Is This Even Art?

I don't know what I was thinking when I said I wanted to go to TAFE next year and do a Certificate III in Commercial Cookery. I absolutely cannot and will not go anywhere where I have to touch, smell, taste, or be near meat on a daily basis. I can't even look at it without holding a silent memorial for the poor animal that died a cruel and merciless death, simply to satisfy the sadistic hunger pangs of us mortal humans.

But it also physically disgusts me too. I remember, at fat camp, we were served a plate of chicken. There was nothing on the plate but two clean pieces of chicken. From memory, they looked like large drumsticks, and they were bald. In my mind, I envisioned a dead chicken being plucked of all feathers and cleared of any imperfections, and all that was left ended up on my plate. I looked at it with nothing more than disgust, and it was right then and there that I transitioned into being a full-blown vegetarian.

But if the memory of that mutant-looking chicken wasn't enough to put me off working in the kitchen, on Friday, when I decided to become a cook — that night another cook sent me meat when I ordered vegetarian Mexican food. I was violently ill once I realised what it was, and I think it took just a little while for the penny to drop that I could never survive in a kitchen.

I want to learn to make nice, warm, home-cooked meals for my mother and my future husband, but I am going to do that on my terms. God knows what kind of horrific things would happen in the kitchen at Regency Park TAFE.

My detour into cookery put me back on the right path — the path I was already on. I am an artist and a writer, and I don't really need to formalise that, but I want to.

So here is the final plan:

Tomorrow, I’ll begin an Undergraduate Certificate in Fine Arts through Curtin University — a quick qualification that I’ll complete early next year. It will strengthen my applications for grants and help support my creative ideas for now.

Next year, at the end of February, I will start a Bachelor of Fine Arts at Adelaide University so I can just get the degree. It will be a secondary thing — I'm not going to hang around at the uni or be part of the community. I’m going to go there for classes, patiently sit it out, do the work, and get the degree.

I want that piece of paper, but most of all, I want to spend that time learning how to become a professional glassblower. I want to become a glassblower so I have a skill to earn money, but my real creative vision is my projects about colonialism, genocide, apartheid, statelessness, and inequality.

But here’s the thing — I can't earn money from that kind of artwork. It would be unethical, and I don’t want money that comes from other people’s suffering. That means I need a skill like glassblowing to fund the real artwork. The other way I can fund my other work is by applying for grants, which is why my Undergraduate Certificate is going to help me until I get the degree.

I know I’m older. I'll be 45 next year. I know I’ve literally wanted to try every single career known to man, and I’ve started every training course and degree too. But I feel like I’ve trained my whole life for this. It is a natural fit for me.

So art is my thing. But I have just spent all my money on a trip to Botswana in December, and I’m going to need some more money — and fast.

I’ve always wanted to wait tables. It’s a dreamer’s job. Actresses and artists work as waiters and waitresses while they’re waiting for their true passion to come to fruition. And I want to do that.

So I’ve enrolled in a couple of short hospitality and first aid courses for the remainder of the year, and I’m going to get a small but hopefully employable skill set where I might be able to get a job at one of the large hotels. I have to get a job where I work at least 40 hours a week, and I think I can do this. I am up for the challenge.

Ideally, I wouldn’t have to work. I want to work on my projects about Australian colonialism in Papua New Guinea and  Blackbirding, Aboriginal deaths in custody, and also the situation in Gaza. I want to read books about them, research at the library, and create artworks that make people think differently about these things.

I worked it out, and I really need grants of about $120,000 a year. I know that’s a lot, but I could really make something special with that amount and I could pay myself too. I would also do neon work and finish my book in Cambodia with that money.

To get the grants, I think you need a body of work, which I don’t have. So while I’m waiting tables, I’m going to spend the rest of my time creating original pieces of artwork.

Interestingly, I was telling my brother about all my letter-writing projects last night. I explained it was a form of conceptual artwork. He then proceeded to give me a lecture about how he “knows a thing or two” about conceptual artwork — and said my letters are not original or artwork at all.

My letter-writing projects are a form of conceptual artwork. They are driven by investigation, process, dialogue, and interconnectedness, exploring how power, silence, and response shape human experience. Each letter is both a question and an answer — and every reply, whether given or withheld, becomes part of the work itself. Together, these projects sort of form a kind of self-portrait, because the letters and responses are a direct reflection of my own curiosity and questioning.  For me, the meaning lies not just in the physical letters but in the relationships and systems they reveal.

It’s not about how beautifully something is painted or sculpted — it’s about what the work makes people think, feel, and question. The process, the story, and the intention are just as significant as the final thing on display.

My brother’s “understanding” of conceptual artwork didn’t stop at my work. He brought up a piece called “Comedian,” 2019 by Maurizio Cattelan, an Italian conceptual artist. It’s simply a banana duct-taped to the wall.

It became one of the most talked-about artworks in the world — not because of the banana itself, but because of what it revealed about the art world, value, and meaning.

The banana was never about the banana — it was about ideas of value, ownership, and absurdity in the art market. Cattelan wanted to highlight how art’s “worth” isn’t in the material but in the concept and the economy around it. When collectors bought the banana, they didn’t receive the fruit itself — they bought a certificate of authenticity giving them the right to recreate the work. If the banana rots, you replace it. The value isn’t in the fruit; it’s in the idea.

After it went viral, everyone argued: “Is this even art?!” Crowds flooded to the contemporary art fair Art Basel in Miami Beach, where it was being exhibited, just to take selfies with the banana. A performance artist named David Datuna walked up, took the banana off the wall, ate it, and called his act “Hungry Artist.” The gallery calmly replaced the banana. The value? Unchanged.

The incident made the point perfectly: the banana didn’t matter, the duct tape didn’t matter — the concept was the art.

I told my brother that Cattelan owns the copyright or intellectual property rights to the idea, and he said he didn’t. We went back and forth about it for a while until I just gave up.

I don’t have any formal knowledge of the law. But I I am sure my brother is wrong. While the piece is absurd, I think it would stop short of charging $120,000 USD for literally nothing. They get something for it — and what they get is the right to reproduce it.

The Politics Of Hunger

I have always known the day would come when I wanted to be a chef. That day has now come, and not only do I want to be a chef — I am going to be a chef. Well, not so much a chef as a cook.

I’m going to do a Certificate III in Commercial Cookery at Regency Park TAFE next year, in 2026. I will always be a writer and an artist, and I’m going to continue with those studies online, but day to day, for one year, I’m going to get up in the morning and force myself to get to the kitchen at Regency Park and cook.

I feel I have been called to the profession. I started thinking about the famine in Gaza and food in general — and second to water, food is the most important single thing in the life of a human being. But the truth is, I literally know nothing about food. I don’t know how to cook, and I’ve had a bad relationship with food my whole life.

