Yesterday morning, I was planning to go to the Adelaide Zoo to see the tigers. I wanted to see if I felt drawn to them in any unusual way—something to do with toxo, the idea that the parasite makes its host fall in love with cats.
I was tested for toxo on Friday, and I’ll get the results back this week. But you know what? In those small hours of the morning, when it feels like I’m the only person in the world awake, I realised something: I’ve had enough.
I’ve had enough of the cat parasite. I’m not going to enrol at TAFE SA in 2026 to start a Certificate IV in Laboratory Techniques, which runs for nine months, followed by a Diploma of Laboratory Technology. I’m not going to pursue a biology degree, or any kind of science degree. And I’m certainly not going to include the cat parasite in any of the future artworks I have planned.
I’m sick of this cat bullshit.
Lately, I’ve even started looking at my cat differently. She sleeps on my bed while I’m up talking to ChatGPT or researching some obscure scientific paper, and I catch myself wondering: Is this affection even mine? Or has it been orchestrated by the parasite?
At one point, I even found a product online—mountain lion urine, sold to spray in gardens as pest deterrent—and I actually considered buying it. I wanted to see if I liked the smell.
It’s fucked up.
I’m tired of it. I’m tired of myself. And I’m done.
I’m not going to tumble down this rabbit hole, because if I do, I’m afraid I won’t find my way back out. There is something about toxo, I know that. It’s strange, it’s mysterious, and if it really can do all the things I’ve read—well, it makes you wonder about consciousness itself.
But I’m not up for that ride.
I’m an artist. A writer. That’s who I am, and that’s where I’ll stay. Maybe I’ll go back to uni next year, but that’ll be a secondary thing.
The most important thing I’ll do is create. And that starts now.
Most of my ideas stem from letter writing.
There’s something I love about it—about writing to a government department, a judge, an ambassador, or a head of state, and then turning their response into a piece of artwork. I know it raises questions about intent—whether I’m baiting them, nudging them to respond in a certain way—but I try to be blunt and direct. No tricks. No hidden meanings. Just questions I genuinely want answers to.
Something I’m still figuring out is the legal side of it—copyright laws, specifically. I know there are some exceptions that allow for artistic use, and I’ll be relying on those for now, but I do plan to get proper legal advice before exhibiting or publishing anything.
Now that I’ve let go of all the cat parasite madness, I’m turning my attention back to the people I want to write to. Here's the current list:
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All members of parliament in Papua New Guinea, to ask about Australia’s role in colonisation.
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All Australian ambassadors, to ask whether they’re ever questioned abroad about Australia’s colonial relationship with Papua New Guinea.
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All heads of government around the world, to ask about Israel’s violations of international law in Gaza.
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All federal MPs and senators in Australia, to ask about Aboriginal deaths in custody.
I also want to write to all UN delegates and ask a single question: If aliens crash-landed in your country, would they be protected by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights?
That one’s a bit of a wildcard—but all of these letters, will form the basis of future artworks. But I want to be very clear: I will not be making a profit from them. Not in any way, shape, or form.
If it ever is appropriate to sell one, 100% of the proceeds will be donated to a relevant organisation. For example, if I sell work connected to Aboriginal deaths in custody, the money will go to the Aboriginal Legal Rights Movement.
I’ve talked about these letters for a long time. I’ve written draft after draft in my head, but things like the cost of stamps have always gotten in the way. No more.
On Tuesday, when I get some money, I’m going to the post office to buy 100 Australian stamps. Then, for my birthday on the 16th, Mum said she’d buy me another 100. That’s 200 stamps to get started—and that means the Aboriginal deaths in custody letters will finally be sent.
The more expensive, international letters—those will go out before I travel to Botswana at the end of the year.
As well as the letter writing, I have another body of work forming in my mind—this one about blackbirding, a chapter of history I’m deeply interested in. I’m going to explore it properly. I may use letters as part of that work too—but I’m not quite sure yet.
We’ll wait and see.
Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been back volunteering after the big dramas with my police check and clearance. I love it so much.
If anyone asks me what I do for a living now, I think I’ll tell them I’m a professional volunteer. I call the same people every Saturday and Sunday to check that they’re safe and okay. I’m so proud to be a part of it.
I remember a lot about each of the clients. I know I shouldn’t have favourites but I do. My favourite is a man in his 90s who lives alone with his cat. We have a lovely old chat every morning I call. He even asked me if I’d take his cat when he dies. I just laughed it off.
Truth is, I would love to but we already have two cats at home, and to be honest, I’m not really feeling it with cats at the moment.
