An Era Saturated In Sensationalism

I am not a crier. I don’t exactly know why, but I pretty much don’t cry. Sometimes, like when my father and Nanny died, I will cry, but little things that would normally set the average person off just don’t do it for me. For pretty much the second half of my life I’ve either been numb or crying superficial tears.

But I feel like crying now. I really do.

I am experiencing a profound sadness, which I think is more anticipatory grief, and I am all alone in this journey. I don’t feel sorry for myself for not having the ability to talk to anyone about this. I am managing.

Back in 2011 I wrote this crazy book. It was insane and I don’t even know where most of it came from. But in the book, the ringleader of the Bali Nine, Andrew Chan, is tied to a makeshift crucifix in a forest in Bali, Indonesia, waiting to be executed by a firing squad. While he is waiting, everything becomes crystal clear and his life suddenly makes sense to him — albeit too late.

I feel like this is happening to me at the moment, where it has all suddenly become crystal clear. The study, the letters, the projects — it all means nothing. The only thing that means anything in this world is family and the ones we love.

I put off doing studio-based subjects at uni until next year because I felt inadequate when comparing myself to other extremely young students at the art school. Fuck inadequacy. It doesn’t matter. If I want to be a glass blower, suck it up and go to uni and who cares what they think.

But here’s the thing, I can’t do that now.

I am not martyring myself, but I need to have significant availability during the day, so I’m just going to get any old degree online and then do glassblowing postgraduate if I am in a position to do it at the time. A degree is going to be an absolute secondary thing for me. I’m not even going to tell anyone I’m doing it. I’m just going to get the job done while I’m doing other things.

Those other things will be making sure I am where I am needed, as much as possible. And it will mean working. I need a job as a matter of urgency.

My whole life there has always been money around. I have never gone without anything I ever wanted. That is firstly because my parents had a lot of money when I was growing up, and secondly because when I was working, I always had extra money to buy the things I wanted. That’s even when I wasn’t earning a lot — but somehow life seemed so much cheaper back then.

Now, I’m not joking, Mum and I are in a very serious financial situation. So much so that I didn’t think we were even going to have enough for the basics in the last fortnight.

So first of all, on Tuesday I’m selling my car. That will give us an extra buffer, which I am very much looking forward to. I’m taking it to this place called Universal Motors and they will auction my car for me. I don’t know how much I’ll get for it, but really anything will do.

The second thing I am going to do is get a job.

And it’s interesting how the universe works, because once I realised I needed to get a job, I got an email from the Department of Health inviting me for an interview for a job I had applied for a while back. It is on the switchboard of one of the hospitals. The interview is next Wednesday.

I hope I get this job. It’s casual and it could work around the other things I’ve got going on at the moment. I’ll just have to wait and see.

See, I say I am sad, and I am. My heart is really breaking. I can physically feel it in the pit of my stomach. But you’d never know. Just like everything else in my life, I can hide these things really well.

The other thing is, it’s not about me, so I really need to stop indulging in this negative cesspool of grief.

I haven’t written in this blog for some time now. That’s because I have so much I want to say, and even though this is an anonymous blog I don’t feel I can really express myself in relation to certain things.

Since I last wrote I haven’t really been up to much. Two weeks ago to the day Mum and I went to the Gold Class cinemas at Marion and saw Wuthering Heights. I know that seems ridiculous, me saying that I am selling my car and yet there we were going to a luxury cinema experience, but this was before things got really bad.

Below are two photos I took of the escalators you can see as you walk into the Marion Shopping Centre.

I absolutely love Gold Class. It’s great because people don’t usually talk while the movie is on and you can really sit back, relax, and enjoy the experience. Below is the entrance to the Gold Class lounge.

And this is inside the lounge itself.

I also took this photo of the bar. 

We ordered some food and something to drink and then made our way into the cinema. I couldn’t get a photo of it until the credits were rolling because I didn’t want the other patrons to feel like I was taking their photo.

As for Wuthering Heights, I have not read the book. It was first published in 1847 and Emily Brontë used the male pseudonym Ellis Bell, because women writers were often not taken seriously at the time. I haven’t read any of the Brontë sisters, but I can relate more to Jane Austen and her classic novel Pride and Prejudice.

I loved this movie. First of all, I love Jacob Elordi, who I have previously posted about. He plays the romantic lead Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, and he is so incredibly sexy. I want a man like him. Tall, wild-bearded, gruff but sweet, and just hot.

I think I am coming into perimenopause, where just the sight of a man like that can make me weak at the knees. They do not create men like this in real life, and the reality is that even if they did, they probably wouldn’t go for me. But it was a good movie, and I went out and bought the book the day afterwards. One day I’m going to sit down and read it.

As we were leaving the cinema I noticed these pillars that went all the way to the ceiling. When I looked more closely, I saw that they had a form of mosaics on them with images from movies. I took some photos, which you can see below. I don’t know if they were individually mosaicked, or if the tiles were already there and someone painted the images over them.

I like this one of Mickey in Fantasia. 

Thinking about the story of Wuthering Heights unfolding, in my heart I felt like I would love to be an author. I’m still jumping around from career to career and from one university degree to another, even now at nearly 45 years old, but in my soul I would love to sit down and write books. I was thinking about this before my crystal-clear moment came, when everything suddenly made sense. It’s not something I’m going to commit to trying right now, but I’m going to keep it in the back of my mind. If one day one of the books I’ve been dreaming of writing wants to jump out of me, I’ll let it out.

I haven’t really been up to much else over the last two weeks. I’ve mostly been running Mum around to appointments and things like that. I also donated blood. You can see a new photo I took of the donor centre below.

