclave. As I understand it, the late Cardinal Pell was a numbers man, and I always secretly wondered if he wanted the top job.

Not that that would ever have been a realistic possibility, because I think he might have been a pedophile. I know he was exonerated, but I remembered watching an ABC documentary series about pedophiles in the Catholic Church, and there was an interview with this man from a small town. He was just a normal, average man and had no reason to bad-mouth Cardinal Pell, but he talked about how he once caught Pell exposing himself to some local children. This man told him to clear off, and it was just the way he said it that I found very convincing.

Back to the movie Conclave—it was just like any political party or membership-based organisation where various factions start to emerge, each supporting different candidates: the liberal Cardinal Bellini portrayed d by Stanley Tucci, the conservative Cardinal Tremblay portrayed d by John Lithgow, and the traditionalist Cardinal Tedesco portrayed by Sergio Castellitto.

Now, I am going to completely ruin the movie for you if you haven’t seen it, so if you don’t want to know what happens, look away now.

The newly elected Pope ends up being Cardinal Vincent Benítez, portrayed by Carlos Diehz. After his election, it is revealed that Benítez is intersex, having been born with both male and female genitalia. He was raised as a male and kept his condition private, fearing the Church’s stance on gender and priesthood.

Both Mum and I were not expecting this ending, and it completely blew me away. I’ve ordered a copy of the book, which was written by Robert Harris and published in 2016.

I wish something like that would really happen to the Catholic Church. I also wish that I could watch a screening of this movie with the current Pope, Pope Francis.

Before he joined the seminary, Pope Francis worked as a bouncer at a bar in Buenos Aires. He also worked as a janitor, a chemical technician, and a literature and psychology teacher. People say that it is thanks to his experience in normal jobs that he is such a down-to-earth, humble Pope.

I find the opposite to be true. As the head of what I view to be a criminal organisation, he is personally responsible for all the indiscretions that have come to pass and continue to go on within it. I have also observed him blaming victims of sexual abuse. I can't work out whether Peter would have approved of him or not.

Pope Francis is 88 years old, and whilst Peter died when he was likely between 64 and 70 years old, he was in his heyday and actively following Jesus when he was in his 30s or 40s. Yet, the Catholic Church sees fit to use the conclave to elect men significantly older than Peter to be his successor.

I recognise we must take into consideration things like changes in life expectancy, but I firmly believe the Church should find a younger, more progressive leader. I don't suggest for a moment that we change the rules or the text of the Bible or the Catholic Church—that cannot be changed—but someone with their wits about them could lead the Church into our new and uncertain future. They could protect the history and sanctity of Catholicism whilst also making it more appealing and welcoming to a new generation of followers in anticipation of the return of Jesus from his home planet.

I also think the Church needs to be 100% transparent and accountable. It literally needs to position itself on its knees and beg for forgiveness—from the victims and also the rank-and-file Catholics who have been lied to and taken for fools with the mismanagement of sexual abuse by members of the clergy.

In saying that all the Popes seem to be ten times older than Saint Peter, I’m not devaluing age and experience. Donald Trump is 78 years old, and he’s the President of the United States. The Prime Minister of Israel, Benjamin Netanyahu, is 75 years old. Those two could be the worst two examples of valuable older people but they are the leaders of two very powerful democratic countries.

But there is also something to be said for being young and fresh, having a new lease on life, being full of beans and ready to take on the world. I genuinely think that is what the Catholic Church needs, but I know the older conservatives—like Cardinal Pell was—would never let that happen.

I just said that I value age and wisdom, which I do, but the other day, Donald Trump outlined plans to make the Gaza Strip into the "Riviera of the Middle East." His plan involves relocating current Palestinian residents to neighbouring countries, such as Egypt and Jordan, with the intention of redeveloping Gaza into a prosperous coastal area.

Trump suggested that the United States would take a "long-term ownership position" in Gaza to oversee its redevelopment. He also indicated that Palestinians displaced by this plan would not have the right to return to Gaza. When I heard about this, I went straight to YouTube and watched the entire press conference where he was talking about it.

He was there with Netanyahu, who would have been standing behind his podium with the biggest erection known to man. He was going on about how Trump was the best friend Israel had ever had, and I actually found myself laughing when he was saying that.

But you know, I was sitting there watching this, thinking, "What the actual fuck is going on here?" I can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it. Building a Club Med in the Gaza Strip is quite literally the last thing I would have ever thought of with what to do with the land. 

I feel this sense of real sorrow that someone as powerful as Trump could have such a total and utter disregard for the lives of 2 million Palestinians, who have already been subjected to such senseless horror. Who are already under the leadership of a terrorist organisation, Hamas, and have no say about that.

I want to wrap my arms around all Palestinians and apologise on behalf of humanity itself for such a heartless, ruthless, and senseless plan—hatched by white men in suits who I detected seemed to find the whole thing a little bit humorous.

Back to Rebecca’s 40th. Her actual birthday was Sunday, 9 February, and on Saturday, I said I would come over and we would ring in her birthday at 12:00 am. She did the same for me when I turned 40, so we had a nice night together.

During the day, she arranged for a daytime get-together at her brother’s house. Mum and I and another couple were the only non-family invited. All of the family there were Nanny’s family—her sister, her daughter, her other granddaughter Emma—and that made me very sad.

Nanny’s sister, Alice, said that on New Year’s Day, she received a message on her phone saying “Happy New Year from your sister” and then Nanny’s name. She talked about how much that upset her, and I asked her if she had the number from the message because I would ring them and tell them off. She said she didn’t have it now.

It was a very low-key get-together, and Mum and I stayed for a couple of hours before coming home. I then went back to Rebecca’s that night and stayed with her for a while. I didn’t want her to be alone on her 40th at any point, so as much as she has been annoying me lately, it was nice to spend that special day with her.