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.