I like giving blood, but I was quite sick again after donating this round. That’s the second time it’s happened, so I think I’m going to give it a rest for a while. But I am still pretty keen to reach my ten-donation milestone.

It’s now 11:32am on Saturday 14 March and I had a volunteer shift this morning. I absolutely love making these calls. I've got a real soft spot for the oldies. I’ve been doing it for nearly a year now and I feel a real connection to the people I speak with. Not too much of a connection, but to give you an example, last week I called one of my regulars three times and she didn’t answer.

When that happens we have to escalate the call and a supervisor tries to contact them to make sure they are okay. If they don’t answer those calls, that’s when family members and the police can get involved. This is part of why I think it is such an incredible service, because it makes sure people don’t go unnoticed or forgotten.

But I had to escalate this particular lady and I was genuinely worried about her because we have a nice little chat two mornings a week. The next day I contacted my supervisor and asked about her welfare, and he told me she was fine and had answered on the fourth call. So it’s little things like that.

I had one man ask me for my email address so he could send me some of his writing, and I told him I couldn’t give it to him. So I know my boundaries, but I do feel a special little connection with them. Some more than others.

I was talking to one lady this morning who told me that some of the people who regularly call her during the week had been shifted and that they had changed the roster. She said the organisation does that to make sure people don’t get too attached to each other. I can understand why they do that, but I hope they don’t do it to me.

I forgot to mention that a couple of weeks ago I had a call from the Speaker of the Parliament’s office. The lady told me that the Speaker had received my oath book and had said it was a beautiful book, and that he was going to bring it into the office to show her. I think he has two offices.

She then asked for my address and said he had written a thank-you letter to me. This was a while ago now and I haven’t heard anything, so I feel like there may have been a communication breakdown with the address. But I don’t care. I don’t want a thank-you letter. It’s just something I wanted to make for him as Speaker. I was so happy to hear that he said it was beautiful, though.

Another random thing that has happened to me in the last little while is that I got an email from a lawyer saying that I had purchased something from JB Hi-Fi and there was an issue with the warranty, and they are doing a class action against them. They said I didn’t need to do anything and that I would automatically be included unless I opt out.

I have no recollection of purchasing anything from JB Hi-Fi with a warranty, but I just thought to myself that it sounds like something I would be interested in hearing about to see how it plays out.

I read an article in The Advertiser online about Nick Xenophon, who had surgery for a brain tumour that left him disfigured. I thought it was really brave of Mr Xenophon to speak publicly about his experience, so I wrote the following letter to the editor in response to the article. They published it on 6 March 2026.

To the Editor,

Paul Starick’s article, Former South Australian Senator Nick Xenophon’s battle against brain tumour (5 March 2026), was both sobering and deeply moving. It takes considerable courage for anyone — let alone a former public figure — to speak openly about the physical and personal consequences of major surgery.

Mr Xenophon’s willingness to discuss the loss of his smile, his impaired hearing and vision, and the vulnerability that follows such an ordeal reflects the very qualities that made him a unique and much loved member of the South Australian Legislative Council and the Australian Senate. In a culture that often prizes image and invincibility, his candour serves as a reminder that illness does not discriminate, and that dignity lies not in perfection but in perseverance.

I wish Mr Xenophon every success in his upcoming surgery and continued strength in his recovery. I am confident that whatever chapter comes next, Mr Xenophon will continue to inspire South Australians to speak up and drive change.

Kind regards,

Me

Around the same time, I wrote another letter to the editor responding to an article that claimed Iran’s new Ayatollah, Mojtaba Khamenei, had received treatment for impotence.

To the Editor,

Your recent article on Mojtaba Khamenei referenced alleged past treatment for impotence drawn from diplomatic leaks. I do not defend him in any way. However, I do defend the right of other men who suffer from impotence not to have their condition weaponised through ridicule or sensational reporting.

Erectile dysfunction is a common medical issue affecting millions of men worldwide. When it is presented as a political punchline or shorthand for weakness, it reinforces stigma that can leave ordinary people feeling diminished or inadequate. A medical condition is not a moral failing, nor is it a meaningful measure of leadership.

Serious geopolitical developments warrant scrutiny of policy, power and conduct. Personal health matters — particularly intimate ones — rarely add substance to that analysis. Journalism can hold leaders to account without normalising humiliation as a tool of critique.

In an era saturated with sensationalism, a more disciplined standard would better serve public discourse.

Kind regards,

Me

I didn’t send that one, but the article I was referring to was a joke. I remember thinking to myself, is this journalism? It was utterly offensive and characterised impotence as a weakness, which is both unfair and, in my view, unethical.

So, I’m experiencing a profound sadness at the moment, but I am managing. I’m still working out a vocational pathway, but all I know is that if I study it has to be online and I have to do it quietly so there’s no expectation that I will suddenly have a qualification at some point in the not-too-distant future. I just want to do it and then go about my business.

I have a job interview coming up and I want and need this job more than I have ever wanted and needed a job before.

And I’m still thinking about writing books. I can’t think forever though — at some point, if I want to do it, I’ve got to get on with it.

I’ll finish this blog with two beautiful photos I took yesterday when Mum and I went to The Parade. The first is out the front of The Flower Parade, a local florist. I love the way they have buckets of flowers out on the sidewalk. It reminds me of this Parisian floral fantasy I have of owning a cosy little florist where people swing past on their way home from work to pick up a fresh bunch of flowers for their loved one.

The other photo I took was inside the mall, out the front of a fruit and vegetable shop — more buckets and more flowers. It always puts a smile on my face when shop owners do this. It’s one of those beautiful little luxuries in life. 

And I’ll tell you one thing: no matter how broke I get, I will always have enough money to pick up a bunch of flowers for my mother on the way home from wherever I’ve been.