When I say I don’t know how to cook, I’m not lying. Literally, all I know how to do is put a can of baked beans in a bowl and into the microwave. I now live with my mother, and she doesn’t cook anymore, so we have a lot of Uber Eats — which costs a fortune. When I live by myself, I get by on takeaway and things like Lite n’ Easy frozen meals or frozen meals from the supermarket. I also have a lot of bread.

It’s so unsophisticated and, in so many ways, immature. I don’t have a refined palate, and the other thing is, I don’t know a lot about wine. I’m also a vegetarian — and I’m not a foodie. I don’t love going out to restaurants or people’s houses for dinner, and that’s not because I don’t like food; it’s mostly because I’m worried about the kind of food that might be served.

Whenever I say I’m a vegetarian, people say, “But do you eat chicken? Do you eat fish?” Intelligent people say this. If you eat those things, you are not a vegetarian.

I want to go to TAFE to learn how to cook. To learn everything about food — about nutrition, healthy eating, balanced meals, and all the techniques and methods for producing high-quality dishes for my mother, myself, and my future husband, who will be an older, God-fearing, conservative man from the Liberal Party.

I need this life skill. I need it for myself, but I also want to cook for other people. I want to make the plate out of pottery, glaze and fire it — and then I want to put a good quality meal on it.

At TAFE, I also want to learn about the psychology of food — and things like: were humans supposed to eat meat? I ask that because, apparently, those who eat meat get protein from it. But what does that actually mean? And how did we first discover a taste for meat?

I think about the early humans, and they wouldn’t have been able to kill big game themselves without any tools. But they probably saw other animals eating dead animals and decided to give it a go themselves. They would have congregated around the carcasses and gnawed away at the meat. And in the beginning, without the mastery of fire, they would have been eating raw, uncooked, absolutely disgusting meat.

It would have been just like out of a horror movie.

Then, making tools so they could cut the meat would have made things a little nicer, and with fire and the ability to actually cook it, eating meat would have become less risky, because I know there are so many different health issues that can come from eating raw meat.

So if I can come to some sort of conclusion about whether humans were meant to eat meat, it will make my time in the kitchen feel more or less authentic. Because if we are, I’ll feel like an early human or hominin sitting by the campfire, cooking up a feast for everyone in the tribe. But if we weren’t supposed to eat meat, I’ll feel like a serial killer’s assistant, chopping up the remains of an innocent for a bunch of voluntary carnivores.

Either way, I want to know. I hope they theorise about these sorts of things at TAFE.

It’s funny — I came face to face with the meat issue tonight, just after I decided to pursue my new but passionate dream of becoming a master chef. I ordered a vegetarian enchilada from El Mexicano at Hyde Park. It’s a stormy and very rainy night tonight, and I felt bad for the delivery driver having to bring it to the door in the rain.

Anyway, they did, and I was starving, so I opened the package — and it was, unfortunately, stone cold. I shoved it in the microwave for a minute, which is my only trick in the kitchen at the moment, and sat down in the living room with my mum, slowly eating away at the enchilada.

It tasted a little different than usual, but because I’d ordered vegetarian, there wasn’t a part of me that thought I was eating meat. That was until I bit into a large chunk of beef.

I instantly spat it out, ran to the bathroom, and violently threw up. I’m not allergic to meat, but just the thought of it — the feeling of meat in my mouth, in my stomach — absolutely disgusts me.

I settled down and talked to Mum about it, who seemed to find it slightly amusing. But it got me thinking: how can I possibly do a course in cookery when meat is going to be such a huge component of what I cook? So many dishes revolve around it.

But you know what? I’m up for this challenge.

I know you see chefs tasting their own food in the kitchen, but I’m simply not going to do that. I couldn’t. I can’t throw up in the kitchen. But there must be a way around it. There must be workarounds, and TAFE, being a government institution, is probably the best place to navigate imperfect study plans.

My relationship with food has been poor all my life. I love my parents, but I was never really taught about it. Growing up, I lived on Vegemite sandwiches and baked beans. Sometimes my mum would cook a corned beef with beautiful veggies and I loved that, but I don't eat that anymore and haven't done for years. 

I’ve eaten too much, I’ve eaten too little — and it’s only in recent years that I’ve been able to get the balance right. I want to heal this relationship. I’ll never eat meat, but I want to be able to go to a restaurant, explain my special dietary requirements, and not have it feel like a battle.

Like I’ve said before, I put on a lot of weight and I haven’t been able to drop it. Next year, I’m going to take the year at TAFE to sit down, learn about food, and lose the weight.

But it’s not just about my relationship with food, or my desire to cook for my mother and my future husband. It’s also about hunger — and whether, as humans, we truly have the means to satisfy it.

I watch a lot of news on Gaza. A lot. I spend hours a day watching Al Jazeera and following posts from local journalists in Gaza, and to physically see those poor people starving — not just hungry, but literally bones sticking out of their bodies, emaciated, starving — it’s devastating.

It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that it doesn’t have to be this way. Their malnutrition and starvation are manufactured. Israel continues to use aid as a weapon of war — which is a war crime.

And it makes me think about the politics of hunger.

I watch the footage of some of the aid Israel does allow in — where countries donate supplies and they throw it from the sky in aeroplanes. You see the Palestinians running towards the aid, crushing each other in desperation. So desperate. So undignified.

How can this be allowed to happen?

I think they should stop those airdrops and get the aid in another way. It is dehumanising. I think there is a special place in hell for Netanyahu and those Israeli head honchos who have first of all engineered a famine and then go and throw aid at the Palestinians like they are animals begging for scraps.

This is why I want to understand our primal and physical need for food. I want to understand who controls it. What the rich eat. What the poor eat. Who provides it and who withholds it. 

I want to understand anorexia and obesity. I want to understand why some people starve by force, while others starve themselves by choice, and why so many of us live in complicated relationships with food.

But most of all, I want to know how to make a nice, hot, home cooked meal for my mother and my future husband.

Before all other things, I must learn this foundational life skill — to understand food, and to understand myself.

Sea Of Hands

I want to work in a hospital. Standing at Queen Elizabeth Hospital today, I could picture myself in the staff T-shirt—delivering meals, greeting patients, or providing customer service in some way. I’d thrive at the enquiries desk: answering calmly, giving clear directions to wards, bathrooms, the café, anywhere people need to go. I’d be just as comfortable helping staff who need quick, accurate information.

The role that calls to me most is switchboard. I think of it as the hospital’s nervous system—connecting people through a web of technology where every call matters. It might be a doctor phoning in urgent instructions, or a final conversation between family members. That responsibility doesn’t scare me; it motivates me. I’m steady under pressure, I listen carefully, and I speak clearly.

Below you can see the main entrance as well as the signs for Urgent Care Hub and the ambulance entrance. 

I was at the hospital today because my mum’s sister is very sick. She’s 86. On 15 August she fell outside her unit. No one was around, but her Apple Watch detected the fall, alerted five emergency contacts including Mum, and called an ambulance. That still blows my mind. A simple piece of technology probably saved her life, at least for a while. I’m buying Mum an Apple Watch for Christmas. It will make me feel better knowing she has that extra layer of protection.