Still, he’s such a beautiful man. Gentle. Quiet. Lonely, I think. This morning, he gave me a little laugh. He lives near the beach, and I asked if he goes there much. He said he likes to sit and look at the beautiful women. I couldn’t help but laugh and give him a bit of cheek about it.
I’m back on again next Saturday. I’d like to take on more shifts, and I think I will, maybe next year. It’s a simple thing, calling someone. But it matters. It means something. And it means something to me.
I’m also thinking about becoming a volunteer with Lifeline. They have an intake coming up soon, and I’ve been trying to juggle my schedule to fit around the training. It looks like the final intake for the year might work for me.
Over ten years ago, I actually started training to be a Lifeline volunteer. But I became unwell and wasn’t able to continue. Since then, I’ve also been on the other side—I called Lifeline once when I felt completely alone. Their way of speaking is fairly scripted, but still, it meant something. It was comforting just to have someone there.
I really love being on the phones.
I’ve worked a number of temp jobs in call centres over the years, and people often look down on that kind of work. I remember being involved with the Young Liberals back then, surrounded by uni students, lawyers, accountants, political staffers—people with “real” careers. Meanwhile, I was working shifts at the Service SA call centre.
I could feel the judgment. I knew they didn’t think much of me.
But the truth is—I loved it. I love the rhythm of it, the anonymity, the human voices passing through. There’s something sacred about it, almost.
One day, I’d love to see a vintage call centre or an old switchboard, one of those rooms where operators physically connected the calls by hand. There’s something ghostly and beautiful about it. I think there’s an association here in Adelaide that preserves that kind of history. I might look into it further.
Twenty years ago, the Service SA call centre was the state government switchboard — and honestly, it was so cool working there.
We answered calls for most government departments, so you had to know a little bit about everything — from housing to transport to health. I worked there as a temp for over four or five years, and I loved every second of it.
I wish I could go back, but I’m sure everything’s changed by now.
It’s quite funny when I think back—my old boss from Service SA and I actually became really good friends.
I even helped her apply. I found a website that was hiring and wrote out an application for her. I remember typing:
“I’ve worked in call centres all my life, and people often tell me I have a sexy voice.”
It was all pretty harmless and silly. But then she actually got a call from the company—and they offered her the job on the spot!
She set up her landline to take calls and started straight away. I don’t think the pay was amazing, but she used to thank me—she said it paid for her trip to London.
I could never do that. I wouldn’t even know what to say. But she really leaned into it. She told me she got some very full on requests—including ones involving animals—but she stayed on the line because the longer the call, the more she got paid.
I still can’t believe I got someone a job on a phone sex line. I used to be a little wilder when I was younger.
Now I’m boring. And that’s exactly how I like it.
Now, more than ever, I’m starting to feel it deeply when people cross my boundaries. In the past, I think I’ve been a boundary crosser myself — sometimes overly familiar — but I’m not like that anymore. I set boundaries now.
That schizophrenic man calling me and sending messages to my mobile, which he had obtained through professional channels, was a gross violation of my personal space. And that guy from Queensland — the snake wrangler — adding me on Facebook was totally inappropriate, especially since I never gave him my last name. He must have looked it up in the glow worm tour companies bookings.
There’s also another man who has recently made me feel uncomfortable. I don’t think he’s interested in me, but he has still overstepped. I recently joined an action group, and volunteered to do their communications. The convenor — who schedules calls to me, which is fine — later added me on Facebook. I know when Facebook first came out, everyone was adding everyone, but these days looking someone up and adding them feels far more personal. I accepted his request, but it still felt like too much.
He began sending me a lot of messages, and eventually I thought, you know what — I don’t want to do communications for the group if it’s going to be like this. So I told him I unfortunately had to withdraw my interest. I don’t like it when people assume they know me, or that they can call me or add me on Facebook without my invitation. It makes me feel uncomfortable.
In saying that, I also think there’s something to be said for someone who will override you. What I mean by that is like the time my father had my landlord open my unit because he thought something had happened to me. I know I've written about it before where I had been dead to the world, asleep after a locum doctor gave me a strong sleeping injection, but I appreciated that my dad overrode the fact that I wasn’t answering the phone or his knocks at the door.
Another example is my friend Mariah’s friend Mark. He’s a real loner and sometimes withdraws from the world, a bit like I do. I know him too, but not as closely as Mariah does. She can go months without hearing from him. Recently, she hadn’t heard from him in a long time despite sending messages and calling, so she went to his house, made him open the door, and barged in to demand he let her know he was okay. I liked that — she overrode him.
There’s a place for that kind of insistence, that audacity to ignore someone’s reluctance and insist they make themselves known, just to make sure they’re alright. I like that. But I don’t like those other guys. And I want to be the sort of person who makes it clear that it is not okay to invade my space in the way they did.
