It’s 6:28pm on Saturday evening, and I haven’t slept since yesterday afternoon. I’ve forced myself to stay awake all day in another attempt to reset my circadian rhythm. On Friday morning, after being up all night, I had a 7:30am appointment to donate blood at the Red Cross Modbury Donor Centre. You can see the exterior below.
As they welcomed us, I couldn’t help but wonder if they ever look at us like nothing more than a sack of blood. We went through the usual checks, and soon I was reclining in the comfortable chair, hooked up to the machine, hoping this time the donation would go smoothly.
The first time I gave plasma, my body reacted when the machine began returning my blood cells; the citrate in the fluid lowered my calcium levels and made me feel like my body was rejecting the process. They had to stop the donation. But yesterday I managed the full 701 mL, and it felt good to have contributed.
I’ve decided to become a regular donor because I believe in the Red Cross — and because, in some strange way, I see humanity as one big organism. We survive only when we share our resources. I don’t give because I’m especially kind or good; I give because I can. Across from me sat a man who looked genuinely good — one of those rare souls who seemed, as Meat Loaf or Jim Steinman would say, “pure and good and right.” I think I was staring at him; I didn’t mean to, but I really was in awe of him, because he just seemed so good.
I liked donating first thing in the morning. For everyone else the day was just beginning; for me, it was ending. I hung around for ten minutes afterward, then I slipped away, went home and slept until late afternoon.
I was up all night last night. I used to make good use of the long nights, writing or collating addresses to send letters to. But lately, I’ve been wasting my time away. I’ve started watching Sex and the City from the beginning. I know I’ve seen the early episodes before, but I have no memory of them now.
First thing this morning, I had my volunteer calls. A lot of the people I spoke to were planning to watch the pageant. I have one favourite man, and he talks about his dog. His dog has travelled Australia with him, and he lives alone now and the dog is his closest companion. The dog is dying, and he told me he just can’t bring himself to put her down. I understand that.
We had a dog, Danny, who I loved deeply, and the two cats we have now are such beautiful souls. I literally have love in my heart for them. I can’t imagine what it will be like for this man when he eventually loses his dog and companion.
We aren’t supposed to talk to clients for too long, but I always talk to him for a while. I had a woman on my call list this morning who was new to me and in her nineties. She had difficulty speaking, but I could understand what she was saying. She talked a little about her earlier life, and while she was talking, I couldn’t help but feel that it’s such a privilege and an honour to speak with these beautiful people first thing in the morning.
Every single person I speak to has a spark of warmth and friendliness. They are also so grateful to receive a call checking up on them. It’s funny, because the reality is, I’m the one who’s so incredibly grateful for them.
The Ravenswood Women’s Art Prize is for women artists. There’s a $10,000 Emerging Artist Award for women who are still building their careers.
I’ve decided to enter this prize using cowrie shells to raise two parallel ideas: first, the cowrie shell as a yonic symbol, and secondly, the cowrie shell as currency. Cowrie shells were used as currency throughout Africa, Asia, and the Pacific Islands — they were traded across oceans, valued for their beauty, rarity, and shape.
I’m going to gild the shells and present them alongside gilded one and two cent coins. I had eight cowrie shells that I bought one day when I went on a bit of a Facebook Marketplace frenzy. Today I found two more sets on Marketplace. I arranged to buy them, and then I asked Rebecca nicely if she would drive me to Kilburn and Old Reynella to pick them up. I couldn’t drive myself because I hadn’t slept.
The first eight shells we picked up cost $150 — you can see them below:
I just made it home. I grabbed my cowrie shells from the boot, ran inside, and was violently ill. I hadn’t slept, I was throwing up, and I still wasn’t feeling great — but whenever I feel really bad physically, I tend to get more inspired to do something. So I stayed up, determined to keep busy and make it through until 9:30pm Because if I can stay awake until then, who knows how my mysterious circadian rhythm will react.
I’m so ashamed of myself. I’ve been talking to Roger on Facebook Messenger — the man I’ve mentioned before. He’s Nanny’s niece’s widower. He’s from South Africa, and he’s deeply racist and unbelievably disrespectful to me. I’m the one who initiated this ongoing conversation, and I don’t even know why I did it. I don’t like him. I don’t feel any desire to see him or engage with him at all.
The only explanation I can come up with is that, in some primal way, I want a partner. But I would never, ever be with someone so racist and vile. This is the guy who once said he wanted to give me a golden shower. There’s nothing warm, nice, or gentle about him — so why do I keep talking to him?
He’s a fitter and usually at work by 6:00am, I’m usually still awake at that time, so we sometimes chat in the morning. I get nothing from these interactions at all. Sometimes he’ll make some crude comment about wanting to sleep with me or have casual sex. No self-respecting woman should allow a racist fuckwit to talk to her like that — yet somehow, I keep going back to this cheap, nasty piece of work simply because I long to be with a man.
I’m not talking to him anymore, though. He made another sexual remark, and I finally said, “Casual sex isn’t for me. I’m worth so much more than that.”
Some men are completely delusional — believing women are interested in them or would just give sex up so easily. Anyway, as I said, I’m ashamed of myself — mostly because this man is so openly racist, and I have zero tolerance for that. I must reek of desperation.
I read an article this morning in The Advertiser about ex–District Court judge Timothy Heffernan, and it reminded me of my own desperation. The article said he’d been formally reprimanded for sexually harassing female colleagues at a staff party while affected by prescription medication and alcohol.
Heffernan resigned from the bench in 2023 after a high-level investigation into his behaviour. Last month, the Legal Profession Conduct Commissioner, Anthony Keane, found him guilty of professional misconduct, describing it as “sexually harassing in nature and directed at female colleagues during a work function.”
It seems this judge demonstrated predatory behaviour. A recipient of that kind of behaviour might feel violated, disrespected, offended — and absolutely within their rights to make sure it never happens again. People who are sexually harassed usually do everything they can to get away from it; they repel.
If I rewind the clock nearly fifteen years, I met a judge I thought I was in love with, and I perceived his behaviour as overtly sexually suggestive. Instead of stepping away or repelling from it, I revelled in it. I loved it.
When I told my housemate what I perceived the judge was doing and saying, she said, “What the fuck do you like that for? He sounds like a dirty old man.” She couldn’t understand it — and honestly, neither can I. It’s not self-loathing, and it’s not low self-esteem. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: it’s the power of power and the power of powerlessness.