Seeing my aunt in her room was really sad. She looked like she was at death’s door—sitting up, barely able to speak, fragile in a way I’ve never seen. Mum tried to stay steady, but I could tell she was struggling.

My aunt has had a sad life. Years ago, when I was driving her somewhere, she said, “You never know how life is going to turn out.” What she was getting at was that Mum’s life has been charmed in many ways, while hers hasn’t. Her husband developed Parkinson’s in his fifties and she cared for him for years. She had money troubles. Her two daughters were draining, financially and otherwise. She is Mum’s half-sister, but they consider themselves full sisters, and Mum has been incredibly generous, especially with money.

Once, when I was temping at Service SA, my boss mentioned he had worked with my auntie when she lectured at TAFE. He said she was grumpy, always angry, and not well liked. First, I couldn’t believe he told me that about my own relative. Second, it made me sad. Because I know she's a beautiful person underneath all that. Maybe she had come to believe life hadn’t been kind to her, so why bother.

Sitting in my auntie’s room today—I kept thinking about how close everything in a hospital feels to the edge: life, death, love, duty—and how a tiny watch on a wrist can tip the balance.

I am actually not that close with my auntie or my cousins; I might see them once a year. I don't really like my two cousins; one of them is really rude, and they both seem to give unwanted advice. They are both incredible know-it-alls. I love my auntie, but I just haven't spent much time with her in the last twenty years or so. We didn't stay long today; mum made up a reason why we had to leave, and I could tell that she didn't want to be there.

But as we got up to leave, I went over to my auntie, and I gave her a kiss on her forehead, and I told her to look after herself. The kiss was actually a little disproportionate to our relationship; I don't know her like that. But it felt like it would be the last time I would see her, and it was my way of saying goodbye. As I was giving her a kiss, her daughter, my rude cousin, was fussing about as if I was stepping on my auntie, but I sort of pushed through.

It was a sad occasion, and Mum said she couldn't bear to go back and see her again. But in all the sadness and confusion, I discovered some treasures around the hospital. The ward my auntie was in is South 2; below you can see the sign out the front.

In the ward, they had a wall with pictures of comedy movies and sitcoms, which, it says, are starring the S2 staff. I am not really sure what that was all about, but I love that kind of stuff, and it makes me miss working.

There was a real presence and respect for Aboriginal culture in and amongst the hospital. On the ground floor, there was a huge sign on the wall called "Our Reconciliation Journey." It was prominent, and it stood out. I thought it was appropriately placed and positions the hospital as a forward thinker in Reconciliation and Aboriginal affairs.

I also spotted a beautiful painting by two Indigenous artists on the wall in one of the corridors. As I read it, it is a combined work titled: "Mother Earth-Father Sky and Mother of Us and Father of Us" by David Thorpe and Jacinta Dixon. You can see it below.

In the same corridor, there were some drawings of hands stuck up on the windows. They are called the “Sea of Hands.” It is an iconic symbol of reconciliation and a way for communities all around Australia to engage with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander issues and events.

The "Sea of Hands" also made its way to the CALHN Spiritual Care pinboard close to the exit.

Also on the way out, I bumped into Regina. It’s a bad photo because of all the reflections on the glass, but nevertheless there she is, in all her youthful full glory. It is a proclamation by the hospital’s namesake. I was born in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, but to me it’s all just a reminder of the British Empire.

As we drove away from the hospital this afternoon, I couldn't help but think it seems like all the key characters in my life are dying. First my Dad, then Nanny, now my auntie—it’s almost surreal. My auntie is my only auntie, and whilst we're not close, it just seems my tiny little circle keeps getting smaller and smaller.

It seems it is the season for hospitals and infirmity. My darling friend Maiki from Tanzania was involved in a bus accident last night. When he called me this morning, he sounded really bad, and I asked him what was wrong. He told me that he was on a bus from Dar es Salaam to Arusha, which is around an 8-hour bus ride. When they were close to their destination, two children ran in front of the bus, and the bus driver swerved and the bus crashed. I was really worried that he had been seriously injured. He told me he had broken his hand. That's an awful thing, but thank goodness it was nothing worse. 

I think the thing with the healthcare system in Tanzania is, it is simply not good enough. I asked Maiki what painkillers they have given him and he told me Panadol. I said that's not good enough; you need something stronger, and he said that Panadol works for him. But that's probably because he doesn't realise there are better painkillers out there. The healthcare system isn't good enough, but it's not a complete write-off.

I just remember the last time I was there, in 2018/2019, I got sick. Really, really sick. I can't explain my symptoms; I was just completely overtaken by some mystery, exotic illness. The first night I started to feel unwell, I went to a doctor who is considered to be a reputable doctor. He started the testing process, but it was so scary. I had to go to the toilet and provide specimens, and someone gave me a torch and told me to go outside. I was in this dirty toilet with no light, urine everywhere, and I had to pee into a cup. I was with Maiki, but I felt completely alone at this point.

I got sicker and sicker. I was recommended one doctor, and when I got to his surgery I looked up on the wall and I saw a picture of the Ayatollah, and I thought, “Great, the illness wants me dead and now the doctor is going to feel the same way.” They tested me for everything they could possibly think of, and no one could tell me what was wrong. In the end I forced myself to go to Dar es Salaam, which is like the commercial capital equivalent of Sydney. I had around $2000 US dollars in my bank account and I thought, if I'm going to die here, I want to die some place nice. I checked into the Hyatt Regency with the most spectacular views and just lay there. Then my Mum convinced me to get up and get on a plane to come home. I was surprisingly good at acting like there was nothing wrong on the plane, and I made it home. The doctors here couldn't diagnose me with anything either, so all of that remains a mystery.

But I will say I would live in a country like Tanzania, and the only reason I wouldn't is because of their healthcare system. If you wake up in the middle of the night with severe pains in your abdomen, and you've got pancreatic cancer or something sinister, you want to be somewhere they can diagnose it and treat it immediately. I know, in Tanzania or some of those other African countries, that simply just wouldn't be an option.

I Have To Try

Today is my 44th birthday. I don’t feel sad, and I don’t feel old — I’ve just become acutely aware of the fact that in six years I’ll be 50, and even next year I’ll be 45, which feels like a small but significant milestone in itself.

Initially, I planned to have a birthday dinner like I did last year, but I decided against it. Instead, Maureen came over, and along with Mum, we spent the day visiting two SALA exhibitions nearby and then went for lunch at Ballaboosta.

The first was at the Hugo Michell Gallery on Portrush Road. There were two exhibitions showing at the gallery, but the main one was by Aboriginal artist Zaachariaha Fielding, titled Ngangkali.

Zaachariaha Fielding, born around 1991, is a South Australian artist and musician, deeply rooted in his Aboriginal heritage. He was raised in Port Augusta before moving back to the Mimili community in the Anangu Pitjantjatjara Yankunytjatjara (APY) Lands. He’s the oldest of nine children in a family rich with artistic talent — his father, Robert Fielding, is also a celebrated artist.

Zaachariaha first gained prominence as the vocalist in the electronic-soul duo Electric Fields, known for their passionate blending of Pitjantjatjara and Yankunytjatjara languages with modern soundscapes. I’d actually heard of Electric Fields before because one of my lecturers at Adelaide Uni, when I was studying the UPP, was involved with them.

I loved Zaachariaha’s artwork. You can see an untitled piece below.

This piece is acrylic on linen and was listed for $17,500. Three other paintings that really stood out to me are shown below — they’re also untitled, but each one carries its own incredible energy and presence.

These three are also acrylic on linen and are priced at $7,000 each. What I loved most about Zaachariaha’s work is that, at first glance, the paintings appear simply as beautiful works of art — layered, striking, and full of movement. But when you look more closely, you notice something unexpected: in some of the pieces, and maybe even all of them, you can see words subtly written into the body of the works, almost like hidden messages woven into the paint.

The other exhibition on display at the Hugo Michell Gallery for SALA was a smaller one titled World Expo 2025 by Daniel Emma. Daniel Emma is a South Australian design studio founded by Daniel To and Emma Aiston in 2008. The duo met while studying Industrial Design at the University of South Australia and built their careers through a shared sense of curiosity and creativity.

After gaining experience in London studios — including working with Marc Newson, Thorsten Van Elten, and Committee — they returned to Adelaide to launch their own practice. Today, Daniel Emma creates everything from small-scale desk objects to immersive installations, always striving to make the unexpected from simple forms.

Below is a row of objects they exhibited, which included:
Beach Stack (on plate) $400, Watermelon Chunk (on plate) $400, Bunch-A-Grapes (on plate) $400, and Tofu Bell With Cherry (on plate) $400.

These objects were made using a combination of resin, solid timber, acrylic, aluminium, bell, and paint.

Those were the two main exhibitions, but there was also a corridor at the back of the gallery featuring what looked like a range of different artworks by various artists. Below are two pieces that especially caught my attention.

The details of this piece are: Feminist Fan #1 (PUSSY : Casey at the Melbourne Pussy Riot Protest 2012), 2015 hand knitted wool and acrylic yarns 38.5 x 51 cm $5000. I think this is a real shout out to girl power. It’s simple, a little bit vulgar, but I really love it.

The second piece on the walls of the corridor was a depiction of packets of cigarettes. I don’t love or glamorise cigarettes, but there’s something about them artistically that fascinates me. They carry a kind of seediness — an undercurrent of grit and late night chaos — the same energy you find in poker machines and neon lights. It’s that mix of allure and decay, something both cheap and strangely beautiful at the same time.

The details of this piece are: Marc Etherington, Cigarette Packs 2023, Acrylic on hand carved wood 9x5.5 x 2cm irreg. $450 each.

I know Mum and Maureen loved the artwork inside the Hugo Michell Gallery as much as I did. After we finished there, we headed to the home studio of glass artist Nick Mount.

Nick Mount is an acclaimed Australian glass artist based in Adelaide, celebrated as one of the pioneers of contemporary studio glass in the country. His work blends Venetian glassmaking traditions with playful, sculptural forms, creating pieces that are both technically masterful and visually striking. Over his decades-long career, he has exhibited internationally, mentored countless emerging artists, and his work is held in major collections, including the National Gallery of Australia and the Art Gallery of South Australia.

His house and studio are in Leabrook, and on the way there, Mum stopped out the front of the old house she owned when she was much younger than I am now. Mum decided to wait in the car while Maureen and I went in to look at Nick’s work.

I loved visiting his studio. He doesn’t have a hot shop at his house, but he has all the cold-working equipment and an incredible collection of his pieces displayed around the space. Out the back, he has a shed-like room filled with some of his more intricate and beautifully blown glasswork. You can see some of it below.

Nick was there while people wandered through, and he was really friendly and welcoming. He asked what we do for a living, first wanting to know if we were makers. I wanted to tell him that I’ve tried working with glass and that I’d love to continue, but it’s the kind of conversation I wouldn’t know how to navigate with a master like him, so instead, I just told him I was a student and changed the subject.

Maureen told him she was a nurse, and the two of them ended up deep in conversation about all the weird and wonderful things she has to deal with in her work.

He had his house open as well, and I absolutely loved it. If I ever own a house — or even just have full decorating rights — I would style it in the same vein as Nick Mount and his wife have done. The first thing I noticed when we walked into the kitchen was an Obama ’08 sign stuck above the door frame, and I couldn’t help but smile.

Nick’s wife was there too, and I told her about when Obama won the election in 2008, I had a cardboard cut-out of him and I took it around town with me, taking photos in different spots. Eventually, I left it on the windscreen of a very conservative friend of mine from the Young Liberals — which still makes me laugh.

Below are three photos I took with some friends, out and about with Obama.

Maureen and I then wandered through the house, taking in all the blown glass pieces, the quirky artwork on the walls, and the beautiful furniture scattered throughout the rooms. It felt like every corner had its own little story.

Below are two photos I took inside, showcasing some of Nick Mount’s incredible blown glasswork.

I was so glad we went to see Nick’s work. He is truly a master, but he’s also extremely unpretentious, which I found myself really drawn to. After we thanked him for letting us look through his studio and house, Maureen and I met Mum at the car, and we drove to Ballaboosta for a late lunch.

Below, you can get a sense of the vibe of the restaurant just after lunchtime.

We had such a nice lunch and chat. Mum loves Maureen, and we’re all very open with each other, so it was lovely to have that sense of familiarity. The other night when I was at Ballaboosta, I was introduced to their cauliflower dish, which is technically a side dish, but it’s so delicious. I don’t know what they do to it — whether it’s spices, a sauce, or some secret combination — but whatever it is, I had it again today, and I loved it. It was perfect for my birthday lunch.

After lunch, we dropped Maureen back at her house in town, and now we’re home. I don’t feel especially reflective, and I don’t have this sudden wave of motivation to go out and do something incredible just because another year has passed and time is ticking by. But I am glad we went to the two SALA exhibitions today because they made me think about myself and what I want to achieve artistically.

The first two projects I’m working on are my oaths. The most important is the oath book for the Chief Justice, which I’ve sent to Melbourne to be hand-bound. I’m using real leather, which I still feel a little conflicted about, but as I’ve said before, I want the very best for him. It’s costing me nearly $800, but it’s worth it — this will be my first piece of conceptual artwork.

The second oath project I’m working on involves the oaths from speakers and presidents of parliaments around the world. I collected them at the same time as the legal oaths, and I’m having them bound into a book, which I plan to gift to the current Speaker of the House of Assembly. He’s a friend of Mum’s. I’m sure he’s wonderful, but I don’t have the same sense of reverence for him that I have for the Chief Justice.

These two projects are my special personal passion projects. Once they’re complete, I want to focus on creating the kind of artwork I truly want to share with the world — not just with the people on the Table of Precedence. I want to work with glass, digital media, acrylic, neon, light, wood, and anything else I can get my hands on.

I don't know if I could really ever do something good in the arts, whether it be writing or visual arts. All I know is I have to try. I have to really try, because if I don't, in six years I'll be sitting here writing this blog, still full of ideas and inspiration, but with nothing to show for it. I've got something I want to say — I just need to work out how to say it.

Close To Impossible

My friend George’s dad, Reg, sadly passed away last week. I spent quite a bit of time with him about 20 years ago, when I was often at George’s house in Mile End. Reg would come to Adelaide from his home in Mypolonga, stay with George during the week while he worked, and then head back home on the weekends.

George and I were always up to something crazy, and Reg was always this steady, calm voice in the background. George and his family held a celebration of life for Reg today in Mypolonga. I asked Mum if she would mind driving me up and coming along to show our support for George. Mum knows George very well too, so she agreed.

The reason I asked her to drive is because about five years ago, I was on the freeway and nearly had an accident when someone came speeding down the slip lane. I braked suddenly and really annoyed the drivers behind me. I’ve been too scared to drive up there ever since, but going today made me realise it’s not as bad as I thought. I think I’d actually be fine driving up there by myself next time.

Below, you can see the turn-off to Murray Bridge.

Below you can see the Mypolonga Combined Sports Club, where the celebration of life was held.

The club was absolutely packed, and we were lucky to get a seat. We sat and talked with some of George’s family members for a while, and then the formalities began. It was very simple, short, and sweet — and it was just so beautiful.

George and his sister Tess made a speech about their dad, and George got quite emotional at times. It made me realise that, in the end, all that really matters in this world is family and friends — it’s all that matters.

I remember at George and his husband Doug’s wedding, Reg got up and made a speech. He hugged both George and Doug, and there was something very special about it. Of course, he loves and accepts his son, but for a man of a different generation, it may have taken some adjusting. Not that I know any of that for certain; I just remember tearing up during that part of George’s wedding.

Every time I think I’m a sociopath with an inability to cry, I go to something like this celebration of life and I’m reminded that I’m not. I cried — not a lot, but I could really feel it, especially having lost my own dad just over a year ago.

Below, you can see the packed-out Mypolonga Combined Sports Club.

Mum and I got lost on the way home. We weren’t on the freeway — we took a few wrong turns and ended up driving away from the city for about an hour before finally turning around. While we were lost, surrounded by beautiful wide-open spaces and paddocks painted in green, I found myself imagining what it would be like to live in a small country town. For about twenty minutes, I even made a serious plan to relocate… then I remembered I’m not going to leave my mother, and I’ve got plans to go to uni next year.

Now it’s time to go back to the letter I sent Mr Phoenix, along with a bunch of balloons and a $2000 bank cheque. I’d like to share the contents with you below. I’ve had to take out a lot of it because of the potential for identifying some people — and I have to be mindful of all that legal stuff — but I think you’ll still get the gist. It’s a long letter — the original was very long — so if you plan to read it, grab yourself a glass… or maybe even a bottle of wine. Sit back, relax, and enjoy.

11 July 2013

Dear Mr Phonenix,

There are a number of barriers that make this close to impossible for me to say this to you without breaking a huge personal boundary, which is something I wanted to acknowledge that I am aware of.

However, I want to risk the heightened level of inappropriateness, as it is necessary for me to share elements of this story with someone, and based on the amount of times you appear within it, you are the only person I feel it would be appropriate to tell.

When I wrote that ridiculous card to you earlier this year, and said that realistically I could never be a lawyer, as my parents had always wanted me to be – it wasn’t just my parents that wanted me to be a lawyer, I had also passionately wanted to be one for many years.

I have started a number of different university courses and careers, but have always had a lot of trouble focusing and sticking to something.

I’ve got a long history of procrastination and distraction, but I thought maybe one day something would click into place and I would be able to concentrate, and I thought when that happened — sitting down and doing a degree like Law might be possible.

The reason I wanted to be a lawyer so much was because of something I read in a book called The Salisbury Affair, by Stewart Cockburn.

I am not alluding to anything or trying to be crafty with words to make it sound like I actually know anything about it, because I genuinely don’t, but I did find that book interesting and have sat in on and contributed to heaps of harmless gossip sessions about various aspects of the book whilst temping about town.

When I was 29 years old, I’d been working at Centrelink for nearly two years, and the way that they train you, and kind of indoctrinate you, gave me a level of focus and attention that I thought I might be able to use studying law.

Eventually I ended up in Sydney on the way up to Bond Uni, where I thought I could accelerate it, which I thought was appropriate based on my age.

It was serendipitous for me to get a temp job at the courts, I wasn’t there for long and I know I wasn’t suited to that role at all, but I was more professional than I probably sounded to you on the phone.

A poor judgment I made was telling a few other court officers the Judge I told you about reminded me of Count Dracula.

Another one was when I went into one of the toilets in the anti-room between a court I was working in one day and noticed how filthy it was.

There were actually flies at the bottom of the toilet bowl, so I contacted my boss and asked if I could get something to clean it up with, and she told me to call maintenance, and when I did they told me not to worry about it.

I know this might appear I was on a crusade, but the water jugs for the courtrooms were filled from these bathrooms and it was gross, so I was respectfully persistent with maintenance but they just told me to flush the flies down the toilet.

So at lunch, I went down to the shop and got a Harpic and a few cleaning bits and pieces and cleaned it myself. I know I was overstepping my authority, but I was incredibly discreet and didn’t want a medal for it or anything.

Another court officer saw me doing that and told the boss about it. I got into trouble for it, but I still put forward how I thought it was unhygienic and how that kind of thing can turn into bigger problems including cockroaches and rats.

I experienced a number of unbelievable coincidences that really appeared impossible to me whilst working at the Attorney General’s Department of NSW, and they are irrelevant for the purposes of this letter, but to give you an example—over Christmas before commencing this job, I had just read the book My Journey by David Hicks, which documented his take on his experience in Guantanamo Bay.

The content of the book was the source of a lot of discussion between myself, my brother who is in the army, and some of his military friends.

One day whilst working at the courts, I was put in a court room to relieve someone while they went on break, and Mamdouh Habib, who was another Australian detainee at Guantanamo Bay, was actually in this court for some sort of preliminary hearing.

I can’t remember now if he was in David Hicks’ book, but seeing as I’d just spent a lot of time trying to invalidate what appeared to be the credibility of the conditions of inmates at Guantanamo Bay to a number of passionately patriotic defence force officers, it mildly freaked me out actually.

I went down the lift with Mamdouh Habib during the morning tea break, and I obviously didn’t have a laugh with him or anything, but I was just looking at him thinking how unbelievably weird that was.

Then when I went to work at The Criminal Legislation and Policy Law Review, and Directors Office, they were drafting all of these laws to reform the burqa legislation, and it was surreal to me because that Mamdouh Habib guy was involved in that too.

When I quit the above job, I eventually ended up in Canberra with the intention to work, but I spent that entire period of my time pretty much hauled up in a hotel room, sleeping during the day and staying up all night writing a book.

It started as a letter to the judge, but it got so long that I decided I was going to write a book.

I then outlined the storyline of the book, which I have also done in a previous post.

And the reason it scared the crap out of me is, apart from some of the other extremely coincidental but likely, from most senior legal professionals—in particular those that have worked as members of the judiciary—things you were saying in reference to other bits of the book, I thought maybe I had unconsciously self-prophesised it in some way.

After I wrote that book in Canberra, I completely lost it.

I started making a video of myself for that judge—which started with me dressed up in a devil costume—and then it became a little bit more X-rated.

I still had the G-rated beginning of it on my computer, so I took a few screenshots of it and have enclosed it as a form of evidence of how incredibly out of touch with reality I was.

There is one photo where I look absolutely insane, and looking at it now, I can’t even believe it’s me.

I actually very nearly sent it.

But in the end I wrote two letters.

The first one is so bad, even in death I would not reveal the content. It isn’t threatening, violent or all that rude, but it was simply insane.

I realised what I had done after I sent it, and I became deeply distressed. I can’t quite describe the absolute desperation I felt to get it back, but knew I couldn’t, so I sent a second letter to apologise.

I lied in that apology letter. In general, the whole thing was a lie purely based on the way I wrote it, which I don’t understand, but there was a very distinct lie that I knowingly put in it.

I know a few politicians, but the only legal people I’ve ever really crossed paths with are one barrister that I know personally and one supreme court justice that I had met through work a few times a long time ago.

So I put the two together, and I told the Judge I had worked with barristers who had become judges before, and I actually worded it like that.

I think I said it because I think he knew I didn’t even loosely know any judges apart from him and maybe a few other judges at the Downing Centre, and it was believable.

I was desperately appealing to him as a person not to tell anyone I had done that. I swear to God, I can’t quite place into words how completely powerless I felt, I have never thought about this before and it will never be a problem for me again, but I actually ended up nearly committing suicide.

When I eventually returned to Adelaide, I made a point to stay with my parents because I was so paranoid about this, and I thought the Judge was going to call my Dad.

And if this had or did happen, whilst I understand how this may appear like a misinterpreted or a perceptually unusual way to see your father – my Dad would have empathised with the judge and would have been more ashamed of me than if it had gone the other way.

I wished time away, thinking to myself if I can get to one year without a warrant for my arrest, a restraining order, or a personal defamation suit from the judge himself for thinking to have written to him in the first place, I’ll be okay. It was the milestone I had amongst the few friends who permitted me to speculate about it anymore.

I apologise for saying this, I don’t want to be personal with you, however it is necessary for getting the point of this story across.

Your resignation from the District Court of South Australia was around my one-year landmark.

At the court they didn’t sign my timesheet for a while after they’d terminated my contract, so I don’t know what day it technically was, because I checked my online timesheets and booking confirmation after this happened and there are conflicting dates, probably because of that, but my milestone was May 13, 2012.

And when I read the article about you in the paper it said that you had resigned on that day, I think, or around then from memory, and I wish I could somehow prove that to you simply for the sick humour factor.

But it did freak me out a bit too when I read about what happened to you and I would never ever even think that I had worked for you, because it was literally a few days on the reception desk of your communal chambers and the only reason I remember it is because the Snowtown trials were going on, and I had no idea what it was about at the time and later did – which is another chain of the most astronomically impossible coincidences.

However, I remembered you specifically from your chambers because I had since read up a little bit on legal work you had been involved in that I was interested in, but I didn’t know you were a judge and when I thought back to the lie I told my judge it was a little bit weird.

And I know how bad this sounds, but on a freakishly positive note – you made one of the lies I said in that letter, which had been tormenting me for over six months, sort of technically true.

Mr Phoenix, this gets a lot worse about the huge personal boundary I am crossing with you at this very moment in time, and I know how incredibly contentious this might sound, but a few weeks after that, I went for an interview at Super SA.

The day I found out I’d be starting there the next week, there was an article in the paper saying something about your superannuation at Super SA. I know how personal that is and I never worked with any of the judicial pension stuff at Super SA – but in my own mind it reminded me again about judges and you actually.

I had wanted to write to a lawyer for a very long time to see if they might have had a personal idea of what the judge might have thought or done with those letters, as well as a number of other concerns I had about that period of time.

I appealed to the judge as a person based upon a lie, and in reality I feel that is testament to the fact that I don’t usually appeal or even know how to communicate with people that I have such a large age, social, power and existential knowledge gap with – at all.

And I am not appealing to you, but I did want to tell you that I know when I wrote you a card requesting a bill from you – it probably sounded like I was trying to be crafty with words when I alluded to the points visible within my letter, however they are the only things I don’t regret saying to you.

And to clarify that, I was referring to the anatomy of the mythological creature the Griffin. And whilst I don’t know you personally, and met you briefly probably over ten years ago, it’s a sense I get about you in general and was further confirmed after you spoke to me for a little while earlier this year.

I did contact you as a barrister and Queens Counsel because you have been a judge, however the reason was personal.

Because when I read in the paper about your resignation from the courts, I had a habit of reading sentencing remarks. So I went to the District Court of South Australia’s website and read one that you had recently made.

"I hope that you take full advantage of the opportunity you are getting and that your life is successful and happy and rewarding. It does not have to be fancy, it just has to be a decent life."

And I really liked that, because that is something I have been trying to achieve for a very long time, and I honestly wish a judge of some sort had given me such a warm and realistic send off into a second chance at life when I started navigating it in the way that seemed easiest at the time.

When I read that you were back at the Bar, I remembered that sentencing remark and in the end that’s what gave me the confidence to write you a letter and ask.

It was one of hundreds of letters I have written to try and understand what happened. I wrote to the entire District Court judiciary of New Zealand, every single judges associate in Australia apart from NSW, tribunals, ombudsman, police, international supreme courts and anywhere that administered an oath, as well as a range of other places that came to mind at the time – with simple administrative enquiries.

And I did that to measure the various crimes I thought I had committed against something.

I eventually ended up with a comprehensive collection of responses and thought to put them into a glass furnace and allow the paper to physically burn into the glass, and then blow a piece from it.

That way the glass itself would have had all of those letters actually melted into it, and the piece of glass which I was going to blow just for myself was going to be transparent to represent my genuine transparency in not knowing or understanding what was going on during that period of time.

And I thought maybe in the end it might be the only way for me to let it go.

But regardless of any alternative methods of dealing with it, letting go of it really wasn’t an option for me because I’ve been continually reminded of it.

I then wrote about how I met a woman who reminded me of the judge and the man who exposed himself to me. I then talked about the attraction I felt towards her and how she revealed to me that her father was a supreme court justice. I have written about this in a previous post. 

I got a criminal conviction for a traffic infringement not long after I spoke to you, for reasons I won’t even try to go into, but it did make me consider that I might have some mental health issues. So I found a psychologist who specialises in Borderline Personality Disorder, as I felt confident that is what I had.

What made me certain of this is that I read about an artist with Borderline Personality Disorder who had similar issues in life, and it was his express wish that when he died he wanted to be cremated and then flushed down the toilet.

Whilst this is not my wish, as a younger woman I discovered that when you die, you can actually be cremated and then crystallised into a diamond- or zirconia-type thing, and I wanted my remains to be made into a ring and then left to my daughter if I ever had children.

And to express to you how much I wanted to be a lawyer: if I had had a daughter, I wanted to call her Sue.

I still believe I have Borderline Personality Disorder; however, this is very difficult to prove.

But clinically, the suggestion is Schizotypal Personality Disorder, which I accept to a degree.

And I wanted to share with you the only reason I accept its credibility.

A few years ago, I was temping somewhere, and I didn’t name-drop this, but I got talking with a woman and we got onto the topic of my dad. She was amazed, and she said to me that Dr David David did an amazing job on my cleft palate.

I had no idea what she was talking about, but she told me that her nephew had been in a hospital room next to me when I was having an operation as a baby.

I was extremely annoyed that no one mentioned this to me, because it might have been useful to know at some point in life — however, that is not the first time I have found out important things like that.

I can see how a cleft palate could turn into a split lip, which in turn makes sense as far as “split thinking” goes. So there is the potential for something like that to influence my perception of life in general. But I will say, I’m not sure how a person of sound mind might have viewed that chain of events.

I then talk about my discovery that Bram Stoker worked at the Dublin District Court and share my opinion that Dracula was influenced by Stoker’s relationship with a male judge. I also explained how Jane Austen was in a relationship with the former Chief Justice of Ireland, Sir Thomas Lefroy, and mentioned that it has been suggested the character of Mr Darcy from Pride and Prejudice was based on Chief Justice Lefroy.

Mr Griffin, I don’t know if you hold a special position within the Catholic Church, but the power of Christ does not compel me.

What does resonate with me though is the first thing he saw when he entered the world – ox, cattle, horses, a donkey, three camels and probably a number of other beasts of burden just like everyone else.

Which leads me to believe there could be some sort of sense of unity between all people.

And that is the only thing I can draw upon when sharing the following with you.

I don’t know about any files or records with my name on them at the Department of Attorney General and Justice in NSW or SAPOL, but since the day I spoke to you I am certain that there are now files at a psychologist, psychiatrist, an ENT specialist’s office, my dentist, the Emergency Room at Calvary Wakefield Street Hospital, and the Adelaide Scientology Org — all outlining how I think I’m dying.

I feel confident you would have that effect on people all the time in a legal capacity, and I know how much this might appear as though I think that you and Mr Hamish Sinclair QC are my legal soul buddies — which, I might suggest, would be quite a good thing to lobby for, for someone with mild criminal tendencies like me — but it was strange with you.

I sometimes think it takes a level of arrogance to dismiss the Indigenous Australian coincidences relating to members of the same family reuniting in unexplainable ways years after the Stolen Generation, and I could lightheartedly suggest that we might be related.

Although, to be honest, despite that curiosity and my tentative diagnosis — which probably suggests otherwise — I’m not really into that kind of stuff, even now.

But on that platform I wanted to say that, seeing as my brother is on tour in Afghanistan, and is probably the only person in the world who might take this letter seriously — and when I tried to start a dialogue with him about this, he left a message with my parents saying the Taliban screen all of the military’s electronic communication and he can only discuss pleasantries — I hope you don’t mind me writing to you again today.

And just to clarify, whilst the coincidences with yourself did nurture a journey into what I now understand to be a Dark Night of the Soul, it was actually my belief that I had Borderline Personality Disorder that started to pull me out of it. This commenced with a link I saw between Dialectical Behavioural Therapy and a lack of it, and looking into Dianetics as an alternative.

And when I came face to face with the Law of Lafayette Ron Hubbard, my own personal interest in what things really mean led me to my own amateur translation of his name.

Lafayette may derive from the French word foi, meaning faith, and Hubbard has the potential to be a linguistic representation of the patron saint of dogs.

Since that discovery, I have started to think that maybe there could be more to the world than I first thought and have had a chain of unrelated coincidences which I have found to be quite literally terrifying.

I also realised that whilst, in most other circumstances, people don’t care about my parents, the Scientologists would — and that had the potential to be a problem for me.

I unknowingly signed a contract outlining that I wasn’t related to anyone who had been antagonistic or spoken out publicly against the Church.

But it turns out that when my dad was in a position of power, he helped ban them from operating as a religion, and would be more of an SP to them than Nick Xenophon himself.

It’s just lucky I got kicked out for asking too many questions, in particular to do with a book they draw upon quite frequently, Alice in Wonderland.

I really am stuffed if I am dying, because I doubt there was ever anyone who looked like they cried wolf more than me, but I feel as if this might happen to everyone at some point in their life — mine was just magnified because I grew up learning that so many things in the paper and in books are not always as they seem.

And as cliché as this sounds for me, this all comes back to that judge. It hasn’t been a day-to-day thing for me, but there have been a number of other coincidences, which I’m going to keep in my own chambers forever, because I’m not going to tempt fate and ever talk about this again.

I freaked out after I spoke to you because I saw a flicker of the person I think I was trying to be when I wrote to the judge.

I was seeing a former journalist at that time, but I know how loaded that could have sounded to you. I just made a point of it because I didn’t want you to personally freak out about my legal issue.

And I only wanted your opinion.

On the same token, I didn’t want any polite affirmations of my own qualification to participate in behaviour like that — I might have been okay at the time, but now I’m old and haggard-looking and have put on a few pounds.

And that is something which has always been of concern to me, and constantly brought to my attention by my father.

Based on the escalation of the amount of coincidences in my life, I really have been losing it, and I begged my parents to send me to a clinic for Borderline Personality Disorder in America because I think they could afford it, and I do believe I am worth it if I can be cured, even at this late stage.

But they don’t see the merit in doing that, because I don’t think they accept I have it.

The spiritual and mental health retreats I mentioned in Australia still didn’t fit the bill, but seeing as my dad seems to think all of my problems are because I’m fat, the only funding I could get was for a fat camp.

I’m not saying this to impress you personally, but what the world is dealing with here is curves.

And as someone who attends regular life drawing classes and draws a lot of naked men and women, I think everyone’s body is a unique and beautiful thing, and I might be cuddly-esque — and I would invite anyone to define what that really even means — but I’m not fat.

And that should give you an idea of the sort of people I was up against when worrying about whether this judge had contacted my parents, and the sort of opinion that might have been formulated about me — which, although not influential at my age, is important for the purposes of sanity.

I’m off to fat camp now, which bought me some time to work out where to next for me, which is potentially Christmas Island. However, I’m never going to live in this hell hole Adelaide again, and I also wanted to tell you — this is the last time I am going to write to you for legal assistance, and I am so sorry for having gone about it in such a clumsy and disrespectful manner in the first place.

I’m really not into the sixth sense, but the six degrees of separation around these parts is enough to drive anyone insane, and has been instrumental in my concern in finding the right professional to run this matter past.

I lost everything after I met that judge — literally.

And that happened because I lost my self-respect, and I have found it a very challenging exercise to try and retrieve it.

Despite appearances, I didn’t write to you today to invoke another conversation, and I know how much this might appear it warrants a response of some sort.

And it’s my secret hope that maybe, for the last time, I can read into a sentencing remark and hope you apply the sentiment reflected in the one you said that I liked so much, toward me.

But if $2000 doesn’t cover the time it takes you to read this, my number is 123456 — leave a message on my voicemail and I’ll pay whatever you want. And I respectfully feel this legal issue somehow warrants being recognised as one.

I put this together in a bit of a rush because I’m so desperate to get out of here, and I could have done a better job with the presentation; however, it is my hope it is received in the spirit to which it is intended.

In closing, I have taken into consideration the possibility that whilst under anaesthetic during an operation with Dr David David — what I’m guessing is his brother — the Hon. Justice David may have dropped into the operating theatre to say hi.

If this momentarily distracted Mr David during surgery, the possibility that this may have created a mild lesion, leaving me open to the vulnerability of Schizotypal Personality Disorder, cannot be dismissed.

I must have regard for the potential this may have had to record a judicial engram.

Engram — A recording made by the reactive mind when a person is unconscious — Lafayette Ron Hubbard, Scientology.

I direct myself to acknowledge that Eva Perón on steroids involuntarily possessed my body when a NSW District Court judge activated this engram, resulting in behaviours unfamiliar to me.

I see the unique psychological pressures I was confronted with, and recognise how embarrassing, shameful, and potentially criminal my behaviour was, but I show compassion for myself for the reasons that led me to behave in such a way.

I am deeply remorseful and regretful for it, and stress it is one million times worse than it may sound; however, I accept I cannot change it and commit to never even attempting to commit adultery again.

I have taken into consideration evidence provided by the expert witness and universal authority on driving away demons, monsters, and vampires from anyone who needs someone to save their soul — Professor Abraham Van Helsing.

I remain eternally ambivalent towards you and feel you are an unnecessary character, as your job can be accomplished without your help; however, I liked it when you said:

“I have learned not to think little of any one's belief, no matter how strange it may be. I have tried to keep an open mind, and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that make one doubt if they be mad or sane.”

I acknowledge the elephant in the room — me being a woman, then under the age of 30 with a pulse — and having thought to correspond with a judge who, it could be viewed, appeared to enjoy the company of women, in a manner which indicated I was in a deluded frame of mind.

I must acknowledge the potential that he may have drawn upon his professional experience as a barrister, senior counsel, and judicial officer, having been in courtrooms where women make up all sorts of crap as a result of distressing situations.

I take into consideration the fact he probably knew I was working at Legislation, Policy and Criminal Law Review, and the Director of the Attorney-General’s Office, he knew my dad used to be an important person, and he would not have known who I knew personally or what I was saying to anyone.

Simply by the act of writing to him in such a frame of mind, I feel I may have caused him unnecessary worry.

I have reviewed the compelling evidence of the judicial gene and hope to speak directly to it as a form of transference.

I am aware this would not have been anything more than an extremely temporary passing thought, but I am truly sorry for ever having potentially planted an engram in what was really such a nice and kind reactive mind.

I direct myself to draw upon the parallels between Lady Justice being blind and love being blind, and have learned the lesson that blind love can only ever be wholly and solely applied to yourself.

As in self-love.

I have rehabilitated myself by applying this fundamental principle to all aspects of my life, and respect myself enough to let this Judge-alone matter go.

I apologise to all the judges of the world for creating so much unnecessary administrative work.

And I close this case by drawing comfort from an article in the newspaper which drew to my attention another judge.

Although I didn’t think of it like this when I read it, I now wonder if this judge might have valued having me as their court officer — at around the exact same period of time.

There is no way I could have been of any use to them to the standard of a professional; however, taking into account my involuntary physical response in a similar circumstance, along with the discretion and enthusiasm I obviously had, I feel a very personally powerful working relationship could have been forged.

I also secretly think this judge seems lovely, and has an equally hypnotic command of legal terminology.

And I find, beyond a shadow of doubt, that if I had been a court officer for this judge, there was potential to save a whole lot of people a whole lot of trouble.

In conclusion, I also find there is potential for coincidence in everything.

Evidence of this lies within the post-it note I left on the judge’s bench, which I feel got me in all this trouble in the first place.

The following outlines its content:

Dear Your Honour,

Your courtroom can be very thought provoking.

Kind regards,

Me

After that last page, I printed off a newspaper article about another judge at the Downing Centre who was complaining about rats in her courtroom. So, while it may have sounded like I was talking about being Mr. Phoenix’s court officer, I was actually referring to the judge with the rats. I thought it was a fitting way to close the letter.

After I’d sent the letter, I went off to fat camp. I was there for a bit, but then I got sick, so I came home for a little while with the intention of going back. It had been a week since I’d sent the letter, and I was back in Adelaide when I got a call from Mr. Phoenix. I remember it so clearly because I was walking in Morialta National Park. It was cold in July, and everything was so green. I loved the sound of the water flowing down from the waterfall.

I answered the phone, and he announced himself. The first thing he said was that he loved the balloons I’d sent him and that he’d given them to another lawyer in his chambers who had young children. Apparently, the kids loved them too. Then he said the cheque was totally unnecessary — he didn’t want any money for our conversation and told me he’d feel bad taking it.

Because I’d mentioned in my letter that I had “criminal tendencies,” he jokingly asked where I’d gotten the money. Then he told me he’d read the entire letter and thought I should try my hand at creative writing, saying I was a very good writer. I thanked him for the compliment.

He then asked if he could come over to my house that night to drop off the compendium I'd sent the last letter in and the cheque for $2000. He said I might want the letter back to keep, and that we could talk. I instantly said no — I couldn’t let him come over. Part of it was that I didn’t want him to see me living with my parents, but mostly it was my fear of acting inappropriately around judges.

He said, “Come on… let me come over.” In some ways, it was quite audacious of him to ask to come to my house, but on the other hand, I had been very open with him about my feelings and my life, so I can understand why he felt comfortable enough to ask. I declined his offer again. We ended the conversation, and just as I said goodbye, he said “Wait,” but I told him I had to go.

We spoke again after that but never met up, and hearing of his passing in 2019 was very sad.